The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh

by Marié Heese

  One day she noticed that the posy she had brought the previous time had lain just where she left it and was withered and colourless. She looked at it and then she looked at me. “Mother,” she said. “I am still here. Do you not even see me?”

  I looked at the funny little face with the prominent teeth and pleading brown eyes. “Yes, dear,” I said, suppressing a sigh. “I do see you.”

  Three times I had carried a babe, I thought. Three times I had suffered the sickness and the discomfort and the lack of sleep. Three times I had squatted upon the bricks. And one child only remained to show for it. Just like my mother, I thought. Had she too looked at me and felt bereft?

  It was from that time, I think, that I began to feel – well, not old perhaps, by any means, but not young any more. Somehow a lustre had gone from the world that it has never regained. Yet life goes on; whether one will or no, life bears one along like a boat of reeds upon the river. One is not given a choice.

  Here endeth the fourteenth scroll.

  THE FIFTEENTH SCROLL

  The reign of Hatshepsut year 9

  With Neferure gone to the Fields of the Blessed, Thutmose lost a chance to strengthen his claim to reign. Yet still he harboured aspirations that would have seen him supreme upon the Double Throne had he achieved his desires. It is somewhat ironic that he is my son-in-law now, considering what happened eleven risings of the Nile ago, when I had twenty-eight summers and he was a man of twenty.

  The summer was particularly hot that year. I remember that I wore a diaphanous linen robe and a light crown for the private audience that Thutmose had requested. I received him in a small chamber at the residential palace in Thebes. Of course he lived mainly at Memphis – as he does still – where the army has its headquarters, but he came often to the capital. I heard his deep voice greeting the guards by name as he arrived. He makes a point of remembering the names of all his soldiers – one of the ways in which he enlists their loyalty. Also he demands nothing of them that he does not do himself; he is harsh but he is just; he is an able and courageous soldier and by repute a master strategist and tactician on the battle field. One must grant him all of that. His fault is that he does not know his place.

  He strode boldly into the room. “Greetings, Majesty,” he said. Short though he is, he makes his presence felt.

  “Greetings, nephew,” I said coolly. We measured each other for a space of time. At twenty, I noted, he was no longer a boy. His shoulders were broad and his bare chest hairy, as were the sturdy legs beneath his brief linen tunic. His shaven head shone with oil and his dark brown eyes stared intently from beneath thick brows. The bulging muscles on his upper arms attested to the strength that enabled him to draw his legendary bow with ease.

  For the first time in our lives I saw a man when I looked at him. I do not know for sure how he saw me. Since the death of my darling Neferure the previous year, may she live for ever, I had not had a good appetite, so I do know that I was slim. My women kept my skin smooth and supple with unguents, and because of the heat my head under the crown was shaven, but in any case I had not yet seen any grey hairs. I looked, I felt assured, at least presentable.

  “No slaves,” he said, glancing at the two young girls who were waving large feathered fans. “Let them bring some cooled wine, and go.”

  I was immediately angered by his presumption in giving orders as if it were his palace, not mine, but I bit my tongue. I was determined not to let him see that he could annoy me. I believe it to be one of his tactics, to make me lose my self-control and so feel foolish.

  “Go and fetch some wine and some things to eat, and then leave us,” I ordered the slaves. “Nephew, will you not sit?” I gestured towards a low day-bed.

  He looked at it and then at me with a small smile. “Rather a chair, Majesty, if I may?” he said, swinging one closer and sitting down without waiting for permission. We were now eye to eye, or almost, for I am taller than he. “Soft seats do not suit a soldier.” His smile broadened mockingly. Of course he knew that seating men uncomfortably at a level below my eyes is an old trick of mine. He set a small wooden chest that he had brought with him down on the tiled floor at his feet. I wondered what it was, but I would not ask. While we waited for the slaves to bring refreshments we spoke of unimportant things. At last we were alone.

  “Well, nephew?” I said, leaning back with a glass of cooled wine in my hand. “What matter do you wish to raise with me that must needs be so private? Do you have another grand scheme to march to the Euphrates?”

  He looked nettled. “The time will come …” he began, but then he bit his lip. “No, Majesty, let us not bandy words on military matters. Those are issues that should be discussed with the military advisers and counsellors. No, I … well …”

  I was not accustomed to seeing him look embarrassed, but he actually seemed ill at ease. “Perhaps the question on your mind has something to do with the mysterious box that you have brought with you,” I suggested. “Does it perhaps contain a new game? I must confess that I tire a little of senet.” I am extremely good at that traditional game, as well he knew.

  “No, it is not a game,” he said, rising suddenly and picking up the box. He placed it on a low table that stood at my side. “Please, Majesty, open it.”

  I inspected the little chest more closely. It was beautifully constructed from cedarwood, standing on four finely carved claws, with bands of polished copper across the domed lid and a clasp shaped like a lotus bud. “It is most elegant,” I said. I undid the clasp and folded back the lid. Inside, soft cotton cloths hid some kind of round object.

  “Go on,” he said, “take it out.”

  I did so carefully. The wrappings fell open to display a superb vase fashioned from alabaster, with a wide, flaring lip. Carvings on its sides depicted small and delicate birds. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “It’s beautiful!”

  “A small thing, merely,” he murmured.

  I rose, taking it over to a table that stood beneath a window. “If I set it here,” I said, “the light falls on it and makes it seem to glow. Oh, it is most exceptional. Where did you find it?”

  He too had risen and stood regarding the lovely thing that almost seemed to shine with its own light. “Oh, I – well, I … didn’t find it, exactly. Only the – well, the marble. It is of a particularly good quality. As one can see.”

  “You found the marble? You mean you made it? You made this yourself?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I did. I like to work with my hands.”

  I was astounded. I had heard that he had some skill with design, but I had not dreamed he could be capable of such artistry. “It is beautiful,” I said, sincerely. “I thank you. It is a beautiful gift. The chest, too, that it came in, is very handsome. Did you make that as well?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It has a secret mechanism. Let me show you.” He brought the chest over to the table where I stood, closed the lid and pressed twice on the lotus bud. “See? Now it is firmly closed. Nobody can lift the lid.”

  “But how can it be opened again?”

  “Ah. You must know the secret. You must twist it once to the left, and twice to the right.” He did so deftly, and the lid clicked open again. “More effective than ropes and seals,” he said, smiling.

  “It is most intriguing,” I said, pressing on the bud to close it. “And now … twice to the left …”

  “No, once to the left. Like this.” He stretched out his hand and guided my fingers. “Then, twice to the right.” Click, went the lid.

  The King in me stiffened, rejecting the forbidden touch. The woman in me responded to the warmth of skin on skin. And he knew it. His hand took possession of mine, he folded both of his strong, warm hands around my hesitant fingers. He turned his head to look into my eyes, so close now that I could see tiny freckles on his olive skin. His dark eyes were too intense for me to face. His gaze seemed to unlock feelings that I had kept under rigid control for so long that I had forgotten their existence. I closed my e
yes in an attempt to hide them again.

  I felt him draw nearer yet, lean towards me, touch his lips to mine. The King was furious, but in that moment the woman reigned, and she wanted his kiss. So delicately, like a bird alighting on a bough for the space of a breath, then taking flight again, he touched his lips to mine. Ah, his lips were warm. A second kiss, firmer and longer now. The taste of salt. The scent of unguent laced with myrrh and beneath that the perspiration of a man. I inhaled his warmth, his strength, his powerful intensity.

  “Hatshepsut,” he said, his deep voice lingering over the syllables. His arms had slid around me, one hand in the small of my back, pressing me against him, his desire hard between us.

  Yes, yes, the woman groaned, this is good, I want this, oh, yes, I do, it has been so long … I want this, I do, I do …

  But the King was aghast at the sense of losing control. “Oh no,” said the voice of the Pharaoh, breathlessly. “No! This may not be!”

  “Do not deny it,” murmured Thutmose. “Do not deny us. You want it too. You know you do.” His kisses were becoming more urgent. He thrust a hand into the top of my thin robe, caressing my breast, gripping it, moving his hard thumb across the nipple, erect and sensitive, sending a thrill of delight coursing through the woman’s loins like a stream of water through a dry wadi.

  I want this, moaned the woman.

  “This must stop,” ordered the King.

  Thutmose was ignoring the King’s husky command.

  I began to struggle. “Stop! Stop! Stop it!” Suddenly terrified, I felt like one who was drowning and could no longer breathe. I beat my hands against his shoulders fruitlessly. He picked me up and carried me over to the day-bed. He threw me down on the piled cushions, pulling at my robe. Wildly, I rolled aside as he cast himself down too. He caught my left arm, dragging me closer, pinning me down. In desperation I lunged across, grabbed a copper lamp that stood nearby, and brought it down on his head with a tremendous swing. It was a large and heavy one and it struck him on the forehead, making a nasty gash that streamed blood. He roared with pain, increasing his grip on my other arm until I thought he would snap it like a stick. Frantic now, I hit him again. The lamp caught him on the temple and he dropped back onto the cushions with a grunt.

  By the foul breath of Seth, I thought, I have killed him. I have killed the Great Commander of the Egyptian Army. I knelt beside him, panting and shivering with shock. Then he groaned. I sighed deeply. He was alive, after all. I rose to my feet and rearranged my robe, which was crushed but fortunately not torn, and replaced my crown, which had fallen from my head during the struggle. I looked around me. Quickly, I took a glass of wine and spilled some on the tiles. I dipped my fingers in the blood on his forehead and smeared some onto the corner of the table upon which I had placed the vase. Then I picked up the vase and dropped it, deliberately. It shattered into tiny pieces.

  I went to the large double doors, opened them and called the guards.

  “Majesty?” They hastened towards me.

  “Come!” I called. Two stalwart men entered.

  “What has happened?” enquired the more senior.

  “The Commander has had a fall,” I told them. “He slipped in the wine that the careless slaves spilled, and his head caught the corner of this table, knocking off this vase – here, you see the blood. I managed to get him onto the day-bed. Call the Royal Physician, at once.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” They dashed away.

  I stood, still shaking a little, looking at the Great Commander, whose face was pale and bloody and who lay sprawled inelegantly with one hand dangling in a puddle of wine. He groaned again, rolling his head from side to side. It suddenly struck me as being very funny: Here was this fabled warrior, whom nobody had been able to fell in battle, almost killed by a woman. With a lamp. I began to giggle. Then it turned to laughter, and the more I laughed, the harder it was to stop. Then it became mixed up with tears of fright.

  In the middle of this fit of mine, Thutmose came to and Hapu arrived, accompanied by the guards. The poor man could not decide whom he should attend to first, the Pharaoh or the Commander. He tutted and stuttered and fussed. Finally he stood on tiptoe right in front of me and bellowed into my face: “Majesty!” I do not know whence he summoned the courage to do this, but it had the desired effect of startling me into silence.

  “Majesty,” he repeated, quietly now, “you have had a shock. I see that the Great Commander has been injured. You should sit down, and I will have a slave bring a calming draught. Now, what …”

  I repeated my tale of the slip in a puddle of wine and the knock against the table. Thutmose glowered but did not contradict me. I was not sure just how much he clearly remembered, for I have heard that men who suffer a bad blow to the head can sometimes not recall what went immediately before. But he would not be keen to tell the true tale, if indeed he did remember all.

  Hapu knelt down beside the day-bed and gently touched the bruises on Thutmose’s face. He clucked at the cut above his eyebrow. “I shall have to sew this together,” he said. “It is quite deep.” His exploring fingers found the second bruise on the temple, the one that had caused Thutmose to pass out. His eyes narrowed. He glanced at me fleetingly, but made no further comment. No fool he, I thought. “If the Commander is able to walk, perhaps it would be better in my office,” he suggested. “Then this room can be cleaned and ordered, and Her Majesty can rest.”

  “Of course I can walk,” growled Thutmose, sitting up. “It is nothing.” Yet he swayed a little when he stood.

  “I am so sorry, nephew,” I said. “I hope you may not suffer much pain.”

  He grunted and left the room without another word, his hand on Hapu’s shoulder.

  If he did not hate me before that episode, he has certainly hated me ever since. Oh, yes, he hates me, the little man. I know that. He maintains the pretence that he does not, but a pretence is what it is. I think it is not just that I rejected him – rejected and then bested him – that rankles; it is the fact that I laughed. And I believe he knows that I broke the beautiful vase on purpose, even though he was out cold when I did it. He has never forgiven me, for taking first his throne, and then his dignity. To this day he bears the scar.

  As for myself, I was more shaken than I ever wanted to admit. It was as if some of my strength and resolve had bled away along with the wound I had inflicted on Thutmose. Hapu was concerned about me. The next afternoon he arrived at the time when I usually rest, bearing a large jug. I offered him a seat on a stool next to my day-bed, feeling too lethargic to arise.

  He set the jug down on a little table in the shade. “My wife has made some of her special cordial for you, Majesty,” he said. His round face was creased with a worried frown. “She boils it up with herbs. It has restorative qualities. You should drink as much as you are able to stomach, for it is slightly bitter.”

  This simple act of kindness was suddenly too much for me. The tears began coursing down my cheeks and I was powerless to stop them. They simply streamed, as if all the old aches of loss and longing had filled up a deep reservoir of tears inside my body, and of a sudden it had reached saturation point and now it was spilling over. I lay back on the cushions and I wept and wept. I wept for Inet, who was too old to comfort me. I wept for my gentle husband and for my little son who had not breathed. I wept for my lovely lost girl child, beloved of the gods. I wept for the wife I would never be, for the lover I might not take, for the lonely road that I must travel. I wept for my father who had been so strong when I was little, and I wept for my wise mother, whose counsel and devotion I sorely needed.

  Hapu sat quietly beside me on his stool. He did not remonstrate with me or try to offer comfort. Instead, he simply reached across and took my hand and held it. He knew that it was not allowed to touch the Pharaoh without express permission, but as a physician it must have come naturally to him. I clung to him and sobbed and sobbed.

  At length he began to make gentle shushing noises. “There, now,” h
e said. “There, now.” He offered me a kerchief of soft cotton. Then he arose, a little stiffly, and fetched some of the cordial in a beaker. “Try a sip or two of this,” he said.

  I hiccupped and drank. It was indeed slightly bitter, but tangy and refreshing also. I sighed deeply and drank some more. “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “Your Majesty has suffered a sad loss, and now a sudden shock … one cannot meet it robustly. Sometimes … sometimes it is necessary to speak about … about anything that may … that may particularly trouble one.”

  “Perhaps. But I feel better now. I thank you for your visit, and for your concern.”

  He departed, looking relieved.

  I would not have told him what had happened between Thutmose and me, although I believed he had guessed. Yet his advice, I thought, was sound. So I told Senenmut the whole tale. He was furious. “And he handled you roughly? He attempted to force you? Why, the … the … He should be punished with extreme severity! How dare he!”

  “No, no. Best just to leave it now. He’ll never speak of it, I made him feel a fool. Besides, I don’t know …”

  “What, Majesty?”

  At last my deepest fear surfaced. “I don’t know how much … to what degree I may have … he may have thought … that I encouraged him.”

  There was a long silence. He hunched his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest, looking thunderous.

  Tears began to roll down my cheeks. Angrily I brushed them away. “But I did not … It is just … just that he … he has such a … conceit of himself.”

  “He does indeed,” said Senenmut grimly. “You say he actually wanted to marry you?”

  “Yes. Not entirely impossible, I suppose, with only eight summers between us.”

  “Majesty did not consider …”

  “Oh, no. Not for a moment. I like him not,” I said, firmly, “I never have. And he would become the primary Pharaoh at once, he would take precedence, he would plunge Khemet into war – oh, no. No. I vowed to devote my life to the Black Land. It is my destiny.”