by Marié Heese
I suspect Mahu of lying to me, although I had not thought he was capable of it. I think those ruffians did know who Bek was, and this was a clear indication of disrespect for my majesty. It smacks of revolt. I like it not.
Mahu waited until the physicians came to report. He sat in his scribe’s position, seemingly more relaxed, but he was trembling. At last they arrived to tell me that they had set the broken bones and cleaned the dwarf’s bruised body and his wounds and put on poultices and bandages. He had been given poppy juice for the pain. He would recover, Minhotep said. Soldiers survived far worse than this. Yunit was asleep with a girl to watch over her.
“Will he walk again?” I asked Hapu.
“He will walk,” said Hapu, “but somersaults will not come easy. He will not be entirely deaf, but his hearing will be impaired. Mainly, now, we should watch for a fever.”
“Attend him daily,” I ordered Minhotep, who bowed in assent.
This does not bode well.
Here endeth the fifth scroll.
Her Majesty has a falcon’s eyes. I did indeed lie to her. There were no ruffians in that tavern; no, it was a group of soldiers from the fifth division, the Division of Horus, who attacked the dwarf Bek. They came into the tavern where I was having lunch, but I was sitting outside in the courtyard with my back to the wall under the window and they did not see me. The sun was warm and my beer was pleasantly cool and the bread stuffed with coriander leaves and mint and olive oil was freshly baked.
At first I paid no attention to the rumble of conversation from inside the main room, but then I realised that they spoke of important matters and I pricked up my ears. They were discussing a scouting expedition to Canaan. Of course, they should not have spoken about such things in an ale-house, but they were not sober and they thought they were alone. There were no other customers, for it was early yet. I heard them refer to rumours about the loyalty of the Prince of Kadesh. The Great Commander does not trust him, I heard them say, and he wants to send a few crack troops disguised as Syrian merchants to discover the lie of the land.
Pharaoh would never agree to such an expedition, I knew, for if they were discovered it would be hard to maintain diplomatic relations. Her Majesty much prefers quiet diplomacy to military incursions. She would be sorely displeased. But Commander Thutmose clearly scented danger, and equally clearly, he was about to act without requesting permission from Her Majesty.
“You will look fetching with a curly beard,” said the one with the deepest voice to another of their number. “And rings in your ears.”
The reply was indistinct.
Suddenly there was an oath and a strangled yelp.
“So, you would spy, would you?” boomed the deep voice.
“No, no, Sire, I was fetching out my ball,” protested a voice that I recognised. It was Bek, Her Majesty’s dwarf. “I was juggling for the patrons, Sire, and my ball … See, here I have it, it rolled under …”
“You lie, you little devil,” said another voice. It was sharp and commanding. I ventured to peer over the windowsill. The room was dim and my eyes accustomed to the bright sun could at first make out only vague shapes, but then I saw that one broad-shouldered soldier had Bek by the ear. “So, you would spy, would you,” he said. “Take that, and that, and that …” His huge balled fist slammed into the dwarf’s head and body. I flinched for poor Bek.
The tall one with the commanding voice had drawn his sword. Peering at him, I realised that I knew who he was: Metufer, the standard bearer who had almost beaten the Great Commander at archery. “You were listening. You are a spy.”
“No, no, Sire, a humble juggler merely,” jabbered Bek. “Ask anyone, they know me, Sire.”
“I say you spied. And we know what to do with spies.” His sword whistled as he slashed twice, lopping off the little man’s ears. An inhuman screech tore through the quiet afternoon. Blood flowed over the dwarf’s tunic.
He cowered, rolling himself into a ball. “No, no, no,” he gibbered. “No, nooooo!”
I ducked down and huddled under the sill, terrified that someone might have seen me too. Oh, oh, oh, I muttered, may Hathor protect me, may Wadjet spit into their eyes so that they see me not.
The harsh voice came again. “We have fixed your ears,” said Metufer, “and next we’ll take your tongue and feed it to the dogs.”
At this, I tipped my beer and bread into the fish pond and scuttled around the mud-brick tavern to the front door, pretending that I had just arrived. “Hold!” I yelled.
Metufer lowered his sword and stared at me.
“Hold!” I shouted again. “It is the Pharaoh’s jester! Do him no more harm!”
The standard bearer sneered. Seen close up he had a face for sneering, that one; it was disfigured by a scar that ran across both cheeks; his nose seemed permanently drawn up.
“I have removed his ears,” he snarled, “and I shall remove his tongue also. Nor will you stop me.”
Bek gave another blood-curdling screech.
“You will not escape punishment,” I said. “I am Her Majesty’s scribe, and I know who you are. You cannot kill all of these witnesses.” My knees trembled, but I stood fast. By this time, the howls and screeches had drawn quite an audience, including the tavern-keeper and his anxious wife.
“The Great Commander will back me,” said Metufer. “I am within my rights to punish spies.”
“This is Pharaoh’s jester,” I said. “He has done no harm. He speaks true, he juggles for the patrons, I have seen him. L-let him go.”
Bek was sitting on the ground now, his hands to his bloody head, rocking and moaning.
“Please, we want no trouble,” begged the tavern-keeper. “I keep a good house, Sir, please, no trouble here.”
“I say this is a spy,” said Metufer. “Yet you may take him away. Only be sure that he does not speak of what he may have heard. If anything occurs to make us suspect that he has told, he will not only have no tongue, he will no longer breathe. And as I do now to his legs, I shall do to your hands, Scribe.” Deliberately, he stepped on Bek’s little legs that were spread on the ground and yanked them upwards from the heels. Bones cracked.
Another howl rent the air, followed by a series of yelps. The bile rose in my throat.
“Remember,” said Metufer.
Oh, I will remember. I will remember till I die. But I will not speak of it, nor will the dwarf. Only I will write it, so that the record may be accurate. I will note my shame. For if I had acted sooner, if I had run into the tavern when first they began to strike the dwarf, I might have saved his ears. But I was afraid, and I waited too long.
Yes, I shall remember. But I will not speak.
THE SIXTH SCROLL
The reign of Thutmose I year 16
After the mourning period had passed and my mother had been buried in her great tomb for some months, my father one day called me to his office at the administrative palace. When I arrived, he was standing at the window looking out at the water clock that he had had installed in the courtyard. I waited quietly, then made an obeisance when he turned to me. His face was thinner than ever and looked very drawn.
“Your brother Thutmose has been ill again,” he said, abruptly.
“I know,” I said. “Inet has been much concerned. But he is better now.”
My father drummed his fingers against the window frame. “He is a fragile reed,” he muttered. “He has no strength.” Then he walked to his gilded chair with its legs ending in lion’s paws and sat down heavily. “Prepare for a journey of some weeks,” he told me. “We leave tomorrow. We go to Abydos.”
After the stifling sadness of the past months, it lifted my spirits to be out on the noble river. As we sailed northward, the rowers speeding us on with powerful, rhythmic strokes, my father spoke to me as if I was a child no longer, but had an adult understanding. “It may be that Thutmose your brother grows in strength,” he said. “But on the other hand, it might be that he goes to the gods too early. I myself mus
t make that journey soon.”
I protested: “But Majesty, you are not old …”
“I am being consumed from the inside,” he said shortly, his hand on his shrunken abdomen. “I am hardly able to eat anything.”
“But the physicians … the priests …”
“Have tried everything they know, but nothing has much effect. No, I must go to the Afterlife quite soon. And I am tormented by the fear that everything that I have built up, with much trouble and care, the unity I have achieved, the prosperity I have brought about, the boundaries I have extended and defined …” – a spasm of pain twisted his mouth, but he drew in a sharp breath and mastered it – “that everything will be lost, will be destroyed, if there is no strong Pharaoh to follow me. So, Hatshepsut, my daughter, I believe that it may fall to you to hold Khemet.” His dark, somewhat sunken eyes held mine intently.
“I will do it, Father,” I said, standing very straight, trembling at the significance of his words.
He leaned forward. “You desire power, do you not?”
“I … no, that is, I …”
“Let us have no lies, daughter. No pretence. Do you? Desire power?”
I gulped. “Yes, Father, yes, I do.”
“You should remember that it is easy enough to be ruled. To be a ruler, that is far more difficult.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“What Pharaoh must desire, above all else, is the well-being of Khemet. Pharaoh’s power, and the exercise thereof, must have one aim and one aim only: to maintain Ma’at. Ma’at is all.”
“Yes, Father.”
“A just ruler, one who follows Ma’at, will have the love of his people. And the love of the people is a precious thing, a resource in adversity.”
I was not sure that I understood this, but I repeated: “A resource. Yes, Father.”
“And you must learn to take counsel from able men. But do not let them rule you. Pharaoh rules; he will take counsel when he asks for it. Yet ask for it often, listen with care, and then decide.”
“I hear, Father.”
“And one thing more. Mark this, my child. To rule others is a burdensome task. To rule oneself is the hardest thing of all.”
This last was beyond me. But I nodded as if I had grasped his words.
He sighed and shook his head. I knew what he was not saying: that he feared greatly for the Black Land, being left to a fragile king and a girl child. But I was certain that I could be strong, that I would not disappoint my father, would not let the Black Land suffer or diminish. I would hold Khemet.
It was a fateful journey, for that was when my father inducted me into the Mysteries of Osiris. I shall not write in detail what transpired, for these are sacred and very secret matters, that may be made known only to one who will become a Pharaoh. That it was done, proves that not only my heavenly father but also my royal father on earth considered me – me, not the little Thutmose – to be the chosen of the gods. Suffice it to say that we went together to the tomb of Osiris that is at the ancient sacred city of Abydos, that I underwent such stringent tests that I thought more than once that I would not emerge alive, but that I was able to survive them all and satisfied the Pharaoh.
Thereafter I stood at my father’s side and I learned much. He was a man well able to judge people and he saw straight through flattery and lies. I noted that he was always thoroughly prepared and better informed than any of his advisers, and that he never depended solely on one official’s view. I also noted that he allowed no single official, noble, general or priest to gain too much influence.
If there was a matter of great importance to be debated, he would call the key men to attend on him privately one by one, ask for their opinions, and have a scribe note their words. Then they could not suddenly take a new tack in debate if it seemed politic. He would marshal their arguments and think about them, then identify the crucial issues. These also a scribe would note. He encouraged me to comment – not publicly, of course – when there were matters to be debated, and sometimes he noted what I said. This made me enormously proud.
When I had seen thirteen risings of the Nile, my half-brother and I broke the jar together. It was no grand ceremony, for marriages in the Black Land are civil contracts between the families of the persons concerned and this contract was within the royal house.
The night before we were to be joined together, Inet came to see me in my rooms, where I had lived as a princess all my life. I would henceforth move into the women’s section of the harem palace. My husband had his own rooms, to which he called his concubines when he had decided whose turn it was. He had several such – in fact, had sired the half-royal princeling, Thutmose, upon one Isis five years previously – but he had taken no other wives before me. I had seen much less of Inet since I had become grown than when she took care of me as nurse, but she loved me dearly and still assumed that she could come to me without an invitation, as she did that night.
Her neat little figure, now half a head shorter than me, was still upright and her wig was stiff and black, but her face was wizened as a fig left to dry in the sun and she had lost more teeth.
“I brought you something,” she said, smiling slyly. “You must sleep with it beneath your mattress, so that Egypt may have an heir.”
“Are you not a little precipitate?” I asked. “I am not wed yet and already you would have me bear a child?”
“The sooner the better,” said Inet, nodding to herself. “Else it will be the little Thutmose born to Isis, and he does not have the pure blood royal. That is not good. Here, take it.” She thrust her gift at me. It was a small amulet, shaped like Taueret, the hippopotamus goddess of fertility. I took it and held her hand between mine. She stared into my eyes. “You are not ignorant of the marriage bed, are you, my child?”
“No, I am not,” I said. “My mother spoke to me before she became ill. Besides, I have seen mating in the Royal Zoo.”
“Not quite what one would hope for as regards the royal nuptial couch,” remarked Inet dryly. “Yes, I was married once,” she answered my unspoken question. “But my husband died young, of snakebite, and then my cousin Hapuseneb found me the position as Royal Nurse. It has been a good life.” She patted my hand. “Be happy,” she said, her black eyes filling with tears. “Be happy, little one.”
In truth, I was quite expecting to be at least content. I had always liked my half-brother, and he had ever been kind to me. Also I had always known that I was promised to him and that it was for the good of Khemet that I should be his wife. Yet when the wedding feast was over and he escorted me into his rooms, I did feel nervous. What if it was painful? What if I hated what he did to me? What if I was no good as a wife? I was trembling a little when we entered his bedroom together.
It was a cool and airy room next to a courtyard in which a fountain splashed. The bed was hung with curtains of the finest white linen; tall alabaster vases held lotus blooms that scented the night air sweetly. The walls were painted with flowers and leaves, ducks and fish, in deep greens, blues and turquoises, that seemed to swim in the soft light of small oil lamps glowing on little tables. Woven rush matting piled with plump cushions covered the tiled floor.
Thutmose settled down on a heap against the wall and pulled me down beside him. “Come here,” he said, positioning me on his lap so that his left arm cradled me against his shoulder. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”
I obeyed, thinking: Whatever he wants, you must do now. He is your husband. Whatever … I steeled myself. And found myself eating a pink fig. “Oh!” I said. “My favourite!” Together we finished a small bowl of them. When he leaned forwards to kiss me gently on the lips, he tasted of figs and honey. As he continued to move his mouth stickily against mine, he began to caress my knees. The rich scent of myrrh filled the room and there was a creamy smoothness on my skin. I sniffed, inhaling the delicious perfume.
“Relax,” he murmured. “It is an unguent. Do you like it?”
“Mmmmmm.” I
was feeling slightly dizzy, having drunk more wine than I was used to. I settled into his arms. My robe fell open. I wasn’t wearing anything else beneath it.
He continued to smooth the unguent rhythmically, hypnotically, over my knees and up over my thighs. I let my knees fall slightly apart. He stroked me like a cat. Up his hand moved, ever higher. Ah, he was getting close. Close to the secret place between my legs, the spot that could engender so much pleasure. I had discovered it myself some years ago, but I was not sure whether all girls had such a thing or whether it was only me. If they all did … surely he would know … he had been with concubines, they must have taught him … on and on his firm hand went, nearer but not quite there. Around and around and about and down. I think I moaned. I would scream, I thought, if he did not find the spot. Should I tell him, I wondered. Perhaps he did not … I moved my hips upon his lap. Should I guide his hand, just a little … Closer. Closer. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. He did know, after all. He knew exactly … oh, oh, oh, OH! OH! OH! AH! AHHHHHH!
As his firm touch found the perfect place, smoothed it with the unguent, stroked it hard, knuckled and kneaded it, I was overpowered with wave after wave of pleasure, such as I could not have imagined, ever. “Oh!” I gasped, at last. And opened my eyes, to find his dark eyes smiling into mine.
“Are you ready for me now, my wife?” he asked.
“Quite ready,” I whispered, and moved under him.
So I was initiated into the marriage bed without pain, and as time went by with increasing skill and pleasure. He did not call me to the royal couch very often, though, and these occasions became fewer as time went by. As my interest in such matters grew more intense, his waned; already, I think, looking back, he was more ill than he would allow anyone to know. Perhaps it was not surprising, therefore, that there were moments when I longed for … I could not have said exactly what. But sometimes instead of a partner who was slightly shorter than me, slim and somewhat fragile, and whose hip bones cut into mine, I dreamed of a lover with a body taller and stronger and more vigorous. A lover in whom the force of life ran powerfully. But I did not allow myself to see his face.