by Angela Hunt
Goaded by pain and the frenzy of fear, the elephant vented his anger on the hapless driver, stomping the life out of him.
As Pharaoh rose to his knees, Narmer gripped the rim of his chariot. If he urged his horses forward, he could draw the rampaging monster away from his helpless king. But he had not come on this journey to save Tuthmosis.
Pharaoh broke into a sprint. Distracted by the flurry of movement, the bull turned and charged. Narmer watched in horror as one of the huge tusks gored the king as easily as a knife slices butter.
The elephant trumpeted in triumph, lifting Pharaoh from the ground. Narmer’s fingers fluttered as his heart raced. He had hoped for such an accident, but he had never thought to witness it.
Despite the heat, cold air brushed across the back of his neck, and his scalp tingled beneath the heavy hair of his wig. Oh, Mut, if you could see how the gods have answered our petitions…
The bull shook Pharaoh the way a puppy shakes a rag toy. The body slid from the giant tusk and flew into a scrubby patch of brush as if it had been made of nothing but papyrus reeds. Narmer continued to watch as the bull shivered and staggered. A bright flood of blood rushed from his mouth, then the giant toppled onto its side.
Like a statue, Narmer remained frozen in place. The alarmed cries of the other hunters finally stirred him to action, and he slapped his reins and drove toward Pharaoh’s broken body. A strange, cold excitement inside him threatened to explode into a fit of laughter, but he arranged his face in lines of dismay and despair. He was, after all, the captain of Pharaoh’s guard, and responsible for his life. He must feel regret, grief and unrelenting guilt.
He did not look at the granite corpse of the elephant, but hurried to the grassy place where Pharaoh lay. Sweat and blood had soaked the royal chest and stained the linen kilt; a dark pool of life seeped into the ground beneath him.
Narmer knelt at the king’s side and rested his hands on his knees, mindful of the others who watched from a respectful distance. “Poor Pharaoh,” he murmured.
At the sound of his voice the king’s eyes flew open. Narmer jerked backward, nearly losing his balance.
“Narmer,” Tuthmosis said, a death rattle in his throat. The wounded king lifted a blood-streaked hand. “Carry word to the queen, Amenhotep now reigns. It is the will of the Almighty God.”
“Yes, my king,” Narmer replied, staring as the king’s eyes rolled back into his head. Tuthmosis stiffened and shuddered, then released his last breath.
Narmer remained by the king’s side until the others forced him to move away. Later he noted with satisfaction that not one drop of the king’s blood had stained his hands.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tuya paused to inhale the delicious scent of the blue lotus blossoms now growing in the pools of the palace garden. Yosef and Amenhotep, unaware that she lingered, kept walking, their hands lifting in emphasis as they debated the wisdom of the ancient laws.
Watching them, Tuya smiled. Yosef had appeared at her door each morning for over a month, offering her a bowl of blue lotus blossoms in the name of the king. As pleasant as the gift was, Tuya longed far more for the sight of Tuthmosis’s royal barge on the Nile. Only when she had seen him safe again on his throne could she believe that her dream had been a meaningless premonition, a toothless lion stalking her in the dark.
A guard stepped into the path before Yosef and saluted. “I beg Zaphenath-paneah’s and the prince’s pardon,” he said, bowing. “But a messenger has come from the river. He brings a message from Narmer and Pharaoh’s hunting party.”
A message from Narmer? Any message should have come from Pharaoh himself.
A wave of grayness passed over Tuya as Yosef nodded. “Bring the messenger to me at once. Bid him make haste.”
Tuya put her hand to her throat and hurried toward the men. “Yosef,” she called, her voice trembling.
He turned and cast her a warning glance, then placed his hand on Amenhotep’s shoulder. “We should meet the messenger in the throne room.” He offered a careful smile that said, Remain calm. Remember your son.
She lowered her hand. Despite the tight place of anxiety in her heart, she smiled and placed her hands on Amenhotep’s shoulders. “Live, O Prince, and prosper forever,” she murmured, lowering her forehead to rest on his. “Know that your father and I love you dearly.”
She might have held him forever, but Yosef cleared his throat and led the prince toward the throne room.
Everything went silent within her as Tuya heard the forthright message: ten days before, while engaged in a brutal battle with an elephant, Pharaoh Tuthmosis IV died a glorious and victorious death. His body had been wrapped and was on its way home with the two tusks of the great elephant that had set him on his way to paradise.
The message had been witnessed and signed by Narmer, captain of the king’s guard, who was traveling with Pharaoh’s body.
A heavy silence fell over the throne room as Yosef finished reading the scroll, then Queen Mutemwiya broke into loud, hiccupping sobs. Her ladies helped her from the room while the priests hurried to make preparations and engage the professional mourners who would weep and wail for the departed king throughout the next seventy days.
Amenhotep stood by the vizier’s side with wide eyes. In an oddly detached manner Tuya found herself thinking that twelve was too young to lose a father and king.
She looked at Yosef, waiting for soothing words. His hand, which had been resting on the prince’s shoulder, lifted, then Zaphenath-paneah, beloved of Pharaoh, dropped to his knees before the child. “O King, live forever,” the vizier said, lifting his gaze to meet the wide brown eyes of the frightened boy. “Now you are no longer Prince, but Pharaoh in word and deed. Your people will look to you for leadership and courage.”
The boy’s chin quivered, and for a moment Tuya feared he would cry. But the steel of the royal bloodline asserted itself when the prince squared his shoulders. “Rise, Zaphenath-paneah,” he said, his voice a childish treble in the room, “and help me prepare my father’s tomb.”
Yosef rose and nodded, then followed the new king from the room and into his private chamber.
A servant came for Tuya within the space of an hour. She dried her tears and washed her face, then hurried to the royal chamber that had been her husband’s. The guards at the door stepped aside as she passed, and after her knock a servant admitted her to the royal presence.
Amenhotep lay on the bed, his eyes red and swollen. Yosef sat in a chair near him, his face strained with weariness, but he gave Tuya a helpless smile.
Pharaoh lifted his head. Tears had tangled his thick lashes and smeared the paint on his eyes. “Royal Mother,” he whispered, his face locked with anxiety, “what am I to do?”
Tuya wanted to scream that she didn’t know, but Yosef’s words of warning washed over her. The dream that had warned her of Pharaoh’s death urged her to protect and shelter this other love of her life, her child.
“My dear son,” she whispered, rushing to him. She sat next to him and slipped her arm about his shoulders. “My boy. You shall be a great king. You have your father’s most trusted advisor at your side, and Egypt awaits your command. The Almighty God would not leave you unprepared at a time like this. You must trust me, my son, and you must trust God.” Yosef’s strong gaze pulled her eyes to meet his. “El Shaddai is great, my son, and you can trust him with the kingdom as your father did.”
One of Yosef’s eyebrows lifted in a silent question, but he said nothing as he motioned for a slave to fetch the priests who would put Pharaoh to bed.
The ceremonial barge of Tuthmosis IV appeared on the Nile three days later. Narmer had done his best to preserve the king’s immortal body, emptying it of all organs but the heart, the organ of life and intelligence, and the kidneys, for they represented the sacred Nile. The body had been stuffed and sprinkled with salt, then wrapped in linen and hurried to the river. Fortunately, the low waters of the Nile ran swiftly northward in the hot winds
. After taking the king’s body aboard the barge at Elephantine, the royal party had made good time.
The royal party. Narmer liked the sound of those words, for Tuthmosis was no longer King. The court at Thebes did not yet know the full truth, but the men aboard the ship did not doubt that Narmer held the reins of power.
Tuya stood on a porch of the palace and lifted her gaze to the river. The priests, their bare heads gleaming in the bright light of the sun, lifted their arms in homage to their dead king, whose body was being lifted and carried toward the temple of Horus for mummification.
Tuya shivered as the dreadful ululations of mourning rose and fell like ghostly screams. For the first time she saw herself as a king’s widow, a purposeless, useless object. Mutemwiya was Queen, Amenhotep officially her husband. Tuya had not felt so alone since the night she had been abandoned by Sagira.
The group of warriors who had accompanied the king walked at the side of the body, their swords lifted across their chests. Narmer walked at the fore, the Gold of Praise gleaming in the sunlight, his chin lifted as if in defiance of death. Solemnly he sang a song of mourning, his nasal voice cutting through the wails of the mourners on the riverbank:
,!Death is in my sight today
as the odor of myrrh,
as when sitting under sail on a breezy day.
Death is in my sight today
as is the odor of lotus flowers,
as is the presence of hearts heavy with grief.
Death is in my sight today
as a well-trodden path,
as when a man returns home to his house from war.
Death is in my sight today
as a clearing of the sky,
as a man discerning what he knew not.
Death is in my sight today
as when a man longs to see his home again
after he has spent many years in captivity.
Nay, but he who is Yonder in the Other World
will be a living god,
inflicting punishment for evil on him who does it.
Nay, but he who is Yonder
will stand in the bark of the sun-god
and will assign the choicest things therein to the temples.
Nay, but he who is Yonder
will be a man of knowledge,
not hindered from petitioning Ra when he speaks.
Nay, but my soul has set aside lamentation,
for when he is joined with the earth,
I will alight after he goes to rest.
Then we shall make an abode together!
Tuya pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering Tuthmosis’s energy and life, while from her porch, Mutemwiya drew attention with much weeping and wailing. Amenhotep, who stood by the queen’s side with the double crown of Egypt teetering on his head, looked to the vizier for comfort and encouragement.
Tuya’s eyes followed the white-wrapped bundle until it passed into the outer courtyard of the temple, then she slipped from the porch and walked to her chambers. She felt as ancient as the pyramid of Khufu. Surely she had outlived her usefulness, for she had outlived her love. In previous dynasties, the slaves and wives of great kings had been entombed with the deceased pharaohs, but since that practice had been ruled barbaric, stone representations of a king’s slaves and wives would be placed in the king’s tomb to follow him into the other world.
Would it not be better to follow Tuthmosis into death than to spend a lifetime mourning him? She had wasted so many years yearning for a love that was not meant to be…but at least she had discovered her love for Tuthmosis before it was too late.
She opened the door to her chamber and slipped off the scarf she had used to shield her eyes from the sun. On a stand in the middle of the room, a half-dozen blue lotus blossoms floated in a silver bowl.
Yosef had not forgotten Pharaoh’s last wish. He would honor Tuthmosis, and his son, for as long as he lived.
Tuya pressed her face into the flowers and choked back a sob as grief erupted anew.
The city mourned its lost king. Watch fires along the Nile dotted the darkness; huge tongues of flame leapt into the air, followed by boiling clouds of dust and debris. Keening wails from the mourning populace stretched across the city and filled the palace with a series of endless cries. The horrible sounds filled Tuya’s ears and left her tossing on a bed of grief, unable to sleep.
In the darkest hour of the night, the doors of her chamber burst open. She sat up, half-afraid one of her dreams had materialized. “Who moves there?”
Two of Narmer’s guards stalked into the room, spears in their hands and swords at their belts. A captain she did not recognize stepped into the dim rectangle of light cast from the lamp in the outer room. “Queen Tuya, you are summoned to appear in the throne room of the Two Kingdoms.”
Anger overcame her fear. “Who summons me? Surely not Pharaoh.”
“Narmer, captain of the king’s guard, and Chike, high priest of Osiris, await you,” the captain answered, his eyes glinting toward her. “You are to dress and come with me immediately.”
“I will dress before no man but my husband,” Tuya answered. “Leave my chamber and wait outside.”
“I cannot.”
“You will. There is no escape from this room, and no reason for you to guard me. I will be with you in a moment, so leave now, or by the life of Pharaoh I’ll have you flogged!”
The captain grinned as if he would taunt her with a threat of his own, but then he turned and gestured for the two guards to follow. When they had gone, Tuya swung her legs out of the bed and dressed in a simple linen sheath. She was about to slip on her wig, then decided against it. They had roused her from her bed, and she was not about to dress to impress such ruffians.
She ran her fingers through her short hair, smoothed her skirt and opened the door. The two guards immediately stepped into position at her side.
With sudden understanding, she looked up at them. Tonight her dream would be fulfilled. The danger was real; the enemies waited in the throne room. They had taken Pharaoh, and they were about to threaten her son.
With the anger of a lioness, she glared at the captain. “Lead me to them.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Queen Mutemwiya sat in her gilded chair, the double crown of Egypt on her head. Amenhotep, who should have been on the throne with the regal beard of Pharaoh strapped to his chin, sat on a low stool before the queen. The throne itself stood empty, but Narmer paraded before it with the air of a conquering hero.
Tuya’s blood boiled when she realized who had authored this unfolding plan of destruction. Narmer and the queen, no doubt. For Mutemwiya had not been pulled from her bed to witness an inquisition; that lady was fairly purring with expectation as Tuya walked into the throne room amid the buzzing of a curious crowd.
She felt Amenhotep’s eyes on her, but she did not dare look at him lest her fear show in her face. “What is the meaning of this?” She pushed the words across the room. “Who has dared disturb the king’s wife in her hour of grief?”
“Tuthmosis is King no longer,” Narmer said, his eyes falling on her with a look that made her shiver. “And you were once a slave. Perhaps you shall be a slave again.”
Tuya felt a heat in her chest and belly she recognized as rage. She wanted to scream, to stamp her feet and roar, but Narmer was right—she had no power and no authority except that which had been granted to her by Pharaoh. And Amenhotep did not wear the crown at this moment—Mutemwiya did.
The double doors of the throne room opened again and another bevy of guards approached. In the midst of them walked Yosef, his hands bound together.
Tuya whirled to face Narmer. “What is the meaning of this? What wrong has the vizier done?”
Narmer’s mouth curved into a predatory smile. “You and the vizier have been brought here to face a serious charge. Queen Mutemwiya will serve as a witness. Chike will hear the evidence and speak for the gods.”
“What charge?” Yosef asked, his voice
surprisingly calm.
Tuya swallowed a hysterical surge of angry laughter. Someone had taken great pains to arrange this trial, for the walls of the royal throne room were lined with somber-faced, wide-eyed onlookers who should have been in bed.
Narmer held up a hand and turned to address the gathering. Studying the crowd, Tuya saw that a host of people had been assembled: nobles, warriors, priests and many of the hunters who had accompanied Tuthmosis on the fateful trip. Barreling his chest like a bantam rooster, Narmer preened before them.
“I was favored by the gods to reach the dying king before he breathed his last,” Narmer said, pausing to cast a look of compassionate concern toward Mutemwiya. “Anyone in the hunting party can support my words. They saw the king speak to me. They saw me bow in grief at his words.”
Queen Mutemwiya leaned forward, her hand pressed to her heart. “What words did my beloved husband speak?”
“It grieves me, gentle Queen, to repeat our divine king’s last words before your ears. For he revealed a shameful thing, a sorrow he has borne since his ascent to Egypt’s throne.”
The queen shot him a half-frightened look. “What sorrow?”
Narmer paused. “The divine Tuthmosis, on his way to the other world, told me that one of his wives was guilty of the worst kind of disloyalty. He said his greatest sorrow was that Queen Tuya had given her love to Zaphenath-paneah.”
An audible gasp rose from the assembled crowd. Several of the nobles whispered among themselves. The priests raised their eyebrows and slanted questions at one another.
Tuya closed her eyes, recognizing the trap in which she would be caught.
The vizier stepped forward. “I do not believe you,” he said, his voice ringing with authority.