“I know of Dedwen.” She emphasized the name, glaring into the face of one of her captives. He and his brothers dropped their eyes again.
Hatshepsut clasped her hands behind her back, turned to survey the square. Bodies lay scattered about – the still forms of Kushites in their strangely fashioned, bright-colored kilts, and here and there the white kilt of an Egyptian spotted with blood. Her men worked to remove their fallen brothers from the square, lifting bodies by arms and legs as if they were goats being carried from a butcher. She swallowed hard. The wreckage of a chariot lay nearby, splintered; one of its horses was splayed before it, the poor creature's neck resting at an unnatural angle to its body. A wide, dark pool spread from its throat – cut by its driver, no doubt, to spare its suffering.
She rounded again on the captives.
“And what am I to do with these?” She said the words in the Kushites’ own harsh language.
Ramose answered in kind, a wry smile tightening his face. “I suppose you could take their hands, O Good God, but do it while they still live. Take their manhood, too.”
One of the men whimpered, then stifled himself when his brother shot him a hateful look.
Hatshepsut lapsed back into Egyptian. “I would see this god of theirs for myself. Nehesi?”
Both her guard and the general accompanied her between the strange dark pylons, into the mouth of Dedwen's temple.
The interior was very dim, and cold as moving water. Hatshepsut found it a pleasant relief from the beating sun outside. She pulled the war helmet from her head, tucked it under her arm, swiped at her sweaty brow with her dusty forearm. The scent of incense was so thick here that she nearly choked on it. A thin stream of light fell in from between the pylons; in its bronze-colored cast she could just make out carvings on the walls. They were depictions of Dedwen striding to face his enemies, of Kushite kings making offerings to this, the greatest of their gods. The style of the carvings was not as foreign as she had expected. But for the unfamiliar faces and trappings, the scenes might have been at home on the walls of an Egyptian temple.
Deeper within, at the pyramid's dark heart, the figure of Dedwen himself sat upon a black stone pedestal. He was carved from a lighter rock, so he stood out amidst the dense blackness of the pyramid's interior with disturbing vividness. Hatshepsut gazed up at him. A wide, unkempt beard fanned out above his chest, dense and curly. His hands rested in fists upon his knees. His face, with the broad nose and mouth of a Kushite and hard, staring eyes, seemed to promise her a wealth of unpleasantness.
“I do not want to do this again,” she said quietly.
“Great Lady?” Nehesi was at her side, as ever.
“I must find a way to keep Kush subdued now and for all time.”
“Kush, subdued for all time?” Ramose shook his head. “An impossible task, Majesty. Subjugation is not in the nature of such a people.”
“And yet I must find a way. I must force a peace, and it must hold at least as long as I live.”
“There are not only Kushites in the world,” Nehesi said, his voice low and amused. “What of the Heqa-Khasewet? What of Mitanni, and Hatti, and the Greeks?”
“I will have peace from them all.”
“You will have war. It is the lot of a king.”
“You presume to tell me what is the lot of a king?”
In the darkness she felt Nehesi's familiar, care-nothing shrug.
Hatshepsut returned her eyes to Dedwen's menacing stare. “I have no stomach for war.”
Nehesi chuckled. “You have made me a fool, then. I've never seen such confidence on the field. The way you lead the men...”
“Ah, Majesty,” Ramose interjected. “You are the very image of your father. The men say you are possessed by the spirit of Sekhmet.”
“Do they?”
“They call you seshep.”
Seshep. The name did not displease her. The mythical beast embodied the warrior's power: a crouching lion with the head of a man. She tried to imagine herself with a lion's body. The image made her smile.
“All the same,” she said, somewhat cheered, “if this is the last I ever see of war, I shall die a happy Pharaoh.”
She returned the war helmet to her head, spun on her heel, and led them back out into the painful glare of the commons. “You,” she called, gesturing to the nearest Egyptian soldier. “Bring me the reins from that dead horse's bridle.”
When she had the reins in hand, she summoned more men, and led them, whispering and looking about them in apprehension, into the black pyramid. The men hung well back from Dedwen's stone feet. Soldiers were ever superstitious.
“Nehesi, Dedwen wants a garland about his neck.” She tossed the reins into her guard's hands. He moved quickly, lofting them up to fall across the god's shoulders. They landed against his divine body with a soft slap.
“Bring him down,” she ordered her men, and stood watching impassively as they hauled on the reins, rocking Dedwen upon his base until he tipped up on the edge of his carven throne, hung balanced for one breathless heartbeat, then crashed to the floor of the temple.
They dragged the god into the stark light of his courtyard. The Kushites crouching in the dust seemed to moan as one, burying their eyes against bloodied shoulders, rocking in dread.
Her Egyptians raised their spears and their voices, hailing her.
Seshep! Seshep! Seshep!
Hatshepsut remained still as they chanted. A small, quivering uneasiness gripped her stomach, threaded its way into her heart. This thing she did – it was blasphemy. She had never blasphemed. But after all, who is Dedwen beside Amun? He is not even an Egyptian god. And I am Amun's own representative on the earth. It is given to me, to lead the Two Lands, the greatest kingdom in all the world. It is given to me, to make it known that Amun rules all the sun touches. Even the land of Kush.
From the roofs of the city, the piercing cries of women rose into the sky with the commons' dust and the groaning of the men. The sound clambered above the chant – Seshep! Seshep!
Peace – for Iset. For my little ones.
Hatshepsut lifted her foot. The scales of her armor clattered like Amun's holy rattles. She drew in one long breath that tasted of hot earth and blood, then brought her heel down on the side of Dedwen's face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Amun Strides from Darkness rocked as Hatshepsut's personal guardsmen boarded, followed by Tabiry and Keminub, who had agreed to tend the king on her own ship for the long trek back to Waset. Seven days had come and gone since she had taken her first village, and each day brought another settlement conquered.
In truth, for her final two victories Egypt had barely to lift a single spear, for the people of those cities had heard already of the woman Pharaoh who pulled Dedwen from his temple and trampled the god into the dust. Each was quick enough to surrender whatever goods they could offer as a hasty and desperate tribute, that their own temples might remain undisturbed. There was no telling what wrath an offended deity might bring upon his own people if they allowed him to be so debased.
They presented her with gold and turquoise, and with incense in great overflowing sacks. They even made to offer a portion of their grain supplies, but she waved it away and told the city-kings in their own tongue, “Egypt does not take from the mouths of children.”
The city-kings of both settlements made pledges of fealty to the Pharaoh. Hatshepsut knew those pledges would be broken, but not, she hoped, too soon or so egregiously that she would be compelled to return in person and mete out a fitting punishment.
Along the length of the rough quay, soldiers trooped up planks to the decks of ships. More than half were returning home. The rest would remain in the south, billeted at her fortress under Ramose's supervision, until she could send another wave of men to refresh them. Kush would be sore, she knew. They would come looking for vengeance soon or late. She wanted the plain on the Egyptian side of the hills to bristle with ready spears when they did.
The final m
an boarded her ship; the oarsmen skillfully slid the plank onto the deck while men still ashore cast off the lines. Nehesi appeared at her side, arms crossed over his broad chest, following her gaze out across the tents and cook fires of the plain.
“A good campaign,” he said.
“Ah.”
“You seem distracted.”
“I only hope it will be enough.”
“The men you leave behind?”
“That, and what we did here.”
“You pulled a god down – a god! Yes, Great Lady, it will be enough.”
“For how long?”
Nehesi shrugged. “Peace never lasts long. It will be whatever the gods decree. Weren't you a priestess of sorts once? You should know these things.”
She scoffed at him. “Of sorts?”
The captain shouted for oars. They slid from the ship's sides, splashed into the water, nudged the hull from the quay. Hatshepsut watched the quay's stone wall slide smoothly from her. Then an abrupt movement on the waterfront caught her eye; she glanced up and checked at the sight of four young boys playing at the landing. The larger boys carried the smaller upon their shoulders, and they laughed and called insults to one another as their riders tossed a leather ball back and forth. The mounts dodged, hooting, around barrels and bundles of linen and long bare poles which had until recently held soldiers' tents.
“Nehesi! Whose boys are those?”
“Uh? I do not know, Great Lady.”
“They are so young.”
“Probably discontented apprentices – ran off to join the army, I'd wager, when you came through their towns.”
“They are far too young for a war camp.” Then a queasy thought occurred to her. “Oh, gods – they didn't go into battle, did they?”
He chuckled, laid a hand on her shoulder. “I should think not, Great Lady. War camps always have their share of sneak-away boys. Soldiering is a far better life than leading their fathers' cattle to the river or being beaten by an ill-tempered trade master. The older men always keep the boys too busy with camp chores for them to get into much danger.”
“But still, a war camp is no place for children. Gods, what will their mothers think of me?”
Nehesi roared with laughter. “They will think you are the king! What else are they to think?”
The boys disappeared into the crowd milling about the waterfront, taking their ball and their happy shouts with them. A quiet melancholy welled up in her heart when they vanished. Nehesi, too, went still and pensive. Did the sight of children playing make him feel wistful, as well? Or was he only reliving his exhilaration on the battlefield? Was she painting her own feelings onto Nehesi's stony wall?
“I want my own children to play that way,” she said, “to be young and carefree for as long as they can.”
Nehesi turned to look at her, and his eyes were uncommonly solemn. “They are the children of the Pharaoh. One is a Pharaoh himself. Is it reasonable, Great Lady, to expect them to ever be young and carefree? Even as babes, they have their roles to play.”
The fortress grew smaller by the moment as Amun Strides from Darkness slipped into the swift northward current. The waterfront was a jumble of men blurred by distance, but Hatshepsut knew the boys still played somewhere within that crowd.
“Perhaps not, Nehesi. But I will try all the same – I will try to make it so.”
Tabiry bowed at Hatshepsut's elbow. “Great Lady, shall I prepare your meal?”
“Good,” Hatshepsut said.
“Boiled eggs and uncut melons, I presume.” Tabiry waited, patient expectation on her face.
Hatshepsut took one final look at the shoreline. Above the scrape of oars running out to meet the river, above the call and response of the rowing song, she heard a man's voice shout a single word, joyous and full of triumph, from the quay. Seshep!
“No, Tabiry. Tell the captain's cook to roast me a fat fish. And it has been a very long time since I've tasted fresh bread. Tell him to make me a honey cake, cooked over the brazier's coals. I want it so hot it burns my fingers and my tongue.”
Tabiry tilted her head, disbelieving.
“Is there any wine?”
“Ah, but only the great jar in the captain's store. Its seal has already been broken.”
“Bring me a cup. I am thirsty.”
Tabiry turned to do the Pharaoh's bidding with a bubble of laughter. Ta-Seti fell away behind the stern of Hatshepsut’s warship. The northern horizon glowed beneath the high sun. Beneath that sun, in the quiet peace of her palace garden, Senenmut waited, and her children, too. When the current caught the ship and pulled it insistently toward Waset, Hatshepsut smiled.
PART TWO
ADORATION OF THE GOD
1476 B.C.E.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The air was almost cool on the rooftop of Waset's great palace, high above the stink and closeness of the city. A fitful breeze moved in from the river, lifting and dropping the colorful cloth canopies of the sunshades with lazy movements, with a thrumming, flapping sound like the wing-beats of a great, careless bird. Ladies in their best finery stood clustered beneath the canopies – ladies of the noble houses and of the harem – while men of rank ambled from one group to the next in long formal kilts, raising their wine cups in praise of the women's beauty. Servants made their way unobtrusively through the gathering, offering platters of spiced dates or lettuce-boats filled with minced beef, bearing jars of cooled beer and wine, and water sweetly scented with flower petals.
Hatshepsut watched the children, who in turn watched the long straight line of the eastern canal, stretching their necks to peer over the low wall of the rooftop. Their feet fidgeted constantly. Thutmose could not seem to stop himself kicking at the wall, no matter how many times his nurse scolded him for scuffing the toes of his golden sandals. And Neferure danced forward and back between the wall and the royal sunshade as if gripped by some childish anxiety.
The girl's eyes were large and sober, as serious as Senenmut's, though it was the only resemblance she bore him. She had not come to resemble Hatshepsut as she grew, either. Her features were far finer than her mother's, lacking all of the Thutmoside harshness and, thank the gods, the familial toothiness. In fact, Neferure was positively beautiful, even as a small thing, still wearing the side-lock of childhood. It was something Hatshepsut never heard said about herself as a young girl – not in honesty, at any rate. She was glad for her daughter. Neferure would grow into an enchanting woman.
At the rooftop's far corner, the musicians changed from a low, sweet, soothing tune to a livelier one, and a few of the harem women danced. Neferure sucked a forefinger as she watched the show, as she observed the men watching. Hatshepsut had the uneasy feeling, as she often did in her daughter's presence, that the girl understood far more of the adult world than any seven-year-old child ought. Neferure seemed neither delighted by the bright dresses and rollicking music nor disgusted by the somewhat wanton display. She merely watched, intensely observant as always.
“I see them!”
When the dance had nearly concluded, Thutmose's squeal of excitement broke Neferure's unsettling concentration, and she turned to regard her brother with a dark, thoughtful stare.
Senenmut clapped his hands; the gathering drifted toward the eastern wall, buzzing with excitement.
The usual gray waterside haze of dust and moisture hung thickly at the point where the canal vanished among the low, dry hills beyond Waset. But a blocky shape condensed slowly from that haze, and little Thutmose pointed, quivering with excitement.
The crowd seemed to hold its breath; Hatshepsut's heart pounded in her chest.
The massive shape broke free of the haze and resolved into a clear image of the Pharaoh's twin obelisks moving ponderously down the canal. The crowd of nobles exhaled as one, a sigh of awe and admiration.
“...they are laid, you see, on a barge that is near as wide as the canal itself.”
Hatshepsut allowed herself a tiny smile at the sound
of Senenmut murmuring to four or five nobles. The men nodded and hummed at his every word.
“The barge is sunk down with rocks for weights, and the obelisks pushed across the breadth of the canal, side by side, just so. When the rocks are pulled free, the barge rises, and lifts the obelisks off the ground.”
“It's a wonder any barge can carry such a weight!”
“Egypt's engineers are the finest in all the world,” Senenmut said, as proud as if he himself were an engineer.
“Look, Mawat, look!” Thutmose tugged at Hatshepsut's hand. Laughing, she followed him to the wall.
“Those are my obelisks,” she told him, lifting him to her hip so he might see more clearly. “And one day, when you are grown, you will have obelisks of your own.”
“Oh – see all the men!”
The two massive stones, cut entire from pale quarry rock, lay prone over their barge, close as lovers in a bed. Each hung over the stone lip of the canal by several feet on either side. A deep blue shadow crept along beneath them; the visual effect of shadow, of ponderous movement, and the great height of Hatshepsut's viewpoint made the monuments seem to separate from the dun landscape with a kind of supernatural force, as though they drifted on the palm of a god's hand and not a mortal barge. Dozens of men crept in the shadow of the conveyance, holding tight to the ropes that lashed the spires together, straining to keep the barge moving straight between the canal's sides. The load was so great it required at least fifty to each side, perhaps more. A handful of men rode atop the rough stone itself, scuttling from one side to the next. Their arms waved like the slender, mobile horns of beetles, gesturing wildly to the men hauling at the ropes.
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