The Crook and Flail (18 page)

The Overseer concluded his presentation.  Hatshepsut made the appropriate signs of approval – a nod, a wave of the hand – and he was led away.

Wadjetefni came forward, bowed with a scroll in his hand.  “An envoy from Retjenu, Great Lady, seeking the succor of Pharaoh.”

Retjenu lay far to the north and east of Egypt's borders.  It was a land of blighted desert; its people were prideful and difficult; they never shaved and clothed themselves in coarse, inelegant wool, and seemed to take yet more pride in their uncivilized appearance.  Even their kings dwelt in tents among their flocks of sheep, as dirty as rekhet children, as arrogant as falcons.  She braced herself, putting on a stern expression to forestall the presumptions this Retjenu man was certain to make, as the crowd in the great hall parted to admit the envoy to her presence.  But the man who stepped forward was haggard beneath his tangled, unkempt hair and beard.  His skin was sickly pale.  And his eyes stared hollowly, vacant as if his ka had half-fled.  He carried with him a letter for the Pharaoh and an air of great strain, the like of which she had never before seen on a Retjenu.  Wadjetefni accepted the letter and read it aloud for her as she sat, still and regal on her gilded seat, gazing down upon the wretched man.

“To Mighty Pharaoh, lord of the great life-giving river, from all the chieftains of this land which you call Retjenu, which we call Canaan.  We are your humblest servants.  We proclaim your strength!  Ever has our land been a friend to Egypt.  We send this man to you in our direst despair.  The rains were insufficient.  Our herds already gr liow weak.  We send him now, praying to God that he reaches Mighty Pharaoh in time.  By the time he stands before you a drought most terrible will have befallen us.  Never in hundreds of years have we suffered so.  We beg grain from Egypt, that our children and wives will not starve.  Take pity on us, Mighty Pharaoh!  All know that Pharaoh's heart is as kind as his arm is strong.  Be moved by the suffering of our little ones.  Without your aid they will surely starve.  We beg this of you as your most dedicated servants.”

Hatshepsut watched the envoy as Wadjetefni read.  His bleak eyes roamed over the foot of the throne, seeing nothing.  She wondered if he had left a wife and little ones at home, in his rough desert tent, surrounded by his starving, dying herds – all of his wealth on mortal hoof, dropping into the harsh dust of his savage land.  The man, for all his foreign ways, for his strange wool garb and his long, goatish beard, had eyes like Senenmut's on their last day together, stricken and pained.

“Does the envoy have aught to add to his letter?”  She spoke the words in the man's own tongue.  It had been long since she had used the language, but Senenmut had taught her well.  She still retained enough words to be understood.

The Retjenu blinked.  His eyes lifted to her own, just for a moment, before he realized his audacity and dropped them to the ground again.  He seemed to brace himself against a great weight as he spoke.  “Lady of Mighty Pharaoh, I had seven children and two wives.  Each one of them is gone now, dead of illness or starvation.  You cannot imagine the suffering, Lady of Mighty Pharaoh.  It is a terrible thing, to see a child die.”

Hatshepsut shivered.  She had seen a child die.  Half her lifetime ago, she had clutched her baby sister Neferubity as fever took her life away.  She had fought her servants, fought Sitre-In, even her father, all of whom had sought to restrain her.  But she had run to Neferubity's bed to hold the hot, limp, small body, to weep over her as the frail little girl breathed her last.  They had all feared that Hatshepsut, too, would sicken and die.  All of them had feared it but Ahmose.  Ahmose had always been so certain of Hatshepsut; no threat could touch her eldest daughter, not even that terrible fever.  She had joined Hatshepsut in Neferubity's bed.  She had drawn both her daughters to her chest and rocked them, the living and the dead, and Hatshepsut yearned all at once for the comfort of Ahmose's embrace. 
Why now?  Why should I remember now?  Neferubity, and my mother's arms....

“On behalf of King Thutmose, the second of his name, I speak to the people of Retjenu.”  Wadjetefni bent over the chief scribe, seated below her dais, to translate her Retjenu words into Egyptian; the scribe dipped his brush and set to work.  “Egypt has heard your cry.  Mighty Pharaoh weeps for the loss of a single Retjenu child.  I send this man home to you with sufficient grain to see your people through until the season of rain.  Do not forget the good that Thutmose the Second has done you.”

Tears welled in the envoy's eyes.  “Retjenu will not forget.  Praises to the Pharaoh, and to his wise Lady.”

She looked round for Wadjetefni.  “I trust you to select the right man for this work.  Send him tojus me tonight.  He will share supper with me, for we have many details to discuss, and in the morning I will be gone.”

“It will be as you say, Great Lady.”

***

Her servants had packed her chests as well as their own, and were bustling here and there in fits of excitement.  Ita seemed nearly beside herself with anticipation, wringing her hands and muttering, “Oh!  Oh!” as she went about her duties.  Hatshepsut had never realized before how dull the life of a palace servant must be.  She was glad to give her women a reprieve.  A lengthy trip to the northern districts was exactly what they all needed to renew their spirits.  Hatshepsut was bent over one chest, inspecting the contents and debating whether she ought to add two more gowns to what Tem had already packed for her, when Sitre-In cleared her throat. 

“The steward is here – the man who will bring the grain to Retjenu.”

“Very good.  Has the food arrived?”

“Ah, it's waiting in your anteroom.”

The steward was clad in a simple white kilt, head wigless and clean-shaven, as was the custom for a man of his work.  He wore about his hips a simple woven belt made of thread-of-gold, and his sandals were plain; but for all his lack of grand airs, he carried himself with the quiet, austere confidence that only men of great works possess.  By the lines of his face, he was of a middle age.  The man's eyes gleamed with the merest hint of glad familiarity, though Hatshepsut was certain she had never seen him – or never noticed him, at any rate – in all her life.  The steward bowed low, palms out.  When he straightened she noted something else in his face, a brief, warm flash.  Was it affection?  Impossible.

“Share my supper, good man.”

“The Great Royal Wife offers more honor than I deserve.”  But he moved toward the table eagerly.  “In truth, Great Lady, I have eaten nothing since this morning's court.  I have been hard at work on your plans for Retjenu.”

“Tell me of them.”

He talked while they ate.  She grasped at once that his mind was exceedingly sharp.  He had fixed the finest detail into place, and outlined several alternate plans in case of unforeseen difficulties.

“I am pleased,” Hatshepsut said at length.  “You are the right man for the work; that's plain.  What is your name?”

“Ineni, Great Lady.”  He paused, and his demeanor became suddenly shy.  “I...I served your mother, as well.  Perhaps she has spoken of me.”

Even with his eyes on a platter of figs, Hatshepsut saw the desperate hope that filled his expression. 
Oh, gods!  This is the steward Ahmose took as her lover! 
But she could see no useful purpose to admitting she knew his secret.  “I do not believe so.  I am sure you served her well, though, as you will serve me well.  I leave at sunrise to sail north; I will travel in peace, knowing this duty is in such capable hands.”

Ineni ducked his head.  “Yes, Great Lady.  I shall do my best for you.  To honor you, and your royal mother.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

At dawn, Hatshepsut and her women boarded the ship
Biddable Mare
, followed closely by Nehesi and a scattering of strong men who bore her chests of clothing and amusements.  They would sail north with the current for nearly half a month, calling on temples along the way where the people could witness the God's Wife of Amun making her offerings to their local deities.  Amidst her ladies' excitement, Hatshepsut held herself still, wrapped in a fine wool shawl to keep the chill of morning river mist from her chest.  Her face was a mask of calm expectation, though she felt as if all nine of her kas danced, clapping their hands within her hammering heart. 

Biddable Mare
was a fast ship, built by the same wright who fashioned racing boats for many of Waset's nobles.  Long and lean with a single, low-roofed cabin behind the mast, Hatshepsut would call it home as they journeyed to Ka-Khem.  She gave her final instructions to Wadjetefni, admonished him to keep Thutmose in check when he returned from his current foray down the river.  As the eastern sky warmed with the coming day, she watched the steward retreat down the ship's ramp. 

She nodded to the captain, a broad, loud man with skin so tanned by the sun he was nearly as dark as
Biddable Mare's
wooden flanks.  The captain barked his orders; the crew cast off their lines, and the ship swung away from the quay with its odors of old fish and dry lime.  As the oarsmen began to row, Hatshepsut moved to the bow with her women gathered around her, allowing a smile of triumph.  The crisp air of the river lifted and tossed the strands of her wig.  The bow rocked down into the trough of a wave; spray fell upon her face and she braced herself as Ita and Tem clutched one another and squealed.  Her heart was as light as the leaves of a great tree, fluttering and shimmering.  But still she maintained her air of possession.

As the ship turned its nose east toward the great bend of the river, Sitre-In leaned toward Hatshepsut's ear.  “I wish you would tell me what this is all about, Hatet.  It is my duty to help you, but how can I do my duty if you keep me in the dark?”

“I am sailing north to catch my husband,” Hatshepsut replied lightly, “so that I might stand at his side as he dedicates temples.”

“Oh, don't give me that rotten old fruit.  You loathe your husband.”

“What an awful thing to say.  The gods hear you, Mawat.”

“You take your duties too seriously for this to be a lark.  I might believe a flighty young queen would chase off after her husband for the sake of adventure – even a husband despised as Thutmose.  But for you to leave the administration of the throne in the hands of a steward...”

“I trust Wadjetefni.  Ahmose gave him to me; he is practically as good as Ahmose herself.”

“The throne in the hands of a steward,” Sitre-In went on firmly, “for an entire month.  It is a long time – anything may happen.  You know that.  You have considered that.  Whatever this is about, you deem it more important than sitting the throne.”

“My divine backside sits the throne no matter where I go.”  She narrowed her eyes at the glare of morning light on waves and resolved to paint thicker lines of kohl around her eyes the next morning.  “I suppose the same is true of Thutmose.”

“No matter where you go!  Figs!  You are too intelligent to believe that.”

Hatshepsut sobered.  She stared levelly at her nurse.  “I once thought, Mawat, that I was born to rule.”

“You were.”

“Not as Great Royal Wife.  As Pharaoh.  But it can never be.  The closest I may come is to reign as God's Wife of Amun.  And I will do anything to preserve my power.”

Sitre-In bowed her head, her deference tinged with a note of matronly impatience.  “I do not see how leaving Waset for a month will preserve your power.  Waset is the very home of Amun.”

“And Ka-Khem,” Hatshepsut replied, “is the home of Amun's High Priest.”

***

By evening they had cleared the river's bend. 
Biddable Mare
put in at the quays of Iunet.  A messenger boat had raced along before them to announce the coming of the God's Wife; the shore was lined with people who cheered her as she followed Nehesi down the ramp.  Iunet, she knew, was dedicated to the worship of Hathor, the Mistress of the West, Lady of Seven Faces.  When the tjati and his family approached to offer a ring of sweet lotuses for her neck, she waved Ita and Tem to her side.  They bore baskets of dried fruit and grain; Hatshepsut said to the governor, “Take me at once to the temple of Hathor.  I have brought these gifts for the Mistress of the West, and my heart will never rest until I have done my duty to the goddess.” 

The people of Hathor's city led her to the great temple amid a clangor of drums and sesheshet.  The ecstatic calls of reedy pipes blared from the head of the procession.  She rode in a simple chariot with il Nehesi and the governor's own driver; in lieu of gilding and bright paint, its sides were draped with early-blooming lotuses, its rails wound with fragrant herbs.  They drove slowly, apace with the throng.  Beyond the last shops and houses of Iunet, from the roofs of which children shouted and women raised their palms in salute, a broad roadway stretched across several spans of flooded field.  In the distance, where the green water of farmland gave way to red desert hills, Hatshepsut could see a brick ramp rising onto the shoulder of a yellow stone promontory.  The rocky hill wore the walls of Hathor's temple like a proud crown.  When at last they reached the foot of the ramp, the procession broke up, the citizens of Iunet scattering to wait all about the temple's outer wall.