THREE

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

He has written to me. Though not the king of Hatti, as I have been waiting, longing for. His silence since his envoy departed with my last message more than eleven weeks ago - hastily written whilst upon the seat of defecation - tormenting me, robbing me of hope. My faith in the message Aten instructed me to write wavering, flickering like the flame of my life, drawing the last of the lamp’s oil it needs to keep it alive.

I should not have wavered. Aten sees all, knows all. I am shamed by my lack of faith. My father would be ashamed of me, and my beautiful, kind mother, even more. Never again.

This morning, as I promenaded in the cool of the gardens before the ascent of Aten’s sacred disk, a missive was delivered to me, stained and strangely folded, instead of rolled and placed into a scroll case. A glance at the seal told me its message had miraculously remained unseen by Ay’s eyes. I accepted it—sensing his vulture-gaze upon my back, that hateful man who never ceases to be present when I wish him elsewhere—and handed it to Benut unopened as though it were a meaningless thing unworthy of my attention. She, my clever, trusted friend, followed my lead and carried it carelessly, its seal turned inward, away from Ay’s attention, as though we had expected it, perhaps from a merchant, and picked up from where she left off telling me of the arrival of a new caravan from Babylon with strange creatures that bellow and drool that have enormous humps upon their backs. And upon my own back, Ay’s gaze thinned and moved elsewhere, as he continued to watch, wait, and bide the time of his ascent and my demise.

Hours later, in the sanctuary of my bed, my breath tight with hope, I open it at last. At the double doors leading to my outer rooms, only one lamp burns, its oil measured to mark the hours until Aten’s return, when Benut and my ladies will enter and bathe and dress me for another day. Outside, Ay’s guards keep me imprisoned to his will while he sleeps—if that jackal ever does sleep. I suspect he walks the corridors of Amarna touching its walls and pillars, imagining the ring of Pharaoh upon his finger, and I, locked away out of sight, his unwilling queen. But now is not the time to think of these things.

I open the message and tilt it toward the light of a full moon.

It is written in Nesite. Not Akkadian. I am surprised at this and pleased. I know Nesite. My mother bade me learn it, among many other languages including Akkadian the language of diplomacy. She believed a woman’s mind is sharper than a man’s - a gift given by the gods - and for her to achieve true contentment she must hone her mind with learning as men hone their bodies to endure the brutality of war.

I was an obedient, and adept student. She brought tutors to me from every land and empire and of them all I loved learning Nesite the most. I found its strange symbols soothing to read, the order and symmetry of them a kind of art. Perhaps I was destined to know this language because of what is to come, or perhaps Aten gave me a proficiency for it because he knew I would need it one day.

Still. My fingers tremble as I unfold the intricate layers. Even how it is folded is pleasing to the eye, the strange symmetry of its repeating pattern gives the letter a depth that resonates with my ka. And I have not even read the message or know who it is from.

My gaze falls to the first line.

My imprisoned queen. I long to meet you.

And my heart, long silenced, skips a beat, it is he, the one who will be Pharaoh. His directness bolsters my flagging hope this dark trial to save my kingdom from Ay will be overcome. I breathe my thanks to Aten and continue.

I believe your claim of grave peril, and your request, though unprecedented, is sincere. My father has chosen me from among my brothers to be your husband, and king. I am Zanannza, fourth son of The Sun, King Suppiluliuma, and Queen Henti, prince of Hatti, warrior, and servant of the Storm God Teshub.

I departed Hattusa as soon as I received the king’s command. The journey to you should be swift, for we ride hard to reach you. Hold fast, my queen. I will come to you. Together we will rout the vipers from your nest and secure your place as the rightful queen of Egypt.

I have heard you are beautiful, that you take after your mother whose perfection of soul and purity of beauty has been spoken of as far distant as Babylon. I sense the hands of the gods are upon us, that our fates are tied to their will. Teshub came to me in a dream and warned me to be cautious. I have decided it is better that it is not known I am coming to you. Say nothing of this to no one. I plan to come to Amarna not as a prince but as a merchant. I will find you. And you will know it is I when you see that I carry purple silk and opals to you.

You will be safe. I will protect you. Wait for me. Soon you will be free to rule as your god intended.

Zanannza

I read it twice more. Elation threatens to consume me, but I suppress it. I must remain the same as always. Ay misses nothing. Even my closest and most trusted companion Benut cannot know. Although I long to secret this mysterious prince of Hatti’s message away where I might re-read it and press my fingertips against the symbols he made, I know it will not be safe. It will be found, and all will be lost. Egypt will be lost. I will be lost.

Like a thief, I steal from my bed to the lamps by the doors. A pause to read his words one final time, to commit them to memory. I kiss his name, so strange, so beautiful. Zanannza. My champion. My Pharaoh. It will be a dawn of a new age, with Egypt and Hatti united. I know my mother wrote often to Queen Henti and they shared many gifts with each other, greeted each other as sister, an unusual thing perhaps, but my mother was unlike any other Egyptian queen. She had many visions of the future, described a world of peace, knowledge, and prosperity for all. A world I am committed to create now that she is gone.

The flames flicker in a sudden draft drawn from the cold blue of Amarna’s moonlit desert sands. It slides over my skin like a hiss of a god, but it is not Aten’s voice I hear. The flesh of my arms prickle, and Anubis’s message reaches me, faint, but inevitable.

Beware.

Zanannza’s message, dry as desert dust, catches in the heat of the flame. Swift, I carry it to an empty brazier and watch it curl into ash, thinking of him coming to me, and of our secret, concealed behind a ruse of purple silk and opals. I mark the day and calculate the distance and time. Perhaps thirty days more if he is as fast as he claims. I allow for forty.

When the ashes cool, I place them into the night pot and defecate on them. Back between the cool sheets of my bed, flamelight against the painted pillars draws my attention. I imagine Aten’s light shining upon us all, clear, and clean, and Ay gone from his place, his power stripped from him by Pharaoh Zanannza, wearing the crown of Egypt. I allow myself a quiet smile, the feel of it a rare thing, and fall asleep to dream of him, the one who will restore Egypt to Aten with me by his side - his queen who defeated the darkness, alone.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

I am in desperate need of a bathing pool. The stench of my body is so pungent it wakes me from the deepest of dreams, drags me back to the hard, cold ground of my bed and the embers of a dying fire. For weeks, all I have known is the creak of leather, the stink of my sweat, the callouses of my hands, the ache of my body, and the seams of filth caked into every crevice of my flesh. We are on our fourth set of horses, these purchased at the edge of the desert, my own left behind at Kadesh, ridden to exhaustion. But we have done it. The impossible. After twenty-five days of hard travel, we have reached the end of The Horus Way and are approaching the verdant fields of Egypt. It is a vast distance to cover in such a short time, from Hattusa to Memphis. Nothing could be faster than us. Not even a courier. Soon we will reach the great river and board the vessel that will carry us to Amarna, several more days to the south.

In the distance, the ancient city of Memphis sits against the bank of the river, its port bustling with trade, glutted with ships drawn from all the corners of the Great Sea. The walls of the city gleam brilliant white against the radiant light of Arinna, an exotic thing to eyes used to the dark stone of the northern kingdoms. Beyond the walls, the city piles its way up to the courtyard of a great temple, layered in terraces brilliant with awnings of red, blue, green, and yellow. The whole of it basks under a deep indigo sky, a sprawling white and gold flower of symmetrical beauty, lined with obelisks, pillared courtyards and palm-lined pools so perfect, I cannot imagine how the gods could not wish to live among them.

I pat the satchel containing the forged evidence of sales made in various cities of the Levant. It was my father’s plan. Suspicious of treachery, he had prepared all in advance, the signet ring bearing my merchant’s mark, the ingots of gold sewn into the saddles, the satchels of precious wares, and the purple cloth and opals I would present to Queen Ankhesenamun as the mark of my identity. The soldiers who accompany me are from the elite ranks of my father’s own Mesedi, though no one would know by their unadorned armor and weapons they bear. I carry nothing but a dagger, jeweled, more for show than protection as befits a merchant of high rank, though I admit I feel exposed without my sword. But for this ruse to work I must be thorough.

Ten days behind, another rides in my place carrying my weapons, and wearing my armor, and my ring. If there is treachery, then those who come for my substitute will face the might of my father’s greatest warrior in my stead. Yes, my father has considered all. And I am grateful, for I confess my sole goal is to get to her, to shield her from what my instincts sense is grave danger, and to secure the Egyptian throne for Hatti before it slips from my father’s grip. But first, her. I cannot help myself. I long for her, to meet her, to touch her. To make her mine.

The gates of the city loom large before us, and even though I long to board a ship, I must stop to make myself presentable. I am seeking the audience of a queen after all. It is strange to play the part of a man who must bow his head to others. I, who only bowed to my father must bow my head to every noble who passes on a palanquin. I find I tire of it. My pride chafes. I am the son of Teshub. They should be on their knees before me, their faces in the dust, but no. For me to live, I must travel in humility and bow my head at every turn, lower my eyes and pretend to be honored by their passage even as I endure the heat of their judging looks and comments of disgust as they pass by. Yes, this act of humility is costing me more than I expected. But I must live, so I do it, but I long for the time when this ruse will end, and they will bow before their Pharaoh. I amuse myself with thoughts of their reactions when they recognize me as the same man they mocked at the gates of Memphis. It will be worth the wait. To observe their shock. Their fear. And I will let them fear me. For a long time.