her rings, shrugged out of the loose robe, and taking the dish, knelt on the sheets beside him. Pouring a little oil into her palm, she spread it over his wide back and began to work it into the yielding flesh, kneading and stroking, feeling the muscles tight with pain under her fingers. For a long time there was no sound but that of Pharaoh’s heavy breathing. The sweet, cloying scent of the oil rose in Tiye’s nostrils, bringing back to her visions of nights that the past had already embalmed, and, as if he had read her thoughts, he said, “No one else could ever do this the way you do, Tiye. Do you remember our first years together, when I would send for you every night and the oil would be waiting? Tonight my mind is full of that time. For a while I forgot, when your body ceased to surprise and I turned to others, but I have such a hunger for you again.”
His words puzzled her, but she was touched by them. Though her back was beginning to ache and her wrists to protest, she forced her hands to keep sliding up over the massive shoulders, down the straight spine, her eyes on the glistening warmth of him, the familiar, bold lines of his body. “The little princess did her best to please me,” he went on after a pause, and Tiye’s heartbeat quickened at the odd, deprecatory tone of his voice. “She danced most prettily in nothing but her jewels. She sang me the native songs of her country. She kissed and caressed me, but she went away carrying nothing inside her but a tale of my own impotence to spread abroad in the harem. I tried, but tonight I am like Osiris, maimed and dismembered. Her youth and innocence did not excite me. It caused me to break out in a sudden sweat of fear.” With a grunt he heaved himself over to face her, and in his dark eyes she read something she had never seen before, the vulnerability of a sacrificial beast pleading with her. For a second the knowledge of her own power over him rose like a hot tide of triumph, but it soon receded to leave her aching with sympathy.
“She has been raised as a royal child,” she replied softly. “She will know that there is a limit to the amount of gossip she may indulge in, in the harem, and she will abide within it. Would you like me to find the boy?”
His eyes lit with sardonic amusement. “No, I don’t think so. I have had enough of the bloom of youth for one day. Your hands have magic in them. I feel better.”
The words could have been a dismissal, but she knew they were not. He lay there waiting, begging silently to be redeemed, and she lowered herself upon him with a smile.
3
A n air of callous expectancy hung over the palace in the months that followed, for in spite of Tiye’s reassuring words, it had not been long before every courtier knew that Amunhotep had been unable to consummate his marriage to the tiny Mitanni princess. This, more than any other sign, convinced them that their god had not long to live, for his sexual appetite was legendary. Yet, although his days were a torment of pain and fever, the foul decoctions of worried physicians, and the endless droning of magicians, he clung to life and found the strength to watch the gradual decay of his body with a cutting black humor. He did not send for Tadukhipa again, and she nursed what she saw as a personal failure in a dignified, shy silence. His boy, his wife, and his wife-daughter filled his nights. The river overflowed and once again gave life to the land, sinking into the parched soil, loosening and stirring the fertile ground. Disease also returned to the land, and in the harem, in the hovels of the poor in the city, and on the farms, women wailed as the coffins of the blind, the crippled, and those wasted with plagues were carried into the tombs.
Letters finally began to arrive from Memphis, and Tiye, sitting on her throne beside Pharaoh’s empty chair, chin in painted palm and eyes on her own gold-sandaled feet, listened carefully to the scrolls read aloud to her by her
His words puzzled her, but she was touched by them. Though her back was beginning to ache and her wrists to protest, she forced her hands to keep sliding up over the massive shoulders, down the straight spine, her eyes on the glistening warmth of him, the familiar, bold lines of his body. “The little princess did her best to please me,” he went on after a pause, and Tiye’s heartbeat quickened at the odd, deprecatory tone of his voice. “She danced most prettily in nothing but her jewels. She sang me the native songs of her country. She kissed and caressed me, but she went away carrying nothing inside her but a tale of my own impotence to spread abroad in the harem. I tried, but tonight I am like Osiris, maimed and dismembered. Her youth and innocence did not excite me. It caused me to break out in a sudden sweat of fear.” With a grunt he heaved himself over to face her, and in his dark eyes she read something she had never seen before, the vulnerability of a sacrificial beast pleading with her. For a second the knowledge of her own power over him rose like a hot tide of triumph, but it soon receded to leave her aching with sympathy.
“She has been raised as a royal child,” she replied softly. “She will know that there is a limit to the amount of gossip she may indulge in, in the harem, and she will abide within it. Would you like me to find the boy?”
His eyes lit with sardonic amusement. “No, I don’t think so. I have had enough of the bloom of youth for one day. Your hands have magic in them. I feel better.”
The words could have been a dismissal, but she knew they were not. He lay there waiting, begging silently to be redeemed, and she lowered herself upon him with a smile.
3
A n air of callous expectancy hung over the palace in the months that followed, for in spite of Tiye’s reassuring words, it had not been long before every courtier knew that Amunhotep had been unable to consummate his marriage to the tiny Mitanni princess. This, more than any other sign, convinced them that their god had not long to live, for his sexual appetite was legendary. Yet, although his days were a torment of pain and fever, the foul decoctions of worried physicians, and the endless droning of magicians, he clung to life and found the strength to watch the gradual decay of his body with a cutting black humor. He did not send for Tadukhipa again, and she nursed what she saw as a personal failure in a dignified, shy silence. His boy, his wife, and his wife-daughter filled his nights. The river overflowed and once again gave life to the land, sinking into the parched soil, loosening and stirring the fertile ground. Disease also returned to the land, and in the harem, in the hovels of the poor in the city, and on the farms, women wailed as the coffins of the blind, the crippled, and those wasted with plagues were carried into the tombs.
Letters finally began to arrive from Memphis, and Tiye, sitting on her throne beside Pharaoh’s empty chair, chin in painted palm and eyes on her own gold-sandaled feet, listened carefully to the scrolls read aloud to her by her
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