The Crook and Flail

by L. M. Ironside

  “I am a maiden,” she said, unable to keep a touch of irony from her voice, “beautiful and blooming.”

  The voice of one of Thutmose's guards carried into the tent. A moment later the doorway opened. A line of servants entered beut aring the Pharaoh's supper. On their heels came Hatshepsut's contribution to the night's pleasures: the musicians Thutmose had brought from Waset, carrying their harps and drums, bowing to the royal couple as they passed, and behind them, Thutmose's six pets. Tabiry gave Hatshepsut a knowing, smoky-eyed smile. She took up her place near the musicians, and as the meal began she danced.

  She lacked Iset's natural, pristine grace, but Tabiry's dancing held a coarse sensuality that Hatshepsut found alluring. The music seemed to twist around her body, to interweave with the brush of her thighs, the sway of her breasts. Her arms lifted, open, inviting, gleaming with gold; her glistening lips were parted as if she must catch her breath. She moved from one pool of lamplight to another, her dark skin sparkling and dimming, and as she crossed the pavilion, turning and rocking, Thutmose's eyes followed where she went. Hatshepsut filled his cup with wine.

  When Tabiry's dance was done, Rekhetre and Keminub took her place, executing an intricate performance in which they spun a colorful veil between them, passed it hand to hand, linking arms so that it became impossible to follow, in the blur of the fabric, which woman held it at any given moment. As they whipped the veil about their bodies, stepping this way and that, they often drew so close together that their buttocks or breasts touched. Each time, Thutmose leaned toward them eagerly.

  As the women took their turns entertaining the Pharaoh, Hatshepsut encouraged his arousal with a hand laid on his arm, her thigh pressed against his, her fingers trailing for a moment along the back of his neck. And she kept his wine cup in his hand. He warmed to her caresses; she stroked him more the more he drank, and withheld her hand when he ceased his drinking to eat or to make some snide remark about Hatshepsut's own inadequacy as a dancer. She paid no mind to his returning belligerence. It was a sign of his intoxication. She let her hand creep to the hem of his kilt, pushed it back to stroke along the length of his thigh. It could hardly be simpler to train a hound to hunt.

  Thutmose raised his cup in salute to pale-eyed Itaweret, who had just finished singing; he giggled when the wine sloshed onto the tabletop. Tabiry leaned close to Hatshepsut. She whispered, “Too much wine, Great Lady, and he'll drop his spear and find himself unable to pick it up again.”

  The sight of Tabiry leaning into Hatshepsut's ear sparked a sly flame in Thutmose's eye. He gestured to Rekhetre and Itaweret. They seemed to know exactly what the Pharaoh desired; they hurried into a pool of lamplight and immediately began to kiss, twining their arms about one another, their hips and breasts pressing together in a show of urgency that made Hatshepsut's eyebrows raise in spite of herself. She watched with near as much avidity as the Pharaoh as Rekhetre pulled Itaweret to the pavilion floor and pressed her mouth between the other woman's thighs. Itaweret's hips rose from the floor; her back arched and she cried out, a song of pleasure so intense that Hatshepsut caught her breath. The sudden throb of her pulse pounded in her own loins. The other women joined, one by one, until the pavilion floor was a tangle of smooth limbs, of backs curving with the tension of desire. The scent of the women's bodies filled the tent, a warm spice that eclipsed the deep, lulling odor of myrrh and the tang of spilled wine. Thutmose looked down on the show and laughed, the triumph of command on his face. Hatshepsut could set' ee, in his glinting, wine-glazed eyes, that more than the show itself, it was his power that inflamed him – his unquestioned ability to demand this performance from the women, the certainty that they would give him anything he pleased – and all because of the crown he wore.

  She stood and removed his hand from the wine cup. Thutmose looked up at her, his face still slightly rounded by youth, reddened by wine. His expression clouded for a moment with boyish uncertainty. Then he seemed to recall himself, his crown, his power. He lurched to his feet. His kilt could not conceal his eagerness.

  “I knew you'd come around,” he said, the words indistinct. “Grew up thinking you were a boy, sister, but now you will see what a real man can do!”

  “No doubt I will.” She pulled him toward his bed.

  “Ready, aren't you? Finally ready for me to make you a woman?”

  Hatshepsut snapped her fingers; Tabiry looked up from the floor, looked up from between Keminub's breasts. At Hatshepsut's gesture she shook the women apart, led them toward the Pharaoh's bed.

  Hatshepsut let Thutmose fall onto his linens. She stood back, watching with some amusement as the women gathered around him, bending to their task. Keminub was the last to approach the bed, and Hatshepsut seized her by the arm, making a show of sudden innocent terror.

  “Oh, Keminub! I cannot do it. My poor heart – I am only a wilting girl inside. I saw his manhood through his kilt. He will wound me; I'll never stop bleeding!”

  “No, no, sister,” Keminub said. “You sailed all the way from Waset for this moment. It doesn't hurt – believe me.”

  “I'll be braver if I can watch first. You do it first, and later, when he is roused again, I will do what you do.”

  Keminub glanced at Thutmose, doubtful. He clasped Rekhetre to him, his mouth wet and insistent on her breast. “I do not know whether he will rouse again. He's had so much wine...”

  “He will. I will see to it. You must go first, I beg you! It is all so new to me; I don't know what to do. Oh, please!”

  The women surrounded the bed now, embracing one another, stooping to kiss the Pharaoh where he lay. “Where is my sister?” came Thutmose's voice from among the tangle of their bodies. She could see nothing of him but two feet and part of an arm; now and then his arm raised as he cupped a breast or pinched this woman or that, eliciting a squeal. “She wants me. She wants me to show her what a man can do! Bring my sister!”

  “What a man can do...do you hear?” Hatshepsut clasped trembling hands at her throat. “I must learn first, Keminub, or I'll be wounded! I am the Great Royal Wife, and I command you. You must!”

  “Very well, Great Lady. I will do as you command.”

  Keminub pushed past the fray. Hatshepsut watched as her head and shoulders rose above the other women. Thutmose's visible feet jerked and quivered; his shouts for Hatshepsut were cut off at once. Keminub bounced two, three times, and Thutmose grunted, sighed. The women stopped their work and stood back. Tabiry looked around at Hatshepsut, her eyes wide and questioning. But Hatshepsut nodded her approval, and Keminub slid from the bed. She wiped between her legs with a corner of the Pharaoh's bed-sheet. Sprawled on the bed, Thutmose drifted into sleep.

  “Leave us,” Hatshepsut said.

  When they had gone, bowing and murmuring, she undressed and climbed carefully into bed beside her husband. He grumbled and rolled, taking most of the sheets with him. Hatshepsut jerked them from his grasp and settled in, suddenly exhausted.

  The sounds of the encampment woke them at daybreak: the voices of Thutmose's guards talking low as they paced the perimeter of his tent, the strike of flint and bronze to start the cook fires. At the eastern edge of the camp a horse whinnied, and from inside the fortress walls three more answered, distant and thin.

  Thutmose stirred, sat up, and pressed hands to his temples. “Gods,” he moaned.

  “Good morning, husband.”

  He gasped, glared down at her. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Last night,” she said, “the Pharaoh showed me what a man can do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hatshepsut entered the harem tent when the sun had just begun to climb free of the eastern hills. Dressed once more in her simple traveling frock, she held Tabiry's blue gown carefully. Wrapped in its folds were the jewels and wig she had worn the night before.

  “I came to say my farewell,” she told the women. “And to thank you – especially you, Keminub. Thanks to your example, I am a virgin no more, and my heart is full, kn
owing that my husband loves me well.”

  Tabiry took the bundle from her hands. She chuckled with relief. “Then it worked. I wasn't sure, when I saw Keminub climb aboard him. I wasn't sure he would even wake again, as much wine as he'd drunk, much less rise. I am glad to hear it, Great Lady.”

  “Won't you stay a few days more?” Rekhetre held out a bowl of figs, but Hatshepsut waved them away. Her stomach was tender again.

  “I cannot. There is much to be done in Waset – the Hathor Festival, you know. I hope the lot of you will return by then. I should like to see you again soon. You have been good to me, and I am pleased.”

  “> Oh, certainly,” Tabiry said. “I am sure the Pharaoh would not miss the festival. He loves...”

  The sound of men shouting rang outside the tent walls, a sudden, clamoring urgency. Nehesi burst through the tent door, his sword half-drawn.

  “With me, Great Lady. Now!”

  “Nehesi, what is it?”

  “Follow me to the ship. I'll put you aboard and the captain will take you out into the river where you'll be safe.”

  “Safe from what?” She followed him outside. The rising sun shone bright; she squinted into a confusion of white kilts flashing as men ran from tent to tent, fumbling sword belts about their hips. She glanced toward the fortress. A line of men stood along the top of the nearest wall, spears at the ready. From one of the towers a horn blared.

  “Oh gods,” Keminub wailed. The women gathered behind her, clutching one another. “It's the Kushites. Look!”

  A band of men scurried down the face of the nearest hill; a sheet of pallid dust rose behind them. The soldiers of Thutmose's camp ranged to meet them. The gate of the fortress opened, but the fortress was a half mile or more from the encampment, and Thutmose's soldiers were few. The Kushite troop would be on them long before the garrison could intervene. She spun on her heel, looking for the Pharaoh. There – before his blue-and-white pavilion! He clambered into a chariot and took up the reins while two men still worked to secure the horses' trappings.

  “Nehesi, take these women to the boat. Put it out into the river, well beyond bow-shot.”

  “You're coming with me.” He made as if to seize her arm, but she stepped back, her eyes cold with command.

  “I gave you an order, Nehesi!”

  “Great Lady,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice. But she sprinted for the Pharaoh's chariot before he could say more.

  When her weight landed on the platform beside him, Thutmose yelped, then glared when he recognized his sister. “Get out of here, Hatshepsut.”

  “And go where? Wait inside your tent for a Kushite blade to come cut me from it? I think not.”

  Thutmose shouted to his horses; they lurched for the eastern edge of camp, toward the river, spraying mud from their hooves. Hatshepsut grabbed the rail with both hands. The wheels slammed into the rut of a cart-track and her wig flew from her head, into the crowd of servants who leapt from the chariot's path.

  “You're going the wrong way!”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  “Name of Amun, Thutmose, where is your sword?” She saw now that he wore nothing at his belt, not even a dagger. “I thought you were going to drive out with your men, fight the raiders!”

  Thutmose did not answer. He made the edge of the camp where the ground firmed, unchurned by so many feet, and slapped the reins against the horses' flanks. They lengthened their stride, speeding along the river bank.

  “You coward! Turn this chariot and fight!”

  Thutmose drove intently for the southern edge of the plain. He said nothing, did not so much as glance around at her admonishment. She reached for the reins and managed to lay hold of one; she tore it from his hand, struggled to turn the horses. Thutmose slapped at her, shoved her shoulder, struck her face until she nearly lost her balance. She let go of the rein and resumed her grip on the rail.

  “Thutmose! Listen to me – listen! You are the king. What will it do to your men to see you fleeing from a fight? You will lose it all, Thutmose – their loyalty, and mine. Turn this chariot now and fight!”

  The grass of the plain gave way to the dry, stony earth of the hills. The horses grunted and snorted as they struggled up the incline. Thorny brush hissed along the sides of the chariot, snicked in the spokes of its wheels.

  “You know why they've attacked. They saw your tent. They knew you were here. They mean to kill you. Men will die defending you while you hide like a child.”

  “I am the Pharaoh; it is their duty to die in my defense.”

  “Are you? Even this woman would stay and fight, and yet the Pharaoh flees.”

  He dropped the rein again and hit her in the mouth. She shouted, wordless, full of rage, tasting the blood from her split lip but never feeling the pain.

  At the crown of the hill he slowed the horses to pick his way behind a crest of exposed red rock. They were high above the valley now. The tents were spots of color against the open wound of muddied land, and the fortress's walls seemed too low, too fragile from this distance. She could see the army advancing from the fortress's gates, crawling across the plain to where the Pharaoh's few soldiers met the Kushite force in a ragged, straggling line. In the river, her ship crept under oar to the safety of the open water. She hoped the harem women were aboard. Her heart beat painfully in her ears, throbbed in her head, wigless and exposed as it was to the strengthening sun. Her pulse pounded a hot rhythm in her swollen lip. She stared about desperately, trying to find something to inspire her brother to return and fight.

  Below the hill to the east, a dry gully leveled out at the edge of the plain. She followed the scar of it into the heart of the hills, tcreрo where its walls lengthened and darkened, exposing stern faces of the same sharp stone that had daunted her at the cataracts. From deep in the ravine a banner of dust wended up into the sky, thin at first, but growing larger, wider.

  “Name of Amun,” she said. “Thutmose, look! There's another Kushite force there – the ravine!”

  Thutmose peered at the wall of dust, whimpering.

  “We have to warn them! The garrison will close with the first group of Kushites and your camp and the garrison's rear will be exposed to the attack!”

  Thutmose clutched at his belly. His face was pale.

  “There's no time to be sick. Go! Back to the camp; warn them! Thutmose, you must!”

  He shook his head.

  “By the gods,” she said, the words thick in her mouth, heavy with disgust. “Are you our father's son, or am I?” She raised her foot to his belly and thrust hard. He toppled backward from the chariot, grunting as he fell into the dust.

  Hatshepsut seized the reins. It had been years since she had driven a chariot; she sent a brief prayer to Amun that the skill would return to her, and quickly. She hissed the horses down the slope, giving them their heads, trusting the gods to guide them past rocks, around the hidden burrows of desert rats. As she rode, the wind stealing her breath, the dust stinging tears into her eyes, she watched the betraying banner of the advancing Kushites. Their number must be great, to raise such a trail. But her horses were swift, and the gods were good. In a rattle of wheels, a tumult of hooves and the guttural grunts of her straining horses, he pulled ahead of the ambush, and ahead yet more. By the time she reached the level plain the ravine was well behind her. She whooped at the horses, sent them flying all the faster along the river, past the encampment, past the fearful din of the fight at its western edge. She did not draw rein until she had intercepted the first chariot from the fortress. Her horses stood blowing, lathered, trembling with the effort.

  “General,” she shouted. “A Kushite force from the south, from the heart of the hills!”

  The general stared at her, startled, as his foot troops approached behind him. He seemed about to question her, but his eyes drifted beyond to the ravine in the southern hills.

  “Sekhmet's teats,” he swore. “Change course,” he bellowed, gesturing with his spear to the south. “
Ambush! Change course!”

  The Egyptian force surged around her, past her. She fumbled the reins as her horses screamed and danced, and then the army rushed beyond her, charging to the exposed, vulnerable flank of Thutmose's camp.

  A dark hand laid hold of her horse's bridle. “Nehesi!” His sword was drawn, his small shield slung over one shoulder. He pulled himself into the chariot.

  “To the fortress,” he said. “And this time, do not argue.”

  ***

  From the nearest tower, she watched as the garrison ringed the camp, met the raiders with a clash of bronze, a shout of anger and hatred, a sound that rang and carried across the distance to her ears. Nehesi tore linen from his kilt, soaked it with water from a soldier's discarded skin. He dabbed at her broken lip.

  Hatshepsut stared beyond her guardsman's shoulder to the battle. A tent had caught fire; the smoke obscured the field, and she growled in her impotent fury, waving her hands in desperation as if she might clear the view, as if she could will the Egyptians to victory if only she could see.

  “Easy,” Nehesi said. “This lip is bad. Let me clean it.”

  She winced. Suddenly she could feel the pain of it, and she burned with hatred for Thutmose.

  “We must go out to them. We must help.”

  “And what can you do for them, begging your pardon, Great Lady? You are seventeen, and a woman.”

  “I can fight.” Tears flooded her eyes. The field obscured further, bled into a mess of smoke and brilliant color, the banners and blood of men. “I will fight! Give me a spear; I will kill them all, every last Kushite! I could do it. I could.”

  “I know.”

  The eerie brazen wail of a Kushite horn sounded. And again, a quavering call. Nehesi made an abrupt sound, part laugh, part grunt. “They're sounding the retreat. We have beaten them, Lady!”

  Hatshepsut dashed the tears from her eyes. She leaned from the tower, across the parapet, the rough new stone pressing the breath from her lungs. A breeze lifted on the river, and the smoke moved into the hills, sluggish and dark. Several tents had collapsed and two had burned, but the Pharaoh's striped pavilion still stood. The Egyptian forces had drawn into a tight ring around the pavilion. Bodies lay scattered across the plain. And far beyond the remains of the encampment, a ragged band of men made for the mouth of the ravine, pursued by a handful of chariots.