Her subjects filled the whole length of the hall, lining the walls to a depth of five or six men, decked in celebratory bright colors, the perfumed wax cones of festival attached to many of their wigs and filling the vast space with a riot of sweet scents. Hatshepsut raised a hand, and the presentation of the goods commenced. The baboons leapt and twisted on their leashes, baring their sharp teeth, snorting at the crowd, glad to be free of their cages at last. The bolts of yellow cloth were unrolled and carried in the many hands of a long rank of servants, past the front rows of the crowds to the left and the right, that they might touch the fine fabric and wonder at its spectacular dye. Senenmut and Ineni led in a contingent of basket-bearers, their shoulders well browned from the desert sun. They tipped the baskets out at the foot of the dais: nuggets of silver ore, sawn rounds of ivory, and whole tusks, too, longer than a man was tall.
Nehesi approached the throne, his great arms wrapped around the breadth of one of the heaped baskets covered with linen. Two dozen more men paraded behind him, each with a basket of his own. Nehesi tore the cover from his burden and upturned it at the foot of the dais. The translucent pieces of resin rattled as they poured onto the gleaming green floor, resins of amber and pale green, deep green and golden-grey, and resins of blood red – all of them crucial in the making of the ceremonial incense that so pleased Egypt’s gods. Nehesi’s men upended their baskets atop the pile, and it grew in height and breadth, spreading, raising until it was as tall as Nehesi, while the court first gasped, then murmured, and finally raised a cry of Maatkare! Maatkare! The cheer shook the very pillars of the Great Hall.
And last, the true prize entered to parade the Pharaoh’s victory before her subjects. Teams of men bore poles upon their shoulders, and between the poles swung the saplings – the precious myrrh trees for Amun’s garden, roots bound in sturdy cloth, suspended from the poles like prized birds on a hunter’s string. The court exclaimed as one over the sight. It was as fine a good as any trading mission had procured, for now Egypt could harvest its own myrrh in great quantities, and Amun, the lord of all the gods, would never lack for its scent.
When the ripple of voices died away, Hatshepsut called out in a voice that all could hear: “Chancellor Nehesi. Lord Ineni. Great Steward Senenmut. Stand forth.”
They did, stepping to the foot of the dais with bowed heads.
The silent Thutmose looked away.
“For your good work in this expedition, I present you with this, before all the court.” And she lifted her hand, motioned to her servants. They came at once with the gifts she had decreed, fine collars, necklaces, cuffs and armlets of gold and electrum. Bowls of silver, platters of ebony wood, ivory to make knife handles and drinking cups. Her men accepted the gifts humbly, and when she dismissed them to their places, Hatshepsut felt Thutmose shift on his throne with an irritated twitch.
**
Hatshepsut was well pleased to return to the comfort of her fine apartments after so long sleeping in gritty tents in the suffocating heat of the desert. But she had no time for the leisurely bath and massage she wished for. She sent at once for Thutmose, and he arrived so quickly that she knew he had been waiting for her summons.
The double crown was gone from his head, but he wore the cloth wings of the Nemes crown affixed to its golden circlet, and Hatshepsut was uncomfortably aware that she wore only a wig. She squinted at him, at his air of defensive swagger. He came through her double doors and halted, folding his arms tightly across his chest, jaw set, saying nothing.
“And where,” Hatshepsut said, “is your Great Royal Wife?”
Thutmose scowled. “In confinement, where she belongs. I would have left her there for your return processional, if I’d thought I could have done so without arousing the court’s suspicion.”
“What right do you suppose you had, to take my heir and make her your wife?”
Thutmose took one menacing step toward her, and she was suddenly aware of his strength and size, of the advantage his very sex gave him. But she did not shrink back from him, did not call her guards.
“This right,” he said, tugging at one wing of his Nemes crown. “I am as much Pharaoh as you, Mother, and I am not insensate to the troubles our house faces. I am not unaware of your reasons for going to Punt. After all, you and Senenmut took great pains to teach me.”
Hatshepsut’s mouth tightened at the venom in his voice when he spoke Senenmut’s name.
“Imagine our security if I could have had an heir growing in my wife’s belly when you returned with all your riches. Anyone who plotted against you – against us – would have been thoroughly undone.”
“Why Neferure, my heir? Why not some other woman – any other woman?”
“Because she is four times royal. Or so I thought.”
Four times royal. It was an idea that would have come from only one source. “Ahmose.”
“She is not to be punished for this. It was a good plan – better than yours – and it would have worked, if not for you angering the gods.”
“Be careful what you say, boy.”
“I am no boy. I am the Lord of the Two Lands.”
“As am I.”
“Then behave as if you are, and not like some rekhet slut rutting in an alley.”
She crossed to him in two quick steps, and her slap across his face cracked loudly against the walls of the Pharaoh’s chamber. The circlet slipped on his brow, and the Nemes crown hung askew.
“How dare you?” Hatshepsut grated.
Thutmose pressed one hand to his reddened cheek, then dropped it to his side. “How dare you?”
Hatshepsut forced herself to walk calmly away from him, sat lightly upon a couch. After a moment, Thutmose, eying her warily, joined her across the empty table.
“Explain this mess to me,” she said.
“Neferure has been wild to learn why she can’t speak to the gods for years. You would have known that, if you ever paid any attention to the girl, instead of trotting her out for ceremony and then putting her away again like a trinket in a box.”
“Speak to me civilly, or you will not speak to me at all.”
Thutmose gave one quick, jerking nod of his head, and made an obvious effort to rein in his rage. “With you away, she felt free to search for a reason for her affliction. She found your fan-bearer, lured her into her own palace, and tortured the poor woman with a knife until she told everything she knew.”
Hatshepsut pressed her palms together. Her hands shook, and were cold as a dead fish. “Batiret.”
“She is well enough. I found her in Neferure’s palace and stopped it before any real damage could be done. But she’ll have scars; that is certain.”
Thutmose fell silent. He blinked rapidly, unwilling to allow tears into his dark eyes. Hatshepsut watched him, fearful of his words, of what he might choose to do now that he knew her secret. She savored the silence, aware it was her last refuge of safety, and might be broken when Thutmose spoke again. But he maintained his silence, and Hatshepsut marshalled enough courage to speak on.
“So, then, what shall we do?”
Thutmose met her eyes, and in his own she saw his ambition, his pride, his love for the throne. She saw his love for her, too, reluctant though it was, and clouded by anger. She knew in a sudden rush that the balance between them had shifted, and now hung poised on a fragile fulcrum – knew that there was no senior king now, but rather two who stood shoulder to shoulder on shifting footing, equally matched in pride, equally matched in desperation to retain their respective power. The change struck her like a blow. She rocked back under its impact, and felt both regret and relief wash across her, throb with her rapid pulse beneath her skin.
He has power now – real power. If I meet him in compromise, he may yet preserve me.
“You know what you must do,” Thutmose said slowly.
Hatshepsut’s heart cried out, wailing against the blackness inside her chest. But when she spoke her voice was calm, the controlled, regal voice of
a king.
“Yes.”
PART FOUR
THE GOD’S JUDGMENT
1466 B.C.E.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The black bull snorted in the dust of its own churning hooves, a repetitive roar that sounded in time with Hatshepsut’s own ragged breaths. It tossed its head to avoid her, rolling its peevish eye toward the gold-plated goad in her hand. Spittle flew from its muzzle, spattered in the dust, and was trampled beneath the bull’s blue-painted hooves. The sun-disc tied between its horns shimmered in the sun; the twin plumes rising from the disc thrashed against the sky as the bull bellowed and lunged toward her.
Hatshepsut danced aside. The tail affixed to her belt swung heavy against her legs and stung when it slapped her skin. It was the tail of a bull who had been as black as this one that now reeled around her, calling its anger to the distant crowd.
The people stood well back, watching breathlessly beneath a forest of sun-shades. The ceremonial circuit outside Waset’s walls was wide and dusty, hot as an oven in the mid-day sun. Hatshepsut was thirsty, her mouth sticky and dry, her nostrils crusted with dirt. She watched the bull carefully, waited for it to turn, lunged with her goad and dealt it a stinging blow along its flank. It bleated an undignified moo and lumbered in the correct direction – toward the two granite pillars at the far end of the circuit, where the priests of Hapi-Ankh stood waiting. The bull picked up its pace, and Hatshepsut ran after it, the black tail streaming behind her.
The snorting creature saw the two lines of priests fanning out from the pillars, and slowed its progress just enough for Hatshepsut to overtake it. For the final spans they ran together, woman and bull, king and god, she near enough that the heat of the sun reflected from the glossy black hide and beat against her skin. When they passed between the granite pillars raised in celebration of her own glory, she laid a hand on the bull’s withers, and felt its answering bellow shiver through her bones. The great ring of watchers – all the population of Waset, noble and rekhet, priest and royal – shouted in acclaim.
The Hapi-Ankh priests slowed the bull with familiar gestures, calmed it with the soothing words it had learned as a calf. Hatshepsut approached with the garland in her arms, and draped it round the bull’s neck.
“Renewal!” she shouted, raising one fist to the sky, and the crowd echoed her word.
Nehesi came to her, bearing a skin of cool water, which she received gratefully. It took several long swallows to slake her thirst. She tossed it back to her guard half-empty, and he grinned at her before leading her back to the large dais that had been erected to overlook the circuit.
It was the Feast of the Tail, Hatshepsut’s Sed-festival, the jubilee to renew her strength on the throne, to ensure her ongoing glory. Pipers took up an old soldiers’ victory tune as Hatshepsut climbed the steps to her shaded throne, and the people, drunk on celebration and on strong beer, clapped and danced.
Hatshepsut fell gratefully onto her seat. The golden plating of her throne was cool beneath the canopy, a pleasure against her sweaty back. The bull’s tail stuck out between her knees as she slumped, catching her breath.
Beside her on his throne, Thutmose smiled. “You did well,” he said, and she was pleased to note that there was nothing grudging in his voice. Much of the anger he had felt over Neferure’s origins had dissipated over the past months as their house continued strong on their thrones, though there was still a vague uneasiness between them. Perhaps there always would be. How could Hatshepsut yield her former power, once so complete and unchallenged, without some conflicted emotion? But Thutmose was gracious in his strength, careful of her pride, quick to share both duty and power equally.
He had no interest, though, in sharing her Sed-festival. It was a celebration typically reserved for a king’s thirtieth year of rule, and Thutmose was made uneasy by any breach of tradition. Hatshepsut, recalling that her father Thutmose the First had died before he could celebrate a Sed-festival of his own, suggested the rite on behalf of their entire house. “Not just for me,” she had told her co-king, “but for you, and your grandfather, may he live. He sat the throne fifteen years, and I fifteen more. Taken together, the time is right.”
But the time was not right according to Thutmose, who had glanced sidelong at Neferure and refused to take part in the ceremonies himself, refused to share in this rite as they had so often shared rites before. Indeed, it was not until Neferure herself had warned that the gods would be displeased by such a breach of tradition that Thutmose agreed to allow the Sed-festival. Despite the girl’s warning and Thutmose’s superstitious fears, his loathing for his sister-wife was stronger than his dread. He approved the Feast of the Tail in Hatshepsut’s fifteenth year chiefly because Neferure opposed it.
Perhaps, too, Thutmose felt a little sorry for Hatshepsut, and wished to appease her or comfort her in some way. She had done what was required of her and sent Senenmut out of Waset, confining him to his estates. Her bed and her heart had both been empty for months, but she still filled her throne, and that, she considered, toying with the long hairs at the end of the bull’s tail, was enough for now.
Batiret offered cool, sweet melon and honey cakes on a tray, and Hatshepsut ate hungrily, laughing with her mouth full at the drunken dancing in the circuit below. Batiret laughed along with her mistress, and plied her ostrich-feather fan happily, waving the dust of hundreds of dancing feet away from Hatshepsut’s face. Her most loyal and trusted servant had taken some time to recover from the shock of Neferure’s mistreatment, but she had steadfastly refused to retire from service in the Good God’s personal chamber. After so many years of service she had become more friend than servant, and now, without Senenmut for company, Hatshepsut found herself turning more and more to Batiret for the things she lacked: laughter, comfort, reassurance, joy. For her part, Batiret had not only her loyalty to her mistress as motivation to stay on. With Senenmut gone from Waset, Hatshepsut had been in need of a new Great Steward, and was quick to appoint Kynebu to the position. She suspected her fan-bearer and her steward might soon be wed, and the thought brought her the pain of envy along with genuine happiness. In moments when pensiveness overtook her, Hatshepsut wondered whether Senenmut kept any women at his estate, whether he had filled his bed and his heart with someone else.
In due time, the priests raised their rattles, shaking them hard and long, but it took many long moments before silence spread throughout the drunken crowd and attention returned to the dais. As rested and refreshed as she was ever likely to be, Hatshepsut rose to bless the crowd, which brought about their cheers once more, then she descended with Nehesi to run the circuit – the final rite of renewal she must perform before the Feast of the Tail could truly begin.
Four pillars had been raised, roughly delineating a great rectangle in the flat, dusty earth. The crowd retreated, exposing the grounds of the circuit once more, and as Hatshepsut stepped from beneath her canopy the force of the sun fell upon her, unrelenting in its glare. A faint pain twinged in her hip; she rubbed it away, shook out her legs one at a time, limbering for her last feat of strength. A troupe of musicians struck up a marching tune, and, pausing first before the High Priest Hapuseneb to receive his blessing, Hatshepsut began her run.
At once the sweat sprang up on her body, and it cooled her somewhat in the breeze of her own motion. Soon enough, though, the heat in the air, in her own muscles, became oppressive. She gasped as she rounded the second pillar. Before she was halfway to the third, her throat began to burn. She completed the first of four circuits and loped into her second lap. The faces of the crowd blurred as she passed, stretching into one long swath of brown skin and black wigs, white fans, the flash of canopy poles flitting past her vision. Hands raised as she went, pale palms seeming to slap at her sight. She fell into a steady rhythm of breaths, each one dry as it entered her throat, burning hot as it left. She passed the starting pillar for a second time, swung into her third lap with a wheeze, her breasts painful from the bouncing, her kn
ees protesting, her ankles swollen and stiff. Hatshepsut pushed on. Sweat ran past her temples, onto her chin, her neck. The furrow of her spine was like a river. As she was nearing the final pillar of her third lap, her eyes suddenly caught and held on something in the crowd – a half-familiar face, leaping out amidst the blur of all the other faces, there and gone. She could not stop, but ran on, and several flagging paces more her heart processed the sudden vision, and she recognized the face.
As her final lap came to a blessed close, Hatshepsut turned to look into the crowd in the place where he had been. Senenmut stared back at her, his eyes locking with hers, his mouth forming some word she could not read before she passed him by. Mut’s wings snatched up her feet like a hawk snatches up a mouse, sudden and unexpected, and Hatshepsut fairly flew the last stretch of her race.
When Nehesi helped her back to her shade canopy, pressing another skin of water into her hands, Hatshepsut fell into her chair gasping with grateful laughter, tears running down her cheeks to mingle with her sweat.
“It seems you enjoyed that run,” Thutmose said, chuckling.
“Oh, ah,” she replied, “never have I felt so renewed.”
When Thutmose turned his attention to the roasted duck his servants brought him, Hatshepsut slipped her arm around Batiret’s shoulders, pulled her close, stopped the girl’s hands in their busy-work of toweling the sweat from the Pharaoh’s body. “Send me Kynebu,” Hatshepsut whispered. “I have a message for him to carry to someone in the crowd.”
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