The Twelfth Transforming Read Free Page A

and sing to him softly, cradle and rock him, but instead she gathered up her wig, fastened the sphinx once more about her bruised neck, and went out, closing the doors slowly behind her. Surero and her herald slept, the one bowed on the stool, the other huddled against the wall. The torches lining the long passage had gone out, and the guards had changed, the new faces heavy with the need for rest but with eyes alert. Into the ephemeral cool of a summer night a faint gray light was pooling. Tiye had raised a sandaled foot to stir her herald when she heard a movement and turned.
    Sitamun had stepped into the corridor and was standing uncertainly, white linen floating around her, a gossamer-thin pleated short cloak around her slim shoulders. She was wigless, her own brown hair frothing about her face, one silver circlet resting on her forehead. Amulets of silver clasped her arms, and silver scarabs and sphinxes hung across her breasts. Tiye, exhausted and satiated, had the chilling impression that she was gazing back through the years at a vision of herself, and for a second was frozen with fear and an aching longing for what had been, what could never come again. Then she began to walk toward her daughter. “He does not need your presence tonight, Sitamun,” she called, and at the sound of her voice her herald scrambled to his feet. “He is asleep now.”
    Watching jealousy and disappointment flit across her daughter’s imperious face, Tiye quelled a spurt of purely feminine triumph. It is not worthy of me to take pleasure in thwarting Sitamun , she thought contritely as the young woman hesitated. Such pettiness belongs to aging concubines in large harems, not to an empress . She smiled warmly. Sitamun did not respond. After a while she bowed stiffly and disappeared into the somnolent shadows.
    Back in her own apartments, Tiye ate to the music of the lute and harp players that woke her every morning and then sent for Neb-Amun. He was waiting for the summons and came quickly, a plump, graceful man in a full-length scribe’s gown, his head shaved bare, his face impeccably painted. He laid down his burden of scrolls and bowed, arms extended.
    “Greetings, Neb-Amun,” she said. “It is too hot to receive you on my throne; therefore I shall lie down.” She did so, settling her neck against the cool curve of her ivory headrest as Piha covered her with a sheet and her fan-bearer began to wave the blue feathers over her. “I shall also close my eyes, but my ears shall remain open. Sit.”
    He took the chair beside the couch while Piha retired to her corner. “There is not a great deal for Your Majesty’s attention,” Neb-Amun said, shuffling through his papers. “From Arzawa the usual grumbles over encroachments made by the Khatti, and of course a letter from the Khatti protesting an Arzawa raid across the mutual border. I myself can answer that. From Karduniash a demand for more gold, after the usual greetings. I do not advise that Great Horus send them anything. They have received much from us already, and beneath the demands are veiled threats that treaties will be concluded with either the Kassites or the Assyrians if Pharaoh does not continue to show his friendship.”
    “Pharaoh will arrange military maneuvers to the east,” Tiye murmured. “That should be enough. Is there anything from Mitanni?”
    “Yes. Tushratta is withholding the dowry until the city of Misrianne is officially his, that is, until the scroll of ownership reaches him. He has received the gold and silver. Princess Tadukhipa has arrived at Memphis. Word came this morning.”
    Tiye’s eyes flew open, then closed again. “So there really is to be an addition to the harem,” she muttered. “After all the haggling and kidnapping of ambassadors and empty promises and insults, little Tadukhipa is in Egypt.” I would like to see Mitanni just once , she thought suddenly. The home of my ancestors. Who knows but that this new king, Tushratta, might