EIGHT

| ZANNANZA |

She is indomitable, this fragile-looking, elegant creature, who eyes me with a cold disdain only the greatest of queens can master, as rare a woman as I have ever seen.

To her right, our mutual enemy hovers over her shoulder like a vulture, waiting to pick the last of the flesh from her bones, as sinewy as an ancient jackal, and his presence as dangerous. His eyes meet mine and I glimpse the sudden suspicion that flares in his. I lower my gaze to the smooth travertine floor, the color of the desert at sunset, and feign what I hope is humility. It does not come easy, being the son of a god. My queen is far the better player of this game. Even so, the harshness of her vizier’s gaze lightens incrementally against me, so perhaps I am a good pretender after all.

At the foot of the steps to her throne, I ease into a bow, as deep as those I once gave my father. I wait for her permission to rise and cannot fail to appreciate that she forces me to wait.

I sense the weight of Ay’s gaze slide toward my men at the back of the hall. I know they will play their parts well, for they are Mesedi, and not only elite warriors but educated and intelligent men worthy of being in the continual presence of Hatti’s king. I leave them to manage Ay’s attention and wait for Ankhesenamun to lead the dance for I am among lions here, and she the gazelle who’s evaded their jaws for far too long.

“You may rise,” she intones, as dry as a priest leading the harvest rites. “And present your wares.”

I straighten and half-turn to gesture for my men to join me. We have practiced this many times and could do it while blind drunk, even so, I feel a tremor of madness at what I am about to do. I push it away to focus on the part I must play, each word rehearsed and every movement orchestrated, a spectacle worthy of a royal audience.

“Great Queen of Egypt, Lady of the Light of Aten,” I begin, “it is my deepest honor to present to your royal court these treasures of rare provenance from lands as far distant as Babylon.”

A collective sigh ripples through the assembly as my men unfurl their leather satchels and unwrap the choicest of our wares and set them out with small flourishes on the thick piece of indigo-dyed cloth I purchased from the most expensive merchant in Amarna.

My father has not stinted on furnishing me with items that would please a queen. But he is no fool, his raid of Hatti’s treasury is more than worth the throne of Egypt. For him, the price would be inconsequential. As I point to various pieces and describe their history, the wares spread out, and the nobility hold their breaths, each eyeing the piece they want with open hunger. Even Ay’s gaze has at last slid down to the array of glittering gold jewels, gemmed goblets, ivory-inlaid cedarwood cosmetics boxes, a belt filigreed with silver, the rarest of metals from the furthest reaches to the north, where the lands have names none can pronounce. His eyes linger on an exquisite dagger in its gold-inlaid sheath from the sea kingdom of Alashiya, a gift to my father from her king to seal a twenty-year-old peace treaty. Of course, Ay would want that one, the avaricious bastard, the most precious and rare of all pieces, a dagger possessed not by one but two kings.

I steal a look at Ankhesenamun to take a measure of her mood, as any merchant would, and clasp my hands together in front of my chest, in the manner of all humble and hopeful merchants waiting to feel the weight of gold in their pouch.

Her gaze drifts over the wares, and her lack of impression pleases me. She has prepared for this, too. I am certain of it.

“My lord merchant,” she says, though her eyes remain on my goods as though I am not even worth her attention. “We would know what you carry upon your own shoulder?”

I pretend to be flustered and make a show of apology for forgetting myself as I kneel and unpack my own satchel saying only the most precious items stay with me.

There is a tangible ripening of tension in the hall as the nobles lean in, eager to be the first to see what I have. I begin with the purple cloth, and unfurl it across my arms, an ample bolt that makes up the most of my burden.

She lifts an eyebrow as I expected she would. Purple cloth is extraordinarily rare and more precious than gold. A murmur of exhilaration runs through the crowd, purple is fit only for royalty, and it is possible many of them are in the presence of such a rare treasure for the first time in their lives.

Ankhesenamun waits, still as a statue, expectant, for no decent merchant has only one item of great value to present a royal buyer. I lay the bolt down on the indigo cloth with great reverence and lift out the final treasure from my satchel.

“My queen,” I say, moving a step closer for her to see as I untie the straps of a leather pouch and pour out a dozen perfect opals into my upturned palm, five of them as big as my thumb.

“Opals,” she breathes, and at last, a smile fleets across her beautiful lips. “My lord vizier, you will bring them here.”

Ay bows with that form of obsequiousness only the most duplicitous of traitors possess. He eases himself from his position and steps down to me, oozing wealth, power, and privilege, his gold-embroidered linen kilt rustling under a thick gem-laden belt. He holds out his hand, his aged, crooked fingers heavy with rings, and his wrist encircled by a large, gemmed cuff. I carefully pour them into his palm, ensuring I do not touch him, an unspeakable offence.

He turns his back to me and bows as he presents the gems to Ankhesenamun, his wizened hand held before her like a dish to allow her to select the opal she wishes to inspect. She plucks one out with her gold-capped fingertips and lays it in her palm. For several long beats she rolls it back and forth, her gaze following the way the gem’s iridescence gives credence to the legend they are the solidified tears of the gods.

“Have the merchant bring to us the opals and the cloth,” she says, and rises. Ay bows low and the entire court sinks before her as she steps from the throne and moves to a concealed door that opens in the wall.

She steps through, the door closes, and a beat later I am surrounded by Amarna’s elite eager to offer me their wealth in exchange for Hatti’s most prized treasures, and all I can think of is soon we will be alone, together. At last.

| ANKHESENAMUN |

I stand alone in the reception room of my apartment, my fingers laced together and wait still as a statue for the doors to close behind me. They come to with a quiet thud, followed by the tap of my guards’ spears against the smooth stone of the corridor as they fall into position outside my door.

Ahead, the terrace opens out to a view of the city, basking in the warm glow of hundreds of lit braziers positioned along its avenues and plazas. We in Amarna live for the light, and when Aten departs each night, we relish the gift of his light through fire. I move into cool of the evening air, catch the trill of a nightingale in my private garden below. On one of the low tables by a divan, servants have left out a pitcher of wine and a platter of dates, sweet breads, and honey, none of which I intend to touch.

He will come soon. I am certain of it. His wares will be sold in less time than it takes to drink a cup of wine. Hatti will be made rich tonight by its enemy. The thought makes me smile. His ruse was executed to perfection. A shiver of anticipation ripples through me. I wonder if he will take my hand, hold me, kiss me.

The cool of metal touches my lips and I realize I have brought my gold-tipped fingertips to them, imagining his mouth on mine. The heat of a blush spreads across my cheeks. It is a remarkable thing we have done. An act so unimaginable even Ay has been blind to it. Aten has fulfilled his promise to me, he has sent to me a king for Egypt. A king I cannot wait to know, to love, to bear a son with.

There is one difficulty yet to overcome. A priest who will perform the wedding ceremony. But we have come this far, together we will manage the rest. He has his men after all. I need only send my seal with them. I do not wish to wait even one heartbeat longer than necessary, once we are wed, there will be nothing Ay can do. He must kneel to his Pharaoh.

“Ha!” I clap my hand over my mouth and look around the terrace, then down into my garden, fearful someone has heard me. But there is no one. None truly care about me anymore, all run to Ay, the true master of this house.

For now.

A tap against the door. He has arrived. At last. I deny myself the smile my lips long to know.

“Come,” I call, wishing with all my heart it were Benut who were there to answer the door, to relish our moment of triumph. But she is not. Ay has taken all from me. But not Zannanza, this dark, warrior son of Suppiluliuma, King of the Empire of Hatti. Ay shall not have him. He is mine.

The doors open. I look over my shoulder as this magnificent prince of another kingdom stands, flanked by my guards, bearing a convincing air of uncertainty, his white-knuckled grip on his satchel alerting the guards his fear to be in such a privileged place. I want to laugh at this parody of a merchant played by a powerful prince, instead I sigh, as if bored.

“My lady queen,” one of my guards announces, “the merchant you commanded to bring his wares to you begs permission to enter.”

“Ah?” I answer and look back out into the city, “I had forgotten about him.”

Silence falls. The guards wait unsure of my wish. A creak of leather as one of my guards shifts their weight.

“He may enter,” I say at last, and gesture for him to come to the terrace, my fingertips, clad in their gold, glint in the firelight.

The guards step back, and once more the doors come to with a respectful thud, the tap of the spears. Silence.

I wait.

I will not turn. I know he will come to me.