'*It is only a matter of time before the One speaks his mind. What other choice has he? He will not recall Wadjmose or Amun-mose. He cannot. They are soldiers. They have been away from the seat of power for too long, and they know nothing of government. Besides, what of their blood? Young Thothmes' claim overrides theirs."
''He is nothing but a placid, pleasure-loving, brainless whelp.''
''But I say again, he will be the choice. He is the only one left. It is more than unfortunate that he should take after his noble mother; it is a disaster. For many years Pharaoh, may he live forever, has ruled with a heavy hand that has brought all in subjection to him. It is not only we who will suffer when the Double Crown is placed on Thothmes' head."
"You speak blasphemy!"
"I speak truth. With a worthy consort something could be salvaged, but who is there to legitimize Thothmes? Her Highness Neferu wishes nothing better than to withdraw from any hint of the pressures of an active consortship. She wants only to be left alone. The Great One broods and snarls like a cat at bay, but he can do nothing."
"We cannot poison a royal son! And the only royal son remaining! The
One would never rest until he had clubbed out our brains on Amun's floor!"
'Teace! Did I speak of such a thing? We are, above all, realists. But there is a way to purchase that which we need—time/'
*'Her Highness the Princess Neferu?''
''Neferu indeed. The younger Princess has some years yet between her and womanhood, but already she promises to be everything a Pharaoh needs in a consort. While she grows, Pharaoh's heart is content.''
''And if Pharaoh goes to the God?"
There was a pause, during which Senmut, almost paralyzed with fear, held his breath.
'Then we can— assist the Young One and his new consort, who will have much to learn."
Behind the tree Senmut thought that he would faint. The food that he had consumed with so much satisfaction only moments before now sat in his belly like a rock. His head swam, but he clenched his teeth together and rammed his cheek against the bark, wincing a little at the pain. The full import of what he had heard still escaped him, but he had grasped enough of it to know that if he panicked or collapsed, it would mean instant death. He clutched tighter at his cloak while the sweat dampened his back.
"We are agreed, then?"
"We are. And I need not remind you that the utmost discretion is demanded of you."
"Naturally. When will it be?"
"Very soon. I feel sure that Pharaoh is about to announce his successor. You may leave the details to me. I expect my orders to be carried out immediately if I call upon you, but other than that I make no demands on you."
"And what if we are discovered?"
The other man laughed softly, and Senmut pricked up his ears. He felt sure that he knew the sound. In another second, as the voice rose slightly, he was certain, but he still could not place it. Floating disembodied on the night air, it was unreal, the voice of a faceless spirit. The boy feverishly cast about in his mind for flesh with which to clothe it.
"Do you think that the One is not aware of this very possibility? Do you not know that deep within himself he wishes it could be done, yet lacks the heart to do it? Do not fear. We will not fail."
The next words came from a little farther away, and Senmut realized with unutterable relief that they were leaving.
Silence claimed him again, and he slid to the earth with a gush of relief.
His eyes were still closed, and he lay in blissful gratitude, his limbs feeling as weak as water. 'Thanks, many thanks. Mighty Khonsu," he said aloud. He got up and began to run, not in the direction from which he had come, but in a wide circle that took him to the very skirts of the Sacred Lake and far behind the temple to his own cell. He had no wish to meet strangers. As he ran, he repeated in his mind the words that he had heard, urgency growing in him and lending speed to his bare feet. By the time he reached the hall onto which the rooms of the we'eb priests opened, a clearer understanding of the whispers made him feel sick. Instead of turning in at his own door, he ran past it and stopped, panting, outside his phylarch's room, knocking softly. He glanced at the water clock. He was shocked to see that three hours had gone by. The moon had set, leaving duskiness and a hint of morning on the black and white stone floor.
Inside, there was a stirring. ''Who is it?"
"Me, Master. Senmut. I must speak with you."
"Come, then."
Senmut pushed open the door and stepped through. The phylarch, a young man with a receding forehead and a small, thin mouth, was sitting up on his couch in the process of lighting his lamp. The flame shot yellow and steadied. Senmut went closer, bowing, uncomfortably aware now of his sweat-streaked skin, his scratched cheek.
"Well? What is it?" The phylarch rubbed at one eye with a blunt finger, regarding Senmut sleepily.
In that instant, just as Senmut took breath to reply, two fragments of knowledge flashed through his head, and for a moment the walls turned about him. He put out a hand to steady himself as his guts heaved.
The man in the bed snapped at him irritably, "Speak. Speak! Are you ill?"
Senmut knew with a certainty that went beyond thought and into the dim world of self-preservation that after all he must not confide in this man, his master, nor must he ever speak to any priestly person about the things he had heard. At that moment he knew with dread and a dulling fear why not. For now he was able to put a body to that low, husky voice —a thick, wrinkled body—and a lined, wily face. The speaker had been none other than the great High Priest of Amun himself, the mighty Menena.
Suddenly his wits returned, and he was able to speak smoothly, without betraying the tumbling, chaotic thoughts that chased each other in his mind. "Master, I am so sorry, but I have a fever, and my belly aches— here"—he rubbed his stomach—"I cannot sleep."
"It is the heat," the phylarch grumbled. "Go back to your room.
Morning cannot be far off, and if you still feel unwell, I will send a physician to you. You are excused your duties for one day."
Senmut bowed and murmured his thanks. The man was not unkind, but he was a worrier, continually fussing with details. He, too, had trouble with a stomach that often did not let him rest.
On an impulse Senmut turned back to him. ''Master, if one wished to have audience with Pharaoh, how would one go about it?"
''Why?" The phylarch demanded suspiciously. "What would you have to say to the One?"
Senmut looked shocked and surprised. "Me? But I do not wish to aspire to such an exalted moment; I know that only the great in the land can commune with him. But I have seen him only once, afar off, on a royal progress, and I simply wish to know."
"Then stop wondering. It is no surprise that you have a fever if you spend your nights thinking about such things. No one of our station can ever hope to speak with him. It would be impossible. Now go away, and see me again in the morning if you feel no better."
Senmut bowed again without replying and went out, closing the door behind him. As he walked to his own cell, he was conscious of an overwhelming mental and physical exhaustion that threatened to pitch him full length on the floor before he reached his pallet. He entered his little cell with a sigh and flung himself down on the mattress.
Even if I could by some miracle find myself in his presence, what would I say? Would he welcome me even if I managed to say it without being carted off with chains on my legs? Did I not hear the High Priest say that deep within himself, Pharaoh wishes this evil thing could be done? Is such a deed justified by the safety of Egypt?
With his eyes closed and sleep at last preparing to pounce, Senmut thought of the tall and graceful Princess who came regularly to the temple with her maids. He had seen her from a distance, as he had seen her father. She was not beautiful, but there was a gentleness about her that made her seem closer to the people than her haughty attendants were. A pang of guilt held off sleep and made him open his eyes.
&n
bsp; Should I sacrifice all? Try for the palace? He turned over. I shall be a realist and survive, even as the High Priest survives, he told himself grimly.
He wished that he could confide in someone. He thought of his best friend, Benya the Hurrian, apprenticed to an engineer of the temple. But Benya, with his dark, curly hair and flashing, white smile and quick, winning ways, was far to the south at Assuan with his master, helping to oversee the quarrying of sandstone in the broiling heat. Anyway, to Benya nothing in life was sacred or serious, and he might talk.
Senmut shrugged his cloak a little higher on his shoulders and slept, but his dreams were confused and sordid. He awoke sweating, finding that the wind had indeed risen. The sand was drifting through his one tiny window near the ceiling, the particles of gray dust hanging suspended in the fetid air. It was difficult to tell how long he had slept. He got up and looked out into the hall, but everything was quiet, other cell doors open, and he knew that his fellow we'ebs already were gone to their duties. His mouth felt foul and gritty, and he longed for a wash. He padded to the end of the block and called for a slave. He returned to his room and sat in his one chair, an uncomfortable thing made out of bundles of papyrus stems tied together. His head ached, and he wondered whether he really was in the grip of a fever that had worked on his mind and had caused him to imagine the whole episode in the garden. After all, he and those who moved on the fringes of power were constantly in the thick of a hundred rumors, and Pharaoh was gossiped about from dawn until dusk. But Senmut was possessed of a practical, calculating mind that, though perceptive, did not allow idle conjectures to interfere with the realities of day-to-day life. Besides, there was in Senmut a faculty for objective and pitiless observation, a sort of disengagement of the senses that allowed him to note and record the actions and reactions of those about him. He could not believe that a happening so clear and painful and fresh could be the tired wanderings of a heated mind.
His slave came running, and he ordered a basin of hot water and a clean linen. He asked the boy what time it was.
'Three hours after sunrise. Master."
''I thought so. And have the other priests eaten?''
'Tes. They have gone about their duties. The phylarch instructed me to bring you a physician if you required one this morning. Shall I?"
*'No. No, I do not believe that will be necessary. See if you can get me some fruit from the kitchens. Then clean up in here for me. I have been excused work for today, and I think I'll go down to the river for a while."
''Better to stay indoors. Master. A khamsin has begun."
"Yes, I know."
The child went away and returned staggering under the weight of the steaming basin. He set it on its stand and left again. In a moment he was back with a dish of fruit and a clean robe. Senmut thanked him, and he bobbed his head and was gone.
With a sigh of relief Senmut plunged his head and his hands in the warm water, washing himself thoroughly all over, listening to the spasmodic moaning of the wind as it spurted pufiFs of sand into the room, sand that now clung to his wet body before he could dry himself. He wrapped the thick linen around his waist, pleating it in the front so that it hung
in folds to the ground, and fastened it with a bronze pin. Around his upper arm he clasped the plain bronze band engraved with the words of his office.
And how grand I felt, he thought grimly, reaching for the fruit, the first time I put the bracelet on. Little did I know that it was to be a symbol of my incarceration.
He did not understand the other we'eb priests, who seemed happy in their work and who took it all quite seriously, even the older ones to whom preferment would never come. Why, he thought savagely, spitting pips onto the floor, can we not simply have more slaves to do the work? But he knew that there were certain places where a slave could not go, holy places, so priests had to do the chores that no servant in the palace would stoop to.
Senmut did not have the religious convictions that his friends did. His father was a pious man, and his mother prayed every day to the local god of his village, but part of the son stood back and smiled a little at their naivete. His presence at the temple was a means to an end, and that end was education. If in order to achieve that precious goal, he had to chant prayers and wash four times a day and shave his head, then so be it. He knew that his destiny was in his hands and his alone. It was this that caused him such monumental frustration. He believed in himself, and he felt only impotence, walled in as he was in a dark, narrow, endless passageway that led only to errands and more scrubbing. Only in the schoolroom was he happy, studying the colossal achievements of the ancestors who were more than men. He longed to see with his own eyes the stone beauties that seemed to call to him in the night, asking for something that he knew he could give but that he knew he would never be allowed to offer.
He did not make fun of sacred things as did Benya. In Benya's country, Hurria, far to the northeast, the gods served men. But here in Egypt men served the gods, and Senmut wished only to see behind the gods to the inspirations and strivings of men. To him, Pharaoh was more of a God than Mighty Amun. Pharaoh was a visible mover, a being who caused all in the kingdom to happen. If he felt allegiance to anyone or anything, it was to the short, bull-like man whom he had seen only once, striding beneath his jeweled sun canopy on his way to make offerings at Luxor. This was Godhead. This was power. If he was ever to fulfill his destiny, Senmut knew he had somehow to come to the attention of Pharaoh.
But not this way, he said to himself as he left his room. Not with a tale of deadly intrigue and foul murder that the One himself might have a hand in. I would certainly lose my head.
Two days later, the wind still blew. It gusted into the royal schoolroom, billowing out the thick, heavy hangings that were painted with birds and sending sand eddying across the floor. It was a duH, gray morning, the sun riding high but hidden from the earth by clouds of whirling sand that streamed off the tops of the Theban hills straight from the desert beyond and descended with the wind into the valley below.
Khaemwese struggled to keep the lesson going, but the wind had unsettled his young charges. They wriggled and whispered as the lamps flickered, and he finally rolled up his scroll. *'I can see that today we are going to get nowhere. The scribe truly says that the ear of a boy is on his back, and he hearkeneth when he is beaten, but this morning it is difficult for any of us to hearken to each other over the noise of the wind.''
Hatshepsut's hand shot up. 'Tlease, Master?"
'Tes?''
''If, as the scribe says, the ear of a boy is on his back, where is the ear of a girl?" She turned toward him, her look one of shining innocence.
If he had been younger and less experienced in the wily ways of children, he would have thought that she really wished to know; but as it was, he leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder with his scroll. ''If you truly wish to know, I will show you. Stand up. Menkh, bring the hippopotamus whip. We will soon discover where a girl's ear may be."
"Now you did it," Hapuseneb whispered to her as she reluctantly rose. "And Neferu is not here to protect you."
"Stand before me!" Khaemwese ordered, and Hatshepsut went forward. Menkh grinned and handed him the willow switch, and he whipped it through the air. It whistled fiercely. "Now. Where is the ear of a girl? What do you think?" He hid a smile.
Hatshepsut swallowed. "I think that if you beat me, my royal father will have you flogged."
Khaemwese nodded. "Your royal father instructed me to teach you. And behold, you ask me a question. Where, you say, is the ear of a girl? I am about to show you." The corners of his mouth twitched, and Hatshepsut pounced.
*Tou will not beat me! I know you will not! I only asked you to make you annoyed."
''But I am not annoyed, oh, not in the least. And I will tell you that the ear of a girl is in the same place as the ear of a boy."
Hatshepsut's chin went up, and she slowly surveyed her squatting classmates. *'Of course. There is no difference. And furthe
rmore, a girl can do anything a boy can do," she said as she sat down.
Khaemwese raised a finger. ''But wait. If that is so, then you will not mind being beaten, for I have beaten every boy in this class from time to time because of the failing of his ear that you say is the same as a girl's. Girls' ears must then fail, too. Why, then, have I not beaten you? Stand forth again!" He was laughing.
She smiled up at him, eyes alight. "Master, you have not yet beaten me because I am a princess, and you cannot lay hands on a princess. That is Maat."
"That is not Maat," Khaemwese replied sternly. "That is custom and decree, but not Maat. I beat Thothmes, and he is a prince."
Hatshepsut turned coolly and regarded her half brother, but he was sitting with his chin in his hand, drawing circles in the gathering sand. She looked back at Khaemwese. "Thothmes is only half a prince," she said, "but I am the Daughter of the God. That is Maat."
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