by Jerry Dubs
Hope reborn!
He had sent the giant Yuya and a company of Medjay warriors through the uncharted lands of the morning sun to find Ta Netjer and kill Hatshepsut.
Now he waited.
But no caravans had reached Kerma from Ta Netjer. No news of Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s death had drifted upriver from Waset. Yuya had not sent word of his victory. Kasta, the messenger he had sent to Yuya, had not returned.
Hope languishing!
***
Seni stirred as ancient Sabestet crossed the shadowed room.
His servant carried an oil lamp, sheltering the flickering flame with his hand. He set the lamp on a table and turned to Seni.
In the slump of Sabestet’s shoulders Seni read the news: There was no news.
Wearily, Seni nodded and Sabestet clapped his hands.
A boy entered the dark room. Walking slowly, he held his arms extended in front of him. He carried a golden tray, its surface covered in ashes. Resting in the black powdered bed was a small wooden sarcophagus.
The boy stopped five steps from Seni and waited.
“Have you been with a woman?” Seni asked.
As he had been instructed, the boy shook his head and said, “No, Governor Seni. I am pure.”
Seni glanced at Sabestet, who said, “I certify this truth.”
Seni turned his attention back to the boy. After a moment, Sabestet whispered, “Show him!”
The boy knelt and laid the tray on the stone floor. He lifted the top of the wooden sarcophagus, fumbled it in his nervousness and dropped it. Seni glared at Sabestet, who shook his head reassuringly. “Carefully, boy,” he said in a calming voice.
The boy nodded and carefully lifted a wax figure from the small sarcophagus.
The figure’s head was covered with black hair, including a short, formal goatee. A small crown encircled its head, the eyes of the protective cobra had been gouged away.
As the boy offered the replica of Pharaoh Hatshepsut to Seni for his approval, Sabestet lit two incense burners. The sweet aroma of myrrh swirled into the air as Seni inspected the wax figure, his fingers lingering over the cartouche of his hated enemy.
There was a light scraping sound as Sabestet tugged a wide, shallow iron bowl toward Seni. The bottom of the bowl was filled with dried palm fiber and splinters of wood.
Seni returned the wax figure to the boy, who placed it atop the wood. The boy backed away so Seni could watch as Sabestet lit the pyre.
As the flames lapped at the wax figure, Seni stared at the doll, his mouth moving as he whispered a curse. Pharaoh Hatshepsut dissolved before his hungry eyes, the wax catching the flames and throwing more yellow light over Seni’s hungry face.
When the flames began to die, Sabestet nudged the boy, who turned toward the pyre and began to piss on it.
Leaning forward to breathe in the aroma of the death of his enemy, Seni closed his eyes and continued his fervent chant.
As the last ember turned cold, Sabestet lifted the bowl and nodded to the boy, and together they left Governor Seni to dream of destroying Pharaoh Hatshepsut.
Hope nurtured!
Impostor
“Why can’t Hapuseneb talk with them?” Maya asked as she arched her back slightly and pushed her shoulders back. She raised her chin slightly and blinked her eyes, forcing herself to be patient and royal as her dressers fussed over the fall of her sheer linen gown.
Senenmut stood a few feet away with crossed arms, admiring her.
“There is truly an uncanny resemblance,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “I know that Khnum sometimes makes two pots the same, but I have only known of ones who came from the same mother.”
Holding her pose for the dressers, Maya looked out the side of her eyes to glare at the holder of more than forty royal titles.
Senenmut smiled innocently in response.
“Perhaps I should wait in the antechamber, Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Long life!” He tucked his smile into a small grin and bowed to the woman who was impersonating his lover, Pharaoh Hatshepsut.
“No, Lord Senenmut,” Maya said quickly, “stay a moment, I wish a private word.”
The royal dressers looked knowingly at each other and quietly backed away from Maya and quickly left the dressing room.
“I know, I know,” Senenmut said as soon as the girls had gone. “I must be more discreet. But,” he smiled again, “you know we replaced Hatshepsut’s dressers, so these girls don’t know her. Or you. And there is an uncanny resemblance, Maya. It must seem to Hatshepsut that she is looking into a mirror when she looks at you,” he added.
He shook his head. “If I didn’t know her so well, I don’t think I could tell that you are Maya, Keeper of the Wardrobe, and not Pharaoh Hatshepsut, the very soul of Re.” He looked at the doorway where the girls had disappeared. “I’m sure that they don’t suspect anything, except what ‘having a private word’ really means.”
He stepped closer to Maya and whispered in her ear conspiratorially, “Sometimes Hatshepsut and I sit over there,” he nodded his head toward the royal bedchambers, “and compete to make the loudest and most satisfied grunts, yet striving to remain vocally regal.”
Stepping back, his eyes twinkling below lowered eyebrows, he said, “Perhaps we should do the same, to help with the deception. Sometimes she calls me her wild bull, it seems to be a favorite phrase among the nobility. Oh, and we should slap the bed vigorously.”
Laughing now, Maya began to put her hand to her face. Senenmut reached out quickly and grabbed her wrist. “No, dear Maya, you’ll smudge your lips and then the dressers will insist on starting over again and you’ll keep the priests waiting.”
Maya blinked and turned her hand to take Senenmut’s. “Thank you, Senenmut.” She sighed heavily. “I don’t know if I could continue this without your support. I never thought that I would need to impersonate Pharaoh Hatshepsut for so long.”
Turning serious, Senenmut nodded. “I know, Maya. None of us thought she would be away for months on end.”
Holding her hand, he led her to a seat by the window.
Waiting until she sat, he lowered himself onto a facing chair. His full lips turned into a deep frown and lines of worry drew on his forehead. “I have visited more temples in the past six months than in my entire life. None of the priests know that Hatshepsut has gone to Ta Netjer and that you have taken her place, so it is impossible to put an accurate query to the oracles.”
“Have you heard something?” Maya asked worriedly.
Senenmut quickly shook his head. “No, Maya. There is only silence from the gods. Perhaps you and my darling Hatshepsut have fooled them as well. But,” he slapped his hands against his thighs and stood, “there is no bad news and they say that bad news travels twice as fast as good news.”
“They never should have tried to find Ta Netjer,” Maya said more to herself than to Senenmut as she turned to look out the window where Re’s light sliced through waving palm leaves and threw blades of light on the tree trunks.
Senenmut smiled with resignation. “Pharaoh Hatshepsut has never listened to cautious advice. Her ka is adventurous. That is one of the things I love about her.”
They turned at the sound of footsteps.
A tall thin man paused at the doorway, his bright eyes circling the room before coming to rest with a smile on Maya and Senenmut. He nodded slightly, his eyebrows raised.
Senenmut opened his arms in greeting. “We are alone, dear Pentu. So our Maya is your wife for a moment.”
As Pentu embraced Senenmut, he looked over the shorter man’s shoulders to catch Maya’s eyes. Seeing the concern in her husband’s eyes, Maya said, “What is it, my love?”
His hands on Pentu’s upper arms, Senenmut leaned back and looked at his old friend. “You have news?”
Pentu nodded. “Of a sort,” he said, taking two quick steps to Maya. “You look radiant and regal, dear wife,” he said, kneeling and taking one of her hands. He kissed it gently and then, giving her
hand a loving squeeze, he stood and stepped away. He glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes moving from the doorway and then back to Senenmut and Maya.
“I spoke with Neferhotep outside the palace. He said that a messenger arrived from Thutmose with wonderful news. The Shasu have been properly chastised, the trade route is secure and the army is returning,” Pentu said, his eyes darting from Senenmut to Maya, watching them digest the news and then realize what it meant.
Senenmut pursed his lips and squinted his eyes as he thought, the action drawing his close features tighter. “He has been away for almost a year,” he said at last.
“Still ... ” Pentu said, raising his shoulders in question.
“He was always in the temple,” Maya said.
Pentu smiled his physician’s smile, revealing understanding, but withholding agreement. He turned to Senenmut. “Am I correct in assuming that Pharaoh Hatshepsut did not confide in Thutmose?” he asked.
Senenmut shook his head. “Only you, Maya, Neferhotep and I know that Pharaoh Hatshepsut has gone to Ta Netjer and that your wife is posing as ruler of the Two Lands.”
Pentu frowned. “Not even Hapuseneb? I assumed that she would have told him.”
Senenmut offered an embarrassed frown.
“She didn’t tell the high priest of Re?” Pentu was amazed.
“Thutmose was under Hapuseneb’s tutelage until he left for Sinai,” Senenmut said with a shrug. “We weren’t sure if Hapuseneb’s allegiance had, uh, wandered.”
“But it was Hapuseneb who confirmed Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s divinity. Surely ... ” Pentu said, then he stopped and smiled at his naivete. “Of course, of course, I didn’t think. Hapuseneb also confirmed Thutmose II’s divinity before Amun told him that dear Hatshepsut should be pharaoh. I’m sure he would willingly have a new dream that would reveal that our young Thutmose is the newest, true ruler.”
Smiling, he tilted his head toward Maya. “Perhaps we could persuade Hapuseneb to reveal that Re’s ka has found a nest within Maya.”
He held up a hand before Senenmut could speak. “I am not serious, old friend. You know that I believe that dear Pharaoh Hatshepsut should wear the double crown. Although it sits delightfully on your head, my love,” he added to Maya with a smile.”
“I know,” Senenmut reassured him, “yet, you must not give breath to such thoughts.”
Pentu gave him a puzzled look.
“There is tension, Pentu. Hatshepsut rules with the love of the people and because Thutmose believes that the gods have chosen her. But if Hapuseneb should whisper to Thutmose that the gods have changed their minds, well, I think the priestly young man could turn into a lion.”
Maya put one hand on Pentu’s arm and the other on Senenmut’s. “You were just saying, Senenmut, that you have trouble telling me from Pharaoh Hatshepsut. And as you said, Thutmose has been away.”
Pentu took his wife’s hand. “Maya, even if the deception holds, there is still a risk. Thutmose left Waset as a boy, after living for years within the temple. His allegiance was to Hapuseneb and to the gods. But he has been with the army for almost a year. From what I have heard, he has conducted himself as he has been trained to ... as a living god.
“The soldiers, their leaders, even General Pen-Nebheket will want him to be sole ruler because they want to follow a god, not a goddess,” he looked quickly at Senenmut, “even if the goddess is as extraordinary as Pharaoh Hatshepsut.”
Senenmut nodded. “He is right, Maya, the danger will come not from Thutmose, but from those who would elevate him.”
“So if I fail to convince Thutmose that I am his stepmother, then I am in danger because he will have discovered that I am impersonating Pharaoh Hatshepsut and if I succeed in maintaining the charade then I am in danger because as Pharaoh Hatshepsut I am standing in his way?” she asked.
Senenmut broke the silence that followed. “All will be well if she returns. I am sure that Hatshepsut can hold the throne.”
Maya looked from him to her husband.
“I am sorry, Maya,” Pentu said with a pained smile. “I don’t see a pathway except to continue what we are doing. I will ask Neferhotep to keep his ears open for rumors, but if Thutmose is goaded into action ... ”
Pawura
From the darkness came the chuff of snorting horses, the thin creak of straining leather, and the rolling rumble of wooden wheels on sandy soil. Filtered through a cloud of dust, the sounds merged into a growing growl thrown from the throat of an angry god.
The young heroes were on the move.
Nearing the cookfires of the Egyptian encampment, the line of chariots slowed, and the dust cloud that they dragged behind them swept forward, and for a moment the line of horses and soldiers disappeared.
Then, as the chariot drivers slowed the horses to a walk, the gritty cloud fell to earth and the blade of Pharaoh Thutmose’s army was revealed: fifty gilt-covered chariots, each pulled by two horses and each manned by a driver and an archer. In battle they would be trailed by five runners who dispatched wounded or disoriented enemy charioteers.
But tonight, the chariots ran without runners for they had spent the day racing across the barren plains, too fast for men to follow on foot.
A solitary man stood at the edge of the camp holding a torch and, seeing him, Menena laid the reins on the right shoulders of Shu and Neith. The horses leaned left and the chariot they pulled parted from the company and headed toward the torch bearer.
As the chariot approached the man, Pawura jumped from the chariot. He landed lightly, holding his bow in his right hand. His left hand steadied the leather quiver that was strapped to his waist.
Behind him, Menena touched his whip to the horses and they snorted, waving fans of painted ostrich feathers strapped to their heads as they began a slow jog toward the smell of waiting troughs of water.
The clutch of arrows clattered in their leather quiver as Pawura strode across the sandy ground to the torch-carrying messenger. The messenger knelt and waited until Pawura, commander of the maryannu, the young heroes, who manned the light, fast chariots of pharaoh’s army, touched his shoulder.
Rising, the messenger involuntarily blinked at the smell of sweat and blood and dirt that radiated from Pawura’s thick-set body. “General Pen-Nebheket asks you to come to his tent immediately,” the messenger said, offering Pawura a damp linen towel.
Pawura used the towel to carefully clean the bone brace at the center of his compound bow; then he wiped his face with the cloth and then rubbed it over his dirt-covered torso and legs. Dropping the dirty cloth in the messenger’s reluctant hands, Pawura nodded and started walking across the encampment toward the general’s tent.
His head and face were dark from stubble, his shendyt was stained with sweat, its linen threads worn thin from scraping against the body of his chariot. A muscle in his right shoulder twitched in fatigue as he walked and Pawura unconsciously worked his fingers as if reaching for an arrow.
Pawura and his company of charioteers had spent the day chasing down and killing the remnants of the small Shasu force the army had routed that morning. After a long day of fighting, another man might wonder why he was being called to council in the darkness after Re had set. But Pawura followed orders immediately, just as he expected his men to follow his commands without question, just as he expected his horses to respond to the rein.
It was how battles were won.
Sandy soil slid beneath Pawura’s feet as he slogged across the encampment. Used to balancing on the bouncing bed of his chariot, Pawura rocked easily with the shifting motion. The movement swung his leather quiver against his heavy thigh, a feeling that made him smile because it reminded him of battle.
The sting of sand thrown from his horses’ hooves, the snap of Menena’s whip, the rocking of the chariot, the smell of leather, the taut pull of bowstrings, the almost inaudible twang of a released arrow, these were the breath, the bread, and the beer of life to Pawura.
Now other smells and so
unds intruded on his thoughts. He saw that there were more campfires tonight than usual, and the heavy aroma of cooking meat filled the air. There was singing, too, not the wistful ballads soldiers sang when they missed their wives and girlfriends but the vulgar songs they sang when they were drunk and anticipating being reunited with those same wives and girlfriends.
The army is returning home, Pawura thought as he neared the general’s tent.
There were more guards outside the general’s tent than usual and their kilts were clean, their kohl unsmeared, their bodies glistening with scented oil, not sweat and blood. A thrilled shiver ran through Pawura as he recognized them as the bodyguard of Pharaoh Thutmose III.
Reflexively he tilted his head and looked down at his worn and dirty shendyt, his bare, blistered feet, the rivulets of dirt that he had missed when he had wiped his legs clean.
The guards stiffened to attention and turned sideways to give Pawura entry to the tent.
He nodded to them and ducked inside.
Pharaoh Thutmose III, immaculately groomed and dressed as always, stood at the far end of the tent, his arms held stiffly at his side, the hands curled into loose fists. His attention was on General Pen-Nebheket who stood in front of a low wooden stool. No one was permitted to sit until Pharaoh Thutmose III sat, and Pawura had never heard of the man sitting.
He was always standing, his body stiff as a statue, his mouth held in a confident smile. Even his eyes, so dark that when they caught the light they glowed honey-brown, were still. Yet Pawura, who had watched Pharaoh Thutmose as closely as he could during the year the young ruler had traveled with the army, was convinced that those eyes saw a different world than his did, as, a hawk sees a canted, moving world from the sky, or as a crocodile sees a world swimming with motion.
As Pharaoh Thutmose slowly turned his attention away from General Pen-Nebheket Pawura dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and lay on his stomach. Spreading his arms wide at his side, he turned his head and shouted, “Pharaoh Thutmose, long life!”