SEVEN

| ZANNANZA | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

We have found lodgings at an inn close to the city’s central plaza and within striking distance of the gates of the royal citadel. It is a very fine accommodation, used only by wealthy visitors.

It is far better than what we had in Memphis, and cost less gold. I unroll my pack on the divan and spread out the dark blue tunic I brought with me to wear when I am summoned to the court. It is dusty and needs an airing. I give it to a servant to freshen, then leave for the bathing pool in the courtyard where I am told there will be a platter of delicacies and good wine.

As I ease into the heated warmth of the bath, unscented, at my request with anything other than natron soap, I let out a sigh of pleasure and sip the finest wine I have ever tasted in my life.

The summons to the queen’s court comes while I am still soaking in the bath. It is sooner than I expected. Word must travel fast in Amarna. I am pleased, but I am also unprepared. I would have had more time. The courtyard erupts in a flurry of activity as the innkeeper’s steward claps his hands and orders the servants in clipped Egyptian to prepare me for my audience with the queen.

There is a sense of awe that surrounds my preparation and I sense not many of their guests have been summoned to the presence of royalty. Even so, this is not Hattusa, where if you are summoned, you run. Here the protocol is different, time is different. Cleanliness appears to be even more important than obeying a summons.

I let them decide the pace. I am the guest after all, so I wait, patient, as they scrub me clean, dry me with soft linen towels, and apply unscented almond oil all over my body. My tunic is brought, and by Sharruma, they have worked a miracle on it, it smells as fresh as if it were just laundered.

Dressed, oiled, and clad in my soft tunic, I feel myself again. My hair is pulled back into a thong and tied into a bunch at the nape of my neck. A leather-embossed strap is placed around it to hold it in place. I was careful to adopt the style of a Levantine merchant. Nothing of what would remind anyone of Hatti has come with me. No, that went with the one who follows.

Everything I am wearing was bought in Byblos, the height of Levantine fashion. I detest it, but when a servant holds up the bronze mirror to show me their combined efforts, I admit I am pleased. They have done an admirable job transforming a Hittite prince into a wealthy merchant. I will make certain once I am pharaoh to bestow great favor upon this innkeeper.

There is nothing left for them to do. I take a final sip of the glorious wine and depart the pleasant evening birdsong of the courtyard to carry my wares to the Queen of Egypt. To the one who has become the light within the dark corridors of my heart.

The palace is another wonder. Its proof in its power to humble a prince of the greatest empire in the world. I traverse through soaring pillared halls gilt in white and gold, surrounded by utter beauty and symmetry. It is a home built for a god with pools, colonnades, gardens, and rooms soaked in inconceivable luxury. The wealth of gold in just one of the reception rooms could fund a year of war for my father’s vast army. It is almost unbearable how pristine everything feels. I have learned since my arrival Amarna was designed and built for the worship of one god only, the god Aten who is the light that gives life. I am not sure how I feel about worshiping only one god, and in my heart, I know I will continue to honor my father Teshub, whether the Egyptians accept it or not. I will never relinquish the gods of my home.

The servant leads me through enough courtyards and columned halls to have me thoroughly lost. Ankhesenamun’s palace is far vaster than my father’s in Hattusa, and although I am pleased to become the master of such a kingdom, and savor the thought of how much Mursili will envy me my good fortune, there is a part of me that rankles against this world of ease and wealth when in Hatti we have fought blood and tooth for every ingot of gold locked in our treasury.

Perhaps the gods do favor the Egyptians, as I was told while I reclined in the bath and my wine was poured. Or perhaps, some are granted a life of pleasure, while others must endure a life of war and brutality. Perhaps it is the will of the gods, and we are precisely where they wish us to be. And so, here I am, in a merchant’s garb, walking through the palace that will become mine, to kneel before the woman who will crown me pharaoh. The gods move in mysterious ways, but then, I was never destined for an ordinary life.

Ahead, massive double doors loom at the end of a torchlit corridor adrift with indigo silk panels hung between the gold-sheathed pillars. The scent of cedarwood impales me. My eyebrow lifts. It was difficult enough for me to travel here, but the thought of transporting the amount of wood it would take to construct these doors impresses me more than I care to admit. Everything about Amarna is a shock to me. Her wealth stuns me. I feel like a poor farmer walking the halls of a god.

I am led through the open doors into a hall packed with a glittering array of nobles gathered in small groups. They sip wine and fan themselves, bored, while a handful of ordinary citizens huddle near the steps of the throne in nervous anticipation.

I move behind a group of women adorned with high headdresses concocted from peacock feathers. From between their ornamentation, I allow myself to look, at last, at the one I have crossed two empires to reach.

My heart stills. She is a glorious beauty, fine featured, and breathtaking, even if there is almost nothing left of her under her heavy burden of jewels, gown, and golden crown. Despite her bones eating their way through her flesh, her will holds, determination the fuel that has kept her alive as she continues to wait for me. Over the white feathers of her fan, her dark eyes slide, cautious, from the petitioners to the open doors of the hall. I sense she is waiting for me to arrive, but she is used to being watched, to living in continual mortal danger, so each movement is calculated, measured. Her fortitude astounds me.

Her eyes, enhanced by the design of the Eye of Horus and dusted with gold continue to move over the assembled nobles, expressionless. I step behind a pillar as her gaze approaches my position, though I doubt she would see me through the multitude of headdresses that screen me from her. I know I must wait for the petitioners to finish before I will be presented to her. I am only a merchant after all.

Behind me, my men gather, their satchels filled with a fortune of wares, their eyes down, humble, my father’s own Mesedi prepared to protect me to the death. I shift the weight of my satchel, carried like a royal babe through treacherous mud-soaked mountain trails, the scorching desert winds of The Horus Way, and the pestilent insects that infest the Nile. The key that will unlock a kingdom and make Hatti the greatest empire in the world.

I glance at my men. They meet my eyes. They know how this might end, but I have faith in my future queen. She will be ready for us. And now that I have seen her, I know that I have judged her well.

The group of petitioners has dwindled to only two. They step forward as one and begin. Gazes begin to slide in our direction, and a murmur of excitement ripples outward from us. As the interest in our arrival reaches the queen, I wait to see what she will do.

She does nothing at all, and my heart swells with pride.

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

A wave of excitement washes through the room and laps against the golden footstool of my throne. My heart stutters to a halt though my attention does not waver from the petitioners for the complexity of their grievance demands the fullness of my attention. And I am grateful for it, because now more than ever I must be cold, distant, and aloof.

But he is here. And my heart, locked beneath its walls of flesh and bone sings like a bird freed from its lifelong cage.

After a long discourse from the petitioners, dragged out by Ay, I bring the case to its conclusion and give my judgment. There is an audible sound of relief from the nobles, and a sense of expectation fills the room as the final petitioners depart - neither have won, but neither have lost. My father would be proud. I judged well and fair, as a queen should.

A sharp clap comes from the palace steward, and a hush falls upon the assembly. He approaches my throne, head bowed, and his arms spread open, under his gold and gemmed collar, his chest gleams in the lamplight with almond oil. The scent he wears is intentional, and I savor the expensive, resinous tang of juniper captured in the far-off mountains of the Levant - a reminder of the vast reach of Amarna’s trade during my father’s reign, now long gone.

Until tonight.

The steward comes to a stop. I wait, the reins pulled tight against my heart in refusal to its desired gallop.

“My Queen, Lady of Aten, I have the pleasure to announce the arrival of a merchant from the northern lands, with wares of great value, rarity, and beauty for your perusal.”

I remain silent. The steward holds his pose, bent at his waist, arms outstretched. I know he suffers pain in his back, but he serves Ay, not me. I let him suffer, note the trembling of his legs.

The nobles shift, uneasy, their dread plain that I wish to retire, and all their waiting to spend their gold will have been in vain. I let the beats stretch, eye the noblewomen wearing my mother’s jewels, one after another. They feel the heat of my gaze, perceive its intention, and lower their eyes. One fingers the hasp on the cuff upon her wrist, as though she wishes it gone from her. Satisfaction slides through me. Soon all will be returned, but in this instance, on the delicate cusp between my doom and my triumph I pull the thread of the two outcomes to its breaking point.

Ay leans into my space, draws a breath.

“Let them come,” I announce. Boredom skirts my tone. I am pleased with how well I conceal my anticipation—even as the crowd parts to allow my prince to approach.

My steward straightens with an exhalation of relief.

And then, he comes to me, his dark eyes on mine, his steps steady and sure. How anyone could believe he is nothing more than a merchant astounds me. Quiet sounds of admiration ripple through the assembly as he processes through the hall, a large leather satchel slung over his broad shoulder. Sighs and rapid flutters of fans whisper from the women, but a few men with a penchant for their own kind also look upon my prince with open hunger.

I cannot blame them. He is perfect. Regal, strong, a warrior to his bone. I am already in love with him—cannot wait for him to call me his. It is as though I have lived my whole life for this one single heartbeat.