Daughter of the Gods: A Novel of Ancient Egypt

by Stephanie Thornton

  The stallion was creeping forward on the curve, his nose past Tutmose’s flank, when the world came apart. There was a crack and the stallion bolted ahead as the chariot shaft fell to the sand. The chariot shuddered beneath Hatshepsut and tipped forward, upended like a child’s toy. She careened into the air, carried as if by the gods’ arms, watching the sand of the track pass slowly under her. Something hard stopped her flight and yanked the breath from her lungs.

  A sound like the snap of a twig.

  A blinding flash of pain in her arm.

  Then a horse whinnied in the distance and the perfect stillness of unconsciousness overtook her.

  Chapter 29

  She was being crushed, pulverized by the teeth of Ammit’s fury. Or tormented by demons, her arm twisted and pinned to a wooden stake while she was forced to float in the darkness of her own blood.

  She tried to move, but every limb cried out in agony and each labored breath threatened to smother her. There was a terrible moan of some creature in misery.

  The sound was coming from the back of her throat.

  “The pharaoh is waking up.” A solid voice waded through the haze of pain.

  “Thank Amun.” Senenmut’s voice traveled to her from far away. “Hatshepsut, can you hear me?”

  Someone squeezed her hand. She returned the squeeze, or at least she thought she did. Her mouth refused to move.

  “You’ve been badly hurt.” A cauldron of relief and anguish boiled in Senenmut’s voice. “Your arm is broken, but Gua set it while you were unconscious. He believes that’s the worst of your injuries. Your chariot overturned and you went flying. We thought we might lose you.” He cleared his throat, his voice thick. “You hit your head, probably when you slammed into Ti’s chariot. Tutmose got to you first—he had to pull the chariot off you.”

  Her mind sifted through all she had been told, but it was like wading through quicksand.

  “I’m sorry.” She managed to open her eyes a crack as she mouthed the words. How could she have been so reckless?

  “Don’t worry.” Senenmut kissed her forehead, his eyes watery with relief. “Now that I know you’re not going to die, I plan to burn your chariot.”

  But something didn’t make sense. There was the shudder of her chariot, the horse bolting away with the yoke still attached.

  “How?” She was glad the word was only one syllable.

  Senenmut pursed his lips together, his gaze flickering toward someone she couldn’t see. “The girth had been cut.”

  Gua cleared his throat somewhere in the background. “I think the pharaoh would benefit from some rest now.” And before she could protest, a sweet syrup was poured down her throat.

  “Physician’s orders.” Senenmut tucked the linen sheets tighter around her. “I’ll be right here if you need anything. Just rest.”

  She couldn’t fight the potent herbs pulling her toward sleep. One final thought followed her into the bleak nightmares of Ammit’s fearsome snarl.

  Someone had tried to kill her.

  • • •

  A thick haze still clouded her mind when she woke, but she could make out Senenmut sitting next to her bed, chin drooping to his chest in the flickering torchlight. The dark stubble on his cheeks told her she had slept for more than a few hours. She watched him for some time before deciding that he was real and not part of her constant nightmares, which were filled with rearing horses, flashing knives, and demon mouths packed with sharp teeth. She couldn’t afford the luxury of that medicine again if all her dreams consisted of such tortures that not even the gods could concoct.

  “Who did it?”

  Her voice sounded rusty, but Senenmut’s head jerked up and he took her hand. He felt warm, alive. “You’re awake.”

  She swallowed, her throat getting used to the motion again. “You said one of my girths had been cut. Who did it?”

  He rubbed his cheeks, dropped both hands into his lap. His shoulders sagged. “Nomti.”

  She drew in a sharp hiss of air. “Are you sure?”

  “The leather had been sliced under the harness, and Nomti was the last one to check your chariot. You heard the words from his mouth as well as I.”

  “I can’t believe Nomti would try to kill me.” She shook her head, closed her eyes to block out the truth. “That’s too blatant.”

  Senenmut shrugged. “That wouldn’t have mattered if—”

  “If I’d died.” She rubbed her temples, a drum starting to pound behind her eyes. “Where is he now?”

  “In the same cell that once housed Mensah. He claims he’s innocent, but I thought you’d want him questioned.”

  She shuddered. Life came in cycles, ever changing yet always the same. Here she was, repeating the same scene of treason, near death, and torture.

  “Question him,” she said. “But don’t kill him.”

  At least not yet.

  • • •

  The purple bruises on her face and body faded to a murky yellow and then disappeared as her flesh healed, but her mind remained battered, and Gua insisted she continue to wear the stiff wooden splint so that her arm would heal properly. Nomti refused to admit to his treason, regardless of the creative methods being used to extract his confession, and the accident and Tutmose’s news of Satiah’s pregnancy made Hatshepsut painfully aware of the vulnerability of the Isis Throne.

  There was only one way to remedy the problem, yet she’d have sold her ka to Anubis to avoid it.

  She stared at the frescoes dedicated to Thoth on Senenmut’s walls, wishing the god of wisdom might provide a better solution than the only one she could work out, waiting what seemed an eternity for Senenmut’s response. The gods had been cruel these past weeks. From his youngest brother, Senenmut had received word of Nofret-Hor’s unexpected death shortly after the sed festival; his sister had flown to the sky after struggling for two days on the birthing blocks to give life to her first child. Instead Anubis had claimed both mother and child. Senenmut had traveled to Iuny for the funeral and returned only today, still smelling of camphor and juniper oil, the scents of embalming and death. Now Hatshepsut had informed him of Tutmose’s talent for impregnating kitchen slaves, a mistake that could lead to future chaos, possibly even civil war.

  “Neferure doesn’t want to marry Tutmose,” Senenmut said. Their shared platter of roast pigeon sat between them, virtually untouched. “She’s not going to be happy about being forced before she’s ready.”

  “She has to marry him, and now.” Hatshepsut squished a clove of roasted garlic with the thumb of her good hand. “What if Satiah bears a son?”

  “A boy could be disastrous—the firstborn son would belong to a servant instead of the Great Royal Wife.” Senenmut rubbed the bridge of his crooked nose. “But it might not be.”

  “Don’t lie. It could be chaos even if Satiah has a girl. I’ve thrown open the doors on who can be pharaoh. The best thing for Egypt would be for Satiah to lose the child.” The words were harsh but true.

  “What about your promise to Neferure?”

  “I wish I’d never made it.” She exhaled and laid her forehead on her hands. The grainy surface of the table filled her eyes even as her temples throbbed. She’d rather face an army of spear-wielding Nubians than force Neferure into a marriage she didn’t want. Unfortunately, there wasn’t an angry army of Nubians handy for her to gamble on. “I don’t want to force her, but I have to.”

  “Don’t force her. Persuade her. Neferure isn’t like you.”

  “I know that,” she snapped. She stood and walked to an ebony table carved with gazelle’s feet. Atop it sat a gray granite block carved to show Senenmut holding Neferure as a child with a youth lock, his robe wrapped around her for protection and gleaming dully in the lamplight. Neferure remembered so little of Thutmosis; Senenmut was the only father she had ever known.

  “Your differences are not a bad thing for either of you.” Senenmut wrapped his arms around Hatshepsut, just as his granite likeness did for Neferu
re. “Your ka is like a giant cedar, shouldering all of Egypt, but Neferure’s is—”

  “Like a fragile lotus.”

  Senenmut nodded, reaching out to touch Neferure’s stone cheek. “Be gentle with her.”

  “I love Neferure,” Hatshepsut said, “but she’s seen eighteen naming days. Even I was married before then.”

  “And think of how miserable you were.”

  She closed her eyes and thought of Neferure. The only time her daughter’s smiles and laughter rang true was at Amun’s temple when she performed her duties as God’s Wife. Just before the sed festival, Hatshepsut had watched her at a ceremony celebrating the anniversary of the victory at Nubia and was awed at Neferure’s calm and the confidence with which she moved while in the god’s presence, so different from her behavior in the palace. She still panicked over formal events and darted about like a startled chickadee when Tutmose was around.

  Senenmut stood and rubbed her shoulders. “Would you like me to talk to Neferure instead?”

  She leaned into him, shook her head. “I need to do this.”

  “If anyone can persuade her, it’s you.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  She made her way to Neferure’s chambers, scowling to herself as a nameless medjay followed behind, his footsteps echoing loudly down the corridor. She found that she missed the reassurance of Nomti’s quiet presence and his ability to meld into shadows, traits that none of her new string of guards seemed to possess.

  It took longer than usual for her to finally reach Neferure’s apartments, both because Hatshepsut got exhausted far too easily now and because she dreaded what she was about to do.

  “Mother! I wasn’t expecting you.” Neferure ushered her to a chair before the door opened all the way. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot and dark shadows like thumbprints stained the delicate skin underneath. She’d taken the news of Nofret-Hor’s death especially hard. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  Hatshepsut looked at the ceiling and prayed for some intervention from the gods. Perhaps a sudden earthquake or a plague of locusts. Anything.

  Of course, there was only silence and Neferure’s wide eyes, her lips parted to show slightly crooked teeth. Her beautiful daughter.

  Hatshepsut had no choice except to plunge forward. This was for Egypt.

  “We need to talk.” She drew a deep breath. “About Tutmose.”

  Neferure frowned. “I heard about Satiah.”

  Hatshepsut cursed under her breath. Word traveled fast.

  “A youthful blunder.” She took her daughter’s hands. “But you and Tutmose must be married before the child is born.”

  “I can’t do that.” Neferure’s gaze flitted about the room like a panicked gazelle recognizing its imminent slaughter. She retrieved a small ivory statue of Amun from its golden shrine—the same carving that had once graced Hatshepsut’s own shrine of gods before she gifted it to Neferure along with the title of God’s Wife—and clutched it as if willing the Great Cackler to give her strength.

  “Neferure, you have to do this,” Hatshepsut said. “I won’t live forever—the chariot accident made me realize that. When I’m gone you must share the throne with Tutmose and give him sons.”

  “I’d rather die than take the throne.” Neferure’s face crumpled and she pressed the statue into Hatshepsut’s palm, then grasped Hatshepsut’s other hand in a vise grip worthy of a woman giving birth. “I’m the God’s Wife. To give myself to a man—even Tutmose—would destroy that.”

  Hatshepsut gave an exasperated sigh. “Neferure, all the royal women who have held that title have also been Great Royal Wives. We serve the gods, but we also serve Egypt.”

  “But if I marry Tutmose I might end up like Nofret-Hor, dead on the birthing blocks with a babe locked inside me. I don’t want that life or that death. All I want is to serve Amun.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “You are the daughter of not one, but two pharaohs. You have responsibilities!”

  “But I’m not good at them.” Tears filled Neferure’s eyes and her chin trembled.

  Hatshepsut forced a breath into her lungs and pulled her daughter to her, setting aside the ivory god. Now she knew how her own father had felt so many years ago. It seemed a cruel trick of the gods that youth and wisdom were never joined together.

  “You have the blood of kings in your veins.” She stroked Neferure’s hair. “You can do this.”

  “I’ll fail—disgrace you, Tutmose, Senenmut, Father, Grandfather.” Neferure’s voice was so quiet Hatshepsut could barely hear her. “Everyone.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” She tapped Neferure’s chin to look in her eyes. “That’s not possible.”

  “I’ve tried so hard to make you happy. But it’s not enough, is it?”

  “Of course you’ve made me happy. That’s not what this is about.”

  Neferure looked at the ground. “I’m not like you, Mother.”

  “You don’t have to be like me.” Hatshepsut smoothed the hair of Neferure’s wig, letting her palm linger on her daughter’s damp cheek. “The gods sculpt us all differently. You’re you—princess of Egypt and Tutmose’s Great Royal Wife.”

  Time slipped past. She could feel Neferure giving up thread by thread, unraveling the tapestry of everything she had planned for her future.

  “You promised you would never force me to marry Tutmose—that I would get to choose when I was ready.” Neferure’s lower lip trembled when she spoke. “But I’m not ready.”

  “I can’t keep that promise any longer.”

  “Please, can’t Tutmose marry someone else?” Neferure’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Anyone but me?”

  “You know that’s not possible, sherit. Your fully royal blood is Tutmose’s only living link to the double crown. I’d sacrifice my heart to Ammit if it would clear another way to the throne, but there’s no other choice. I can’t risk it.”

  “Egypt is too important.” A tremor quavered in Neferure’s voice.

  “You are important,” Hatshepsut reassured her. “Never doubt that, Neferure. I treasure you above all else in this world. You’ve made me happier and prouder than you can ever know.”

  “I love you,” Neferure whispered, finality weighing down her words.

  “I love you, too,” Hatshepsut answered. “Forever and always.”

  • • •

  The following evening the pharaoh’s private garden was awash with hundreds of tiny lamps that illuminated the air even as darkness strode across the sky. Mouse had arranged the lights on every surface that would hold them, and now the miniature flames danced merrily in the night. Five ebony dining couches had been arranged amongst the trees and flowers in the garden’s grassy center. The background chatter of crickets and splashing fountains imbued the air with perfect tranquility. It had rained long and hard earlier in the day—a rare gift from the gods that had scrubbed the air clean—but now the storm had broken, so the full moon and only a few wispy remnants of clouds were reflected in the fountains. Humming to herself, Hatshepsut smelled the aromas of all of Tutmose’s and Neferure’s favorite foods from the kitchens—chilled cucumber soup, roast goose with almond dressing, and plenty of honeyed desserts—as they mingled with the wet-earth scent of her garden.

  Tonight the royal family would celebrate the future of their dynasty.

  Senenmut arrived first. The sight of him still made Hatshepsut’s breath catch in her throat even after all their years together. Despite the importance of tonight’s dinner, he had skipped the formal wig and wore his customary long kilt. He gave her a quick kiss, but her lips lingered longer than usual. The faintest taste of wine clung to his lips, wedded with the cinnamon scent she so loved. She felt his smile before their lips parted.

  “You can’t have missed me that much since this morning,” he said.

  “I’m just reminded of how blessed I am.”

  His eyes crinkled. “I’l
l remember that kiss for later.”

  “How was the hunting trip with Tutmose?”

  “Terrible.” Senenmut attempted a stern expression, but she could see the laughter in his eyes.

  “After all these years at court, I’d have thought you might have learned to tell a better lie.” She strummed the fingers of her good hand against the wooden splint that had kept her from joining them this morning. “You can tell me what you took down, as long as it wasn’t an elephant or a water cow.”

  “Nothing so exciting—just too many geese to count and a couple swans. Tutmose has quite the arm with his throwing stick.”

  “Aset didn’t join you?” Hatshepsut had hinted that they should invite her, hoping to provide a common interest for Aset and her son. Tutmose seemed to go out of his way to avoid his mother since her return, as if he couldn’t reconcile the rough-mannered woman who constantly hovered about him with the remembrance of the mother of his youth.

  “We invited her, but she wasn’t interested,” Senenmut said, more relaxed than she’d seen him in a long time. “I’m proud of Tutmose. He’s grown into a fine young man.”

  Hatshepsut smiled. It was true, and, overlooking the incident with Satiah, Tutmose was all Hatshepsut could have hoped for in her heir. That fact alone made it easier for her to insist upon his marriage to Neferure, knowing that in time her daughter would come to realize her good fortune in having Tutmose as her husband.

  Aset and Tutmose appeared next, entering the garden under one of the arched canopies of creeping foliage and followed by Tutmose’s sleek black hunting dog. The animal was beautiful, despite his striking resemblance to the jackal god of death.

  “What a lovely night.” Aset gave a warm smile. “Especially for such an important celebration.”

  “Thank you for all this.” Tutmose gestured to the transformed garden, looking uncomfortable in his formal kilt and wig. He glanced about as if searching for something. Or someone. “Is Neferure on her way?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be along in a moment,” Aset assured him, picking at her fingernails, then clasping her hands behind her back when she realized Hatshepsut was watching. Aset’s fingers were stained black, but also cracked as if with dried blood. What in Amun’s name had she been doing?