Tonight her brother intended to celebrate the Opening of the Year with the Festival of Intoxication for Hathor. Years ago, Re had raged against humans for violating Ma’at, so he had sent Hathor to destroy mankind. She transformed into the lion goddess Sekhmet and Egypt’s fields ran red with the blood of her rampage. Seeing this, Re realized his mistake and ordered Sekhmet to stop, but she was too gone with bloodlust to listen. Knowing he had to halt her some other way, Re stained seven thousand jugs of beer with pomegranate juice and poured the red liquid into her path. Believing the beer to be blood, Sekhmet gorged herself and passed out in a drunken stupor. When she awoke, her bloodlust had passed and she returned to being Hathor. Thus the goddesses of love and violence shared a common history.
Now, to commemorate the salvation of mankind, a perfect year could only begin in a celebration of complete and utter drunkenness.
Tonight Thut had spared no expense; in addition to countless jugs of red beer, four thousand loaves of bread would be distributed to the people of Waset while dancers, singers, and acrobats would entertain at the palace. None of the nobility would see their beds until well after the Dog Star rose just before dawn. Hatshepsut was thrilled at the rare opportunity to leave the Hall of Women, and hoped that as an extra boon her brother would be too exhausted to visit her chamber later that evening.
She hummed to herself as she reached the gilded doors to the banquet hall, allowing a girl-slave clad only in a collar of lotus flowers to attach a perfume cone to her wig and offer her a bouquet of mandrake fruit. Hatshepsut inhaled the scent of the little green apples before taking a bite and sucking the magical juice with the promise of Hathor’s pleasures and then spitting out the fruit’s poisonous flesh. The scent of jasmine washed over her, and the low buzz of hundreds of voices swelled as she was admitted into the beehive. Lithe acrobats contorted their bodies like sedge grass in the wind, and elegant dancers flew through the air; one narrowly missed a tray of roast swan complete with feather garnish. Beer flowed freely, and raucous laughter mingled with the lyres and pipes from the musician’s stand. Thut lorded over it all from his dais—a kingdom in miniature the perfect size for him, complete with rivers of wine and mountains of food.
The crowd parted for Hatshepsut to make her way to the royal dais, but the revelry continued unabated with a flick of her wrist.
“What do you think?” Thut hollered over the din as she arranged the pleats of her skirt. He lifted a blue faience cup of beer so fast that the red liquid sloshed over his hand. “I think I could drink to drunkenness tonight—my insides are as dry as straw.”
She chuckled. “It looks as if you’re well on your way.”
“It’s the perfect opening to Hathor’s sacred month—don’t you agree?” Thut was obviously proud of himself, preening like an ostrich in mating season.
“I’m sure the goddess approves.”
“All this, and that’s the best you can do?” He gave a mock frown. “Where is that golden tongue that makes all the foreign ambassadors fight to kiss your feet?”
Hatshepsut pointed her hennaed toes before her. She rather enjoyed the idea of the Akkadians and Phoenicians kissing her feet. “I’m sure Hathor will be impressed,” she added.
“I hope so.” His eyes grew warm and his fingers brushed her stomach. “Perhaps, then, the goddess will grant me my greatest wish.”
She forced a smile, thankful for the haze of mandrake clouding her mind and the boy-slave that appeared with a plate of duck slathered in onion sauce. Her foot tapped in time to the beat of the drums. She didn’t want to be a silent observer of the festivities, but yearned for one night during which she could enjoy herself.
Tonight would be that night.
The hum of conversation filled the hall as the music slowed and came to a halt. A servant balanced a massive plate of stewed pigeon on the head of a trained monkey, but Hatshepsut waved them away. She took a long draught of beer, thick and red with a hint of pomegranate. Her stomach protested at the duck. She needed something other than food right now.
The music began again, this time faster and syncopated with a deep Nubian drumbeat.
“I’m going to dance.” Hatshepsut drained the glass of beer and pushed away her plate.
“What?” Thut spoke too loud over a bite of roasted swan, a victim of his hunting excursion earlier that morning.
Hatshepsut twirled her fingers in the air. “Dance. I’m going to dance!”
She bounded down the steps and waded through the sea of nobility to Hathor’s temple dancers. The girls’ oiled bodies pulsed to the drum’s common beat, mingling with the noblewomen in their transparent white linen. As protocol demanded, the men stood to the side, but their eyes followed Hatshepsut as she took her place. She could almost hear their thoughts as they stared at her hennaed breasts and flowing linen skirt.
Men were simple creatures sometimes.
She closed her eyes and her hips found the beat. The music from the rams’ horns and sistrums swept over her and infused her ka with the heady rhythm. Everything else faded away. Her feet moved fast, a grin leaping to her lips as some of the crowd clapped in time. Hathor’s naked dancers cheered her on; a pretty one with brown eyes as big as a gazelle’s took her hand and they twirled about the floor together. Faces became a blur. Dizzy laughter bubbled in the back of Hatshepsut’s throat, but then the music slowed, changing to a sensuous crawl.
A glance at the dais revealed that Thut wasn’t watching her, but appeared engrossed in the other dancers, ignoring a boy-slave at his elbow with his platters of honeyed dates and slices of chilled melon.
The drums quieted to a low rumble and the lyres took the lead. Lust and longing infused each note, begging for a partner to hold, a strong chest to melt into. Now alone on the floor, Hatshepsut swayed hypnotically to the music; the timeless notes soothed her troubled ka. Gone were the heavy worries of irrigation canals, bowing to foreign ambassadors, and plotting to avoid her brother’s amorous advances. She was just a girl at a feast and there was nothing except this moment, this one flawless dance.
She might have stayed there for eternity.
Time melted away—she may have danced for moments or hours. The last strain of the lyre reverberated through the hall long after the musician plucked the string, an intangible echo of all she yearned for. Hatshepsut blinked a few times to get her bearings as the nimble dancers moved around her and the music reverted to a faster tempo.
She looked to the Isis Throne, but it was vacant and the dais empty. A survey of the floor didn’t reveal her brother there either. Thut had disappeared and left her to preside over the feast he had organized.
She might have expected as much. Perhaps her breach of etiquette had angered him, but she didn’t care.
The room swayed from the mixture of mandrake and her annoyance at Thut’s disappearance. She pushed through the waves of naked dancers and drunken court ladies to the quiet of the gardens.
The night air chilled the sheen of sweat on her skin and gooseflesh rippled over her body. Hatshepsut wrapped her arms tightly around herself and collapsed on one of the benches tucked into the corner of the main garden, shivering as its cold seeped through her linen sheath. This oasis in the middle of the palace was drenched with night’s shadows and cloaked in silence, the trees and flowers painted a stark black. The scent of her jasmine perfume mingled with the damp lotus blossoms, beauty and everlasting life intertwined. The Dog Star had risen to its pinnacle in Nut’s black belly, ushering in the Opening of the Year and heralding the Nile’s Inundation. She closed her eyes and focused on the meditative chirp of crickets, cradling her head in her hands, elbows perched on her knees.
A branch snapped and blighted the cricket’s unchanging song. Her head jerked from her hands so she could see who dared to intrude upon her peace.
“I didn’t know you could dance,” Senenmut said, his voice quiet under the stars. The darkness shrouded him and deepened the bronze of his bare chest while shading his long kilt a murk
y gray.
“Only on rare occasions.” Hatshepsut straightened. Despite the dark and chill of the night, she felt a little warmer upon seeing him. “It’s unseemly to dance with commoners.”
“That was hardly the way we rekhyt dance.” Senenmut pulled a date from its branch and tossed it to her. “Far too many clothes on.” He avoided her eyes as he took another fruit and popped it into his mouth. “Although I’m surprised Thutmosis didn’t fetch you.”
She chewed the date and shrugged. “My brother lets me do as I please.” The mandrake made her head light, and she slid over on the long bench so Senenmut could sit. He looked as if the seat were a crocodile waiting to pin him with its jaws. She chuckled. “I promise I won’t bite.”
“Unless you lose your temper.” He gave her a lazy smile that made her forget her next thought. The man was trouble.
“Ha.” Her face screwed up in a mock pout. She plucked a pink lotus blossom from the pool to keep her hands busy. The flowers had not yet sunk below the surface, but claimed a bit more time this evening before their rebirth the next morning. In the light of day the petals would have been a vibrant shade of fuchsia, but now they, too, were washed with gray. She shook droplets of water from the blossom and inhaled its perfume of the gods, noticing another intoxicating scent: cinnamon and honey. Senenmut’s scent. Her heart beat faster, perhaps another effect of the mandrake.
She should excuse herself and return to the banquet, but right now that was the last thing she wanted to do. Absentmindedly, she plucked the petals from the lotus and let them float like feathers to her feet. “What are you doing here, Senenmut?” she asked, watching them fall.
“It was hot in the hall. I thought the gardens would be a refreshing change.”
“Not that.” She gave an exasperated sigh, but then caught his grin. He was baiting her, as usual. “Why are you at court, serving my brother and jostling for power against all the other petty courtiers? I’m sure Thut could elevate you to governor of your nome if you asked. Before the next inundation, you could be back in Iuny with a pretty little wife and a hut full of urchins just like you.”
“The world can’t handle more than one of me.”
“At least we agree on one thing.” She chuckled at his pained expression. “Is this truly all you want in this life?”
“No.” He didn’t hesitate. “I want more. And I think you do, too.”
“Me?” Her hand fluttered as if to dismiss him. “I’m Egypt’s Great Royal Wife. I share my brother’s throne, and, one day, I’ll bear the next pharaoh. The gods have given me the blessings of a hundred women.”
The words sounded like a recitation, even to her ears.
“Perhaps. But that’s still not enough for you, is it?”
She laughed, but the sound was shrill. “Don’t presume you know anything about me, Senenmut of Iuny. You don’t know me at all.”
“Whatever Thutmosis gives you will never be enough.” He moved as if to take her hand, but stopped. “I’ve already received more than my share of blessings in this life. What more could the son of a simple scribe want? Yet it’s still not enough.”
Hatshepsut’s throat constricted at his words—it was as if he had seen into her ka.
“You have indeed risen fast.” She stood and allowed the remainder of the lotus blossom to fall to the ground. She picked another from the pool, wishing for the scent to linger a while longer. “The gods favor you.”
“I’ll settle to be favored by the pharaoh and his Great Royal Wife.”
Hatshepsut rolled her eyes, making sure he saw it. “Thut certainly favors you. I merely tolerate your existence in this life.”
A grin split Senenmut’s face, and the white of his teeth gleamed in the darkness. “That’s high praise coming from you. Are you sure you haven’t had too much mandrake?”
“I am nothing if not benevolent.” She gave him a cheeky grin, then sobered. “Still, you’re not like the other courtiers, with all their polished manners and artful lies.” She took a deep breath, the mandrake loosening her tongue. “In fact, I think I’ve grown accustomed to having you underfoot.”
“Like a pebble stuck in your sandal or an uncomfortable boil, I’d imagine.”
“Exactly.” She chuckled, touching her toe to his, feeling the warmth radiating from him. “Usually I’d be happy to see you feeding the carp at the bottom of the Nile. But sometimes—”
Before she could say more, the voices of other partygoers intruded into the garden. A woman laughed, a tinkling sound echoed by the man’s deeper timbre. The couple was likely on their way to find a secluded corner for a tryst, a common activity at these banquets. And as this celebration was in honor of Hathor, the goddess of love, the mood was certain to blur the lines of etiquette among some of the revelers.
The same conclusion could be drawn of her and Senenmut, should they be seen in this garden niche. She could only hope the shadows would mask the heat of her cheeks as it spread like wildfire to her ears. But in the back of her mind a faint voice questioned if sharing a dark alcove with Senenmut might be worth the consequences.
Hathor was mocking her. She knew there was a reason she’d always scorned the goddess of love.
“Enough about my untimely demise by those nasty carp.” Senenmut gestured to the path. “We should be getting back.”
Their feet crunched the pebbles of the path as they walked without speaking, Hatshepsut a few paces in front of Senenmut. The giggles and moans of Hathor’s couple became more urgent, the man’s rhythmic grunts broken by a woman’s ecstatic scream. Hatshepsut felt her face regain its scarlet blush.
Senenmut cleared his throat. “You go in. I’ll follow in a while.”
Hatshepsut almost thanked him, but thought better of it as she sauntered back into the banquet, stepping around sticky puddles of wine and passing a woman vomiting into a painted urn held by a girl-slave. Taunting Senenmut was her favorite sport, but she couldn’t afford another slip like the one just now in the garden. She was determined not to let him see how he had managed to get under her skin.
Senenmut was entertainment, nothing more.
Chapter 9
“What do you mean, the pharaoh is indisposed?” Hatshepsut stood outside Thut’s chambers, arms akimbo as she glared at Mensah. She’d barely slept after playing hostess for her brother’s little party last night, the one he’d mysteriously disappeared from. Now she needed his official seal to demand the Sinai’s stingy governor increase the shipments of turquoise to the royal court.
“The pharaoh has given strict orders not to be disturbed until he says otherwise.” Mensah repeated his instructions, his upper lip curling into a sneer. The medjay on either side of the door gazed forward like statues.
“I am the Great Royal Wife.” Hatshepsut pointed out the obvious, trying to keep her tone level. “If I need to see my husband on official business, I’m sure he didn’t mean to exclude me.”
“The pharaoh left explicit instructions, Hemet.” Mensah’s voice didn’t waver, but she got the distinct impression he was enjoying his power to refuse her. “Not even you are to be allowed to breach the sanctum of his chambers.”
She arched a perfectly kohled eyebrow. Either Mensah was trying to make her life especially difficult, which was entirely likely, or Thut was hiding something.
“Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is he ill? Feeling the effects of too much wine?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” Mensah said. “Perhaps the two of you can discuss it this evening over dinner.”
“So I’m supposed to wait around and then scurry to my brother’s table? What crumbs shall he feed me then?” Hatshepsut dropped her hands, still holding the apparently unimportant Sinai papyrus her brother had asked her to attend to. She hadn’t gotten to bed this morning until well after Re had risen and had tossed and turned once there, reliving the scene in the garden with Senenmut until she was too exhausted to think any more.
“Fine. If you see my brother before then, please conv
ey the message that I eagerly await his company over dinner.” She handed Mensah the rolled papyrus, now rumpled from being squeezed in her fists. “The pharaoh needs to sign this before then. The messenger is waiting to begin the trip to the Sinai to deliver it.”
Mensah bowed and took the papyrus in his thick sausage fingers. “I’ll give it to him when I see him.”
“Thank you.” Hatshepsut was curious to discover what her brother was hiding, but at the same time she didn’t really want to know. Anything Thut made a point to hide from her never ended well, including the frogs he had snuck into her bed when they were young. Hatshepsut hoped for her brother’s sake that this latest subterfuge wouldn’t be as juvenile.
By dinnertime she was starving and more than a little on edge, her stomach rumbling at the thought of food as she snapped at Sitre and Mouse while they dressed her. Mensah bowed this time, a little too obsequiously for her taste, and opened the doors to Thut’s apartments to allow her entrance.
Reed mats softened the pharaoh’s tiled floor, surrounded by a plethora of artifacts sent from foreign countries whose ambassadors were eager to please Egypt and her divine ruler. There was a golden elephant statue from Nubia that Hatshepsut had pretended to ride when she was young, a giant alabaster urn carved with griffins from Akkad, and a two-headed limestone stele from the Phoenicians. Slaves melted into the shadowed murals as they bowed to the Great Royal Wife amid tables strewn with tureens and platters. Hatshepsut touched a rose granite statue of Amun, one of the many likenesses of the hidden god of the air peppered throughout the room. Kipa slept atop the head of another across the room, her tail twitching each time she snored. Thut had decided to keep Amun’s statues when he had redecorated, perhaps as an invocation to the supreme god to guide him, as he had their father.
Hatshepsut rounded the corner into the cozy dining room, but stopped short as she saw its lone occupants ensconced on a single couch, their limbs intimately entwined. Her brother seemed to be feeding the woman from a bowl on his lap, her eyes closed and full lips open in anticipation.
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