The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh (10 page)

The corridors echoed with the grief of ritual mourning, but as I walked along them towards my half-brother’s suite of rooms, I heard a different sound. A thin keening, full of such deep sorrow that the hair on my arms stood up. I pushed at the door whence it came. There I discovered Inet, huddled into a tight bundle on a low seat, hugging her knees, rocking and moaning.

I went to kneel beside her and took her in my arms. Why, she is quite little, I thought in surprise. I had looked up to her for so long, but now she seemed to have shrunk with age and grief. “Oh, Inet, please don’t,” I said helplessly. I was yet young enough to be greatly upset by adult weeping.

“My last prince gone,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “Gone to the gods. It isn’t right, it isn’t right for young ones to go first. The gods have got the order wrong. All wrong. Quite wrong.” She shook her head and moaned and rocked. I patted her heaving back.

I realised that she had loved my brother Amenmose every bit as much as my mother had. She had indeed seen more of him as a small child. She had brought him up. Of course she was bereft. “There, there,” I said, as she had so often said to me. I searched for something to say to her. “He will be waiting for you in the Fields of the Blessed, and he will be young and strong, and he will always remain so,” I offered at length. “He will never grow old and have a stiff hip and painful teeth and joints that ache. Think of that.”

She calmed a little and sniffed.

“He will come to welcome you, Inet, when your time comes to go to the Fields of the Blessed,” I told her. “To take you by the hand, and you will row in a little boat together and he will shoot ducks and the sun will always shine.” I found it strange that I was now trying my best to comfort the one who had always comforted me.

“But I want him to be here,” she said childishly. Then she gave a deep, tremulous sigh. “Well, well, it cannot be. We must put up with it. The older one gets, the more one must put up with.” She looked at me closely with her little swollen eyes. “Praise be to the gods that you are strong,” she said. She squeezed my hands. “Thank you, my child. I shall rest now.”

I called for a slave to attend to her and then strode on to Thutmose’s rooms. When I reached the tall bronze doors to my half-brother’s suite of rooms, his guards knew me, of course, and stepped aside to let me through. Inside the heavy scent of incense mixed with medications hung in the air. I recognised the signs: Thutmose was ill again. I walked straight through to his bedroom, ordering fussing slaves out of the way. He lay on a day-bed piled with cushions, clad only in a light kilt. His skin shone with perspiration and he breathed shallowly. It was clear that he was having one of his attacks of fever, that also caused him to have much pain in his joints.

“Brother,” I said.

He opened his eyes. “Ah. Hatshepsut.” He put out his hand.

I stepped forwards and took it. It was clammy and trembled a little in mine. “You have heard?” I asked.

He sighed. “I have heard.”

For a few moments we sat wordlessly. Then he said: “Now I will be Pharaoh. When the time comes. Your blood is better than mine but you are a child and a girl child to boot. The Double Crown will come to me. And I do not want it. It is a heavy burden to bear and I am so often tired. But know this: Bear it I will. I must do it for Khemet.”

I nodded. I understood that Pharaoh was Egypt. “I will stand at your side,” I promised. “I will help you bear it. I already help my royal father.”

“I know,” he said, smiling faintly at my stout words. “I know, and I will depend on you.”

Shortly after the death of Amenmose, my mother the Queen Ahmose, who had been ailing for some time, fell seriously ill. I think that the shock was too much for her.

Some dire disease took hold of her and seemed to squeeze her chest so that she could not breathe. No medications, incantations or prayers to the gods could drag her back from the brink of the Afterlife where she hovered for weeks. They would not let me near her for fear that the devils that caused her to be ill would attack me too. Then one day she called for me.

I entered the room quietly and sat down on a little stool next to her bed. Incense hung upon the thick air in the chamber. I hoped that it would be strong enough to keep the lurking devils at bay. I waited. She did not speak at once, lying with her eyes closed. She had always had a strong face and an attractive one, but now it was drawn and looked like a mask carved from very ancient ivory. I sat quietly waiting while Her Majesty collected her thoughts.

At length she sighed. “Four children,” she said, her voice a little creaky as though through disuse. “Four children have I carried under my heart and brought into this world with much travail. And now there is only the one.”

This statement caused me to feel guilt – although I could not see why it should, for certainly I had had no fault in my three siblings’ deaths.

“I am sorry, Mother,” I said.

“First, I lost my little Neferubity. You remember your little sister, do you not?”

“Yes, Mother. But … time has passed, since she went to the gods.”

“Time has passed. But I miss her yet. Let me tell you how it is, to lose a child.” She stopped speaking and closed her eyes. She was silent for a long time. I thought she had fallen asleep, but then she continued. “First, it feels as if a large and heavy stone with sharp edges has been laid upon your heart. It pains you, here.” She put a closed fist to her breast. “Much like a wound, that bleeds. Then, as time passes, the sharp edges of the stone are worn away. It becomes smoother, like a boulder that has rolled down the river and the tumbling water and the other stones have ground it round. Yet it is heavy still, and there is no way to put it down. You must bear it.”

I was too young, that day, to grasp what my mother was telling me. Yet now I know she spoke the truth. Only not the whole truth. Because from time to time that stone recovers its cutting edge. Quite suddenly. A scent can do it, such as the incense that the midwives burned on the day of the child’s birth. Or, for me, the glimpse of a slave girl who has the same slender and graceful look as my own lost child.

“Yet at the time there were left two princes of the blood,” my mother went on. Tears were now sliding out of her closed eyes.

I patted her hand, feeling helpless. “Do not distress yourself,” I said, but of course this had no effect.

“It seemed … that the succession was assured. Two sons … two princes … strong and handsome. And yet, now there is not one to follow the great Pharaoh when the time comes, may he live for ever. Not one.”

“May he live,” I echoed.

“You are young, my daughter,” she said, opening her dark eyes and looking at me. “I hope you may not ever know what it is to lose a child, but I fear you may have to bear that sorrow as I do. Children are so …” Her voice seemed to grow faint like the wind sighing in the sycamore trees. “So fragile. Even a strong male child is but a reed and can be broken, just like that.” She dabbed her eyes with a linen kerchief. With a trembling hand, she drank some fruit juice that a slave had brought. Then she raised her head and her voice came back. “But you are healthy, are you not, my child?”

“Yes, Mother,” I said proudly. “I am healthy.”

She nodded. “You will need all your strength,” she told me. “You know that the Double Crown will eventually pass to your half-brother Thutmose, son of Mutnofert. He will be the second Pharaoh of that name.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And you must wed Thutmose. Through you he will have a clear entitlement to the Double Throne. Your role must be that of Great Royal Wife.”

“I know,” I said with some bitterness.

“Mark me well,” she said. “Whenever a Pharaoh passes into the Afterlife, the forces of chaos gather and threaten the destruction of the Two Lands. Your father, may he live, is not well. When he … when he passes …” A coughing fit overtook her and she gasped for breath. I handed her some more juice. She sipped, and continued. “The Royal House must avoid any suggestion of weakness or the jackals will rend the carcass of Khemet and chew on our bones.”

I shivered. “Yes, Mother.”

“So, though Thutmose your brother is himself frequently ill …”

“I have seen it.”

“… yet he is able and dedicated to Khemet and I believe he will do well enough with a strong wife by his side.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Pharaoh must hold the Two Lands safe.” She gestured with her hands, her finger joints enlarged with age and the skin spotted with brown, yet enacting a powerful grip as if clenching on the reins of a runaway chariot and hauling it back from the brink of an abyss. “Never again must it fall to foreign invaders who reject our customs, ruin our temples and desecrate our gods. Never, never again. You must be strong.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You must be strong for Khemet,” she said, her dark eyes intense. “Promise me.”

“I will be strong.”

“After I am gone, you will act for your father in the place of the Great Royal Wife,” she said. “Watch, and learn. And, Hatshepsut …” She extended a bony hand and gripped my wrist.

“Mother?”

“Trust nobody absolutely,” she whispered. “Be ever vigilant. Remember, Seth and his cohorts do not rest.”

I clutched the amulet I wore around my neck and made a sign to avert evil. “I will remember.” I assured her.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

“Mother?”

No answer came.

I wanted her to say something more. Something meant for me alone – me, her daughter, Hatshepsut, not the future Royal Wife, not the Keeper of Khemet. Something simple and loving. But the strength had gone from her. She never opened her eyes again.

From that time, when he lost the last prince of the full blood royal and his Great Royal Wife soon afterwards, it seemed to me that my father changed. On the one hand, he too, like Inet, shrank; his girth, which had grown as he aged, now fast became reduced. On the other hand, he appeared to have somehow become … I can only describe it as hard. Hard in his body, as if he were a living embodiment of one of the many stone sculptures of His Majesty; hard also in his heart, for he no longer took joy from life as he had when my mother lived. He never went hunting, never practised archery, ate and drank little at feasts, derived no pleasure from tumbling acrobats and dancing girls, no longer called upon the bard to sing …

At this point in the writing of my memories, I was interrupted by a great commotion. A babble of voices and weeping and wailing, punctuated by sharp commands and footsteps, broke the silence of my afternoon rest. The noise went past towards the servants’ quarters and then Mahu the scribe appeared on the portico, looking agitated. He made a deep obeisance.

“What is it?” I asked. “I did not look for you yet.”

“Pardon, Majesty,” he said. “There was – there was some trouble at the alehouse.”

“Was there fighting?” I asked. “Was one of my servants hurt?”

“I fear so, Majesty,” he said, with an extremely unhappy expression. “But he will be seen to. Majesty should not …”

“Who is it?” I demanded to know. “Come on, out with it. I shall soon find out in any case.”

Mahu does not have the strength of will to oppose me, nor the guile to lie. “It is Bek, Majesty,” he said reluctantly.

“My dwarf? But how did he get into a fight? He does not drink to excess, and he is so small! Who would set upon a dwarf?” I was upset. Bek is a great favourite of mine and as I have written, he spies for me in the taverns.

“It was a … a group of ruffians,” reported Mahu. I could see that he did not want to tell me, but also he knew that I would find out the truth no matter how he resisted.

“Syrians? Nubians?”

“No, Majesty. Egyptians born.”

“Which tavern?”

“The Happy Hippo,” said Mahu.

“The tavern-keeper shall pay for this, “ I said grimly.

“Majesty,” said Mahu wretchedly, “they were extremely drunk. It was not possible to control them. They just …”

“Did they know him for my dwarf?” I asked, growing angrier by the minute. “Was this something other than mere drunken sport?”

“N-n-no, Majesty, they knew him not, but I t-told them. I go there often and I heard him screaming as I g-got there and I told them, I told them, the Pharaoh will be mightily displeased at this. I told them,” repeated Mahu. “The ringleader was a huge man, almost a giant, Majesty, and he had a huge sharp knife, with which he … but then I came upon them, and I told them, and he … desisted.”

Mahu’s eyes were miserable. I had the feeling that he was not telling me the entire truth. He stutters when he is upset. But then, it must have been a frightening sight. My little scribe has not much courage in the general run of things. Yet he bears a scar to prove that once he protected me at the risk of his own life. I do not forget that.

“They were drunk and seeking sport. Some people like to make fun of those who are … different. They … they called him a dog, and … and … I tried to help,” he said, huskily, “but there were four of them, and I …” He looked away. He knows I love the little man. “They almost killed him,” he whispered, “but just then I arrived, for I often go there, and I shouted at them that he was the Pharaoh’s jester, and they would be punished, and at length they let him go. I had him carried here in a chair.”