Daughter of the Gods: A Novel of Ancient Egypt

by Stephanie Thornton

  Re hung from his pinnacle in the sky. There remained only a few moments of freedom for her to cherish.

  Hatshepsut took a long sip of palm wine, savoring the sweet taste as it slipped down her throat. A heavy knock at the chamber’s entrance made her start. She touched the corners of her eyes, careful not to smudge the gold dust, and cleared her throat. “Enter.”

  The massive doors swung open and a lone man was revealed. Hatshepsut’s heart stalled to see Senenmut dressed in his best court finery, here to escort her to the wedding. It was suddenly hard to swallow.

  Senenmut stepped into the silent chambers, the door open behind him. He bowed in a full henu, but paused longer than necessary.

  “I suppose you’ve been sent as my escort?” Hatshepsut tried to infuse her voice with a lightness she didn’t feel.

  “I have.” He managed the faintest of smiles, the kind reserved for the extremely unfortunate, such as a man whose entire harvest has been destroyed by locusts. Or a woman about to be married off to a man that she could never fully love.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, clearing his throat. His eyes today were the exact green of freshly split papyrus reeds. Hatshepsut took some pleasure in noting the way those eyes lingered on her.

  “Of course. I was born for this.” She tilted her chin in the air. “Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

  “My rekhyt mind can scarcely conceive of such a responsibility.” Senenmut crossed his arms before him. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ll leave you to escort yourself to your own wedding.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She checked her distorted reflection in the copper mirror one last time, her fingers lingering on its engraved tadpoles meant to confer one hundred thousand days of life upon their owner. She took a final sip of the palm wine.

  He said, “I can think of a number of beer houses that would be much more enjoyable than a stuffy royal wedding. A mug served by a comely wench, certainly one with a gentler tongue than yours—”

  She didn’t realize what she was doing until the palm wine splashed Senenmut in the face. She stood there holding the empty gold cup while the shimmering liquid dripped down his jaw and onto his bare chest.

  She was horror-struck, but then Senenmut started to laugh. The sound filled her chambers and she scrambled for a towel. “I don’t know why you’re laughing.”

  “I didn’t know you cared,” he said. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  She held out a square of white linen, but he only tilted his chin so she had to wipe the wine from his face and chest. Their fingers brushed when he took the towel from her, sending a jolt of heat up her arm, straight to her heart. Even the tips of her ears felt warm. She didn’t know what was wrong with her.

  He finished wiping his face, then tossed the rumpled linen onto the table. “To the priests, then?”

  To the priests. And to Thut.

  Hatshepsut wished to ignore the inevitable, to imagine what it would be like to marry someone other than her brother. For the briefest moment, she wondered what it might be like to spend her life with a man more like Senenmut.

  While she often loathed the man and still hadn’t discounted feeding him to the crocodiles one day, even she had to admit that under Senenmut’s raw ambition was a rare mind coupled with fierce dedication that she never would have expected to emerge from Egypt’s muddy fields. Whereas Thut was loyal, cautious, and as predictable as the Nile, Senenmut was capricious like a spring windstorm and entirely self-absorbed. It occurred to Hatshepsut that that might explain why she sometimes detested Senenmut so: He and she were too much alike, almost as if Khnum, the ram-headed creator god, had cast them from the same clay on his potter’s wheel. Perhaps they should be the ones fated to spend the rest of their lives together, lest they ruin anyone else’s chance at happiness.

  Laughter bubbled in her throat at the thought, and a nervous giggle escaped her lips before she could stop it.

  Senenmut raised his brows. “I think brides are supposed to be contemplative before they meet their grooms. Or did you perhaps have too much of that wine before you threw the last of it at me?”

  She glared at him. “I’d have had more if I knew Thut was going to send you to bring me to the priests.”

  He laughed, then turned and walked toward the door, not waiting for her.

  She wouldn’t wish marriage to Senenmut on her worst enemy.

  “Senenmut,” she said, waiting for him to turn around. “The Great Royal Wife does not walk behind a rekhyt.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “But you’re not the Great Royal Wife just yet, now, are you?”

  “We wouldn’t be talking now if I was.”

  Once Hatshepsut married her brother, she would leave the Hall of Women only when Thut allowed her. It might be a long time before she saw Senenmut again.

  He stepped out of her way to let her pass, but her arm brushed his, leaving a smudge of gold dust. Senenmut touched her hand and their eyes locked. Her fingers lingered for a moment in his—one pale and weighted with sparkling jewels and the other strong, bronzed by Re’s touch. Her breath lodged in her throat.

  Then she remembered who she was.

  Hatshepsut jerked back her hand as if scalded, tripping over a chest behind her in her haste to put space between them. Senenmut caught her in time, his hand around her waist to pull her upright. His fingers trailed down her spine until his hand rested at the small of her back.

  She was about to become Thut’s property; for Senenmut to touch her like this was treason.

  “Let me go.” Hatshepsut’s heart hammered in her throat.

  Senenmut’s eyes bore into hers. “The gods shaped us from the same clay, Hatshepsut. Don’t try to deny it.”

  How had he come to hear her thoughts, to use them against her?

  She managed to disentangle herself, lifted her chin in the air. “If you touch me like that again, I’ll have you thrown into Aswan’s quarries so fast it will make your head spin.”

  “If you say so.” Senenmut held her with his eyes. “But I doubt that very much.”

  Hatshepsut refused to dignify that comment with a response. Instead, she turned and stormed out the door.

  • • •

  The clay pot shattered into a myriad of rainbow pieces. Shards of striped azure and carnelian rained upon the royal dais, the delicate dust settling on Hatshepsut’s painted hands.

  “Love your wife.” The priest intoned the common maxim to Thutmosis. “Fill her belly, clothe her back. Make her happy while you are alive and you will profit from her womb. Neither judge her nor raise her to a position of power.”

  The horde of assembled courtiers erupted into a deafening chorus of cheers, but to Hatshepsut it seemed as if she were far off in the Western Valley. Only the faintest murmur of the screaming masses penetrated her senses. Someone grabbed her cold hand and lifted her arm in a gesture of jubilation. The murmuring of the crowd grew louder until the monstrous reality broke upon Hatshepsut all at once.

  Neither judge her nor raise her to a position of power.

  She looked at the man who held her arm so triumphantly aloft, as if he were carrying the severed hand of some barbarian recently conquered. But this golden man at her side was no warrior.

  He was her brother.

  And now he was her husband.

  Hatshepsut glanced down at her gown. The fine film of dust that had settled upon her bathed her tangibly in her own marriage. Her eyes strayed for the briefest moment to the opaque smudge on her arm; its missing gold dust likely still clung to Senenmut’s arm. Damnable man—she wished a scorpion might sting him in his sleep or a hippo would overturn his boat one day and crush him in its jaws. He deserved a long, drawn-out death.

  At her feet lay the jagged edges of what remained of the clay pot. Made of the finest silt dredged from the depths of the Nile and painted with vibrant blues and reds, it was inscribed with formal prayers in stiff hieroglyphs. Before the brief ceremony Hatshepsut had spared a glance at some
of them—typical wedding prayers to be sent on the winds to the gods as soon as the pottery shattered.

  May your wife give you a son while you are youthful.

  May your home be blessed with peace and prosperity.

  May your husband treat you as a treasure—clothe you, feed you, and keep you in your old age.

  The petitions were trite, hollow supplications made since time immemorial at the cold granite feet of the gods. Instead, she prayed for Amun’s guidance to keep her place beside the Isis Throne and pleaded with Hathor to grant her patience as she became Thut’s wife.

  “You could smile.” Thut muttered the words through his teeth as he shook her arm, encouraging louder roars from the ocean of nobility that stretched before them.

  She formed her lips into a smile so wide she feared her face would crack. After an eternity the crowd quieted for the speech from the pharaoh and his Great Royal Wife.

  “Gathered friends,” Thut began. “It is a great honor to have you witness the union of Amun’s beloved children. We promise to serve you dutifully and guide Egypt into its golden age!”

  Then he paused and looked to Hatshepsut.

  She stepped forward. “May the gods eternally bless Egypt as they have seen fit to bless the children of Osiris Tutmose today. Join us in the banquet hall to celebrate this great gift from the gods. Wine, food, and dancing for all!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers and waved palm fronds as Hatshepsut led Thut from the dais. He had forgone his cane today, so she had to slow her pace to match his, letting him lean on her while maintaining the illusion that he was walking on his own. They waited while the spectators filed into the formal dining hall.

  “You did well,” said Ahmose at Hatshepsut’s side, her cinnamon-colored eyes warm with pride. “As I knew you would.”

  “Thank you.” Hatshepsut blinked once to ease the stinging in her eyes. She was saved from having to find her voice as Mutnofret pulled Hatshepsut into a smothering hug.

  “My daughter! You’ve made me so happy today.” Mutnofret’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “But not as happy as I’ll be when you deliver my first grandson. This has been a day blessed by the gods.”

  It hardly seemed possible, but Mutnofret had gained even more weight since Osiris Tutmose’s death; her honeyed rolls had added a third chin to her repertoire. She was beginning to resemble one of her favorite desserts—a huge brown date with no discernable waist or neck.

  “The honor is all mine,” Hatshepsut said. She tried to step back even as she was enveloped in another myrrh-drenched hug.

  “Thutmosis!” Mutnofret released Hatshepsut and yanked her son into her arms. “When are you going to make me a grandmother?”

  “As soon as we can.” Thut offered a warm smile as Mutnofret cackled. Hatshepsut prayed with renewed fervor for Amun to grant her strength.

  A herald shuffled before them and bent into a deep henu. His ancient bones creaked as he rose. “The guests await their pharaoh and Great Royal Wife.”

  “We’re ready.” Thut took Hatshepsut’s hand and kissed it, leaving a film of saliva on her skin. She resisted wiping it off.

  The herald opened the door to the banquet hall and banged his heavy staff on the floor to quiet the courtiers. He announced the wives of Osiris Tutmose with little fanfare, but then it was time for the first presentation of the pharaoh and his new wife.

  The herald’s voice bludgeoned the silence with the titles of the new pharaoh and his Great Royal Wife. “Aakheperenre Thutmosis, great is the manifestation of Re, the strong bull, the great one, divine of kingship, powerful of forms, Thutmosis, Thoth is born!” He continued on. “Eldest great daughter, lady of the Two Lands, King’s Great Wife, Hatshepsut!”

  Thut pulled Hatshepsut into the banquet room. Re’s light spilled from skylights to illuminate the painted images of gods carved amongst the pillars. The nine ancient gods and much of Egypt’s younger pantheon bore witness to this royal celebration from their granite columns: falcon-headed Horus; Re, wearing his sun-disk crown; green-faced Osiris; Hathor with her cow ears; and Isis, the goddess of many names. The guests erupted into cheers at the sight of their two new leaders. Hatshepsut played along until she caught sight of the one man in the room who was not celebrating.

  Senenmut.

  His penetrating gaze shifted to her. He gave a stiff bow and then melted back into the crowd of nobility.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur—platters piled high with roast ox and river fowl dressed in their own feathers, acrobats contorting their bodies into impossible poses, and harps and sistrums played to sustain the jubilation. The oiled bodies of naked dancers gyrated, and the pharaoh’s best wine flowed freely. Mensah was there, dressed in his finest linens and wearing almost as much gold as the royal family. The last son of Egypt’s eldest family stood surrounded by all the up-and-coming young men of court, as if he were a pharaoh in his own right. His ancient father had been sickly of late and had received permission from Thutmosis to retire to their family estates prior to the wedding. Rumors already flew as to whether Mensah would replace his father, but it seemed strange that he hadn’t yet pressed the issue with Thutmosis, at least not that Hatshepsut had heard of. But then she hadn’t seen Mensah since the day she’d attended the Court of Reeds. In fact, it seemed Mensah was doing his best to ignore her even now, keeping his eyes on the pretty acrobats while reigning over his followers. Perhaps she was finally rid of him.

  The room filled with the overpowering scents of roasted meats, sweat-slicked bodies, and the melting perfume cones worn on the heads of men and women alike. No one appeared to notice if Hatshepsut’s smiles ever rang true.

  After sunset, Sitre escorted Hatshepsut away from the banquet and returned her to her chambers. The old menat exchanged the golden wedding finery for a loose white sheath—one so delicately woven as to be transparent—and took away the wig and jewels that denoted her new position. Even Sekhmet’s jasper amulet came off, leaving her naked and vulnerable.

  Sitre folded the gold wedding sheath, worry written plan in the lines knit above her brows. “Hatshepsut, do you know what Thutmosis will expect of you tonight?”

  A nervous laugh bubbled in Hatshepsut’s throat. She nodded.

  Sitre clasped Hatshepsut’s hand. “It will hurt for a moment, but the pain will pass. I’m sure the pharaoh will be gentle.”

  Hatshepsut could only stare. She’d given Mensah her maidenhead; it had never occurred to her that Thut would wonder why she came to him already a woman.

  Sitre stroked Hatshepsut’s short curls. “I’ve never seen you so terrified.”

  “I’m not terrified,” Hatshepsut snapped. “I want this to be over.”

  “Soon, sherit.” Sitre frowned and shot her a look akin to pity. Then she bowed and left.

  Hatshepsut perched on the edge of her bed and clutched the plush mattress like one of the caged doves in the palace aviary. Time was not kind. Each moment dragged into eternity—it was all she could do to sit still while she waited for Thut. She jumped at every noise, and her stomach mimicked the acrobats at the feast, contorting into impossible positions.

  The ebony door creaked open and Hatshepsut jerked to her feet, her heart pounding like a drum before battle. A head poked around the heavy panel, and Hatshepsut sank back into the mattress. “Mouse! What in the name of Amun are you doing here?”

  “He’s on his way, Hemet. The pharaoh just left his chambers.” Mouse bit her lip. “I know I shouldn’t say anything, but Sitre told me you were nervous. You don’t have to worry, at least not if the girl-slaves in the kitchens are to be believed. They say the pharaoh is a lamb in bed.” She winked. “A quick lamb.”

  Hatshepsut exhaled slowly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Thank you, Mouse.”

  The attendant scurried out after making a tiny henu. Hatshepsut stood and turned around, but the sight that greeted her only made things worse. Stretched out before her was what would shortly become her bed of torture. S
oon those linens would be twisted around naked limbs as Thut became her husband in body as well as name. She almost wished she came to Thut a virgin tonight and that she hadn’t known such heights of pleasure with Mensah, for surely she’d never know such passion again. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the door open.

  “You looked beautiful today.” Thut’s low murmur in her ear sent a jolt of shock through her body. Hatshepsut jumped, but before she could pull away, her brother’s arms bound her to his chest.

  “Gods, but you scared me!” Hatshepsut stepped away from him, burned by his touch.

  “Hardly the reaction I intended, sister.” Thut’s eyes traced the lines of Hatshepsut’s body through her sheath and he gave a satisfied sigh. “The sight of you makes me feel as if I’m drunk without wine.”

  And yet, she could smell the wine on his breath. She sent another silent prayer to Hathor as Thut laid down his cane and stepped closer. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “No.” She swallowed hard. “Are you?”

  Even in the moonlight, she could make out the flush that spread across his cheeks. “A little. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Hatshepsut tried to relax, shoving unwelcome thoughts from her head. She had written her future in her mind without even giving Thut an opportunity to prove himself; there was still a chance that he might surprise her, that she might find happiness with him. She forced a smile. “I’m a lucky woman.”

  Thut untied the gilded rope that held his kilt, the silhouette of his manhood hard and erect. His hands felt clammy as he undid the strings at her shoulders and let her sheath fall in a heap at her feet. She fought the urge to cover herself. “And I’m a lucky man,” he said, running his fingers over her nipples.

  She shivered, but he touched his lips to hers, picked her up, and managed to carry her to bed despite his limp. He laid her out on the feather mattress as if making a precious offering to the gods, spread her legs, and entered her with one swift stroke.