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believe but wishes, in spite of himself, that Ishtar might hold the power he seeks , Tiye thought, watching him hand the crook, flail, and scimitar to the Keeper of the Royal Regalia and run gentle fingers over the goddess. I wish it, too . Her own fingers tightened on his arm, a gesture of possession and fear. I do not want it to end , she thought in despair. Today he strives to regain his youth like a blind man rubbing ashes on his eyes. This is no diplomatic marriage. It is the last throw of dice against death. Ah, Amunhotep! All the fresh promise of our youth has come to this. An old god trembling under the glare of a pitiless eternity and an aging goddess shorn at last of every illusion .
    “Ptahhotep!” Pharoah croaked, and the high priest came forward swiftly to take Ishtar. “Set the goddess in the shrine in my bedchamber and see that she is offered food, wine, and incense. Let us now make our thanks to Amun for my wife’s safe arrival.”
    A portable altar had been set up before the terrace, and beside it a huge stone bowl in which flames writhed, almost invisible in the noon sun. Amunhotep, with Tiye still at his side and Tadukhipa on his left, processed slowly behind the priests while the whole court fell in behind the Followers of His Majesty bringing up the rear. A bull, already trussed, lay on the altar, moaning through the restraining muzzle, its black eyes rolling. Cymbals clashed, and the systra began to rattle. For a moment Amunhotep had to stand and endure the chant rising from the gathered priests, and Tiye, feeling his distress through her fingers, prayed that he would not collapse.
    Ptahhotep lifted the knife. A drum began to roll. As a cry issued from a thousand mouths, the knife arced down, and blood spurted, steaming, into the pitcher set below the beast’s throat. Even before it had ceased to twitch, acolytes slit its belly, and the intestines rippled out to fall into the trough prepared for them. The crowd began to applaud and shriek. Other priests expertly cut the sacrifice into the correct portions, and Amunhotep, gathering himself for this last effort, grasped each one and flung it into the fire. Dancers began to sway.
    “Let Ptahhotep burn the antelopes and geese,” Tiye whispered to Amunhotep under cover of the uproar. “It is permitted. Let Kheruef take the girl to the harem. You must rest.”
    He nodded. Taking Tadukhipa’s hand, he smiled at her, careful not to open his mouth and betray his rotted teeth in the unmerciful brightness of full daylight. “The Keeper of the Harem Door will delight in pleasing you,” he said, “and your aunt Gilupkhipa has been waiting for a long time to speak with you. Go.”
    He did not wait to see her leave. Leaning on Tiye, he went slowly along the terrace and into the blessed obscurity of the audience hall. Behind him was a concerted rush and screams of delight as the courtiers fought to reach the bull’s blood being proffered to them. With red fingers they anointed foreheads, breasts, and feet, for a thanksgiving sacrifice brought much good luck.
    That night a formal welcoming feast was held for Tadukhipa. She sat beside Pharaoh on the dais of the banqueting hall, a stiff, heavily painted doll that only spoke when it was addressed, enduring timidly the frankly assessing stares of the hundreds of courtiers and guests who filled the vast room. On Amunhotep’s right, regal in horned crown with the double plumes, Tiye watched the servants carefully to see that Tadukhipa was not neglected, but her concern was more for her husband, who slumped in his chair, eyes often closed, breathing heavily and rousing himself with effort to pass polite remarks to his new wife. Beside Tiye, Sitamun’s fingers flashed over the little gilded table piled with flowers. She was eating and drinking with a steady concentration, pausing only to lean across her mother and offer some dainty morsel to Amunhotep. A fitful breeze gusted between the pillars from the dark