The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  Dutifully, Hatshepsut followed her nurse from the chamber. Outside the darkened room, surrounded by walls painted bright with scenes of the king’s victories, she shivered – with relief at being in the light again, in the fresh air away from her father's sickbed – and with sorrow, for the one she loved most in all the world was gone.

  The palace rang with the sound of mourning, a constant piercing din. Hatshepsut longed to cry out with the mourners, but here too many could see her face. She firmed herself; she donned a mask of calm, as she had so often seen her mother do. Now that her father was dead, Hatshepsut would eventually succeed her mother as Great Royal Wife. Sooner or later, when Thutmose came of age, Hatshepsut must marry him. That thought made her almost as sorrowful as her father’s death.

  She followed Sitre-In through the maze of the palace’s halls to the courtyard where their two-seated litter waited. Wordless, she climbed into her chair beside Sitre-In and waited in a show of perfect peace as the guards drew heavy linen curtains. As the litter was lifted feather-smooth onto the shoulders of its bearers, Hatshepsut realized that now only her nurse could see her face. Yet still she would not allow herself to grieve. A Great Royal Wife would not cry until she was truly alone, without any servant, however trusted, for witness. All the way back to the House of Women, Hatshepsut wore her mask and did not cry.

  Hatshepsut jerked her fingers back from the image of her father. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with a quick, smooth motion. No one was near enough to see her weeping, not even the guards she had left back on the door, but still she despised herself for this loss of control. She must have full rein of her emotions, she knew. A struggle lay ahead of her, as it had on that terrible day six years ago when the Pharaoh had left the world of the living.

  It had taken fourteen days for two priests of Annu to arrive. They came at Ahmose's summons to offer Hatshepsut their respect and support. She had received them gravely the night before from her small princess's throne in the great hall while Ahmose, seated on the king's gilded chair in the regent's rightful place, looked on with silent approval.

  They were very old men, wrinkled as disused water skins, weathered as frayed rope. Their bodies bent under their priestly mantles. They had been fit and fine and in the prime of their careers when Hatshepsut was declared the heir, but that was ten years past. Now they hobbled, weak and half-blind, grizzled and knobby old goats. Two more priests still lived, they told her, who had borne witness to the Pharaoh's proclamation that his daughter would be the heir. The others had sent along letters voicing their support, but they were too weak with age to make the long trek from Annu to Waset. No other witnesses to the Pharaoh’s proclamation remained in the world of the living.

  Once the old priests had been given their due welcome and seen off to their quarters, Hatshepsut and Ahmose departed for the regent’s own rich rooms. Ahmose had dismissed her servants tersely. When they were alone, she had said, “I hoped there would be more than two who would come in person, but if it pleases Amun to preserve only two witnesses to his son’s power, then so be it. Two shall be all we require. It is the gods' will.”

  “Two old men and you, Mother, against Mutnofret and all the men she commands? I fear it will not be enough to convince anyone.”

  “I have every faith in the gods, Hatet. And so should you.”

  Hatshepsut had not failed to notice the distance in her mother’s eyes, the shimmer of doubt. But she said nothing, only nodded in what she hoped was a confident way.

  “Now go back to the House of Women and make ready. You will feast your witnesses tomorrow night in the small audience hall; there is much to prepare. The following day we shall present you at Ipet-Isut – the Temple of Amun – for the god’s blessing. I have consulted with my magicians; it will be the most auspicious day of the month to seek Amun's approval.”

  She had done as her mother commanded her, enlisting the help of her women to plan all the details of a private feast meant to solidify her ties to Annu's revered priesthood, such as it was. The whole while a fierce and unfamiliar sensation had gnawed at her heart, weakening her joints and furrowing her brow. When the last of her servants had scurried away to see to the preparation of the feast, Hatshepsut had wandered into her garden and picked leaves off a flowering bush, folding and crushing them until her fingers were sticky with green, fragrant sap. She wondered at the darkness that plagued her, seeking in vain for a name to put to the quailing of her kas.

  At last she found it: doubt. The simplicity of the word had struck her in the act of reaching for another leaf, and she stood frozen with hand outstretched. She had never doubted herself before. As the word settled into her heart she closed her eyes against its presence, and saw in the solitude of memory the look on Senenmut's face when he pushed her gently away, refusing her kiss.

  It was Senenmut who made me doubt. If not for him I would be strong now, able to face Mutnofret without fear. She had ripped at the bush's leaves, tearing a dozen away in one angry pass, and the sudden overwhelming smell of sap assaulted her nostrils.

  In the quiet of the small audience chamber, Hatshepsut gazed from Thutmose's face to Amun's. Father, guide me. Clarify my heart. Set me feet upon the path of maat. Take away my doubt. She did not know whether she implored Thutmose or the god.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHEN THE TABLE WAS LAID to her liking, when the braziers burned bright and steady on their pedestals along the wall, when the musicians were well into their subdued melody (using her mother's steward – a frantic, bird-like man – as her mouthpiece, she had corrected the volume and tempo of the music several times), Hatshepsut at last turned to the door-guard and nodded. The man was broad-backed, imposing in his height, with an earth-dark complexion that proved him to be of Medjay descent. The guard bowed at once and spun on a sandaled foot; she noted how even the lines of his ankle and heel were thick and sturdy, bull-strong. The presence of this man seemed to her an uplifting sign. This small feast to welcome her supporters from Annu was her first act of state. In her frantic planning – Ahmose had insisted Hatshepsut handle the entire affair herself – she had not thought to request a specific guard, but had only sent for one as an afterthought. And here the gods had provided her with a fearsome great hulk of a man to stand at her door. He would set the tone, all right. Hatshepsut, who will be your king, commands the greatest strength of the land, even at her supper parties. The gods had done her a good turn. The next morning she would load her servants with baskets of meat and bread and honey, and offer it all in gratitude to Amun and Mut.

  The guard pushed open the double doors. They sighed on their hinges, and as they swung wide, the gilt of their carved scarabs caught the glow of her braziers and she blinked at the flash, her heart quailing for one uncertain beat. No, she told herself sternly. You will not fear. This is your night. These are your priests, come to affirm your birthright. It is all yours; the whole of the Two Lands. She breathed deep. The small audience hall was rich with the scent of myrrh, spicy and warm. The walls of the room glowed golden in the lamplight, slashed by a band of silver where the full moon shone through the bars of a windcatcher. The beam of the moon fell upon the painted image of Pharaoh Thutmose. She hoped this echo of her father's presence would fill her priests with surety. She must rely on them to bring the priests of Waset, her own city, to her side.

  The guard stood clear, rigidly at attention. Beyond, in the cool night-time dimness of the palace, Ahmose walked slowly between the bent and shuffling forms of the two old priests. The regent moved with a poise that seemed contrary to her small, delicate frame, her fingers clasped above a hip-belt of shining sun discs which held in place the white pleats of her gown so they flowed, precise and even, to the floor. Her mouth moved in unheard conversation. Her lips were still full and colorful, even in the face of her advancing age; her head inclined gracefully first this way, then that, as she spoke softly to each priest in turn. The old men smiled, bent their stiff necks, clearly taken with Ahmose's feminine charm.


  Hatshepsut wondered whether she had miscalculated. In her agony of worry, struggling to make every detail of tonight's feast exactly right, she had torn through her chests of gowns, discarding every garment in turn, declaring them all to be wrong, all wrong. She had left a trail of bright dresses across her room, trampling them as she paced, searching for the perfect garment, until Ita shrieked in frustration and Tem begged her to be gentle with her gowns or her poor servants would spend an entire season washing and mending. At last Hatshepsut had settled, in considerable despair, on the only clothing that ever made her feel like herself: the kilt of a boy. She had allowed her women to press fine pleats into the kilt and to choose for her a selection of jewels, including a womanly belt of faience scarabs as bright and blue as the afternoon sky, and a broad collar of golden flowers, the center of each one glimmering with a tiny carnelian or turquoise stone.

  The effect, she had thought, was perfect: an exact balance of female and male. Now, though, as Ahmose halted in the doorway and lowered her eyelids to take in the sight of her daughter, Hatshepsut's heart was buffeted by doubt. Perhaps after all it would have been better to come before the priests as the expected girl, robed and painted. She, too, could charm them and win their hearts; she felt certain she could, despite the Senenmut debacle. But in another moment Ahmose lifted her chin and smiled slightly, then cut her eyes toward the kilt and gave the merest wry twist to her mouth, amused, approving.

  “King's Daughter and Great Lady of the Two Lands,” Ahmose spoke formally, “Son of Thutmose, Son of Amun, Hatshepsut: I present the priests of Annu, Messuway and Nakht.”

  Hatshepsut would not have thought it possible that two such stooped old grandfathers could bow low, and yet they did, extending their palms to her in a show of supplication. Their hands were knobbed with age, brown and dry as cedar branches.

  Messuway spoke in a whispery voice. “It has been ten years since I last saw you, Great Lady, and when you came to Annu you were only a very small thing. But I remember how your father presented you to us at the Annu Temple. I recall how Amun made my heart tremble when I looked upon your face. For as long as I live I shall remember it. We are here to do the bidding of the king – yes, and of the god. You have the backing of Annu, such as it is – whatever the support of two old men far from their temple may be worth.”

  Hatshepsut took Messuway's hand with both her own. His was cool, trembling, the skin as thin and wrinkled as an over-read scroll, but she clutched it as if the old priest were as beloved to her as her own mother. “Your support is worth more than riches,” she said. “I know of the magic of Annu. It is a place that has long been sacred to the gods – far longer than has my own city. If the priests of Annu back my claim to the throne, then surely no other priesthood will fail to do the same. Come – we will all dine together, and you must tell me of your journey from Annu. I have not made such a long trip since the last time you saw me. I would hear of everything.”

  The musicians softly played through a selection of northern ballads, chosen to put the old men at their ease. Servants brought fish roasted in grape leaves, onions in tart black vinegar, the musky small boats of tender lettuce leaves filled with shreds of spiced ox-flesh. Their bread was especially fine, even for the palace kitchens, flecked with aromatic herbs, drizzled in olive oil so pure it must have come from the temple's own stores. Hatshepsut, as she smiled and hummed politely in accompaniment to the priests' stories, felt a warm glow of pride reflect from Ahmose as the sacred lake reflects the sun.

  “And tell me of the pyramids,” Hatshepsut said. “I recall seeing them from the rail of my father's ship, as we sailed north to Annu. But it was so many years ago; tell me how they look today.”

  Nakht chuckled. “They look as they have always looked, Great Lady, impossible and inspiring. They rise up from the land as a bird rises in flight, up into the highest reaches of the sky to touch the sun. No doubt you will see them again, when you claim your throne and make your progression...”

  A gruff sound interrupted him, a startled grunt, a wooden bump. She looked around to see the Medjay guard holding tight to the doors' rings. The muscles in his arms tensed as he held the doors closed; they tilted fractionally outward, giving to whoever was tugging at the outside before the guard pulled them securely shut again.

  “Here; what's this?”

  The door-guard glanced over his shoulder. His face conveyed and equal measure of apology and anger. “Your pardons, Great Lady, Lady Regent, my good priests. Someone is trying to enter.”

  Hatshepsut and Ahmose shared an uneasy look. There were more guards down the hall, of course. A brigand in the palace would have been killed already, and an alarm would certainly have been raised. No, only one person could breeze through the palace at will without inciting suspicion.

  Hatshepsut stood. “Let my aunt Mutnofret enter.”

  The door-guard managed a semblance of a bow and stepped back, a ready hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The doors jerked wide to reveal Mutnofret, smiling sweetly, radiant with victory. She was flanked by two strong servants, their hands still upon the door rings. Hatshepsut could feel Ahmose tense beside her, but the regent remained seated, poised and silent, waiting.

  “Mutnofret,” Hatshepsut said. She was keenly aware of the priests' eyes on her naked back – of her mother's eyes, too. She would not shrink before her aunt like a courtier, like some kicked dog. A princess, still immature, ought to greet the second wife with a graceful bow, palms out. But a king would not bow before his wife. Hatshepsut raised her chin. The air of the room all but crackled; a tingle of danger ran beneath her skin.

  “You are having a little feast with my niece,” Mutnofret said. “How nice. Isn't she a charming girl?” The second wife came into the audience chamber like a breeze through a sycamore, light, rustling, sweet-scented. She brushed past Hatshepsut without a glance and stood over Ahmose; the regent raised a golden cup to her lips as if to disguise her frown.

  Nakht and Messuway rose from their chairs, made their creaky bows. “And you are the second wife, of course,” Nakht said. Surely the priests sensed the tension among the women. “What a delight to meet you at last.”

  “At last,” said Mutnofret. “Sister, there has been some mistake. Should not the heir and his mother have been present to greet our guests? Annu is an important city, esteemed by the gods.” Her words flowed so smoothly that Hatshepsut could not tell whether Mutnofret was sincere, or whether she subtly mocked the priests of Annu. “Certainly these men wish to see the heir to the Horus Throne. Why else should they travel so far?”

  This plays before me like a spectacle at a feast, exactly as it played the night my father died. She was eight years old once more, small and helpless, staring down at her dirty toes.

  Hatshepsut turned to her mother, an involuntary response, and immediately cringed at the impulse. Ahmose set her cup upon the table, gazed across the hall at the painting of Amun and the Pharaoh as if the second wife were nothing – a bird crying in the garden, a pestering fly. “They have seen the heir. I am sure they are satisfied.”

  There was silence for one ragged heartbeat while Mutnofret digested Ahmose's cool words. Anger flitted across Mutnofret's face, tense the corners of her mouth, narrowed her dark-rimmed eyes. Then she drew in a breath through her nostrils, sharp and noisy, just as an overworked nurse might when dealing with an unruly child. She laughed lightly. “Oh, my sister. I can see you are still cherishing that old dream of yours. It is the fantasy of every woman in the harem to be called Mother of the King, I know, but you have no sons. It is simply not what the gods intend for you. Leave it be.”

  Hatshepsut had fretted over the smallest details of this supper. Now Messuway and Nakht stood gaping from one queen to the other, their discomfort evident. The serving woman who had carried in the sweet course whispered in the ear of the wine-bearer, eyes wide. Even the musicians had stopped playing. Mutnofret's jealousy had spoiled Hatshepsut's first act of statecraft. She clenched her te
eth, but the pressure of her own jaws seemed only to further inflame her anger. She advanced on Mutnofret. “The Great Royal Wife is no mere harem woman. You will not speak to her so crudely.”

  Mutnofret blinked. She seemed startled to find Hatshepsut in possession of a tongue.

  “There was no mistake tonight. You were not invited because you were not needed. These good priests have come to Waset to back my claim to the throne. You have imposed yourself, and I am not pleased.”

  “Who,” said Mutnofret, her voice pitched high, trembling on the verge of a shriek, “is this child who dares insult me?” Her face flushed. The tendons in her neck stood out sharp and hard above the colorful bars of a jeweled collar.

  Hatshepsut stepped closer, so close she could feel the warmth of the second wife's body. Mutnofret gave ground reluctantly, sliding her feet back just enough to maintain some distance between them. Her sandals hissed across the tiles. “This is the child of the king. The son of the king. The eldest, the heir. This child will soon be your king, and you would be wise not to cross her.”

  Mutnofret spun, shoulders square, with an air that indicated any reply was far beneath her dignity. She drifted toward the doors where her guards waited under the glower of the Medjay soldier. For a moment Hatshepsut thought she would leave, and allowed herself to sink back on her heels with relief. Then Mutnofret whirled to face the room once more. She took them all in with her burning eyes – the priests, the regent, even the musicians huddled in their dim corner, clutching their harps and horns – but she stared most fiercely at Hatshepsut. “Before you may take your throne, son of the king, you must receive Amun's blessing. Do you imagine the god or his priests will suffer that mockery, to see a girl brought before them in the place of a man? I can think of no greater affront to maat than to try Amun so boldly. Be wary, son of the king. Ask the Lady Regent what happens when we set our own hearts above maat.”