The nobles cheered, raising their drinks in salute. The sudden noise frightened Ramose; on the other side of Tut, Mutnofret tried in vain to untangle the boy from her skirt. He cried as he clung to her. Hatshepsut peered around her father’s legs at Ramose, her fat lower lip stuck out in an expression of mingled curiosity and disappointment. Ahmose bit her cheek to keep a laugh at bay.
“Bring the bread,” Tut commanded.
A priestess brought the tray of bread and sweet milk. She bowed low before the royal family, and blessed the food in the names of Amun and Mut.
Ahmose bent to her girl, held Hatshepsut close in a sweet embrace. These were the last precious seconds of her baby’s infancy, and Ahmose would savor them. But the girl squirmed, growling in frustration, and reluctantly, Ahmose let her go.
The priestess went first to Ramose. He came forward only after Mutnofret gave him a gentle push, and his eyes studied the bit of milk-soaked bread in the woman’s fingers with mistrust.
“Eat it, stupid,” Amunmose hissed from where he stood behind Mutnofret. Wadjmose elbowed him in the ribs. The two elder boys glared at each other and stuck out their tongues; Mutnofret shot them a look full of unpleasant promise, and they snapped to attention, their dark eyes wide.
“Eat the tasty bread like a good boy,” Mutnofret said, an edge of worry coloring her voice. “Mmm, mmm!”
At last, Ramose allowed the priestess to place the bit of bread on his tongue. He made a face and stumbled back to his mother’s skirt. Mutnofret poked her finger into his mouth to be sure he’d swallowed it.
Now the woman bent before Hatshepsut and offered the sweet bread, pinched in her thumb and forefinger. Like a hungry carp, Hatshepsut lunged forward, mouth agape, and clamped down on the priestess’s hand.
“Oh!” Ahmose rushed forward to grab her daughter by the arm, while the priestess, shocked out of her dignity, jerked back her hand and yelped. The crowd cheered.
“Hatshepsut, we do not bite! Biting is very wicked!” Ahmose crouched in front of her daughter, eye to eye. She struck Hatshepsut on the back of each wrist in reprimand. The King's Daughter did not flinch. “Tell the priestess you are sorry for biting her.” She turned the girl around to face the priestess, whose eyes struggled to hide a smile.
Hatshepsut said nothing, grinning at the woman, chewing the bread while milk and honey dribbled down her chin.
“I still can’t believe she bit the poor woman,” Ahmose said, holding Tut’s arm as they strolled through the great palace garden.
Two days after the weaning celebration, and Hatshepsut already seemed to be delighting in her new status as a big girl. She ran screaming down the garden path, chasing grasshoppers, full of a wild new energy. Her fat buttocks flashed away into the gathering darkness, the pat-pat-pat of her tiny sandals coming from here, now there, now here again as she explored the flower beds at chariot’s speed. The girl preferred to be naked. Neither Ahmose nor Sitre-In could keep the proper boy’s kilt on Hatshepsut for more than a few minutes.
“The guests at the feast seemed to think it was a good way to start the party,” Tut said, chuckling.
Ahmose smiled. “I’m glad she’s as fierce as she is strong, I admit it. Egypt will need an heir as fierce as you, if peace is to be kept once you have gone to the Field of Reeds. Many years from now, of course.”
Thutmose sighed. “I do need to name an heir, don’t I? Four beautiful children, and none of them heir. What must the people be thinking?”
“You know how I feel about it.” They had discussed the issue many times since Hatshepsut’s birth. Ahmose was reluctant to tread the same path again. It always ended in anger, with Tut storming away and Ahmose biting back tears, and nothing resolved.
He put his hands on either side of her face. “Ahmoset, let’s be serious about this, just once. I don’t want you to get false hopes. Hatet is my gem, but she is a girl. She cannot be a king.”
Ahmose breathed deeply, closing her eyes so she did not have to see him, though he still held her face.
“Aren’t you going to say anything, Ahmoset?”
“What is there to say that I have not said a thousand times already? I will never have a son. I know that. You are wasting your time waiting for me to bear you a son, when you have the promised heir right here, running naked through your garden.” From a flower bed, Sitre-In shrieked, and Hatshepsut laughed. Ahmose broke out of Tut’s grasp. “It has always been clear to me that Hatshepsut should be the heir. She came from my body. I saw her holy father with my ka as I see her earthly father with my eyes, standing before me now. Of all your children, the choice is obvious, and we should not be having this same argument again.
“Just look at her! She is a warrior already, and only two years old. You saw how brave she was at her weaning feast. Tell me, did your son face the crowd as confidently as your daughter? Would Ramose have bitten a priestess? Clearly her ka is male, and what matters but her ka?”
“An ill-mannered little girl does not have to have a male ka to be wicked,” Tut said, but there was fondness in his voice. He loved Hatshepsut, Ahmose knew; perhaps more than he loved any of his other children. And who could fail to love such a wild creature? “It is true that she is a warrior,” Tut went on. “But Egypt is full of strong women. No one accuses them of having the spirits of men.”
“Can you deny that the gods intend great things for Hatshepsut? Can you deny that her blood is holy? In the year of her weaning, the river has risen again, after five years of failure. She is a gift for Egypt.”
“Ah, something has pleased the gods this year, to bring back the flood. And I intend great things for my daughter. She will be Great Royal Wife someday. We will have a son together, and she will marry her brother.”
Ahmose turned away from him. “Tut, you know my feelings. If you disregard the gods’ will, you risk…who knows what? Famine? Plague? Invasion? There are worse things than these. Why do you insist on being so foolish?”
“Have a care,” Thutmose said, not unkindly. “You do speak to the Pharaoh, Ahmose.”
“Do I? A king rules. A king commands. A king has confidence in his own words and actions. A king does not go in fear of what his subjects might think.”
“Now you are angering me.”
“I did not intend to. But whenever we speak of this, we can never agree.”
“If you would give some ground, it would be easier for both of us.”
“You are asking me to relinquish my child’s birthright, and to deny the gods’ will. I can never do either. Not even for you, Tut.”
Sitre-In came out of the twilight, the squirming King's Daughter caught up in her arms. The nurse’s dress was ripped, and her wig hung askew. “I am sorry, Sitre-In. Truly. I know she is a handful.” Ahmose reached out her arms, and gratefully, the nurse passed Hatshepsut over. Once in her mother’s arms, the child quieted, and looked expectantly at the king.
“You should choose an heir soon, Tut, regardless of who you name. My father went his whole life without making his choice, and it nearly cost Egypt’s security. It did cost the happiness of his daughters. Do not make the same mistake with your own family.”
“I won’t. You are right, Ahmose. I must name my heir. But once the choice is made, it is final, unless…unless the heir should die. I still hope that you might…”
“I will never have a son, Thutmose. I know it. I have my son already. Make your choice soon, and for the gods’ sake, make the right choice.”
Before he could argue, she turned and left the garden. Hatshepsut was very solemn in her mother’s arms.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE GREAT COMMUNAL GARDEN AT the House of Women made an ideal neutral ground. Ahmose would often meet Mutnofret there, and together they would walk the paths, chatting about things of little import, taking careful, uneasy stock of one another while Hatshepsut and the other Royal Sons played with the harem children among the flower beds. Sometimes the sisters joined in women’s games in the shade groves, o
r watch the harem girls practice their dancing and singing. Always the children flickered about them like a flock of brown birds, bobbing and screeching as they played, their sidelocks flying like pennants in the wind.
Here in the garden of their youth, Ahmose could almost love Mutnofret again. She had allowed herself to hope, on the evening of Ramose’s birth when her sister had spoken through a semsemet haze, that Mutnofret had accepted her place – her children’s place – at last. But although Mutnofret no longer seemed likely to fight with quartz rings and rekhet, there was still a gleam in the second wife’s eye whenever she looked at Hatshepsut. Ahmose did not like it. She could never speak to the second wife as she had to Tut, of Amun’s son, of a King's Daughter that was really a Royal Son. Mutnofret would never understand. Tut did not understand, come to that. And so, because Ahmose could tell her sister nothing of Hatshepsut’s ka, Mutnofret must still harbor a secret hope for her own children. Ahmose had only a single pawn on the senet board – female – while Mutnofret had three, and all were sons.
Ahmose kept her thoughts to herself, and watched the children play.
She had come to love her nephews well since her pregnancy. The boys looked very much alike, all of them with Mutnofret’s black eyes and wide mouth, but their personalities were as dissimilar as could be.
Wadjmose, the eldest, was serious and proper, with a smile that was grudgingly given but dazzling when it appeared, like the sun through Peret’s fog. He was their general, leading all the children in games of war among the flowers. He would often sit beneath a sycamore to fashion toy bows for the other harem children from branches and twists of flax thread. He was stern as he worked, with a furrow between his brows that was just like Tut’s. He was eight, quick with his tutors, and excited that soon he would enter basic military training: caring for horses, throwing a spear, running, climbing, firing a real bow.
Amunmose, six years old now, was the mischief-maker of the group. When he smiled, the spaces between his teeth hinted that he would grow to have his father’s big, toothy grin. Of all Thutmose’s children, Amunmose was the one who most resembled the Pharaoh. He even had his father’s jackal-bark laugh, and he let it fly frequently, especially after he had leapt out of the bushes, hands held up like a lion’s claws, to send a band of little girls scattering in all directions, or after he’d tossed a spider into a harem lady’s wig. Neither Mutnofret nor his nurse could rein him in. Both had stopped trying. Ahmose always tried to keep from laughing at the boy’s pranks; she usually failed.
Ramose, at three, was still soft and timid, though Hatshepsut’s influence had brought out some courage in the boy. He followed Hatet everywhere, her quiet shadow, getting up to all the same trouble and crying every time they were scolded. With luck, he would mature into a stronger boy and would, perhaps, make a fine husband for Hatshepsut. He was biddable, at least, and always ceded to Hatshepsut’s whims. Though it posed a problem: what would his title be, as the husband of the king? A puzzle for another day. Ahmose put it out of her head and went on with her senet game in the shade of the women’s favorite grove.
“Mawat!” A plaintive voice carried across the garden.
Baketamun, bent over the board, looked up in alarm. “Opet, I’m here, under the trees.”
Baketamun’s girl, willowy and bronze-haired, stumbled around a bed of flowers. She carried a ripped doll in her hands, and her thin, fine face was red with tears. “She’s dead!” Opet waved the doll in the air. Bits of goose down drifted out of the rent in its side to float away through the flowers.
“Oh, by the gods,” Baketamun said, sighing. “What did you do to your doll? I shall have to stitch her back up again.”
“She’s dead! That beastly little girl who dresses like a boy killed her!”
Baketamun glanced at Ahmose. There was a cringing apology in her look. She turned back to her sobbing daughter. “Opet, you must not speak so rudely of the King's Daughter.”
Ahmose sighed and stood up, brushing her dress clean. “Hatshepsut did this to your doll?”
Opet stared up at Ahmose in horror. “Great Lady, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult the King's Daughter.” The girl bowed so low the torn doll brushed the ground.
“It’s all right, Opet. You need not ask my forgiveness; Hatshepsut must ask yours. And Hathor knows she certainly can be beastly sometimes. Where is she?”
Baketamun laid a gentle hand on her daughter’s back, urging the girl to speak up. Opet took a deep, shaky breath, then pointed toward the big sycamore.
“I will make it right,” Ahmose said. “You wait here.”
She strode off toward the sycamore, but after no more than four or five steps, she faltered. There was a sudden sickness in the air, a heaviness that chilled her. She paused to listen. The children’s voices were farther away than the sycamore. Had Wadjmose led them off in some game? Her skin prickled. Something was not right here – not right with the garden, not right with the day. She looked back to the grove, but if any of the other women felt as she did, none showed it. Baketamun and her friends were bent around Opet and her doll, and Mutnofret, gathered on the other side of the grove with a crowd of harem women, led them in laughter over some bit of gossip. In the close air, the sound of merriment was as discordant as the noise a harp makes when it is dropped upon the ground. Ahmose turned back toward the great tree, wondering. She reached out to seek the gods, and found there a bleary, diffused bluster, as if they were hard at work and could not be bothered to speak.
Then, like a voice in a nightmare, her own words to Tut on the night of Hatshepsut’s birth floated up in her mind. Amun’s will shall be done, whatever either of us may wish. It had been more than a year since Ahmose had dared mention the heirship, but she knew with a deep, shocking chill the day of reckoning had come.
She ran.
The children were not under the sycamore, though dolls and Wadjmose’s twig-bows were scattered on the ground as if they had been dropped in a moment of distraction. She swallowed hard and held her breath, listening. A murmur of children’s voices came from beyond a stand of fig trees. She ran toward it, left the path, pushed through the branches.
On the other side of the figs, the garden swept out in a wide arc of grass. The children clustered on the far side, whispering and staring at a heap of gray-brown that lay on the lawn between them and the fig trees, between them and Ahmose. She stared at the heap, too, and took one hesitant step toward it. It was a hare, she realized. Dead. A rather large hare, with blood coming from holes in its back where some great bird had once held it. The sight filled her with dread.
Movement from the knot of children: three forms broke from the group, three little bobbing brown birds in dirty white kilts. Wadjmose, tugging at Ramose’s hand, trying to hold him back. And out in front of them, cocksure, Hatshepsut. She strode toward the dead hare with her fists doubled up at her sides. Ahmose put a hand out, trying to summon up a voice to shout at her daughter, to stop her, though Amun’s will would be done. She remained mute and frozen.
“Stop, Ramose,” Wadjmose yelled, but the smaller boy bit his brother’s hand, suddenly possessed by his half-sister’s spirit; and when he was free, he ran after Hatshepsut.
The girl glanced back to see her playmate running toward her, and all at once it was a race to see who could reach the dead hare first. Hatshepsut’s knees made her kilt fly up as she pelted across the lawn.
A slithering blue shadow passed over the grass, then two, three, circling, drawing a cold ring around the running children and the still hare. Ahmose looked up to see the white bodies of vultures kiting on broad wings, silhouetted against the sun. They had come for the carcass.
In an instant, as one vulture’s shadow passed over Hatshepsut’s body, the girl stumbled and fell, sprawled out her full length several spans from the hare. The knot of children, watching from afar, shrieked and laughed. But Ramose did not fall. He kept running, passed his sister, shouted in triumph as he reached the hare.
Anothe
r reached the hare, too, at the same time. The white bird moved, as it landed, like a swimmer’s legs in deep water. Every movement of the vulture’s body was clearly defined, slowly enacted, precise and dragging. The black-edged wings shouldered up; the white-crusted talons came forward, touched the ground, hopped as wings folded back against the sleek body. Ramose jerked to a stop above the hare. The vulture’s beak, curved like a blade, opened in a hiss.
The boy hesitated, staring, and the bird hesitated, too, the feathers on its back raised and bristling. Then it lunged at him. Its beak pierced his arm above the wrist. Ramose screamed.
Ahmose was at his side in a flash. The vulture loped away across the ground and lumbered into the air.
She scooped Ramose into her arms, held him tight against her chest, while he shrilled his terror into her ear. Wadjmose was beside them now, running in front of the pack of children. “Aunt Ahmose,” he wailed, “I told him not to go near it!”
“Go get your mother,” Ahmose said, and Wadjmose, ever the good boy, went flying off into the garden.
Ahmose carried her nephew into the fig grove, where at least the shade might comfort him. With luck, the vulture’s bite was not severe. Perhaps it did not break the skin at all. She pushed through the branches, shielding Ramose as best she could from their clawing fingers. Hatshepsut was right beside her, gazing up from the garden floor with solemn eyes. When Ahmose looked into her daughter’s face, hope for Ramose trickled out of her.
Amun’s will shall be done.
She set Ramose on the ground. His bitten arm had been folded against Ahmose’s chest; when he was lying beneath the fig trees, she could see the severity of the wound. It bled badly; it had soaked the front of her gown.
Hatshepsut watched the scene with mild curiosity in her eyes, sucking on her lower lip.
“Take off your kilt,” Ahmose told her daughter. Hatshepsut complied and handed the garment over.
Ahmose wound it tightly about the boy’s arm and knotted it, praying it would hold until a physician arrived. “Shh, shh,” she said, scooping Ramose into her arms again and rocking him. “It hurts, I know, but you will be all right.”
The She-King: The Complete Saga Page 25
