The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “Annu.” Tut nodded. The ancient capital, a place of great holiness and magic. It was a place where all the gods would see Tut’s obeisance. “And I can show her the kingdom on the journey north.”

  Hatshepsut stirred. “Where are we going?”

  At the sound of her sweet voice, Thutmose closed his eyes. He leaned his head against his daughter’s. His chin quivered, and his chest. He said nothing.

  “Father? Are we going away? Will we see my brothers?”

  Tut rose from the bed, so slowly. He handed Hatshepsut to Ahmose, and turned his back on them both, his face in his hands. A choked sound came from the Pharaoh, a painful cry stifled deep inside.

  “Father?”

  When he could speak again, his voice was soft but even. He returned to sit beside them, and cupped the girl’s chin in his strong, rough hand. “You and I are going on a journey, Hatet, together. Just the two of us. Your brothers will not be there.”

  “I want to see them.”

  Ahmose tucked the girl’s head under her chin, rocked her side to side. “You will see them again someday, precious one. A long time from now.”

  “Where are we going?”

  You are going to fulfill the gods’ promise. You are going to claim your birthright, the right of a god, the kingdom of Egypt. “North, up the river,” Ahmose said. “You will see the whole of the land, Hatshepsut, my prince. You will see your kingdom.”

  EPILOGUE

  THEY STOOD ON THE QUAY, watching the sun rise.

  Hatshepsut was wrapped in a new white cloak, a timid smile on her round face. Even for the bravest of children, a boat voyage without mother or nurse was daunting. But she would be with her father, and Ahmose knew how that thrilled her. The King's Daughter watched Thutmose with an air of worship, a brilliant innocent gaze that knew nothing of his wrongs. He was no stalking leopard to Hatet. To her, no choice he made had condemned her brothers. He was just her father, brave and strong and unfailingly good. Tut looked back at the girl just as timidly, a smile wavering around his eyes. Ahmose had not seen him smile for so long. It was good. This journey: it was maat. Maat for all of them, even Mutnofret’s new son, Thutmose. He would be safe now, with Hatshepsut sailing upriver. Mutnofret brought little Thutmose forth in sorrow, but he had restored a tenuous, fragile joy to her heart. The second wife refused to turn him over to a nurse, clinging to him, keeping him at her side every hour of every day, nursing him herself when he was hungry, cleaning him herself when he was soiled. The baby was Mutnofret’s ka now, the essence of her life. No one had the heart to separate them.

  Ahmose looked at them now, standing apart at the head of the water steps. Mutnofret carried the boy close to her breast, shielding him against the brisk river air. The second wife hardly took her eyes off the baby’s face, even when the Pharaoh came to her to kiss her softly in farewell. It was a lingering kiss. Ahmose did not begrudge Mutnofret the affection. The second wife had little enough joy now, with three of her sons gone. Let her find what happiness she could with the king. Ahmose would not be shaken.

  She bent to Hatshepsut, pulled her close and kissed both her fat cheeks, then kissed them again. This prince was Ahmose’s happiness. This child was the center of the spreading rings on the river’s surface. And today, Ahmose would set her adrift on the Iteru to see the world she would rule. The temples, the ancient pyramids against the setting sun, the priests and the people, bent backs in the fields, songs in the sanctuaries – all of these would be hers. And when they reached Annu, far, far to the north, the Royal Son that was not a son would be crowned.

  “Be good. Listen to your father,” Ahmose said. “It is maat, to listen to your father.”

  Hatshepsut smiled, nodded, patted Ahmose’s hand. Brave, dear thing.

  Sitre-In cried, blowing her nose into a square of linen. Hatshepsut went to her, too, and allowed herself to be kissed and cooed over. “I will miss you, Mawat,” she said, and Sitre-In redoubled her sobs.

  Tut came to Ahmose hesitantly, his eyes clouded with regret. She took his face in her hands, and kissed him. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “And the gods forgive you.”

  “Can I forgive myself?”

  She stroked his cheek in answer, feeling the planes of his beloved face. He would, someday. She knew it. He was making the right choice now. The sun was rising on a new world. This was a new start for all of them.

  “You have found an architect?” he asked, his voice hollowed by grief.

  Ahmose nodded, smiling. She had found an architect with clever hands, with a soft voice, with shy, dark eyes. She had sent all the way to Swenet for him, where he had been overseeing the building of some great noble’s estate, but he had returned to Waset eagerly when she summoned him. He would build a beautiful temple for the boys’ memory, and she would fill his treasury full to bursting in gratitude for all he had done.

  She smiled at the Pharaoh, though Ahmose felt little enough of the happiness she put on her face. Wadjmose’s body was gone, pulled beneath the waters in Sobek’s jaws. No temple, no matter how beautiful, how cleverly designed, no matter how heartfelt its construction, would be enough to see Wadjmose to the Field of Reeds. She knew it, and her heart would bleed every day of her life for the knowing. Yet she could never speak these words to Tut. She would watch over the construction of the Temple of Wadjmose, and every year at the Feast of Wag she would lay out food and drink in her nephew’s chapel, though his spirit would never come back to claim her gifts. For Tut and Mutnofret she would do this, though her heart would bleed.

  “Take good care of our daughter,” Ahmose said, her hands still on his face, unwilling to let him go.

  “I will. Most certainly, I will.” He glanced at baby Thutmose, suckling at Mutnofret’s breast. His eyes flickered away again.

  “The baby will be safe. We will all be safe.”

  Hatshepsut took the Pharaoh’s hand, pulled him toward the boat that bobbed on the waves below the water steps. “Come, Father,” she said, impatient as always.

  “All right, all right.” Tut held Ahmose’s eyes for one last moment, then he was dashing down to the ship with Hatshepsut. The girl’s sidelock whipped and bounced in the air as she leaped, two at a time, down the steps. When they reached the plank and scrambled aboard, Tut’s jackal-bark laugh came to Ahmose across the morning air.

  Her hands were still held up, still caressing his face, though it watched her from the ship’s rail now. They waved at her, king and prince, the two halves of her heart – and slowly, she lowered her hands to her sides.

  The ship cast off. Musicians onboard rattled their sesheshet, plucked at their strings. The oars came out, shoved away from the mooring. The current caught the great ship and its oars tapped the surface of the water gently, carrying Hatshepsut away, away. Ahmose waved.

  When the rising sun set the Iteru afire, she saw how the ship’s wake spread from its wooden flanks like a bird’s great wings. Ripples flowing outward forever, and at the center, Hatshepsut. All would be well. She knew.

  Ahmose turned away from the river, and guided Mutnofret with an arm around her shoulders. They walked back to the palace together.

  So said Amun, Lord of the Two Lands, before Ahmose, the King’s Wife: Hatshepsut, Joined with Amun, shall be the name of this my daughter, whom I have placed in thy body. Tell the people. She shall exercise an excellent kingship in this whole land. My soul is hers, my bounty is hers, my crown is hers, that she may rule the Two Lands, that she may lead all the living.

  -Inscription from Djeser-Djeseru, mortuary temple of Hatshepsut, Fifth King of the Eighteenth Dynasty.

  THE END

  THE SEKHMET BED

  The She-King: Book One

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  THE CROOK AND FLAIL: Book Two

  The son of the god must take her rightful place on Egypt's throne.

  Hatshepsut longs for power, but she is constrained by her commitment to maat – the sacred order of righteousness, the way things must be. Her mother claims Hatshepsut is destined for Egypt's throne – not as the king's chief wife, but as the king herself, despite her female body. But a woman on the throne defies maat, and even Hatshepsut is not so bold as to risk the safety of the Two Lands for her own ends.

  As God's Wife of Amun, she believes she has found the perfect balance of power and maat, and has reconciled herself to contentment with her station. But even that peace is threatened when the powerful men of Egypt plot to replace her. They see her as nothing but a young woman, easily used for their own ends and discarded. But she is the son of the god Amun, and neither her strength nor her will can be so easily discounted.

  As the machinations of politics drive her into the hands of enemies and the arms of lovers, onto the battlefield and into the childbed, she comes face to face with maat itself – and must decide at last whether to surrender her birthright to a man, or to take up the crook and flail of the Pharaoh, and claim for herself the throne of the king.

  L. M. Ironside's saga of the Thutmoside dynasty continues with The Crook and Flail, the anticipated sequel to The Sekhmet Bed.

  THE CROOK AND FLAIL

  The She-King: Book Two

  When I was firm upon the throne of Re, I was ennobled until the two periods of years. I came as the One Horus, flaming against my enemies.

  -Inscription from Djeser-Djeseru, mortuary temple of Hatshepsut, fifth king of the Eighteenth Dynasty.

  PART ONE

  SON

  OF THE GOD

  1486 B.C.E.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HATSHEPSUT’S FINGERS ACHED FROM THE harp strings, but she had played better today than ever before. Her music tutor, a pinched and dour old woman named Mut-tuy, had even raised an eyebrow and nodded at the performance. From Mut-tuy, this was as good as resounding acclaim. She suspected she would find a few blisters on her fingertips by supper time, but Hatshepsut was well pleased. She drifted unhurried through the halls of the House of Women, rustling faintly in her bright blue gown of a hundred pleats. To either side, her guardsmen hulked as solid as river barges. They passed the sunlight of a courtyard in full flower where a group of women sat gossiping over chilled beer and cheese. The daggers at her guards’ belts glimmered in the afternoon glare. She was not pleased that she must have an armed escort even in the harem palace. She had grown up here, as was customary for a king's daughter. Here the most common kitchen servants’ faces were as familiar to Hatshepsut as her own. But this was what her mother Ahmose had commanded six years ago, when Hatshepsut's father the Pharaoh died, when she was but a girl of eight. What the Lady Regent ordered was not to be questioned.

  When they reached her private apartment Hatshepsut dismissed the guards to her door. In the courtyard outside her room slender lotus pillars rose up beside women’s private porches. The courtyard was heavily planted with sweet flowers and broad-leaved climbing vines, which cast an inviting green shade on the paving stones. The odors of perfume and the incense of offerings drifted from the halls of the palace. It was a pleasant afternoon. A swim in the harem’s lotus pond would be welcome, but there were lessons yet today. Judging by the sun, her tutor was likely already waiting. She smiled.

  Inside her dressing room, Hatshepsut’s servants stood ready: Sitre-In, her sweet-tempered old nurse with the soft green eyes; Ita and Tem, the two chatty women who tended her bath and brought her meals; and – there he was – Senenmut, the tall, quiet tutor-priest with his solemn face and expressive hands.

  At the sight of him she chased the smile from her face, though it fought to remain. His services had been gifted her by the Temple of Amun when she was only ten years old, but he was no slave. Senenmut chose to serve the Temple and the throne of his own free will. Whether he did it out of loyalty to the royal family or simply to advance his own well-being mattered not a whit to Hatshepsut. He was an exceptional teacher, though he was young – perhaps twenty-two or -three, if that. Under his guidance, she had refined her reading and writing until she was as capable as any scribe in the Two Lands. He had coached her in all the tongues a Great Royal Wife would need: the language of Retjenu from the north and east; Phoenician for dealing with tradesmen; sharp and brutal Heqa-Khasewet; the language of Kush. She had enjoyed his daily presence in her life from the start of his service. Senenmut took her seriously, even as a young girl; he answered all her questions without the usual patronizing air most adults reserved for children. And now that her womanhood was near she enjoyed his presence even more.

  “Bring me a fresh kilt,” she said to her maids, “and help me out of these sandals.” She was weary after all. Mut-tuy was a demanding harp-mistress. She sank onto the stool at her dressing table with a sigh, rotating her wrists to work the ache from her hands. Ita knelt to untie the laces of her sandals. Hatshepsut flexed her toes, causing the bones of her feet to crackle.

  She glanced up at Senenmut, who stood patiently waiting her pleasure. When he met her eye, he said, “I have brought scrolls for you, Great Lady: all the histories I could find on the station of God’s Wife of Amun.”

  Hatshepsut’s mouth went dry. There was no more putting it off. Though she still had not begun to bleed, she was fourteen years old – well into marriageable age – and her half-brother Thutmose was nearly eleven. He was old enough now to take the throne, and probably would as soon as Hatshepsut became a woman. It was not for the daughter of a Pharaoh to pick and choose among suitors, as common women may. She had no sisters left living who might take her place and spare her a lifetime of Thutmose.

  Well, if she must resign herself to a sour fate as Thutmose’s wife, she would at least perform her duty with dedication, and do honor to her dead father’s memory. She would learn the station of God’s Wife so well that she would be beyond reproach. She would be the greatest God's Wife of them all. To achieve such a thing – ah, it would have made her father's face light with approval.

  Maat is all, Hatet. She had heard him say it so many times that his voice still sounded in her heart, long after he had left the living world for the Field of Reeds. If Egypt does not have its righteous order, then Egypt has nothing. Let maat be your guide in all things, and you will never place a foot wrong. Marriage to Thutmose was maat – the righteous way, the fundamental what-must-be that kept the world in working order. And that was that.

  “Thank you, Senenmut. I will begin reading them tomorrow. What of our lesson this afternoon?”

  “I thought I might discuss with you how the southern outposts fare, and what Egypt’s presence in Kush means to the throne.”

  Boring, drier than old bones. But it would have to be done. A Great Royal Wife must know – a God's Wife must know. She nodded, inspected her braided sidelock in her electrum mirror, passed a hand over the stubble that powdered her scalp. It was a boy’s hairstyle she wore, one thick lock of black hair worked into a braid over her ear, the rest shaved bald as an old man’s pate. But it suited her, the sharpness of her nose, the steady black glare of her eyes. She had her father’s features; she liked to stress them. She had been going about with a boy’s hairstyle since she was a baby, to hear Sitre-In tell it, and she had no plans to change her ways now. But her scalp did need a pass of the razor. Time enough for that when Senenmut’s lesson was finished.

  Hatshepsut slipped the rings off her fingers, dropped them one by one into the ebony box Ita held. She removed the bangles from her wrists – all but one, a golden band set with a double row of tiny lapis scarabs. It was her favorite. She twisted its coolness against her skin as Ita and Tem removed a broad, heavy collar of golden leaves from her shoulders, laid it in its case, and helped her out of her gown.

  As always when she undressed in his presence, Senenmut turned tactfully away, gazing out through the door o
f her chamber to the warm sunlit glow of the garden, predictably immaculate in his manners. She wished he would at least try to glimpse her bare flesh. She would not have punished him for that particular impudence.

  Tem wound a short white boy’s kilt around Hatshepsut’s hips, fastened it with an ivory pin in the likeness of Sekhmet, the warrior she-lion. For modesty’s sake, Hatshepsut chose a drape of hundreds of strings of tiny beads to hang around her neck, covering her small new breasts. What she wouldn’t give to be able to run once more bare-chested in boy’s clothing, with her boy’s hair, unfettered through the gardens. Too much was changing, and too fast, now that she was nearly a woman.

  “Let’s forgo the lesson, Senenmut. Walk with me in the garden,” she commanded, and he turned back to her, his long face flustered. “Don’t look so put out. There will be time enough to teach me all about Kushite politics tomorrow. Or the day after. Or in a year.”

  Senenmut smiled. “Tomorrow, then.”

  They strolled out together into the afternoon heat. Clouds of gnats shimmered white and silver above the most fragrant of the flowers. Brown darts of birds dived among the flies, snatching supper on the wing. Sitre-In and the maids wandered in their wake, far enough away to afford privacy of conversation but not so far as to let the king's daughter out of sight with her tutor.

  Senenmut walked with hands clasped behind his back, his long, straight nose tilted toward the ground, immersed in the depth of his thoughts. He was inscrutable at times like these, turned inward and waiting for a word from her, a question, a challenge, to pull him into reality again, to make him blink like a man shaking off a magician's spell, draw a sudden breath, a swimmer breaking the surface of an unknowable water. She allowed a smile, but only when her face was turned away from her women, so Sitre-In would not grow suspicious.