The City of Amarna
Reign of Tutankhamun, Year Two
Midnight had passed, and he had been waiting a long time. The man drew his long, woolen cloak closer about himself and gazed over his shoulder, back at the city that was gathered within the fertile cup of the valley. It was growing late, and every moment was precious.
"My Lord?"
His hand closed convulsively about the carnelian Eye of Horus amulet that hung at his neck by a plain gold chain as he looked up from his contemplation of the city to the man silhouetted against the stars. He spoke calmly over the pounding of his heart. "Did he send word?"
"He said 'So be it'," the other said slowly.
'So be it'? No, it couldn't be true! Did you tell him all that I said?" he asked.
"He wouldn't listen, my lord," the other said. "He turned and left as I was speaking."
"Oh, my son..." the man sighed.
"I've carried out my charge," the other said. "Do you have my payment?"
"Of course," said the man. "And I don't blame you for what has happened." He extended his arm, displaying the heavy gold bracelet that encased his forearm from the wrist a third of the way to the elbow, and then removed the clasping pin and opened it.
The other took the bracelet and turned it in his hands, scowling at it in the starlight.
The man watched him with an ironic smile. "I haven't cheated you," he said. "How could you, of all people, believe that I would? There's the king's name, and the mark of your teeth from yesterday. Match your teeth to it and see that they fit."
The other looked up and said, "I'm sorry, my lord, but these are desperate times."
"Even in desperate times I refuse to behave desperately," the man said. "Go quickly now. It'll go hard for you if Pharaoh's guards catch you here on this errand, and I won't be able to protect you."
The other looked up from the bracelet that he was settling on his wrist. "I'm sorry, my lord," he said.
"Don't be," said the man. "Though you didn't meet with success, you have put me in your debt. It is for me to mend matters as well as I may. Now go while it is safe."
He watched the other hurry off over the spine of the hills. A moment later he heard the sound of hooves. A donkey, by their cadence. They faded away northward, leaving him alone under the stars. He waited a little longer, until he could hear no sound, and then moved through a natural gateway of rock and stepped into a torchlit, silent chamber hewn into the rock of the hillside.
The light of the torch caught bright colors, lapis blue, malachite green, and here and there the glint of gold. Lines of mourners raised their hands, the women bare-breasted with streaming hair, the men unshaven and tousled, tears streaking their cheeks. A lavish feast was depicted on the walls deeper into the room, past four rock-hewn pillars adorned with carved and painted gods. The sculptor Tuthmosis had done a splendid job. Tables were piled with food of every type, persimmons, onions, breads made with sesame seeds, with honey, with dates, haunches of beef, freshly caught fish. Wine stood in tall, elegantly tapering jars, and filled cups were raised everywhere.
The man moved down the silent ranks of feasters, seeing in the carved and painted features the faces of those who had once been his friends. He turned a shoulder to the smooth, shallow faces, though he paused to trace the painted line of a finely pleated garment and gaze at a happy, smiling face that had once been his own. He lowered his eyes to the carved form of a little boy crouching beneath his chair, one arm tucked around the neck of a large, gray cat, the other holding his father about the ankle. The man's somber face lightened into a smile that had been comely in its day as his mind superimposed the living features of his grown son upon the child's skillfully carved face.
It was too late for him, he thought, touching the boy's painted cheek with gentle fingertips. But not for his son. This night's work was all that he could do to protect his son and turn him from a disastrous course. Maybe one day his son would be able to understand and forgive.
Soon it would be dawn; he should leave. But he lingered a moment to gaze upon the chests of garments, the beds hung and padded with finest linen, the boxes filled with his jewels and, there in the corner, the box holding the fabulous collection of purest silver, beautifully chased with scenes of animals and flowers, gracefully fluted and glinting in the glow of the torches as though they had been formed of moonlight. They had been a gift from the king of the Hittites to him, personally, as Vizier of the realm.
He opened the box and took out one of the cups, remembering the feasts - there had been so many once! - where he had drunk wine from the cup. Now Hatti was the mightiest power in the Levant, while he - But he paused, turning the cup in his hand, remembering. Perhaps one more drink. In celebration...
He tucked the cup into the breast of his tunic, selected a jar of the finest wine, and lifted it into the crook of his arm. Yes, one last toast would be proper. He went outside again to his chariot.