Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun

by Moyra Caldecott

  Most years the strong Egyptian administration of the country kept the peace. Pharaoh's intelligence service was a well-organised one, and most uprisings were nipped in the bud before they had a chance to develop.

  The murder of an entire administrative unit could not go unpunished, however corrupt and unjust it might or might not have been. Even Hatshepsut believed this, though she was not as ready to leap to war as most of her predecessors had been. She knew her hold on her country was a tenuous one and she must always be seen to be doing the expected thing, the strong thing, the right thing.

  She had decided to lead this campaign herself, all the more so because Men-kheper-Ra had laughed so uproariously when she suggested it. Senmut and her advisors had more soberly tried to dissuade her, but she was determined to carry out everything that was expected of a pharaoh—at whatever cost to herself.

  When she was quite a young child her father had taken her on his hunting expedition into Nubia. She was therefore familiar with the type of terrain they would have to cover. She was also no stranger to killing. At the age of sixteen she had personally felled three lions on one day in the foothills of the very mountains they were about to scale. As Pharaoh, she had ordered men to death, but never plunged the knife in herself. Now she would see. She did not relish it—but it was expected of her.

  She spoke to her men in a clear and ringing voice. If she had any inner misgivings, there was no outward sign of them. The men felt confident that Amun-Ra would see them through.

  As she finished speaking they raised a shout of approbation.

  She looked down on them and knew they would follow her to the ends of the earth and dare any kind of danger for her. She thrilled to the power and forgot everything else.

  Hatshepsut and her troops returned to their boats and carefully bypassed the angry waters of the rapids by using the narrow canal cut centuries before, silted up and cleared by her father during his own campaign against the Nubians. This way they could penetrate quite deeply into the vassal territory, disembarking only just before the second cataract.

  The Nubians were, of course, aware of their approach. When Hatshepsut's men scouted the banks, they found whole villages totally deserted. The regular rhythmic sound of the oars, and the drumbeat that accompanied them, the high, harsh commands of the captains, the ominous glint of serried ranks of spears—all this must have been reported by breathless runners from community to community.

  Hatshepsut knew exactly where they were going. They did not want to waste time by trying to track down frightened villagers. They were out to punish the area where the insurrection had taken place. They might not get the actual culprits, but they would make certain that such men would not be harboured there again.

  When it was time to leave the boats, at first it seemed that all was well, and the Egyptians prepared to march towards the south-east. But they had not gone far when they were ambushed.

  Suddenly Hatshepsut found herself plunged into the reality of what she had dreaded in her daydreams the past few weeks. For one terrible moment she wondered what would happen to her if she had no supernatural protection at all, but was only a frail being of flesh and blood vulnerable to sudden and painful extinction. The moment passed, and again she was yelling to her men, urging them on to defeat the enemy of her forefathers, “the vile Kush” of the southern mountains.

  The campaign lasted almost a full moon, and during that time Hatshepsut grew weary of men's screams as they met their death; she sickened at the piles of hands that were triumphantly put before her at the end of each day. At night, alone in her tent, she twitched convulsively in her sleep. Was there no end to it? Was there even any point to it? When she could not sleep, her active and agile brain devised a dozen ways grievances could be removed, the administration strengthened, and more troops spared for guarding the isolated outposts. She would see that this did not happen again in her reign. She wondered why Men-kheper-Ra, so young and still unbearded, enjoyed soldiering so much.

  When she had first tried on the pharaonic beard she had not realised fully to what she was committing herself. With a rueful smile she remembered the scene in vivid detail.

  She was alone in her chamber. She'd sent her women away and forbidden them to return until she called them. Even Ma-ya, the cat, had been roughly pushed out. It was not the first time she had wanted to avoid the penetrating gaze of those uncompromising topaz eyes. The silver mirror with the lotus handle would be her only witness.

  At first she fumbled and almost called Mut-awa, her most trusted maidservant, to help her tie it on—but set her lips and tried again. She'd watched her father and her husband often enough and was determined to get it right. At last it was in place, and with trembling hands she lifted the double crown.

  Now she was ready to look at herself in the mirror.

  A stranger stared back at her: a boy's face—too young to grow a natural beard—pretending to be a man. In some ways it made her look younger, more vulnerable. She threw the mirror down in exasperation. She had a woman's form, slight and sometimes fragile-looking. Her face was as soft as a flower, and, if she was truthful, she had made use of this external image a great deal to twist her father—and lesser men—to her whim. But now she wanted the world to see her as she felt herself to be: neither man nor woman, but eternal being, divine king, transcending sexual demarcation, human limitation. One by one she took up the symbols of the Pharaoh and looked again. Was it possible the image that stared back at her from the polished metal was changing, growing, deepening, strengthening? Clothed finally in all the trappings of the royal role, she felt herself complete at last. She straightened her back though the crown was heavy. Her eyes gazed steadily back at her, not the eyes of just a woman or of just a man—but the eyes of Pharaoh overshadowed by the ureaus, the fearsome protective cobra, the eyes of someone who walked with gods and would do so again. This is what she believed herself to be, and the power of this belief transformed her external image. Men would tremble and worship her. Her every command would be obeyed.

  A slight frown shadowed her smooth brow, a momentary doubt that she was ready for this.

  “I must not doubt, I must not waver,” she told herself sternly, for she had seen that in the instant that she doubted herself the image in the mirror lost strength and power.

  * * * *

  On her return to Khemet after the war with Nubia, the stone-scribes carved her praises on the great southern pylons at Ipet-Esut.

  I am satisfied with my victories. Thou hast placed every rebellious land under my sandals. Every land which thy serpent-diadem has bound, bears gifts. Thou hast strengthened the fear of me: their limbs tremble. I have seized them in victory according to thy command. They are my subjects. They come to me doing obeisance, and all countries bow their heads. Horus of Pure Gold, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Companion and Daughter of Amun-Ra. Maat-ka-Ra, Hatshepsut.[15]

  [15—“I am satisfied with my victories...” From Hatshepsut's inscription on the southern pylon at Karnak. Adapted from paragraph 245, Ancient Records, vol. 2.]

  It was a long time before Hatshepsut again thought about that mysterious boulder on Sehel Island. The war had driven it temporarily out of her mind, and her busy life as sovereign of the Two Lands made it difficult for her to return to it, even in thought.

  And then something happened to reawaken her curiosity.

  At Serui, where she was building her great mortuary temple, the cult of Hathor had been established for a long time. There was a cave in the cliff that since the most ancient and primitive times had been associated with the womb of the Great Mother and, as the centuries rolled by and religious iconography became more developed and elaborate, a shrine had been set up to Hathor. The Great Mother was first symbolised by the image of a cow, and eventually by a woman with cow's ears. When Hatshepsut began to build her temple, Djeser Djeseru, she incorporated the cave and built a stately and magnificent chapel to Hathor over its entrance. It was in this chapel that Senmut had secretly p
laced an image of himself, obscured in a dark corner behind a door, in gratitude to Hathor and in memory of the lovemaking he and the Pharaoh had experienced on that journey to choose the obelisks so many years before. On the walls of the courtyard, Hatshepsut had had carved scenes in relief of herself as Pharaoh imbibing milk and spiritual nourishment from the Great Mother.

  Hapuseneb asked her if a young protégé of his could be installed as priestess or chantress there, and Hatshepsut agreed.

  When Hatshepsut was told her name, it crossed her mind that it was strangely familiar, but she dismissed the twinge of memory as insignificant. The name “Anhai” was not uncommon in the Two Lands. It was only later, when Senmut told her that he had an eerie feeling that the young woman was somehow associated with Imhotep, she suddenly remembered her experience on Sehel Island and the inscription that read: “Anhai, daughter of Imhotep". She told Senmut at once, and together they puzzled about it.

  The very next day Senmut accosted Anhai and questioned her about Imhotep. She claimed that she knew nothing more about the great architect and sage than what was common knowledge, but Senmut thought she looked uneasy at the questioning and that she protested her ignorance too much. He established from Hapuseneb that her mother was foreign and she had grown up far from the Two Lands. He enquired about her father and found that he had been a young priest of Ra before he had left Khemet never to return.

  Senmut's suspicions grew when he noticed the young woman seemed to be deliberately avoiding him. He reported this to Hatshepsut, and the Pharaoh immediately summoned Anhai to her palace on the west bank at Waset.

  Apart from the many large, formal palaces Hatshepsut's husband had built for her and those inherited from her parents and grandparents, Senmut had built her a small private one at the beginning of the green fertile land, beside the long causeway that led from the bay of cliffs where her “Mansion of Millions of Years” was being erected, to the quay opposite Amun's great temple at Ipet-Esut. It was a place she used a lot when she was tired and wanted to get away from matters of state. Not many people were invited to visit her there—and it was more heavily and diligently guarded than any of her other palaces. Although Senmut himself could usually come and go as he pleased, she insisted that she wanted to see Anhai alone, and that he must not intrude.

  Anhai was led through the cool corridors of the palace, stepping lightly on the pavement of green-blue tiles. It was as though she were under water in the Great Green Ocean. The walls and floor were all painted with scenes of sea creatures and sea plants, designed by artists who had been on the Punt expedition. Even the light on the ceiling, filtering through narrow slits, seemed to flicker and ripple as it would on water.

  There was a pause at the doorway at the end of the corridor, while her guide asked permission for her to enter. She was nervous. She was not sure she had done the right thing to come to the Temple of Hathor at Waset and cut short her training at the Temple of Ra at Yunu. It was possible Ra-hotep's spies had told him that she had spent the night before her preparation with Hapuseneb, or maybe it was just so obvious he could see it in their eyes, but he had begun to make her feel very uneasy, his sly innuendoes giving way to open suggestions that she should go to bed with him. So she had asked Hapuseneb if he could arrange for her to work at another temple, far from Yunu and Ra-hotep's unwelcome and persistent attention.

  On the journey south the landscape had drifted by, richly green and palm-fringed in some places, and precipitous with pink and gold cliffs in others. Hapuseneb had come with her but they had not made love. Without her saying anything, he had understood that some experience in the caverns had changed things between them. They had watched the stars and talked deeply like old friends, and she had withdrawn her arm quickly when his had inadvertently touched hers. Lying on her bunk alone, she had wondered if the disturbance she was suffering by not going to bed with him was not more than if she had.

  When they reached Waset, Hapuseneb had almost instantly gone off again on some mission for Pharaoh, and Anhai had been given to the care of the High Priestess of Hathor to train as chantress.

  She worked hard because the numerous chants that were used throughout the day and night in the temples were complex. The words were taken from ancient texts and their meaning was sometimes obscure. But whether she understood them or not it was important she used the exact tone and pitch of voice that was expected. A particular resonance of sound could make the invocation of any particular divine influence succeed or fail. Sometimes she despaired of getting it right.

  She was startled when Senmut had asked her about Imhotep. It was during one of Hapuseneb's brief visits back to Waset, and she was not in the mood to think of anything but Hapuseneb. She had replied without thinking that she knew nothing more than anyone else. But then certain shadowy memories had begun to stir. When she was a young girl living in a country very different from Khemet, she had had certain dreams, and flashes of what seemed like memories of Khemet from a past life. In that past life she had lived at the court of the great Pharaoh Djoser. Her father, Imhotep, was an honoured man, an architect, philosopher and healer at his court. His name had meant nothing to her when she was a child in that cold northern land, but here in Khemet she never heard his name mentioned without experiencing a twinge of recognition.

  Why should Pharaoh, the mighty Hatshepsut Maat-ka-Ra, call her to a private audience? Carefully she straightened the folds of her long skirt and rearranged the Lotus blossom in her hair.

  Her guide reappeared and ushered her into the presence of the Pharaoh.

  She found herself in a courtyard overflowing with green plants and flowers. Creepers climbed up columns and cascaded down from the roof on all four sides like green and scarlet curtains. There was a pool at the centre.

  Hatshepsut was reclining on a couch in the shade of a flowering tamarisk, her limbs oiled and golden, her wig plaited with beads of gold. Golden bands shone on both her arms above the elbows.

  “Ah,” she said pleasantly, as Anhai bowed to the ground before her. “Rise, child. We have no formalities in this garden."

  They were alone. The guide had melted away.

  Hesitantly, Anhai rose to her feet and stood looking down on the woman who called herself a king. She saw a woman who reminded her of a lioness resting in the shade, ready to spring at any moment, her eyes as golden as those of a lioness, half-hooded with drowsiness, half dangerously awake. She raised a languorous hand to wave Anhai to a cushion at her feet.

  The young woman slid down thankfully. Her legs were trembling.

  For a long time there was silence between them, Anhai wondering if she should speak, and if so, what she should say, and Hatshepsut studying the face of the young woman. “So this is Hapuseneb's latest fancy,” she thought. She saw that she was beautiful and still very young. She saw also that the young woman had suffered and matured beyond her years. She was no lightweight chantress, the daughter of a privileged family, passing the time before marriage by serving a few years in the temple, as so many of them were these days. She would like to find a place for her in her own entourage—but she did not want her too close to Senmut. He swore that he had interest in the chantress only because of her mysterious connection with Imhotep—and she believed him. Beautiful as the girl was, who would take her to bed if they could have Hatshepsut herself? Nevertheless...

  “They tell me your name is Anhai.” Hatshepsut spoke at last.

  “Yes, Majesty,” was the almost inaudible reply.

  “They tell me also that it was not always your name. Why did you choose it?"

  Anhai swallowed nervously. Names were very important to the people of this land. How could she begin to explain the long and complicated reasons for her choice?

  The golden eyes bored into hers and she knew she had to tell every detail, no matter how difficult it might be to do so.

  She tried to describe the flashes of far memory she had had as a child about a past life in the Khemet of ancient times—during the reign of
the Pharaoh Djoser. She described her father and said—very hesitantly, with her eyes fixed on the alabaster pavement—that she believed her name had been Anhai and her father's Imhotep. She knew it sounded far-fetched, but...

  As soon as she reached this point Hatshepsut sat up straight and swung her legs over the side of the couch so that her feet rested beside Anhai's cushion. Anhai looked up, startled, and saw how agitated the Pharaoh was.

  “In what place is it recorded that Imhotep had a daughter Anhai? I know of no such place.” Her voice was almost angry, almost accusing.

  “I know of none,” Anhai said humbly.

  “And what makes you think it is Imhotep, the architect of the Pharaoh Djoser, who was your father?"

  Anhai was silent for a few moments, and then, in a very low voice, described the dreams and visions she had had—including the building of the first mighty building using blocks of cut stone, the stepped pyramid of Sakkara.

  “I have no proof,” she almost whispered. “It is just that the visions were so vivid and I knew nothing of such things when I had them. My father in this life found me scratching hieroglyphs on pieces of soft stone—though I had no idea of what they were or what they meant."

  Hatshepsut stood up and began to walk up and down beside the pool. She became so occupied with her own memories it was almost as though she had forgotten the presence of the girl.

  Anhai rose to her feet too, and stood silently beside the cushion, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake to tell what she had told. But soon she was glad she had, for Hatshepsut stopped her restless striding and stood directly in front of her, looking into her eyes.

  “Now,” she said, “I'll tell you a story.” And she told Anhai about her experience on Sehel Island, and how the whole thing had come into prominence now because Senmut kept thinking of Imhotep whenever he looked at her, Anhai.