City of the Dead

people, though she kept two women near, one of whom kept darting impertinent glances at him from a plain face whose bright black eyes reminded him of a rodent’s. Ay, wishing that he had at least one supporter with him, toyed with the beaker of Kharga wine he had been offered and been obliged to accept, wondering if he could get away without drinking it. He looked into the queen’s unfriendly eyes and wondered if she had guessed the truth about what had happened to Zannanzash. He decided that even if she suspected a killing, it was more likely that she would blame Horemheb than him.
    ‘I do not see why you wish to take a new wife,’ said Ankhsenpaamun, once he had made his proposal.
    ‘The answer to that is simple,’ replied Ay. ‘Your safety. By marrying me, you would be sure of my protection.’
    ‘And after your death, grandfather? We are separated by fifty years.’
    Despite the coldness of his desire, for Ay had hardly considered this marriage as one which would involve the two of them sharing the love bond, her words caught at his heart. How merciless youth is, how arrogant is its energy, he thought. And yet looking at his granddaughter he remembered Nefertiti, and her mother, who had died so very young, an age ago, when he had himself been young, or at least clinging to the shreds of youth, at thirty-five, i will not die so soon.’
    ‘And what about my child?’ it will be safe.’
    ‘And the succession?’
    Now she had touched a nerve. Ay had no son. It was true that he had seen his other daughter marry his rival, so that Perhaps one way or another his blood would flow in future generations on the Golden Chair; but Nezemmut’s child had died as it entered this world. That was a bad omen, and although the girl was young, and broad-hipped, the old man still clung to a hope of siring his own successors. His Chief Wife, Tey, was too old for more children; but could he manage to bring his granddaughter to bed? His principal intention in marrying her was to strengthen his own bond with the Golden Chair, but...
    Ay gnawed at the idea, then put it back. First things first. Let him marry this girl and sit on the throne. A strategy to secure it for his direct descendants could be developed later; and anyway Horemheb would be a danger while he was alive. Fleetingly, he thought of Huy. How much depended now on that little spy’s evidence.
    ‘The succession lies in your birth-cave,’ he said. He had barely hesitated a second before replying.
    The queen pursed her lips. ‘That would be a condition of our marriage.’
    ‘I loved the king like a son.’
    ‘That I have never doubted,’ she replied, with equal formality, though her voice was taut.
    ‘Then you will accept me?’
    ‘I need time to consider it.’
    ‘There isn’t time. Tutankhamun’s successor must be named.’
    ‘Why can there not be a regency again until my child is old enough to rule?’
    There is not time, thought Ay. He wanted to seize her by the shoulders, shake her, chase all that youthful insouciance out of her. How dare she be so unruffled by the passing of time? He felt the touch of Osiris on his shoulder every hour now. Well, one day this cocky little girl would do so too.
    ‘It would be unwise. The country needs to feel unified behind a pharaoh again. One strong enough to face the threat from the north.’
    ‘I see. And you are that man?’
    ‘It would be best, if our family is to keep the crown.’
    ‘And what about my aunt?’
    ‘Nezemmut is — ’
    ‘What? An understudy? A second string to your bow?’
    ‘The king your husband willed that she should marry Horemheb, not I.’
    Ankhsenpaamun turned away. She felt disgusted and trapped. Mistaking her movement for modesty, coyness, girlish indecision, Ay stretched out what he hoped was a fatherly hand. She felt it on her bare shoulder, dry, warm and leathery, like a snake sliding there. She shrank from it. Understanding immediately, humiliated and furious, but as much for the damage done to his scheme as for himself, Ay withdrew.
    ‘Consider my offer,’ he said stiffly, after a pause, lowering his voice so the two women attendants (who stood stiff as statues three or four paces away, but whose eyes, he knew, had missed nothing) could not hear. ‘Accept it is your best hope of safety, and the best security for the Black Land.’
    The queen trembled, though whether with rage or fear Ay could not tell. ‘I cannot,’ she said finally, and her voice, though firm, was