The Eye of Horus (16 page)

A few minutes later, one of the physicians went to the foot of the couch, lifted the blanket from the young King’s feet, and plunged a long needle into the end of his big toe. Tutankhamen did not move.

Mena motioned for me to follow him and like a shadow he moved around the edge of the room to a balcony overlooking the king’s private garden, located to take advantage of the breeze from the north.

“She is too accepting,” I murmured, relieved to be away from the priestly incantations and sweating bodies.

“Perhaps,” Mena agreed, then cut to the bone. “You think his neck is broken?”

“Who can say without examining him? It could be an injury to the brain. You saw the contusion.” He looked at me straight, then dropped his eyes and nodded, once.

“What would you have the Queen do?” he asked in despair. “Shriek and tear her clothes? Will that will bring him awake, able to laugh and walk again?”

I stared out over the roofs of the grand villas surrounding the palace, to the western cliffs standing black against the glowing pink sky. Re was dying. Taking his son with him. “Do not blame the bird for doing what she was trained to do,” I said.

“Not here, you fool!” Mena whispered, giving me a knock on the shoulder. A mournful howl rent the silence, followed by a high, piercing scream. We rushed back inside only to be met by a chorus of voices—priests chanting prayers, his women shrieking and Ankhesenamen lying across her husband’s still form, blood already oozing from the scratches on her arms.

It had been Merankh who first sensed when his beloved master’s
ka
departed his earthly body, and let out that long, mournful howl of protest to his brother Anubis.

As we put our foreheads to the floor I remembered Mena’s prophecy that power soon would belong to the strong. But what of the goddess Maat—did she simply turn a blind eye when the bird folded his wings to stoop?

My thoughts went backward in time to when I set eyes on him as a nine-year-old boy. standing before the great pylon of Ipet-isut on the day of his coronation. Naked except for the meanest loincloth, he came burdened with the sins of his half brother, the hated Heretic. Yet he had passed without fear through the copper-plated timber gates into the courtyard of the temple, where priests masked as gods waited to lead him into the sanctuary, where they would instruct him in the mysteries that would make him Amen-Re’s son on earth, half-god and half-man. When finally he emerged, the young Tutankhamen’s human aspect had been transformed forever by the symbols and raiment of royalty, a heavy weight to place on any man’s shoulders, let alone one so young.

Now the priests in the House of the Dead will transform him once again, gutting him like a senseless beast to make him one with Osiris.

As for me, I will remember the Lord of the Two Lands the way he was when this day began, laughing while he raced his team across the desert, not as a statue made of stone. For the gods granted me the privilege of seeing the joy in his eyes as well as the fear he felt in going against his elders. I knew him to be capable not only of the arrogance of youth but generosity and love. That is why, in my heart, I weep for the boy who was allowed so little time to learn how to live before his time came to die.

Pharaoh’s ministers and advisors go unshaven in the bluish white garments of death, and the taverns and pleasure houses all have closed their front doors. Paranefer and his council pray for the Pharaoh’s safe journey to eternity, while Maya’s outline scribes labor day and night to finish the abandoned tomb of Nefer-neferu-aten Smenkhkare, a gift to her brother in his time of need. Nor will the priests hold any classes in the temple until the seventy days of mourning are used up.

An unnatural quiet has come over Aset since Merankh, the clumsy hound with the
akh
of a lovable puppy, grieved himself to death in order to join his master, but most days she spends across the river with her beloved sister, leaving mine without direction or purpose. This morning I visited the potter’s shed for the bowls I ordered last week, only to have Resh hand me a small flask “for the lord’s little daughter.”
Shaped like a pomegranate, it had been left the color of the baked clay except where the creamy glaze coating the inside spilled over its narrow neck. I naturally assumed she had ordered it made, for the fruit is a favorite of hers.

“No, but she believes I have magic in my hands, like Khnum, who created the People of the Sun.” His shy smile revealed a side to the man I had never seen before. “And I thought, since she is partial to pieces that have been kissed by the fire—” He was pointing to a black smudge on one side when Pagosh called out to us from some distance away.

“Have you seen Aset?”

“She is across the river,” I answered when he drew closer.

“I brought her back not an hour ago,” he puffed, out of breath from running. Or was it fear? “The Queen’s babe has gone to Osiris.”

The words came like a blow from an assailant who sneaks up from behind. “Prince Thutmose? What happened?”

“His nurse-mother found him as Re-Horakhte crested the eastern horizon, when she went to give him her breast. Some say his tongue grew too big for his mouth, others whisper that he fought with evil spirits who came for him in the dark, leaving his face one great bruise.” He watched to see how I would take that.

“The babe’s tongue protruded from his mouth?” I asked.

He nodded. “Aset refused to let anyone take him, said she acted for the Queen.” That meant she had seen the babe with his face all bloated and black, for to be robbed of breath in that way is not a pretty sight. “I brought her away, but she did not want to leave her sister and accused me of disloyalty. We must find her,
sunu.”
He tried to hide the hurt behind his gruff manner, but I knew him too well.

“Try the fowl yard and aviary. It is the beekeeper’s day to collect honey, so Resh can go there while I search the barn. We will meet back here.”

As I approached the stables I noticed Ruka loitering nearby, but paid him little attention until I saw him roll his eyes toward the closed end of the barn, where Sepi stabled
Ramose’s horses. Once inside I stopped to let my eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer light, and heard a murmur coming from the last stall, where I found her sitting on the floor with her legs crossed and Tuli wedged tightly against her. As I watched, he reached up to lick her face, trying to dry her cheeks.

“I am seven years old and no longer need a nurse-mother to watch over me,” she told him. “Anyway, Merit and Paga only do what they are told, like any other servants.” She must have sensed something, for she glanced up and saw me, then hid her face and began sobbing in earnest. A low growl came from Tuli’s throat until he recognized my scent. Then he started to whine, pleading with me to fix whatever was wrong.

I rounded the partition, dropped to the hay-covered floor beside her, and lifted her onto my lap. ‘The demons c-came in the d-dark,” she stammered, “and s-stole his breath away. They entered his nose backwards, turning their faces so they would not be recognized, and pretended they wanted to kiss him. Or quiet his cries.”

I suppose she could find no other explanation for what happened to the babe she had come to love as a little brother. “Where did you hear such nonsense?” I murmured. “Thutmose was a strong babe. Perhaps he got tangled in his blanket.”

She shook her head against my chest. “I saw no blanket.”

“His nurse-mother would have tried to free him,” I argued, even if I did not believe it myself, any more than I believe Tutankhamen’s demise was the kind of misfortune that sometimes simply happens, without intent or reason. What I did not understand was why it never occurred to me that his son would be next.

“I can still see his face, even with my eyes closed … like the blind man could see my lion. Surely my sister’s heart will break, like Merankh’s. And mine.”

“Mine, too,” I murmured against the top of her head. Tears burned my eyelids, whether for the Queen’s babe or
her little sister I cannot say, and before I could blink them away she turned to look at me.

“Oh, Tenre, I am so sorry. I thought only of myself. I forgot you were the first to greet Thutmose when he came into this world.” She put her arms around my neck and hugged me until I could not swallow. “Tuli thinks we should run away,” she whispered, “but I would never leave you.”

“Where would you go?”

“To a place where no one knows who we are. He thinks I should take a new name. Tashat, perhaps. What do you think?” It came to me then that she feared for her own life. “Poor Ankhes has no one to cry with, to make
her
feel better.”

“Surely your lady mother stays with her.”

She shook her head but refused to meet my eyes. “She has gone to General Horemheb’s villa, to be with her own sister. I heard her tell my father that Ankhes must accept that she will never bear a child that lives, because my sister’s royal blood is tainted with the blood of her grandmother, Osiris Amenhotep’s Great Royal Wife, the Israelite. That means Ankhes is not fully royal, doesn’t it?” She dared to look at me finally. “Does that mean I am tainted, too, and can never have a child who lives because my father is not royal?”

It taxed me not to say what I truly think of a mother who shows such a hard heart to her freshly bereaved daughter. Nor did I want to admit that I shared her fear. “You know better than that. I will go across the river to see what I can learn.” I set her bare feet on the hard-packed dirt floor. “But I will take you to Nebet’s if you promise to wait there and do nothing foolish.”

“You forget that I am almost eight years old.”

“No, you are the one who forgets. Merit knows what it is to lose a babe, yet you did not seek her wisdom. Or her love. Pagosh brought you away because he could not watch over you in the Queen’s apartments, for he is more father to you than servant. And you know it.” Fresh tears began to run down her cheeks, and I had to force myself to continue. “He
and Resh have been searching all over for you. Even now they wait for me by the potter’s shed, not because your father ordered them to but because they care for you. So make your peace with them first, before you go to Merit.”

“I will, I promise. I am sorry, Tenre, truly.”

“Then tell them that. And don’t forget your sandals and a shawl to keep warm, for it will be dark by the time we return.” I motioned her ahead of me in the passageway between the stalls.

“Would you take something to Ankhes for me?” she asked as we went. “After she saw the sandals Ipwet made for me she could talk of little else, so I tried on one of hers when she wasn’t looking, to see how far it stuck out beyond my toes and know how long to tell Ipwet to make them.”

When I consider what she has endured, I wonder that Ankhesenamen never tried to take her destiny into her own hands before. Who can blame her if she believes her babes all died because they were fathered first by her own father and then by her mother’s brother? Certainly an alliance with another powerful ruling family would bring vigorous blood to the royal line. Whatever the reason, the Queen sent a message in secret to Suppiluliuma, King of the Hittites, asking for one of his sons to sit beside her on the throne of Horus. That she thought it possible to keep the message a secret is naive enough, let alone that Ay and Horemheb would allow such a marriage ever to take place. Or that the High Priest would accept a Hittite as the son of Amen-Re.

Mena believes that the scribe who wrote her message betrayed the Queen to Nefertiti, who carried the tale to Ramose and, probably, to Mutnodjme as well. However it was done, Ramses, who is Horemheb’s deputy in the North and commander of the military fortress at Zarw, was waiting
when Prince Zannanza stepped onto our soil, putting an end to the young Hittite’s dreams of glory and empire.

Now two legions of Suppiluliuma’s army march toward the border of Canaan, and poor little Ankhesenamen is caught in a trap of her own making.

A chorus of priests chanted prayers to Amen while the Chief Lector Priest placed the gold mask over Tutankhamen’s face, marking him the son of Re. It was a softly burnished likeness of the young man I had come to love, with eyes of quartz and obsidian. His eyelids and brows had been inlaid with lapis lazuli, as were the stripes of his gold nemset. On his brow was the entwined serpent and vulture of Upper and Lower Kemet, to protect him from his enemies. Under the false beard of the god Osiris lay a broad collar of lapis and green feldspar beads. Aset came forward with a rope of blue cornflowers, draped it around her uncle’s shoulders, and honored him with one last bow. Then the Lector Priest ordered that Pharaoh’s two golden hands, holding the crook and flail, be sewn to the linen over his chest, ending the rites at the palace.

The funeral cortege was led by the Nine Friends of the King, followed by his council of ministers, his Fan Bearer on the Right, and viziers of the North and the South, then the priests who presided over the beautification of his body. Behind them, Paranefer and Ramose poured milk on the ground as they went, preparing the way for the six red oxen pulling the sled that bore the King’s linen-swathed form. After the first canopied sled came another, this one bearing a gilded wood chest with the four alabaster coffins that held the King’s liver, lungs, stomach, and intestines, pulled by eight white-robed priests. At the corners of the gilded chest stood four gold statuettes of the goddess Selket, her face so
filled with tenderness that to look on it brought tears to my eyes. Perhaps it was her gently turned head and the position of her arms, stretched out to protect her precious cargo, but such exquisite work could only have come from the workshops of Akhetaten, the city the Heretic dedicated to his god. There refuse from every home and place of business was collected and burned, and public baths and shady gardens were open to everyone. Yet this heaven on earth was conceived by a man said to be afflicted with a fevered brain.

After the second sled came the Queen and her mother, then Horemheb’s wife and Aset, followed by his secondary wives and concubines, including the foreign princesses sent by their fathers to Pharaoh’s harem to curry favor with the Lord of the Two Lands. They wore the same white mourning sheath, now torn and sprinkled with dust from the road. Strung out behind them were the dead King’s advisers and other high officials and, finally, his courtiers and nobles, where I took my place because of the title he had bestowed upon me barely two months before.

A crowd gathered on the banks of the river to watch us embark on the symbolic pilgrimage to the four holy cities, a long and tiring journey up and down both banks of the river. By the time we reached Tutankhamen’s half-finished funerary temple, where Aset, Nebet, and Tetisheri waited, the sun was high, erasing the shadows that give the earth depth and form. There, after a quick repast of fruits and breads, Mena and I again joined the line of mourners, leaving his wife and daughter behind lest the rough journey endanger Sheri’s unborn babe or Nebet’s fragile hip.

Once beyond the village of the tomb workers, we began the long trek across the incorruptible plateau of rock and sand to the Place of Truth, over terrain littered with chips of white limestone from the stones cut for Tutankhamen’s funerary chapel—his life finished before the building. By the time we arrived at the place where he will live through eternity, several tents had been erected for the royal family, Paranefer, and his sem priests. Servants spread rush mats in
what little shade they could find, so the women could pass the time gossiping and dozing while the men carried Pharaoh’s grave goods into the cool, torchlit chambers.

I carried a painted wood head of him as a child, a coffer bearing his birth name, and a toy box with a secret lock, all souvenirs from his childhood as the rites demanded, along with a jar of sweet wine from Aten’s vineyards in Zarw. One chamber already contained his two stillborn babes, and I took consolation from knowing he soon would be joined by the son who had given him such joy, and so would not be alone in that silent place.

Before leaving it, I paused for one last look at the walls in his chamber, skipping over the representations of Osiris and the other gods and goddesses, to where the living man skimmed through the marshes in a reed boat, his wife sitting at his feet. In another scene he hunted lions in the desert with his faithful Merankh, and afterward took his rest in a gilded chair, enjoying the attention of his Queen. Such representations often go against the truth, but I believe they did truly honor each other. If what they shared fell short of what I see between Mena and Sheri, that is because they had no say in the choosing. Still, given more time, who can say what might have been?

The guests gathered as Osiris Tutankhamen, adorned now with garlands of cornflowers, olive leaves, and blue beads, was raised to stand before the entrance of his eternal home. A chorus of young priests began a chant of supplication to Osiris, but when an Anubis-masked priest stepped forward to put a great white bull to the knife, a hushed silence fell over the crowd of mourners.