The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  Ahmoses reached a mottled hand into his robes, and produced a scroll. The guards retreated to their positions near the doors, but watched the old man with deep suspicion. As the Habiru moved slowly across the chamber, I saw that the carved staff he held close was not just a means of protection, but an aid to help him walk. Rahotep turned fully in his chair to stare across the chamber at me, and I wondered if I had made a grave mistake.

  The old man stopped before the dais, but unlike every other petitioner, he did not extend his arms in obeisance. My back straightened against my throne. “Tell me,” I demanded. “Why am I the only one who can read your petition?”

  “Because it was your grandfather who brought my people into Egypt,” he replied in Canaanite, “and forced them to become soldiers in his army.”

  I glanced at the viziers to see if any of them had understood. “How did you know I speak the language of Canaan?”

  “All of Thebes knows of your skill at languages, my lady.” We watched each other in silence for a moment, then he held out his petition. “For the princess Nefertari, daughter of Queen Mutnodjmet and General Nakhtmin.” The harpists strummed softly while the old men in the back of the chamber returned to their games, laughing when somebody threw the knucklebones to their advantage. I unrolled the Habiru’s scroll and felt the blood drain slowly from my face. I glanced up to see if Rahotep was watching and saw his red eye focused on me still.

  “You want what?” I whispered under the babble of petitioners.

  “I want Pharaoh to release the Habiru from his service,” he replied, “so that my people may return to the land of Canaan.”

  “And in what way are they yours and not Pharaoh’s?” I demanded.

  “Because I am their leader. Among the Habiru of Thebes, I am the one who brings them closer to their god.”

  “So you are heretics.”

  “If that means we do not worship as the Egyptians do.”

  “It means you do not worship Amun,” I said harshly, and I looked over the top of the scroll at the rest of the court. But new petitioners were distracting Rahotep and Paser.

  “We worship a single god,” he explained, “and we wish to return to the land of Canaan.”

  “Canaan is Egyptian land,” I said, raising my voice only loud enough to show the old man my displeasure. “Why would the Habiru want to leave Thebes for an unsettled land that Egypt’s already conquered?”

  Ahmoses regarded me with piercing eyes. I wondered if Paser had found them as unsettling as I did. “Because you know what it is to be treated like a heretic and threatened in the streets. This is why only you can grant this petition. In Canaan there are no Egyptian temples, and we may worship as we wish.”

  I realized in that instant that I would never escape my akhu. I looked down at the scroll and felt a sudden rage at the old man. “Did Henuttawy send you to remind me that my akhu were heretics?” I demanded.

  “Your akhu were not heretics,” Ahmoses replied. “They were shown a vision of the truth and they corrupted it by greed.”

  “What vision of the truth?” I challenged.

  “The truth of one god. Pharaoh Akhenaten called him Aten—”

  “And you believe in Aten?”

  “The Habiru worship by a different name. It was only Pharaoh who called him Aten, and covetousness led to his ruin.”

  “Heresy led to his ruin,” I said scathingly. But Ahmoses would not be dissuaded by my anger. His eyes were like the still waters of a lake on a windless afternoon, and there was nothing I said that disturbed them. “You said he was shown a vision of the truth,” I said. There was no reason for me to be entertaining his petition further, but his certainty disturbed me. “So who showed him that vision?”

  Ahmoses bowed his head. “I did,” he said quietly. “I was Pharaoh Akhenaten’s tutor when he was a young boy in the city of Memphis.”

  If Ahmoses had said that he had been an acrobat in his earlier life, I would have been less shocked. Here was the man who had planted the seeds of my family’s ruin, asking me to do him a favor! Without him, the Heretic King would never have happened on the idea of a single god, or convinced Nefertiti to join him in ridding Egypt of Amun. She would never have been murdered by the priests of Aten, who grew angry when she wished to return to the old gods … And if my father’s life hadn’t been taken in those flames, who knew what might have happened at my birth? Perhaps my mother’s will to live might have been stronger. I looked down at him. “You ruined my family,” I whispered harshly.

  The old man clearly understood the impact of his words. “The truth that there is one god can be used for healing or for harm. It was your akhu who chose harm, starving the land of Egypt to feed their own glory.”

  “It was Akhenaten who betrayed Egypt, not my mother! Not my father!” The Audience Chamber had ceased to exist for me. While the business of the day carried on, it was as if only Ahmoses and I existed in that room. “Why are you telling me this?” I hissed, and it was a struggle to control my voice. “You could have come with your petition without telling me anything.”

  “But I wish to tell you who I am. More important, I wish to tell you who I am not. I am not a worshipper of gold, like the Pharaoh Akhenaten.” When I flinched at my uncle’s name spoken aloud, Ahmoses raised his brows. “He was sent to me in Memphis when all of Egypt believed it was his brother who would take the crown. He was a second son, a younger prince sent away to become a priest. A bitter child. Angry and resentful of his older brother’s fortune. I thought the god of the Habiru could save him,” he admitted.

  “And now you would have me dismiss every Habiru from Pharaoh’s service?”

  Ahmoses met my gaze, and he was firm. “From the tombs, from the temples, from this palace where women work as body servants …”

  “They are already free to go!”

  “And the Habiru in Pharaoh’s army?” Ahmoses challenged. “Every able-bodied man who was captured in Canaan was made to fight for Egypt, and under Pharaoh Akhenaten when the army was used to build cities in the desert, the Habiru toiled like beasts. He promised our people freedom once the city of Amarna was built, but three kings have since taken the throne of Egypt. The Habiru soldiers have still not been given permission to leave Pharaoh’s army.”

  “They are paid like every other soldier.”

  “But unlike every other soldier the Habiru cannot leave until they are too old to carry a weapon. If that is not slavery, then what are we?”

  “You are Egyptians,” I said hotly.

  Ahmoses shook his head firmly. “No. We are Habiru and we want our freedom.”

  I sat back and regarded Ahmoses in shock. “My reputation is in danger simply by speaking with you. You, who brought a curse onto all of my akhu. The people already believe I am a heretic like my aunt!”

  “Because there are men in this room who would have them believe that.” Ahmoses’s eyes traveled to the High Priest Rahotep.

  “No.” But even as I said the word I understood he was speaking the truth. I had always thought Henuttawy had bribed the market vendors to chant against me on the day of my marriage. But the anger in the streets had been too real. Those women with eyes as hard as onyx had not been paid; someone with words more persuasive than deben had spoken to them, someone with more power over their souls than even Henuttawy. I had been a fool not to see it before.

  Ahmoses used his staff to lean across the dais. “I have seen him in the streets,” he said quietly, casting a glance behind him. But Rahotep was still berating his petitioner. “He was rousing the men to rebellion even before your marriage. The people revere him as the mouth of Amun. But you can convince them of his lies by setting the Habiru free. By telling the people that you are expelling the remaining heretics from Egypt. You wish to appear as a follower of Amun, and I wish to return my people to Canaan. So banish the heretical Habiru from Thebes and we both may profit.”

  For a moment, I thought of nothing but myself, imagining how the people would react to
the final banishment of all heretics from Egypt. They would cheer me in the streets, shaking sistrums as I walked. Ramesses’s face would fill with pride as he declared me queen. Then I thought of my husband’s army, and how a sixth of the men were Habiru. “You and I may profit,” I told him, “but how will Pharaoh profit? To our north the Hittites are waiting, to the east the Assyrians threaten to invade. You think I am willing to win my reputation at the expense of my husband?” I leaned forward on my throne. “Then you have petitioned the wrong wife.”

  Only then did Ahmoses’s eyes blaze. “You know what persecution is! You know what it’s like to be called a heretic. Imagine how the Habiru feel, worshipping for a hundred years in private, wondering if we’ll be slaughtered like the followers of Aten for what we believe! All we ask for is the freedom to move from Thebes to Egypt’s lands in the north—”

  “And I cannot grant that without Pharaoh’s consent,” I said just as hotly.

  “Then when he returns victorious from Nubia, I will come back with my petition.” His eyes traveled to my thickening waist. “The Habiru’s wishes are the same as yours. All we desire is a future for our children.”

  He turned away, but his words lingered with me like an upsetting dream.

  I FOUND Merit in my chamber, folding my linens neatly into piles and placing them in chests. She looked up in surprise when she heard me arrive.

  “Merit,” I said sternly. She knew from the sound of my voice that something was wrong. I shut the door behind me, checking to see that it was locked, then advanced across the chamber. “Merit,” I repeated, “what do you know about the High Priest Rahotep?”

  She stood, searching my face to measure the strength of my demand.

  “You knew him when Nefertiti was Pharaoh. You said he was against my being raised in this palace and that you convinced him to keep me here. But I spoke to a man in the Audience Chamber today. A Habiru who says he was Akhenaten’s tutor.”

  Some of the color drained from Merit’s face.

  “He said the High Priest has been turning the people against me. Not Iset. Not Henuttawy. Rahotep! So how did you convince him to keep me here? He hates my akhu. He hates me.” My voice rose. “What do you know about him, Merit? He wouldn’t have allowed Horemheb to keep me at court unless you knew something. What is it?” I demanded.

  Merit crossed to a chair next to the brazier. She sat, took a small fan from the nearest table, and began to cool herself vigorously. “My lady—”

  “I want to know!” I shouted, and perhaps the anger in my voice broke the spell of silence she had kept for so many years.

  “He was the High Priest of Aten,” she whispered. “When your aunt saw that she must either return the gods to Egypt or face rebellion, she began to rebuild the temples of Amun. The priests of Aten were stripped of their power.”

  “Including Rahotep?”

  “Especially him. He lost everything to her.”

  “The priests of Aten were given the chance to join the priesthood of Amun,” I challenged. “He could have saved his position.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t believe we would return so eagerly to our true gods. But he lived embittered and in poverty for many years. Your akhu were not interested in helping him. He reminded your grandfather of heresy and ruin.”

  “Do you think it was he who set the fire?” I asked. “Is that what you know?”

  Merit looked down at the fan in her lap, and the strength to keep hidden what she had concealed for so long seeped out of her like water from a cracked bowl. “It may have been him. I would not be surprised. He is the Aten priest who helped to kill Pharaoh Nefertiti and her daughter.” She raised her eyes. “Before their murders, I saw him enter the passageway leading to the Window of Appearances.”

  “Where she was killed?” I whispered.

  “Yes. He was with another priest. I thought she had summoned them. She was always feeling sorry for the priests …”

  “Nefertiti?”

  Merit nodded sadly. “She was not always cruel. I know this is what they taught you in the edduba, but there were many times when she was kind.”

  “Were you there when they killed her?”

  “I wasn’t far away,” Merit admitted. “I heard her screams and saw the priests walking calmly through the hall. Rahotep looked at me, and his hand was covering one eye.”

  “Because she fought back!”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know it then.”

  “So you didn’t say anything?”

  “Of course I did! I told your father! He searched for both of them, but they had disappeared. There are many places to hide in Egypt. When your mother died, Rahotep returned to court searching for a new position.”

  “Giving up his belief in Aten?” I was shocked.

  “He is a believer in gold.” Merit snorted. “And, of course, I recognized him. I would have turned him over to the army for murder, but when the viziers wanted to send you from this court, I warned Rahotep that if he spoke against you as well, all of Egypt would know how he came by that eye. So when Pharaoh Horemheb asked for his advice, he swore that you were of no harm to anyone. This bargain is why you remained here.”

  I studied Merit’s face and marveled that she had kept such a heavy secret to herself for so long. For more than twenty years she had kept the memory inside. “Why did you never tell me this?” I asked quietly.

  “What would be the purpose?”

  “I would know my enemies!”

  “I know your enemies, my lady, and that is enough. There’s no reason to let the corruption of the court make you as old as I am.”

  I realized she was not talking about the wrinkles on her face. She meant a different kind of old, the kind that had made Iset bitter because she had lost Ashai and learned that love is not easy. She was speaking about an aging of the soul, when a person’s ka is a thousand years older than her body. “Does Woserit know all of this?” I asked softly.

  “Yes. Otherwise, if something happened to me,” she explained, “these secrets would be buried in the tombs. And in a tomb, there’s nothing I could do to protect you, my lady.”

  “Then if Woserit knows, Paser must know as well.”

  “You are safe from Rahotep,” she promised. “He will not speak openly against you in the temple, and I will not tell Egypt that he is the murderer of a Pharaoh.”

  “And probably two!” I cried, but Merit sat back in her chair.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “If he could murder Nefertiti,” I said heatedly, “then he could have started the fire that killed my family. Why shouldn’t I tell Ramesses what he’s done? What power does he have?”

  Merit laughed, sharp and full of warning. “The kind of power you have not yet seen because he’s never used it against you. Thanks to his friend Horemheb, he is the mouth of Amun. The people trust him the way they trust Pharaoh.”

  “Not if he is a murderer.”

  “And would the people believe that? Or would they believe him when he says that the niece of heretics is spreading lies?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither does he. So we are silent, and he is silent, and the arrangement holds.”

  “No, it doesn’t! He is still turning the people of Thebes against me.”

  “And you are winning them back with every petitioner and foreign emissary.”

  I remained standing, looking down at Merit, and something occurred to me. “When Henuttawy lets him into her bed at night, she thinks she is convincing him to stand against me. But he already is!”

  “Snakes can deceive snakes. But they also slither into unexpected places,” she warned.

  IN THE Great Hall that evening, Iset arranged Nubian dancers for the court’s entertainment. Beneath papyrus bud columns twined with blossoms, perfumed women fluttered between tables, laughing behind their heavy golden cups as the generals told stories of their adventures abroad. Sermet beer flowed from open barrels, and bowls were filled with roasted goose in rich pomegra
nate paste and wine.

  “While Ramesses is marching toward rebellion,” I seethed under my breath to Woserit, “they are drinking and dancing!”

  On the dais, Henuttawy raised a cup of wine. “To Iset,” she announced cheerfully. “And to her second child who will one day rule Thebes!” The table raised their cups to Iset, and the few women who hadn’t heard the pregnancy rumors now squealed in delight. When I refused to raise my cup, Henuttawy asked, “What’s the matter, Nefertari? Not enjoying the feast?”

  The viziers looked at me, studying my carefully hennaed breasts and the wide silver belt around my waist. Merit had taken extra care with my kohl, extending the line out to my temples and shading my eyelids with malachite. But all of the paint in Egypt could not cover my disgust.

  “Does she look as if she’s enjoying the feast?” Rahotep asked. “Everyone at court abandoned her today to be with Iset.”

  Henuttawy gave an exaggerated gasp. “Everyone?” she repeated. “I’m sure it wasn’t everyone.”

  “You’re right,” Rahotep corrected himself. “There were a few courtiers who wished to play Senet.” The emissaries around the table laughed. “But the princess wasn’t idle,” he revealed. “While Iset was preparing for the Feast of Wag, Nefertiti was listening to a petition from the greatest heretic in Thebes. He asked for her by name.”

  There was a shocked murmur around the table, and Woserit darted a questioning look at me. But Henuttawy clapped her hands with delight. “Well, you know what they say. Ravens will flock with ravens.”

  “And scorpions will nest with scorpions,” I replied, looking between her and the High Priest of Amun. I stood from my throne, and Woserit stood with me.

  “Leaving so early?” Henuttawy called, but Woserit and I ignored her taunt.