The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “Thee, who rescues him who is in the netherworld!”

  The sun had nearly risen to reveal the god's morning aspect, Amun-Re. Beyond the group of priestesses, through the temple's great, high entrance, Hatshepsut could see how the sky lightened, tending, barely perceptible, from the cold blue of night to the golden hues of blessed day.

  “For thou art merciful when man appeals to thee!”

  The light fell now through the open doorway, a lance of gold in which cold motes rose and shimmered, swirling in the gathering warmth. Hatshepsut lifted her sesheshet for the final line of the devotion, and as she called it out to her priestesses, her voice brimmed with the joy of the breaking day. “Thou art he who comes from afar!”

  The priests swung wide the doors to Amun's sanctuary. With a collective murmur, the gathered worshipers lowered their faces, none daring to look inside. The beam of light moved across the floor of the sanctuary. Hatshepsut stepped into it, pacing toward the still-hidden god with slow, deliberate steps.

  The fifteen days of the Beautiful Feast of Opet had come, at last, to a close. The dream-readers and magicians had all agreed: Amun was well pleased, renewed and invigorated; the young Pharaoh's reign would be long and prosperous; and the God's Wife was a pleasure to the Lord of Waset. Hatshepsut had taken to her duties with a zeal seldom seen before in the history of her exalted station, often spending half the day tending to the god, when the demands of the court allowed. Nowhere did she feel as light of heart than in Amun's presence. She felt a kinship here at the god's side. And why not? Was she not in fact the kin of Amun-Re, his own daughter in flesh and in ka? In the black of the sanctuary she felt not only the presence of the god, but of her earthly father, too. When all the light was shut from her eyes she could feel Thutmose the First smiling upon her, as he had so many times in life, holding her upon his lap when she was just a small thing, walking with her in the gardens, listening to her recite her childish lessons.

  You were right, Father, she whispered in her heart. Maat is all.

  She paused with her sandals touching the edge of the sunbeam. The light moved beyond her, stretching her shadow into the shrine. It crept by degrees up the god's electrum dais, fell lightly upon his golden feet, moved up his legs. Hatshepsut's heart beat harder, as it did whenever she looked upon Amun in the light. Such moments were rare, for the god preferred secrecy and dark, so that his brilliance, once revealed, might shine all the brighter. The shrine's interior slowly filled with morning light. Baskets and platters heaped with offerings resolved out of darkness, dozens of bread-loaves, strings of lotus blossoms, jars of oil both sweet and bitter, figs and melons and the tart, oily-skinned fruits brought in trade from far to the east. And of course, offered upon fine dishes of lapis lazuli and gold, heaps of myrrh, the resinous incense which was the god's favorite scent. Amun, glimmering, wrought all in gold, sat upon his throne and smiled down at his offerings, at Hatshepsut herself, who in her very flesh was his most sincere offering. His face was at once peaceful, haughty, amused – the very face of royalty, stern and eternal beneath the twin golden plumes of his crown, each one as tall as a man.

  Hatshepsut moved toward him, shy as a girl with her first lover. She was God's Wife, God's Hand. It was her duty and privilege to please him in all things. She touched his arms gently, slid her fingers along them to his hands where they lay on his lap. Outside the shrine, the priestesses took up their hymn, singing loud of Amun's virility, of the force that had created all things.

  Renew, renew thy creation, Lord of Waset! Thine is the life of the land!

  As she caressed his chest, his face, his neck, as she knelt to kiss his feet, Hatshepsut could feel his approving presence in the chamber. It was the feeling of warm sun upon her back. Thou art pleased, Lord Amun. I know it. Thou are pleased, even with me as Great Royal Wife. Thy will is maat, and maat is all.

  Bring forth the crops, fill the land with light! The priestesses were dancing now. Their skirts of red and white lifted and flattened as they whirled past the door to the sanctuary, swayed to the music of horns and drums. The land is fertile! Sow thy seed, Lord of Waset, from the God's Hand!

  When the ceremony was over, Hatshepsut moved among the god's servants, sharing with them bread and honey, dates and wine spread upon tables in the temple's forecourt. The sun was well up now, sweet in a pale blue sky. She accepted the praises of priests and priestesses alike, dipping her head demurely when they spoke of her devotion. “You are so young, and yet so dedicated to the god. This is a blessing upon Waset – upon Egypt, in truth.” “You have taken your station entirely to heart, Great Lady, and Amun's blessings will overflow onto the throne.”

  She separated from one small crowd of priestesses and wandered along a line of myrrh trees, breathing in the subtle, spicy scent of their winter slumber. Their branches lay bare against the sky, sharp, but beginning to swell with the promise of leaf buds. Nebseny leaned against one tree, wine cup in hand. The leopard-skin mantle of the High Priest fell over his shoulder to his waist. His golden leopard mask hung from a thong around his neck, glowering at her from his chest.

  “A good morning to you, High Priest.”

  He half-bowed, formal but chill. “God's Wife. Your devotions today were...pure.”

  “I try to please the god in all things,” she said, ruing the defensive tone in her voice.

  “I am sure you do.” He was stiff, mildly offended by her presence. She recalled the way he had looked the day she'd cut herself on the temple steps, how he had crouched, suspended somewhere between admiration and horror. She blushed at the memory of her impulsiveness, then turned sharply away, furious that her emotions could show so readily upon her face.

  “Have I offended the Great Lady?” Nebseny's tone said he did not much care if he had.

  His insolence angered her, but there was nothing she could do. Only two people in all the world stood above the station of the God's Wife: the Pharaoh and the High Priest of Amun. She had no choice but to suffer his disdain. “The sun is in my eyes; that is all. If you will excuse me, High Priest, I shall find a shadier spot.”

  Near the feast tables she saw three or four priestesses laughing merrily, bumping their hips together. Their company seemed infinitely preferable to Nebseny's. She made her way toward them, and sighed in relief when they bowed at her approach. Here, at least, she would find no scorn.

  Nedjmet was plump and kindly, a happy, gossipy woman of perhaps twenty years with a protruding belly that proclaimed her a mother three times over at least. She welcomed Hatshepsut with a smile and a measure of sticky dates, which she poured into her hands. “Something sweet for the Hand of the God!”

  “Oh – Nedjmet, I cannot eat another bite. Here.” Hatshepsut held the dates out, and the priestesses each took a few, nibbling, until at last Hatshepsut's hands were empty. Her heart, though, filled. She loved the company of her priestesses. They understood her devotion to the god as no one else did.

  “We saw you speaking to Lord Highborn,” said Bakmut, an older priestess and thin, but still with a pretty face despite the lines of age beginning to show around her mouth.

  “You should not speak of the High Priest so,” Hatshepsut said.

  “If the God's Wife commands,” Bakmut said, her voice laden with amusement.

  Nedjmet shook her head. “Great Lady, it might do you some good to speak of the High Priest so, if you will forgive my saying it. What a strutter that one is. He's worse than a whole flock of geese.”

  Wiay, the newest priestess, laughed. She was hardly older than Hatshepsut herself, but already she had found her feet among the temple servants. Hatshepsut envied her a little, the ease with which she forged her friendships. “Hahnk, hahnk!” Wiay waddled like a goose and made as if to peck at the date in Nedjmet's fingers. “Count up the measures of grain! What is the wealth of Amun? Hahnk! Stop that laughing, priestesses! Amun demands solemnity!”

  “Oh, Wiay, stop! The God's Wife will think us wicked.”

  Hatshepsu
t smiled. She knew their ease in her presence was due to her youth, but their camaraderie was such a relief that she could not feel indignant. “No, it is good to see you laughing. I wish I could be as free as you. It doesn't help to have Nebseny glaring at me and turning his shoulder every time I approach him. Why does he dislike me so? I have been absolutely devoted in my duties. I can't think what I may have done to anger him.”

  Dimly she realized that a woman of her station should not pour out her heart to the priestesses she led. But their friendly manner was such a relief after a year of marriage to Thutmose, of serving maat, of loneliness – a year without Senenmut. Their sympathy was more than she could resist.

  Nedjmet and Bakmut shared a glance.

  “Walk with us, Great Lady.” Bakmut offered her arm. They wandered away from the feast tables, the priestesses talking of incidental things until they were well away from the gathering in the forecourt.

  Near the great soaring wall of Ipet-Isut, where they could be sure of their privacy, Bakmut broke off her chatter and turned abruptly to Hatshepsut, her face solemn. “The truth is, Great Lady, Nebseny thinks you unnatural.”

  “Unnatural? Why ever would he think that? I've done everything according to maat.”

  “Is it true, Great Lady, that you have never bled?”

  Hatshepsut's gaze dropped from Bakmut's kindly face to her own feet, which looked very timid and small to her, the gleam of her gold sandals obscured by the dust in which she scuffled.

  Nedjmet spoke up. “The priestesses whisper – concerned, you see. We would never speak maliciously of our God's Wife. Everyone in the temple knows you have a male ka...”

  “Eight,” Hatshepsut muttered.

  “Well, there you have it, then. Male kas. Your mother Lady Ahmose made it known among the servants of Amun. Some say it's your kas that have stopped your blood – that a female body cannot do – well, the things a female body must do, with so many princely kas inside.”

  “And that is why Nebseny spurns me? For my kas? For something I cannot help?”

  Nedjmet clasped her hands. “Don't let that prancing goat intimidate you. Your priestesses back you in all things. We will never allow you to be replaced.”

  Bakmut hissed, and Nedjmet flushed deep red.

  “Replaced?” Hatshepsut stammered.

  Bakmut sighed. “There have been whispers about the temple – from only a few minor priests, you see – that if you are barren then you cannot be the God's Hand. Your role is to ensure the fertility of Amun, and, well....” She trailed off, but at the look of anger on Hatshepsut's face she said quickly, “Don't listen to any of it. It's never going to happen, anyhow. As Nedjmet said, all the priestesses love and support you. Nebseny and his hangers-on could never succeed in replacing the God's Wife without our consent. And we do not consent.” She narrowed her eyes at Nedjmet, a look that fired arrows. “And that is why it is not worth mentioning such laughable rumors to the God's Wife.”

  Hatshepsut furrowed her brow. “The High Priest of Amun would need the consent of the king, too, if he hoped to replace me. He could never do it without my husband's approval.”

  Wiay cocked her head. The locks of her wig fell across her pale, soft shoulder. “Great Lady, perhaps you can make a good show before the court, but your priestesses know that the king does not love you. And if you are unable to bear him children, might Thutmose be even more eager to set you aside?”

  A chill settled into Hatshepsut's heart.

  “Oh, stop this talk!” Bakmut said. “You are upsetting her needlessly. Great Lady, these are all rumors and nothing more. You must not listen. All you need know is that the priestesses are devoted to you, and your position is secure.”

  Hatshepsut turned back to Wiay. “The Pharaoh is still a child and incapable of siring children himself. He may as well be barren, young as he is.”

  “He will not be young forever,” Nedjmet said. “But in any case, this is less about children – an heir can always come from the harem – and more about the power of the priesthood. If you ask me what I think...”

  “No one asked what you think,” Bakmut snapped.

  “If you ask me what I think, I would tell you that Nebseny would prefer a more biddable God's Wife – a woman he feels he can control.”

  And all at once, Hatshepsut understood. She saw again the look of mingled fascination and revulsion on Nebseny's face that day on the temple steps when she had taken the knife to her own loins. Hatshepsut was devoted to her duties, yes – but also hot as an untrained horse, and falcon-fierce when roused. She was the blood of a king, the blood of a god, and Nebseny must know – as she herself knew, she now realized – that such blood might be capable of anything when stirred. As God's Wife, she held nearly as much power as Nebseny himself. He must feel that she was a bundle of kindle-sticks waiting for a spark. The High Priest would be pleased for any excuse he could find to remove her from office, to set in her place a woman more predictable, less ambitious, less strange.

  “These are only rumors, founded on foul air,” Bakmut insisted. “You should not trouble yourself, Great Lady. And my sisters should mind their wagging tongues.”

  As her litter-bearers carried her back to Waset's great palace, Hatshepsut sat lost in her troubled thoughts, never hearing the hails of the rekhet she passed. She had drawn the litter's curtains, thick blue wool to keep out winter's lingering chill. Sunlight filtered in to her cushioned chair only dimly. In the mild blue light she turned this puzzle over and over in her heart, seeking a solution. She must find a means of securing her place as God's Wife, for she would not give that up along with the king's throne.

  She ached for Ahmose's company. Immediately after the wedding feast, her mother had left her most trusted stewards at the palace to advise and assist Hatshepsut, then retreated to her estate on the bluffs south of the city. She had hardly said two words to Hatshepsut since, and her few words were always by letter, and always terse. Hatshepsut had wounded her mother deeply, she knew, by overturning her plans at the council meeting. She had withdrawn her loyalty from her mother's cause, and had, in effect, declared false Ahmose's visions, Ahmose's reputation as a god-chosen dream-reader, Ahmose's very purpose and identity. There, too, her wild rashness had overcome her, and she had made her own mother suffer for it. She was ashamed. And she was certain she would do it all again, if faced with the choice. I would sooner tear Egypt apart with my own hands and give it to the Heqa-Khasewet brick by brick than see the false heir on the throne.

  No – Hatshepsut had done right. She had sacrificed her relationship with her mother for Egypt's sake. But she had acted in service to maat. I have to believe that, or I will go mad from sorrow.

  She longed, too, for Senenmut. He would know the right question to pose, the right way to tilt his thoughtful face, to make the answer reveal itself within her heart. She closed her eyes, delving into sweetly pained memory for the sound of his voice.

  You cannot act rashly, Hatshepsut. Not in this. There he was – ah, her tutor, her heart's brother! As the litter swayed up the hill toward the palace, she listened gratefully to his words. Each time you flare up like wine tossed on a fire, you suffer for it later. Think this through.

  Her litter bumped down in the palace courtyard. She straightened the God's Wife crown upon her head, and waited for her litter-bearers to draw back the woolen curtains. As she made to rise from her seat, she paused. Across the courtyard, beneath the pale blue shadow of a massive painted pillar, another litter had just arrived. She watched in disbelief as its curtains, too, were pulled aside, and Nebseny emerged, smoothing his leopard mantle as he straightened. He caught her eye and smiled lightly, inclined his head toward her. Quickly she stood, shaking out her skirts. She chewed the inside of her cheek, admonishing herself to think, to observe, to keep the wine well away from the flames. She went to him, fixing a peaceful, confident smile upon her lips.

  “High Priest. What an honor, that you would grace the palace.”

  “G
reat Royal Wife. His Majesty summoned me. We often talk together, afternoons.”

  “My husband has grown devout. I am glad to see this.”

  “Thutmose is most devout. He seeks Amun's blessing on his plans.”

  “His plans?”

  “Surely the Great Royal Wife knows of the king's plans.” Their litter-bearers were still nearby, and Hatshepsut's guards had drawn near. Nebseny was careful to keep his tone free from mockery, but Hatshepsut read it clearly in his voice.

  “Of course. I know more of his plans than you might think. I will leave you to the king, High Priest. The gods' blessings on your day.”

  She turned from him and made her way to her apartments. Nehesi trailed her as always; she felt the urge to send him after Nebseny, to cut the High Priest down. But it was a passing thought, a child's tantrum, instantly quelled. No. There was a better way, a cleaner way – a way that would secure her station indefinitely, put Nebseny in her own control, and bring all the priests of Amun to stand behind her as a body united. A way that would elevate her until none but the Pharaoh stood above her. By the time she reached her apartments, she saw her path as plain and secure as if it stretched, smooth-paved and brightly shining, into a secure and brilliant future.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THAT NIGHT HATSHEPSUT BURNED NO incense. Smoke of myrrh would only lull her, and she knew she must remain alert. The early night was rich with the scent of damp foliage. The perfume of evening crept in past the thick wool curtains hung over her chamber's windcatchers; the curtains stirred and flapped now and then as a strong breeze moved off the river. When her supper arrived she laid across her couch, gestured for a table. Her servants brought it with their usual alacrity, and with a flourish set before her a whole roasted goose, fragrant with the bouquets of herbs wedged behind its wings; cakes flavored with honey and milk; a stew of barley kernels and great black hunks of charred beef; a large jar of deep red wine, cool and inviting. It was far more food than she could eat on her own.