Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,111

His sidelock had a tinge of red and his complexion was pale rather than dark. The two children were building a city.

‘The temple of the Aten is here,’ declared Tutankhaten, placing a cornerstone and raising his hand. ‘I declare that the Aten is the great god and there is no other.’

‘Then the temple of the Phoenix is here,’ said Neferneferure, placing a block on her side of the construction. ‘Hail the Phoenix, firebird, sweet singer!’

Nefertiti often sent her children to play with the Widow-Queen Tiye’s family. My sister was almost as vague as her husband now and declared that the shrill arguing of the royal children hurt her head. They did not quarrel when with Tiye may she live because the Widow-Queen’s authority, which could command provinces, was just as strong as ever and it was very difficult to sustain an argument under the ironic and intelligent eyes of the Queen.

Also she was not afraid to clip ears or spank bottoms if the patient became really intransigent.

But with Tiye the children knew the rules, and played peaceably with each other. Ankhesenpaaten was engaged in her first attempts at spinning, an accomplishment which all women learn, and was doing creditably enough, spinning a thick thread full of knots. This did not please her and she grabbed the distaff in disgust, about to throw the offending tools across the room, when she caught Widow-Queen Tiye’s dispassionate gaze and decided not to do that after all, but to pick up the distaff and spindle and try again. This time she spun a thread fully as long as her arm before the thread broke. Ankhesenpaaten measured out the spinning and chuckled.

‘You see, little daughter, losing the temper does not help,’ said Tiye quietly. I wished that she had had the teaching of me and my sister Merope. No one had been able to teach me true patience, not even the temple of Isis. I knew how to wait, of course, but I was not patient. Ankhesenpaaten took her thread to show Merope, who was looking better, relieved that her mourning had kept her from the unholy feast.

‘Look, Lady Merope,’ said the little princes. Merope admired the thread and began the spinning again, and for awhile there was no sound in the apartments of the Widow-Queen but the noise of building from the floor and the humming of Ankhesenpaaten as she spun a creditable thread. Most skills, I find, come suddenly. I remembered grubbing along trying to weave, dropping my shuttle, tangling my weft, starting too high so that I could hardly reach my first line and biting my lip so that I should not lose my temper with the irritating threads, until one day I found I could do it. The shuttle flew from one hand to the other, the woven material moved down the web like magic, and I was a weaver. Not that weaving was a female skill, of course, but the Temple of Isis instructed its daughters in all arts of making, never knowing what might be the most useful.

I missed the temple suddenly, the quiet and the learning and the freedom from surprise. That reminded me that I had a message to deliver and I beckoned Widow-Queen Tiye into an inner room.

‘A letter has come from Tushratta,’ I informed her, putting the clay tablet and the written translation into her lap. She read it carefully. Then she read it again.

‘How many letters came before this?’ she asked, her eyebrows rising.

‘Three, and they seem to have gone unanswered,’ I replied.

‘This is bad. And my son has called in the army; the commanders are meeting with him tomorrow. Tushratta is an ally, moreover the Khatti are ambitious and fierce, and he could be overthrown. If so, where will the King of Khatti look for a new conquest? Why not the Black Land? Very rich, very big, and best of all, unguarded, because the King is a lunatic.’

Tiye combed her hair with her fingers, thinking deeply. Then she sat up straight and smiled.

‘I have it. Your Ptah-hotep has a friend, Mutnodjme, a friend of his bosom from the days of the school of scribes. A very pretty young man—now what was his name? Kheperren, that’s it. He’s an army scribe with General Horemheb. This Kheperren always takes the opportunity to visit Amarna when he can, he is sure to have come with his General.

‘Contrive to invite me to meet Ptah-hotep when he has Kheperren with him and the General happens to call as