of the tomb. One priest, his face hidden by the jackal mask of
Anubis, supported the immense coffin while the chief mor-
tuary priest symbolically restored speech to the dead king by
touching the king’s painted lips with an adze-shaped instru-
ment. The ceremony was called wep-ro, “the Opening of the
Mouth,” and the priests believed the rite would give speech
to the king in his new life.
Tuthmosis, looking young and frail in his heavy white head
covering, stood with the other male mourners at the right of
the portico. Tuya and the other women sat behind him, while
Queen Merit-Amon wept and wailed at the side of the coffin.
The time had come for the dead to depart. The jackal-
masked priest gently pulled the queen away from the coffin,
then a score of attendants placed the gilded box inside the
granite sarcophagus. Before the heavy lid was put in place,
Amenhotep’s wives walked by, each of them draping flowers
over his painted coffin. When all the wives had passed, a score
of shaven-headed priests heaved the lid into position, then lifted
the sarcophagus onto rollers and proceeded to push this most
intimate of the king’s chambers through the tomb’s tunnels.
Beneath the painted gazes of numerous gods and god-
desses, the priests trudged to the somber rhythm of a funeral
chant until they reached Amenhotep’s burial chamber, an
immense hall decorated with paintings that told the story of
the king’s life. The ceiling was supported by two rows of
pillars decorated with life-sized images of the king in the
presence of the gods. Beyond the last two pillars, steps led into
a crypt where the great king’s sarcophagus was laid on a
granite slab.
When the sarcophagus and the canopic jars had been set
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in their places, the priests and relatives filled the rooms of the
tomb with supplies for the king’s afterlife: furniture, baskets
of food, pottery, glass, garlands of flowers, jewels, treasures,
funerary statues of servants, slaves and wives. Several cham-
bers already bulged with items Amenhotep had accumulated
in his lifetime.
Tuya walked past a king’s ransom in gold and riches as she
carried her contribution for the king’s eternal life: a small ala-
baster vase on which she had painted the likeness of her baby,
Pharaoh’s grandson. Wading through an assortment of earthly
treasures, she crept to the innermost burial chamber and knelt
before the remains of the man who had been her sovereign
and father-in-law. After pressing her lips to the cold stone of
the sarcophagus, she tenderly placed the vase within a wreath
of lotus blossoms.
Queen Merit-Amon stood with wide eyes near the entrance
to the burial chamber, and Tuya slipped her arm about the
woman’s waist as the priests installed magic amulets to guard
against tomb robbers. As others lit the golden torches that
would illuminate the chamber after they had gone, Tuya whis-
pered in the queen’s ear and coaxed her from the room. Care-
fully sweeping their footsteps from the sand as they backed
out, the priests left the tomb, shutting and sealing the inner
passageways one by one.
By the time Re’s sun boat had sailed to the west, Egypt had
a new king.
Chapter Twenty-Five
One aspect of her husband’s coronation caught Tuya by
surprise. Even before the dead pharaoh was entombed in his
grave, rebellion stirred in the northern nomes. To ensure that
the Mitanni Empire would enforce the peace and maintain
Egyptian interests in the northernmost lands, the royal coun-
selors unearthed an old treaty between Amenhotep and the
king of the Mitanni tribe. Amenhotep had promised that one
of the Mitanni king’s daughters would marry the next king of
Egypt, so a hasty union between Tuthmosis and Mutemwiya,
a Mitanni princess, was arranged. Narmer, Amenhotep’s
faithful courtier, was dispatched to escort the bride to Thebes
with a copy of the marriage contract. The agreement stipu-
lated that the princess be designated as the Great Wife, Queen
Mutemwiya. Since Tuthmosis had no royal sisters to vie for
the title, the princess was readily accepted.
On her husband’s coronation day, Tuya found herself
standing with her son among various other members of the
royal family as her husband and his new wife were crowned
King and Queen of the Two Kingdoms. Tuya told herself the
new marriage did not matter. The emotion she felt for her
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husband usually vacillated between affection and pity, and
Mutemwiya would certainly struggle as she adapted to a new
country, husband and king.
Tuya had never dreamed of wearing a crown. Even though
she had borne the king’s son, she had never thought she might
actually reign over the land of her birth. No, Mutemwiya was
a royal heiress, and the people would give her their allegiance.
Tuya refused to allow anger or jealousy to prick her heart.
The foreign queen was lovely, Tuya had to admit. Older
than Tuya and probably twice the age of Tuthmosis, the
woman moved through the great hall with a subtle and sen-
suous bearing, her golden face marked by crimson lips and
brilliant black eyes. Her hair, which she had not yet cut in
order to adopt the Egyptian wig, spilled to her waist in a
plume of black gold. Rumor had it that she had already buried
one husband, and as she watched the coronation, Tuya thought
the woman looked more like Pharaoh’s mother than his bride.
Yet the eyes of every man in the room followed Mutem-
wiya as she moved toward her throne at Tuthmosis’s side. She
walked with the hard grace of one who has total control of
herself, and her boldly confident eyes rebuffed every man who
dared to look at her…except one. Narmer met the woman’s
flinty gaze head-on. Even as Mutemwiya stepped up to the
dais and slipped her hand into Tuthmosis’s, Tuya saw
Narmer’s bold eyes rake the new queen with a fiercely pos-
sessive look. What, she wondered, had transpired between
these two on the journey from Mitanni?
As the high priest’s voice droned in the stillness, filling the
room with blessings of prosperity and promises of fealty,
Tuya allowed her eyes to wander. Potiphar, watchful and
paternal, stood at the head of the guard, his hooded eyes
searching the gathering as though assassins waited behind
every pillar. Beneath the Gold of Praise, the brown skin of his
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neck sagged with age and weariness. He was an old, tired
man, ready to meet his gods—if he had any.
Sighing, Tuya returned her attention to the wedding canopy
as the gathering cheered her husband and his new queen.
Tuthmosis sat bolt upright in bed and stared into the
darkness, trying to see whatever it was that had slashed his
sleep like a knife. Fear shook his body from toe to hair and
twisted his face into an expression he was glad no one could
see. He was alone, completely and totally alone with nameless
terror, and he yearned for Tuya.
“Abasi!” He shouted for the eunuch who attended him. His
grasping fingers found the silken cord hanging by his bed, and
he yanked it sharply. “Bomani! Chike!”
His servant, his guard and his priest appeared in the
doorway, their figures backlit by torches burning in the hall-
way. The servant and guard immediately prostrated them-
selves, but the old priest took his time.
“Rise, all of you,” Tuthmosis said, his nerves at a full
stretch. “Abasi, light the torches, then bring me the royal wife
Tuya! Bomani—guard the door, and let no one in except
Tuya. I fear for my life. Chike, high priest of Osiris—”
As light flooded the chamber, the aging priest inclined his
bald head. “Yes, my king?”
“Say prayers for me. Offer sacrifices of blood, of fruit, of
incense. Make sure the gods are pleased with my kingship.”
The old man’s face remained as inscrutable as stone, but
he bowed. “It shall be done.”
“Do it now.” With white knuckles, Tuthmosis gripped the
sheet that covered him. “Abasi, why do you wait? Fetch Tuya
now!”
The eunuch sprinted out of the chamber as fast as his bare
feet could carry him, and Bomani moved toward the door. The
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priest prepared to follow, but Tuthmosis did not want to be
abandoned. “Wait—priest,” he said, searching for words that
would not reveal the terror that had frozen his heart. “Have
any of the astrologers seen an ill omen in the skies?”
Chike lifted a brow. “None, my king.”
“And the river—it flows according to schedule?”
“The goddess waters our land as always. You have won her
favor, divine one.”
“The cattle—I have not heard of any plagues on the
cattle—”
“There are none, my king. All is well in the land.”
The door opened and Tuya hurried into the room, clad
only in a straight gown and a shawl. She had risen in such a
hurry she forgot to don her wig, and despite his terror, the sight
of her short, rumpled hair brought a smile to the king’s face.
None of the other wives would have come in such a dishev-
eled state.
“O Pharaoh, live forever,” Tuya whispered, falling to her
knees.
“Chike, you may go,” Tuthmosis commanded. When the
aged priest had closed the door behind him, Tuthmosis
crawled to the end of his bed and peered down at his wife. “I
am frightened,” he whispered, his voice strangely thin in his
own ears. “I need you.”
Her soft, understanding eyes met his. Without speaking,
she rose and climbed into the royal bed.
“There, my king,” she whispered, slipping her arms around
him. “Tell me what has upset you.”
“I don’t know what it is,” he murmured, allowing her to
draw his head onto her shoulder. “For two nights now I have
been awakened in the darkness. An evil premonition holds me
in its grip and I cannot break free.”
“Have you told anyone of this?”
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He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I do not want them to see
my fear. And I don’t know why I am afraid. I was not afraid
to meet the Syrians, or to lead chariots into battle against the
fierce Nubians. I am not afraid to die, yet this terror sends my
blood sliding through my veins like needles. A god should not
fear anything.”
She lowered her forehead to his in silent understanding.
Grateful, he reached for her and lightly pressed his lips to hers.
The gulf that had once separated them had lessened, and even
though Mutemwiya sat on the throne next to him, he still
considered Tuya his favorite wife. She was the only one who
understood him, the only one who never laughed at his dreams
or scorned his fears. He loved her as he loved his gods, but
though they demanded his attention, Tuya asked nothing of
him. Sometimes he wished she would…
“Sleep, husband,” she whispered, pulling him down to lie
on perfumed sheets. “I will watch over you. If the terror comes
again, wake and tell me of it, and together we shall decide
what is to be done.”
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.
Tuthmosis looked around the chamber to make sure the
torches still burned, then he lowered his head to the softness
of Tuya’s body and murmured his thanks through the em-
bracing folds of sleep.
Tuya stifled a yawn as her husband slept. She had promised
to stay awake, but their son had kept her up late the previous
night. The irresistible warmth of sleep bore down on her, and
she struggled to keep her eyes open—
“Horus, help me!”
She startled as her husband sat up, his eyes like black
holes in his pale face. “I know,” he said, his voice resonating
with fear and awe. “I have dreamed, Tuya, twice! In this light
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I see clearly, for the demons of darkness have not stolen the
visions away.”
“You had a dream?”
“A vision as real as the dream when the Sphinx spoke to
me.” He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his
arms around them. “But the dreams are not clear. I see the
visions, I recall every detail, but there is no voice to explain
it. Since Horus has spoken to me before, why does he not
speak now?”
“I don’t know, husband.” Tuya pressed her lips together.
“Perhaps it is not Horus who speaks to you.”
“Another god? But my priests speak for the others. Every
day I hear a score of messages from all the local deities. Why
would one of them come to me in a dream?”
“Perhaps…it is a god we do not know.” She shifted until
she faced him. “Long ago, husband, I knew a man who said
an invisible god spoke to him in dreams. He called this god
the Almighty One.”
“An invisible god?” For a brief moment his face seemed
to open. Tuya glimpsed bewilderment, a quick flicker of fear,