The Twelfth Transforming by Pauline Gedge Read Free Book Online Page B

doors, not glancing back at the sea of bent heads, and as the doorkeepers closed them behind her, she heard Mutnodjme’s whip slash the air and one of the dwarfs howl in pain. The rest was swallowed in music and drunken laughter.
    Tiye woke suddenly in the late night, drenched in sweat. A shaded lamp hovered by her couch and Piha’s respectful hand touched her hair. “Kheruef waits without,” the servant whispered. “Horus has sent for you, Majesty.”
    Groaning, Tiye swung her legs onto the floor, reaching automatically for the cup of cool water that was kept on the little bedside table. Piha held her gown while she slipped it on, and combed the sticky brown tresses. “I was dreaming of the moon on the water at Akhmin,” she murmured drowsily. “Ay was a boy, and my father stood in the boat with his throwing stick poised. Does such a dream have meaning, Piha?”
    “I do not know, Majesty. Shall I wash you?”
    “No, I am too tired. I drank too much wine, I think. Wait up for me, and raise the hangings on the windows. I can hardly breathe in here.”
    Outside the door, Kheruef bowed without speaking, and the harem guards swung into formation behind and before her. In silence they walked the deserted corridors, crossed Tiye’s own private garden, and entered Pharaoh’s quarters through the connecting gate in the wall. As they approached the harem garden, Tiye, her feet soundless on the springing grass, became aware of a thousand soft murmurings rising and falling over the wall, and the plaintive trill of a single harp string bewitched the night. Glancing up at the roof of the building, she saw its even silhouette broken by vague humps and moving shadows, for the women had taken to the roof in the heat, lying on their cushions to catch the faintest breeze out of the north. Down where flower beds and lawns gave way to paved water steps and clusters of palms, the river was running swiftly, its passing a constant, soporific gurgle and slap in the backwaters where it darkly, slowly had begun to lick at its banks, and where frogs croaked harshly. The night air was humid but cooler than the day, and Tiye inhaled it deeply as she turned back into the palace, feeling the last vestiges of sleep drain away.
    Within the dim labyrinth of Splendor of the Aten, Pharaoh’s private quarters, the scorching night breath of Ra still hung, fetid and merciless. Her escort halted and drew back. The guards opened the doors, the herald announced her, and she walked into Pharaoh’s bedchamber.
    He was propped up with cushions, his mouth half-open, his eyes puffy and slitted against what little light came from the few alabaster lamps that glowed warmly around him. Flies buzzed and stumbled over his flabby, naked body, but he seemed not to notice them. A jar of wine, its broken seal lying crumbled beside it, stood next to his hand, and his cup lay on the floor, empty. Tiye came swiftly up to the couch and bowed.
    “Horus, where is the bearer of the whisk?” she said, distressed, picking the instrument from among the sheets and plying it gently.
    He smiled and rallied at the mild sting of the horsehair, and the flies rose in an angry cloud. “Shall I deny the flies of Egypt the right to feast off their god?” he said lightly, hoarsely. “They are as predatory and glutted as the rest of my citizens. Truly, my Tiye, I did not notice them. I sent the servants away hours ago. Even their tread annoyed me.”
    “Shall I send for water and fresh linen, and perhaps some fruit?” She glanced about the room, but there was no sign of the boy.
    “No. When you leave.” He spoke abruptly, sighing, his mind only half on her words, and she waited for him to tell her why he had sent for her. Presently he rolled over on the couch and buried his shaven skull among the pillows. “There is oil in a dish, somewhere on the table,” he said, his voice muffled. “Massage me, Tiye. I cannot bear the touch of a slave tonight.”
    Obediently she pulled off