The Twelfth Transforming

by Pauline Gedge

  “Leave us also, Horemheb,” Tiye ordered quietly. She was trembling. He bowed immediately and left.

  Only now did Tiye summon the courage to look down the long room, through the ominously silent shadows, to the massive couch beside which a stone lamp glowed. The physicians stood behind it, stooped and resigned. With Ay beside her she crossed the expanse of floor, and as they came up to Pharaoh, the door opened again and Amunhotep and Sitamun slipped inside. Tiye did not even glance at them as they stopped at the foot of the couch. Her eyes were on her unconscious husband, who tossed and muttered.

  “Well?” she addressed the physicians.

  “We have done all we can,” one of them said in the monotone of complete exhaustion, “and he refused to have the spells sung over him.”

  “Very well. You can leave.”

  They did not stop to pack the welter of herbs, amulets, and unguents that had spilled over the table, but left as quickly as good manners allowed, and Tiye could not blame them. The last weeks in attendance on Pharaoh must have been a nightmare they would never forget. Placing a hand on her husband’s drenched forehead, she murmured his name, but even in his unconscious state he felt the pain of her touch and pulled away. His entire face was swollen, his mouth rimed in dried foam, his closed eyes weeping yellowish tears that clotted on his lashes. Tiye withdrew her hand.

  For a long time the four of them remained motionless in the tomblike silence of the room, and Tiye realized with despair that Pharaoh would die as he had lived, self-contained, apart, with an arrogant denial of everything beyond his control and a contempt for all who would offer to fulfill his needs. He did not recover consciousness. His restlessness grew more spasmodic, his muttered, disjointed sentences fainter and fewer. A servant approached Tiye on noiseless feet and spoke with eyes averted. “The high priest and his acolytes are without, Majesty. They bring prayers and incense for the passing of the god.”

  “Let them come.”

  The room filled slowly with silent white-robed men bearing long incense holders that glowed and smoked. Ptahhotep approached the couch and knelt, taking Pharaoh’s limp hand to kiss it while a low, tuneful singing began. I wonder if he is aware of this, Tiye thought. I think he would prefer the loud riot I expelled, but he would understand my reasons for what I did. God you are, and god you will always be, Amunhotep. She stole a glance at her son but could read nothing on his face. In the flickering light his jaw looked longer and narrower than ever, his nose sharper, his thick lips looser. Sitamun’s eyes darted from her father to the clustered priests, and Tiye thought she saw impatience in the long fingers linked together before her.

  Gradually the room filled with throat-catching, sweet smoke that wisped into every corner, driving out the lingering odor of stale wine, perfume, and sweat. Pale light began to filter through the shutters. Somewhere beyond the lawns and flower beds the distant rattle of a tambourine sounded, and the faint ululation of a morning song, a servant on her way to her daily duties in kitchen or harem.

  At that moment Tiye suddenly realized that she was gazing down on a body. Pharaoh had gone, but such was the spell he cast that for minutes she said and did nothing, waiting for the eyes to flick open and seek her own. “May the soles of your feet be firm, Osiris One,” she finally murmured. “May your name live forever. Raise the hangings, open the shutters,” she said to the servants. “Dawn comes.” They moved to obey her, and Sitamun fell stiffly to her knees. Tiye had supposed the girl would pay the body some mark of respect, but she prostrated herself before her brother, pressing her mouth fervently against his feet.

  The light had strengthened as Ra fought urgently to be born. Without pause the priests began the Song of Praise that Pharaoh had not cared to hear for many years, their eyes going to the young man whose gaze had turned to the window. Sitamun rose and walked away. One by one the priests came to kneel and do homage to their new ruler, and when the hymn was over, they, too, left. Ay knelt swiftly to kiss the now divine feet, and Tiye did so last, hardly aware of her actions. Amunhotep took no notice of them but stared out into the garden, where dawn was over and the light was changing from pink to white.

  “How very winsomely Ra completes his final transforming,” he said cheerfully.

  “I will send out the heralds at once,” Ay said to Tiye, “and if you wish, I will instruct the Scribe of Foreign Correspondence to prepare dispatches to those kingdoms with whom we have relations. Your presence is not required for that.”

  Tiye nodded. “Send for the sem-priests to take him away,” she said. “and for his servants to gather his goods.” Ay took her arm, but she gently shook him off. “I will go to Tia-Ha,” she said. “I am not grieving, Ay, not yet. I simply cannot believe that a god whose ka pervaded the whole of the empire for so long is gone. I will tell Kheruef.”

  The door clicked softly, and she and Ay glanced toward it, startled. Amunhotep had left.

  By the time Tiye entered her friend’s apartment, the shrieks of mourning had begun in the harem. The women were flocking to the garden, tearing their gowns as they went, rushing to grasp handfuls of earth to sift over their heads. Tia-Ha rose from her cosmetics table, still in her voluminous sleeping gown, and the familiar, comfortable disorder of the room melted Tiye. Her stiff limbs loosened and began to shake. Before Tia-Ha could kneel, Tiye reached for her hands, pulling her forward, and Tia-Ha’s arms went around her. “Bring warm wine and be quick,” she snapped at her slave. “Sit on my couch, Majesty. How cold you are!” Within moments she had placed a woolen cloak around Tiye’s shoulders and pushed warm wine into her unresisting hands. Tiye drank gratefully.

  “It is the shock, Tia-Ha,” she said as the alcohol reached her stomach and spread warmth through her limbs. “For so long we have expected it. We ought to have been ready.”

  “How can anyone be ready for the death of a Horus such as he? Cry if you wish, Majesty. My quarters are a good and private place. Listen to them! The harem women have had no such excitement since Princess Henut attacked the Babylonian. Amunhotep goes to the Holy Barque on a tide of delicious sorrow.”

  Tiye smiled wanly. “He would laugh to hear you. But no, Tia-Ha, I will not cry. I think I have forgotten how. Pharaoh did not like tears. He regarded them as a weakness.”

  “And for a queen, they are. You will have your hands full, organizing a new administration for your son and seeing to the comfort of the delegations that will arrive for the funeral.” She fell silent and sat cupping her goblet in both hands.

  “You have fulfilled your duty as a Royal Wife with great devotion,” Tiye said to the lowered, tousled head. “Would you like me to arrange with my son to have you released from the harem, Tia-Ha? You could retire to your estates in the Delta. I care nothing for the other women, but you have been my cherished friend.”

  “Retire?” Tia-Ha’s sultry eyes sparkled. “Oh, the lush delights of the Delta! The orchards, the odorous vineyards, the lusty young slaves pressing the grapes with such a panting, such a rippling of muscles. It would be an interesting retirement. But I think not. I would like to be free to come and go farther than the Theban markets, but my life has been spent here, and I would miss the gossip, the fights, the whiffs of power that come curling through those double doors. Thank you, Goddess, but no.”

  Tiye nodded, relaxing under Tia-Ha’s lilting voice, and a healthy fatigue stole over her. She felt no guilt as she recognized relief pooling out from under her grief and tension. Egypt had been preparing itself for this day for a long time. “I think I will sleep now,” she said. “It was good to come to you, Tia-Ha.” Tiye rose, this time waiting for the other’s obeisance before leaving the harem. Pacing slowly to her own quarters, she ignored the tumultuous expressions of formal grief all around her. We did well, you and I, she thought as she swung her legs onto her couch and sleep rushed to claim her. Life has been sweet.

  BOOK TWO

  7

  During the seventy days of mourning for Pharaoh Amunhotep III, while his body was beau
tified under the hands of the sem-priests and his magnificent tomb was prepared, Malkatta filled with foreign dignitaries from every corner of the empire, all bearing words of condolence for Empress Tiye and assurance of everlasting brotherhood for her son. Amunhotep sat solemnly on a throne, but the royal regalia rested in the arms of their keeper on the dais steps, for the new pharaoh was not entitled to wear them until his coronation. He attended graciously to every smooth word and replied politely, yet those present had the impression that his thoughts were far away. When he was not in Pharaoh’s audience chamber, he could be found in the nursery, bent over little Meritaten’s cot, or sitting with his wife by the lake, saying little, listening to his scribe read to him from the ancient writings. Tiye waited for him to dismiss the sun priests, soothe the men of Amun, and visit his ministries, but he did not. She wondered if by continuing to behave like a prince he was defending himself against the possibility of even now losing the kingship.

  Nefertiti had no such fears. She sent for the cobra coronet and spent an afternoon examining it while its keeper stood by in silence, anxious lest she should offend it by some precipitous act. But she did not dare to place it on her head. The girl passed long hours watching the construction of the palace Amunhotep had commissioned just outside the Karnak complex, although the architects and master craftsmen dreaded her coming, for she was never satisfied. To her husband she was as loving and thoughtful as ever, but to those watching, Nefertiti’s shows of extravagant affection rang hollow.

  Some weeks before her father was to be dragged on the ritual sledges to his tomb, Sitamun sought out the new pharaoh, walking gracefully across his lawn, the transparent blue robes of mourning floating becomingly around her in the soft breeze. The river had reached its full height and was now receding, and the bare earth was already covered in thin, green shoots of new crops. Optimism was in the air, and the court was almost jubilant at the prospect of fresh intrigues, new commissions to be handed out, an untried face staring down on them from beneath the weight of the Double Crown. Sitamun had dressed carefully and wore four loops of gaily painted and gilded clay rings about her neck. Her wig was festooned with turquoise and lapis lazuli cornflowers, and a single huge jasper hung on her brown forehead. The ribbons holding the blue sheath under her painted breasts fluttered to her gold-sandaled feet, and around her shoulders she had draped a short red-bordered cloak. Bracelets tinkled on her arms, and her rings flashed as she greeted her brother, arms outstretched, head bent. Behind her, her retinue wafted like bright petals.

  Amunhotep smiled as she straightened. “Mourning suits you, Sitamun. It matches the blue of your eyes.”

  “My pharaoh, my dear brother,” she said, smiling back encouragingly, “by right I should have waited to give you your coronation gift, but I wanted you to have it in peace so that selfishly I might enjoy your pleasure. Will you walk to the canal with me?” Without waiting for an answer her arm slid through his, and they began to make their way to the forecourt. “The Aten temple is still a long way from dedication,” she went on, “and the princess’s own rises slowly also. Does the delay make you impatient?” He warmed to her, answering her questions easily, feeling her other hand cover his own. “And Princess Meritaten does well, I hear,” Sitamun continued as they began to cross the white dazzle above the water steps. The crowds always drifting about went down before them.

  “She does. And she is already very beautiful. I think she will have Nefertiti’s foreign eyes.”

  They had come to the edge of the private canal that separated the palace and river, and strolled under the shade of the date palms and sycamores that lined it. At the point where the water steps angled and finally ended, a small barge took the gentle swell, a blue and white damask sail folded neatly against its mast. It was made of cedar, and Amunhotep could smell the scent of the exotic wood. Its sides were inlaid with gold that gleamed dully under the trees. On the prow a giant, rayed sun had been overlaid in silver, and on the stern a silver Eye of Horus regarded them dispassionately. In the center of the deck a cabin had been built, its furnishings of Babylonian brocade, Nubian leather, and silk from Asia, its appointments all worked in blue and white, the imperial colors. Small folding chairs of cedar inlaid with ivory were scattered about the deck. A golden canopy was folded back against the front wall of the cabin. Slaves kilted and head-clothed in blue and white stood lining the rail, and as Amunhotep stepped forward, they knelt on the deck.

  Sitamun waved one bejeweled arm. “This is my gift to you, Horus. I have caused the Aten to be emblazoned upon it. Accept it with my humble homage and love.”

  Their servants set up a buzz of admiration behind them. Amunhotep’s grave gaze swiveled to his sister.

  “I accept with amazement,” he said. “It is strongly built. A magnificent gift. The steward of your estates must be sweating in fear.”

  All laughed dutifully at the timid joke, and Sitamun smiled into his eyes. “I am richer than any woman save our mother,” she said coolly. “Therefore I can give with munificence. The crew and slaves are yours also.”

  Amunhotep turned and embraced her warmly. “We will take a little journey immediately,” he said. “The day is perfect.” At his nod slaves sprang to motion, running out the ramp and untying the sail. Pharaoh swayed into the cabin, with Sitamun following. The servants scrambled after them, spilling over the deck and settling under the awning. “Just to the great bend,” Amunhotep ordered, and the little craft left the steps and began to glide down the canal. Amunhotep lay back on the cushions. “Nothing is more pleasant than a day spent on the river,” he said dreamily. “If you look carefully, Sitamun, you can see the nests of birds almost hidden by the palm branches. I love to drift past the flocks of heron and ibis, such dazzling whiteness, such thin, delicate legs! Truly, life is a wondrous thing.”

  Sitamun, reclining beside him, allowed her blue linen to flutter away from her legs in the warm wind that blew through the cabin. “Look, Amunhotep,” she said, pointing to the bank, “a crocodile.” They watched as the silent beast slid into the water. “They like to wait close to Thebes. Sometimes bodies end up in the Nile. How terrible, to die without being beautified, to have no place in the next world.”

  “The fate of the body is not important,” Amunhotep said kindly. “By the Aten’s power we are born, and by that same power the ka survives.”

  Oh, no, Sitamun thought. If I must listen to one more discourse on the power of the sun, I shall fall asleep. But Pharaoh did not speak further, and when Sitamun glanced up, she found him staring at her.

  “What will you do now that your royal husband is dead?” he asked, his voice high and quick, his bovine eyes moving over her body with an appraisal that was too obvious to be insulting.

  Sitamun lifted the ringlets away from her breasts and began to play with her necklaces. “What can I do, Horus? I belong to the harem. I am a widow. But even if I could leave, I would not. I wish to serve you as faithfully as I served Osiris Amunhotep. I have been a princess, a consort of an heir, a queen. If my long experience of court life could be useful to you, I am yours to dispose of as you see fit.”

  He nodded sagely. “You have been kind to me, Sitamun. Your advice in matters of rule would be useful, if mother cannot supply the answers, of course. Have the hangings dropped, and we will discuss it.”

  Sitamun gave a short order, and a servant hurried to untie the heavy curtains. As they were enclosed in the warm darkness, it seemed to Sitamun that her brother’s eyes grew more feverishly bright. His languid, long-boned hands had begun to fidget, passing over his soft belly, stroking each other, plucking slowly at the ankle-length kilt he wore. “In this dimness your mouth melts into an undefinable age,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “I have a mind to make you a Great Royal Wife. Such beauty should not be wasted.”

  Senses suddenly alert, Sitamun felt his palm move to her body, plucking at the ribbons that held her sheath in place, passing gently over her breasts. He lifted her wig, and her own hair tumb
led over her shoulders. The sight of it seemed to fill him with sudden energy, and his thick, heart-shaped lips descended to enclose her own. For a moment her body rebelled, repulsed by his sheer ugliness, but she closed her eyes, summoning the courage and skill she had used time and again with her father, and found the task more pleasurable than she had imagined it would be.

  Afterward he gently replaced her wig and called for the curtains to be raised. On the deck the servants still chattered and giggled, and water slapped against the golden sides of the craft. Amunhotep regarded his sister. “I enjoyed that,” he said. “You know more about making love than Nefertiti. Perhaps you could teach her.”

  Incredulous, Sitamun struggled to keep her expression noncommittal, not knowing whether he joked or was indulging a fit of spite against his wife. She realized that neither was true, and that he was simply speaking his thoughts aloud. In that respect, Sitamun decided as she tied up her sheath and clapped her hands for something to quench her thirst, he was dangerous.

  The news of Sitamun’s gift to her brother, their pleasure trip, and the time they had spent secluded from their staff went from mouth to greedy mouth at Malkatta, where the seventy days of mourning for the dead pharaoh had left the court eager to return to its normal affairs. Within two days Nefertiti was brooding over the rumors, and on the third night she confronted Amunhotep in his bedchamber. The air was chill, and two braziers smoked at either end of the capacious room. The doors to Amunhotep’s golden Aten shrine stood open, and the incense he had burned while he said his prayers still smoldered. He himself was sitting propped up on his couch, knees to chin, arms folded loosely across them, lost in the trance he so often entered after he had held his daily conversation with the god. His head was bare, and Nefertiti, approaching him swiftly, was struck yet again by its curious shape. She was too accustomed to it to feel distaste and found, rather, that the more she saw of her husband, the more drawn to him she was. She understood him no better now than she had when the marriage contract was sealed, but her need to protect his odd innocence had grown. Coming up to him, she lifted his limp hand and kissed it gently. He raised his head, blinking, and swung his legs over the edge of the couch.