only Tuya had reached.
Narmer was filling two golden goblets with wine when
Mutemwiya finally entered. “To life,” he said, lifting the cup
as she stalked toward him. “To our success.”
She frowned. “How can you drink to that when Tuthmo-
sis has just set a roadblock before us?”
Narmer pressed a goblet into her hand. “Because when the
time has come for our divine pharaoh to be sacrificed to
satisfy his starving people, this child and the vizier can be
removed in one swipe of the tongue.”
She took the cup. “Explain.”
He smiled. “I have had a most interesting conversation
with Potiphar’s drunken widow. It seems that Zaphenath-
paneah and Pharaoh’s favorite wife were lovers when they
lived in Potiphar’s house.”
Mutemwiya’s mouth curved with the faint beginnings of
a smile.
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“There is more,” Narmer said, tapping the side of his goblet
to hers. “I think we can convince all Egypt that the crown
prince is not Pharaoh’s son at all.”
“How? Tuya is doggedly, boringly faithful. Anyone who
knows her—”
“The people do not know her,” Narmer replied, already
tasting success. “And they will want to believe love found a
way to unite our handsome vizier and our ravishing Tuya. And
when the populace is convinced, the priests will never allow
the son of slaves to assume the throne of a divine pharaoh.”
Mutemwiya swirled the wine in her cup. “But I am be-
trothed to the boy. When Tuthmosis dies, the throne will be his.”
“A ceremonial marriage that has never been consummated
can easily be annulled,” Narmer answered, shrugging. “And
children are frail things, easy to be rid of.”
A look of mad happiness gleamed in Mutemwiya’s eyes.
“My Narmer,” she said, her smile as hard as marble. “Your
war-zone ethics never cease to surprise me.”
“Enjoy your princely husband while you can,” he whis-
pered, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. “For one day soon
he will be nothing but the son of slaves.”
Amenhotep III
So now it was not you that sent me hither, but God: and
he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all
his house, and a ruler throughout all the land of Egypt.
Genesis 45:8
Chapter Thirty-Two
Pharaoh paused in his morning prayers and murmured a de-
cidedly untraditional phrase under his breath: “And unto you,
El Shaddai, I give praise, honor and obedience in gratitude for
sending Zaphenath-paneah to Egypt.”
Through the first seven years of Zaphenath-paneah’s au-
thority over the land of Egypt, the eternal cycle of inundation
and irrigation, emergence and planting, drought and reaping
had not varied. After the seventh year’s harvest, the emerald
grass grayed in the heat of the desert sun and withered. As the
year ended, the astronomer-priests searched the skies for Sirius,
the brightest of all stars, whose appearance just ahead of the
rising sun would signal the coming flood. When at last Sirius
rose through a hint of thinner darkness in the east, the priests
sent the traditional messengers to Pharaoh. The new year had
begun, and the Nile would flood within forty-eight hours.
On this new year’s day the Nile-watchers at Elephantine
checked and rechecked their measurements. The Nile rolled
steadily northward, bright as a spill of magma, but the creep-
ing floodwaters were barely above the level of the emergence.
Hasty offerings were made at the temple of Hapi. Had the god
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fallen asleep? Had the limitless bounty of the river god’s
pitchers finally come to an end?
The glassy surface of the heaving river scarcely rose at all.
Lands that had lain fallow during the arid days of summer
received only a trace of moisture when the river dams were
cut open. As the winter passed, the ground lay as hard as stone
beneath the planters’ feet, every sign of green burned away.
Dust devils swept across dreary flats, and Egypt’s fabled black
earth blew as dry and barren as the gray deserts to the east and
west. Unable to find hay, wealthy landowners released their
grass-greedy cattle into the desert. The hunting of wild rabbits
and waterfowl, once a sport, became a serious endeavor.
By the time of spring and the emergence, the river had
thinned like a starving child, and only an occasional dew
watered the thirsty earth. Summer arrived with desiccating
winds that cloaked every exposed object in dust. The wind
sucked the moisture from animals and men alike, drying skin
until it cracked and bled, parching mouths and nostrils until
every living creature gasped for breath.
While heat, drought and famine came at the world like a
mortal enemy, the people of Thebes retreated behind the walls
of their homes and gave thanks to Zaphenath-paneah’s Al-
mighty God, for news of the prophecy had reached even the
lowest estate. As wind-blown sand scoured the fields, Za-
phenath-paneah’s assistants opened the granaries throughout
Egypt. Even those who had ignored rumors of the coming
famine were able to buy enough grain and corn to feed them-
selves and their families.
From the palace at Thebes, Pharaoh watched the sun burn
the land to dust. Egypt had once been a land of severe con-
trasts: the verdure of the Nile Valley insinuated against the
sterility of the desert, the dark gray waters of the inundation
feeding the fertile green fields, the teeming life of the Nile
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343
abutting the desolate wasteland. Now the kingdom stretched
before its king like a curling sheet of dingy parchment. Even
though he knew the famine would last only seven years, it was
often difficult to believe the land of Egypt would not be
forever mottled and stained with death.
But the people would not starve. Tuthmosis shook his head,
his mind whirling with grim thoughts of what might have
been. If not for the unseen god who spoke to Zaphenath-
paneah, the priests of Anubis would have come to his chamber
with the cobra. How wise Zaphenath-paneah was! And how
honorable, for he shed praise as easily as a duck sheds water.
“It is God who works,” Zaphenath-paneah protested whenever
Pharaoh attempted to commend his vizier. “The Almighty
has seen fit to save us for his pleasure.”
As the first year of famine passed and the earth toughened
beneath the sun’s heat, Pharaoh urged his vizier to tutor
eleven-year-old Amenhotep. In recent months Tuthmosis had
realized the importance of the agriculture he had always taken
for granted, and Zaphenath-paneah certainly understood more
about cultivation and husbandry than Tuthmosis could ever
hope to know.
“The vizier fills the room with light and wisdom,” the king
told Tuya one afternoon. “From him our son will receive
straight talk and simple answers.”
She nodded, her eyes brightening, but she said nothing.
They sat together on a narrow couch beside his private garden
as the sun boat rowed toward the west. Though Tuthmosis’s
head lay in her lap, she did not look at him.
Tuthmosis scratched his chin. Of late Tuya had often
slumped into morose musings and neither his gifts nor his
jokes lifted her sad countenance. Though she remained as
beautiful and gentle as ever, some misfortune shadowed her.
Tuthmosis often felt he held a wilting flower in his arms.
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At first he thought the change in Tuya’s mood related to
the dismal landscape. She had always loved the gardens, so
he assumed the withered aspect of the countryside accounted
for her dampened spirits. But now, at the mention of Amen-
hotep’s name, sunshine broke across her face until she reined
in her emotions and pretended indifference.
He marveled that he had not linked cause and effect
together. Was this melancholy only the result of a mother
missing her beloved son?
“Tuya,” he asked, grateful that they were sitting in the
privacy of his quarters, “what occupies your mind?”
She managed a weak smile. “Nothing, my husband.”
“Tuya.” He slipped his hand around her neck as if he could
pull her soul to him. “Talk to me. We are alone, and I speak
now not as your king, but as your husband and friend. You
have not been yourself in these past few months.”
Tears jeweled her lashes as she smiled down at him. “I am
sorry, Tuthmosis. I should work harder to please you.”
“You have always pleased me,” he said, feeling the chasm
between them like an open wound. “Have I done something
to drive you away? I know I’ve been busy with my work on
the monuments and Zaphenath-paneah requires a great deal
of my time—”
“You have done nothing,” she said, resting her hands on
his shoulders. Her eyes clouded with hazy sadness as she
studied the acacia trees at the garden’s edge. “I miss the lotus
blossoms. Have you noticed that they have not grown up
along the river’s edge? I used to enjoy them when I was a girl,
especially the fragrant blue ones.”
“There are lotus blossoms in the water gardens. Walk there,
and you can enjoy your fill of them.”
“They’re white. They’re not the same,” she whispered ab-
sently. “The blue ones bloom in the daytime, the white ones
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don’t like the sun.” She gave Tuthmosis an incomplete smile.
“Do not fret about me, most honored husband. You are a good
king and wise father. I have seen how you encourage Yosef—”
She bit her lip as if she’d said too much, and Tuthmosis
blew out his cheeks. “By all the gods, Tuya, why didn’t you
say something sooner? Are you too proud to admit that you
need to see your son?”
Her eyes widened. “Not proud, my lord. Afraid.”
He sat up and stared at her. “Afraid of what?”
She shook her head, unable to speak in the face of his
anger, and he took a deliberate breath to calm himself. He
ought to be more gentle. Though she had never voluntarily
spoken of her past, he knew she had been a slave, and no slave
had an easy life.
“Speak freely,” he said, softening his voice. “Has someone
threatened you?”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t think it would be right for
me to seek the prince. He is no longer my son. He is
Mutemwiya’s future husband and the kingdom’s future pha-
raoh. The women of the harem are jealous. Your other wives
would cause trouble if a former slave became overly familiar
with the crown prince—”
“And yet even the lioness who drives her cub out of the den
still watches for his safety.” Tuthmosis ran his hand over the
softness of her shoulder. “Our Amenhotep should thank the
gods that you are his mother. Do not fret about Mutemwiya.
She does not even think of him. When he is Pharaoh, he shall
marry whomever else he pleases. But to ease your mind,
tomorrow I shall ask Zaphenath-paneah to hold the prince’s
lessons in the garden where you may walk as freely as you
please. Watch Amenhotep as often as you wish, talk to him,
be with him.”
Her eyes filled with a tenderness he’d never seen in them
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before. “You are kind, husband.” She lowered her cheek to his
chest. “You are too good to me.”
He slipped his fingers through the silkiness of her hair
while a lace of confused, pleasant thoughts fuddled his mind.
“I should have recognized the source of your sorrow long
before this.”
She sighed, the whisper of her breath warm on his skin.
“Tuya—” he squeezed her shoulder “—I am King. No one
will hurt you, and no one will harm our son. This I swear to
you on my own life.”
She rested in the crook of his arm like a lion cub who
nestles between its father’s protective paws, and Tuthmosis
relaxed in the satisfying victory. “You have missed our son,”
he said, grateful that the gathering darkness cloaked the
schoolboy blush burning his face and neck. “Did you not
think I would miss you? I did, you know.”
When she lifted her head, Tuthmosis steeled himself for
either laughter or sarcasm. Life had taught him to never reveal
his true feelings to any of his wives lest they compare notes
and torment him, but love urged him to risk opening his heart.
“How could you miss me?” she asked, a teasing note in her
voice. “You sent for me often.”
“And your mortal shell came to my bed.” Tuthmosis
relaxed at the tender touch of her arms about his neck. “But
you, dear Tuya, remained far away.”
“I’m here now.” She tipped her head back, her eyes glowing
with fire in the rising moon’s light. Tuthmosis abandoned all
reserve as he drew his arms about her and surrendered to the
crush of feeling that drew them together.
As she dressed the next morning, Tuya realized that Tuth-
mosis would never know what a gift he had given her.
Though her son lodged in his own chambers, the king had