Valley of the Kings

by Terrance Coffey

  He focused on a voluptuous servant girl standing against the wall nude. “Pyella, don’t just stand there. Get the good men something to drink.”

  Pyella rushed out of the chamber. Tushratta turned his attention back to Horemheb.

  “So tell me, General, how is my beloved friend, Amenhotep?”

  “This isn’t a social visit, Tushratta. What defenses have you implemented against the Hittites?”

  “No need to get overly concerned about that, general,” Tushratta replied as the remaining servant girls resumed washing his body. “I’ve already deployed a majority of our troops to the northern province of the Amurru kingdom. This is most likely where they will attempt their crossing.”

  “That makes no tactical sense,” Horemheb replied.

  “If you have a better plan, I’m open to hear it.”

  “The Amurru kingdom has proven to be a formidable barrier between you and the Hittites. Why would you station troops there?” asked Akure.

  Without answering him, King Tushratta and his three female servants stepped out of the pool. Tushratta spread his arms as the women picked up cloths from the floor and dried his body. While Akure and Menofet were amused by such a flagrant display. Horemheb was not. His patience with the Mitanni king was already waning.

  “King Suppiluliumas has tried many times to subdue the Amurru to gain a more strategic route into Mitanni. I fear he has finally succeeded,” said Tushratta.

  “Even so,” replied Horemheb, “he’s not likely to risk taking just one route here. We’ll reposition your troops.”

  Pyella, the servant girl, returned with a tray of jars filled with beer. She handed a jar to both Akure and Menofet, but when she offered one to Horemheb, he refused it.

  “Oh, did she bring you beer, general? Pardon her ignorance.”

  Tushratta winked at Pyella before correcting her. “Only the best of wines can enter the stomachs of Egyptian royalty, Pyella.”

  Pyella grazed Horemheb’s body as she sauntered past him and smiled.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you and your men something else, general?” asked Tushratta.

  “You can inform me where the Hittite army has encamped,” replied Horemheb.

  “I will, when I’m comfortable. Give me a moment.”

  Horemheb suppressed his desire to strangle Tushratta in front of his royal retinue. Such actions, however, would not be in the character of a celebrated general, and losing his temper would be a sign of weakness to the pharaoh. He kept his composure as the women assisted Tushratta into his robe and dressed themselves. Tushratta finally took a seat at a table at the end of the room. Horemheb nodded at his men, and they joined the Mitanni king at the table.

  “Many days ago, I sent out spies to intercept the Hittites. As of yet, they haven’t returned to me,” said Tushratta.

  “But they have to me, Father,” Shattiwaza interrupted as he strode over to Horemheb and handed him a scroll. “The Hittites retreated to their homeland. They apparently had no true intentions on our kingdom after all.”

  Because he did not possess the abilities of a scribe, Horemheb pretended to read it. He relied on his intuition, and it served him well.

  Shattiwaza was clearly delighted with what was written on the scroll. “I would hate to think your journey here was all for nothing, general, but I’m afraid it was,” he said.

  Horemheb rolled the scroll up and handed it back to him.

  “I have other business here,” he said.

  “Really? Are you now going to teach us the most tactical way to clean our backside?” asked Shattiwaza flippantly.

  “Shattiwaza!” Tushratta exclaimed, appalled at his son’s words.

  “Father, we’ve defeated the Hittites before without the help of these dictators. Why are you so quick to call on them?”

  “Your son is wading in dangerous waters,” Horemheb said to Tushratta.

  “Forgive my son, general, he’s not informed about our arrangement.”

  “And what ’arrangement’ would that be, Father?” interrupted Shattiwaza.

  “The arrangement doesn’t matter,” said Horemheb. “Where are the conspirators who murdered your King Artassumara?”

  “The conspirators were put to death,” replied Tushratta.

  “And Tazam?”

  “Tazam is imprisoned in the palace holding chamber.”

  “He’s still being kept here alive in the palace?”

  “Yes, he is after all my brother,” Tushratta explained.

  “He will be put to death as well,” said Horemheb.

  Shattiwaza grumbled. “No! My uncle will pay for his crimes in prison.”

  “He’ll pay with his blood. The pharaoh has spoken. Where is this holding chamber?”

  Not waiting for an answer, Horemheb and his men rose from the table and headed toward the exit.

  Shattiwaza rushed up to his father.

  “Father, you can’t let him kill your own brother. This is not their business.”

  Tushratta rose and followed Horemheb out of the chamber and down the hall.

  “General, please,” said Tushratta. “The people of Mitanni have seen enough bloodshed. They are content with Tazam’s imprisonment. His ear and nose have already been cut off. Let him wither away in his cage, I beg you.”

  Tushratta’s entreaties did nothing to slow Horemheb’s pace. “You’ll either execute him yourself,” he responded, “or you will give me the order to do it. King Artassumara’s death will be avenged properly by the order of the pharaoh.”

  “You cannot expect me to execute my own brother!” Tushratta shouted.

  “Isn’t that what just happened here? A brother murdering his own brother? We’re merely continuing your country’s tradition,” replied Horemheb sarcastically as he turned and spat on the wall.

  When the general reached the end of the corridor, he spotted the entrance to the holding chamber and unhinged the lock and entered.

  Tazam’s expression resembled a thief being caught in the act when Horemheb and his officers barged into the room where he was being held. Instead of withering away in a cage as King Tushratta had described, Horemheb found Tazam in a palace chamber complete with every form of luxury a person could desire. A bit of his ear and just the very tip of his nose had been cut off—that part at least was true, but it would hardly cause enough pain to be considered torture. The bandage that covered them had not even a hint of blood on it.

  The following day at the rising of the sun, Akure and Menofet escorted a shackled Tazam to the execution barracks. Shattiwaza, King Tushratta, and several Mitanni officers stood in the royal tiers above, stone-faced and somber. Tazam stared up at Shattiwaza with a horrified expression among the jeering crowd of Mitannians who had gathered there to witness the execution of the one who murdered their beloved king.

  “Shattiwaza, who are these people? Why are they doing this to me?” Tazam shouted.

  “Your own brother has given you up to the Egyptians,” he shouted back.

  Tazam turned his gaze to King Tushratta.

  “Please, my brother, don’t let them do this, I am of your blood,” said Tazam.

  Tushratta looked away, too ashamed to face him, abashed that in his own kingdom he had to cede his sovereignty to the general of Egypt. Tushratta was emasculated as Horemheb proceeded with the execution. The crowd jeered louder, and Akure and Menofet secured Tazam’s bound wrists to the pillory apparatus with chains.

  Horemheb approached Tazam with his battle ax in hand. He glanced at Tushratta standing up in the royal tiers.

  “Give me the order,” said Horemheb.

  “Wait! Shattiwaza, tell him!” screamed Tazam.

  King Tushratta looked to his son, waiting for him to explain Tazam’s remark. “Tell me what?” asked Tushratta.

  “He’s delirious,” Shattiwaza answered.

  “The order!” Horemheb repeated.

  Shattiwaza stood up in front of his father and stomped his foot on the ground. “Don’t g
ive that arrogant brute the blessing to kill your brother.”

  Tushratta hesitated. There was no way around it. The decision had to be made. Torn between loyalty to his blood and his need of Egypt, he sighed as he made his choice. “May my god Assur forgive me,” he said before raising his hand in the air.

  Tazam was terrified at the sight. “No! You don’t know the truth! Shattiwaza, confess—”

  Before Tazam finished his plea, Horemheb sliced through his wrists. An explosion of blood splattered across Horemheb’s face as the two severed hands fell with a thud, and Tazam dropped to the ground convulsing. The horror of it had no effect on Horemheb. He collected both severed hands into a satchel while the crowd burst into cheers and applause, elated at their murdered king’s retribution. Shattiwaza eyed his father with contempt and stormed away. Tazam’s convulsing abated until all the blood once inside him had pooled around his body in a sea of crimson.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was nearly a month after Queen Ty and Amenhotep reconciled in T’aru when his illness became more severe. Confined to his bedchamber in Thebes, he yearned for the cure like an infant for its mother’s breast. It was an insatiable thirst, that, when quenched, did nothing to improve his condition now. The more Ay administered it to him, the more Amenhotep heard and saw things that weren’t there. The cure had to be the reason why he acted as if their reconciliation had never occurred. Queen Ty was devastated by his memory lapse, and his repeated requests for Lupita filled her spirit with a volatile mixture of jealousy and anxiety. How soon would it be before he discovered she was missing?

  There had been times when Lupita had gone days without visiting Amenhotep’s chamber, notably during her menstrual cycle. Queen Ty had made herself available, tending to him during her absence so his mind would be eased of any concerns for her. When he asked her to bring Lupita to him, he had hallucinations during which he couldn’t decipher if it was Lupita or the queen standing before him.

  After seven consecutive nights of confinement in his bedchamber, Amenhotep’s entire body twitched, and sweat poured from his brow. Ay was summoned again to administer the cure, and the pharaoh soon settled back in his bed, satisfied for the moment.

  “I saw him,” said Amenhotep.

  “You saw who, my Pharaoh?” asked Ay.

  “My son, Tuthmosis. He hasn’t crossed into the afterlife. He was standing before me bleeding.”

  “It was just a bad dream.”

  “There are no bad dreams, only omens. Sia and Neper didn’t perform the invocation. The Amun priests abandoned him,” said Amenhotep trembling at his own words.

  “My Pharaoh, I was assured by Sia that the invocation was carried out. Your illness brings about delusions.”

  “It’s not a delusion. The gods had not ordained my son to fight in the war, yet I couldn’t stop him from doing it. I failed. I betrayed the law of Amun. I caused my son’s death.”

  “My Pharaoh, a Nubian killed Tuthmosis. We’re powerless in the hands of fate.”

  “No. Amun let him die in order to punish me,” replied Amenhotep.

  Queen Ty stepped out from behind the curtain and excused Ay from the room. She approached Amenhotep, lifted his hand to her lips, and kissed it.

  “Ay spoke the truth, it was a Nubian possessed by fate that killed our son”

  Amenhotep stared at the queen, searching her facial expression for something. She avoided his interrogating look and used the cloth of her garment to wipe away the sweat drenching his face.

  “You stare at me with such contempt. Why?” asked the queen.

  “Prove to me it wasn’t you who told Tuthmosis about the Nubian battle,” replied Amenhotep.

  The queen looked at him, stunned that he still suspected her. In the many years that she had been his wife, her ways had never changed. Perhaps Amenhotep had memorized her fears, and what would trigger her guilt, even her confession, and no matter how hard she would try to conceal her emotions, in the end, he would know that she was hiding something.

  “I’m innocent. I have nothing to prove,” she said defiantly.

  “Then where is my Lupita? Why has she not come to me!” he demanded.

  The queen wiped his brow with the cloth of her garment again. “Maybe she’s menstruating.”

  Amenhotep grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down to him. His face filled with rage. “What have you done to her!”

  AFTER TAZAM’S EXECUTION, Horemheb and his men hastened to return to Egypt. King Tushratta and his guards stood at the entrance of Mitanni’s fortified walls as the Egyptians readied their horses for the return to their homeland.

  Horemheb felt not a tinge of regret for carrying out the order of his pharaoh. Only the bloodstain on his breastplate irritated him. In vain he tried to wipe it away as he mounted his horse.

  Tushratta scoffed at his efforts. “I apologize that my brother’s blood has stained your otherwise pristine uniform, general,” said Tushratta. “Nevertheless, I have a gift for the pharaoh.”

  From inside the fortified walls, a girl around eleven years of age approached on horseback. Her face was masked by a sheer black veil, and behind her, an eight-foot-tall figure covered by a cloth was being pulled on a sled by three horses. Her convoy came to a stop beside Tushratta. He caressed the girl’s hand, then rubbed the nose of her horse.

  “My daughter, Kiya, will return with you to Egypt. May her marriage to Amenhotep be a symbol of alliance between us. And please tell him that if he doesn’t marry her, he cannot impregnate her.”

  Tushratta stepped to the rear of the sled and removed the cloth from around the eight-foot tall figure—a limestone statue of a Mitannian goddess.

  “I’m loaning the pharaoh our statue of Ishtar. I understand he’s ill, and she will cure his sickness. But unlike my daughter, I want my statue returned to me once he’s cured,” said Tushratta.

  Tushratta enjoyed the looks of amazement on Horemheb’s men’s faces as they gazed upon the intricate work of art. Horemheb was not impressed. Tushratta was bartering for something.

  “So be it,” Horemheb replied, waiting to hear what the king wanted in return.

  “And remind him I’m expecting a generous amount of the gold reserves he promised me. Especially in light of recent events here.”

  Horemheb grinned. Again, his intuition about the Mitanni king’s motives proved true. He turned his horse to leave without responding.

  “Wait. One last thing, general. You didn’t mention what hour my sister will arrive.”

  “Lady Lupita? She’s not traveling here,” said Horemheb.

  “Are you sure? I received a letter from her some time ago that she was returning for Artasssumara’s funerary rites.”

  “She’s not aware of his death,” replied Horemheb.

  “Indeed, she is, general. She sealed the letter.”

  “The pharaoh would never allow her to travel without my protection.”

  Horemheb did his best to conceal his trepidation. If Lupita traveled secretly without telling the pharaoh, then she could be somewhere vulnerable and at the mercy of the Hittites.

  “I swear to you, she said in the letter she would be taking the Amurru route here with her Mitanni convoy,” said Tushratta.

  This information made no sense to Horemheb, and his facial expression betrayed his concern.

  “Something wrong?” asked Tushratta.

  “The Amurru route passes through the Ugarit Valley.”

  “Exactly. Which is why she should have arrived here before you and your men.”

  Horemheb thought about demanding to see Lupita’s letter, but how would he verify its authenticity when he was incapable of reading it? He turned his attention instead to Akure and Menofet. “A third of the army will remain here with you. The rest will go with me. Escort Kiya and the statue to Egypt.” And with that, Horemheb raced off with his army in search of Lupita.

  AT THE PALACE IN THEBES, Amenhotep plunged deeper into hysteria. Only a day after assaulting the queen, then ac
cusing her of harming Lupita and sending Tuthmosis to battle in the Nubian war, he had forgotten the entire incident. His last memory was of T’aru. He remembered being there awaiting her arrival, but still had no memory of their reconciliation, or of the days that followed. Queen Ty worried that in this new state of disorientation her husband might sign a declaration imparting Teppy’s birthright to someone else: a soldier, one of his guards, anyone. She had destroyed the threat of Lupita and silenced the Oracle, but she was powerless to stand in the way of Amenhotep’s madness.

  Her only recourse now was to create new memories for her husband—to endear Teppy to his father with gifts of his favorite things. So Teppy limped down the palace corridor hand-in-hand with his mother toward Amenhotep’s bedchamber. At the entrance, Ty dropped to her knees, eye-level with her son and lifted his chin.

  “Remember, your father is very ill, so when you speak to him, hold your head up high. He needs to see that you’re a strong boy that’s worthy of his birthright.”

  “Yes, Ma,” said Teppy.

  She handed him a ripe pomegranate. “He hasn’t had one in a long time because of the drought. Give it to him; he will love you for it.”

  The queen kissed Teppy on his forehead and left him alone at the entrance to his father’s bedchamber. Teppy was apprehensive at first until the thought of his father’s smile when he would hand him the fruit gave him the spark of courage he needed.

  Teppy entered Amenhotep’s bedchamber and found the pharaoh asleep with a sad expression on his face. He had aged dramatically. His skin appeared tough as leather and worn with wrinkles. Father is much too old to be fighting wars against Nubian slaves, he thought.

  Teppy reached out and touched his father’s hand, making sure to hold his head up high as his mother had instructed him. Amenhotep opened his eyes and gazed at his son, but he didn’t seem to recognize him.

  “It’s me, Teppy, Father.”

  There was no reaction from Amenhotep, only a blank stare.

  Maybe he hasn’t fully awakened, so Teppy shook his father’s shoulder. “Father, wake up. You’re still dreaming.”

  Amenhotep reached out and caressed Teppy’s face. “Tuthmosis? Is that you?”