The Crook and Flail

by L. M. Ironside

  “Good. And I swear by Mut that what I tell you is true.”

  The pressure of silence squeezed all around. Hatshepsut’s eyelid twitched again and again, but she did not dare break the stillness to rub the twitch away.

  “You are not what you seem to be, Hatet. You are not just a girl. And you are not only the daughter of the Pharaoh.

  “When I was close to your age – when I had barely begun to bleed – my father, King Amunhotep, died. He had no royal sons and had appointed no heir. The sons of his concubines were no more than infants. Egypt was on the verge of invasion by the Heqa-Khasewet in the north and the Kushites in the south. The country was in great danger.”

  Hatshepsut nodded, bridling her impatience. She knew all this; Senenmut had told her this story before.

  “Rather than risk the land to the rule of an infant, my mother and grandmother, both wise queens, chose a man for the Horus Throne. A man of common blood – a rekhet – but also a great soldier, a tactician and battle leader who could not be beaten on the field.”

  “Father,” Hatshepsut said.

  “Yes, your father. And they were right to choose him. I believe still that no other man could have kept Egypt safe from the jackals waiting to tear the land apart. Thutmose the general – he was the gods’ own choice for the throne. But my mother and grandmother worried, you see, that because he was rekhet-born others may not recognize his right to be the king.

  “The Amun priesthood, Hatshepsut: it is very powerful. It controls much of the wealth of the land, and more importantly, it has great influence over the hearts of all men, noble and rekhet. My mother feared the priests of Amun would reject a rekhet king. She feared they would turn the people’s hearts against your father. She needed a token to back her chosen king – a pawn, like a game piece on a senet board.”

  “You were her pawn.” Hatshepsut had never thought to question whye="uestion w Ahmose was the Great Royal Wife rather than Mutnofret, who was the elder of the sisters. “But why you?”

  “Do you know what it means to be god-chosen, Hatet?”

  “I have heard such a thing mentioned before, at the Temple. But I don’t know precisely….”

  “The god-chosen are rare people, touched by the divine. Sometimes they hear the gods’ voices, or fall into trances to speak with the voice of a god. Sometimes they know the meanings of dreams, or read omens, or see the future. I am god-chosen – a dream-reader, though in your lifetime I have mostly kept the skill to myself. It is demanding enough work ruling Egypt without the added toil of interpreting dreams. But when I was your age, everyone in Waset knew of my gift, even the priests. My mother reasoned – not incorrectly, I think – that if I was the Great Royal Wife, no priest would dare to speak against your father for fear of the gods’ wrath.

  “But Mutnofret is my elder, of course, and she was first in line for the title of Great Royal Wife. She had always expected to be the new king's chief wife when our father went on to the Field of Reeds. When our family set me ahead of her, Mutnofret was savage with hate. She never forgave me for taking her birthright, though the gods know it was not my doing. And soon she and I were locked in a battle to give the Pharaoh sons.

  “Mutnofret had…” Ahmose’s voice faltered. She breathed steadily for a moment, as if stilling a sickness in her stomach, and at last went on. “Mutnofret had three sons. Beautiful boys; I loved them, despite the war she and I fought. They were, after all, my own blood, and the children of the sister I had once loved beyond life.”

  Hatshepsut said their names quietly. “Wadjmose, Amunmose, and Ramose.” She knew of them. Sitre-In had told many stories of her long-gone brothers. Sometimes Hatshepsut thought she could recall their faces.

  “Yes. They were good boys. You played often with them, and they were kind to you. We all loved them – Mutnofret, of course, and I, and your father. But your father would not name any of them heir.”

  “Why?”

  Ahmose stared at her hands in her lap. Her thick lashes, matted with kohl, obscured her eyes. “He’d had a dream, Hatet, a dream that had visited him many times, even before he was called to the throne. In this dream, he saw the child who would succeed him as Pharaoh, and it was none of Mutnofret’s boys.”

  A deep, shocking chill covered her, penetrated all her skin at once, as if she had been thrown into the cold, fierce river. There is nothing to fear; it’s just a story, she told herself. But a sharp, painful certainty dug at her ribs, pounded there with the beat of her heart. Was this what it felt like, to be touched by a god, to hear a god’s voice? Reluctantly, Hatshepsut asked the question, td, question,hough she already knew the answer. “Who was the child in Father’s dream?”

  “You.”

  Hatshepsut could find no words. I am female. I cannot be Pharaoh.

  Ahmose continued the tale. “You were not yet born, of course. Your father knew only that he would have his heir from my body. And I knew with the certainty of the god-chosen that I would never bear a son. It was a source of great strife between us. His insistence that his Great Royal Wife produce his heir only soured poor Mutnofret all the more; she and I were at odds all the time. I kept trying to make him name one of the boys as his successor, just to pacify my sister, but he refused, and the tragedy and strain of her fate began to tear at Mutnofret’s heart. Soon she was seeing threats everywhere. She accused me of trying to steal Wadjmose, the eldest, to raise him as my own child.”

  Ahmose fell silent. She lifted her face, gazing up at Hatshepsut’s painted walls. Even in the dim light, the walls were bright with the images of the goddesses. Ahmose rose, graceful and straight. She walked to the nearest mural, reached out a finger to trace the form of Mut, the mother-goddess, with pure white wings outstretched. Hatshepsut wanted to hear how the story ended – needed to hear it now, now that she knew about her father’s dream, about her own part in it. But the darkness in Ahmose’s silence forbade questions. Hatshepsut sat quietly, working her fingers into knots, pressing her nails into the palms of her hands.

  After a long time, Ahmose turned away from Mut’s image. She faced Hatshepsut once more. “I had a terrible fight with your aunt, Hatet, one day when her suspicion and rage had pushed me beyond the limits of my endurance. I threw her to the ground and beat her with a stick, as if she were a disobedient slave.”

  Hatshepsut stared hard at her mother, eyes wide. Beat her? Mutnofret? Impossible. Ahmose was a small woman – smaller than Mutnofret, certainly – and the second wife wore a compelling, hypnotic allure all about her, as tangible as a priest’s leopard-skin mantle. No woman or man could beat the second wife. Hatshepsut was sure of it.

  “I was in anguish over what I had done. Not only to Mutnofret, but to Egypt. I was young, you see, and inexperienced, and your father was too often away at war. By this time, I was afraid for my station in life, afraid Mutnofret would take all I had. So I…I did things that…I angered the gods, Hatshepsut. It is my greatest shame. In my fear and isolation, I took a lover – my own steward – and I usurped the title of God’s Wife of Amun from my grandmother, who was too old and weak to stop me.”

  Ahmose’s voice quavered with shame, but Hatshepsut hardly noticed, flung as she was into a state far beyond excitement. This was better than any adventure story, better than she had imagined! She gaped at her mother, thrilled and impressed. “You took a lover? And you are the God’s Wife?”

  ““It is no longer my title,” Ahmose said quickly, her voice stern. “I was never truly God’s Wife, though if you look at court records dating back fifteen or sixteen years, I am referred to by the title. But it was never mine to take. It was a lie – a dreadful, despicable lie – one for which I will be sorry until my dying day, and after, too. I was young, but that is no good excuse. The gods turned their faces from Egypt because of my irresponsibility. The river failed; Egypt came very near to famine. All because of me, because I was too weak to deal with Mutnofret without scheming like a louse.”

  Ahmose faltered. Her face pinched, a
nd just for a moment her chin quivered as if she might cry. She drew a long, shaking breath. Then she said, so quietly, “And even that is not entirely true. I want to deny what I did. I want to deny that I was ever the God’s Wife, because I came to the title in such a terrible, cruel, unfair way, and knowing I was ever capable of such wickedness burns my heart. And because your father made me renounce all claim to the title once he learned what I had one. But I was the God’s Wife, after all.”

  “I don’t understand, Mawat.”

  “We do as the gods will us, Hatet. You and I, the king, all the people of Egypt. Whatever our plans, in the end we do as they will.

  “The god Amun wanted a son. And so he chose me – I will never understand why – but he chose me, and he took me; brought me to his side and to his bed, though the path that led me there nearly destroyed me. It nearly destroyed our family, and Egypt, too. He made me his wife, the same as any man makes any woman his wife. I could not escape my fate.

  “This last great fight I had with Mutnofret…. I felt so guilty, so soiled, that I fled to the Temple of Amun and begged the god to forgive me. I sought forgiveness for everything – taking the title from my grandmother, taking a lover, hurting Mutnofret. I pleaded with all the gods for redemption. Straight into the night I prayed. And they heard my prayers.”

  Ahmose returned to the bed. She sat close; in the brief space between them, Hatshepsut could feel the vulnerable, human warmth of her mother’s skin.

  “The gods sent me a vision, Hatet. The strongest and greatest vision I have ever received. They would give me my redemption, an amendment for all my wrongs: a son, the heir to the Horus Throne. A Pharaoh unlike any other, who would heal the river, restore maat, and bring glory to Egypt. A child of Amun, half god, with nine souls, nine great and fearless kas.

  “And on that same night, Amun came to me in your father’s body, and made me the God’s Wife in the flesh. On that night, the Pharaoh and I made you – our prince.”

  Because she could not look at her mother, Hatshepsut watched the flame in the nearest brazier. It bent, flickered as if it might snuff itself out. Then it found some well of strength and leapf ith and let up higher, brighter than it had burned before. “But I’m a girl,” she said, her lips and hands tingling.

  “On the outside. One of your nine kas is female, and it has dictated the form of your body. But you have eight more; every one of them is male.”

  Hatshepsut said nothing. Her ears seemed to hear a distant pounding, drums far off. Then she remembered Thutmose, and Mutnofret, and saw that there was still more to Ahmose’s story.

  “Although you were born a girl, I knew you for the prince you are from the moment they laid you at my breast. I tried to convince your father. He thought I was mad. I warned him that you were Amun’s son, and that if he did not name you his heir, the gods would be angry. But he worried over what the people would think: a girl, heir to the throne. And I understood his worries. I do not blame him.”

  “Blame him for what?”

  Ahmose would not speak, or could not.

  Hatshepsut’s heart filled with dread, a terrible cold pressure that stole her breath. “Blame him for what, Mawat?”

  “For the deaths of Mutnofret’s boys. I knew, if he failed to raise you as heir, that the gods would break him to their will. But your father was always so stubborn, so certain I would bear another son – one male of body, not only male of ka. And because he would not do the work the gods gave him, because he would not acknowledge you as a prince, the gods took away his other sons one by one.”

  Tears welled in Hatshepsut’s eyes. She blinked them away without raising her hands to wipe them. In a way, then, it was her fault the boys had died.

  “Prince Thutmose was born on the same day Wadjmose died. The death of her eldest son broke Mutnofret, and she stayed broken for many years – my poor, poor sister. But the new baby kept her heart from fleeing entirely into darkness. Thutmose was her only joy, her only reason for living. She nursed him herself, and would let no other woman care for him, not even for a moment. Not until he was much older did she finally assign a nurse to see to some of his needs; but even now, it is Mutnofret who is, without question, the prince's only mawat.

  “And so you see, Hatet, I could not bear to send the prince to the harem when his sixth year came. I feared it might shatter Mutnofret completely, to take the prince away from her. There have been times in my life when I have hated Mutnofret, may the gods curse me, but I love my sister now. I love her and I pity her. Her life has been one great sorrow, and to take away her son might destroy her.

  “And now do you understand?”

  Numb, stunned, Hatshepsut nodded. Then a wild thought flared in her breast, a whisper that she tried to ignore. She shook her head to deny it, but it licked up, bright and dancing, a flame. “Mother, Prince Thutmose – he is still alive. The gods spared him. Why, when Mutnofret’s other sons all died?”

  “Because,” Ahmose said, and raised her hand to caress Hatshepsut’s cheek, to lift her chin so their eyes met and held, “in the end, your father did the task the gods gave him. He proclaimed you his heir at Annu, the sacred city of the north. As your regent, I have kept the throne for you until you come of age to claim it as the rightful king.”

  But all of Egypt believed Thutmose was the heir. “You are Thutmose’s regent.”

  “No. I have never called him the heir, nor called myself the regent of Thutmose. I have always been careful, in every dealing and proclamation, to name myself only the regent of the heir, and to name Thutmose only the prince, never the inheritor. The people of Egypt may not be ready yet to accept you as their rightful ruler – the people and the priests of Amun. But by the gods, it shall be as your father commanded. I swear, Hatshepsut, I will see you crowned king. You are the rightful lord of the Two Lands. The crook and flail are yours.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Senenmut knew he blushed too easily. It was a habit unbecoming a man, but try as he might, he seemed unable to control the unfortunate reflex. Hatshepsut, observant as always, seemed to have made a game of his blushes. Every evening now she took her lessons in the garden, walking through a gathering blue dusk or sitting with Senenmut on the carved bench beneath the sycamore. Always her nurse and handmaids remained at a distance, and Hatshepsut was free to pose the questions that brought the color to his cheeks. They were simple enough questions, in truth, about the nature of men and women. Senenmut was bound by his service to answer as directly as he dared. Had his charge been a prince, he would have found no difficulty. Somehow the fact of her rough, emerging femininity added a disorienting dimension, so that he picked through his words with ostentatious care, and a word or two into his response his face would heat, his throat would dry, and he would catch Hatshepsut peering at him from the corner of her eye, though her face was always turned, aloof with chin raised, to stare impassively into the depths of the garden.

  For all her mischief, she was a dedicated student. They spoke often enough of serious matters that Senenmut felt secure in his achievements as tutor to the king's daughter. On a peaceful evening redolent with the water-green scent of lotus, he sat beside her on the bench while she furrowed her brow and volleyed at him a string of questions concerning the various works of her father Thutmose. Of late she had been drifting into quiet, pensive distances. No doubt her impending marriage had left some trouble on her heart.

  “And what do you know of my father’s early expeditions?” Hatshepsut's fingers tangled and clicked in the beads strung about her neck.

  “Quite a lot; it is recent history. Is there a particular expedition you wish to learn of?”

  “His trek to Annu.”

  “Annu?” Senenmut paused, considering. “I cannot say that I know of any of your father’s doings in Annu. It’s an important city, of course, full of very old temples with many powerful priesthoods still practicing their work. He must have visited Annu for political reasons – ah, probably several times. But if there is any sp
ecial visit he made to Annu, I have not read of it yet.”

  “Political reasons,” she repeated in a faint, distracted sort of way, and fell into one of her musing silences. Into the pause, Ita and Tem laughed over their spindles, but Hatshepsut's eyes remained unfocused on the shade-and-sunlight of the garden path. “If my father had ever made an important proclamation at Annu, it would be in the histories, would it not?”

  “I suppose that depends on how important the proclamation was, and to whom it was made, and what was its purpose. Some directives are relevant only in the moment – for a year or a month, or for merely a day. If no record is known to exist, that does not mean a proclamation never was issued.”

  “This proclamation would be extremely important. To everybody, and for more than a day.”

  “What exactly are you hunting, Lady? If it is a particular history you seek I can help you find it.”

  “I cannot speak of it,” she said, suddenly agitated. “I took a vow. No doubt if anyone could find this particular record, you could, Senenmut. You know the scrolls better than any man. And so I can be certain that no record exists.”

  Her brusque reply left him at a loss for words. He tilted his head at her, quizzical, hoping to coax out by gesture something more to go by.

  Hatshepsut smiled in spite of her strange preoccupation. “Don’t worry yourself. If a record no longer exists, that indicates nothing, as you say. It is not so easy to erase history. The past cannot be scratched out just by tearing up scrolls or defacing a few carvings. History lives in the minds of men, too – you have said as much. One day I will have the truth of Annu. If the gods will it, I will have the truth.”

  “You grow wiser every day, Great Lady, and more like a Great Royal Wife.”

  Ordinarily his words would have made her beam, exposing the large front teeth she had inherited from her father, the slender dark gap between that made her smiles so unaccountably riveting. But she frowned.