He had called on the best physicians in Egypt, who examined her skin, her breath, her pulse, her morning urine. The best they could surmise was that her ka had suffered a great shock – an unsurprising revelation. They recommended poppy milk for plenty of restful sleep, and the smoke of semsemet to soothe the pain and stimulate the appetite. One physician had offered to cut into her scalp and remove a bit of her skull to release the demons that inhabited her body. The man barely left the king’s apartments with his own skull intact.
Magicians, too, were ineffective. They prescribed particular songs and chants, amulets, beseechings to this god and that, and not a note or gesture of their efforts eased her discomfort. That chilled Thutmose. If even the gods could not lift this malady from Hatshepsut’s body and kas, how long would she remain in the realm of the living?
At least this – the planning, defending Egypt – kept her tethered to the world.
“If the reports are correct,” she said, bending over the map again, “there is a high pass here, above the town of Megiddo.”
“A very narrow pass. Too narrow to move the army through at any useful pace.”
“If you approach from any other direction, word will travel too fast. There will be too many shepherds in the lower hills, here and here. Sheep-boys can move quickly when they want to. Megiddo will be at the alert long before you arrive. They may even have time to call in help from their Hittite allies.”
“I see the sense of it,” Thutmose admitted. “But I don’t like the idea of…” He cut off abruptly.
Hatshepsut’s hands flew to her temples. She winced as she clutched frantically at her head.
Thutmose was around the table in a heartbeat, taking her by the shoulders, easing her back onto the silk couch. Her face had gone even paler, with a sickly hint of green about the mouth. He turned for Hesyre, but the man was already speeding forward with a large clay basin in his arms.
“It’s all right,” Hatshepsut said. Her voice quivered. “Only a spell of dizziness.”
Hesyre set the bowl at her feet. “Go get Meryet,” Thutmose whispered to his servant.
By the time Meryet arrived, flushed and wide-eyed, Hatshepsut was lying prone on the couch, one arm draped across her eyes to shut out even the meager light of the nearby lamp. She had heaved the contents of her stomach – not much more than thin yellow bile – into the basin, while Thutmose had watched helplessly. The spasms shook her body, wringing her out like an old, worn cloth. The sight of her gripped so completely by illness filled him with terror, and once more the guilt stole into his heart, coiled there like a waiting snake.
Meryet knelt beside the couch in spite of the nearness of the fouled basin. She took Hatshepsut’s hand in her own. “We must get you back to your own chambers.”
“No,” Hatshepsut croaked. “Not like this. No one must see me like this. Only you and my own servants. The rest must not know.”
“Nonsense,” Meryet insisted. “Nehesi is just outside the door. If you are too weak to walk, he will carry you.”
“She’s right,” Thutmose said. He laid a hand gently on Meryet’s shoulder. “No one else must see her this way. The Pharaoh, carried through the palace like a helpless infant, for any ambassador to see? It would never do – especially now, with things in Kadesh as they are. Word might travel.” He could feel Meryet’s trembling, but she did not argue.
“Then I will stay until you are able to return to your chambers,” the Great Royal Wife said. She pressed the back of Hatshepsut’s hand against her cheek, and through the tremors of the illness, Hatshepsut managed a brittle smile.
Three days later, Thutmose summoned his wife to his chambers. Meryet looked nearly as drawn and pale as Hatshepsut had the last time he’d seen her, and for one terrible moment Thutmose feared the illness was spreading. But the same haunted hollowness did not darken Meryet’s eyes, and as he welcomed her with a long embrace and a kiss on her brow, directly below the rearing cobra of her golden circlet, he realized with a hot flood of relief that it was only exhaustion he saw on her face. Exhaustion – nothing more.
“How is she?”
Meryet shrugged. She turned her face away, but not before he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Not well. Her hip pains her terribly. The dizzy spells and weakness are upon her all the time, day or night. She has scarce been able to rise from her bed for three days. It was a wonder she walked back to her chambers on her own. The way she moved through the palace, so straight and calm, I thought the worst was behind her. But when we got back to her apartments, she just…crumpled. Like a bit of linen dropped to the floor. Nehesi caught her before she hit the tiles. No one saw – no one but her own servants.”
“Just as she wished it.”
“Yes. Gods, Thutmose. She can’t go on much longer like this. She can hardly keep anything down.”
“Semsemet?”
“It helps for a few hours, but it dulls her thoughts and she doesn’t like the smell of the smoke, so she refuses it until the pain and nausea are so severe that she’s nearly weeping.”
Thutmose felt the knot of his guilt flex and hiss deep in his heart. It was Meryet who led him to one of his fine silk couches, and they folded themselves together, wrapped themselves around one another, clinging desperately to the comfort of strong, warm flesh. A great swath of time passed in silence while Thutmose stroked Meryet’s back absently, breathing in the scent of her wig and skin: her perfume of roses and myrrh, a breath of dark wine, the faint, acrid note of the semsemet smoke from Hatshepsut’s chamber. A white star crept across the bars of the windcatcher, which showed a pattern of deepest blue in the black darkness of the high ceiling. Thutmose was content to watch the star’s progress, dozing a little, grateful to release his fearful thoughts into nothingness while he soothed himself with the simple pleasure of Meryet’s skin.
At last, though, she broke the silence. “Thutmose, ought we to tell her?”
“About what?”
“About…the Lady Satiah.”
Meryet knew, of course. There was nothing he kept from her – almost nothing. She had agreed with him, that it was imperative to keep Satiah close and under guard, to make her every movement known. The Great Royal Wife was not afraid, but she was cautious, and more so now than ever before. She had Amunhotep to protect, after all.
“It could give her some resolution,” Meryet said. “If she is…if she goes to the Field of Reeds…”
Thutmose shook his head obstinately.
“If. If she departs, would it not be kinder for her to know that her daughter is alive and well?”
“I don’t think so. Truly, I don’t. I know her. She will never forgive what was done to Senenmut, no matter how long she lives, and the gods make it a long time yet.” She will never forgive what Neferure did, and I will never forgive what I did, forcing her to put Senenmut aside. “No. She mustn’t be told, Meryet. It would only pain her more.”
I am sure of that, if nothing else.
CHAPTER TEN
THE SEASON OF THE EMERGENCE meant renewal, life, the comforting reassurance of an endless continuity. The dark silt of the Black Land erupted with green, a carpet of lush vitality that rippled in cool river breezes. The very land itself smelled wholesome, lively, young. It was a bittersweet counterpoint to the painful drudgery of Meryet’s days. She had made herself the constant companion of Hatshepsut, who had not risen from her bed in weeks, except to relieve herself and bathe. This she did only with the help of her servants before sinking back onto her rumpled linens, clutching at her aching hip, her unpainted face ashen and beaded with sweat. While the Two Lands celebrated the god Waser’s promise of endless renewal, Hatshepsut had fallen into a decline. The ecstatic singing of birds in the garden, overwhelmed at the abundance of new growth and insects to eat, seemed a cruel mockery of the Pharaoh’s weak sighs and cries of pain.
The helplessness tore at Meryet – not only Hatshepsut’s weakness, but her own lack of resources to offer. She could think of nothin
g more to do than to be present, to take Hatshepsut’s hand when the pain overwhelmed her, to offer a strong arm to lean on when she hobbled to the privy. There was nothing a Great Royal Wife might do here, no command she could give that would chase the demons from Hatshepsut’s body, no wise decision she could hand down that would make her husband see sense in the face of his grief and confusion. She could only sit on the stool beside Hatshepsut’s bed, unspeaking for hours, watching the sweat form and run on the Pharaoh’s creased brow.
Occasionally Meryet would pace, crossing the length of the bed chamber six or seven times before wandering out into the garden. The sun there was too bright for her eyes, the flowers too flagrant, offensive with their bright colors and their cheery perfume. When she could, she would lose herself in stories, reading any escapist scroll her servants laid their hands on: implausible adventures in foreign lands, purporting to be true accounts; wild tales of the gods’ dark wrath; light-hearted love stories in which the women sighed and the men killed lions with their bare hands to show what strong husbands they would make. The scrolls never kept her occupied for long. Sooner or later, her sense of duty would drive her back to Hatshepsut’s side, and she would take up the cold hand and stroke it absently while pale-faced, stricken Batiret stirred the air with her fan.
On an evening two weeks into Hatshepsut’s illness, Meryet returned from the garden and tossed her scroll onto the Pharaoh’s little bedside table beside half a dish of cold broth and a few untouched pieces of bread. She was already beginning to forget the details of the inconsequential story. The garden had filled with the late hatch of mosquitoes, the familiar plague of cooler hours in the season’s opening weeks. Hatshepsut’s women were setting up braziers on tall tripods near the garden door, filling them with the pungent oil that drove the worst of the insects away. The women moved like dreams beneath water, rippling and slow in the twilight. Their lights cast a warm-colored glow into the bed chamber. A faint shadow of greasy smoke rippled along one wall, climbing up painted murals of Hatshepsut in better times, a young, strong king moving boldly across a brilliant and perfect world.
Hatshepsut lay with her eyes closed, either asleep or in too much pain for Meryet’s usual attempt at lighthearted conversation. The Great Royal Wife was about to lower herself onto her stool to take up her vigil, but a clap came distantly through the great lifeless depth of the king’s chambers.
Batiret’s fan stopped moving; she turned dully toward the sound.
“Someone is at the door,” Meryet said, surprised.
Batiret propped her fan against the wall, shook her arms to dispel cramps from hours spent listlessly waving the plumes. “I’ll go and see.” A moment later, the fan-bearer’s head poked into Hatshepsut’s bed chamber. “The Pharaoh, Great Lady.”
It had been some days since Thutmose had come to Hatshepsut’s bedside. There was no blame to offer in that. Someone must go on running Egypt while one half of the Pharaonic power lay stricken by the gods’ inscrutable cruelty. Meryet would have helped him at his task, taken whatever she could of his burdens, but her ka kept her tethered to Hatshepsut’s side.
She went out into the anteroom, suddenly aware that she was very hungry. Her stomach was hollow with grief and the length of the day; it ached to be filled, as her arms ached to wrap around Thutmose’s body, to hold him close and feel the indisputable aliveness of his skin. She smiled to see that he had brought a basket of figs and fresh bread. They sat together on one of Hatshepsut’s couches, sharing the food between them. The figs were so sweet she nearly choked. They weren’t over-ripe, she knew; it was merely the sharp contrast they made to the bitterness of her days. The soaring ceilings of Hatshepsut’s chamber seemed as far away as the night sky, still and dark in the weary silence of the chamber.
“How is she?” Thutmose asked.
“As ever.” Meryet took his hand. “She is lingering; that’s all. I can’t stand to see her like this. Her pain is bad enough, but what truly tears at my heart is her weakness. She was so strong, Thutmose. There never was a stronger woman, not even in the gods’ dreams. She led an army…”
“Built a great temple,” Thutmose said, morose, his eyes far-off and dull, “brought the treasures of Punt to Egypt. She trampled a god. And now….”
Meryet embraced him, felt the words he could not bring himself to say quiver in his chest. “I know,” she murmured.
She let Thutmose go reluctantly, handed him a piece of the bread. It was still warm from the ovens, its crust grainy with rich, coarse-ground bits of golden barley. Meryet tasted the bread herself. It was simple and good, a comfort so sweet it brought fresh tears to her eyes.
“I try to shelter her,” Meryet said between bites, “from the news out of Kadesh. She doesn’t need to think on warfare right now; she needs to….”
She needs to get well. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them.
At last Thutmose ventured, “If I don’t leave Waset soon, it will be too late to stop Kadesh from taking Megiddo. If Megiddo is lost, the north may well be lost, too.”
“Oh, Thutmose…all that your grandfather worked for!”
“I know.”
“You can’t let that happen, no matter what goes on here in Waset.”
Thutmose turned to her with a great sorrow in his eyes, a shadow that cast itself heavily upon his stooped shoulders, his drawn face. He seemed on the verge of speaking, but his head jerked to stare over Meryet’s shoulder. His black eyes widened. “Hatshepsut.”
Meryet whirled, gathering up her gown to run back into the bedchamber, the blood roaring in her ears, fearful that she would find the woman gone. But she was not gone. Hatshepsut stood in the doorway to her bedroom, straighter than she had stood for weeks, leaning one shoulder almost casually against the gilded lintel. The exertion had flushed her cheeks a deep pink. The color made her seem almost healthy; a curious, potent vitality sparked in her eyes. It brought Meryet up short. She hesitated in front of Hatshepsut, then, as the Pharaoh let out a tiny gasp and sagged, Meryet leapt forward to catch her.
“I’m all right,” Hatshepsut said.
Thutmose was there, too, fitting his strong shoulder beneath Hatshepsut’s arm. “Mawat, what are you doing out of bed?”
“Set take you both,” she growled, “I’m not an infant. Can’t a woman walk about her own rooms?”
“You’re too ill,” Thutmose said. “Where are your women?”
“I sent them away.”
Meryet led them to Hatshepsut’s bed, turned back the linens and fussed with them. “Well, that was a foolish thing to do,” she said brusquely, her hands busy with the useless work. “And more foolish of your women, that they actually left! Imagine.”
“What do you expect them do when I give an order?” Hatshepsut said. “I am the king.”
Thutmose helped her back onto the bed, propped cushions behind her shoulders. “I know, Mawat.”
“I will always be the king.”
He kissed her brow.
When Hatshepsut’s women were retrieved from the garden shade and Thutmose had returned to his duties, Meryet resumed her vigil on the bedside stool. Hatshepsut stared levelly at her for a long moment, and Meryet, drained of words, could think of nothing to do but stare back. Finally the Pharaoh spoke. Her voice was quiet and thinned by the Set-damned weakness that plagued her, but steady and calm as only a king’s voice could be.
“He will never leave Waset while I still live.”
Meryet shook her head. No – she would make Thutmose leave, make him do his duty. She would find a way to convince him.
“He won’t. He is haunted by guilt, Meryet. He will never leave my side while I draw breath, though the gods know what good it does either of us for him to stay.”
“He will see sense. He must.”
“Someday, child, you will understand guilt. You will know the weight of it, the way it hangs about your neck all the time, waking or sleeping. You will know how accustomed one becomes, in body and ka,
to dragging it here and there. It becomes a part of your very self. You cannot set it down for a few hours, nor abandon it, nor cut it off and sail free like a boat loosed from its moorings. Guilt becomes duty, and duty becomes ka. And ka is life.”
Hatshepsut sighed, let her head fall back on the silk cushions. She wore no wig in her illness, and her natural hair had grown long, a black thatch of tight curls shot here and there with strands of gleaming silver. Meryet wanted to reach out and pull the white hairs away, like plucking the fine lines of a spider’s web from one’s path in the garden.
“I could say I hope you will never know guilt, Meryet, but I am wiser than that by now. I think I’ve earned a little wisdom, for all my life’s pains and follies. What has it all been for, if not to give me some small measure of wisdom? All men feel the weight sooner or later. All women, too.”
“What is anyone to do about guilt?” Meryet asked it a little defiantly, her voice breaking, her throat constricting on the words.
“Why, duty, of course.”
“You said duty is guilt.”
“It is all one and the same – all of it.”
“It is not. I refuse to believe you.”
Hatshepsut turned to her with a wry smile. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not. You will know it one day.”
Meryet felt a question rise into her throat. It tasted so bitter, burning on her tongue. She swallowed hard, hoping to chase it away, but the question forced itself out from between her teeth.
“And now…now that you are…”
“Dying.”
“Now, are you free from your duties, your guilt? Or does the weight drag at you still?”
Meryet feared the question would wound Hatshepsut, but the Pharaoh tilted her head in simple consideration. She gazed into the depths of her beautiful, quiet chamber, musing on the question. When she turned to Meryet again, her smile was sad and trembling.
The Bull of Min (The She-King) Page 7