TWO

| ANKHESEN-AMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

It is wrong how I feel. I know it to the core of my ka. But, despite my guilt, the weight of anguish for my treachery, it has become a part of me—has become my sole desire ever since my vision granted in the depths of that frozen desert night. Of him. Of the one who represents the darkness of Anubis that slides against the light of Aten, who challenges his power. Who balances it. I know who he is, and what he is, as much as I know who I am. But of course, I must pretend not to know. Because I am surrounded by enemies.

Ay, of course, is the jackal. He leads the pack, slavering with ambition for what should have been my brother's and is now mine. But he is not like the rest who embraced the enlightenment of my father. Even Horemheb—that crass brute with his bloody kopeshes and chariots bristling with his precious gold-tipped spears—understands there cannot be a multitude of gods but only One, the Source of all. The Light that grants all Life. Aten.

But not Ay. Ay worships no god—only the throne. My throne. The once-vizier of my father and brother, once-beloved of my five sisters, one by one shrouded in linen and bathed in natron, their bodies folded into place and locked in the eternal silence of their tombs, each death more suspicious than the last, until now only I remain, the sole heiress to the crown of Egypt, and in convenient need of a husband.

But no. It will not be Ay, my mother’s father, that ancient relic of polytheism with his stooped shoulders and slack-skinned jaw that wobbles when he eats. He has turned his back to Aten and given his heart to the eater of souls. He circles me like a hyena, waiting, calculating, intent on his prize: the last of Aten's children. Though he shall not have me.

Because I dreamed of him. The one who would change the course Ay wishes to cut for his own ambitions and those of the priests who come to him in the dark of the night to broker deals designed to benefit them but deprive the rest. Of how he seeks to undo all the work my father has done. I am not without my intelligence. There are still those who serve the one true god, who remain faithful to me, though we must be clever. I might hold the key to the throne, but my power is non-existent. In what’s left of my father’s legacy, I am nothing more than an object to be possessed. But Aten has shown me the way to escape the snare that tightens around my neck and the solution is not only strategic but desirable. Because the one who is destined to keep Egypt on its true path is the perfect counterpoint to me. He is the darkness that beckons to my light. And it is delicious. He is Hatti's Iah to my Aten. And together we will bring harmony to the world.

And so, I write. To the one who is my enemy, to Suppiluliuma himself, the great king of the Hittites with the words Aten instructed me to write as I grieved the loss of my brother and found myself solitary and friendless in a court of viperous liars and deceivers.

And then he came to me. In my dreams, he came to me, the one I remember yet never knew. How can it be that I know him, yet I have never met him? These are the questions I dare not ask, but remain a part of me, regardless.

I understand this much. He is the one I must bind with. And I find I am pleased. No, more than pleased. I cannot wait for the touch of his hand against mine. The dark shadows of his eyes to bathe in the light of mine. He will thrive here, with me, away from the competition of his brothers. And I with him, safe from the jackal jaws of Ay.

And now, I wait. For the King of Hatti to answer.

He will. Aten has promised it. And the one I dreamed of will be crowned Pharaoh of Egypt, and we shall live and love and rule together. In this world and the next.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

My Lord King Suppiluliuma has summoned me. And not to his throne, or even to his library where he takes respite from our campaigns, the weight of his empire, or his homages to the bleak-topped mountains to make offerings to Sharruma. No. Not even to walk with him on the crushed-shell paths of his gardens, where he converses with my elder brothers Mursili and Arnuwanda amid the shrill cries of his flightless birds sent from the King of Babylon, with their fan of feathers that rattle like bones. Birds that cannot fly. What is their purpose? I perceived the insult my father chose not to see in these creatures: complained of it to my brothers. They laughed and said it was good I should never become king for I would be a tyrant, filled with suspicion and ill will.

If I were king, I would kill the birds. And I would enjoy it.

But my father, the king, has done none of these things. Instead, he commands me to come alone to his apartment at the darkest hour, and to speak of it to no one.

I have not entered his apartment in my life. Why should I? I am the fourth of his sons. I am practically invisible to him. My father has never done anything without purpose. All his actions are careful, calculated, and correct.

So, I am mystified. This is not the king I know. The one I bend my knee to. Perhaps Teshub has taken over my father and made him unpredictable like the Storm God himself. And if my father has become unpredictable, then the world has cracked and the gods have come to join us, which could be marvellous or, terrible. I find I am hoping it will be terrible, because it would be more interesting, and I am bored.

This evening, I sent my current favorite away once I finished with her, even though I prefer the warmth of her body next to mine when I wake in the morning. She looked afraid, as if she had displeased me. Because I can be cruel, I let her think she had. I turned my back to her, but not before I saw the smear of tears in her eyes. I know she loves me, hopes for a son before her body wears out and her beauty fades—before she is replaced, as all women are, eventually. Of course, I will replace her, whether she has a son or not.

I am a prince of Hatti, son of its greatest king. Love has no purpose for me, unless it is the love of a well-balanced sword, the oppressive heat of battle under a fiery sun, or the caress of my enemies’ blood sliding against my skin. This is the only love—the only passion I know.

The hour has come. I leave my apartment and make my way through the royal citadel toward the courtyard of the king’s palace. Apprehension settles itself upon my shoulders, a chill cloak. My senses, honed in battle prickle, wary, and in the flickering light of the colonnade’s braziers the solid stone pillars waver, reminding me of a forgotten dream. I sense the presence of the gods closing in with each step I take, as though I am being shepherded to my destiny by a force greater than the faith I have in my blade, or my sacred duty to obey my father, the king.

He is there as soon as I make my quiet knock, opens the door himself, which astonishes me. I search the space for his Mesedi, royal guards who shadow him night and day. There are none.

He notes my shock, and nods at me to enter. I obey and drop to my knee as he closes the door behind me, feeling as though my life is expanding and growing dark all at once.

He says nothing as I return to my feet, and in this quiet, secluded space, away from the noise and chaos of his court, as he looks me over, assessing me with his unreadable gaze, my heart tugs. I am the child longing for the embrace of his father. Shame fills me. I am a man full grown. Twenty-six summers are behind me. I have sired more than nine sons from my concubines, and Arinna only knows how many daughters I have left in my wake.

He turns and beckons me to follow him towards a table where I note an opened scroll case, and a brief message bearing the seal of the royal house of Egypt.

He sits. I remain on my feet, even though there is a chair I might take. He lets me stand. This, at least I am accustomed with. I steer myself into the safety of this harbor away from the storms that surround me. I will not let fear ambush me. He will not send me away to be an ambassador to Egypt, to rot in a foreign court, useless and pointless. No, it will be war. It must be war. Or, perhaps due to his secrecy, sabotage. I cling to this hope. Sabotage would please me. I know I could do it well.

“My son,” he says, at last, “it seems the gods have deigned to walk among us once more.”

I wait, cold creeping through me, though I relish it, the fear, the uncertainty. The danger: for where the gods are, death is never far behind.

He pushes the papyrus towards me. I take it. Read it. Then I read it again. The cold turns my blood to ice. Yes. This is the work of the gods. It cannot be anything else.

“And who will you send?” I ask, though we both already know the answer.

“I will not command you,” he says, “but if I were to trust any one of my sons with such a dangerous task, I cannot image a better choice than you.”

“Why?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. I regret it immediately. “My lord,” I finish, hoping to mitigate my error, though it’s too late and makes me look even more foolish.

My father waves my words away. “Because you are hard to kill.”

His answer stuns me. I expected—hoped—he might say, because you are clever, merciless, at times cruel, and will turn Egypt into Hatti’s vassal. But no, I am simply told I am hard to kill. Anger thaws the ice in my blood, but I hide my fury from him. He is the king. And I am his subject.

And it is true.

I am hard to kill. I should have died four times already, from ambushes, from battle wounds, from a poisoned cup. And yet, here I stand, as strong as a bull, my injuries vanished as though they never happened. The courtesans whisper I must be a child of Teshub, my father cuckolded by a god.

“I know what they say,” my father says into my silence, reading my thoughts. I meet his eyes, a rare thing. He holds my look. “That Teshub lay with the queen, and you are his son.”

“And am I?” I cannot believe my brazenness, but then again, I am hard to kill.

“The queen is a pious woman,” he answers. “Our empire thrives because of her endless devotion to the gods.”

“To Arinna,” I say. Who is Teshub’s consort, I don’t say. Worship of Teshub is the king’s domain.

He nods, terse. I know there will be nothing more said. I have my answer. The king suspects it, too. But what can he do? If Teshub wants to lie with a queen, he will. He is a god after all. I relish this small revelation from my father, consider what it has cost him. And understand at last why he never paid attention to me, never showed me any affection as a child. And now, why he has chosen to send me away.

To become Pharaoh of Egypt.

“I wish to write to her,” I say, “to Queen Ankhesenamun.”

He nods. “You leave tonight. Write to her as you travel.”

“Tonight?”

“You may be hard to kill, but I suspect treachery. I sent an envoy to see for himself if she spoke the truth. Her husband is very much dead, and for her own reasons I cannot fathom, is willing to give up Egypt’s throne to one of my sons.” He glances down at the letter on the table. “This is the letter she sent back with my envoy. She has not changed her mind.”

I know because I had read her letter.

“She fears for her life,” I say.

My father closes his eyes. “I have deliberated on this for several months. My son, you have a choice. Accept the queen’s offer of the throne of Egypt and make Hatti the most powerful empire in the world, or realize too late it’s a trap, and die.”

“It’s not a trap,” I say, and I know I am right. “At least not from her. She is in no position to risk war with us.”

My father’s eyes open and the clarity in them unsettles me.

“And yet, you might still die. And if I have sent you, my unkillable son, to death, I will never forgive myself.” He stands and steps over to me, clasps my forearm, warrior to warrior. “Do not die. I command it.”

I clasp his arm back, lost in the feeling of the touch of my father. I know it will be the first and last time. I grasp his arm with all my strength.

“I will live and bring Egypt to you, Father.”

And I know it shall be.

He lets go. Walks away. A door closes behind him.

And once more, I am alone.