Tut's Queen

From Ch. 28 Kick Tut over the Western Horizon Tut gripped the lion head of his ebony cane hard. I could see the skin of his knuckles yellowing in the light of the torches, or was it my feverish imagination, on account of Ankh shuffling back and forth restlessly on the side, applying some ointment to her face, pulling her blue-starred Nut-wrap tightly around her shoulders against the cool desert breeze, revealing more of her breasts and plump ball-eyes. Did she flash a smile in my direction? And the slow lowering of the long eyelashes, saying what? Hopefully she is appreciating my new non-sting glue that can last holding for hours, and yet is easy to remove with warm water before sleeping, so as not to damage the precious imported lashes. A second little smile, she is beautiful in the torchlight, how can I acknowledge it without danger? Just the day before, she was beautiful in a strange way, with the setting sun illuminating a tear running sideways from her almond eye, momentarily hesitating when crossing a carefully painted black line. Not knowing what’s best to do, I tried to touch the teardrop with the tip of my tongue, but missed. “Don’t you dare,” she giggled and whispered, “to make an image of my face on your papyrus pillow, let alone showing the tear like a bump on my skin. Instead, can we row away tonight, far away in the dark? Or, at least, I will take the pillow home.” The King raised his cane to the sky, then swept it around, upon which the six torchbearers turned away from him, evenly spaced like a wheel, shielding the light with their bodies. Ay and Horem stepped up to the King in the center of the torch circle, their faces grim. “There is still a chance to call it off, My Lord, perfectly honorably,” said Ay, with his lips quivering. Why were these men nervous, when the personal danger to them was minimal tonight? Perhaps just the excitement of the hunt, or facing a whole new world if the King had a misfortune, unlikely though, so I strained to hear them as I was polishing the pole mirror of gold, reaching over a horse, rubbing the metal. At the same time, Rehotep, pale but standing firmly, was calming the hooded horses that were stomping every time the smoke wafted to them. He was talking to them and stroking them, but really watching most keenly the royal center of the circle. Ay and Horem cast furtive looks at one another, like trained fighting baboons in a slow dance just before the first ritual contact. Which one will win the biggest bout? Does Ankh favor one over the other? If I were Queen, I would pick Ay, the older of the two noble men. But, which is best for me? I will be, at the best, third in line to claim her officially. She adjusted her sparkling Nut-wrap around her hips, the finest driving hips, judging by a hundred images of famous warrior kings. I must make her see that I am the best for her fortune and fertility. “We can do a normal and safe group hunt in the ancient fashion, well rehearsed,” Ay continued though the King was not looking at him. “Please, for the sake of all of us, getting another pelt is not so important, you have enough of every royal animal.” Was he serious or cleverly egging the King on and on? There could be plenty of reasons for him, either way, something worth thinking about. Horem nodded and grunted something in agreement. The Queen, a few steps farther away, also nodded and dropped to her knees and put forth her hands as if in prayer to the King. Her cheeks shined reddish as if illuminated by her big eyes, bright little torches. She dropped her tight ball-eyes, medium width at a cubit less two thumbs, onto her heels, making two fist-size dents in the round flesh. “Enough, enough. You don’t understand, and never will,” said the King, stomping with his right foot and raising a small cloud of dust, which he tried to hit with the cane. “You will not touch me again. Get a child or a slave. Do you want to be a part of this?” His hissing words ended in a sharp laugh, followed by silence, except for the popping of the torches and the horses’ scraping the ground. “We will, My Lord, be assured,” said Ay, as he and Horem stepped up and started to peel off the King’s blue-fringed shoulder tunic and main tunic. I moved closer, pretending to check the bearings by lifting the axle tips one-by-one and spinning the wheels by hand. This has always been fun, and again the golden spokes drew my mind into the whirling patterns of torchlight broken and scattered toward the stars. I almost forgot about Tut and the old men, but the wheel came to a stop, and I began to wonder about the rumor that the King’s loincloth for this event was decorated on the hind part with the face of a man, vaguely resembling Ay. Many other eyes were also trained on the King’s midriff at that moment. Has Ay heard the rumor, and what will he do if it is true? The loincloth that came to view was covered with ceremonial beads, some colored to make patterns, which were not of Ay’s face, but the oval symbol of the sacred hedgehog. I looked at Ankh while she stared at the King, squirmed on her heels and dropped her head into her hands. Was she looking sideways at me? The universal hairy symbol of man’s desire for pleasure, and of woman’s hope for fertility signified by the plentiful quills, it must have pained her, for not producing a healthy heir to the King. My heart pounded in my throat. What did the King mean with that symbol, and was she really glancing at me? Tut approached the nearest guard and began emptying his bladder in the dark spot behind the man. I glanced at Rehotep on the other side of the golden chariot, and he seemed to roll his eyes in bemusement. The King shuffled closer to the guard, eventually aiming his strong stream at the man’s calves. The guard jerked his torch a little, but soon stood like a rock again. Tut finished the watering with the most vigorous shaking of his right arm I had ever seen by any man, including seeing him before, when he was doing likewise in our shop. He motioned to Ay who shook a small pouch of glass beads before giving it to the guard. The clinking beads seemed to have come from the stars in the clear night. The King also motioned to Horem and spoke loudly. “He is a good guard, a solid man. Test him for the seven palace aptitudes, because he has a good future, not like you, I can smell it.” He shrieked with delight. “Let’s move on, why are you wasting my time?” The Queen shuddered, dropped her wrap, got on her Hathor-chariot and drove at cow-speed around the King, periodically stopping and blowing her golden horn. My heart raced as she raised her right arm with the horn, the left one steady on the reins, and her tunic tightening and lifting her pomegranate breast a finger or two, while she aimed at each of the four points of the earth, defined by a high priest holding up a lion skin toward the King, each with a different set of painted symbols. According to tradition, he picked the one with fifty blue stars, signifying the request to the goddess Nut for good luck of the night hunt in a big leap year, seven times seven and one, perfection and completion, rare in a lifetime and hard to reckon. He stroked the pelt and examined the dangling claws. He tugged on the biggest claw playfully. He scratched both of his cheeks with the claw for good luck. Ay and Horem dabbed up the blood and draped the skin over the King’s shoulders and clasped it securely around the waist, not hiding the hedgehog on his loincloth. Tut suddenly motioned to me, but why to me? I tried to shrink and slink away, but found myself in the open. “Carver, you come with me. First, break this.” He handed me his cane. “My Lord.” Ay and Horem spoke at once and stepped forward, trying to block me, but the King waved them away. “Hurry. Smash the lion head and break the stick.” I hesitated but complied, with difficulty. He whispered to me, “You will do the reckoning, I will do the driving and the shooting."