Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,174

of Rib-Adda, who was destined to remain unsupplied because Horemheb said he couldn’t get men through to the vassal without fighting most of the Canaanite states.

‘And there are these,’ said Ptah-hotep softly, laying the pile of papyri on the King’s lap.

The boy-king examined them carefully. All his actions were considered.

‘These are all accusations against Divine Father Ay,’ he commented in his soft sure voice.

‘They are,’ agreed Ptah-hotep.

‘I cannot deal with them now,’ said Tutankhamen. Beside him, Ankhesenamen pulled at his shoulder and hissed into his ear. I could not hear what she was saying but some of Ay’s full-fed assurance departed from him and he began to look almost haggard.

‘He was kind to me when no one else was,’ said Tutankhamen, almost pleading. ‘He was with me when all others deserted me. I cannot hear these matters now,’ he said, giving them back to the Great Royal Judge. ‘Claim whatever has been lost from the Throne and replace the lost goods from my treasury.’

‘Lord, you will eventually have to hear me on this matter,’ said Ptah-hotep gently. ‘Justice requires…’

‘I know,’ said Tutankhamen, almost in tears. It was a pity to oppress the poor boy so. Ankhesenamen slid an arm around his waist but continued to whisper to him, directing occasional glances at Divine Father Ay which should have left little smoking holes in his body and probably set fire to the curtain behind him.

‘Not yet,’ said Tutankhamen. ‘Lord Ptah-hotep, come to me again with this if…if it is repeated.’

‘As the Lord of the Two Thrones commands,’ said Ptah-hotep, and kissed the slim fingered boy’s hand, loaded with rings.

‘I have decreed a feast, for Horus goes to Hathor this year,’ said Tutankhamen, drawing a deep breath of relief. ‘And next year…’ he exchanged a conspiratorial glance with his sister-wife, who giggled, ‘we may have the birth of a new Pharaoh to celebrate.’

‘May the Lord of the Two Lands live forever,’ said Ay.

I hated him more than ever. I didn’t know how much loathing one human soul could contain until I looked on my own father.

‘You remember Amenhotep-Osiris, Aunt Mutnodjme?’ the young Pharaoh said to me as we filed out of the audience chamber.

‘I remember him very well, lord.’

‘Do you think, do you think that…’ he struggled with words. For all his sixteen years, he was very young. ‘Do you think that he might be pleased with me? I saw him in a dream, that old man. He was smiling.’

My heart caught. To dream of the dead was an omen of death. I hugged the King and Pharaoh of the Black Land to my bosom and he rested his forehead on my shoulder. He felt lithe and smelt young, like a puppy.

‘I’m positive that he is very pleased with you,’ I whispered into the beautifully-shaped ear.

***

The years had been busy. Seven years spent caring for the general, caring for my household, which kept growing, caring for Kheperren and Ptah-hotep when I housed them.

Seven years since Widow-Queen Tiye had brought the Amarna nightmare to a conclusion. I never forgot her, the barbarian woman who had begun and then finished the reigns of her sons. When the court moved back to Thebes, General Khaemdua and the Pharaoh arranged that Tiye’s body should be moved also, where she could receive regular offerings. We left Akhnaten to his rock-cut tomb on the wrong side of his city. I later heard that tomb robbers had broken in and destroyed the corpse in their search for the gold amulets which should have been there, and weren’t. It struck me as fitting; but then I have never had a forgiving nature.

People drifted away from Amarna, which was a foolish place to put a city anyway, as they drifted away from the cult of the Aten; though it still had its die-hard enthusiasts. They were tolerated by the priests of Amen-Re, still too new in their authority to start a religious purge. In fact, as the general remarked, the reign of the Aten had had one advantage. It had subdued the priests of Amen-Re and would probably keep them subdued for a generation.

The years slipped by. Everything seemed hopeful. Gratified perhaps by the celebration of Opet again, inundation had come every year and the granaries were full. The people were still complaining of oppression in the country, and the borders were never really calm, but that, Horemheb told me, was what borders were like—centres of instability.

Invested by the solemn boy-king’s own hands, Great Royal Judge, He Who is Pure of