Then his heart leaped into his mouth. One gleaming wheel tottered, fell away from the chariot, and veered off into the sand. He heard the king shout, more in surprise than in fear. The axle hit the ground. Tutankhamun released the reins. A scream of dismay went up behind as his body soared, cartwheeled, struck the confused horses, which had already jerked to a halt, and fell huddled to the sand. Horemheb glanced behind. He and Pharaoh had had a good lead. Hauling savagely on his own reins, he jumped down and ran, kneeling quickly, his arms and legs liquid with momentary terror. To his astonishment, Tutankhamun opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, his saffron kilt torn, his helmet half off, his breathing shallow. He was merely stunned. At that moment Horemheb might have made the decision to wait, or perhaps to have seen Pharaoh’s miraculous preservation as a sign of the god’s protection. But a quick glance showed him two things. The ground was littered with small pieces of rock, and lying within reach, glinting malevolently in the sun, was one of the axle pins. He did not hesitate. Already men were running toward him, waving and yelling. Grabbing the pin and a rock, he pushed Tutankhamun onto his stomach. One finger searched for the hollow at the base of the skull, exposed by the dislodged helmet. The angle of the head was not right. He tilted it slightly, placed the point of the golden pin in the hollow, and with a grunt slammed the rock against it. There was brief resistance, and then the pin slid upward. Pharaoh made a tiny sound, like the mewing of a kitten. Cursing in haste, Horemheb wrenched out the pin. A small amount of blood welled slowly, sank, welled again. He rubbed the rock in the blood, pulled the helmet into place, and rolled the body onto its back. He had no time to verify whether Tutankhamun was dead. Dropping the rock and thrusting the pin deep into the sand, he turned. Men were already jumping from their chariots and running forward. Ay’s litter bearers were coming at a run. Ay himself was sitting upright, slapping them. “Is the physician here?” Horemheb called, amazed at the steadiness of his voice. “We must get Pharaoh out of the sun. I think he is seriously injured.” Ay got down, breathing harshly, pushing through the courtiers to stand frozen, the only sound for a moment his ragged breath. Seeing the trace of blood fresh on Tutankhamun’s neck and one shoulder, he nudged the stained rock with one foot, then knelt, placing his ear against Pharaoh’s chest.
“He is not injured, he is dead!” he whispered. “It happened so fast. I cannot believe it. You.” He pointed a shaking finger at the litter bearers as he rose to his feet. “Put him on my litter. It is like Prince Thothmes, all those years ago,” he said to Horemheb, his voice reedy. “So fast…”
Horemheb stepped to him. He himself was pale and unsteady. “We must get to the queen before any of this mob,” he managed, his last few words drowned in the flood of wailing that had broken out as the curtains on the litter were closed and the body lifted. “Try to compose yourself, Ay.”
Ay nodded. Together they stumbled to Horemheb’s chariot and mounted. Guards were unhitching the horses from Tutankhamun’s damaged vehicle and examining the axle, which had bent on impact with the ground. Horemheb picked up the reins, and with the small action came a burst of relief. He had done it. Pharaoh was dead.
Word had already reached Ankhesenamun, and as the two men pulled up in front of her tent, she came running out, evading Ay’s warning arm, her eyes wide with horror. Falling toward the litter, she tore the curtains open, and then sank to her knees and began to pull at her hair. “Each of his children was cursed!” she sobbed. “And the gods will not be content until I am dead also. I am the last! Tutankhamun, my brother, my love!”
“No, Majesty, it is a foolish fancy,” Ay said soothingly as he bent over her. But she refused to be comforted. Long after the litter had disappeared on its way to the House of the Dead, and the silent servants were striking the tents, she continued to kneel on the desert and keen, lifting sand in both hands and letting it trickle over her head. The sight chilled those who were observing her grief. There was something anciently tragic and despairing in the sight of the young queen, her delicate features disfigured, her long black hair dusted with sand and blowing out on the hot noon wind, kneeling and rocking while behind her the cliffs shimmered brown in the haze and above, the dry deep blue sky spread, endlessly immense. Her cries seemed to encompass all the tears shed by the members of her doomed family, yet every god was turning his back upon that wild beseeching.
As the seventy days of mourning began, Egypt’s shock gave way to wide spread grief. Tutankhamun’s peaceful reforms had won him the veneration of all citizens, and they had begun to feel secure under his administration. Now that security had been snatched away, and their sorrow was mingled with apprehension for the future. At Malkatta the courtiers withdrew, stunned, to their apartments. Only Ay, with an uneasiness he could not define, questioned the physician who had reverently examined the body.
“He was tossed against the sharp rock with tremendous force,” the man said in answer to Ay’s query. “There was a deep hole just above the neck. How tragic that he should have been struck in the spot, though I cannot understand why Horus died so quickly. A blow to the temple would have been a more likely cause of immediate death.”
It was obvious that since Pharaoh had already been dead when he was carried back to the palace, the physician had not examined the body as carefully as he would have if Tutankhamun had survived his injury, and his answer did not satisfy Ay. The fanbearer kept returning to the picture of Horemheb bent over Pharaoh, sheltering the body from view, but told himself that his suspicion was fanciful. Ay dreamed that moment, worried at it in his mind as the days of mourning passed, and the longer he considered the matter, the stronger a curious conviction grew. If Tutankhamun had not struck the commander with the fly whisk that day, perhaps he would not have died.
But more pressing matters demanded Ay’s attention. Tutankhamun, confident with youth, had given no thought to a successor. Ay and Maya spent long, troubled hours in consultation with each other and the viziers of the south and north.
“It does not matter whom we choose,” he said. “We all know that Horemheb looms over these deliberations. At all costs he must not be allowed the crown. Amun does not want his new wealth channeled into war, and neither do the people. The army is Horemheb’s to command, and I fear he will use it to take the throne if we cannot make a decision. But would he do so if the crown had already passed to someone else? That is the question.”
No pharaoh would wish to rule by force, without the support of Karnak, Ay thought. Not yet, not with the awful memories of Amun’s rejection still so fresh. Any incarnation not having Maya’s blessing would fear a curse, an oracle’s accusing finger, a revolt fueled by priests. Even Horemheb. Ay cleared his throat. “I propose the crown for myself,” he suggested. “You all know that under my hand Egypt has flourished. Amun has nothing to fear from me. I am an old man with few years left, yet behind me is a record of faithfulness to every pharaoh since my sister married the great Amunhotep.” He had deliberately chosen to remind them of his close relationship with his brother-in-law. He watched carefully as they considered his plan. He knew what they were thinking. Proudly he lifted his head. “At least it will give you time to cast about for a suitable heir,” he said. “You are an old man yourself, Maya. You remember the empress well. Neither you nor I will live much longer. The wind that blew so much weary misfortune on Egypt is almost spent. A new age is almost upon us. We must preserve what we can. Stand behind me, and let me be deified.”
The anxious, tired eyes slipped over and away from him, and finally Maya knelt to kiss his feet. The homage brought no surge of exultation to Ay. His thoughts were full of Tutankhamun’s bright face, Smenkhara’s sullen helplessness, Akhenaten’s agonized search for his truth. He was inheriting a crown that would place an invisible weight of disillusionment and decay on his brow.
That night, after several hours spent drawing up a marriage contract in the company of his scribe and the two viziers, Ay walked through the quiet palace to Ankhesenamun’s apartments
. He could not explain the vague sense of urgency that was forcing him, now that the decision was made, to see it implemented. He only knew that tonight his granddaughter must become his wife, the seals affixed, the heralds sent out. Already the inhabitants of Malkatta had learned what was to come, and the bows he received from those he chanced to meet in the shadowed corridors were exaggeratedly subservient. Filled with a sudden abhorrence, he ignored them.
Outside Ankhesenamun’s cedar doors her steward greeted him politely, warned him that the queen was receiving no one, and disappeared into the room. When he returned, it was to bow Ay within. Ankhesenamun rose from the chair by the couch and inclined her head to him as he reverenced her. She stood very straight in the white linen gown that fell gracefully to the floor, her hands loose at her sides. She was unpainted, her hair undressed, her arms and fingers bare of adornment. She had been weeping, and her eyes were swollen, but the tears had dried. Her glance went to the scroll in his hand and then to his face.
“Tell me your business and then leave,” she said flatly. “You are the regent, Ay. Can you not spare me any state problems?”
“Not this one, I fear, dear Majesty,” he replied, advancing through the incense smoke curling from her shrine. “You see, I am no longer regent.” Her tired gaze registered no surprise. As gently as he could, Ay told her the decision that had been made, and why. Then he held out the scroll. “I need your seal on this marriage contract, and your titles and signature. It will, of course, be a marriage in name only, Ankhesenamun, so that I am legitimized. I am far too old to consider bedding a twenty-two-year-old woman.”
Listlessly she took it, unrolled it, and read. “You know as well as I do that I have no choice in the matter,” she said tonelessly. “But I do not care very much. All my life I have been a bauble passed from hand to hand. Your palm will feel no different. I should not have expected the gods to allow me any happiness with Tutankhamun.” Her voice broke on his name, but she quickly mastered it. Going to the table, she took a pen, dipped it in ink, and laboriously wrote out her name and titles. Heating wax and allowing a few drops to fall, she took the ring lying beside the lamp and pressed it into the scroll. “There.” She threw it at Ay. “I hope Egypt is pleased. Tey will not be.”
“It will make little difference to her, or to you, Majesty. You have my word.”
“Please go away, Prince.” She turned her back on him.
Prince, he thought, startled. Why, so I am, now. The ludicrousness of the title bestowed so easily on an old man brought a rush of heat to his face. He bowed to her stiff shoulders and went out.
Rounding the corner of the passage, he almost ran into Horemheb. “Where are you going?” he blurted, caught off guard.
Horemheb raised his eyebrows under the white and black striped helmet. “I am on my way to offer my condolences to the queen, of course.”
A dreadful suspicion grew in Ay. “She is seeing no one but me tonight. Surely Mutnodjme could more suitably express your sorrow.”
“Perhaps.” The dark eyes held a hint of fleeting amusement. “In any event, dear father-in-law, I see you have reached the goal before me. I have just heard the news that you are to become a god. My felicitations.” There was nothing now but acceptance and a measure of warmth in Horemheb’s face, and Ay’s suspicions suddenly became a certainty. He leaned against the wall, feeling faint.
“Of course, of course,” he said dully. “You have been too clever for me, Commander. You did kill Tutankhamun out there on the desert.”
Horemheb glanced swiftly around. The passage was empty. He stepped closer to Ay. “You are right. I did, and it is good that you know, Prince. Remember it well. And do not think that you can have me quietly disposed of. You can prove nothing against me. There is not a hand in Egypt that will be lifted against me now. Think.” His fingers went to the scar on the square chin. His restless black eyes wandered Ay’s face almost sympathetically. “Only I now stand between your rule and the chaos that will follow your death. Every lover of this country knows it. I am safer even than you.”
“And you will not touch me, will you?” Ay said slowly. “You do not need to. I will die in peace, this year, next year, and you will mount the throne at your leisure.” His lip curled. “A common soldier!”
Horemheb smiled tightly into the rheumy eyes. “I am justified before the gods. The impious ones are all dead, and I am waiting to sweep Egypt clean of every vestige of their accursed presence. Long life and prosperity to you, Majesty.” He bowed and, turning on his heel, walked slowly away. He was voicing the desire of a court weary of irresponsible rule, of death and calamity, and Ay knew it. It was the hardest truth he had ever faced.
When Horemheb returned to his house, Mutnodjme was asleep. He did not wake her. Lowering himself onto the chair by the couch, he sat alternately watching her quiet breathing and dozing lightly. At dawn there was a stirring. Doors were flung open, fires stirred in the kitchens, morning prayers sung by Horemheb’s priest in the house chapel. But Mutnodjme slumbered on until the steward knocked on the door and entered with a tray of fruit and bread. Horemheb took the tray himself, waiting until his wife had groggily pulled herself to a sitting position before setting it across her knees and returning to the chair.
Mutnodjme yawned, sat staring into space with sleep-swollen eyes, ran a tentative tongue over her teeth, and grimaced. She sipped the cool water that had been drawn for her from the large jug that had been left to stand all night in the passage. Horemheb waited. At last she nodded, and he got up and raised the window hangings. A gush of scentless morning air poured into the room, together with sparkling light and the clamor of birds. Mutnodjme blinked and turned her head away.
“I fell asleep waiting for you,” she said. “I am sorry.”
“It does not matter.” He took the chair again, folding his arms, watching her pick through the fruit with the dainty, absent gestures he knew so well while she began to revive like a wilted flower under a sprinkling of water. He had frightened and annoyed her of late, he knew, yet with characteristic patience and courage she had refused to be threatened. He did not know why he still loved her. It was more than the indolent, animal sensuality that surrounded her every move. Perhaps it was her self-absorption, the indifference to all but her own needs, which created an aura of self-sufficiency around her that both men and women mistakenly perceived as a challenge. “Mutnodjme, are you fully awake now?” he asked. “Will you take in what I have to say?”
“Do you have to be serious at this hour?” She pushed the tray away and leaned back, giving him a lopsided smile. “I prefer to discuss business in the evening.”
“This is not business. I want you to notify the servants to start packing. After Tutankhamun’s funeral we are moving to the estate at Memphis.”
“Why?”
“For two reasons. Ay is to be pharaoh, and I want to remove myself completely from his attention. He called me a common soldier last night. Well, so I am, in spite of my wealth and titles, and I will behave like one. I will tour the border, drill the northern divisions, and in my spare time see to my crops and herds and entertain the local monarchs. The Delta is, after all, the place where my ancestors settled.”
“It sounds distressingly boring.” She looked at him speculatively. “Are you afraid of my father?”
“No. If he is the statesman I think he is, he knows he dare not touch me.”
“Then you want to cultivate actively the support of the officers who seldom see you. Are you plotting a civil war, Horemheb?”
He laughed, startled. “Again, no. It is true that I want the army to know more about its commander than his name, but it is also time for a temporary retirement. Mutnodjme, would you like to be a queen?”
She gaped at him and then exploded into hoarse laughter. “No, thank you, dearest brother! The queen’s crown would not sit well on my youth lock, and besides, the penalties for a goddess’s infidelities are very severe. Though I doubt that I shall find diverting lovers in th
e provinces. Are you going to declare our estates a separate kingdom?”
Unwillingly he smiled at her mirth. “I should not have said queen,” he corrected himself. “I mean empress. I am very serious, Mutnodjme.”
Her laughter died. “I understood your reasons for killing poor Smenkhara,” she said soberly, “though the aftermath was terrible. I believe that you also have the blood of Tutankhamun on your hands, though I will never ask you outright if you were responsible. You are twice a god-killer, Horemheb. If you kill again, I will be forced to divorce you, take all that is mine, and retire to Akhmin or Djarukha. Ay is my father. I could not turn a blind eye to his murder.”
“I have always been a hard man,” he replied, “but I am not wantonly cruel. I swear by Amun that I will not harm your father. There is no need.”
“No, I suppose there is not. But if there were, you would not hesitate, would you?”
He tentatively shook his head. “If the choice was forced upon me, I do not know. But I think I would decide to hold you to me above all else.”
“You have that deceptively innocent look in your eyes,” she retorted. “In any event, you are safe from such a decision because my father is very old. You need say no more. I understand it all.”
He got up, kissed her briefly on the forehead, and went to the door. Pausing, he turned back, his face lit by a mischievousness she had not seen in years. “It is time you shaved off your youth lock, anyway,” he teased. “There is so much gray in it.”
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