His skin grew lively at her touch. He shut his eyes. Her fingers pressed and stroked his skin, awakening his senses. She said nothing to him, nor did he choose to speak.
She licked his throat. He lay stretched upon his couch with her crouched over him and touching him with reverence and grace, as the sky arched over the earth. She made him feel sacred and perfect. He tried not to move. He must draw the utmost effort from her as the land of Egypt demanded everything of the people. Her tongue and her lips toyed with his nipples. His fingertips curled. His stem was rising hot and erect from his loins.
Her soft weight rested on him. She groaned. Against his chest her breasts were warm and soft. Her lips were sweet against his. He opened his mouth; he breathed into her and claimed her.
She touched his staff and held in her fingers the eggs in which the whole world began. He pressed his lips together. He would not break silence. He would not turn this sacred act into the mating of brutes. He thought of the Eye of the Sun, and as she raised herself above him, he imagined that the Sun glowed forth from his forehead. She descended on him.
She caressed him with the secret places of her body. She made a whole world of him; through her touch he became rich and fertile. He felt the life in him swelling toward its fullness. Then she was sighing, her rich odors like incense in his nostrils, and her ecstasy drew from him the hot spurt of life.
His joy went forth to her in words. “Ankhesenamun, you have served me perfectly well. You have earned my favor. I grant you whatever you most desire.”
She moved away from him. His skin was cold now, where she had warmed him, and he shivered. Her voice seemed to come from a distance.
“Find me the tomb of my father, Akhenaten,” she said.
In the morning the King remembered what his Queen had asked of him. He summoned into the audience chamber the chief scribe of the Justification of Osiris, who supervised all work in the City of the Dead.
“Tell me,” Pharaoh said to the scribe, who was prostrated before the throne. “Is it not true that on death every King becomes Osiris, and rules over the Blessed Land of the Dead?”
“He who is great over Egypt speaks ever the perfect truth.”
“Then you must know where every King is buried, so that he may be preserved and protected.”
“And honored with ceremonies, may you live forever.”
“Tell me, then, where my predecessor and my brother, Akhenaten, is buried.”
“Commonly it is supposed, source of all prosperity, that Akhenaten-Osiris is buried at his own city, the New City, in the north.”
“Is this the truth?”
The scribe said, “Greatness of my fathers and their fathers, know that the Great Lady of Egypt Nefertiti brought her husband here and caused him to be buried in secret in the Royal Gorge. But that was years ago, and now none knows where. The Royal Lady did the rite far from all save the most necessary eyes.”
“Whose?”
“I shall discover this for Pharaoh,” the scribe said.
He went out, and later in that same day returned.
“The source of all that lives asks who could find the secret house of Akhenaten-Osiris. Be it known that I have searched the rolls. The Queen did what she did in secret. I have found record of only one who would know, a man of Thebes.”
“Who?”
“Hapure. The mason.”
Meryat burned; she considered that Ankhesenamun had stolen away the King’s favor from her. She went into the garden where the cooks grew their herbs. Sennahet was there pitting dates. Meryat sat down beside him on the bench.
“You seek the tomb of King Akhenaten,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. He fastened his gaze on her, unblinking, so intent it frightened her, and she slid away from him on the bench.
“Keep watch on the Gorge of Royal Dead,” she told him. “Someone will surely lead you to it within a few days.”
He went away without even thanking her, without even taking away the bowl of pitted dates. She sat on the bench wondering if she had done ill. She could not collect herself. From the palm tree over her head, something fell into her lap.
She looked down and saw a great black spider on her skirt. Violently she brushed it off. She rose and went into the kitchen and washed her hands.
Hapure stood to his knees in the muddy Nile, filling his bucket with water. A staff across his shoulders supported the buckets. A few steps downstream several women were washing out linen; he took care not to roil the water. He straightened. A familiar pain pierced him in the small of the back and he gasped.
The weight of water pressed the staff down onto his shoulders. He walked up out of the Nile; the women with their laundry screamed at him for muddying the water. He trudged through the children playing on the bank and walked out along the top of the dike that ran between the fields.
The powdery dust puffed up between his toes. Holding the buckets steady with his hands, he walked up past the newly harvested fields. Only stubble stood there now; all the grain was safely gathered into the silos of the Temple of Amun. The priests had promised to keep everyone who had worked. Nobody else save the priests had any land anymore, therefore everyone had worked.
Hapure climbed steadily across the broad, sloping bank of the river, past the black fields of the farms. He came to the edge of the desert, where abruptly the black soil of Egypt became the red dust of the desert, and there he followed another trail that climbed and wound through the barren rock, until he came to his village, Kalala, high in the desert cliff.
He had come back to live in Kalala although he could have found a place in the valley to live, although he was almost alone here. The quiet of the village still dragged on his spirits at times. It was his home; he belonged here, like Pharaoh in his palace and Ra in the sky. He took the water through the still street to his house and filled the little cistern in the corner of his garden. Then, with a bowl, he watered the three rows of beans he was struggling to keep alive in the garden.
He took the buckets back down to the Nile again in the afternoon. A great lumbering barge was wallowing north along the river, and from the bank he watched it pass, curious. The men on the deck shaded their eyes to see him. They were light-skinned men, from the far north. He waved his hand to them and they answered. He stopped to fill his buckets, and the wake of the barge lapped around his knees.
“Mother and Father of Egypt, renew me and thee.” He filled his buckets.
When he turned, there were five soldiers on the bank, watching him.
“Are you Hapure the mason?”
“I am,” he said.
They took him off in a chariot toward the King’s Road. They made him leave the buckets and the staff on the river-bank, although he protested that he would never see them again.
Dark had fallen when they reached the edge of the great sprawl of buildings that surrounded the palace. The soldiers led Hapure through the broad lanes between the buildings. He passed below a window and heard someone inside chanting the evening prayers.
He was afraid to talk to the soldiers, even to ask where they were taking him. He had done nothing wrong. They had not bound him or drawn their swords. Taking heart from that, he followed the men into a small room.
“Prostrate yourself,” said a soldier.
Hapure lowered himself down. His back hurt again in the usual place. The soldiers stood along the wall. Their sandals rasped as they straightened to attention. Behind Hapure several people entered the room.
“You are Hapure, and you are a mason?”
An unknown voice. On his elbows and knees, his face against the painted floor, he said, “I am, master.”
“Some few years ago, did you do the mason’s work on a secret burial somewhere in the Royal Gorge?”
His breath hissed in his teeth. Should he lie? He could smell sandalwood. Courtiers, these men be
hind him. Nobles. Trust the great, as he would trust the Nile, because he had no choice.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Could you find the spot again?”
“No,” he said.
“Pharaoh commands your answer.”
“May he live forever, the Strong Bull of Egypt.”
“Let it be so. Can you find the tomb?”
“I will try.”
Then he was taken in another chariot back across the plain. The horses’ harness jingled. He held tight to the rail, wondering at the easy stance of the driver. Three other chariots accompanied them. They took the road that led through the temples and tombs that crowded the west bank of the river. The nightbirds twittered in the grass alongside the road. Ahead rose the desert cliff.
Hapure ran his hand over his forehead. He was tired; he had walked most of the day to and from the river. The chariots trotted into the cleft in the sheer escarpment of the desert, and the gorge enclosed them.
The moon sailed through the depth of the sky. It cast black shadows under the boulders, shadows that seemed more substantial than the rocks themselves. Hapure looked wildly around him. Everything seemed strange to him. He wondered how he would ever find the tomb. Yet if Pharaoh required it, he must find it, or they might slay him.
“Go more slowly,” he cried.
The driver reined the horses to a walk.
They traveled through the gorge. A gentle river of wind was flowing along it. The moonlight was so bright it seemed like twilight. Hapure caught himself staring straight ahead into the pale ghostly light, his mind empty, drunk with the cool night. The cliffs loomed before him. A jackal barked. The moon sank in the sky. On its face the sacred words were written as clear as stele writing.
At last he said, “Stop the horses.”
The driver pulled back on his reins. Hapure climbed down from the chariot. He walked forward a few strides. Here the gorge was narrow, and the feet of the sheer walls deeply buried in talus. On the slope to his left a black hole led back into the hillside. That was the open, unused tomb where on that long-past night he had waited to do his work, and looked out on Nefertiti’s procession, lamenting with voices and flutes.
He pointed to the slope on the right. “There,” he said. “They have shoveled rock over it, to hide the doorway, but it is there.”
The driver dismounted from his chariot. “You are sure?”
“I will never forget this place,” Hapure said.
The soldier’s eyes glistened. The moon was bright on his face. He said, “Fool,” and drew his sword, and struck Hapure down.
Sennahet had followed the chariots by the thundering echo of their wheels. He was too afraid to go within sight of them. When the racket stopped, he stopped, and hid behind a boulder.
The moon was setting. The sky glittered with stars. Sennahet clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He peered around the boulder. The gorge ahead was buried in the darkness. He leaned against the boulder, longing for morning to come.
A distant rattle reached his ears. The chariots were coming back.
He made himself small at the foot of the boulder, his arms around his knees. The chariots hurried down the gorge. The leading team approached the boulder, and suddenly the horses shied off. They had sensed the presence of Sennahet. The charioteer cursed; his whip cracked. He forced the prancing horses past Sennahet. Each of the other three teams shied at the same place and in the same way, but the drivers paid no heed. They whipped the horses on and galloped away down the gorge.
Something fell out of the last chariot. It lay motionless in the track.
When the horses were gone, Sennahet rose to his feet. Cautiously he drew near the object lying in the path. When he saw what it was, a cry escaped him. He ran forward and turned the body over onto its back.
It was his kinsman Hapure, covered with blood.
“Hapure,” Sennahet said, several times. He shook his head. Laying his hands on Hapure’s arms, he thought on the ways of the gods that had brought them both to this place.
The flesh under his hands was still warm. He leaned down over his cousin’s face. Hapure’s lips moved.
Sennahet’s heart jumped in his chest. He gathered Hapure in his arms and took him off down the gorge.
When the sun appeared above the horizon every man in Egypt went to his household shrine and opened the doors and brought forth the image of the god. He anointed the god and dressed him for the day. He put food and drink before the god.
In the palace Pharaoh was anointed and dressed. He ate his breakfast.
Horemheb came into the presence of Tutankhamun. A general of light cavalry, he always wore a magnificent breastplate of bronze and gold. Whenever he sought the attention of Pharaoh, he brought such wonderful gifts that Tutankhamun could not help but give him everything he asked for.
Today Horemheb prostrated himself before the King’s throne and his servants brought in a chest of painted wood. The servants held up the little box so that the King could admire the scenes on its sides. On one long side Tutankhamun himself was drawing his bow at the hunt; on the other he drove his chariot over his vanquished enemies.
“You have made your King glad, my general,” the King said.
“That is the aim of my whole life,” said Horemheb.
Tutankhamun watched his servants take the chest out of the room. He began to consider which of his possessions he would keep in it. The general was kneeling at his feet, his head between his hands. Tutankhamun cast about him for some substantial token of his favor.
“I have a special task for you,” he said. “To you shall I entrust the well-being of the Queen herself, when she makes her progress to the tomb of her father Osiris.”
“Your Majesty is most generous.”
“You may rise.”
Horemheb straightened. His armor was wonderfully decorated in gold with figures of animals. Tutankhamun let his gaze wander around the room. Horemheb fitted it well; he was another decoration here, among the gilded columns and the walls painted with images of the gods. Pharaoh laid his hands on his knees. He felt the pressure of the crown upon his brow.
“I have found the tomb of her father for her. She will be very grateful, I am sure of it.”
“Your Majesty surrounds us all with his power. Even the Royal Wife is no more than a stone under the foot of Pharaoh.”
Tutankhamun smiled to hear this. Horemheb was a great man and knew much of the world, and what he said was true.
“Yes,” he said. “It is a great thing that I have done.”
“A deed worthy of Pharaoh. I shall place myself at the Queen’s beck. Shall she go by barge to the New City?”
Tutankhamun was already bored. He gave a slight shake of his head. “Nefertiti had the body of Akhenaten brought here to Thebes and secretly reburied.”
“Ah. How very dutiful.”
“She was devoted to my brother until the end.” The King put his fingertips to his chin. He closed his eyes. “My Queen is as devoted to me. It is the proper way of women.”
“Your Majesty understands everything.”
The King sat still, his hands and knees together, studying his ringed fingers. He was trying to think of some new diversion for the afternoon.
“Nefertiti had the treasuries of Egypt in her power,” Horemheb said. “She will have surrounded Akhenaten with every luxury.”
“I am sure of it.”
“Yes, half the gold of Egypt must be in that tomb.”
The King’s attention caught on those words. He lifted his gaze from the jewels. “Do you think so?”
“You yourself have said so, Your Majesty. It must be true.”
“I did say so,” Tutankhamun said.
“Then the conclusion follows that she must have beggared your treasury to furnish Akhenaten’s eternal house. She was regent
for you, in those days—it was not right to do it.”
Tutankhamun sucked in his breath. “Yes,” he exclaimed. “She stole it all from me.”
Horemheb bowed down before him. “Magnificence of Egypt, command me. I am your servant. There is nothing you may not ask of me.”
The King was angry. He remembered all the slights and injuries that Nefertiti had offered him, and now he saw that she had robbed him as well.
“Shall I restore your treasure to you, Pharaoh?”
“Do it,” Tutankhamun said.
“Pharaoh’s decision is my will.”
“But Ankhesenamun must not know.” He gnawed at that problem a moment. He wanted so much to please her, to solicit her caresses, her ardor. He shook his head, peeved. “I shall tell her later where her father lies. When you have opened the tomb and recovered my belongings and shut it again.”
“Pharaoh is great.” Horemheb bent himself down on his knees and kissed the floor.
Sennahet took Hapure on his shoulders up to Kalala, in the desert above the Royal Gorge. After three days Hapure was well enough to sit and eat a little bread.
“What happened to you?” Sennahet asked him. “Why did the soldiers try to kill you?”
Hapure fingered the long gash in his scalp. He felt weak all over, as if his bones were made of watery clay. They were sitting in his little garden. His beans had withered in the heat, and he fretted over that: Sennahet should have kept them watered. He put his head in his hands.
“I angered Pharaoh. It is his pleasure to punish me—if he wishes me to die, then I should have died.” He wondered how he had failed the King; perhaps the command to find the old tomb had been a false one, not from Pharaoh at all, just a trap to see if he might reveal the hidden place of Akhenaten. He shook his head and the dull pain spread down the back of his neck and made his shoulders hurt.
Valley of the Kings Page 18