“Do not touch him!” Mena yelled. I ripped off my kilt and wadded it into a ball, then dropped to my knees and pressed the cloth to Pharaoh’s bleeding cheek while Mena put his fingers to the hollow at the base of his throat.
“Shallow. And too fast.” He looked around, searching for Ay, who stood rooted to the spot where we left him. “Bring his chariot,” Mena yelled. “We must get him back to the palace.” The old man turned and ran across the sand while Merankh licked his master’s face in an attempt to wake him. Mena had to push him aside in order to remove the cloth headdress, revealing a swelling the size of a goose egg.
“Perhaps the blow only knocked him unconscious for a few minutes,” he mumbled. But neither of us could forget the sound of the falcon’s hind talon—like a rock flung at a hollow gourd—as it struck the young king’s skull. “Lift his shoulders while I support his head. Hiknefer can take his legs.” With tears running down his brown cheeks, the Nubian prince could only nod. “Under the knees and thighs,” Mena added, “to support the lower part of his body.”
Ay pulled up in a cloud of dust, turned Tutankhamen’s team, then backed them toward us. “One of us must hold him,” I told Mena. “Thank the gods his chariot is larger than most or it would not hold two men standing, let alone a third on his back. Someone must hold him, and no one at the palace will take orders from me. You go ahead of us, to have a litter ready.”
I squeezed past him, braced one foot against the side of the chariot, and took Tutankhamen’s head and shoulders against my chest. Merankh tried to climb in as well, but Mena pushed him away, then looped a piece of rope across the open bed, rail to rail, for me to hold to.
“Take the racecourse back. It will not jostle him so much,” he told Ay. “And don’t waste any time.” Then he was gone, running toward his horses.
To me it seemed a journey without end. I tried to keep Pharaoh still by taking the bumps and jolts with my own body. And all the while I looked for any movement he might make himself, whether an arm or leg or even the flutter of an eyelid. But my thoughts returned to the place where Tutankhamen loosed the hood of his golden Horus of the Sky. My eyes followed her again as she rose higher and higher, then came plummeting toward earth. I knew then that the truth lay in the instant I looked away. I tried closing my eyes, to see if my ears remembered what my eyes could not—and heard the silence of the desert broken by the creak of harness, the whisper of feathers ruffled by the wind, and a soft, barely audible whistle. Not high and sharp but low, like the purr of a cat. The sort of signal a falconer might use so as not to startle his bird while in the act of swallowing, yet sufficient to train her to associate it with feeding. Or was it only a trick of the wind, blowing through the crevasse of an outcropping of rock?
When I looked at the young king’s face again I found his eyes wide-open. “Stay as you are,” I warned, putting my lips to his ear to make sure he heard me. “You were knocked from your moorings for a few minutes is all. We take you back to the palace.”
“In … good hands. Gift from … gods.” The words came one or two at a time, then his lips went slack, and his eyelids fell. His face took on a serenity I had not seen before, and for the first time in my twenty-nine years I found a man beautiful. A few minutes later he spoke again, without opening his eyes. “Legs … cold.”
A shiver ran down my spine though the sun burned hot on my back. “Do not try to move,” I warned. “Mena waits at the palace, and he knows more about the injuries men suffer in battle than any other physician in the Two Lands.”
“I… battle? Anubis?”
“With your Horus of the Sky,” I replied, though his eyes had closed again.
At the barracks Mena waited with six palace guards and an oxhide litter. Ay tossed the reins to one of the guards and hurried off, probably to summon the palace physicians. When the guards started away with him, Mena followed, with me close behind.
“He wakes from time to time,” I told him, keeping my voice low, “but moves only his eyes and mouth, and can say only a word or two at a time—to complain of cold in his legs.” Mena gave me a sharp look, then started into the antechamber of the royal apartment. “I will wait out here, in case you need me.”
“No, I need you now. No one will deny you so long as Tutankhamen lives.”
Word of the accident spread like fire before the wind, and we barely had time to lay him on his couch before we were shoved aside by Djehouty, Chief of Physicians in the palace, and Kemsit, Physician to Pharaoh. Behind them came Ay and Nakhtmin, Tutankhamen’s Fan Bearer and Chief Royal Scribe, trailed by a gaggle of lesser priest-physicians.
The room was quickly shuttered and incense lit in the wall shrines, while they huddled to argue among themselves. Before they could decide how to treat him, Tutankhamen’s entire body began to shake, sending the chanting priests scurrying lest the evil spirits take possession of them as well. No one considered that he might be cold, or what that could mean if he was. In the end it was the Queen who ordered a servant to bring blankets to cover her husband, then sat at his side holding one of his cold hands in hers. Merankh padded from one side of the couch to the other, pleading in vain for his master’s touch, until Ankhesenamen finally ordered him to sit by her feet, where he whined and nosed their clasped hands.
A few minutes later, one of the physicians went to the foot of the couch, lifted the blanket from the young King’s feet, and plunged a long needle into the end of his big toe. Tutankhamen did not move.
Mena motioned for me to follow him and like a shadow he moved around the edge of the room to a balcony overlooking the king’s private garden, located to take advantage of the breeze from the north.
“She is too accepting,” I murmured, relieved to be away from the priestly incantations and sweating bodies.
“Perhaps,” Mena agreed, then cut to the bone. “You think his neck is broken?”
“Who can say without examining him? It could be an injury to the brain. You saw the contusion.” He looked at me straight, then dropped his eyes and nodded, once.
“What would you have the Queen do?” he asked in despair. “Shriek and tear her clothes? Will that will bring him awake, able to laugh and walk again?”
I stared out over the roofs of the grand villas surrounding the palace, to the western cliffs standing black against the glowing pink sky. Re was dying. Taking his son with him. “Do not blame the bird for doing what she was trained to do,” I said.
“Not here, you fool!” Mena whispered, giving me a knock on the shoulder. A mournful howl rent the silence, followed by a high, piercing scream. We rushed back inside only to be met by a chorus of voices—priests chanting prayers, his women shrieking and Ankhesenamen lying across her husband’s still form, blood already oozing from the scratches on her arms.
It had been Merankh who first sensed when his beloved master’s ka departed his earthly body, and let out that long, mournful howl of protest to his brother Anubis.
As we put our foreheads to the floor I remembered Mena’s prophecy that power soon would belong to the strong. But what of the goddess Maat—did she simply turn a blind eye when the bird folded his wings to stoop?
My thoughts went backward in time to when I set eyes on him as a nine-year-old boy. standing before the great pylon of Ipet-isut on the day of his coronation. Naked except for the meanest loincloth, he came burdened with the sins of his half brother, the hated Heretic. Yet he had passed without fear through the copper-plated timber gates into the courtyard of the temple, where priests masked as gods waited to lead him into the sanctuary, where they would instruct him in the mysteries that would make him Amen-Re’s son on earth, half-god and half-man. When finally he emerged, the young Tutankhamen’s human aspect had been transformed forever by the symbols and raiment of royalty, a heavy weight to place on any man’s shoulders, let alone one so young.
Now the priests in the House of the Dead will transform him once again, gutting him like a senseless beast to make him one with Osiris.
I am keeper of the book of my becomings: what was, what is, what will be. I am a child, the rememberer of my father, forever changing, eternal as day. everlasting as night. Can it be said more plainly? Life and death are one.
—Normandi Ellis, Awakening Osiris
10
Osiris Tutankhamen
DAY 13, THIRD MONTH OF INUNDATION
Pharaoh’s ministers and advisors go unshaven in the bluish white garments of death, and the taverns and pleasure houses all have closed their front doors. Paranefer and his council pray for the Pharaoh’s safe journey to eternity, while Maya’s outline scribes labor day and night to finish the abandoned tomb of Nefer-neferu-aten Smenkhkare, a gift to her brother in his time of need. Nor will the priests hold any classes in the temple until the seventy days of mourning are used up.
An unnatural quiet has come over Aset since Merankh, the clumsy hound with the akh of a lovable puppy, grieved himself to death in order to join his master, but most days she spends across the river with her beloved sister, leaving mine without direction or purpose. This morning I visited the potter’s shed for the bowls I ordered last week, only to have Resh hand me a small flask “for the lord’s little daughter.” Shaped like a pomegranate, it had been left the color of the baked clay except where the creamy glaze coating the inside spilled over its narrow neck. I naturally assumed she had ordered it made, for the fruit is a favorite of hers.
“No, but she believes I have magic in my hands, like Khnum, who created the People of the Sun.” His shy smile revealed a side to the man I had never seen before. “And I thought, since she is partial to pieces that have been kissed by the fire—” He was pointing to a black smudge on one side when Pagosh called out to us from some distance away.
“Have you seen Aset?”
“She is across the river,” I answered when he drew closer.
“I brought her back not an hour ago,” he puffed, out of breath from running. Or was it fear? “The Queen’s babe has gone to Osiris.”
The words came like a blow from an assailant who sneaks up from behind. “Prince Thutmose? What happened?”
“His nurse-mother found him as Re-Horakhte crested the eastern horizon, when she went to give him her breast. Some say his tongue grew too big for his mouth, others whisper that he fought with evil spirits who came for him in the dark, leaving his face one great bruise.” He watched to see how I would take that.
“The babe’s tongue protruded from his mouth?” I asked.
He nodded. “Aset refused to let anyone take him, said she acted for the Queen.” That meant she had seen the babe with his face all bloated and black, for to be robbed of breath in that way is not a pretty sight. “I brought her away, but she did not want to leave her sister and accused me of disloyalty. We must find her, sunu.” He tried to hide the hurt behind his gruff manner, but I knew him too well.
“Try the fowl yard and aviary. It is the beekeeper’s day to collect honey, so Resh can go there while I search the barn. We will meet back here.”
As I approached the stables I noticed Ruka loitering nearby, but paid him little attention until I saw him roll his eyes toward the closed end of the barn, where Sepi stabled Ramose’s horses. Once inside I stopped to let my eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer light, and heard a murmur coming from the last stall, where I found her sitting on the floor with her legs crossed and Tuli wedged tightly against her. As I watched, he reached up to lick her face, trying to dry her cheeks.
“I am seven years old and no longer need a nurse-mother to watch over me,” she told him. “Anyway, Merit and Paga only do what they are told, like any other servants.” She must have sensed something, for she glanced up and saw me, then hid her face and began sobbing in earnest. A low growl came from Tuli’s throat until he recognized my scent. Then he started to whine, pleading with me to fix whatever was wrong.
I rounded the partition, dropped to the hay-covered floor beside her, and lifted her onto my lap. ‘The demons c-came in the d-dark,” she stammered, “and s-stole his breath away. They entered his nose backwards, turning their faces so they would not be recognized, and pretended they wanted to kiss him. Or quiet his cries.”
I suppose she could find no other explanation for what happened to the babe she had come to love as a little brother. “Where did you hear such nonsense?” I murmured. “Thutmose was a strong babe. Perhaps he got tangled in his blanket.”
She shook her head against my chest. “I saw no blanket.”
“His nurse-mother would have tried to free him,” I argued, even if I did not believe it myself, any more than I believe Tutankhamen’s demise was the kind of misfortune that sometimes simply happens, without intent or reason. What I did not understand was why it never occurred to me that his son would be next.
“I can still see his face, even with my eyes closed … like the blind man could see my lion. Surely my sister’s heart will break, like Merankh’s. And mine.”
“Mine, too,” I murmured against the top of her head. Tears burned my eyelids, whether for the Queen’s babe or her little sister I cannot say, and before I could blink them away she turned to look at me.
“Oh, Tenre, I am so sorry. I thought only of myself. I forgot you were the first to greet Thutmose when he came into this world.” She put her arms around my neck and hugged me until I could not swallow. “Tuli thinks we should run away,” she whispered, “but I would never leave you.”
“Where would you go?”
“To a place where no one knows who we are. He thinks I should take a new name. Tashat, perhaps. What do you think?” It came to me then that she feared for her own life. “Poor Ankhes has no one to cry with, to make her feel better.”
“Surely your lady mother stays with her.”
She shook her head but refused to meet my eyes. “She has gone to General Horemheb’s villa, to be with her own sister. I heard her tell my father that Ankhes must accept that she will never bear a child that lives, because my sister’s royal blood is tainted with the blood of her grandmother, Osiris Amenhotep’s Great Royal Wife, the Israelite. That means Ankhes is not fully royal, doesn’t it?” She dared to look at me finally. “Does that mean I am tainted, too, and can never have a child who lives because my father is not royal?”
It taxed me not to say what I truly think of a mother who shows such a hard heart to her freshly bereaved daughter. Nor did I want to admit that I shared her fear. “You know better than that. I will go across the river to see what I can learn.” I set her bare feet on the hard-packed dirt floor. “But I will take you to Nebet’s if you promise to wait there and do nothing foolish.”
“You forget that I am almost eight years old.”
“No, you are the one who forgets. Merit knows what it is to lose a babe, yet you did not seek her wisdom. Or her love. Pagosh brought you away because he could not watch over you in the Queen’s apartments, for he is more father to you than servant. And you know it.” Fresh tears began to run down her cheeks, and I had to force myself to continue. “He and Resh have been searching all over for you. Even now they wait for me by the potter’s shed, not because your father ordered them to but because they care for you. So make your peace with them first, before you go to Merit.”
“I will, I promise. I am sorry, Tenre, truly.”
“Then tell them that. And don’t forget your sandals and a shawl to keep warm, for it will be dark by the time we return.” I motioned her ahead of me in the passageway between the stalls.
“Would you take something to Ankhes fo
r me?” she asked as we went. “After she saw the sandals Ipwet made for me she could talk of little else, so I tried on one of hers when she wasn’t looking, to see how far it stuck out beyond my toes and know how long to tell Ipwet to make them.”
DAY 17, FOURTH MONTH OF INUNDATION
When I consider what she has endured, I wonder that Ankhesenamen never tried to take her destiny into her own hands before. Who can blame her if she believes her babes all died because they were fathered first by her own father and then by her mother’s brother? Certainly an alliance with another powerful ruling family would bring vigorous blood to the royal line. Whatever the reason, the Queen sent a message in secret to Suppiluliuma, King of the Hittites, asking for one of his sons to sit beside her on the throne of Horus. That she thought it possible to keep the message a secret is naive enough, let alone that Ay and Horemheb would allow such a marriage ever to take place. Or that the High Priest would accept a Hittite as the son of Amen-Re.
Mena believes that the scribe who wrote her message betrayed the Queen to Nefertiti, who carried the tale to Ramose and, probably, to Mutnodjme as well. However it was done, Ramses, who is Horemheb’s deputy in the North and commander of the military fortress at Zarw, was waiting when Prince Zannanza stepped onto our soil, putting an end to the young Hittite’s dreams of glory and empire.
Now two legions of Suppiluliuma’s army march toward the border of Canaan, and poor little Ankhesenamen is caught in a trap of her own making.
DAY 2. FIRST MONTH OF PLANTING
A chorus of priests chanted prayers to Amen while the Chief Lector Priest placed the gold mask over Tutankhamen’s face, marking him the son of Re. It was a softly burnished likeness of the young man I had come to love, with eyes of quartz and obsidian. His eyelids and brows had been inlaid with lapis lazuli, as were the stripes of his gold nemset. On his brow was the entwined serpent and vulture of Upper and Lower Kemet, to protect him from his enemies. Under the false beard of the god Osiris lay a broad collar of lapis and green feldspar beads. Aset came forward with a rope of blue cornflowers, draped it around her uncle’s shoulders, and honored him with one last bow. Then the Lector Priest ordered that Pharaoh’s two golden hands, holding the crook and flail, be sewn to the linen over his chest, ending the rites at the palace.
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