Cranky Ladies of History

by Tehani Wessely

  Iset’s eyelids fluttered before she locked her gaze on mine. Her weakness betrayed her, and her focus slid from me again. “Why are you here?”

  “We have much to discuss,” I replied.

  “I am unwell.”

  Reaching down to the knife sheath strapped to my thigh, I said, “It must be today.” Her eyes slid shut. They snapped open again when I asked, “Why did you kill Father?”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You may not have plunged the dagger, but you arranged it.”

  That stare bored into me. “Lies.”

  “I found the leader of the assassins.” Senenmut had actually tracked the criminal down. But I had been there when he was captured. The leader hadn’t survived the interrogation. Mother had never known about it; she was too fair, and refused to believe ill against her friend, Iset.

  “You have a fanciful mind.”

  “You put an abortifacient in Mother’s wine the night Father was murdered.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “You have no evidence.”

  “The wine that night had a scent I could not place then, but now know is silphium.”

  “You have not remembered correctly.”

  “I know herbs.”

  This, Iset did not debate.

  “You also orchestrated the attack several months ago, after Thutmose had taken Mother’s side over the trade agreement.”

  She was silent.

  With my free hand, I pulled on a gold chain around my neck, so the charm was no longer obscured by my dress. Iset’s eyes widened when she saw it. The ostrich feather glowed in the dim light.

  “You risk all of Egypt with your actions,” I said, stroking the feather with my fingers.

  “I have not done anything wrong.”

  “Being a representative of Set in your position risks the balance of order and chaos. It can’t be allowed.”

  “I do not represent Set! I am named for the goddess Isis.”

  I stared at her. “If I were to go into your secret room, I would find evidence of his cult. I know, because I’ve already looked.”

  She shrank back in the bed. Shutting her eyes, Iset whispered, “I worship him.”

  “It can’t be allowed to continue.”

  “I will renounce him.”

  I pulled the necklace over my head and stood. “It is too late for that. The seeds of chaos have been sown.”

  I placed the feather on my vacated stool.

  “I will let you marry Thutmose,” she promised. “You will be Queen.” Seeing the blade in my hand, Iset struggled to rise, but she was too weak. I had been dosing her with purgatives masquerading as remedies for days.

  I shook my head and said almost sadly, “It is not enough to atone for what you’ve stolen from the kingdom.”

  I plunged the dagger down.

  Iset let out a gasp. Blood welled from the wound. I dragged the blade down and she screamed. But there were no servants or slaves to hear her. She screamed until her throat was raw.

  And then she spoke no more.

  I began my gruesome task. Iset had cost the life of my Father, my unborn brother, numerous guards, friends, her own followers and hundreds of Egyptians who had perished while sourcing her treasures from other kingdoms. Then there were the peasants who were dying to meet the new agricultural taxes. And I had not forgotten that she had nearly killed Mother and me twice.

  Cutting the heart from Iset’s chest, I held it up. The heart was the seat of the ib, ba and ka, the personality and soul. Blood dripped down my hand and fingers; the power of life running across my skin. Leaning down, I dropped the organ onto the brazier. The smell of cooking meat filled the room, the scent of burnt chances and life wreathing through the air currents. By destroying Iset’s heart, I had denied her the second life.

  Once the organ was ashes, I scooped it back into the cavity. I then placed the ostrich feather—the feather of Ma’at—on the wound and left.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  “Neferure!”

  Someone shook my shoulders and I jerked awake, almost butting my head into Mother’s. Running a hand over my face, I asked, “Mother, what is it?”

  “Iset is dead.”

  I forced myself to look shocked. “How? The illness?” I met Senenmut’s stare over Mother’s shoulder.

  I was in the chambers I shared with Mother. The sun slanted through the windows, and a warm breeze spoke of Peret, the time when life would re-seed and the cycle of fertility would begin again. A time of new beginnings.

  “She was murdered last night during the celebration.” Mother’s gaze was haunted. “Someone cut out her heart and burnt it.”

  I gasped. Senenmut looked at the ground.

  Cheeks drawn, Mother said, “They left a feather on her chest.”

  Looking at my clasped hands, washed clean of visible blood, I said, “She was judged by Ma’at.”

  “She was denied the second life! There is no crime worth that.”

  I faced Mother squarely. “Every man who was involved in Father’s death was denied the second life.”

  She stared at me. “Iset—”

  “—Killed your husband,” Senenmut said as he came up to my bed.

  She spun to him. “You don’t know that. That is ridiculous! She was his concubine. She loved him.”

  “She loved the power she gained from him. But she told her servants she hated lying with him—especially after he grew cursed by disease. She said her skin crawled with disgust when he entered her chambers. When we discovered her body, we also found evidence that she was a member of the cult of Set.”

  “That does not mean she killed him!”

  “No, but the confession of the assassin confirmed it.”

  Mother rolled her eyes. “How convenient; for you to find the assassin no one else could. Why did you not tell me? When did this happen?”

  “Years ago.”

  “And you let her live all that time? You never spoke to me of it? This is preposterous.”

  “You would not have believed us even if he had confessed in your hearing. You trusted Iset foolishly. Iset was necessary for the kingdom’s strength—for Thutmose’s sake. She is no longer required.”

  Mother narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you kill her?”

  Senenmut shook his head, and with complete honesty said, “No. But she made many enemies with the way she governed the Upper and Lower Kingdoms.”

  Raising a shaking hand, Mother pinched the bridge of her nose. “Iset’s supporters will try and take control of Thutmose.” She looked at me. “You will need to marry him.”

  “I am not marrying Thut.”

  “The bloodline—”

  “You should become Pharaoh,” I interrupted.

  Mother was silent, her expression growing stony. “That—”

  “Grandfather wanted you to be Pharaoh; he said that you were his preference!”

  “I took the throne with your Father. I followed tradition,” Mother argued.

  I almost shouted, “You were sired by Amun himself! No other Pharaoh in recent generations has been blessed in such a way.”

  “I cannot take the throne. It is Thutmose’s right.”

  Senenmut spoke, his voice deep and sure. “Thutmose is not ready for the responsibilities of being Neter Nefer. He is more interested in scrolls and war games. You could take the throne tomorrow and Egypt would prosper as it hasn’t since your father’s time.”

  Silence.

  Then, so quietly it was almost unsaid, Mother murmured, “I do not want the throne.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  Weeks after Thutmose celebrated his seventh regnal year, Mother was crowned with the Hedjet and Deshret of Upper and Lower Egypt. Her body spoke of power and vitality, the sword at her hip the trials and tribulations that had led her to the throne. The stones and jewels that draped her echoed the wealth of combined Egypt, but her eyes were resigned. Thutmose’s shone with relief.

  She took th
e name Maatkare: truth is the ka of the Re.

  It was a tribute to Iset; friend, family and ultimately, betrayer.

  I do not know if Mother ever guessed what I had done the night of Thutmose’s coronation celebration, but in the years that followed I would sometimes catch her watching me, gaze thoughtful.

  What I did was for the good of the kingdom.

  For Mother.

  The Good God.

  “Neter Nefer” by Amanda Pillar

  THE DRAGON, THE TERROR, THE SEA

  Stephanie Lai

  The war wearies her. At first it’s a way to consolidate her power; later, it is necessary to maintain her boundaries.

  She hears rumours, on the coast. Rumours of the British and the Portuguese; rumours of troubles in towns; rumours of leadership and mistakes and opportunities.

  She hears rumours, and she makes plans.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  Ching Shih takes seventeen women and children ashore with her. Her flagship brings her into port; though large, it is dwarfed by the military ships already there. Word of the Governor is true, at least, and this comforts her as she leaves her crew behind and disembarks with her seventeen women and children.

  In the distance, a third of her armada floats off the coast of Kwangchou; a promise she carries beside her into every battle.

  There is a respectful silence in the ports; further into the town, as they ride, there are jeers from soldiers and whispers from imperial workers. “Children,” she hears, voices scandalised. “Women,” she hears, voices rough and amused. There is the clatter of horses’ hooves and, in the distance, the ring of steel upon steel. She looks down at Chew Ying beside her; born to one of her pirates and an experienced deck hand, she imagines his ten year old head marked with ink; imagines 大辟 carved into his forehead; boiled alive and slowly sliced. Young Chew Ying looks up at her; flashes a grin that is all teeth and eagerness and the promise of an ankle strapped with knives.

  He is not her child, but the fleet is filled with her children; even those who were pirates before she was born. They are what she has made them, and they follow where she leads.

  Ching Shih sits up, her back straight. She is the dragon; she is the pirate; she is 中国南海的恐怖, the Terror of the South China Sea.

  Pirates take anything they need, and this thing, she needs.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  The Red Flag Fleet is 1500 vessels; banners of varying hues fly in the sea breeze. Through her fleet, Ching Shih levies taxes upon every town she comes across, and she has never heard a word of complaint.

  She knows what it is to live a life on the fringes of a town that doesn’t want her.

  The Red Flag Fleet protects the towns under its flags, and no words of protest ever reach her ears.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  Ching Shih has not brought only seventeen women and children into Kwangchou with her. She has brought many boxes of Kwangchou tael with her, and the clinking emanating from the crates as they sway behind horses is distinctive. No Kwangchouyahn will not recognise the sound; she watches the heads around her go still as they try not to follow the clink clink clink with anything but ears that show disinterest.

  She has tried to dull their noise with ribbons and seals, but she hasn’t tried that hard. She likes the sound.

  Governor Lingbai looks down at her from his seat. Though Ching Shih is tall, he is taller, here in this city.

  He smiles down at her: takes in her large feet and her scarred face; takes in the women and children with open faces curled around behind her. The walls of this room tower above her, with watercolours at intervals and the ornate carving into the ceiling. Ching Shih notices a rich, velvet curtain framing a window, and wonders how she missed this evidence of the British in her city.

  Governor Lingbai neglects to offer her tea. After all this time, and all this effort, he doesn’t take her seriously.

  Well, she supposes, that’s half the point.

  Condescendingly, excruciatingly slowly, the negotiations begin. “You are a beautiful woman,” says Governor Lingbai. “I cannot believe you are truly the Terror of the South China Seas. And who is your first mate?” Lingbai laughs as he looks down at Chew Ying beside her; the child is clearly not the formidable shape of her consort, Chang Pao.

  She does not kowtow, though he implies she ought; she remains unconcerned by his demands, making minor concessions which mean nothing to her, until she has exactly what she wants. The children, as discussed, play games behind the boxes filled with taels, knocking into them occasionally to cause them to clink together. Ching Shih observes Lingbai’s eyes drifting towards the boxes every time.

  Her women sit and read scrolls of paper, breaking off every now and then to pass one over to Ching Shih as she comes to another agreement. If Lingbai notices, at the end, that she hands over exactly as many parchments as she brought, he doesn’t mention it.

  Ching Shih returns to the ship a married woman, with promises of amnesty for her flotilla and an agreement to bow to the emperor, should she ever meet him. She returns with all seventeen of her women and children, though the guardsmen’s eyes had lingered on her women. She offered one single kowtow rather than the usual nine, and blinked twice to prevent herself from laughing.

  Ching Shih returns with none of her boxes, but they were rather heavy, and anyway, she has more to come.

  On the ship, the children yell; brush the tears from their cheeks and throw knives at one another, shrieking with delight as they show off the prizes they took from pockets and hands. Each child and each woman sits before her and tells her what information they have gleaned from their hours in the city and the palace, from their hours in the shadows shaking as if their fear is real.

  They are pirates. They fear nothing but the dragon, and it is she who keeps them safe.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  She is young when she meets Zheng; young when he requests she run away with him; young when he asks first before he kidnaps her, and she tells him yes.

  “I will be your equal,” she says, and doesn’t give him a chance to laugh.

  On her knees in Kwangchou, she has seen what power can do. She will take it where she can, and wield it as far as she is able.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  The Red Fleet settles into Kwangdung. Though they have given their thousand ships to the emperor’s tiny navy and their weapons to his armies, they are pirates, and they know how to adapt.

  The Red Fleet levies taxes through its gambling dens; creates heavens in its brothels. The fleet spreads through Kwangdung with efficiency, guided by Ching Shih’s directions. The taels clink into her counting house, and Chang Pao arranges men where men are needed.

  She ignores a summons from Lingbai; when the second comes, she sends Ying instead. He is thirteen.

  Her children grow. Her fleet grows.

  She grows roots in Kwangchou, and her heart grow heavy with it.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  The months pass. Ying buys a ship with the money he has earned. She smiles at him but lets him go. “Don’t let the emperor find you,” she says to him as he sets off, taking thirty of his brothers and sisters with him. They have grown tired, these last four years on the land, and she can’t fault them for sailing away.

  They are all of them from the sea, and though not all of them will return, she can’t stop them from going.

  Ching Shih wishes, for a moment, that she could follow them. She closes her eyes and allows herself this moment: the deck beneath her feet and the tang of salt on her tongue. She thinks of her sword by her side and Zheng, lost to the South China Seas.

  She sits once more before her sums, and pushes the sea away.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  There is a man early in her reign, shortly after Zheng’s death. The news has come and she has shed her tears behind her closed door; before it, she is a pirate holding firm,
no weak concubine crying in the face of disaster. She works with Cheng Paoyang and Cheng Qi to consolidate the fleet. The work she and Zheng have done together, as commander and second of the Red Flag Fleet, is good but remains as yet unfinished. She would not have it remain so.

  She will not be a widow, unsure of her future.

  She is foolish, she knows that. But she has a moment of weakness and Li Nan knows that when he knocks on her door; Chang Pao is above decks and Cheng Paoyang and Cheng Qi are off on another ship. He comes at her, snarling, and she has no moment of warning before she’s knocked off her feet by the force of his lunge. It is only force of habit that keeps her from shrieking.

  A pirate doesn’t shriek. It was an early lesson.

  She feels the indignity of it as he reaches for her ku; as he fumbles for his own. He wouldn’t do this to her if he considered her truly the Commander of the Red Flag Fleet; he wouldn’t do this to her if he saw her as more than just a woman. This will not do and, as she holds in her cry and her sounds of rage, it’s her training, and the knowledge that she will not be defeated by a man, that pushes through her veins as she shoves him across the room. He lands with a loud thud and moves sluggishly; slowly. She leaps for him, yelling, her dagger in her hand, and he draws breath and pushes to his feet.

  He does not push far.

  By the time Chang Pao has rushed through the door, Li Nan is no longer a man to be feared. Ching Shih’s hand, though shaking, was firm and her aim true; the dagger that never leaves her side is through his chest.

  His eyes, lifeless, gaze out towards the ocean. He’s most certainly dead. It’s not good enough, though, and on the deck, in front of her men, she calls out her findings; calls down her judgement. It is her own arm which swings the blade; and it is her own sword which makes the cut, clean through. His head lies there, the blood sluggish as it stains the deck.