The Crook and Flail (7 page)

His hand went slack in her grip.  The fingers curled like a dry leaf.  All at once there was a stillness to the king so complete that even a young girl could not mistake it.  It was the same stillness that had fallen over Neferubity when Anupu had come for her ka.

Gentle fingers pried her from the Pharaoh’s still, cooling grip.  She turned, wordless, to bury her face against Sitre-In’s hip, but she cried silently, so none of the priests might hear.

“Come, Hatshepsut.”  It was Ahmose.  Hatshepsut turned away from the comfort of her nurse, squared her shoulders to face her mother.  The Great Royal Wife leaned down until her face was level with Hatshepsut’s own.  Her cool, fine hands took Hatshepsut by the shoulders, pinioned her firmly.  She said, “Now is not the time to cry, dear one.  Time enough for crying when you are back in your chambers, when no one can see.  We have a struggle ahead of us.  We must be strong now, you and I.”

Outside the Pharaoh's dark chamber, in the halls of the palace, a clamor went up: the priestesses’ holy sesheshet rattled, announcing the Pharaoh’s death to man and god alike.  The shrill voices of servant women and concubines rose in a quavering cry.

“Be strong,” Ahmose said.  “Remember who your father was: Thutmose, the greatest of all kings.”

The chamber doors swung open.  Backlit by the bright glare of the hallway’s lamps, Mutnofret returned, her wig in perfect plaits framing a beautiful, unperturbed face.  A handful of body servants and her son’s nurse shuffled behind her.  The nurse carried the boy Thutmose.  At four years of age he was old enough to walk about the palace on his own two feet.  Hatshepsut frowned to see him riding pudgy and satisfied in his nurse’s arms, unaware that their father had just departed the world of the living.  Aunt Mutnofret had tied about Thutmose’s head the Nemes crown, the cloth head-dress of the king.  It was far too big for a child of his age.  The blue-and-white striped linen sagged about his ears and flopped over his naked shoulders in an undignified manner.  The sight would have made Hatshepsut laugh, had this been a time for laughter.

“Sister.  Why is your son wearing the Pharaoh’s crown?”  Ahmose’s voice was dangerously calm.

“My son was the heir and is now the king,” Mutnofret said.  “Did you forget, sister, that he was proclaimed before the royal court last year?”

“Did you forget about Annu, second wife?”

Mutnofret glared.  “Are you mad?  The people will never accept such an absurdity.  You manipulated our husband to do your twisted bidding while he lived, but now that he is gone I will see the righteousness of maat upheld.  Thutmose is the rightful heir.  Thutmose shall be king.”

Ahmose held out one hand.  She spoke no command, nor did she glance around – her eyes, cold and hard, never left Mutnofret’s – but a steward scurried forward to place a scroll in her hand.  She paced across the floor and thrust it at Mutnofret, who gestured to one of her maids to unroll it near a lighted brazier so that she might read.  Mutnofret’s eyes grew angrier as they moved over the words.

“You, Ahmose, regent?”
>

Ahmose said nothing.

“I do not accept this.  Thutmose will be ready to take the throne in seventy days, as soon as our husband is in his tomb.  My son needs no regent; he will have the finest advisors in all of Egypt.”

“It does not matter whether you accept it or not,” Ahmose said.  “It is the king’s decree, carried even now by messengers to every sepat in the Two Lands.  Our husband wished me to rule in the heir’s place until the heir comes of age.  All of Egypt backs my regency.  Who will stand against me?  Your four-year-old boy?”

Mutnofret’s smile was tight.  She turned it on Hatshepsut, and inwardly the girl quailed at the glint of hatred in her aunt’s eye.  But she was determined to show no fear, as her mother had admonished.  She stared back solemnly at Mutnofret until the second wife turned away, gave a crisp command to her women, and bustled from the king’s chamber.

“Come, Hatet,” Sitre-In said.  “You have had a long night.  Let us get you into your bath and then to bed.”

Dutifully, Hatshepsut followed her nurse from the chamber.  Outside the darkened room, surrounded by walls painted bright with scenes of the king’s victories, she shivered – with relief at being in the light again, in the fresh air away from her father's sickbed – and with sorrow, for the one she loved most in all the world was gone.

The palace rang with the sound of mourning, a constant piercing din.  Hatshepsut longed to cry out with the mourners, but here too many could see her face. She firmed herself; she donned a mask of calm, as she had so often seen her mother do.  Now that her father was dead, Hatshepsut would eventually succeed her mother as Great Royal Wife.  Sooner or later, when Thutmose came of age, Hatshepsut must marry him.  That thought made her almost as sorrowful as her father’s death.

She followed Sitre-In through the maze of the palace’s halls to the courtyard where their two-seated litter waited.  Wordless, she climbed into her chair beside Sitre-In and waited in a show of perfect peace as the guards drew heavy linen curtains.  As the litter was lifted feather-smooth onto the shoulders of its bearers, Hatshepsut realized that now only her nurse could see her face.  Yet still she would not allow herself to grieve.  A Great Royal Wife would not cry until she was truly alone, without any servant, however trusted, for witness.  All the way back to the House of Women, Hatshepsut wore her mask and did not cry.

***

Hatshepsut jerked her fingers back from the image of her father.  She wiped the tears from her cheeks with a quick, smooth motion.  No one was near enough to see her weeping, not even the guards she had left back on the door, but still she despised herself for this loss of control.  She must have full rein of her emotions, she knew.  A struggle lay ahead of her, as it had on that terrible day six years ago when the Pharaoh had left the world of the living.

It had taken fourteen days for two priests of Annu to arrive.  They came at Ahmose's summons to offer Hatshepsut their respect and support.  She had received them gravely the night before from her small princess's throne in the great hall while Ahmose, seated on the king's gilded chair in the regent's rightful place, looked on with silent approval.

They were very old men, wrinkled as disused water skins, weathered as frayed rope.  Their bodies bent under their priestly mantles.  They had been fit and fine and in the prime of their careers when Hatshepsut was declared the heir, but that was ten years past.  Now they hobbled, weak and half-blind, grizzled and knobby old goats.  Two more priests still lived, they told her, who had borne witness to the Pharaoh's proclamation that his daughter would be the heir.  The others had sent along letters voicing their support, but they were too weak with age to make the long trek from Annu to Waset.  No other witnesses to the Pharaoh’s proclamation remained in the world of the living.

Once the old priests had been given their due welcome and seen off to their quarters, Hatshepsut and Ahmose departed for the regent’s own rich rooms.  Ahmose had dismissed her servants tersely.  When they were alone, she had said, “I hoped there would be more than two who would come in person, but if it pleases Amun to preserve only two witnesses to his son’s power, then so be it.  Two shall be all we require.  It is the gods' will.”

“Two old men and you, Mother, against Mutnofret and all the men she commands?  I fear it will not be enough to convince anyone.”

“I have every faith in the gods, Hatet.  And so should you.” 

Hatshepsut had not failed to notice the distance in her mother’s eyes, the shimmer of doubt.  But she said nothing, only nodded in what she hoped was a confident way. 

“Now go back to the House of Women and make ready.  You will feast your witnesses tomorrow night in the small audience hall; there is much to prepare.  The following day we shall present you at Ipet-Isut – the Temple of Amun – for the god’s blessing.  I have consulted with my magicians; it will be the most auspicious day of the month to seek Amun's approval.”

She had done as her mother commanded her, enlisting the help of her women to plan all the details of a private feast meant to solidify her ties to Annu's revered priesthood, such as it was.  The whole while a fierce and unfamiliar sensation had gnawed at her heart, weakening her joints and furrowing her brow.  When the last of her servants had scurried away to see to the preparation of the feast, Hatshepsut had wandered into her garden and picked leaves off a flowering bush, folding and crushing them until her fingers were sticky with green, fragrant sap.  She wondered at the darkness that plagued her, seeking in vain for a name to put to the quailing of her kas. 

At last she found it: doubt.  The simplicity of the word had struck her in the act of reaching for another leaf, and she stood frozen with hand outstretched.  She had never doubted herself before.  As the word settled into her heart she closed her eyes against its presence, and saw in the solitude of memory the look on Senenmut's face when he pushed her gently away, refusing her kiss.

mut

It was Senenmut who made me doubt.  If not for him I would be strong now, able to face Mutnofret without fear.
  She had ripped at the bush's leaves, tearing a dozen away in one angry pass, and the sudden overwhelming smell of sap assaulted her nostrils.

In the quiet of the small audience chamber, Hatshepsut gazed from Thutmose's face to Amun's. 
Father, guide me.  Clarify my heart.  Set me feet upon the path of maat.  Take away my doubt.
She did not know whether she implored Thutmose or the god.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When the table was laid to her liking, when the braziers burned bright and steady on their pedestals along the wall, when the musicians were well into their subdued melody (using her mother's steward – a frantic, bird-like man – as her mouthpiece, she had corrected the volume and tempo of the music several times), Hatshepsut at last turned to the door-guard and nodded.  The man was broad-backed, imposing in his height, with an earth-dark complexion that proved him to be of Medjay descent.  The guard bowed at once and spun on a sandaled foot; she noted how even the lines of his ankle and heel were thick and sturdy, bull-strong.  The presence of this man seemed to her an uplifting sign.  This small feast to welcome her supporters from Annu was her first act of state.  In her frantic planning – Ahmose had insisted Hatshepsut handle the entire affair herself – she had not thought to request a specific guard, but had only sent for one as an afterthought.  And here the gods had provided her with a fearsome great hulk of a man to stand at her door.  He would set the tone, all right. 
Hatshepsut, who will be your king, commands the greatest strength of the land, even at her supper parties
.  The gods had done her a good turn.  The next morning she would load her servants with baskets of meat and bread and honey, and offer it all in gratitude to Amun and Mut.

The guard pushed open the double doors.  They sighed on their hinges, and as they swung wide, the gilt of their carved scarabs caught the glow of her braziers and she blinked at the flash, her heart quailing for one uncertain beat. 
No
, she told herself sternly. 
You will not fear.  This is your night.  These are your priests, come to affirm your birthright.  It is all yours; the whole of the Two Lands
.  She breathed deep.  The small audience hall was rich with the scent of myrrh, spicy and warm.  The walls of the room glowed golden in the lamplight, slashed by a band of silver where the full moon shone through the bars of a windcatcher.  The beam of the moon fell upon the painted image of Pharaoh Thutmose.  She hoped this echo of her father's presence would fill her priests with surety.  She must rely on them to bring the priests of Waset, her own city, to her side.

The guard stood clear, rigidly at attention.  Beyond, in the cool night-time dimness of the palace, Ahmose walked slowly between the bent and shuffling forms of the two old priests.  Timn

Hatshepsut wondered whether she had miscalculated.  In her agony of worry, struggling to make every detail of tonight's feast exactly right, she had torn through her chests of gowns, discarding every garment in turn, declaring them all to be wrong, all wrong.  She had left a trail of bright dresses across her room, trampling them as she paced, searching for the perfect garment, until Ita shrieked in frustration and Tem begged her to be gentle with her gowns or her poor servants would spend an entire season washing and mending.  At last Hatshepsut had settled, in considerable despair, on the only clothing that ever made her feel like herself: the kilt of a boy.  She had allowed her women to press fine pleats into the kilt and to choose for her a selection of jewels, including a womanly belt of faience scarabs as bright and blue as the afternoon sky, and a broad collar of golden flowers, the center of each one glimmering with a tiny carnelian or turquoise stone. 

The effect, she had thought, was perfect: an exact balance of female and male.  Now, though, as Ahmose halted in the doorway and lowered her eyelids to take in the sight of her daughter, Hatshepsut's heart was buffeted by doubt.  Perhaps after all it would have been better to come before the priests as the expected girl, robed and painted.  She, too, could charm them and win their hearts; she felt certain she could, despite the Senenmut debacle.  But in another moment Ahmose lifted her chin and smiled slightly, then cut her eyes toward the kilt and gave the merest wry twist to her mouth, amused, approving.