As he searched the village, he encountered a woman standing at the entrance of her home staring at him in a peculiar manner. A blue veil covered her face, and an erect phallus jutted from the top of her door—a symbol of the perversion allowed in her residence. Horemheb thought her inquisitiveness meant she had seen his brother.
“Has there been one like me traveling here today?” he asked.
“Like you? No,” said the woman as she removed the veil. Her lips glistened with bright red glossy paint and the pupils of her eyes were an amber and yellow copper tint accentuated by the thick outline of black kohl. Her face was more than attractive, it was alluring, and it took more than a moment before Horemheb could overcome the distraction caused by it.
“I’m speaking of one that is known as an officer of Thebes,” he said.
“Are you referring to your brother Kafrem—the mayor of Thebes?”
Her awareness of who he was surprised him. Most citizens knew the name of Horemheb but few had ever seen his face.
“You know of my brother? Where is he?”
“He’s on a spiritual journey and would prefer not to be disturbed by a brother who’s obviously jealous of him,” she replied.
Horemheb had to restrain himself from assaulting her. Instead, he spoke to her calmly. “You’ll tell me where I can find my brother, or I’ll slash your throat right here in front of your immoral house.”
Horemheb’s expression didn’t alter in the slightest with his threat. His stare frightened her so much that the woman covered her face with the veil again.
“We are The Sacred Women of Bes. Your brother is cohabiting with us,” she said.
“Where?”
“I’ll take you.”
She directed Horemheb to an unfinished mud-brick home. The door was barely visible behind the shrubs and vines that concealed it. When Horemheb pushed it open, he found Kafrem naked and entwined with four ample women clad in blue faience-beaded fishnet dresses. They had tattooed breasts and their lips were painted as bright as the woman’s. Kafrem sat up straight at the sight of his brother. Red stains from the lip paint covered his entire body.
Kafrem appeared inebriated, his eyes bloodshot and his speech slurred as he ordered them to leave the straw mattress.
“You’re pathetic,” Horemheb snapped. “Are you paying these ’sacred’ whores with the gold you extorted from your bogus divorces?”
The women all turned their heads and glared at Horemheb offended.
“Our work here is divine, sanctioned by the god, Bes,” the largest of the group said. “Never have we accepted payment for the spiritual services we provide,” she added.
Horemheb picked up Kafrem’s garment from the floor and tossed it at him.
“Go home to your wife,” he said. “We leave for Amarna at dawn.”
“Amarna?”
“We will verify the rumor that the royal daughter Meketa has died and the pharaoh is gravely ill,” replied Horemheb.
The women looked shocked. “The royal daughter is dead?” one of the women asked. “She is but a child,” another said in despair. Horemheb and Kafrem ignored them.
“Whatever calamity has befallen the pharaoh in Amarna was caused by his own heresy,” replied Kafrem, still suffering from slurred speech.
“He is the son of Amenhotep,” Horemheb corrected. “You, and every soul here in Thebes, will respect and honor his birthright.”
Kafrem nodded as he struggled to put on his garment. The lack of beer and wine in the room led Horemheb to believe that his brother could not be intoxicated. He had long suspected that Kafrem was addicted to the opium cure. Still, even with the poppy plant capsules scattered across the floor confirming his suspicions, he closed his eyes to it as he had to pharaoh Amenhotep’s addiction.
AS AKENATEN LAY IN BED ravaged with fever and bruises, he refused to succumb to what had afflicted his father before him—the temptation of the cure. What his heart yearned for was an answer from the Aten. How long would it see him suffer? When would it deliver him from the sins of the Amarna people?
His precious daughter, Meketa, was dead, and the pain of it was excruciating to the point that Nefertiti had become inconsolable. In retaliation, Akenaten had executed mothers, fathers, men and women, young and old, all who had hidden or were suspected of hiding statues of gods against the name of the Aten. Still, the pharaoh had no answer from the sun god on why the disease continued to spread.
Mayati’s sudden appearance in his chamber calmed his anguish. At fifteen years of age, Mayati had grown exquisite to him, a duplicate of her mother. He sensed the uneasiness in his daughter’s expression when she looked closely at his face. Sweat dripped from his brow and she stared at the deep purple bruises that had spread to his neck and arms.
Mayati was carrying a pottery jar too heavy for her, so Akenaten rose from his bed and struggled to help her place it on the floor.
“What’s in it?” he asked, out of breath.
“The river water is unclean, father, so Tut, Senpaten, and I dug holes deep in the earth and brought you fresh water.”
If anyone else had done such a thing, Akenaten would have accused them of blasphemy, but because it was his dear children, it touched his heart that they would gather together on his behalf.
“Father, promise me you will not die and leave us like Meketa.”
“The Aten is the almighty god, and I am his son. He will protect me from the disease because I am like him,” he replied.
Mayati walked up to her father and clutched the Aten amulet that hung from around his neck. “Is this the amulet that protects you?” she asked.
“From my brother,” Akenaten said and kissed her forehead. “Do you love me, Mayati?”
“Of course I love you, Father.”
He kissed both her cheeks and pulled her close to his body. He had to know for certain how much she loved him.
“More than anything?” he asked.
“More than anything.”
Akenaten stooped down and kissed her lips. The taste of it was sweet as honey, like that of his Nefertiti. Mayati took a step back from her father, uncomfortable and confused.
“Do you truly love me or not, Mayati?”
“I do, Father.”
“More than you loved your sister, Meketa?”
Mayati paused before lying to him. “Yes, Father, more than anyone,” she replied.
Akenaten pulled her to him again and caressed his daughter through her garment, kissing her lips with the same passion he shared with his wife Nefertiti. It didn’t matter that her answer was untruthful. In his delirium, he heard only what he wanted to hear.
At first he felt a slight resistance, then a feeling of her giving in to him. The next thing he felt was Mayati being jerked away from his embrace.
Nefertiti now stood in front of their daughter, drenched in anger, shock, and pity. “What are you doing to her!” she shrieked.
Ashamed, Mayati buried her face in her hands and remained behind her mother as if she were her fortress.
Akenaten balked at Nefertiti’s interference. “She is my daughter and I’ll do what I wish with her.”
“The disease is spreading in you, Akenaten. You have to fight against it or it’ll take over your mind,” pleaded Nefertiti.
Akenaten started vigorously scratching his shaven head, causing it to bleed. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to get inside my head, then next my heart, so that you can manipulate me,” he said. “I won’t let you.”
“I’m doing no such thing my sweet husband. You are very ill and what you’re attempting with our daughter is not right.”
Akenaten looked at Nefertiti thoroughly confused. “Is it not right in the eyes of the Aten to show affection for those whom you truly love?”
“No, it is not with our daughter,” said Nefertiti.
“I love her.”
“She knows you love her, Akenaten. You don’t have to show her in that manner. I’m here for you.”
> Akenaten expression softened. He paused and stared at Nefertiti. She thought that maybe it was a sign that his senses were returning. She was wrong.
“This is not of your concern, Nefertiti. Leave us,” he said with renewed vigor.
Left with no other choice, Nefertiti began removing her garment.
“Why are you undressing?”
Nefertiti ignored Akenaten’s question and finished removing her garment along with the semi-precious jewels that adorned her body. Completely naked and bare, she turned her attention to their daughter.
“Take off your garment,” she said to Mayati.
“Why, Mother?”
“Take off your garment, Mayati!” Nefertiti shouted.
With a tear falling down her cheek, Mayati complied. Both of them now stood in front of Akenaten unclothed. He glared at Nefertiti.
“I’m warning you for the last time to leave us,” said Akenaten.
Nefertiti was unbowed.
“If it’s your plan to have sexual relations with our daughter,” she stated, “then you’ll have them with the both of us together.”
This was the only way Nefertiti could stop Akenaten from his intentions with their daughter. He couldn’t love Mayati in front of his wife, and never would he think of loving them together. Without a word, he left his chamber so that Nefertiti and his daughter could dress themselves in private.
NEFERTITI WAS GREATLY CONCERNED about Akenaten’s state of mind and the unrelenting fever from the disease, so she went to the grand temple to pray directly to the Aten for his healing. When she arrived at the entrance, her father, Ay, stopped her at the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “You can’t go in there.”
“I must look in the eye of the Aten and beg him to heal my husband,” said Nefertiti.
“My daughter, you know it’s forbidden for you or any woman to enter the sacred temple. It’s sacrilege.”
“My husband’s body and mind are dying, Father. I have to do something.”
“The pharaoh is the son of the Aten. He will be spared from death, but you, my daughter, if you enter his temple, you’ll not be forgiven.”
“What does it matter? Half of my heart died with my sweet Meketa. If my husband dies, there’ll be nothing left of me to forgive.”
Nefertiti shoved past Ay and entered the temple. She knelt down at the altar of the Aten, in the face of the sun-disk, and prayed for Akenaten’s life. Dismayed, Ay left her there alone in the temple where the queen remained until the sun set between the mountains.
ASLEEP IN HIS MITANNI PALACE, King Tushratta awoke to an eerie stillness enveloping his bedchamber. Something was wrong. Faint voices sounded off in the distance and he lay still to listen. Suddenly, a shadow moved across the torch-lit wall. Tushratta knew from its unfamiliar shape that it was not one of his royal guards.
The king reached under his bed and retrieved a dagger and a razor-sharp copper discus. Just as the three uniformed Hittite soldiers converged on him, Tushratta sat up from the bed and in one swift move hurled a copper discus at one of the soldiers. It struck the first one in the center of his forehead, and he collapsed dead on the floor. Tushratta unsheathed his dagger and hurled it directly at the second soldier, penetrating his chest and lodging into his heart. There was an audible gasp before the man fell to the ground. The third soldier waited not a moment longer and threw his dagger at the king. Though obese, King Tushratta was unusually agile and he could maneuver himself as well as any fit man. He moved away from the path of the soldier’s dagger just before it found its way into the wall.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, Tushratta charged him like a wild ox. He knocked the soldier flat on his back, straddling and then strangling him. The soldier tried as hard as he could, but was not strong enough to pry Tushratta’s thick fingers from around his neck, nor the enormous weight of his body off his chest. Within minutes the soldier fell limp.
Tushratta stepped out from his bedchamber into the palace halls out of breath and exhausted, carrying a dagger in his hand. The bodies of his private guards were strewn about the floor riddled with stab wounds. Blood was splattered across the walls and more pooled on the floor. Stepping gingerly around the slaughter, Tushratta searched his palace for signs of life. He caught sight of someone walking down the corridor toward him, their face obscured in the darkness.
“Who are you? Identify yourself!” shouted Tushratta.
“It is I,” someone shouted back.
Tushratta recognized the voice. His first thought was that it was his imagination fooling him, brought on by the chaotic confrontation with the Hittite soldiers. It sounded eerily similar to Shattiwaza’s voice, the last voice he had ever expected to hear again.
“Shattiwaza? Is that really you, my son?”
As the man stepped closer, the torches illuminated his face.
“It is,” Shattiwaza replied. “You speak as if you weren’t expecting to ever see me again.”
The voice sounded like his son, though the pitch was a bit lower.
“Come to me,” said Tushratta. Prove that you’re flesh and blood and not a trick of my imagination.”
Tushratta dropped his dagger and opened his arms wide in anticipation. Shattiwaza stepped up to his sobbing father and was met with a full embrace.
“After all these years, you escaped the Hittites, and they came here after you, didn’t they?” said Tushratta, still holding onto his son. It didn’t matter that Shattiwaza never answered his question, Tushratta was overcome with emotion. His son was alive and had survived his ordeal with the Hittites.
“All this time, I assumed you were dead,” said Tushratta. He finally released his son from his embrace so he could get a good look at him from head to toe. “But you’re not dead. You’re standing in front of me very much alive!”
Overwhelmed with sentiment, Tushratta embraced Shattiwaza a second time.
“Obviously they’re not competent enough to kill a mouse,” replied Shattiwaza, staring at the Hittite soldier lying dead in his father’s chamber doorway. “It’s time we had a true father and son discussion.”
“I know that I was wrong to banish you. I can only hope that you can forgive me for it,” said Tushratta, stepping back to look him in the eye.
Shattiwaza smiled. “All is forgiven, father.” He reached down to pick up his father’s dagger from the floor. “You dropped this,” he said, and before Tushratta could react, Shattiwaza stabbed him three successive times through the heart so fast that Tushratta never saw it happen. Only when he looked down and glimpsed the handle of the dagger protruding from his chest did he realize he was dying.
“The discussion is over,” Shattiwaza sneered.
Tushratta looked stunned as he crumpled to his knees.
“Remember when I told you, Father, the next time we laid eyes on each other, one of us would die? I will wager it never crossed your mind that it could be you."
Tushratta fell over on his side, his blood spilling out and pooling around him. In desperation, he reached out for his son once more.
Shattiwaza kicked Tushratta’s hand away and the life drained from his father’s eyes.
“Neither you nor your brother Artassumara were fit to be king,” said Shattiwaza spitting on his father’s corpse.
Ornus peeked out from behind a column at him.
“Ornus, my father is dead,” shouted Shattiwaza. “Would you prefer to join him or pledge your allegiance to me?”
Ornus approached Shattiwaza.
“Your father butchered my family. King Shattiwaza,” he replied.
Shattiwaza perked at the sound of his new title as more Hittite soldiers stormed the palace corridors and searched the rooms for other Mitannian guards to kill.
CHAPTER 30
“I have weakened . . . where I once was strong.
I have fallen . . . from where I once stood erect.
And I, Akenaten, in the form of a god, am dying.”
His blood was like stre
ams of tiny needles piercing his veins, causing his whole body to spasm. Akenaten writhed from the burn of the fever in his head and at the same time shivered from the chill as a cold sweat poured from his bruised skin.
Nefertiti lay warm cloths over her husband from his neck to his feet to absorb the excessive moisture and held his hand in hers. The loss of fluids had left him severely dehydrated.
In the waking hour, Ay summoned the physicians to Akenaten’s bedside: one to treat his fever, another to treat the pain inside his body, and a third to treat his bruises.
The physician treating the pharaoh’s fever fed him breast milk from a mother who had given birth to a boy, a proven remedy for cooling and soothing from the inside out. However, there was no change in his condition. The physician for his pain peeled a fresh clove of garlic, wrapped it in a muslin cloth, and pinned it to the pharaoh’s undergarment, while the physician for his bruises combined cumin and coriander with wheat flour and water and rubbed the mixture over his body. None of it had any effect. The fever and pain only grew more intense.
Meri-Ra never believed that herbs and potions ingested and rubbed on Akenaten’s body would heal him. A spell had overtaken the pharaoh—a possession of his body by an evil entity conjured up by the Oracle. Akenaten needed a superior magic to rid his body of the disease. The only cure was to drive it out with an incantation that would cleanse the body from its spell, something that only Meri-Ra himself had the power to carry out.
Meri-Ra had searched the mystic writings from The Book of Coming Forth and had come to Akenaten’s chamber with the knowledge to conjure up his own spell. Once the physicians departed, he removed the bedcover from Akenaten’s body, exposing his bruises. Meri-Ra then raised his priest wand over Akenaten’s head while he recited the incantation:
Only you, the Aten—the sun-god Ra, omnipotent in your power, can prevail over this evil spirit who hacks the heart, who allows decay to seep into his flesh, the pain and the fever, as something entering into his body, who causes the seven openings in his head to ache, as something entering into his skull. Who knows all but the Aten? Who is greater than him the almighty? The evil ones of Amun bruise the body with charcoal. May the Aten seize this god from his innards so that the pharaoh becomes healed and anew.
Valley of the Kings Page 23