The Crook and Flail (23 page)

Ineni bowed.  “It will be as you say, Great Lady.”

***

Nehesi had found a store-room to protect Retjenu's fulsome gratitude, and chosen his own loyal men to stand guard over its doors until Ineni was prepared to move south.  When the last cask of silver and bolt of cloth were cleared away, she sent an invitation to Thutmose to dine with her once more.  It had been well over a week since her last attempt to maneuver Iset into Thutmose's bed.  She reasoned that the tribute from Retjenu was a sign of the gods' favor; tonight her plans would come to fruition, and with Mut's blessing, Iset would soon be with child.

But Ita returned flustered and alone, and dropped to her knees to beg forgiveness from her mistress.

“The king will not come, Great Lady.  He is in a foul temper.  He threw a goblet at me to chase me from his room!  Oh, do not be angry; I tried.”

“Calm yourself, Ita.  It is none of your fault.” 
No doubt Mighty Horus is still pouting over his pile of cat skins.

“Shall I send to the House of Women to tell them the dancer is not needed?”

“No,” Hatshepsut said.&nt sbsp; “I shall dine alone tonight, if that is what the gods decree.  But Iset is always a delight to me.  Let her come and dance.”

The girl arrived on the heels of the food.  She was dressed as beautifully as ever: a red gown of the old-fashioned style, its skirt flowing loose and rippling from a tight, beaded band just beneath her breasts.  The straps that ran over her narrow shoulders squeezed her breasts slightly from either side, so that they stood round and high and close upon her chest.  She had painted her nipples with gold dust; they shone brightly against the soft-sand paleness of her skin.

Iset took up her accustomed position to dance and waited for Hatshepsut's signal to begin. But Hatshepsut considered the girl a moment, then beckoned her to the couch.

“You are a friend tonight, Iset, not a dancer.  Share my supper.”

“Great Lady, you honor me.”

“I heard the deby barking in the night, when I was in Ka-Khem.”

“You went all the way to Ka-Khem, Great Lady?  I wondered where you disappeared to; I missed dancing for you.  Did you see my family?”

“They send their love.  Your mother misses you terribly.”

“I write her letters, but it is not the same as being with her, holding her hand.”

“Has the Pharaoh visited the harem since I saw you last?”

“Ah, here and there.  I have looked for an opportunity to do as you want me to do, Great Lady, but he chose other women.”

Hatshepsut's brow furrowed in spite of her resolve to remain impassive.  She changed the subject, relating the story of her journey up the Iteru.  The change put Iset at ease.  As Hatshepsut talked she admired the simple comfort evident on the girl's face, the way her hands toyed with the beads of her dress.  She should have felt rivalry with Iset, she knew.  Word from Ankhhor had certainly not reached Waset yet, and Nebseny still believed he would use his niece to usurp Hatshepsut's station.  But she was such a sweet girl, such a soothing presence, and so unknowing.  She would be so harmless and pure if not for the plotting of the men of her house.  Hatshepsut realized, startled, that she had been craving for Iset's company, for the simplicity of her conversation and the lovely, unconscious grace of her movements. 

Lost in her thoughts, in the sight of Iset's fingers playing below her breast, Hatshepsut stumbled over her story and could not find her words again. 

Iset lowered her eyes.  “If it is not too bold to say it, I missed you while you were on this journey.”

That pleased Hatshepsut more than it ought to have done.  She laughed, a happy and foolish sound, then scolded herself for her transparency.

Iset glanced at her face, then away again, blushing.  The girl's soft passivity stirred Hatshepsut's kas.  In the face of Iset's yielding sweetness she felt a surge of power; her heart flooded with the knowledge of her own burgeoning might.  She had discerned Nebseny's plan, had traveled to Ka-Khem herself, and intimidated this girl's noble father into doing her bidding.  She had seen the need of Retjenu, and responded herself with great wisdom: not two hours ago this very room had been heaped with the proof of it.  She had never felt so confident before.

“Come, Iset.  My bed is much more comfortable than this couch.”

Iset rose.  The eagerness in her eyes was so intense that Hatshepsut looked away, an unaccountable flush rising to her cheeks.  They walked together to her bed chamber, and Hatshepsut sent her women away.  Sitre-In's disbelieving stare only fueled Hatshepsut's sense of power.

The two girls climbed onto the bed together.  Iset stretched herself along the mattress, her hands clasped demurely across her belly.  The girl's warm pressure on the bed seemed to pull at Hatshepsut; her body longed to roll against Iset's, to fall against her as a child's ball falls to the earth.  She resisted, propping herself up on an elbow, gazing down at Iset's closed eyes, their lids painted with shimmering green paint.  Her face was so serene, so lovely in repose.  Her lips curled, a gentle smile of unfeigned joy.  Hatshepsut thought of Lady Iah, worrying over her daughter's happiness.  Could there be a better life for a woman than in the Pharaoh's harem?  Surely not.  Staring at Iset's beauty, she was aware of her own shortcomings.  The gods were good to have made her who she was, the daughter of a king and born to great power.  For had she been born the daughter of a nobleman, she would not be thought pretty enough to give to any man.

Hatshepsut had kept back a part of the Retjenu treasure for herself.  Sitre-In had left the small cask on the table beside her bed.  She lifted its lid and took out a long, jointed chain of silver; she draped it across Iset's throat.

Iset's eyes flicked open; she squealed.  “Cold!”  She plucked at the chain, lifted it to where she could see.  “Oh!  How lovely.”

Hatshepsut drew another trinket from the box, a silver cuff set with a clear, red stone cut into sparkling facets.  She lifted Iset's hand and slid the cuff onto her wrist.  Iset lay giggling while Hatshepsut adorned her, wrapped her arms and ankles and neck in the riches of her own great power.  Soon the girl was breathless, clutching her stomach to quell her laughter, tears of merriment shining in her eyes.  Those eyes were as dark as ebony, though bright flecks of copper within their depths caught the light of Hatshepsut's lamps.  She stared down a Iset's face, musing about Ankhhor, about Thutmose, about Senenmut.

“Great Lady?  You seem so pensive.”

“I was just thinking about the harem.  Do you like it?  Is it a good life?”

“Oh, ah, Great Lady.  My room is not so grand as yours, of course, but it is beautiful, and the gardens are lovely, and the women there are all very kind.  Well – mostly.  Some of them quarrel,a g you know, but they are kind to me.  They treat me like a sister, even new as I am.”

“I am glad to hear it.  Would you ever wish to leave the harem?”

“Great Lady?”

“Would you wish to serve me, to wait on me here in my chambers, become one of my ladies?”

“Oh.”  Iset's eyes darkened, a sudden shadow of worry.  “But how could I lie with the Pharaoh if I were your woman?  I will do whatever the Great Lady asks, only...”

“Only you have a duty to your father's house.  I understand.  Think nothing of it; it was only an impulse.  I would not ask you to shame yourself before your family, Iset.”

The girl nodded in grateful relief.  Then her eyes narrowed, peered at Hatshepsut through a sparkle of mischief.  “Although, if I were to serve the Great Lady, I would learn the truth at last.”

“The truth?”  The shine of power coursing along her limbs dimmed and faltered.

Iset hesitated.  The air vibrated with words she was reluctant to say, or perhaps was too eager to say; Hatshepsut could not quite tell, could not make out the meaning of the tremulous smile on Iset's lips, the strange, deep glimmer in her eyes.

“I have heard it whispered that you are not a woman at all.”  Her voice had lowered, a soft, rich murmur.

“What?  Absurd.”

“They say you were born with a man's parts.”

Hatshepsut stared at Iset, incredulous, but when she saw the look of mischief crackling in the girl's eyes she blew through her lips and tapped Iset's shoulder.  “You tease me!  How unkind.”

“Well,” Iset said, sly and low, “how do I know it's not true?  You often wear a man's kilt, after all.  Are you hiding something beneath it?”

Hatshepsut found herself on her feet, though she did not recall standing.  One moment she was lying beside Iset; the next she fumbled at the knot of her gown, quick as a flash of sun on water.  With stiff fingers she worked the knot free; the gown dropped to her feet.  The treasure of Retjenu chimed as Iset rolled to look at her.  The curious intensity in the girl's eyes took Hatshepsut aback.

“Now you see: I am made like any other woman.”

“What is that scar, Great Lady?”

“A reminder that I must never act rashly.  See how well I heed it!  Here I am, naked before a harem woman.”

“It was wicked of me to taunt you.  And it is not right that th“e Great Royal Wife should be at a disadvantage before a mere concubine, even one unused by the Pharaoh as I am.”  Iset stood, and with graceful hands she removed the straps at her shoulders.  The beaded band slipped down her body; her breasts settled; clad only in the silver bangles, she faced Hatshepsut, her skin like polished ivory in the lamplight, pale, smooth, inviting a soft touch.

A roaring filled Hatshepsut's ears.  She stood rooted to the spot.  Every warning Senenmut had ever given her to think before she acted sounded all at once in her heart, a stern clamor from which she could draw no sense.

“You think me too bold, I am sure,” Iset said, and at once Senenmut's voice fell silent.  “But I was sent to Waset as a gift to the throne.”

You were sent to Waset as your father's tool.  You were sent to Waset to usurp me.  You don't even know it, do you, Iset?

“I only wish to do my duty, Great Lady.  You may think that because I am young, and only a dancer, that I do not see.  But I see.”  Iset stepped toward her.  Hatshepsut could not take her eyes from Iset's breasts, from the golden sun-discs of her nipples.  She longed to press her palms against them, to feel their warmth.  “Thutmose is a boy.  He has a boy's mind.  He is not the power of Egypt; it is not he who commands from the throne.”

“No,” Hatshepsut admitted, hoarse.  And oh, the gratification she felt, to hear that truth spoken aloud!  Her knees trembled from the force of it.

“My duty is to be pleasing to the one who commands from the throne.”  Iset drew so near that the warmth of her body raised the minute hairs of Hatshepsut's skin.  Iset's arms wrapped about her; her hands moved slowly up Hatshepsut's back, and woke a shivering fire deep in her middle.  It throbbed downward, past her scar, pulsing hot and insistent deep between her thighs.  “Let me do my duty, Great Lady.  I only wish...”

Hatshepsut cut her words short, swallowed them when her mouth fell upon Iset's.  The kiss was sweeter than any she had stolen from Senenmut, for Iset's lips opened to welcome her tongue, and her teeth teased at Hatshepsut's lower lip until her breath came in short, desperate rasps.  Their feet tangled in their fallen clothing; they staggered toward the bed.  Iset giggled and tossed her wig to the floor, pulled Hatshepsut's own aside and ran her palms across the stubble of her scalp until hot shivers wracked her body. 

Hatshepsut clutched Iset's breasts with both hands; the girl gasped, arched backward, and Hatshepsut kissed her there, pulled each nipple into her mouth, felt Iset's moan shiver through her own body.  She returned to Iset's mouth, kissed her; when she pulled away she smiled at the golden paint smeared across Iset's lips.  She had kissed the girl's breasts clean.

Iset dragged her thumb across Hatshepsut's own lips.  Hatshepsut caught it and sucked; Iset's eyelids dropped, heavy with ecstasy; her surrendering sigh whispered in Hatshepsut's ear.

“I am yours.  Gladly, Great Lady.  Yours.”

's ***

Hours later, Hatshepsut woke to find Iset murmuring in her sleep.  Her fine, pale limbs lay angled across the bed linens.  Her face turned toward the moonlight falling through the columned wall, and her lips, still smudged with gold dust, moved on half-formed, barely heard words.  The tangle of silver chains about her neck returned a faint reflection of moonlight.

Hatshepsut wondered whether she dreamed of Ka-Khem, of her father's palace, the night song of the marshes.  She pressed her face against Iset's bare shoulder, shuddered as a sob moved through her, silent but sharp, quelled deep in her belly.  Her joy at touching and being touched, at the closeness of another body, was overwhelming in its strength.  And her relief, too – an end to a loneliness so vast, so all-encompassing, that it could not be comprehended while she dwelt beneath its shadow.  She could only see how isolated and miserable she had been before now that Iset's love shone upon her like a band of stars in a black sky.

And I must use her as my tool, the same way her father and uncle would use her.
  This sweet girl, dutiful and kind – he relief, the joy – the knowledge that even as she found her joy, she must keep herself aloof from it, must remain Great Royal Wife, God's Wife, the hand upon Egypt's reins – these were all too much to bear.  She cried silently, her tears dampening Iset's skin.
I cannot even cry where she can see me.  It is as Ahmose told me years ago when Father died.  Iset has brought me love, this most precious gift, and yet with her I must still wear my mask.  Even with her.