Hatshepsut remembered looking at her great-great-grandmother, the dowager Queen Aah-hetep, sitting in the shade of a sycamore tree. How could anyone be so old? Her eyes were as bright as beads, still taking everything in, her skin folded into a thousand wrinkles, papyrus thin over the stick-like body. She had buried her husband, Se-quenen-Ra, long, long ago. She had buried three pharaoh sons and her famous daughter, Aah-mes Nefertari, now worshipped as a goddess. She had buried her grandson, Tcheser-ka-Ra. Now she watched over the household of her great granddaughter, Aah-mes. There was no longer a tooth in her head, and her mouth was a thin, sunken line in the lower part of her face, but her tongue was still sharp enough to make everyone jump to do her bidding and cower when they drew her displeasure. Hatshepsut was at once frightened of her and fascinated by her. If the old creature was in a good mood she would sometimes reminisce aloud, whether anyone was there to listen or not. At five years old Hatshepsut was shrewd enough to sense that what her great-great-grandmother said was worth listening to. It was from her she got the taste for power and intrigue.
Aah-hetep had been more than her husband's queen. She had been a powerful and influential woman and her daughter, Aah-mes Nefertari, had been another. The child Hatshepsut got the impression the old lady didn't think much of her great-granddaughter, the present Queen, because she let her husband, Aa-kheper-ka-Ra—who wasn't even of the pure royal bloodline, but born of the King by the slave, Senseneb—do all the ruling. The beautiful, elegant Aah-mes seemed always to have some secret that kept her thoughts away from them all. She performed her duties admirably and no one could have faulted her, but she didn't seem really to care what happened outside the walls of her palace. Hatshepsut listened to many a grumble from the old lady that her father wasn't pure enough in blood to rule alone as Divine King, and, although the child loved him dearly, sometimes she felt ashamed of this fact about his birth and confused that it was he with whom she felt happiest.
Hatshepsut shivered, remembering how she had longed for her mother's love.
Once, she saw the Queen, “the God's Great Wife", “Lady of the Two Lands", “Beloved of Amun", Aah-mes, pacing the cool tiles of the courtyard slowly, evenly, her face composed, her gaze turned inward. And Hatshepsut wanted to call out to her, but she was afraid. Where had the soul of her mother gone? Her form was there—soft muslin flowing around thigh and breast, lifting and stirring in the breeze, the gold on her throat and ear and arm gleaming in the sun. But it was as though there was no one inside.
“Mother!” she felt like calling, but could not.
Hatshepsut was overwhelmed with loneliness.
“Mother!” Her whisper broke through at last and she ran, arms out, wanting her mother's warmth more than anything in the world.
Slowly the great lady's head turned. Stiffly she bent towards her daughter, her lips shaped to kiss. But the child could see that Aah-mes was not really aware of her, and that the kiss would not reach her lips. Indeed, would never reach her lips.
That day she wanted to die. It seemed to her that her mother had enough love only for her brothers and none for her.
She remembered how she then ran off and threw a ball into the air. She watched it soaring against the tremendous blue arch of the sky, amazed at the strength of her throw. It was as though, with it, she was trying to throw herself away.
“Amun, Unseen One, Rich in Names,” she whispered as the ball of red and gold reached its zenith and apparently paused there as though held by an unseen hand. “Take me. Take me now. When Khnum fashioned me on his potter's wheel, why did he not fashion me a male body? Take me back into the Millions of Years. Let me sail with you in the solar barque among the Imperishable Stars!"
Her eyes were stinging and watering as she stared into the burning sky, but she refused to shut them. If anything was to happen she wanted to see it. No one was going to do anything to her without her knowing about it! Her chin was firm, her fists clenched. Was it an eternity she waited for the ball to fall—or less than a second?
It was falling and she was still as she was. Amun had done nothing in answer to her plea. She was running, a small wiry figure, her lips pressed together with anger. What was the point of having gods if they didn't answer one's prayers?
The ball was falling outside the part of the garden where she was allowed to play, but she did not hesitate to follow it. She left the smooth flagstones beside the pool and ran down the steps of the terrace beyond, past the carefully nurtured flowerbeds to the rough, wild area where the gardeners hadn't yet managed to tame the land. She forgot Amun in her attempt to find the ball. At last she saw it under a thorn bush and reached out for it. Horrified, she found herself staring into the cold, gold eyes of a cobra, her hand almost touching its mouth. She froze. Again time seemed to stand still. She couldn't move a muscle. She looked into the eyes of the cobra and knew that she was going to die. “No!” a voice seemed to scream in her heart. “No! No! No! I don't want to die. I don't want to die!” So Amun was up there, after all, smiling. He would give her what she had asked for, but she no longer wanted it. Nothing had changed. Her mother still didn't love her, her nurse was still mean to her, and she was still a skinny slip of a girl when she wanted to be powerful and masculine and great; but she didn't want to die. The dust of the earth smelled so good. It was familiar. Shameful tears filled her eyes. She felt bitter towards Amun now. She would not plead for her life as she had pleaded for her death. She had asked him for a favour and she would accept what came as a result of that request. Her hand was as still as stone. If only that voice in her heart would stop shouting “No!"
If only—if only death would be quick! She blinked her tears away, trying to get a clear view of her executioner. At last her vision cleared and she could see that the cobra was no longer there. She could see only the ball and the mark on the sand where the cobra had slithered away.
Her knees suddenly gave way under her and she collapsed on the ground, trembling. How much she wanted to live! Small and thin and female she might be, but she would show them! Ah—how she would show them!
* * * *
A short while later when one brother died, and then the second, she wondered if it were her resentment that had something to do with their deaths. She wondered if Amun had understood her passionate desire to stand alone, triumphant, in the light of her mother's eyes.
And then her great-great-grandmother died—the apparently indestructible Aah-hetep finally ceased to breathe.
"Aah Aah Aah-hetep
Aah Aah Aah-hetep
Aah Aah Aah-hetep"
The word became meaningless as the priests intoned it. It no longer sounded like her great-great-grandmother's name. It no longer sounded like a name at all. Would the gods hear it? Would the gods take heed of it? Would they accept her great-great-grandmother? She had thought she would cheat them and live forever. Well, she had tarried so long on this earth perhaps the gods had forgotten her name.
The child Hatshepsut watched dispassionately as the procession wound into the great valley. No one would ever forget her name, she vowed. A solitary hawk circled unbelievably high above them. Horus. Waiting. Watching.
They were chanting her great-great-grandmother's titles now: “Divine Wife of Amun; Royal Mother; Great Royal Wife, joined to the Beautiful White Crown...” The list went on and on. She had lived a hundred years in that sturdy body, shrivelling at last to almost nothing. She had seen so much. Would she take the memory of it with her into the other world, the Duat?
Hatshepsut had seen the paintings and the carvings in her tomb, noted the powerful spells, the prayers, the invocations. If anyone could be protected against extinction, Queen Aah-hetep should be. “But do you remember," she asked the High Priest, “when you go on that long journey, when you go through those great portals, when you cross the Fiery Lake, face the Forty-Two Assessors? When you do all those things, do you remember your life here on earth?"
He said “Yes, you do. How else would you answer faithfully and tru
ly when you are called to account for it."
“And when you have passed through all that, and if your eternal spirit does not ride with the gods in their golden boat forever and your personal soul does not stay with you in the House of Awakening, but is sent out to be born again in another body, in another time and place, will you still remember what happened to you in this life?” she persisted anxiously.
“Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is lost. Nothing is wasted. But some things are hidden and need to be searched for. You will think that you have forgotten. But everything you will be given to do will have its roots in what you were. Your heart will remember, but you will have no words for it."
“And if they open your mouth with the stone that comes from the stars like they do to the statues in the temple and the bodies in the House of Awakening, will you then have the words to speak of it?"
“If someone is there to open your mouth—it may be so."
“And if no one is there to do it?"
“You ask too many questions, child. Go away and think about the ones I have already answered."
“When I am grown up I will train as a priest. I will learn the answers to all questions."
He laughed. The great solemn priest threw back his head and laughed! Hatshepsut flushed scarlet and bit her lip. When she grew up she would make it her business to know everything!
After the deaths of Aah-hetep and her sons, Aah-mes became even more remote, not only from her daughter but from most of the court. Hatshepsut turned her attention and affection more and more towards her father.
He at least seemed prepared to allow her to take the place of the sons he had lost.
* * * *
When she was fourteen her father took her on a long journey throughout the Two Lands, a royal progress visiting every cult centre.
As they approached each quay, Hatshepsut stood silently beside her father at the prow of the royal boat, dressed like a boy in a white kilt, bare-torsoed, with gold on her arms and with a broad collar at her throat. Her head had been shaved and she wore the headdress of the royal heir. At fourteen her figure was slight and small beside that of her well-built father, but even so she drew the eyes of all the thousands gathered on the bank to greet them.
It was unusual for a pharaoh to bring his daughter to present to the god on such a progress through the country. Why was she dressed in male attire? Was the King trying to pass her off as his son? Was he planning to put her on the throne instead of one of his sons by a lesser wife? Surely the god would not allow that! There had been talk of Aa-kheper-en-Ra, son of the King by his favourite secondary wife, Mutnofre. All had assumed Hatshepsut would marry him and rule as queen.
But whatever their queries and their doubts, Pharaoh's visit was an occasion for a tremendous festival of rejoicing. Everyone who could walk had been at the riverside since before dawn, jostling for a view, and those who were infirm or ill or crippled had been carried and placed as near to the landing stage as possible. The Divine King would pass by. He would reach out his hands. Who knew what miracles would occur? Pharaoh was the channel through which the gods poured down their power on the earth. He was their instrument.
Whenever the boat was sighted the buzz of excitement rose to a crescendo, but as it came nearer the crowd fell silent and listened to the gradual swelling of the music that wafted to them over the water. Two rows of choristers, female and male, raised their voices high in praise of the great Pharaoh, while behind them the lutes wove a sweet melody, and the drum and sistrum marked the beat of oars and song.
It was all Hatshepsut could do to keep from singing herself. They visited cult centre after cult centre on their journey, but she never tired of the excitement of arrival, the feeling of being on the edge of a great adventure.
She knew her father had his reasons for introducing her to the priesthood of the various gods. He had plans for her that would need their support, knowing that his son by Mutnofre would be an ineffectual and indecisive ruler. His health had never been good and his chances of a long life were small.
Hatshepsut had never been allowed into the Holy of Holies of the temples, but now she stood beside the Pharaoh, face to face with the divine beings. At first she was disappointed. When the veil was drawn back she was shocked to see that the god was no more than a statue. Then as she stood, in silence and contemplation, the significance of “the opening of the mouth” ceremony was revealed to her. The god was not the statue, and the statue was not the god! The god used the stone image of himself as he used the living image of himself as Pharaoh, so that the people might have something which they could understand. If the great spirit beings of other realms were to reveal themselves as they really were, the people would run and hide, would shut their ears and their hearts, would not understand what needed to be understood.
At Khemnu she encountered Djehuti, the god of knowledge, and his female counterpart, Seshat, she with the seven-pointed star shimmering above her head, and he with the head of the sacred ibis. As she stood in the shrine, only half listening to the words of her father and the priest, she looked at the hieroglyphs on the walls behind him. She felt she was not reading the mundane and familiar images carved by scribes and craftsmen, but was experiencing ancient and magical symbols that burned in the heart and revealed the secret thoughts of the gods. Djehuti had given language and writing to the world to increase wisdom and understanding. How sad it would be if the world misused it.
At Men-nefer, when her father momentarily drew the veil from the face of Ptah, creator-craftsman god, she thought she glimpsed a vision, a vista so magnificent that she fell on her face on the stone floor in awe and terror. She saw universes, even greater than the one she knew, being continually formed and reformed, a vast and complex pattern in continual change and motion.
The Anmutef priest in his panther skin stooped down and lifted her to her feet, but now, as she looked fearfully into the god's shrine, she saw nothing but the statue of a man grasping a sceptre of divinity firmly with both hands, gazing steadily out ahead to the horizon of the world and beyond it to whatever mysterious realms lay out of sight.
Still trembling, she forced herself to look into his eyes—and it seemed to her that he lowered his gaze for a moment and was looking deep into hers. He understood what she had experienced and was telling her not to forget it. “You cannot live with that vision,” he was saying, “but you cannot live without it."
As though in a dream, she heard the words her father and the priest were intoning. Ptah was silent now. His gaze had gone back to the horizon.
“I promise,” she whispered. “I'll never forget it.” But already it was fading, and the sense she had had that her own life and the life of her whole land was infinitesimal compared to what lay beyond was almost gone. The sense of her father's importance and her own was reasserting itself. The god before her was no more than a being not unlike herself—perhaps a little more powerful—to be cajoled and bribed for favours.
Perhaps at Yunu, the centre of sun worship, she would experience the true nature of the god again. She both feared and desired it.
The great sun altar was open to the sky, not enclosed in the usual dark and airless sanctuary. The images of the mighty Ra in his three forms—Kheper at dawn, Ra in full power at noon, and Atum in the evening—were carved on the sides of the altar, but the god himself blazed down on their heads from above, so hot and bright that not even the First Prophet of his temple could lift his head and look at him. At the entrance to his court stood two obelisks, their tips blazing with gold.
Hatshepsut stood beside her father, feeling the heat of the paving stones burning through her sandals. Her eyes watered with the brilliance of the light reflecting off the dazzling white and gold—but she dared not move. The chief priest's invocation seemed interminable and the rows of junior priests bringing offerings and piling them up on the altar endless. She blinked away the water in her eyes and tried to ignore the sweat trickling down her body. On the stone before her she read:
I am the Eternal Spirit,
I am the sun that rose from the Primeval Waters.
My soul is god, I am the Creator of the Word...
I am the Creator of the Order wherein I live,
I am the Word, which will never be annihilated ... [2]
[2—“I am the Eternal Spirit...” from Coffin Text 307, quoted by R. T. Rundle Clark in Myth and Symbol in Ancient Egypt, Thames & Hudson, 1959.]
It was happening again! In spite of her discomfort she could feel herself leaving her body and reaching after something only her own eternal spirit could hope to understand.
Once again she had seen behind the mask of the god.
Once again the memory of it was slipping from her.
Her father touched her arm and pushed her gently forward. There were words she had to say, motions she had to make. How inadequate they seemed in the light of what she had just experienced. But it was the custom. It was what was expected. It was part of the order the god had created. She could feel the eyes of the priests upon her, watching her every move, judging whether she was worthy of the role she was destined to play. She spoke the words clearly. She made the ritual motions confidently.
“She is strong,” the High Priest thought. “Her father was right about her. If she supports us, we will support her.” And he accepted without hesitation the offering the King had made in her name.
* * * *
In spite of Hatshepsut's expectations after the journey she had taken with her father, he declared his son by Mutnofre his heir. She was betrothed to the prince, and though the Great Royal Wife and Queen had great status and power, Hatshepsut was bitterly disappointed.
Her betrothed, Aa-kheper-en-Ra, found himself at a disadvantage in every respect in his relationship with her.
One day he stood beside her in the garden, looking down at her as she lay asleep under her favourite tree. The servants had brought out a light couch for her in the heat of the day and, after a long morning of hunting with her father in the desert, she had flung herself down to rest. He could see the air vibrating around her. She was the sort of person who walked into a room full of people and from that moment no one in the room was aware of anyone else. Beautiful women faded into the background. Men became shadows. It was not that she was so beautiful, but she gave the impression of beauty, the impression that beauty was actively being created before their eyes. Every movement of hers seemed to draw the world with it. He couldn't explain it. He had tried to resist staring at her, resenting her effect on him, but time and again he had found himself tongue-tied and awkward in her presence. He knew she half-despised him because his mind was not as quicksilver as hers, because words stuck like flies in honey to his tongue, and because no one noticed him the way they noticed her. He knew she had affection for him as her father's son, but never love, never respect, never admiration.
Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun Page 2