Child of the morning

by Gedge, Pauline, 1945-

  She saw his eyebrows rise as she smiled and held out a hand. *'It has been a long time since we have eaten and drunk together in privacy and spoken of anything but business," she remarked as he kissed her palm. "Come and sit, Senmut. Tell me, how is Ta-kha'et?''

  He allowed her to lead him to the low table, and he sank onto the cushions in one graceful movement. As she settled herself beside him, he looked around for the slave that would serve them. 'Ta-kha'et is well," he answered. *'We live quietly when Your Majesty has no need of me, and I think it irks her a little. She loves plenty of entertainment."

  Hatshepsut began to serve him herself, pouring his wine, offering him figs steeped in honey and melons soaked in wine. ''Indeed? Then you should provide her with musicians and other delights."

  ''I have done so, but Ta-kha'et is of an uncertain temper. She says that no musician amuses her as I do!"

  They smiled at each other, and the strange formality of this meeting began to leave them.

  ''Of course she is right!" Hatshepsut said, raising her goblet and looking at him over the rim. "I have told you before, you should marry her and make her a princess. That is what she wishes."

  "Well I know," he said.

  "Then why do you not? I will give her a good dowry. I know how poor you princes are!"

  "It seems to me," he remarked lightly, "that we have had a similar conversation before. Is the King's memory so poor that he cannot remember?"

  'Terhaps," she said simply, **for the years have flown since that time, Great Prince, and men's affections change."

  ''Some men's do," he answered lightly, ''but mine do not."

  ''Would it bore you to tell me again why Ta-kha'et is still only a slave?"

  He put down his golden cup and sat looking at it for a time. The room was filled with a waiting silence. She sighed softly, stirring on her cushions, the ribbons of her headband lifting from her neck now and then as the hot breeze found her.

  At last he turned to face her. "No, it would not bore me. But, Majesty, you are now a King. I think that it is your place to speak on the matter, not mine, for though I no longer fear to be made ridiculous, I am afraid that my words would- fall on ears deafened by the years of which you spoke."

  "Ah, Senmut," she replied softly, "why do we push words to one another as if to ward off something else? Do you not know that all my life there has been only one man to whom my love has been given and whom I shall love until I die?" Impulsively she reached down and found his hands, lifting them and burying her face in them, kissing them.

  He bent toward her. "Now it is my turn to listen," he said. "Say it, Hatshepsu, say it!"

  She groaned and let his hands drop into her lap, reaching out, almost blindly, for his face. "I love you, Senmut, I love you. I can wait no longer to be possessed by you. My body longs for you; my soul cries for you. I humble myself before you, seeking your love or your anger or your mighty indifference. But seeking. Hold me!" Her fingers trembled on his eyes, his cheeks, and she began to cry.

  He lunged forward and caught her to him, crushing her fiercely against his body, whispering words of love that poured through his careful defenses. "Hatshepsu! My beloved, my sister." He took her chin in both hands, cupping her face, and she clung to him as if she was drowning. As they kissed, an aching tenderness quivered in their lips, and he felt her tears trickle through his fingers. "Are you sure?" he asked her gently. "It is no small thing, this, for a Pharaoh."

  She nodded urgently. "I have been sure for a very long time," she answered softly, kissing his neck, his chin, his eyes. "Let us love while we may, my dear brother, for it is a sorry thing to grow older and see love shrivel and die for want of the sun."

  She knelt quietly while his powerful, gentle hands touched her as they did night after night in her dreams, exploring the sweet, strong lines of her, the flawless curves of her young body. He gathered her to him with a great laugh that woke the shadows and rang to the roof, and she laughed,

  too. They rose and clung together, his arms tight about her waist and hers twined around his neck, and they kissed again, hungry, ready mouths pressed to suck at last all joy from one another.

  His relationship with Ta-kha'et was a matter of physical need mingled with mild affection, two people rubbing along, needing each other sometimes, sharing bed and board amicably. But this burning, all-encompassing passion, this towering desire to become one with the woman he had worshiped and loved, day after day and year after year, surpassed every dream that he had thrust viciously to the back of his mind. He lowered her onto the cushions, handling the yielding, velvety flesh in an agony of happiness that hurt as well as blessed, forgetting her divinity, forgetting her royalty, knowing only that she was his true wife, the companion of his days, and the reader of his thoughts, the one who longed for him and wanted to please only him, forever. He took her slowly, patiently, his eyes on her face, watching the beautiful features loosen in ecstasy. Afterward they lay together, smiling, the hot wind cooling the sweat from their bodies, her head pillowed below his shoulder, his arms around her still, both thinking of the days and nights ahead that would glow with a new light.

  '*! cannot think why I have waited for this moment for so long," she said.

  He laughed, contented and weary. 'The time was not right, Majesty," he replied.

  She tapped him on the chest with one sharp fingernail. *'I pray you, Senmut, beloved, do not call me Majesty in private, nor yet Hatshepsu. Call me Hatshepsut, for in your arms I am no longer First Among the Mighty and Honorable Nobles of the Kingdom, but only Chief of Noble Women."

  He grunted. 'The only woman," he said. 'Tou have always been the only woman."

  "What of Ta-kha'et?"

  He moved his head, but he could not look down to catch her expression hidden beneath the tangled hair. 'Ta-kha'et is like the soft, yellow moon of harvest, and I come to her quietly," he said. ''But you are the scorching, fiery sun of a summer noon. How can I go back to the embraces of Ta-kha'et after being so badly burned?"

  "But you will not send her away?" In her own happiness, Hatshepsut wished Ta-kha'et to be content, too.

  "No. That would be cruel. But I will not marry her, ever. That would be cruel to her also.

  She was sleepy now, a warm languor stealing over her limbs. "Then you

  will never marry at all/' she murmured. *'l can share you with a slave, but woe betide the woman you call wife!"

  'Tou are my wife, beloved/' he said, and his grip on her tightened. ''None shall ever tear me away from you, save with death."

  In the dawn, Hapuseneb and the other priests came, as they did every morning, to sing the Hymn of Praise outside the silver door. But the couple within did not hear it; they were asleep.

  Though no formal words were ever spoken, all in the palace soon knew that the mighty Erpa-ha had become the King's lover. Ta-kha'et accepted the new situation immediately, without grumbling. But she saw him less often, and it hurt her. She loved Senmut in her own way, and she delighted in his body. He still treated her with kindness, sitting with her in the afternoons while they talked of trivial things, but nothing could change the fact that he did not send for her to come to his bed anymore, and she was a trifle lonely. If she could have given him a child, she would have felt more secure; but she was barren, a reproach to any man. He told her that it did not matter at all, that he would never cease to hold her in high esteem and friendship, but she could not understand how any man could live without sons. Yet it was not in her nature to brood, and she soon found plenty to do: running his house for him, ordering his servants, hiring and dismissing his laborers. Still, it was not the same, not at all, and she was sorry.

  During the days so full of responsibilities and worries, neither Hatshep-sut nor Senmut treated each other with anything but the formality appropriate to the audience chamber or office. Their words were all of duties and policies. No one could put a finger on the changed atmosphere and say, 'There, there is the difference." But diflference there was, and no o
ne felt it more strongly than Hapuseneb. Long before it was common knowledge in the kitchens, an unerring instinct told him that his King's relationship with her Chief Steward had changed. He had been expecting it, but all the same he could not help subjecting Senmut to a new coolness, and Senmut's quick intuition picked it out. He accosted Hapuseneb one morning in the temple. The High Priest had finished his ablutions and was going to lunch when Senmut stepped from behind a pillar and barred his way. Hapuseneb bowed, his eyes blank. He made as if to move on, but Senmut put out a brawny arm, and Hapuseneb was forced to stand. His acolytes were waiting beside him; he sent them away and turned to Senmut.

  Senmnt did not mince words. "What have I done to you, Hapuseneb, that you should show me a veil over your face? It is not like you to be so

  lacking in manners. I would have thought that since we had worked together so long, all such foolery was past."

  Hapuseneb looked into the angry black eyes beneath the straight, dark brows and bowed shortly. 'Tour words are true, Senmut, but I do not apologize,'* he said calmly. ''I am indeed lacking in manners, and I must confess that the lack surprises me, for I had always prided myself on being an impartial man, above all silly diflFerences and serving only Egypt and the God."

  'That has been so, and I have respected you for your wisdom. But now I find that I am losing a friend who was won slowly, with great difficulty; and I am not prepared to see you and me, Hapuseneb, fall out for a reason that is obscure to me. You owe me an explanation."

  '*! owe you nothing!" For the first time Senmut saw the gray eyes lose their steady gaze and harden. ''Must I bare to you my heart, just so I can prove that I owe you nothing? Leave me alone!"

  "What does your heart have to do with it?" Senmut snapped back.

  Hapuseneb smiled wryly. "If you truly do not know, then I do apologize and say that I have misjudged you, Senmut. But I cannot say more. You and I are still friends and allies, but you must give me time to rediscover the respect I hold for myself." With another quick, twisted smile he was gone, his robes floating behind him as he passed through the pillars and went out the doors.

  Senmut gazed after him, angry and bewildered. That night he mentioned the incident to Hatshepsut as they lay together on her couch.

  She was silent for a long time. "Hapuseneb has a secret," she said finally, "but it is a private thing, between him and me. Even though I love you, Senmut, I will not betray his trust."

  "This secret has never come between us before, and it worries me. How can I work closely with him anymore? He took me under his wing while I was yet apprenticed to Ineni, and he put his trust in me long before he knew the extent of my devotion to you. Why this sudden change of heart?"

  "He is very astute, my Hapuseneb, and invaluable to me as a right judge of the characters of men. But remember, Senmut, that he and I grew up together, sharing all, and I knew him long before I knew you. I can say no more."

  A glimmer of the truth came to Senmut, and he cried out, "But I did not know! I did not guess! Why did he not confide in me?"

  "Because he is a proud man. Do not fear; all will be as it was. He is fair and just and does not want to make an enemy of you, but he is tormented. He needs time to conquer himself once more, as he has always

  done in the past. I love him, too, Senmut—as my oldest and dearest friend —and when he is hurt, so am I."

  They said no more, both lying still, staring into the dimness, as Hapuse-neb himself did on that night—all wrapped in their private thoughts.

  The festival of her Myriad of Years approached, and Hatshepsut eyed the passing days warily, wondering how to celebrate this feast, which was so special because it would come only once during her reign. She remembered her father's jubilee, and the wild rejoicing that had gone on in the palace and the city. With one eye on the growing Thothmes and the other on her own many achievements, she decided to step up the day. She thought that by celebrating sooner than the time appointed by custom, she would press home to everyone the advantages her reign had brought and settle the crown more firmly on her head. Not that she felt she needed to be buttressed, but the name of the young Prince was cropping up on too many occasions for comfort. His prowess with the bow, his cool eye with the spear, his spectacular success in handling the chariot—all were discussed too freely for her liking. She wondered whether perhaps Nehesi had been right. She imagined the palace without him: herself entrenched without opposition, Neferura her Heir, and not a cloud in the sky. But after the first relief the vision afforded, her pleasure faded, and she saw herself alone before Amun, dumb and guilty. She finally rejected any idea of poisoning Thothmes. Poison was ruthless. It was the weapon of weakness, and she was not weak. Not yet. She would handle Thothmes in her own way.

  When she held her reviews, she watched the solid, impatient youth whip his horses and thunder past her with the other troops. He was becoming more arrogant in his fourteenth year, swaggering about with his cluster of cohorts and demanding obedience from everyone whether he got it or not. He worried her. Seeing Neferura's secret, yearning glances, she decided that soon she would discuss a possible betrothal with her ministers and thus curb any immediate dark thoughts of sedition Thothmes might have. A betrothal was one way of promising much while delivering nothing. By the time he awoke to the fact that she intended the throne not for him but for Neferura, it would be too late. Neferura would inherit the powerful cabinet she herself had formed, and Thothmes, for all his blustering and threats, would then be rendered impotent.

  But her Myriad of Years and the Anniversary of Her Appearing drew closer, and still she could not make up her mind on a suitable way to commemorate the day. It was at prayer that the idea came to her, as she

  sat on her balcony communing with the God. She left her view of the trees and went inside, sending for Senmut.

  When he came, she wasted no time. *Tou are to go immediately to Assuan," she said. 'Take Benya and whomever else you need. Quarry for me two obelisks, and bring them back before my festival."

  ''But, Majesty," he protested, "you have given me only seven months! It cannot be done in that time!"

  'it can, and you will do it. Leave as soon as possible. And furthermore, set the workmen to tearing out the cedar roof my father put in Amun's house. You told me the other day that the wood was rotting, so rip it up. I will put my obelisks there instead. If any of the roof can be saved, it can be rebuilt around them."

  "You have set me a formidable task," he remarked quietly. "If anyone can do it, I can, but this time I make no promises."

  "It will be done," she said. "I have suspended work on everything else in Karnak, and you can take as many men from there as you like. While you are away, Hapuseneb can see to the roof if you so order. Senmut, I have asked a great deal of you in the past, but this is the greatest. Will you attempt it for me?"

  He bowed to the smiling face. "As always, I am prepared to attempt the impossible for you. Majesty."

  "Good. Then there is no more to be said."

  She dismissed him lightly, and he left, almost running, feeling as if time was already snapping at his heels like a bad-tempered dog. He believed that the job could be done, but only just, provided there were no accidents. He shook his head and muttered a quick prayer to any god that would listen as he sent for Benya and ordered Ta-kha'et to have his clothes packed. It was a bad time of the year to stand in the baking, heat-seared quarries of Assuan. He wondered if any would die under Benya's lash before the stone was strapped to the rafts. It was not enough that this should be done, for the King had made it clear that she wanted hers to be the highest obelisks in the world. His mind was busy as he sent for his scribes. The floods were due soon, and if Amun wanted his Daughter's monuments, he would have to ensure that the water rose at the right time to float the enormous rafts Senmut would have to build. There was no point in wasting time constructing workmen's houses at the site, and he ordered the scribes to get hold of tents that could be erected or struck in a few minutes. His thought f
lew to tools, supplies, food, and even before the scribes picked up their pallets and scurried out, he was on his way to his litter and the docks, wondering where he could get enough precious timber to build a raft that could bear the great weight of such massive stones.

  He, Benya, and the hundreds in the work force left before the week was out. There was much missing from the lists Senmut had compiled so hurriedly, but it could all be sent on. He and Benya stood in the bow as the rowers bent to the oars, the incense rising from the bank as the flotilla swung to midstream and began to buck the current. Hatshepsut stood watching until they were out of sight, and Senmut kept his eyes on her until she and her bright courtiers were hidden by a curve in the riverbank. He heard Benya chuckle.

  '*So she does work you once in a while, my friend! I had heard that she requires little of you now but your company."

  ''Well, you heard wrong!" Senmut barked, his mind already on the job ahead. ''Since my father deposited me at the phylarch's door in the temple, I have done nothing but work for her, and well you know it. Go away, old friend. I am in no mood for joking."

  Benya shrugged and left him, but before long he was back, chattering away as ceaselessly as ever. They drank together at sunset, while the rowers sweated on and the river slowly absorbed the last light of the day.

  In two days they disembarked. Although it was late, just after noon, Senmut allowed no rest. He sent the men to pitch their tents in whatever shade they could find, warning them that the gates of the city were closed to them. While the supplies were unloaded, he and Benya paced the quarry, almost fainting in the intense heat.