A dozen young women marched ahead of Kiya—the King’s concubines. They carried baskets full of oleander flowers, which they had been instructed by Imhoter to toss upon the royal carpet as they went. Silently they began their march. Behind the concubines followed the two queens, Meritites and Henutsen, their expressions as vacant as the royal granaries.
Kiya took her first step behind them, hearing the single beat of a drum. She took another step, and another, trying to keep her pace even as she made her way down the never-ending carpet. She had been told to keep her head up, but she could not bring herself to do it. She stared at the ground, picking her way among the blossoms.
Mother, what have I become?
As the entourage approached the throne the flower-bearers veered from their path and found their positions, flanking the carpet. The priests of Memphis stepped forward, and the Queens installed themselves in two of three thrones that had been positioned below the King’s. After their marriage Kiya would be expected to take her place in the third throne, but for now she was expected to remain standing, to address the King and make her obeisance.
Now, just steps from the throne, she gathered the courage to lift her head. The King gazed at her from atop his high perch and Kiya felt a pang of fear traverse her heart. Never cross a king, Imhoter had told her.
Kiya noticed the three frightened servant girls, still standing just beyond the throne at the gift table, watching her with wary eyes. The royal scribe stood near them, his writing kit in hand, ready to finalise the marriage contract.
Kiya yearned for another glass of wine. Or something stronger. Milk of poppy, perhaps. Or the pinch of a serpent’s fangs upon her neck. Anything to free her from the dread that had suddenly flooded into her soul and threatened to drown her.
That was when she saw them. Just beyond the girls. She would have recognised them anywhere. Their blue flames burned into her, melting her heart.
Those eyes.
Those impossibly blue eyes.
They peered out from beneath his heavy brow like secret wells.
It could not be.
Kiya fought to keep her balance.
It was. An overgrown beard concealed the contours of his face, but still she recognised it. It was the face she loved. The face she wanted to run and kiss. The face she wanted to stare at for a thousand years.
Tahar.
The King’s coppery voice sliced through her heart.
‘Welcome, Blessed Hathor, to the House of Horus,’ he said.
She bent to the ground and kissed it three times, as she had been instructed. Her whole body was trembling.
‘You may rise.’
‘Thank you, my Beloved King,’ Kiya said, standing.
There was something else she was obliged to say, but she could not think of it now. She could only glance repeatedly at the ragged man who stood just paces beyond the base of the King’s throne. He was stooped, but strong. Battered, but alive. His long hair just concealing the crescent-shaped scar that marked him for death.
‘Why do you study the Libu captive, Goddess?’ asked the King, turning in irritation. ‘Do you know him?’
Her eyes had betrayed her. She diverted her gaze to the floor and prayed that Neferdula had applied the alabaster powder thickly enough to conceal the crimson she was certain rose in her cheeks.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she responded, but her words were scarcely audible.
I do know this man. He is the man I love.
The King’s nostrils flared. ‘How do you know this Libu murderer?’
The crowd whirred.
‘Libu scum!’ someone yelled.
‘Kill him!’ another shrieked.
With a brush of his hand Khufu silenced his guests. Then he motioned to the soldiers, who dragged their prisoner before him.
He was now standing so near to Kiya that she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch him. It appeared that his legs had been bound together by rope, so that he could only take the smallest of steps. His hair was matted, and the filthy shreds of a headdress were all he wore about his sinuous body. He was caked with dirt and smelled of sour sweat. He was a giant made small—a god reduced to rags.
‘Slave, tell us who your people are,’ Khufu commanded.
‘I have no people,’ said Tahar.
‘You bear the Libu scar. You are Libu!’ shouted the King.
‘Not any more,’ Tahar mumbled, shaking his head.
Kiya studied the destruction that had been wrought upon his body. Red gashes criss-crossed his chest and bruises speckled his limbs, as if someone had made a sport of causing him pain. Her heart heaved. She wished to tend to his wounds and cut his bonds and wash the filth from his skin.
‘Do you deny that you were part of the raid on my grain tent?’ Khufu asked him.
‘I do not deny it.’
‘How do you know the Goddess Hathor?’
‘She was my captive.’
‘Your captive?’
The King stroked his long ceremonial beard and Kiya read his thoughts. Right here, right now, Khufu could increase his popularity even more. Before this crowd of highborn witnesses he could condemn the Libu villain and the people would love him for it.
‘Is this true, Goddess?’ asked the King.
‘I was his captive for a time, but then he set me free.’
The King’s mouth twisted into a scowl. ‘If he captured you then he sinned against Osiris—my heavenly father!’
Kiya wondered how much the God of Death and Rebirth really worried about Tahar. It seemed the King was invoking the Great God’s name much as he invoked the Goddess Hathor—for his own purposes and gains.
Now the King lifted his eyes to the crowd. ‘This lowly Libu worm captured the future Queen of Khemet!’
The guests hissed with rage.
‘This dirty Redlander participated in the raid on the grain tent and surely also on Zoser’s tomb!’
More angry howls.
The King’s voice crescendoed. ‘This strange outsider has sinned against the Gods. For the good of Khemet...’ the King paused, savouring the moment ‘...he must be sacrificed.’