by Marié Heese
“How will you get the obelisks into place?” I asked him.
He wiped his perspiring face. “Well, Majesty, as you see, the roof has been removed from this section. We have prepared square foundations in the floor. The foundations are notched and the bases have been chiselled to fit.”
I nodded, interestedly. I have always been fascinated by building projects. “But it will be a challenge to raise them up and slot them into place,” I said.
“Indeed. That is what the mounds of sand are for. The pylons will be dragged up the one side, base first, then tipped over and slid into the pits,” he explained.
“Ingenious.” I watched as the first of the behemoths was manhandled up the slope of a mound, guided by a network of ropes on which many men hauled. As they worked, they chanted rhythmically. The base teetered as the centre of balance shifted. Then it canted over.
“Hold the tip steady!” shouted Amenhotep, his voice shrill with anxiety. The leaders of two teams on opposing sides yelled orders. Then the colossal spear slid down the far side of the mound, grinding on the sand, and slammed into place with a thud that echoed through the hall. A ringing cheer went up.
The next one went faster. Unfortunately too fast. The men were overeager to complete the task. As the long shaft rocked on the top of the mound, the teams holding the ropes to the tips lost the rhythm and the obelisk began to swing from side to side, gaining in momentum as it swung.
“By the scales of Sobek, hold on, hold on!” yelled Amenhotep desperately.
But they could not hold it. It rolled over the side of the mound and the gold-plated tip crashed thunderously to the ground, pinning two unfortunate men to the stone floor. One, in fact, was only a boy, and as the falling shaft struck him it made his eyes burst from his head. An inhuman scream pierced the chorus of gasps and groans. Blood spurted, bright scarlet in the sun. It smelled like a sacrifice.
“Majesty!” My guards, who had been staring with as much fascination as I, leaped to my side. The chief guard gestured for my sedan chair to be brought. I was swiftly carried away from the scene.
Eventually the second obelisk was also successfully raised, and the feasting went on and a bull was killed. Yet some of my delight was gone. Afterwards it seemed to me that I could discern a dark stain on the tip of one obelisk. Imagination, of course. Gold does not stain.
The first day of my Myriad of Years dawned sunny and clear. I had travelled to Memphis before the festival was due to begin. I chose Memphis for two main reasons. First, the Palace of White Walls had been the site where I ran the ritual way when I was crowned, and I considered it suitable that I should repeat the ritual there. Second, Memphis is where the army has its headquarters, and the Commander had – indeed, still has – many supporters there. I need-ed to impress upon them, especially, my right and my fitness to reign.
There was an expectant buzz throughout the city, as jugglers and acrobats entertained the crowds, who were out in huge numbers, dressed in their best; marching bands celebrated with trumpets and drums, flutes and sistrums; hawkers cried their wares, legless beggars solicited alms, and pickpockets and prostitutes plied their trade. Over it all wafted the smells of freshly baked bread and frying fish. I had given orders for abundant food and beer to be distributed.
The palace had of course been renovated and equipped with the necessary vast courtyard, open to the sky, lined with shrines for the gods, with a platform at the one end holding two thrones and seating for the select audience at the other. The walls had been newly whitewashed and reflected the morning sun brilliantly. Brightly striped pennants on poles atop the walls snapped in the light breeze.
For my first appearance, I was regally dressed in a kilt and an intricately pleated robe, both of fine white linen decorated with gilt, golden sandals, a round, flat jewelled collar and the Double Crown. Dressed like that, I stood at the top of a flight of stairs leading down to the courtyard, flanked by two tall standard bearers. A roar went up when the crowd caught sight of me. This was, however, their last glimpse of the old King Khnemet-Amen Ma’atkare Hatshepsut. I now proceeded once more to the robing chamber, removed my rich garments and the crown and stood with my shaven head bowed for a purification ritual carried out by the officiating priests with their jackal masks. They poured sacred liquid over me from a vessel fashioned from pure crystal. It was cold, and I gasped a little from the shock as it ran over my warm skin. The scent of myrrh rose into the air. Next, I put on a simple, close-fitting linen tunic.
Two of the masked priests led me back to the courtyard. The roar that now greeted me was louder than before. As I slowly descended the broad stone steps, the roar intensified. Stripped of my crown and robe, with only the thin tunic clinging to my body, I was sure that all could clearly observe my slim, taut new form, the first indication that the old King that I had been was dead and a newly regenerated King was present, ready and willing to be tested as stringently as would be required.
From the base of the staircase a short figure now walked to meet me. Since I had no Royal Wife, the role that such a one would have played was to be carried out by my royal daughter, Meryetre. A regal figure she was not; since the birth of my grandson Amenhotep two years previously, she had not managed to lose the considerable girth she had put on. No matter: the contrast between us could do me no harm. However, she held herself proudly, two white plumes nodding in her hair. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were anxiously fixed on mine. I gave her a slight nod as she turned to face the crowd, then led me down the steps. It would be her task to protect me with ritual incantations throughout the ceremonies and to feed me with the celestial milk.
Thutmose had been given some minor ritual actions to carry out during the course of the festival, but nothing very spectacular. I was aware of his constant fixed regard as the days went by; no doubt he was waiting for me to flag, to stumble, to fail. I would disappoint him.
The lector priest who would read the prescribed text from the sacred papyrus over the next few days intoned the first words. The orchestra composed of harps, lutes and double pipes began to play a lyrical melody, pure, singing tones, punctuated by the deep boom of the huge drum. For three days we would proceed around the vast courtyard, paying homage to the deity in each shrine. It was very demanding, both physically and spiritually, for it was necessary for me to concentrate all the time, since it was my intervention that gave supernatural life to each deity. I was weaving links between the spiritual world and the one on earth, affirming the life force of the created world, so ensuring the continued existence of Khemet.
Yet I did not find it tiring; rather, the experience was affirming my own life force. I was becoming more and more exalted, moving into a state of being where everything seemed to become more intense, more infused with significance. Only the baleful stare of Commander Thutmose was fading into the background; otherwise, colours seemed sharp and bright, sounds crystal clear; the eyes of the gods, fashioned from precious stones, regarding me from their niches, appeared to me to shine with energy that poured into my being and bore me up.
I fear my poor Meryetre had no such uplifting experience; obviously her legs were growing tired with each day’s slow march and her energy flagged. She had not had the benefit of months of preparation, as I had had; preparation that was standing me in good stead. Yet she continued to hold her head high and played her part with gritty determination. I was proud of her.
From time to time I would take my place on one of the two thrones, constantly alternating. This symbolised the reconciliation of the two highly diverse portions of the Black Land, emphasising that every element of the rituals had a dual phase, so that the land as a whole could be united in the person of the King.
On the fourth day of the festival I exchanged the long tunic for a pleated kilt, complete with a bull’s tail, traditional symbol of the Pharaohs from time immemorial. Now the crucial test would be carried out, to be sure that I had absorbed the Ka of the gods and had been regenerated as the newly divine King. The leather cas
e containing the testament of the gods would be placed in my hand. The question was: Could I grasp it without fainting? As Hapuseneb, wearing his jackal mask, put the sacred object into my hand, I closed my fist around it firmly. It seemed to me that a stream of energy coursed from it through my entire being. I held it aloft, and the cheers that rang around me could surely have been heard clear across the city.
Enormous relief almost did make me faint, but I breathed deeply and held on. Surely, I thought with elation, surely the gods were satisfied, for if they had not been, they could have destroyed me in that moment. I must yet be the chosen of the gods.
Next I received more ritual objects, and, descending from the platform where the test had taken place, I kicked off my sandals and proceeded to run the ritual courses prescribed by tradition: four times as the King of Upper Egypt, and four times as the King of Lower Egypt. Through my actions, I united the Two Lands, revived the life force of the Pharaohs who had gone before me, assured the continued existence of creation, confirmed the presence of the gods, and finally stood before my people as the rejuvenated King. I accepted my bow from Hapuseneb, and, standing tall, I loosed off four arrows to the four points of the compass. A mighty cheer accompanied each arrow as it went winging forth. After all this I was somewhat winded, but not desperately so; I noted that Meryetre observed me with amazement. She had not expected her mother to have such strength.
Nor, clearly, had Thutmose. I caught his furious gaze as I acknowledged the applause of the crowd. Well, let him be angry, I thought triumphantly. After this, I have the upper hand. And the best is yet to come.
The fifth and final day of the festival was the day that would see me crowned again. For this occasion, the two thrones had been replaced with a single one: larger, higher and more richly ornamented than either of the other two. Again the day began in the robing room, where I was dressed in the full regalia of a Pharaoh. Preceded by standard bearers and accompanied by priests wearing jackal masks, I walked the length of the courtyard to ascend the platform and thence the throne. As at my first coronation, I was crowned first with the white crown and then with the red. Together they formed the Double Crown, symbolising my kingship of the Two Lands. The two sceptres, the crook and the flail, were placed in my hands.
Now there remained only the last ceremonial act: The Great Ones of Egypt were to come forward one by one and wash my feet, so indicating their acceptance of my authority and their submission to my reign. The first would be Hapuseneb, in his capacity as Grand Vizier of the South, now without his jackal mask; next Dhutmose, Vizier of the North; then Seni, as my senior counsellor; Ahmeni, the noble who heads the Party of Legitimacy; and then Thutmose, as the Great Commander of the Egyptian Army.
An ornamental bowl holding sacred water was brought, together with a cake of natron and an embroidered cloth. I removed my golden sandals and stretched out my feet so that the men, kneeling on the steps below the throne, could carry out their ritual task. In Hapuseneb’s eyes I thought I saw respect and admiration. He strode forward quickly and worked fast. The cool water was soothing, for my feet were hot and tired by this time. Dhutmose, sycophant that he is, practically kissed my toes. Seni nodded austerely as he meticulously wiped my feet. Ahmeni acted with solemn dignity.
Then it was Thutmose’s turn. Across the bent back of Ahmeni, our eyes met. His were smouldering. He knew, of course, exactly what I had achieved with this festival. He had wished me to fail and I had not. Now he had to carry out this act, which to him would be degrading – I knew it. Yet there was no escape. For a few breaths he did not move. Then he marched across the platform, knelt stiffly, avoiding my gaze, and gave each foot a cursory wipe. A slave darted forwards to dry my feet and help me replace my sandals. I stood, to the ringing acclamation of the crowd.
Then I indicated that they should be silent. I had composed a prayer for the occasion that I would now speak. My voice was clear and steady as I said the words:
I have done this with affection for my Father Amen,
I have executed his plan for this first jubilee;
I was guided by his excellent Spirit,
and I omitted nothing of that which he demanded.
My Majesty honours the Divine Lord.
I did it under his guidance; it was he who directed me.
My heart took counsel from my Father; his heart spoke to my heart.
I turned not my back upon the All-Lord. I did his will and I honour him.
I looked at the officials standing in the front row of the select audience. Among them I noted military commanders, and right in the middle – there was Khani, at that time Commander of Recruits. His eyes held mine as they had all those years previously, when my husband had been the Pharaoh and I had spoken for him. Once more he bowed his head to me as he had done then.
I was borne out of the palace in a litter and carried along the avenues to be greeted by the jubilant populace. The old King, myself, tired and troubled, was dead; I went forth as the new King, younger and more vital, rededicated to his people. Reborn and strong. Able to maintain the unity of the Two Lands and the sanctity of Ma’at, able to preserve the miracle of creation, to satisfy the will of the gods. Fit to wear the Double Crown. The Living Horus.
Ah me, I wish that I could feel like that now. But I fear that I have lost that slim young form; I could not now run around the white walls, with or without the oar of state. I am weary and my heart is heavy in my breast. I have just come from an interview with Dhutmose, Vizier of the North, who was here to deliver his usual report. This time the news was not good. It is the first month of Akhet and the farmers of the North have heard that the waters show no sign of rising. They too fear that the inundation will be late and less than usual. May the gods forbid that it does not come at all.
Here endeth the twenty-second scroll.
Well I recall Her Majesty’s Myriad of Years. I was then twenty-one, employed in a quarry, but I made sure that I was in Memphis to witness the great festival, and an impressive one it was. Of course, I was not one of the select audience in the palace where the ceremonies took place, but I did see Her Majesty run around the white walls before going back inside to complete the ceremonies. She amazed everyone, for she was fleet of foot and did not seem to tire. She ran clad only in a simple tunic, and anyone could see that the Pharaoh looked young and slim.
The common people were astounded. I stood, cheers ringing in my ears, the scent of flowers crushed underfoot in my nose, near a stout peasant woman who was lost in admiration for the Pharaoh. “The great King has surely been renewed,” she said in awe. “She gained in girth after her Steward died, and she seemed very tired and downcast, and now look! She seems slight, and young, and strong! Truly, the gods do favour her!”
As for myself, what struck me most was not the demonstration of renewed vigour. No, as I stood among the crowd and watched the procession move past, with Her Majesty carried high on a kind of jewelled and gilded throne, the Double Crown upon her head and the crook and flail held in her hands, what I thought was that after all, the great King was but a slight female figure, and that she looked very much alone.
THE TWENTY-THIRD SCROLL
The reign of Hatshepsut year 21:
the first month of Akhet day 14
This new year, which began badly, has grown worse. First I had a visit from my daughter Meryetre that disturbed me greatly. As I have written, I was forced to give her hand to Commander Thutmose. For him, I believe it was a political marriage and not one he entered into with his heart. However, she was with child very soon. It must have been a most auspicious night when he bedded her to plant that seed, for my darling grandson Amenhotep is a child of great virility, cleverness and charm. He is also a very loving little boy, much attached to his wet nurse, who sees far more of him than his own mother. The year of his birth was indeed a very good year for me, when my great expedition to Punt returned and the gods were pleased. The child has now seen eight risings of the Nile and grows more delightful every d
ay.
Meryetre comes from Memphis to visit and brings him to see me, not as often as I would wish, but they do come. When she arrived for her most recent visit she was in a state of great excitement. In fact, she could hardly wait for me to find the little model war chariot, a present from Khani, that Amenhotep loves to play with when he visits me. I saw to it that he had a tiger nut sweet and some grape juice, which he likes, and ordered some watered wine and dates for us.
“And how is it with you, my daughter?” I enquired with a sigh. Usually this question would bring forth numerous complaints, but not that day.
“It goes well, Mother,” she said, her dark eyes shining with some pleasure that she was hugging to herself with glee.
“Oh? Am I to be a grandmother a second time?” I asked. This seemed unlikely, since she had miscarried twice after the birth of her son. The second time I had gone to her, since I had to travel to Memphis at the time in connection with a building project, and I had been surprised at the urgency with which she had clung to me and at the depth of her sorrow. It was not the same, I would have thought, not as heartrending as losing a fully-formed babe, yet she had been distraught. There was not much that I could do, but I listened as she bewailed her loss, and I made her bowls of warm goat’s milk with honey as I had done when she was little and it seemed to comfort her.
“What? Oh, no! No, I am not with child. No, no. It is Thutmose, my husband, who has made me very happy.”
“Really?” Had he bought her jewels, I wondered. She has rather flashy taste and a collar of gold studded with jasper and carnelian can make her eyes light up.
“I am to be his Chief Wife,” she announced proudly. “He has set aside that Satioh who brings forth girl children only and who has become a slattern and a nag.”
At this I frowned. Satioh is a Mitannian princess and the Mitanni would not take kindly to an insult offered to one of their royal house. Could that have been his intention, I wondered. I suspect him of trying to create an excuse to take the field against the Mitanni.