A mixture of groans and excited murmurs arose from the crowd. A case of theft was certainly more interesting than the typical irrigation squabble, but the petty crime hardly seemed to warrant so much drama.
Hatshepsut studied the two petitioners as the herald called for order from the crowd. Beads of sweat marred Siptah’s brow, whether from nerves or something else she couldn’t tell. Merenaset seemed composed, but every now and then she chewed her thumbnail. Yet her expression toward Siptah was the same one would give a dung beetle before stepping on it.
As soon as the room quieted, Merenaset spoke again, her voice so low it was difficult to make out her words. “I have already admitted I stole from you.”
“So you deserve to be punished!” Siptah stomped his foot like a child with a youth lock in the midst of a tantrum.
Hatshepsut cleared her throat, and Thut clapped the golden crook and flail to stop the grubby merchant from going any further. He motioned for Hatshepsut to speak.
“Why did you steal the bracelets, Merenaset?” Hatshepsut asked.
The woman blushed and looked at the floor. The glimmer of tears sparkled in her lashes when she raised her eyes. “I have a daughter, Hemet. Her father abandoned us before she was born and left me with nothing. I stole the bracelets to trade for something to eat. If I hadn’t, there would have been only one way for us to eat that night—”
“It doesn’t matter what the reason is! She must be punished!” Siptah’s hands balled into fists, and Thut’s medjay guards stepped forward. The rekhyt’s palms fell open at his sides.
Thut leaned in to murmur to Hatshepsut. “The law requires that her ears be cut off. This is a simple case.”
“Redress is short, harm is long, and a good reputation is seldom forgotten,” she said.
Thut arched an eyebrow at the ancient proverb.
“The law states only that the thief should have her ears removed,” Hatshepsut added.
Merenaset’s plight was not unique—many women were forced onto Waset’s streets to earn their bread—but perhaps there was a way to use Merenaset’s case to everyone’s benefit. Something more useful than a set of bloody ears.
“I don’t think a normal punishment fits your case, Merenaset.” Hatshepsut’s gaze slid back to the woman. “Something needs to be done so this doesn’t happen again.”
“What?” Hatshepsut winced as Siptah’s screech hit her ears. “This woman is a confessed thief! Cut off her ears so everyone will know she’s a criminal. Ma’at demands it!”
Thut released the crook and flail to his lap. “You will listen to our sister and not interrupt again.”
Hatshepsut leveled a glare at Siptah that would have scattered lions. “Ma’at demands that this woman get a fair trial.”
Cowed, Siptah took a step back. Hatshepsut spoke again to Merenaset. “Would you be willing to work off your debt?” she asked.
The woman looked at the merchant, blatant distaste apparent in every line of her face. Hatshepsut couldn’t fault the woman—Siptah’s own mother probably looked upon him with the same expression. “Yes. If that is what is necessary to appease Ma’at.”
“Would such an arrangement be acceptable to you, Siptah?” Hatshepsut asked. The sullen merchant was practically salivating at the thought of free labor. He nodded. “Good. Then that solves the issue of retribution. Merenaset will be at your stall tomorrow before Re reaches his zenith. The two of you may work out the details.”
Hatshepsut signaled to one of the medjay to escort Siptah from the throne room, and turned to Merenaset. “Siptah is satisfied, but that doesn’t solve the root of your problem. Once you’ve worked off your time to him there still won’t be bread on your table.”
The heavy weight of dejection slumped Merenaset’s bony shoulders. “I’ll manage.”
“Do you have any skills? Or perhaps something you could make and sell?”
“Aside from my poor attempts at picking pockets, I’m afraid my skills are few and far between.” Merenaset managed a wan smile. “I can clean and like to believe I have some talent for singing. Unfortunately, neither has helped me so far in this life.”
Hatshepsut pondered what tasks Merenaset could perform without a real trade. A solution uncoiled in her mind, simple and perfect.
“Brother, could you arrange for a new chantress at Hathor’s temple?”
Thut nodded slowly. “Of course. A chantress would be a perfect position—to sing hymns for the goddess and assist the priests in keeping the temple.”
“And occasionally the palace might require sensitive information from someone who lives in the house of the goddess,” Hatshepsut whispered. The relationship between the priesthood and palace was never smooth. Many of the gods were unimaginably wealthy due to their land holdings and the offerings made to them, and their High Priests often craved the power that typically accompanied such wealth. The palace had spies in many of the temples, but most were men posing as mere wa’eb priests. A female spy could prove a useful asset in a temple of men.
“And your daughter would be able to live at the temple with you,” Hatshepsut said to Merenaset. That would certainly guarantee the woman’s cooperation, not that she really had a choice.
The woman’s face blossomed into a grin. “Thank you, Hemet.” She sank to the floor and pressed her forehead to Hatshepsut’s feet. “Thank you so much!”
Hatshepsut spared a glance at Thut. He beamed at her and gave her hand a warm squeeze.
Hatshepsut slid off her stool and crouched next to Merenaset. She pressed Senenmut’s dagger into Merenaset’s hand, curling the woman’s fingers around its ivory suns.
“I want you to have this—protection for you and your daughter.”
She heard Thut’s sharp inhale behind her, and she didn’t have to look to see the fire in Senenmut’s eyes. This would teach him not to presume too much about their relationship.
“It’s beautiful.” Merenaset wiped her eyes. “My daughter and I will thank the gods for your wisdom and goodness every night.”
“Our overseer at the Temple of Hathor will speak to the High Priest tomorrow and arrange for your installment as chantress,” Thut said. “Our sister has solved your case quite tidily.”
“Thank you,” Merenaset murmured with a bow before the herald directed her from the throne room.
“Our audience today is at an end. May Amun bless the Two Lands!” Hatshepsut was surprised at the abrupt dismissal, but Thut clapped the golden crook and flail together, and she floated back to her seat. The throng of grumbling petitioners filed from the throne room. Many would return the following month, when the pharaoh held his next audience. Hatshepsut watched as Senenmut joined the crowd and backed from their royal presence. She expected a glare, but instead a wicked smile spread across his face. He was laughing at her. Again.
“Nicely played, sister.” Thut looked to the empty table where the ivory knife had lain. “Although I’m sure you bruised Senenmut’s heart a bit.”
Hatshepsut shrugged. “He’ll recover. The dagger will remind Merenaset where her loyalties lie.” And it might protect her should any of the priests prove interested in taking advantage of a poor woman and her daughter.
“Criminals should be punished according to the law. Cutting off her ears would have been satisfactory.”
“I think Merenaset will likely wish she could trade her ears after she’s worked for Siptah for a day.”
Thut chuckled. “You’re probably right. You usually are.” He checked the position of the sun through one of the windows as he handed off the trappings of state—the crook and flail, false beard, and double crown. Re’s light warmed his face, the ochre staining his lips. His jawline was soft, but otherwise her brother was pleasant on the eyes. “I’m going to finish writing to the king of Mitanni before it gets too hot to think,” he said. “Why don’t you go relax in the Hall of Women? I don’t want you worn out before our wedding.”
“I think I’ll go to the offices instead. I’d like to re
view the tribute amounts sent from Nubia last year. I think they could bear increasing.”
Just then there was a burst of laughter below them. Imhotep had already left his seat at the bottom of the dais and was shuffling slowly toward the door. His son had remained behind, surrounded by a gaggle of Egypt’s finest sons, all oiled and smelling like the inside of a perfume bottle. One said something to Mensah and motioned toward Hatshepsut, but Mensah only shook his head, his lips pursed tight. Another murmur of laughter rose from the others, but Hatshepsut’s icy stare silenced them. Their attention quickly turned against Senenmut, still standing at the back of the retreating crowd.
“Upstart commoner,” one said, loud enough to be heard. “Doesn’t know his place.”
“Don’t worry,” Mensah answered. “He’ll be back in the fields, where he belongs, before you know it. A rekhyt like him can’t help but make a mess of things sooner or later.”
Thut stiffened next to her. “Do you have something you’d care to discuss with me, Mensah?”
Mensah straightened, then bent in a henu as polished as his gold pectoral. “Not at all, Per A’a.”
“Good.” Thut offered Mensah the insult of his back, turning to Hatshepsut. Mensah recognized the dismissal and stormed from the throne room, trailed by his flock of followers. Senenmut was an upstart commoner, but for once Hatshepsut was glad he could count on her brother’s support. Thut had many faults, but he prized loyalty above all else and offered it wholeheartedly to those he cared about.
Thut offered her his arm as they walked down the dais. “Look over the tribute from Nubia if it pleases you, sister. In a few weeks you won’t have time to play pharaoh. You’ll have more important duties to attend to as Great Royal Wife.”
He kissed her forehead, and then Hatshepsut watched her brother make his way toward the side door to the pharaoh’s apartments, the sound of his cane and mismatched footsteps echoing off the pillars.
Pharaoh and Great Royal Wife. With a little luck, she could play at both.
Chapter 6
Re had risen hours ago, but his golden ascent went unnoticed in the palace as everyone scrambled to prepare for the royal wedding. The ceremony would start after the sun god reached his zenith, an auspicious time for new beginnings, at least according to the priests consulted about the timing. Had anyone thought to ask the bride’s opinion, they would have promptly been informed that there would never be a good time for her to marry Thut.
Of course, no one asked her.
Sequestered in her chambers, Hatshepsut endured Mouse and Sitre’s ministrations, supervised by a scowling Ahmose. They spoke not a word as they plucked every hair from Hatshepsut’s body, scrubbed her skin with sea salt, and painted her nails with henna. A young woman’s room on her wedding day should have been full of laughter as women prepared the bride, yet Hatshepsut’s chambers were as quiet as a tomb. This marriage meant a new beginning, but felt more like a door locking behind her. These were her last moments of freedom, today the last day she truly owned herself. From now on she would remain in the Hall of Women, and one day bear the future hawk in the nest. Today she sacrificed her freedom for the possibility of helping her brother guide their kingdom.
She had no choice.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” Ahmose said from her place in the corner. Hatshepsut’s mother was still beautiful, but her perpetual frown had carved whispers of lines around her lips and eyes, like tiny cracks in otherwise flawless granite.
“So do you.” Hatshepsut cringed the moment the words left her mouth.
Her mother sighed. “I suppose I do.” Sitre and Mouse stepped back as Ahmose stood and lifted the lid from an alabaster pot to sniff the jasmine perfume inside. “I’d always planned to be mother of the next pharaoh,” she said. “Something to give me a purpose in this life once your father was gone.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t a son.” It wasn’t the first time Hatshepsut had spoken the words to her mother, but they still tasted bitter.
“It’s not your fault, Hatshepsut.” Ahmose set down the perfume and clasped her daughter’s hands, her skin cold. For a moment Hatshepsut saw the world through her mother’s eyes: her eldest daughter and husband dead, stripped of her title, and required to live the rest of her days locked in the Hall of Women. Such a future might one day await her as well.
Hatshepsut shuddered, then on impulse pulled her mother into her arms.
Ahmose stiffened. It was the first embrace they’d shared since Neferubity’s death, and for a moment Hatshepsut feared her mother might push her away. But then Ahmose gave Hatshepsut’s back an awkward pat.
“I wish I could make you happy,” Hatshepsut whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
“Oh, Hatshepsut.” Ahmose stepped back and tipped up her daughter’s chin. The kohl that followed the line of her lids to her temples was flawless, but her eyes filled with tears. “You and I are so different, Hatshepsut. I know I haven’t provided what you needed since—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, staring up at the ceiling with its painted lotus blossoms.
Since Neferubity’s death.
Hatshepsut squeezed her mother’s hand. “I wish it was Neferubity standing here today.”
“No.” Ahmose shook her head. “Never say that, Hatshepsut.” She led her to the window seat, Re’s morning light bathing them in the god’s warmth. “It took me many wasted days and even more sleepless nights, but I finally realized why your sister left this world for Amenti.”
“I’m glad someone figured it out.” Hatshepsut’s words were sharp, her voice reminding her of her mother’s.
“This life is hard,” Ahmose said. “You are so strong, Hatshepsut. I envy your strength and courage. Neferubity …” She placed her hands over her heart, as if trying to protect that most precious organ, the center of her being. “Neferubity was fragile. This life bruises us, batters us like a toy ship in a storm. But you—” She gave a wan smile. “You thrive on its challenges.”
Hatshepsut shrugged, uncomfortable with the rare praise, and not at all sure of the truth of her mother’s words.
“You’re all that I have left, sherit, but I can finally admit that I haven’t been a very good mother to you. All I want in this life is for you to be happy.” Ahmose placed her hands on Hatshepsut’s shoulders. “Will this marriage make you happy? Can you love Thutmosis as I did your father?”
It was difficult to imagine sharing such feelings with Thut. The last time Hatshepsut had seen her brother naked they both wore youth locks and went swimming in the Nile, trying to drown one another. Hatshepsut would trade Hathor’s trinkets of love and passion for Amun’s weightier gifts: a crown and the power that came with it. Yet there was no guarantee Thut would be willing to share his power with her.
She pushed the thought away, offering her mother a weak smile. “I don’t know. I’ve never given love much thought.”
From the corner Mouse cleared her throat, kohl brushes clenched tight in her fists as she looked pointedly out the window at the position of the sun.
Hatshepsut gave a wry chuckle. “I suppose I won’t get a chance to find out if I don’t get dressed.”
Ahmose still lingered, pressing her forehead to Hatshepsut’s. “You’re going to be a wonderful Great Royal Wife, Hatshepsut. You’ll make us all proud.”
Her mother released her to Sitre and Mouse, the two women working to ready her as if Ammit’s teeth nipped at their heels. Hatshepsut closed her eyes to let Sitre paint them with malachite and kohl. It was easier to ignore the inevitable. Tonight would come soon enough.
Sitre and Mouse toiled to prepare their mistress until even Hathor would envy her beauty. It was only fitting that the pharaoh’s daughter be drenched in gold—the skin of the gods—on her wedding day. Golden earrings in the shape of ankhs, the symbol of eternal life, hung heavy from her ears, and gilded bracelets snaked their way up her arms. Hatshepsut’s sheath was shot through with so much gold thread it cascaded like a waterfall of molten metal
down her body. Even her skin shimmered with precious gold dust imported from Nubia. The images of bound Hyksos and Hittites imprinted on her sandals would match Thut’s, so they might tread on Egypt’s foes together as they began their reign. Atop Hatshepsut’s wig, Ahmose reverently placed Nekhbet’s massive vulture headdress bearing the hooded uraeus with fangs bared, ready to strike her enemies, the same headdress that all the royal women of their family had worn at their weddings. Lapis lazuli studded the crown, the blue-and-gold-flecked stone reserved only for royalty and the gods. And hidden under her sheath and the weight of gold, Neferubity’s jasper pennant of Sekhmet was tied around her waist with a thread of gold knotted seven times for luck.
Sixteen years old, and she was about to become Egypt’s Great Royal Wife. She could certainly do worse in this life.
Sitre and Mouse packed up the cosmetic jars and palettes, leaving behind a faience jug of wine and a platter of sliced melon and figs. Sitre frowned and set down the jars to envelop Hatshepsut in a tight embrace until she felt like a child again, pulled onto a perfumed pillow. Her old nurse held her for a moment. “I’m so proud of you,” Sitre said with a sniff, accidentally smearing black kohl onto her cheekbones.
Hatshepsut blinked back the thorns in her eyes. “You’re going to make my kohl run.”
Sitre, Mouse, and Ahmose all dabbed their eyes, then backed from the room, closing the heavy door behind them. Wistfully, Hatshepsut traced the edge of one of Nekhbet’s golden wings with a hennaed finger. She knelt on the cold floor in the shaft of Re’s golden light, praying to Egypt’s bevy of gods for guidance, but Nekhbet was not inclined to assist her. Neither were any of the other gods or goddesses, for that matter. Her chambers felt as empty as her father’s after he’d flown to the sky. A delicate trill of laughter sounded, filling the rooms from somewhere and nowhere all at once. From the corner of her eye, Hatshepsut thought she saw Hathor’s tiny statue near the window shift, her cow ears shaking with mirth. Not for the first time, Hatshepsut silently cursed the laughing goddess of love, then turned the statue to face the wall.
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