The Crook and Flail

by L. M. Ironside

  Iset's eyes filled with tears; they spilled over to run down her smooth cheeks.

  Hatshepsut gathered her to her chest. She could not tell whether the girl cried with relief or sorrow. The gods damn this throne, and everything I have done to keep it. And the gods damn me, for wanting more.

  ***

  It was only in the afternoon, when Hatshepsut had seen to her courtly duties and was free to take her leisure in her garden, that she wondered how she would explain Little Tut to the nobles and priests. When she birthed her son, they would all expect him to be named the heir. And she would change the custom, as she had promised Iset, as she had promised Nebseny and Ankhhor, to set a harem girl's child above her own – no, not even a harem girl, but a servant. What excuse would her people believe? What could she possibly tell them to save herself, to save Senenmut, to save all of it? She felt a twisting in her belly. Perhaps the child had moved, or perhaps it was merely her own anxiety curling there, a fist beneath her heart.

  “Hatshepsut?” Sitre-In's voice called from the direction of her chambers. She walked back steadily, slowly, resisting the childish urge to run to her mawat, to bury her face in her skirts and weep.

  “What is it?”

  “Your steward is here, Great Lady.”

  “Senenmut?”

  “He has an urgent report for you, so he says.”

  The report was chilling. Senenmut recounted how, not an hour gone, the court magicians had begged an emergency council with the Pharaoh. They had consulted their charts of the stars, their lists of days, and had brought the dire news of a fire in the night sky.

  “A fire? What in Amun's name does it mean?”

  “I have read of such things,” Senenmut said, talking low so his words would not carry to her women.

  Hatshepsut stared vacantly at the thin, frail shape of Batiret; she watched the girl drop her spindle awkwardly in the shade, a stern furrow between her brows, while Ita and Tem spun deftly, their mouths moving on their incessant gossip.

  “Fires hang among the stars at intervals of tens or of hundreds of years. They are portents, Lady. They foretell great dangers or evils.”

  “What am I to do about this?”

  “There is nothing you can do,” Senenmut said. “I only wanted you to be prepared, for the people will surely make much of it. When fear runs through a city, there can be riots.”

  “This hanging fire – does it tell of a god's displeasure? Is it a sign of Amun's wrath?”

  He held her eyes, steady and silent. At last he said, “You and I have nothing to fear.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  She dismissed him and returned to the solitude of her garden. The gods' displeasure – Hatshepsut shivered, though the afternoon was hot and buzzing with flies. The child twisted again in her belly; her heart lurched in response. Great dangers or evils. If indeed the gods were preparing to punish Egypt, it was due to their anger with the throne. It could be nothing else, for the Pharaoh's divine purpose was to act as conduit between gods and men. Responsibility fell upon the throne. But was it Thutmose's weakness that displeased them, or some other lack? Is it his absence from the throne they abhor – or mine?

  She sat miserable in the brutal glare of the sun, slouched upon the grass where days before she had rolled with Senenmut. A wide and terrible vista opened before her, a scene of all her transgressions, all her failures in maat. She, the Greaas lt Royal Wife, carried a child that was not the king's. She had sworn to put her own son aside – the child of the Great Royal Wife's body, regardless of who sired him – in favor of Little Tut. And she had spurned the throne of the king when she knew it to be her birthright. Any of these, or all together, might be the cause of the hanging fire. But she felt, deep in the seat of her kas, that the coming fire would burn for her.

  “It is me,” she said, her face turned to the blazing sun. Its heat dried the tears as they welled from her eyes. “I have done wrong, O Amun-Re, my lord and my father! Only show me how to make it right again, and I shall!”

  Amun gave no answer. He only sank into his western seat, pulling his light from the world with an inexorable slowness. Hatshepsut feared the coming night. When the first star appeared, hanging bright and silver above her lake, she shivered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  She moved on a smooth current. With the curtains of her litter drawn tight, shutting out the sight of the terrible night sky, she may as well have been sailing. Upriver, to Ka-Khem. She recalled the angry coughing of the deby far in the darkened marsh, the feel of Lady Iah's soft bed, its cool linens on her skin. She shut her eyes to push the images further away, the things she wished not to see, not to feel. Iset lying in her arms, gentle and trusting – Little Tut smiling upon her knee, reaching for her with his fat little hands, his skin as soft and sweet-smelling as down. Senenmut – that was most painful of all – Senenmut in the garden, moonlit and shadowed, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure.

  Her hands were cold. They clutched a small bag, simple and unassuming, pure plain linen drawn with a string. She could feel the prickle of the herbs' stems poking through the cloth, digging into her fingers and palms.

  Long before full darkness had come, the hanging fire had revealed itself, poised high above her garden, a silver slash of unmoving, unwinking light. It seemed to point directly down to where she sat huddled beside the lake's stone wall. It was the track of a fierce, bright claw scoring the flesh of the night; it was the scepter of Hathor, the Sovereign of Stars, and Hatshepsut did not know how to appease the goddess's rage.

  The priestess Bakmut had provided the herbs. She had ever been loyal to Hatshepsut; she was sensible, old enough to spurn gossip, and had pledged herself to the confidence of the God's Wife. In Bakmut's small sleeping cell, Hatshepsut had made the priestess swear secrecy upon the very ka of Amun, then had whispered her need. Two days later, she had returned to the Temple as they agreed, and Bakmut had slipped the bag into her hands.

  The placid sailing of her litter came to an abrupt halt. It lowered, and the curtain was drawn aside. She held up her hand as a sunshade although it was night, as if her hand might block Hathor's scepter from her sight. But its light was everywhere. It had intensified the past two nights, and now it added to the familiar cast of moon antesl0 td stars a foreign, frightening glow. Nehesi pulled her to her feet. He escorted her back to the echoing solitude of her chamber. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground so she would not see the hanging fire.

  Alone in her room, she took an offering bowl from her shrine box. She filled it with oil and myrrh, fanned a flame alight, wafted the smoke over the tiny figures of the holy family, Amun the father, Khonsu the son, Mut the mother. The sweet smoke wreathed Mut in a halo of white, and Hatshepsut crouched frozen, staring into the face of the goddess, staring through the goddess into a deep blackness where the air was thick and choking.

  I do this for Egypt, she told Mut. The child craves for flesh, for blood, and by night my dreams are of Sekhmet. Hathor hangs her scepter in the sky, and points to my shame. Would you have me unleash destruction upon my land?

  Mut did not answer. She only smiled, her eyes distant, her mouth enigmatic and still.

  She shifted on her knees, bending under the weight of her duty. She remembered the sound of soldiers shouting her name. They are mine. I raced with the news of the ambush; I came down from the hills to protect them. I am their guardian. They are my people, mine to protect. She squeezed her eyes shut, for on the curling of the smoke she saw Senenmut at her wedding feast, turning away from the painted girl, the golden acrobat with the chains of flowers around her slender, beautiful neck. She saw his face turn up to hers, saw the ache of desire pulse through him. She trembled. Amun, let this be right. My god, let this be all that is required of me. I cannot sacrifice more.

  When she stood, the alien silver light had fallen low through her pillared wall, coloring the floor of her bedchamber with patterns of blue and white. She did not know how long she knelt, how long
she prayed. Her knees were tender; they would be bruised in the morning.

  In her standing chest she found a tiny silver kettle, part of the treasure she had kept from Retjenu. She dipped it full of water from her ewer and set it among the glowing embers of myrrh in her offering bowl. The droplets on the outside hissed into steam. When the water was hot, she measured a quarter of the bag of herbs and let the dry, bitter leaves fall from her palm. They turned the water dark. A delicate, green scent rose with the steam. Carefully, with a corner of her blanket wrapped round her hand, she poured the brew into her wine cup. She offered one final plea to Amun for mercy, to Mut for forgiveness. She drank.

  ***

  Hatshepsut huddled on the low wall of her lake. Hathor's scepter hung above, pointing its accusing, clawed finger. Its reflection sent a path of silver light from water to heavens. The brightness attracted moths; they spun in a column of luminous, flitting wings, revolving and tapering like the fingers of dust that sometimes grew up from the desert on especially hot days. She watched the image of the scepter shatter and reform as bats dippe="1cd to the lake's surface with a touch as light as Maat's feather, strafing for the insects.

  Somewhere in the near darkness, Nehesi waited, tireless and alert, near enough to protect her but far enough to leave her to her thoughts. What few thoughts she had – what a relief it was, after these days of agonizing, to have come to a decision at last, and to cast her sacrifice at the gods' feet. What a relief to crouch on the cold stone and stare at the simple bats going about their business, to watch the soothing shimmer of moonlight on water. Cramping, distant and mild, clutched at her belly in intermittent waves. She must drink the herbs three more times, for three more nights, Bakmut had said. And then the pain would begin in earnest, but when it was done all her wrongs would be put to right, and no danger, no evil would befall the Two Lands. A pair of bats dove for the same fat moth and tumbled one over the other, righted themselves a hair's breadth above the water, parted ways. She smiled distractedly at the sight, as though it were a show at a feast, performed just for her amusement.

  She looked around sharply at a rustle in the garden. Nehesi's bulk moved from one blue shadow to another, tense and alert. He paused, staring down a narrow pathway that wended around the edge of the lake to a distant stand of trees. Hatshepsut was filled with sudden terror, a cold tingling in her limbs. A cramp came upon her, stabbing into her middle, and she caught her breath, heart pounding.

  A figure appeared from the path's bend, white and shining in the moonlight. It drifted toward her.

  “Stop,” Nehesi said. “Who is it?”

  The figure did not respond, nor did it slow. Nehesi moved to protect Hatshepsut; he stood at the confluence of two paths, and the bulk of his shoulders and back blocked the figure from her view. His hand went to his blade hilt. And then, with a murmured apology, he bowed. Beyond his bent form, Hatshepsut looked into the face of her mother, knowing and sad.

  “Ahmose.” Hatshepsut came shaking to her feet.

  “I know what you have done,” Ahmose said. The sound of her voice, unheard after so many years, fell like a blow upon Hatshepsut's heart. “You must not go further. Do not cast out this child.”

  Hatshepsut's vision blurred. Her limbs seemed to float; she felt the catch and panic of falling, a sensation far away. When her senses cleared a heartbeat later, Nehesi's arms were around her, easing her back onto the lake's low wall.

  “Great Lady? Are you well? Should I send for a physician?”

  “She is well, guardsman.” Ahmose sat beside her, took her hand in her own. “It is the touch of the god's hand she felt. It can come upon a person that way sometimes. It can take one's senses. But it is only a momentary effect. Leave us.”

  Nehesi hesitated, watching Hatshepsut's face warily. “Go,” she told him, though her very kas seemed to quake. He retreated to his shadows.

  “Mother.” Haweltshepsut could find no more words. Her voice broke with pain, with the emptiness of isolation, the weight of her duty.

  “I know.” Ahmose gathered her into her arms and rocked her. She sobbed against her chest, flooded Ahmose's white gown with tears. When her breathing steadied, Ahmose lifted Hatshepsut's face in her hands. “I know how you suffer. But, my child, you are doing the gods' work. They are pleased, Hatshepsut. They smile on you.”

  “No. Oh, Amun, blessed Mut, I have ruined it all. The hanging fire – it is a portent; Senenmut said! It foretells a great evil. It is my fault, my doing. I have destroyed maat with my selfishness, and now the very skies turn against Egypt.”

  Ahmose's laugh was low, gently chiding. She placed her hand on Hatshepsut's middle. “You have destroyed nothing. The fire is the sign of your child. This is a servant of the gods you carry, one who will bring them worship. Whatever you think you have undone, Hatshepsut, will be restored by this child.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Mother. You do not understand. Thutmose is not the father.”

  “I know.”

  She clutched at Ahmose's hands, stared into her face, desperate and harried. “How?”

  Ahmose smiled wryly. “I may be growing older. I may be only a lady now, and no longer the Great Royal Wife. But I am still god-chosen.”

  Hatshepsut remembered Mut's impassive smile, the smoke of myrrh surrounding her. She prodded at her bruised knees with tentative fingers. “I prayed to Mut tonight. Did the goddess send you to me?”

  “You asked for understanding. I bring it.”

  “Mother, I have missed you. I have tried to rule well, but there is so much I do not know, and my heart fills with fire when I should be calm, and I make a mess of everything.”

  “I should not have removed myself from the court. I was wounded, but it is no excuse. I should have been stronger, should have put away my pride for you. I should have helped you.”

  “I made you a liar before the court. I am sorry. Truly, you can't know how sorry I am.”

  Ahmose lifted Hatshepsut's chin, made her look into her stern eyes as she had done so many times before, when Hatshepsut was a willful girl. “Do not apologize. It is your task to guide this land, your will that must be obeyed. You are the son of the god himself. He has shown me Egypt whole and thriving, unfettered by whatever unknown evil you fear. And he has shown me you upon the king's throne, with your baby in your arms. This star is your own scepter, Hatshepsut. It is the banner of your coming. Your triumph is written on the sky.”

  She thought of Littimejle Tut then, of how it felt to cradle him. She longed to touch his soft hair, to blow her lips upon his warm, rounded belly until he squealed with laughter.

  “I have secured Thutmose's boy as heir. I could never put him aside, not even for a son of my own body. I love him as though he were my own.”

  “There is no need to put him aside,” Ahmose said. “Your child is a girl. You will bear a daughter of maat, whose dedication to the gods will be as vital to them as the breath of life is to man. She will restore all things that have been lost. She will shine as bright as your banner among the stars.”

  Hatshepsut's hands fell upon her belly. The child fluttered there, stirring minutely, as if in response to Ahmose's words. Tears washed afresh down Hatshepsut's cheeks – tears of gratitude, tears of relief.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “The grapes are the best I've yet seen, master.” Paweraa plucked a stem from the nearest vine to hand. He offered it to Senenmut.

  Senenmut pulled a grape free, rubbed the glaucous bloom from its skin, and bit. “Still quite tart,” he said to his overseer.

  “Indeed, but plump, and a greater yield than last year's. Last year's harvest was, you recall, master, the best to date. We shall do even better this season.”

  Senenmut nodded, placed a hand on Paweraa's shoulder. The old man had come, part and parcel, with the estate Hatshepsut had gifted him those years ago. Paweraa's family had worked this land for generations; the fields of the estate were as familiar to him as his own limbs and heart. It wa
s Paweraa's expertise that had kept Senenmut in his wealth – his knowledge, and the generosity of the God's Wife. Senenmut had much to be thankful for, and as he toured his fertile fields, sampling the produce of his land, he felt his gratitude as a surge of warm contentment below his heart. The gods were good. As near as Senenmut could tell, they had stayed completely whatever evil they had promised with their hanging fire. The unsettling star had burned for a week, a portent of nothing more than a few robberies within the city – then quietly faded away. Five months had passed, and the expected tribulations it seemed to foretell never materialized.

  They came to the planting of barley, the season's second crop just beginning to ripen. The new-formed seed heads glowed a luminous, soft green in the sun. Paweraa pulled up a stem, held it up for Senenmut to see where some beetle or other had gnawed. He was detailing his plan for eradicating the pests – something about hiring local boys to run through the field, plucking the beetles and crushing them – when Senenmut became aware of a commotion at the far end of his fields. He shaded his eyes and peered down the line of a dry ditch to where the women of the estate worked, dipping water from the canal with tight-woven baskets dangling from the ends of great weighted levers. The women shouted, gestured toward the road. Ireej0 baskthe linet ran along a causeway here, well above the level of the flood's high water. A chariot came from the south – from the direction of Waset. Nothing unusual in that; nothing to make the women stop their work and raise their voices. But in another moment he realized that the chariot was moving with great haste, and that it gleamed in the sun, banded in gold. A messenger from the palace.

  Paweraa had forgotten his gnawing beetles; he, too, held his hand above his eyes. As they stood watching, the driver swung down the side road that led to Senenmut's estate. Senenmut's belly clenched in sudden apprehension. Hatshepsut.