The queen approached him with her head, nose, and mouth concealed by the scarf.
“Is this where I will find the Oracle?” she asked.
The boy glanced at her before taking another bite of the toasted rat. Juices dripped from his mouth, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“It’s one of many places,” he answered.
“It looks hardly fit for a supreme one. I imagined something more elaborate.”
“Why would a peasant’s opinion matter to anyone?”
“I am a servant of the pharaoh,” the queen said.
“We’re all servants of the pharaoh. What do you want?”
“I’ve come to solicit the Oracle’s knowledge for a price, but obviously that would depend on whether he’s here or not.”
The boy scans her from head to toe before laying the skewered rat on the ground. “Follow me,” he said.
Queen Ty followed the boy into the dark domed space where a bald, albino dwarf in a white kilt was sitting on the ground in front of a small fire, his eyes shut. His bare chest and arms were covered with tattoos that appeared distorted because of his wrinkled, sun-scorched skin. No part of his body was left unmarked. A tattoo of a scorpion marred the center of his forehead, and around his neck, the queen noted a black-coiled, tubular-shaped necklace. He was a fragile, elderly man of about eighty-five years of age. According to what Ay had told her, he had served over sixty years as the Oracle.
She took a careful step toward him. The dwarf’s tubular necklace uncoiled. She gasped. It was not a necklace at all, but a black mamba. The snake hissed in her direction and coiled tighter around its host’s neck. The dwarf’s eyes snapped open and tightly focused on her.
“Who do you speak for?” he asked.
Despite his old age, his voice did not quiver or shake. It sounded steady and clear, the voice of a much younger man.
“Are you the Oracle?” she asked.
“I am what you believe that I am.”
“It’s been said your power is greater than the magic of the Amun priests and that sorcery and vengeance are not beyond your abilities. Is it true?”
The Oracle glanced over at the servant boy.
“Go,” he said to him. “Return with water from the well.” The Oracle waited for the boy to leave before he spoke again. “Peasant clothing is unbecoming of you, Queen. Why are you here?”
Queen Ty had underestimated the Oracle. Impressed by his ability to see through her disguise, she smiled as she removed her scarf.
“I came on behalf of my son, prince Teppy. The Priests of Amun have schemed to stop his ascension to the throne. They have committed some manner of sorcery against my husband, such that he follows their every word, even to deny his own son. If I don’t find a way to stop them, I fear they will curse him to his very death so that there is no blood heir. Can you help me?”
The Oracle smirked. “My advice requires an offering.” He paused. “A substantial one.”
“Of course,” said the queen as she removed a gold and sapphire bracelet from her wrist and handed it to him. It was strange to her how he examined it like a foreign object.
“The value of that is far greater than what any king could ever acquire in his life. It is my most cherished piece,” she said with pride.
When he tossed the bracelet into the fire, the flames rose and engulfed it. She watched horrified. He spoke out just before she made a move to retrieve it.
“No, let it burn. It belongs to me now,” said the Oracle. “On the ground before you lie a piece of string. Pick it up, and with it, tie three knots.”
The queen reluctantly took her eyes away from her burning bracelet and focused on a piece of string at her feet. She did as she was told.
“Now untie them and burn the string in the flame,” he said.
She untied each knot and held the string over the flame, which consumed it so quickly that it scorched her finger. The queen jerked away causing the black mamba to lift its head in the air at her then slither around the Oracle’s neck, repositioning itself as it spewed another menacing hissing sound.
“Prince Teppy will not inherit the throne of Egypt,” the Oracle stated.
“I don’t understand,” said the queen, shocked. “Teppy is the son of the pharaoh. He is the rightful heir.”
“Nevertheless, he will not become pharaoh. There is another, that will be stronger and greater, appointed by the Amun priests,” said the Oracle.
“If you choose to do so, could you not disrupt the source of the Amun priests’ power?”
The Oracle laughs at her. “From where do you think the Amun priests receive their power?” he asked. “I am the source, and I am the conduit for the Amun god itself. It is you who has a choice, Queen. Either accept the will of Amun, or Prince Teppy will suffer the same fate as his brother, Tuthmosis.”
It was as if she were being crushed alive under a bundle of mud bricks. The queen was trapped by a god that despised her as fiercely as she despised it and with a husband completely under its control. And now, the Oracle—her last chance for salvation, the most powerful one in Egypt, had also proclaimed his alliance to the despicable Amun god.
“You may leave now,” said the Oracle.
He folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. The snake uncoiled from around his neck, slithered down his body, and disappeared under the sand.
The queen stood there for a moment, unable to move. Where was her justice?
She stared at her most cherished possession—her sapphire bracelet, burning among the ashes of the Oracle’s fire. In return, he had given her nothing but a premonition of suffering and death for her beloved Teppy. Something had to be done. Her blood rushed to her extremities. She removed the flint knife from her garment and glared at the Oracle. If he was dead, she thought, it would only be natural that his premonition would die along with him.
While the Oracle’s eyes were still closed, the queen rushed up from behind him, and without a second thought, slit his throat. His eyes popped open, and she stepped back and watched as the Oracle tried to stop the bleeding by clenching the wound with his hand. Blood seeped from between his fingers and he fell on his side with a shocked expression frozen on his face, still grasping hold to his neck while he regurgitated blood. The color of it was a deep, dark red, nearly purple, viscous and tainted because of his practice of sorcery no doubt, the queen deduced.
Although he had now stopped moving and appeared to be dead, the decapitation was incomplete, so, in a frenzy, Ty took the knife and slashed it across his neck fifteen times until the head severed from the body and her hands and face were sprinkled with his tainted blood. The completed decapitation would now assure that his spirit was dead and could not return. The queen washed herself in the salted water of the Oracle’s ablution tank, then removed her dress and reversed it so that the old man wouldn’t see the blood on it when she returned to his chariot.
Once she arrived at the palace, she bathed, then headed to Amenhotep’s chamber, brazenly disregarding his orders again that she only appear there at her appointed times. Ty carried a jar of wine from the Canopic branch of the river where the best vineyards grew—Amenhotep’s favorite, now the queen’s peace offering to him. She stepped up to the entrance, the horror of what she had just done to the Oracle willfully erased from her mind, and listened to see if there was anyone in the chamber with him. All was silent.
“Amenhotep? I’ve brought wine for you,” she said.
After a moment of waiting and not receiving an answer, she entered his chamber. His nemes-striped head cloth was missing from its usual place. It was not uncommon for Amenhotep to travel to some unknown destination on a whim, and because the cloth was not there, she assumed he would not be returning that day.
Disappointed by his absence, the queen lingered in his chamber and found herself searching the room, not sure of what she was looking for. She came upon a small clay tablet with an inscription on it lying on the table. Ty’s father was a
scribe, one of the few citizens who could read and write. Though it was forbidden, her father had taught her enough inscription when she was a child that she could decipher the fundamentals of the written language on her own.
The queen read the tablet silently to herself. It was a letter from Mitanni informing Amenhotep that Lupita’s younger brother, Tazam, had murdered his older brother, King Artassumara, and that they needed the assistance of the Egyptian army in case of an uprising from neighboring kingdoms. This explained Amenhotep’s absence, but why hadn’t he told Lupita about it? The realization that Amenhotep had kept it secret from his young wife seemed odd at first, but her confusion soon turned to jealousy. His silence was meant to protect Lupita’s feelings. He was keeping her unaware of the turmoil brewing in Mitanni to prevent her despair and to keep her from traveling back to her homeland where it would be unsafe. It reminded the queen of bygone days when Amenhotep had protected her in the same way, how he would do anything in his power to keep her heart joyful. Lupita had to be the reason Amenhotep no longer loved her, and as long as the girl remained alive in the land of Egypt, he would never return to her side.
Neper and Sia knelt together and recited a prayer of awakening at the altar of the Amun statue. Footsteps padding on the limestone floor of the temple’s outer chamber startled them. The twins stepped out from the inner chamber and found the servant boy on his knees panting. “My lords, I ran as fast as I could,” said the boy.
“Who are you?” asked Neper. “And how did you get past the other priests?” Sia continued.
“I am the Oracle’s servant boy, the one chosen to assist him on his pilgrimage to the Great Pyramid of Khufu. I know that you are Sia and Neper, the lector priests. The Oracle once told me you were only second to him as the wisest in the land. It is urgent that you both come with me now to see what calamity has befallen our teacher.”
Without questioning the boy further, Sia and Neper followed him to the Oracle’s dome. When they arrived, the boy trembled as he pointed at the dome’s entrance.
Sia and Neper entered. A lit candle on the floor provided the only illumination. Neper picked it up and carried it with him as they made their way through the darkest rooms of the dome.
“Master, are you well?” Neper called out.
There was no response. When they reached the center of the dome, a trail of smoke ascended from a smoldering campfire. The Oracle was lying on the floor in a fetal position next to it.
“Master you must rise. The time of the pilgrimage is near,” said Sia.
The Oracle didn’t move. Candle in hand, Neper walked over to him.
“Master?”
Neper shook the Oracle’s shoulder. The head rolled off the body and onto the sand. Neper gasped while Sia stood next to him unaffected. Instantly, a horde of rats scurried across their sandals from every corner of the room and descended on the Oracle’s severed head, biting the scalp and tearing the flesh off the face. Neper tossed the candle at the ferocious creatures and ran out from the dome screaming.
Sia remained as the flame illuminated a grotesque scene; rats eating the eyeballs clean from the sockets of the Oracle’s head. Sia’s nostrils flared as he listened to the despicable sounds of chewing and squealing. His breathing accelerated, a reaction not of grief or fear, but of intense anger. Who possessed the insolence to do such a thing? Who could murder the Oracle—the direct connection to the Amun god itself? The life-force of Egypt. Sia suspected the owner of the scarf that lay beneath the Oracle’s body knew the answer.
CHAPTER
9
TRAINING FOR the Egyptian army started at the age of fourteen for hand-selected boys of above-average athletic ability. A mastery of wrestling was a prerequisite before Horemheb taught the boys any other combat skills. At the military camp, the young men battled each other for the privilege of becoming his pupils. The newly appointed General Horemheb was a master warrior whose proven skills had surpassed even that of General Nasheret. Horemheb now presided over the training ground where Egypt’s future warriors learned the art of war.
In an unannounced visit, Amenhotep arrived in his royal chariot at the base of the camp. A rowdy crowd of boys had circled around two of their group who were mercilessly beating each other. They were bloody and exhausted but continued brawling as the others egged them on.
The pharaoh dismounted and commanded his guards to remain stationed at the chariot. He rushed over to where the boys were fighting and broke the circle just as the smaller of the two fighters was putting the other in a chokehold. The bigger boy’s eyelids fluttered as he teetered on the verge of losing consciousness. Amenhotep yanked the smaller boy away from his semiconscious opponent and threw him to the ground.
“Save your killer instinct for the enemy!” he shouted.
It was only a moment before they recognized the man scolding them. The boys prostrated themselves before the pharaoh, shocked into silence at his unannounced appearance.
“Both of you, return to the barracks and tend to your wounds,” said Horemheb as he approached from the rear.
The two bloodied and bruised boys rushed off. Horemheb scanned his group of teen warriors and pointed at two.
“You and you, continue.”
He clapped his hands twice, and the two young men entered the circle and maneuvered into a wrestling stance.
Horemheb greeted the pharaoh with a smile and bowed dutifully. “My Pharaoh, what an unexpected pleasure. How can I be of service?”
Amenhotep interrupted his gesture and gave him a strong and affectionate rough hug.
“Now that’s a greeting worthy of a man who once saved my life,” said the pharaoh. “Walk with me, general.”
They strolled together across the spacious training grounds. All around them, young boys and middle-aged warriors practiced archery, spear throwing, hand-to-hand combat and stick fighting. Amenhotep surveyed the activities with satisfaction. The scene brought back memories of his own adolescence. He himself had trained there as the son of Pharaoh Thutmose the Fourth, with dreams of becoming a warrior king. It had been decades since he had set foot in one of these training grounds, and the size of it appeared much smaller compared to the enormous grounds pictured in his memory.
“I see you have your hands full,” said Amenhotep.
“It’s challenging, but I’m not so overwhelmed that I cannot serve my Pharaoh. Is there a task I can do for you?”
“There is a matter in Mitanni we have to deal with.”
“What is it?”
“I received a letter yesterday that King Artassumara was murdered by his brother Tazam. And now, because there is no ruler, the Mitanni people are afraid the Hittites are planning to attack them.”
“We have a peace treaty with King Suppiluliumas and the Hittites,” explained Horemheb. “Would he be so bold as to attack our ally?”
“I would think not. My relations with him have been cordial, but I don’t trust him. Neither can I ignore the fears of the Mitanni people,” said Amenhotep. “I need you to take an army to Mitanni immediately and, if necessary, defend them from their enemy. We can’t risk losing another valuable tributary.”
“I can have troops ready to march by dawn,” assured Horemheb.
“Most importantly, general, slice off Tazam’s hands and bring them to me. I want to present them to Lupita as proof we have avenged her brother’s murder.”
“Do they know beyond a doubt that Tazam is guilty?”
“He confessed his guilt. There’s no one that can account for his innocence.”
“It’ll be done, my Pharaoh, as you wish.”
“I’ll wait for the proof before I inform Lupita. If Suppiluliumas is planning an attack on Mitanni, it would be much too dangerous for her to return to her homeland now.”
A soldier’s spear fell flat on the ground in front of them. With a scowl on his face, Horemheb picked it up and hurled it over two hundred cubits back at the soldier. It lodged deep in the earth at the soldier’s foot. Horemheb
returned his attention back to Amenhotep. “They’ll be ready at dawn.”
Queen Ty had always been envious of Lupita’s special privilege. Her chamber was adjacent to Amenhotep’s, and she commingled with the pharaoh whenever she desired. Since the day Lupita arrived in Egypt, Queen Ty was restricted to “appointed times,” Amenhotep’s biased visitation schedule that she routinely ignored. The day after she discovered the letter in his chamber, she revisited his quarters, though not to see him. She found Lupita sitting in her chamber in front of a polished copper mirror shaving her head with a trapezium-shaped razor.
Lupita’s dark brown hair fell to the floor in clumps. She was three locks away from being completely bald when the queen stepped in and took the razor from her.
“It’s dull. I have a sharp one,” she said.
Queen Ty drew her flint knife and began shaving the rest of Lupita’s head. She adjusted her facial expression in Lupita’s mirror so that it reflected dread.
“What’s wrong, my queen?”
“I have terrible news.”
“Tell me. What is it?”
“I’m torn because it’s not my place to tell you such things.”
“If it’s as dreadful as your expression reveals, Queen, you’ll only torture me by withholding it,” said Lupita.
Queen Ty shaved the last lock of hair from Lupita’s head.
“Your brother, King Artassumara, was murdered,” the queen blurted.
Lupita gasped.
“It’s true, I’m sorry. A messenger from your land of Mitanni delivered a letter sealed by your brother, Tushratta,” the queen continued.
Lupita stood up from her seat in shock. “Why? Who would want to murder him?”
“The letter stated that it was your other brother Tazam.”
“Tazam? No, there’s not a vile bone in his body. He loved our brother Artassumara.”
VALLEY OF THE KINGS: The 18th Dynasty Page 7