The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  THE SECOND DAY OF THE second month dawned in a blue glory, filling the land with light, the sun's bright rays sparkling across a valley of water. The Black Land slept beneath the flood, gathering the Iteru's rich darkness into itself, making ready to bring forth, when the river withdrew again, barley and wheat, herb and fruit, green leaf and the flesh of game – all the wealth of Egypt, her power everlasting. The avenue that led from Ipet-Isut, from Amun's Temple at the very heart of the city of temples, was thronged with people, nobles in their soft, bright linen rubbing elbows with coarse rekhet in winter-wool frocks. They raised great feather fans and waved bundles of sweet grasses, their arms laden with dried flowers and herbs. The morning was full of song.

  Hatshepsut, seated easily beside Thutmose on a broad litter, beamed at her people as a contingent of priest-guards carried them down the avenue lined with seshep, statues of kings-as-lions, their crowned heads rising stern and ancient above outstretched feline paws. Even Thutmose managed a pleasant demeanor today, raising his hand in acceptance of the crowd's cheers. This was the beginning of the Beautiful Feast of Opet, the festival to mark the annual rebirth of Waset's gods and confer on the Pharaoh long life, the power of Amun, and a continuation of his reign.

  More than a year had passed since Thutmose had been crowned, since Hatshepsut had sent Senenmut away. During the course of that year she had immersed herself in the duties of God's Wife of Amun, glad for the comfort of ritual, the distraction of devotion. Though her voice was only serviceable at best, still she loved to lead the priestesses in song, loved to lift her iron sesheshet high and raise its clanging, rattling din, the sound so pleasing to the god, while the priests made their offerings. She loved, too, the moments when she would enter Amun's black sanctuary alone. By feel she would find the god seated on his throne in absolute darkness, and caress his cold, mysterious, male form, blind in the deep silence, whispering praises to him, knowing that he heard her and was pleased.

  Because she was God's Wife, it was she who had led the priests this morning, well before the sun had risen, in washing and dressing Amun. They had draped about his shoulders garlands of flowers and braids of gold. They had tied about his wrists and ankles strings of precious stones and bells of electrum. And when he had been anointed until he was slippery and sweet with the oil of olives and myrrh, they had carried him through the darkness to his waiting barque, and under her direction the priests had set him gently inside. They drew blue veils about him – blue for the color of his skin. At last Thutmose had arrived, trailed by the attendants who bore the king's little ka-statue. Her husband had propped his statue before the god – before Hatshepsut, for she stood beside Amun within his veiled alcove, one hand on the god's golden shoulder. Thutmose begged for blessing, for long life and wisdom. She had liked that – ah, she had! – the sight of this boy who called himself a man, who called himself a king, kneeling before her.

  Little, though, had she liked the sharpness in Nebseny's eyes. Months before, the old High Priest had gone to join the gods at last, and the priesthood had raised Nebseny to take his place, with the blessing of the Pharaoh – and of the Pharaoh's mother, no doubt. Imperious as ever, missing nothing, Nebseny had squinted at the tableau – Thutmose in supplication, pushing forward his ka-statue, Hatshepsut standing proud and satisfied behind the blue veil at the side of the god himself. Nebseny disliked what he saw; she was certain of that. He never had cared for her, not since that day on the temple steps.

  Outside Amun's temple they had mounted their litter and watched as the god's barque, borne on the backs of priests draped in leopard skins, preceded them. Before they left Ipet-Isut to pass before the crowd, two other barques joined them – Mut, mother of the gods, shrouded in red, her bright white vulture wings barely visible through the mist of her veils; and Khonsu, the moon-god, the son, whose white draperies showed his silhouette plainly in the morning light.

  Along the avenue the celebrants shouted their questions to the gods, and as bow or stern of their barques dipped the questions were answered, yes or no. Will my crops be plentiful this year? Will my trade with Hatti be good? Mut, will you give me sons? Khonsu, will the girl I love consent to marry me?

  Hatshepsut eyed Mut's barque, watched the gilded form of the goddess inside her house of veils, and whispered, “Holy Mother, will my blood ever come?” But at the moment she asked her question, neither bow nor stern dipped, and Hatshepsut was left unknowing.

  Troops of soldiers joined them, their breastplates and shields decorated with falcons' feathers of smoke-blue and pale clay. At the first small chapel the sacrificial cattle were driven onto the avenue. The cattle's horns had been dyed blue, and their thick dark necks bore wreaths of woven papyrus leaves. Musicians thronged behind the royal litter. The reedy voices of pipes rose and broke through the shouts of the crowd.

  Thutmose turned to smile at her, and Hatshepsut smiled lightly back, even though Mut had left her question unanswered. It was rare that her husband acknowledged her. She did not mind his absence from her life, but it was pleasant to receive his good graces today.

  “It will be a good festival,” he said.

  “Ah, the river is high. The fields will be as fertile as ever.”

  “My own field grows more fertile.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I received a letter from the king of Hatti. He sends a daughter for my harem. She should arrive a few days from now. And the noble house of Ankhhor, governor of the sepat of Ka-Khem, sends a daughter as well. She is said to be very beautiful, and sweet-tempered, which is more than I can say for you.”

  He said it not unfondly, and Hatshepsut tossed her head in good-natured protest. The long ribbons adorning her God's Wife crown fluttered about her. She would not argue with him today. The Feast of Opet was a time of joy.

  “Ankhhor. Is he not the brother of our new High Priest of Amun?”

  “Nebseny? I don't know. It's not for the king to concern himself with the lineage of every citizen; leave that to the scribes. Why should I care about Ankhhor's brother? It's his daughter concerns me.”

  Hatshepsut shrugged. “I wish you well of them both – Ankhhor's daughter and the Hittite princess. May they give you hundreds and hundreds of sons.” From all Hatshepsut had heard from the harem women, the great king Thutmose did nothing more than eat and boast when he visited his concubines. She suspected he was still uncertain of those particular kingly duties. He was, after all, still shy of twelve years old. A man's desires would be upon him in a year or two, and woe to the harem when that day dawned. “Will you give the women a feast when their new sisters arrive? They'll be expecting it.”

  “I must leave that to you. The campaign in Ta-Seti is finally concluded; the Kushites have ceased raiding my southern border and have scattered back into their rocky ditches like dogs with their tails between their legs. I leave tomorrow. I will make a display of the men we captured.”

  “Thutmose the Second is a great warrior,” she said wryly.

  He spoke of the southern army's victory as if he had actually effected some influence in the matter. It was not uncommon for one or another of Egypt's enemies to make war when a new king took the throne. Indeed, it was all but tradition for the strength of the Two Lands to be tested whenever the reign of a new Pharaoh dawned. This time Kush had descended in a flurry of small, fast raiding parties, attacking outposts and farming villages, herders and traveling merchants. Like demons they came seemingly from nowhere, raping and killing and thieving, then vanished again into the ravines and bluffs of their rocky, desolate land. Thutmose was too young and altogether too useless to lead the defense himself, and so Hatshepsut had sent in his place three generals to see to the campaign on the king's behalf. As good as they were, Ta-Seti, Egypt's southernmost sepat, was a difficult defense. It lay in a hard land where the river itself broke into wild cataracts. The going was difficult, she had been told. Chariots were all but useless beyond the river's banks. Soldiers were often obliged to chase down raiders
sitting astride their horses, as drovers' children sat astride cattle. The fact that it had taken fully a year to throw off the Kushite raids troubled her.

  “I shall be glad to see to the women's feast, then,” she said, wondering how she might take some active part in strengthening Egypt's southern border. It was all well and good for Thutmose to sail upstream to Ta-Seti and count severed hands and strut about like a puffed-up he-goose. The real work of protecting Egypt would fall, as it always did, into her hands.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE DISHES HAD LONG BEEN cleared away and the feasting tables carried back into the House of Women. Serving girls moved about the twilit garden bearing pitchers of sweet wine and bitter beer, and water scented with the petals of roses or the tart rinds of fruits. They bore dates, too, and balls of honey-cake rolled in dried flowers. It had been a fine feast, a gesture of welcome to the new concubines as well as a continuation of the Opet festival. Hatshepsut felt in a celebratory mood, with Thutmose away. Alone in the great hall, hearing audiences and dictating her proclamations, she could almost imagine that she was the Pharaoh.

  She walked arm-in-arm with her dear friend, named Opet like the festival. Opet was two years older than Hatshepsut and a half-sister by blood, sired by her own royal father on a woman of the harem. She had grown up in the House of Women and, though her mother had never pledged her to the Pharaoh's service – she could leave and marry a nobleman or even a tjati if she chose – she had elected to stay.

  “Where else could I ever live in such luxury?” she had once said, when Hatshepsut had asked her why she remained. “Surely not in some backwater sepat. Can you imagine? The lowing of cattle would be all the music I'd ever hear. No, I will stay here in Waset, sister. It suits me.”

  “But you may be required to lie with Thutmose, once he starts showing an interest in women.”

  Opet had shuddered elaborately. “By the time that happens I will be stooped and covered in warts, with my breasts hanging down to my knees. I have nothing to fear.”

  But now, as they drifted from one group of chattering women to the next, Opet confided that Thutmose's dreaded awakening may be approaching faster than either had thought.

  “Last night before he left for his ships he visited to bid us all farewell. He pinched me on my bottom, and when Hentumire bowed to him he cupped her breast in his hand, right in front of everybody!”

  Hatshepsut groaned. “He is insufferable. I must find some nursemaid to crack him with a stick until he learns his manners.”

  “You cannot beat a Pharaoh, sister. It will take subtlety, if he is to learn the right way to treat a woman. You'll forgive me, Great Lady, but you do not have subtlety. We shall all of us work together to train him, or the House of Women will become as rowdy as a brothel.”

  “I wish you all the gods' blessings on that endeavor. Amun knows it's a task too great for one woman alone.”

  They came to the raised stone shore of the garden lake. The water stretched out into the dusk, its surface deep violet, reflecting a silver moon that danced as a breeze rippled the water. A few women gathered there, sipping from golden cups as they sat idly on the stone wall. Some dangled toes in the water, squealing at the cold, while others, well into their wine, made a game of trying to count the bats that dropped to the lake's surface. The women broke off again and again, laughing as they lost their numbers.

  Seated a little apart were the two newcomers. Hatshepsut approached them, and inclined her head to the princess of Hatti, a lovely young woman with an unshaven head of thick, dark-brown hair. It fell in waves about her shoulders, though she had knotted a few beads into the locks, no doubt in deference to Egyptian style. She wore an Egyptian-style dress, too – a green gown that hugged her shape and left her arms bare.

  “Are you not cold?” Hatshepsut asked. “It is winter, after all. Shall I send a servant for a shawl to cover up your arms?”

  “No, Great Lady,” the princess said. She spoke Egyptian readily, if with a heavy accent. “Winters are much colder in Hatti. I think perhaps I will find the heat of Egyptian summer too great.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Astartakhepa, Great Lady.”

  Hatshepsut tried to repeat the name. Her tongue tripped over the unfamiliar sounds; Opet laughed behind her hand.

  “I think perhaps we shall have to call you something simpler,” Hatshepsut said. “You are beautiful; until we learn to say your name correctly we may as well call you Nefer. I hope you do not mind a pet name. We are fond of such things in Egypt.”

  “I am honored to be named by the Great Royal Wife,” she said, bowing.

  The Great Royal Wife, Hatshepsut mused. I will never grow used to hearing it. I will never think of myself that way – as Thutmose's wife.

  “And you,” she said, turning to the other, the daughter of Ankhhor. “I hope your name comes easier to my tongue.”

  “As do I.” The girl bowed smoothly, raising pale, delicate hands to Hatshepsut. “I am Iset, Great Lady, and beneath the notice of the God's Wife.”

  What a perfect blend of confidence and humility. This one is from a noble house, and no mistake. “Named for the goddess. I can see it is a name that suits you.” Iset was slender, graceful, perhaps seventeen years old. She wore a fashionable gown, tight through the waist and hips, halting in a beaded band that left her breasts bare to peek through her shawl as she moved. She was lovely and light, all harmonious curves like an ibis bird, and her eyes shone with a happy complacency that Hatshepsut liked at once.

  “The Great Royal Wife is too kind. Beside her beauty I am as dust.”

  Hatshepsut barked a laugh. “Men and women say many things of the Great Royal Wife, Iset, but seldom do they praise her beauty. No, I am not offended. I would rather be strong and wise than beautiful. Beauty seldom lasts long.”

  Iset smiled. Her wig was scented with benzoin and myrrh; as she tilted her head in a coy, conspiratorial gesture the rich, spicy perfume came powerfully to Hatshepsut's senses, set a thrill racing under her skin.

  “The Great Royal Wife is wise indeed, then,” the girl said. “It is good to have at least one wise ruler on the throne.”

  “I think I shall like you very much.”

  “I hope you shall.”

  “I can see your father prepared you well for life in a royal court. What else did he teach you?”

  “I can sing, Great Lady, and dance.”

  Opet clapped her hands. “Let's have a song!”

  Some of the women gathered nearby heard the suggestion and agreed. “Yes, a song!” “Ah, it's a good night for music.”

  Iset remained gazing at Hatshepsut, awaiting her command. Hatshepsut nodded, and the newcomer moved a little apart to stand facing the gathering of women. She smoothed her gown over her hips, eyes fixed distantly on the darkness of the garden, rapt and isolated, as if listening to the falling notes of a harp that only she could hear. At last she raised her voice, wine-sweet and water-pure.

  My soul will not sleep

  For want of my sister.

  The river runs between us,

  And I am sick with loss.

  My pool is broken

  By ripples unending,

  For the wind has blown her far away,

  The wind has blown her far away.

  Oh sister, your perfume

  Is like honey dropped in water.

  Like spices and pomegranates,

  You stain my mouth with longing.

  My pool is broken

  By ripples unending;

  The wind has blown your odor far away,

  The wind has blown your odor far away.

  The gods have made your love

  Like the advance of flames in straw,

  My longing like the downward stoop

  Of the falcon in bright flight.

  My pool is broken

  By ripples unending.

  I will fly to you on wind far away,

  I will fly to you on wind far away.


  I am a wild goose, a hunted one;

  The beauty of your shining hair

  Is a bait to trap me in your net;

  Your eyes, a snare of meryu-wood.

  Gratefully I fall

  Into ripples unending.

  Hunt me, sister, far away.

  Hunt me, sister, far away.

  Hatshepsut stood still as the women applauded. Iset's song had pierced her deep, raising memories of Senenmut, of their last day together, his red-eyed stare in the jagged shade of the myrrh tree. She wondered whether he still remembered her. Perhaps he was the only man who ever would. She knew she was not beautiful – she was too blocky, too coarse, and she had inherited from her father his curved beak of a nose, his bold front teeth. For all her brave words to Iset, she knew that it was beauty, not strength or wisdom, that made men fall in love.

  “Great Lady?” Iset's brow was pinched with worry. “Did my singing offend?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “You sang beautifully, Iset. Beautifully. You must come to me one day and sing in my apartments; I would be glad of you.” Mornings she attended Amun and by day she kept her court. But nights were long and quiet, and heavy with the absence of Senenmut. Music would be a balm to her lonesome kas; Iset's singing was as sweet and soothing as the smoke of myrrh.

  The girl bowed again. “As you wish, Great Lady. I am yours to command.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “THOU ART THE LORD OF the silent, who comes at the cry of the poor!”

  The chorus of priestesses repeated Hatshepsut's chant, lifting their sesheshet high above their heads. The iron rods were strung with bells, so black they drank the light of the braziers as the darkness of Amun's sanctuary swallowed fear and doubt.

  When their voices and the clatter of their sacred rattles died away, she lifted her own sesheshet and cried, “Thou art Amun-Re, Lord of Waset!”

  Again the rattles raised, again the voices chanted. She looked down upon her priestesses from where she stood on a small golden dais. The ribbons of the God's Wife crown fell over her shoulders. Her scalp was bare of any wig, freshly shaven; the diadem of electrum lay cold upon her forehead. To her right was the door to Amun's shrine, closed and guarded by four priests.