The Heretic Queen

by Michelle Moran

  “Yes, Ahmoses of Chaldea,” I said, and Ramesses heard the hesitation in my voice when I added, “He came to the Audience Chamber with a petition for me.”

  Ramesses frowned. “Specifically for you? And what did he want?”

  “For me to release the Habiru from your army.”

  He sat up in the bed. “All of the Habiru?” he exclaimed. “And what did you tell him?”

  “That his petition must go to you, of course!”

  “The Habiru cannot be released! Every year there is talk of a Hittite invasion from the north, and someday it will happen. Why did he think you would grant such a thing?”

  “Because it was my grandfather who brought his people to Egypt. And under the Heretic King,” I explained, “the Habiru were used as slaves.”

  “The entire army was used as slaves.”

  “But it was the Habiru that the Heretic King promised to set free. He lied.”

  “So this Ahmoses of Chaldea came hoping that you would honor the promise of your akhu?”

  I looked across my chamber to the burned tile I had placed next to the painting from Meryra’s tomb. Though the edges were blackened, the center was still a vivid blue. I thought of the fires that had destroyed my family and marveled at how destiny had brought back the man who had first kindled them. Why was I telling Ramesses his story? Why did I care what Ahmoses wanted when he had risked my reputation by approaching me? But I looked across the bed into Ramesses’s eyes and replied, “Yes, that was his hope.”

  Ramesses laughed. “And where does he think so many people would go?”

  “North. To make the land of Canaan their own.”

  “Canaan is Egyptian land!” His curiosity turned to anger. “Who is this man?”

  I twisted the bed linens in my hands. “The same man who taught the Heretic King that there is only one god. The leader of the Habiru.”

  Ramesses sat up on the pillows, shocked. “His teacher?”

  “And he didn’t come simply because he thought I would honor the vows of my akhu,” I admitted slowly. “He came with the idea that there was profit in it for me as well. That if I released the Habiru from the army, I could tell the people I was expelling the heretics from Thebes and win their approval.”

  “So he is clever.”

  “I would never have said yes. Not at the expense of Egypt.”

  Ramesses took my hand, pulling me toward him. “Enough of this Habiru from Chaldea. Let Paser deal with him.”

  “So there isn’t anything we can do?”

  “For the Habiru?” Ramesses was genuinely surprised. “Not when they’re a sixth of my father’s army. Why? Do you think we should risk—”

  “No,” I said quickly. “When he comes, you will have to refuse him as well.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FOR WHOM DO YOU WAIT?

  Thebes, 1281 BC

  WHEN THE NEW year arrived, so did Seti’s court from Avaris, and although it was supposed to be the solemn Feast of Wag, Iset had planned a merry celebration to welcome him back. All of Thebes came to see the royal flotilla of ships sail into Malkata’s lake. The masts were festooned with blue and gold pennants, and trumpets blared as Seti and Tuya stepped onto the quay. The courtyard in front of the palace was filled with drinking courtiers, and the doors were decorated with swaths of gold cloth and rich blue linen.

  “The princess must think she’s planning a marriage, not the Feast of Wag,” Merit snapped from where we stood on the quayside. “What if there’s another war?” she demanded. “Where will the deben come from to pay the army if it’s all been spent on acrobats, wine, and musicians?” She turned to me. “What does Pharaoh say about this?”

  I looked at Ramesses, who was greeting his father at the end of the quay. They both wore the blue and gold nemes crown, but no two men could have been more different. One was young and bronzed from his time in the south, the other was old, and thin, and weary. But neither of them seemed to mind that the somber Feast of Wag had been turned into a festival. “Ramesses indulges her,” I replied. “He wants to make her happy.”

  “Little Nefertari!” Pharaoh Seti called out. He crossed the quay, and courtiers parted to make a path for him. The queen pointedly remained with Iset. But when Adjo caught sight of me, his lips curled back in a threatening growl. “Oh, be quiet,” Pharaoh Seti demanded, and when he reached me, he took me proudly in his arms. “Even with a child you’re as slight as a reed! So tell me, when does the little prince come?”

  “Only two months left.”

  He glanced behind him to where Iset and Henuttawy were watching us. “And the other one?” he whispered.

  “Not too long after.”

  “So this must be a son.”

  “Yes. I’ve been praying to Bes every night, and Nurse Merit has prepared a special offering for my akhu.”

  “And the people?”

  “I am trying.”

  “Because there is always danger in the north. If Ramesses ever takes the army to face Emperor Muwatallis, he cannot leave a foolish queen behind to sit on his throne. He needs a partner in the Audience Chamber whom he can trust. And that the people will accept . . .”

  “Then Paser will have to watch the Audience Chamber. If Ramesses goes to war, I want to go with him. I want to be a partner to him wherever he is, even if that’s in battle.”

  Pharaoh Seti stared at me, then a smile started at the edges of his lips. “Tonight, when you visit your akhu,” he said quietly, “thank them for bringing you to my son.”

  That evening, I entered Horemheb’s mortuary temple in Djamet and knelt in front of my mother’s image. I lit a cone of kyphi that Merit had procured in the markets at great expense, and as the smoke made a shroud across my mother’s face, I traced the scar that Henuttawy had cut across her cheek.

  “Mawat,” I said heavily, and already felt the burning in my eyes. “You don’t know how sick I’ve been this past month. Merit gives me mint but it never helps. She says it’s a sign that I’m carrying a son, but what if it’s not? What if I never stop feeling ill?” My hand lingered on her cheek, and I wondered what her real skin had felt like. Had it been soft, the way I imagined it to be? “If you were here, you would know what to do,” I whispered. Her image flickered in the lamplight. I heard a rustle of sandals and tensed.

  “You miss her,” a voice said softly.

  I nodded, and Woserit stood at my shoulder.

  “When the gods return, she will be resurrected and you will walk hand in hand with her in Egypt.”

  I glanced at Woserit and reminded myself of the further truth she was withholding. Without the status of Chief Wife, my mother would never return to Egypt. As Chief Wife, my lineage would be written on every temple from Memphis to Thebes, and the gods would remember my akhu until eternity. But without that title my ancestors would remain erased from history. It wasn’t just for me that I had to become queen. It was for my mother. And her mother. And now my child. I looked down at my belly. “But what if it’s not a son?”

  “I have placed an offering to Hathor every evening in your name.”

  And if Iset has a prince as well? Without the crown, my child would become a second prince, sent away to Memphis to become a priest the way Akhenaten had been spurned as a child. I stood and, looking up at my mother’s damaged face, felt a deep inner rage. “Egypt knows she never worshipped Aten. It was Akhenaten who was the Heretic King. It was Akhenaten who wanted to erase Egypt’s gods, not my mother. So why couldn’t they just destroy him?”

  “Because people are easy to convince.” Woserit sighed. “And Horemheb convinced them that all of your family was corrupted.”

  “But he married my mother!”

  “Because he knew that she never worshipped Aten. No amount of royal blood would have convinced him to marry her if he’d thought otherwise. And although she may not have wanted that marriage, it saved her from the same fate as your aunt. The fate of being completely erased from Egypt, your name chipped from all the
monuments of Thebes as if you had never lived. At least you can come to see her here.”

  “In one painting?” I asked. “One?” I watched the cone of incense burn itself into ashes. “I miss her.” My eyes blurred with tears, and the embers became a smear of red in my vision.

  “I know,” she said softly. “We all wait for someone to return.”

  I heard the gravity in Woserit’s voice and looked up. Her eyes seemed nearly transparent in the lamplight, and her long blue robe hung almost black. “Who are you waiting for?”

  “I lost a mother, too. And a father, who was very kind to me. I was blessed that they both saw me grow. They both knew that I was to become the High Priestess of Hathor.”

  I blinked away my tears and felt my resolution harden. “I will make my mother proud. I will follow Ramesses into every battle. No one will ever say I’m like the Heretic Queen, only interested in my palace and my gold. And I will become Chief Wife, Woserit. Whether this is a daughter or a son, I will become Chief Wife.”

  A MONTH after the Feast of Wag, Pharaoh Seti returned with Queen Tuya to Avaris. Although there was a lavish farewell in the Great Hall, I was too sick to attend. My stomach felt too large for my body, and even walking from my bed to the robing room felt dangerous.

  On the eleventh of Choiak I awoke from my sleep in a sweat. Although it was only morning, my hair was wet and clung to my neck. As soon as Ramesses saw my face, he sprang from the bed in search of Merit.

  Merit rushed into the room and tore back the covers. The bed beneath me was wet. “It’s happening, my lady! You’re having the child!”

  I looked at Ramesses. Merit hurried into the hall and the entire palace was awakened by her loud instructions. Messengers were sent north to Avaris to tell Pharaoh Seti that his grandchild was coming, and half a dozen servants rushed to take me to the birthing pavilion.

  “Is there anything you need?” Ramesses pressed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well,” I told him from my litter, but I was lying. The fear in my mouth tasted like an iron blade. By tomorrow, I could be dead in childbirth like my mother. I might never live to hear my baby cry or see the expression on Ramesses’s face when he held our first child. And I was afraid of what might follow if I lived, and it wasn’t a son.

  The bearers rushed me through the halls, and Merit held open the door of the birthing pavilion. I glimpsed its blue tiled floor before a dozen hands eased me onto the bed. The dwarf god Bes grimaced down at me from the wall, and from the wooden post hung silver amulets that would help to bring an easy birth. A statue of Hathor stared benevolently from the ledge of a window, but when the midwives brought in the birthing chair, I felt a rising terror. I stared at the high leather back, then at the hole in the middle of the seat where the child would drop into the arms of a waiting nurse. The carved wooden sides had been painted with scenes of every protective goddess, but I had never thought to ask whether I would be using the same chair that had failed to protect my mother. I looked across the room and saw that Ramesses was gone.

  “Where’s Ramesses?” I asked fearfully. “Where did he go?”

  “Shh.” Merit wiped the hair from my face. “He is waiting outside—he’s not allowed into the pavilion until you’ve given birth. These women will watch over you, my lady.”

  I looked up at the midwives. Their breasts were hennaed and their hands had been washed in sacred oil. But how much did they really know about birthing? My mother had attended dozens of births too, yet she had died giving life to me.

  “Calm yourself,” Merit said soothingly. “The baby will come easier if you’re calm.”

  My pains lasted throughout the day, and in the afternoon armed guards allowed Woserit into the birthing pavilion. Immediately, she ordered the reed mats to be lowered and more fan bearers to be brought. “This is a princess of Egypt!” she barked. “Someone bring a wet linen for her forehead and find her some shedeh.”

  The midwife’s apprentice scurried out, and when the door opened, I glimpsed Ramesses’s face in the hall. He looked sick with worry. I felt a tightness in my belly and cried out. I saw him rush to the door before Merit blocked his entry.

  “Your Highness, this is a birthing pavilion!” she exclaimed.

  Ramesses pushed past her, and the midwives gasped at this breach of tradition. But Woserit nodded solemnly, and Ramesses pulled up a stool to sit at my side. He took my hand and didn’t flinch at my complexion.

  “Nefer, you’re going to do well today. The gods are watching over us.”

  I felt a strain in my back and my breath came in gasps. “It hurts,” I told him.

  He squeezed my hand. “What have they given you?”

  “Kheper-wer, water of carob, and honey.”

  “To speed the delivery,” Woserit explained.

  “But what for the pain?”

  I smiled grimly. “They’ve put saffron and beer on my stomach.”

  The paste glistened in the low light of the room. All I was wearing was a simple kilt, without paint or even a necklace, but Ramesses didn’t look away. Instead, he held my hand tighter.

  “If the pain is too much, just look at me.” He made me promise. “Squeeze my arm.”

  A sharp pain wracked my body and I arched my back. The midwives rushed to the bed and one of them cried, “It’s coming!” They eased me onto the birthing chair, and my terror grew so strong I could barely contain it. The child would drop through the hole into Merit’s waiting arms. If it was a son, the priestesses would do for me what they had done for Iset. They would ring their bells three times throughout Thebes to tell the people that I had given Ramesses an heir. If it was a girl, they would only ring the bells twice.

  A bowl of steaming water was placed under the chair to ease the delivery, and while Merit crouched, Woserit and Ramesses stood at my side. I held Ramesses’s hand, and it was in this moment that I loved his rashness most. It didn’t matter that a Pharaoh had never before witnessed a royal birth. If something should happen to me, he wanted his face to be the last one I saw, and he knew that this is what I would want as well. We looked into each other’s eyes as the midwives chanted, “Push, my lady! Push!”

  I strained against the chair and felt the hard wood press into my back. Then my body shuddered and one of the women cried, “It’s coming!” Merit opened her arms and I felt my body relieve itself of its burden. In a rush of blood the child appeared. Merit held it in the air to inspect its hands and feet, and I heard Ramesses cry, “A son! A prince of Egypt!”

  But I was in too much pain to celebrate my triumph. I gripped the arms of the chair and felt a tremendous pressure between my legs. Then Woserit pointed beneath me and cried sharply. She took my son from Merit’s arms, and my nurse held out her hands as another head appeared, then a body. There was an intake of breath in the birthing chamber, then the sharp piercing cry of another living child.

  “Twin sons!” Merit cried, and the entire chamber rejoiced. I am sure that the courtiers who pressed outside the doors could hear the cries of the midwives as they thanked Hathor and Bes for twin princes. “Sons!” they repeated. “Two sons!”

  The message was passed through the windows of the pavilion, and I heard a woman shout, “The princess Nefertari is beloved by the gods.”

  I looked at my sons in the arms of their nurses. Even with blood still covering their heads they were incredibly beautiful. My knees felt weak, and there was a pulsing ache between my thighs, but I was alive. I had survived the birth of not one, but two sons, and now I was a mother. I wanted to hold my princes in my arms, and stroke their heads, and learn the color of their eyes and the soft contours of their bodies. I wanted to press them to my chest and never let them go where harm might come to them. These children carried the blood of all of my akhu and Ramesses’s akhu with them.

  I was helped through the back door to the baths. While Merit washed and perfumed me with jasmine, she hummed an elated hymn to Hathor. Then she guided me to a long stone bench where she packed my womb
with linen. I shut my eyes tightly against the pain, and Merit said softly, “These next few days are vital, my lady. You will need to be kept completely dry and rested.” Many women survived childbirth only to succumb to disease a few days later. And my sons would have to be kept tightly wrapped, so that not even their little arms could move, in case they should accidentally reach out and beckon the shadow of Anubis.

  I sat while Merit brushed my hair, and a servant brought me tea. Then I returned to the birthing pavilion. I could hear the priestesses in the courtyard ringing their bells six times each, and I imagined the people’s confusion. Thrice for a son, twice for a daughter. When they learned what six meant . . .

  Ramesses sat on a leather stool at my side and held my hand again. “How do you feel?”

  I smiled, and for the first time I looked with a mother’s eyes at the images of children painted across the wide walls of the pavilion. It was a large chamber, with long windows that faced the rising sun and soft linen curtains that blew gently with every breeze. It had been built to make a new mother feel at ease, for in every scene a woman sat smiling while her children were at play, at work, or asleep. I took Ramesses’s hand and squeezed it tenderly. “I am feeling well.”

  His eyes filled with tears, and he moved from the stool to my bed. “I was frightened for you, Nefer. When I saw all the blood, I was scared of what I had done to you.”

  “Ramesses,” I said softly, “you gave me a son. Two sons.” I looked at my children suckling at their milk nurses’ breasts. They had been bathed in lavender water and their small heads had been rubbed with oil. Without the oil, I was sure that their hair would be as red-gold as their father’s, and I felt the overwhelming need to hold them and look into their eyes.

  “And just as Ahmoses predicted,” Ramesses whispered.

  I looked up in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

  “He came this morning to the Audience Chamber. After Paser told him that the Habiru would remain with the army, he wished you well in the birth of our two sons.”