The Crook and Flail (21 page)

Nehesi gazed at Hatshepsut levelly.  The faintest smile curved his lips.

“I know the way to his chamber,” she said.

Nehesi patted the hard planes of his belly, as if her words satisfied an insatiable craving.  “Then let us go.”

***

A lone guardsman stood duty outside the door to the tjati's private chamber.  When he saw the great, dark form of Nehesi striding down the hall, his striped kilt flashing in the lamp-light, the hilts of his blades gleaming, the guard rushed away from his master's door with a wordless cry.  Nehesi shoved the door open.  It cracked against the interior wall so hard that Hatshepsut thought for one hopeful moment it might break away from its hinges.  Nehesi's confidence had kindled a flame in her belly.  She stormed into Ankhhor's chamber glowing with the heat of her rage.

The tjati's face betrayed one instant of shock.  Then he rose from his couch, set aside the papyrus he had been studying, and bowed to her, calculating and flawless in his deference.  “Great Lady.  How may I be of service?”

“n><рI know, Ankhhor, why you sent your daughter to Waset.  She was never intended for the harem.  Or not for long, at any rate.”

Ankhhor stood unblinking and silent.

“You plotted with your brother Nebseny to raise Iset to God's Wife of Amun.  With a God's Wife under Nebseny's control, the Amun priesthood would be even more in his grasp than it is already – all of its influence, all of its wealth.  And because Nebseny is in your debt, the Amun priesthood would in fact be yours to command.”

Ankhhor's eyebrows rose smoothly.  “A pretty plot, Great Lady.”

“Pretty indeed.  Iset will not have my station.  She will never be God's Wife.  Your ambition has become an angry crocodile, and you have it grasped by the tail.  You have overstepped yourself, Ankhhor.”

His slow smile betrayed his amusement, but she read a grudging amount of respect in his eyes.  No doubt he expected that the youth of the Pharaoh and his wife would blind them to his machinations.  Coolly he said, “It is not for one such as I do deny the accusations of the God's Wife.”

“Particularly since her accusations are true.”  She raised her finger, and Nehesi drew his sword.  A bead of bronze fire ran along its edge as the Medjay held the blade at the ready, waiting on her command.  “No one in all Egypt would stop me if I ordered my man to kill you, Ankhhor.  The guard on your door ran when he saw me approach, like a rabbit under a hawk's shadow.  It seems he has more sense than his master.”

“I wonder, Great Lady,” Ankhhor said, calm and collected, “what Pharaoh Thutmose would do if you did kill me.  Ah, and the High Priest, my brother.  How does the Great Lady imagine they would react to such an audacity from their volatile God's Wife?”

Hatshepsut smiled.  “Let me show you how you have erred, Ankhhor.  You knew the king is but a child, and that his Great Royal Wife is hardly older.  You knew the God's Wife was young.  You assumed she was like your Iset, soft and sweet, conditioned to do the bidding of the men who rule her.  But now you see me for what I am.  I am no Iset.  Do you think any man can draw my reins, Ankhhor?  How much less power does a boy have over Hatshepsut, the God's Wife of Amun?”

Ankhhor raised his chin, an arrogant acknowledgment of her words.  “Then why do you not have me killed?”  It was not a challenge, but an honest question.

“Because you are of more use to me alive than dead.  I know you owe your wealth to my father's memory.  You are in his debt, and so I know that you will give your service to me willingly.  And because you will serve me willingly, you will be allowed to keep all the fine gifts Thutmose the First gave you.  You will be allowed to keep your head, too.”

Ankhhor's shoulders lost some of their tension.  His mouth relaxed, almost imperceptibly; he was opening to her words, was perhaps even relieved.  She thought she could even detect in his steady gaze some small measure of admiration.

“I could do away with Nebseny as easily as you, but maat means too much to me.  A united priesthood serves my purposes.  Nebseny runs the Temple well enough; I know that his devotion to Amun is pure.  He is useful to me, but he is reluctant to bend to my will.  He owes all he has to you, as you owe all you have to my father.  I know, too, that I have said things to you which could be dangerous for me.  We are in each other's confidence now, Ankhhor.  You must trust me and serve me, or I will find it wiser after all to kill you.”

“Trust you? In what, Great Lady?”

“Bring Nebseny to my side.  Place him in my hands.  Assure his absolute loyalty to me, and in return I will give you something to boast of on your tomb wall.  Iset will never be God's Wife, but give me your brother's obedience and I will ensure that she becomes King's Mother.”

Ankhhor paused, considering.  “Why did you not tell me all this in a letter, Great Lady?  Why travel all this way to my sepat for such a message?”

“Letters can be intercepted, lost.  I must be certain that Nebseny is mine; there can be no room for error.  And, Ankhhor, you needed to look upon me with your own eyes to understand my power.  You must know what the God's Wife is: no shrinking child, no weak, beaten woman.  I am the daughter of Thutmose the First.  I am the daughter of Amun himself.  I am the Hand of the God.  I will uphold any promise – or any threat.  You know that now.  You see me.”

Slowly, Ankhhor nodded.  A hot, rippling thrill of victory raced along Hatshepsut's veins, throbbed in her face, her limbs.

“I will do as you command, Great Lady.”

“Swear it to me.”

“I swear by Amun.”

“Oh, no, Ankhhor.  Do not think go deceive me.  I know your heart.  When the God's Wife commands you to swear an oath, you must do so solemnly.”

Ankhhor hesitated only a moment.  At last he said, “I swear it on the Aten, Great Lady.  I will do as you command.”  Defeat dried his voice to a hoarse, grudging whisper.

***

The sky brightened with the approaching dawn.  Hatshepsut saw her women safely aboard the ship, then turned at the rail to stare into Ankhhor's eyes.  She held his gaze as the lines were cast off and the oars extended to push the ship away from the stone mooring.  But it was the tjati who looked away first, turning to lead his wife and children back to his palace.

The sailors shouted their call-and-response song, heaving at a great line to raise the sail.  The northerly wind was blowing; it caught the sail with a crack that bellied it out above the deck, above the lively gray water. 
Biddable Mare
drove southward, kicking up a cold spray, an early flock of birds giving chase, crying.  Flushed with the warmth of victory, Hatshepsut turned her face toward the rising sun.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

She had been in the palace only a few hours when one of the king's own men arrived at her apartments to summon her into the Pharaoh's presence.  She had begged time to prepare herself, smiling as Ita freshened her cosmetics and chose for her a more ornate wig.  So Thutmose had returned from his journey before she.  He would be angry to learn that she had managed to venture from Waset in spite of his bid to leave her behind.

She greeted him sweetly in his magnificent room, far larger than her own and adorned without restraint.  Thutmose was not one for subtlety.  He had had the chamber repainted when he was crowned – a fact which pained Hatshepsut, for their father had revered the histories of the kings who had come before him and had kept their images and deeds on his walls to remind him always of a Pharaoh's duty.  Thutmose's preference was not for duty, but for adventure.  The brightness of new paint dazzled the eye, covering every brick of the interior with fanciful scenes of Thutmose driving chariots into war, hunting fanged lions and the mystical white deby, bringing down marsh birds by the brace with a single arrow.  The boy had done none of these things.  He boasted of his fantasies as though the paint would make them fact.  Spacious as the room was, it was crammed with the finest furniture, all of it ornately carved and glittering with gold.  He would never entertain so many in his private rooms that four couches and eight tables would be required.  It was thoughtless excess, and lent the Pharaoh's rooms an air of desperation rather than dignity.

“So,” Thutmose said, reclining on one couch, glaring up at her.  “You left Waset in the hands of your steward.”

“Did I do wrong, husband?  Has Waset flown to pieces in my brief absence?”

“That dreadful steward was forcing scrolls on me the moment I stepped from my boat!”

“Scrolls,” Hatshepsut said in deepest sympathy.  “You poor man.”

“You are not to leave without my permission again.  The palace runs better with you in charge.”  His voice dropped a note as he said it, as though the admission had to be forced from his mouth.  “I like it better when I can relax on coming home, and not be made to turn my attention to this affair or that until I am ready.”

“Let me make this up to you.  Won't you dine with me tonight in my own rooms?”

Thutmose drew back on his couch, narrowing one eye in a sudden display of suspicion.

“Oh, don't be reticent, Thutmose.  You are my husband, after all.  Allow me to entertain you.  It is my duty, is it not, as your wife.”/p>р0" T

The Pharaoh sat up.  He braced his hands on his knees.  “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing.  Come, Thutmose.  Let us put this animosity between us to rest.  We have the Two Lands to rule, you and I.  We ought not be so cruel to one another.”

“Perhaps you are right.  Yes, very well; I will join you for supper.”

Hatshepsut bowed to him.  She did not need to force the brilliant smile she gave him.  But as she turned to go, he called after her.  “Hatshepsut, do not think to seduce me.  I know how the women of the harem clamor for my favor; I can have any of them I please, and any other woman in the world besides.  I do not desire you.  I would not have my wife make a fool of herself trying to trip me into her bed.”

It was an effort to stifle her laugh.  She lowered her eyes, hoping she looked despondent and defeated, like a woman spurned.  “As you wish, my king.”

***

Hatshepsut had asked Iset to make herself especially beautiful tonight.  When Sitre-In admitted the girl into the Great Royal Wife's apartments, she saw that Iset had taken the instructions well to heart.  She entered with a quick, light step, eagerness trembling all along her slender body.  A gown of blue linen so sheer it was hardly visible sheathed her form.  About her hips she had tied a tiny, triangular apron of metallic scales, gold and electrum overlapping; it hid the clean-plucked fork of her thighs, shivering as she moved so that pale, warm skin revealed itself now and then through the glitter of cold metal.  As Iset came forward with eyes downcast, Hatshepsut saw that the apron was tied not above but beneath the transparent gown; the clever inversion of courtly style was undeniably riveting.  Hatshepsut found it difficult to keep her eyes from Iset's body.  The gown was fastened at her throat by a simple, narrow collar of gold, and her wig bore a crown of fresh and fragrant lotuses.

Thutmose, seated beside Hatshepsut on her couch, jerked a little in surprise.  “What is this?”

At the sound of his voice, Iset raised her eyes from the floor.  When she took in the sight of the Pharaoh seated beside his wife, she gasped and stepped backward, then recovered herself, her face burning red.  “Mighty Horus,” she murmured, bowing.

“It is a dancer,” Hatshepsut said in answer to the Pharaoh's question.  “Iset, the daughter of Ankhhor – a woman of your harem.  You have seen her before.  I thought you might enjoy some entertainment while you dine.”

Thutmose's eyes rested on the apron beneath Iset's gown.  “I might.  Let us see how well she can dance.”

“Very well, I assure you.”  Hatshepsut turned to her musicians, waiting in their corner with harp and horn.  “Play something slow and soothing.”

As they turned to their supper, Iset swayed with the sinuous, laligဆnguid music.  Her hips and breasts wove in counter rhythm; her arms reached and beckoned in a wordless expression of perfect, poignant yearning.

“She is one of the finest dancers I have ever seen, I think,” Hatshepsut said.  Iset flowed, water-smooth, across the floor, turned to display the easy, alluring rise and fall of her buttocks as her hips twisted this way and that.

“Mm,” Thutmose said around a mouthful of roasted gazelle.

“How do you find the food?”

Thutmose nodded, reached for bread and cheese.

“I am glad you are pleased.  It is maat, that a wife should please her husband.”

He paused in his motion, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then availed himself of the cheese without a word of response.  Thutmose went on eating; she feared he was entirely unaware of Iset's presence, but when the song concluded and the girl held her pose – one knee raised, arms lifted above her head – Thutmose thumped his fist on the table in appreciation.

“Let us have another dance,” Hatshepsut said.  “A song of romance.”

At the suggestion, Thutmose gave her a sharp glance.  But the musicians took up an aching, wistful tune, and Iset at once moved into the rhythm, winding her arms about her own neck, caressing her breasts, her head thrown back in a posture of unfulfilled longing.