“Does the envoy have aught to add to his letter?” She spoke the words in the man's own tongue. It had been long since she had used the language, but Senenmut had taught her well. She still retained enough words to be understood.
The Retjenu blinked. His eyes lifted to her own, just for a moment, before he realized his audacity and dropped them to the ground again. He seemed to brace himself against a great weight as he spoke. “Lady of Mighty Pharaoh, I had seven children and two wives. Each one of them is gone now, dead of illness or starvation. You cannot imagine the suffering, Lady of Mighty Pharaoh. It is a terrible thing, to see a child die.”
Hatshepsut shivered. She had seen a child die. Half her lifetime ago, she had clutched her baby sister Neferubity as fever took her life away. She had fought her servants, fought Sitre-In, even her father, all of whom had sought to restrain her. But she had run to Neferubity's bed to hold the hot, limp, small body, to weep over her as the frail little girl breathed her last. They had all feared that Hatshepsut, too, would sicken and die. All of them had feared it but Ahmose. Ahmose had always been so certain of Hatshepsut; no threat could touch her eldest daughter, not even that terrible fever. She had joined Hatshepsut in Neferubity's bed. She had drawn both her daughters to her chest and rocked them, the living and the dead, and Hatshepsut yearned all at once for the comfort of Ahmose's embrace. Why now? Why should I remember now? Neferubity, and my mother's arms....
“On behalf of King Thutmose, the second of his name, I speak to the people of Retjenu.” Wadjetefni bent over the chief scribe, seated below her dais, to translate her Retjenu words into Egyptian; the scribe dipped his brush and set to work. “Egypt has heard your cry. Mighty Pharaoh weeps for the loss of a single Retjenu child. I send this man home to you with sufficient grain to see your people through until the season of rain. Do not forget the good that Thutmose the Second has done you.”
Tears welled in the envoy's eyes. “Retjenu will not forget. Praises to the Pharaoh, and to his wise Lady.”
She looked round for Wadjetefni. “I trust you to select the right man for this work. Send him to me tonight. He will share supper with me, for we have many details to discuss, and in the morning I will be gone.”
“It will be as you say, Great Lady.”
Her servants had packed her chests as well as their own, and were bustling here and there in fits of excitement. Ita seemed nearly beside herself with anticipation, wringing her hands and muttering, “Oh! Oh!” as she went about her duties. Hatshepsut had never realized before how dull the life of a palace servant must be. She was glad to give her women a reprieve. A lengthy trip to the northern districts was exactly what they all needed to renew their spirits. Hatshepsut was bent over one chest, inspecting the contents and debating whether she ought to add two more gowns to what Tem had already packed for her, when Sitre-In cleared her throat.
“The steward is here – the man who will bring the grain to Retjenu.”
“Very good. Has the food arrived?”
“Ah, it's waiting in your anteroom.”
The steward was clad in a simple white kilt, head wigless and clean-shaven, as was the custom for a man of his work. He wore about his hips a simple woven belt made of thread-of-gold, and his sandals were plain; but for all his lack of grand airs, he carried himself with the quiet, austere confidence that only men of great works possess. By the lines of his face, he was of a middle age. The man's eyes gleamed with the merest hint of glad familiarity, though Hatshepsut was certain she had never seen him – or never noticed him, at any rate – in all her life. The steward bowed low, palms out. When he straightened she noted something else in his face, a brief, warm flash. Was it affection? Impossible.
“Share my supper, good man.”
“The Great Royal Wife offers more honor than I deserve.” But he moved toward the table eagerly. “In truth, Great Lady, I have eaten nothing since this morning's court. I have been hard at work on your plans for Retjenu.”
“Tell me of them.”
He talked while they ate. She grasped at once that his mind was exceedingly sharp. He had fixed the finest detail into place, and outlined several alternate plans in case of unforeseen difficulties.
“I am pleased,” Hatshepsut said at length. “You are the right man for the work; that's plain. What is your name?”
“Ineni, Great Lady.” He paused, and his demeanor became suddenly shy. “I...I served your mother, as well. Perhaps she has spoken of me.”
Even with his eyes on a platter of figs, Hatshepsut saw the desperate hope that filled his expression. Oh, gods! This is the steward Ahmose took as her lover! But she could see no useful purpose to admitting she knew his secret. “I do not believe so. I am sure you served her well, though, as you will serve me well. I leave at sunrise to sail north; I will travel in peace, knowing this duty is in such capable hands.”
Ineni ducked his head. “Yes, Great Lady. I shall do my best for you. To honor you, and your royal mother.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AT DAWN, HATSHEPSUT AND HER women boarded the ship Biddable Mare, followed closely by Nehesi and a scattering of strong men who bore her chests of clothing and amusements. They would sail north with the current for nearly half a month, calling on temples along the way where the people could witness the God's Wife of Amun making her offerings to their local deities. Amidst her ladies' excitement, Hatshepsut held herself still, wrapped in a fine wool shawl to keep the chill of morning river mist from her chest. Her face was a mask of calm expectation, though she felt as if all nine of her kas danced, clapping their hands within her hammering heart.
Biddable Mare was a fast ship, built by the same wright who fashioned racing boats for many of Waset's nobles. Long and lean with a single, low-roofed cabin behind the mast, Hatshepsut would call it home as they journeyed to Ka-Khem. She gave her final instructions to Wadjetefni, admonished him to keep Thutmose in check when he returned from his current foray down the river. As the eastern sky warmed with the coming day, she watched the steward retreat down the ship's ramp.
She nodded to the captain, a broad, loud man with skin so tanned by the sun he was nearly as dark as Biddable Mare's wooden flanks. The captain barked his orders; the crew cast off their lines, and the ship swung away from the quay with its odors of old fish and dry lime. As the oarsmen began to row, Hatshepsut moved to the bow with her women gathered around her, allowing a smile of triumph. The crisp air of the river lifted and tossed the strands of her wig. The bow rocked down into the trough of a wave; spray fell upon her face and she braced herself as Ita and Tem clutched one another and squealed. Her heart was as light as the leaves of a great tree, fluttering and shimmering. But still she maintained her air of possession.
As the ship turned its nose east toward the great bend of the river, Sitre-In leaned toward Hatshepsut's ear. “I wish you would tell me what this is all about, Hatet. It is my duty to help you, but how can I do my duty if you keep me in the dark?”
“I am sailing north to catch my husband,” Hatshepsut replied lightly, “so that I might stand at his side as he dedicates temples.”
“Oh, don't give me that rotten old fruit. You loathe your husband.”
“What an awful thing to say. The gods hear you, Mawat.”
“You take your duties too seriously for this to be a lark. I might believe a flighty young queen would chase off after her husband for the sake of adventure – even a husband despised as Thutmose. But for you to leave the administration of the throne in the hands of a steward...”
“I trust Wadjetefni. Ahmose gave him to me; he is practically as good as Ahmose herself.”
“The throne in the hands of a steward,” Sitre-In went on firmly, “for an entire month. It is a long time – anything may happen. You know that. You have considered that. Whatever this is about, you deem it more important than sitting the throne.”
“My divine backside sits the throne no matter where I go.” She narrowed her eyes at the glare of morning light on wa
ves and resolved to paint thicker lines of kohl around her eyes the next morning. “I suppose the same is true of Thutmose.”
“No matter where you go! Figs! You are too intelligent to believe that.”
Hatshepsut sobered. She stared levelly at her nurse. “I once thought, Mawat, that I was born to rule.”
“You were.”
“Not as Great Royal Wife. As Pharaoh. But it can never be. The closest I may come is to reign as God's Wife of Amun. And I will do anything to preserve my power.”
Sitre-In bowed her head, her deference tinged with a note of matronly impatience. “I do not see how leaving Waset for a month will preserve your power. Waset is the very home of Amun.”
“And Ka-Khem,” Hatshepsut replied, “is the home of Amun's High Priest.”
By evening they had cleared the river's bend. Biddable Mare put in at the quays of Iunet. A messenger boat had raced along before them to announce the coming of the God's Wife; the shore was lined with people who cheered her as she followed Nehesi down the ramp. Iunet, she knew, was dedicated to the worship of Hathor, the Mistress of the West, Lady of Seven Faces. When the tjati and his family approached to offer a ring of sweet lotuses for her neck, she waved Ita and Tem to her side. They bore baskets of dried fruit and grain; Hatshepsut said to the governor, “Take me at once to the temple of Hathor. I have brought these gifts for the Mistress of the West, and my heart will never rest until I have done my duty to the goddess.”
The people of Hathor's city led her to the great temple amid a clangor of drums and sesheshet. The ecstatic calls of reedy pipes blared from the head of the procession. She rode in a simple chariot with Nehesi and the governor's own driver; in lieu of gilding and bright paint, its sides were draped with early-blooming lotuses, its rails wound with fragrant herbs. They drove slowly, apace with the throng. Beyond the last shops and houses of Iunet, from the roofs of which children shouted and women raised their palms in salute, a broad roadway stretched across several spans of flooded field. In the distance, where the green water of farmland gave way to red desert hills, Hatshepsut could see a brick ramp rising onto the shoulder of a yellow stone promontory. The rocky hill wore the walls of Hathor's temple like a proud crown. When at last they reached the foot of the ramp, the procession broke up, the citizens of Iunet scattering to wait all about the temple's outer wall.
Hatshepsut gazed up the ramp. The entrance to the temple gaped violet in the gathering dusk, a hungry mouth. She pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders.
“Help me down, Nehesi. Ita? Tem?” Her women stepped to her side, the baskets of goods clutched in their arms.
“God's Wife of Amun.” Hatshepsut turned quickly. At the top of the ramp, two priestesses stood side by side in the temple's mouth. The shorter of the two gestured with her hands and arms; after a heartbeat the other, thin as a twig with the high voice of girlhood, spoke again. “Be welcome to the House of Hathor, the Mistress of the West, the Sovereign of Stars.” The short woman moved her hands again with a fascinating precision, each finger dancing. When the gesturing had finished, the thin girl spoke. “The goddess is eager to speak to her vessel.”
Nehesi, Amun's man through and through, growled under his breath. Hatshepsut laid a hand on his arm. “She means no harm. I am the servant of all the gods, not only Amun. Come.” She started up the ramp.
As she drew level with the two priestesses, her steps faltered. The short one was quite broad across the bridge of her nose, and her eyes were mismatched: one as dark-black as Hatshepsut's own, the other a blue so intense it rivaled the color of a summer morning sky. Neither priestess wore a wig; their natural hair was done up in layers of fine plaits and gathered together into two symmetrical locks that fell over their ears in imitation of Hathor's own style. Hatshepsut was startled to see that although the short woman was still rather young, her hair was shot with white at the fore; several of her tiny braids were as pale as sun-bleached bone. The short woman raised her hands and gestured, picking at the air delicately, her wrists swaying this way and that.
The young priestess spoke as if in response to the other's movements. “The Hand of Amun, who brings pleasure to the god. I see a grove of myrrh trees; I smell their sap; it is a cloud of joy, and Amun rejoices in your name. But will you remember Hathor? She is jealous, and she has marked your flesh with her lion's claw, that you will not forget her.”
Hatshepsut arrested her hands before they could fly to the scar at her groin. “I marked my own flesh.”
Once more the gesturing, and once more the girl-priestess's response: “It is enough, for now, that you bring the Lady gifts.” The short one with the unsettling eyes turned away, into the dimness of the temple's interior. “Imer will take you to the Lady.”
Following, Hatshepsut stepped into a forecourt of deep indigo shadows. Pillars stood in orderly rows, rank upon rank. She gazed upward; the pillars held up a cedarwood roof, lost in black shadow. But the pathway Imer walked, a direct line that ran between the ranks of pillars to a high stone sanctuary, was left unroofed. Stars began to emerge in the visible strip of night, cold white fires in a violet distance. The light of a sickle moon, its points as sharp as a cow's horns, fell wanly into the forecourt to light the priestess' steps. Nehesi, too, stared up into the deep-shadowed heights, eying with a singular suspicion the faces of Hathor that crowned each pillar. In his carelessness he blundered into one pillar; the hilt of his dagger clanged against the stone. The young priestess checked and glanced back at him, amusement curving her lips. But Imer continued on, unaware, and Hatshepsut realized that the priestess heard nothing.
“You are her voice,” she said to the thin girl.
“Yes. Several of us who serve the Mistress of the West have learned to read Imer's hand-signs. She was born into a poor farmer's family. When it was discovered she could not hear, she was put out for the beasts to take. But it was Hathor took her instead. I have heard it whispered that a she-cow found Imer lying in the fields, and lifted the babe upon her horns, and carried her here to the temple.”
The roof of sky ended at a great facade, the heart of Hathor's domain. Women in the simple white linen of priestesses moved along the temple's face, lighting a long row of braziers. As the oil inside caught and flamed to life, a golden light reached upward to illumine six of Hathor's seven faces, the crowns of great pillars staring down at Hatshepsut and her servants. The light wavered and danced. Each face of the goddess appeared to changed, flickering from benevolence to rage to indifference to motherly adoration as rapid and regular, as mutable as sun on water.
Imer had turned in the doorway to Hathor's sanctuary. Her hands spoke, and the young priestess gave voice to their meaning. “You must carry your offerings with your own hands, God's Wife. Before Hathor, it is you who are the servant, not your women.”
“Yes. Of course.” Hatshepsut took a basket in each arm. “Wait for me here,” she said to Nehesi and her maids.
Inside, lamps revealed a cacophony of color. The walls of Hathor's temple were more brilliantly painted than any dwelling of Amun. The lapis-blue bodies of gods seemed to leap out from walls the color of fine turquoise stone. Imer led her across a massive sun-disk painted on the floor in the ripe red shade of pomegranates. Amid the confusion of color she could identify no single form of the goddess to worship, no statue in which the goddess could dwell. Instead, Hathor dwelt everywhere. Against one wall the goddess took the form of a pacing cow, adorned in jewels, lifting the sun-disc high between the great sweep of her horns. Against another she was a lioness, grinning with a terrible thirst for blood. Here she was the gentle midwife, urging a child from the womb of a squatting woman; there, she clutched a sinister flail to her breast and stared knowingly into an unfathomable distance.
“Hathor is all about you,” the girl said. Beyond her shoulder Imer stared impassively at Hatshepsut. That unnerving blue eye saw everything, Hatshepsut was sure of it. Everything.
They ascended a staircase to the roof of the temple. T
he stars had come to brilliant life; they banded together in a great streak of white across the heavens. The milk that flows from Hathor's udders. She is in the very night sky. I am in the presence of a goddess nearly as mighty as Amun.
Hatshepsut set her offerings upon the bare rooftop and sank to her knees, pressed her forehead against the cold stone, facing the west. “Mistress of the West,” she called to the night sky. “Lady who is all goddesses in one body. I offer to you, that you will be pleased with me, your servant.”
When she lifted her face and clambered back to her feet she saw that Imer wore a slight smile, though her strange eyes were untouched by her pleasure. She signed, and the young priestess said, “How did you know that we leave our offerings here on the roof? We did not tell you to do it.”
“It seemed right. The goddess is here; I feel her.”
“The Pharaoh came this way not long ago – a week, perhaps. He is still a boy. He does not yet understand the importance of worship.”
“He did not pay homage to Lady Hathor?”
“Oh, he did,” the young priestess said. “He did the duty he thought was required, then left again to be feasted at the governor's house in Iunet. He gave only the smallest honor to our Lady, a cursory offering.”
A swell of foreboding built queasily beneath her heart. “I am sorry. That was unjust.”
“It was,” Imer agreed, and Hatshepsut did not need to hear the words to read the offense in the woman's gesture.
“The Pharaoh's house must make amends to Hathor. When I return to Waset, I shall send girls here to Iunet, girls from fine houses to be raised by the goddess, to unite Amun's city with Hathor's. And I will build,” she added, sensing the pledge of girl children was not enough. “A chapel to the goddess, in Ipet-Isut, among the chapels of Amun's own sacred family.”
The She-King: The Complete Saga Page 42