“On the outside. One of your nine kas is female, and it has dictated the form of your body. But you have eight more; every one of them is male.”
Hatshepsut said nothing. Her ears seemed to hear a distant pounding, drums far off. Then she remembered Thutmose, and Mutnofret, and saw that there was still more to Ahmose’s story.
“Although you were born a girl, I knew you for the prince you are from the moment they laid you at my breast. I tried to convince your father. He thought I was mad. I warned him that you were Amun’s son, and that if he did not name you his heir, the gods would be angry. But he worried over what the people would think: a girl, heir to the throne. And I understood his worries. I do not blame him.”
“Blame him for what?”
Ahmose would not speak, or could not.
Hatshepsut’s heart filled with dread, a terrible cold pressure that stole her breath. “Blame him for what, Mawat?”
“For the deaths of Mutnofret’s boys. I knew, if he failed to raise you as heir, that the gods would break him to their will. But your father was always so stubborn, so certain I would bear another son – one male of body, not only male of ka. And because he would not do the work the gods gave him, because he would not acknowledge you as a prince, the gods took away his other sons one by one.”
Tears welled in Hatshepsut’s eyes. She blinked them away without raising her hands to wipe them. In a way, then, it was her fault the boys had died.
“Prince Thutmose was born on the same day Wadjmose died. The death of her eldest son broke Mutnofret, and she stayed broken for many years – my poor, poor sister. But the new baby kept her heart from fleeing entirely into darkness. Thutmose was her only joy, her only reason for living. She nursed him herself, and would let no other woman care for him, not even for a moment. Not until he was much older did she finally assign a nurse to see to some of his needs; but even now, it is Mutnofret who is, without question, the prince's only mawat.
“And so you see, Hatet, I could not bear to send the prince to the harem when his sixth year came. I feared it might shatter Mutnofret completely, to take the prince away from her. There have been times in my life when I have hated Mutnofret, may the gods curse me, but I love my sister now. I love her and I pity her. Her life has been one great sorrow, and to take away her son might destroy her.
“And now do you understand?”
Numb, stunned, Hatshepsut nodded. Then a wild thought flared in her breast, a whisper that she tried to ignore. She shook her head to deny it, but it licked up, bright and dancing, a flame. “Mother, Prince Thutmose – he is still alive. The gods spared him. Why, when Mutnofret’s other sons all died?”
“Because,” Ahmose said, and raised her hand to caress Hatshepsut’s cheek, to lift her chin so their eyes met and held, “in the end, your father did the task the gods gave him. He proclaimed you his heir at Annu, the sacred city of the north. As your regent, I have kept the throne for you until you come of age to claim it as the rightful king.”
But all of Egypt believed Thutmose was the heir. “You are Thutmose’s regent.”
“No. I have never called him the heir, nor called myself the regent of Thutmose. I have always been careful, in every dealing and proclamation, to name myself only the regent of the heir, and to name Thutmose only the prince, never the inheritor. The people of Egypt may not be ready yet to accept you as their rightful ruler – the people and the priests of Amun. But by the gods, it shall be as your father commanded. I swear, Hatshepsut, I will see you crowned king. You are the rightful lord of the Two Lands. The crook and flail are yours.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SENENMUT KNEW HE BLUSHED TOO easily. It was a habit unbecoming a man, but try as he might, he seemed unable to control the unfortunate reflex. Hatshepsut, observant as always, seemed to have made a game of his blushes. Every evening now she took her lessons in the garden, walking through a gathering blue dusk or sitting with Senenmut on the carved bench beneath the sycamore. Always her nurse and handmaids remained at a distance, and Hatshepsut was free to pose the questions that brought the color to his cheeks. They were simple enough questions, in truth, about the nature of men and women. Senenmut was bound by his service to answer as directly as he dared. Had his charge been a prince, he would have found no difficulty. Somehow the fact of her rough, emerging femininity added a disorienting dimension, so that he picked through his words with ostentatious care, and a word or two into his response his face would heat, his throat would dry, and he would catch Hatshepsut peering at him from the corner of her eye, though her face was always turned, aloof with chin raised, to stare impassively into the depths of the garden.
For all her mischief, she was a dedicated student. They spoke often enough of serious matters that Senenmut felt secure in his achievements as tutor to the king's daughter. On a peaceful evening redolent with the water-green scent of lotus, he sat beside her on the bench while she furrowed her brow and volleyed at him a string of questions concerning the various works of her father Thutmose. Of late she had been drifting into quiet, pensive distances. No doubt her impending marriage had left some trouble on her heart.
“And what do you know of my father’s early expeditions?” Hatshepsut's fingers tangled and clicked in the beads strung about her neck.
“Quite a lot; it is recent history. Is there a particular expedition you wish to learn of?”
“His trek to Annu.”
“Annu?” Senenmut paused, considering. “I cannot say that I know of any of your father’s doings in Annu. It’s an important city, of course, full of very old temples with many powerful priesthoods still practicing their work. He must have visited Annu for political reasons – ah, probably several times. But if there is any special visit he made to Annu, I have not read of it yet.”
“Political reasons,” she repeated in a faint, distracted sort of way, and fell into one of her musing silences. Into the pause, Ita and Tem laughed over their spindles, but Hatshepsut's eyes remained unfocused on the shade-and-sunlight of the garden path. “If my father had ever made an important proclamation at Annu, it would be in the histories, would it not?”
“I suppose that depends on how important the proclamation was, and to whom it was made, and what was its purpose. Some directives are relevant only in the moment – for a year or a month, or for merely a day. If no record is known to exist, that does not mean a proclamation never was issued.”
“This proclamation would be extremely important. To everybody, and for more than a day.”
“What exactly are you hunting, Lady? If it is a particular history you seek I can help you find it.”
“I cannot speak of it,” she said, suddenly agitated. “I took a vow. No doubt if anyone could find this particular record, you could, Senenmut. You know the scrolls better than any man. And so I can be certain that no record exists.”
Her brusque reply left him at a loss for words. He tilted his head at her, quizzical, hoping to coax out by gesture something more to go by.
Hatshepsut smiled in spite of her strange preoccupation. “Don’t worry yourself. If a record no longer exists, that indicates nothing, as you say. It is not so easy to erase history. The past cannot be scratched out just by tearing up scrolls or defacing a few carvings. History lives in the minds of men, too – you have said as much. One day I will have the truth of Annu. If the gods will it, I will have the truth.”
“You grow wiser every day, Great Lady, and more like a Great Royal Wife.”
Ordinarily his words would have made her beam, exposing the large front teeth she had inherited from her father, the slender dark gap between that made her smiles so unaccountably riveting. But she frowned.
“What do you know of the time my father proclaimed Thutmose his heir?”
“It happened here in Waset, at the Temple of Amun, seven years ago.”
“And records exist?”
“Oh, yes, Lady. Many. I could bring them to you, if you wish to read them.”
She pursed
her lips, an expression that pinched her already rather unrefined face. He knew the look well. The prospect of reading the scrolls did not please her.
“Bring me everything you can find.”
“Great Lady? Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” she said, smoothing her face and her short kilt. She even put on a little smile for him. “I was only lost in thought.”
“What sort of thought, if I may ask?”
She shrugged and toyed again with the thick drape of beads. Just as she drew a slow breath to make an answer, a clamor erupted at the far end of the garden. Hatshepsut leaped to her feet. Startled out of all self-possession, Senenmut sprang in front of her, shielding her with an out-thrust arm, from what he did not know. In a heartbeat they both realized that the dreadful noise was only two cats battling. Senenmut laughed, and this time he did not mind when the heat of embarrassment rose to his face.
“Oh, bother those beasts!” Ita shuffled off toward the racket, waving her hands fiercely to scatter the cats apart. She disappeared into a flower bed, and on the instant shrieked like a bird in a net. Tem and Sitre-In went laughing into the dusk to remove the clawing cat from Ita's skirt.
“Senenmut,” Hatshepsut said, commanding.
He turned to look at her. And she stepped forward, laid her hands on his chest, pressed her lips to his. The kiss lasted only a moment. He jerked back.
“Hush,” she said, to forestall his protests.
Alone with my charge, he thought in a panic, glancing around for the nurse, the handmaids. They were still preoccupied, giggling and squealing in the bushes. Hatshepsut's little game made a queasy sort of sense to him now. She had been testing him, probing at his feelings for her, an oarsman finding the depth of muddied water. And she had misread his flustered responses as...love?
The women came struggling from the flower bed, Ita wailing over her shredded skirt. Hatshepsut turned triumphant eyes on him.
“That's enough tutoring for today,” he said.
“You may go then.”
Senenmut fled the garden as quickly as propriety would allow.
It was a testament to Hatshepsut’s stubbornness that she was able to kiss him once more, when rare privacy presented itself. Tutor and princess were seldom alone for more than a moment; Senenmut made sure of it, calling a woman to fetch him water for his dry throat or a fan to keep the flies away, though in this season flies were scarce and seldom a bother. He drew Hatshepsut's servants toward him constantly as he worked, like a fisherman drawing in one net, then casting it out only to draw immediately upon another. But Hatshepsut was more practiced than he at managing servants. Smoothly attending to her history lesson with bright, keen eyes and pertinent questions, she sent her servants on a series of urgent errands in a display of juggling that would have made a court acrobat sick with envy, and soon Senenmut found himself without a witness. For the briefest moment there was no one to observe them, and in the middle of a somber question about the defeat of the Heqa-Khasewet, Hatshepsut stopped speaking and leaned forward to press her lips to Senenmut’s. Gently, he laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away.
“Great Lady, I am your humblest servant and it is not for me to deny you. However, this is highly improper and should not continue.”
“Why?”
“You are still a girl, and I am a grown man. Beyond even that consideration, you are the king's daughter. I am a common man, and your servant. Kissing games between two children may be natural enough, but this is not maat.”
Hatshepsut narrowed her black eyes.
“Do not be angry with me, Great Lady, I beg you. It is my place as your tutor and priest to advise you, to guide you toward wiser actions. Aside from all that, it could be dangerous for me. What if one of your maids sees? Do you suppose Ahmose will believe it was all your idea? Certainly not; she will assume that this man who was trusted to educate you has taken advantage of his station to impose himself upon an innocent girl. I would be punished, and quite harshly, I imagine.”
She slumped. “All right. You have made your point, Senenmut. I see that you are correct.”
She was a lioness of a girl, fierce and arrogant. But he had known her all these years. Beneath her poise there was, he knew, the same tender heart all girls possessed. For its sake, he did not allow his relief to show on his face. He smiled tenuously and took up the lesson where he had left off. When he had finished his day's duty he begged her leave to go. She hesitated, more distracted than she had been for days, with a sorrow in her eyes that cut Senenmut's throat and belly with guilty knives. But at last she nodded and waved him away.
He said, “Until tomorrow, Great Lady,” and bowed at her door.
Hatshepsut made no reply. She turned away from him, a curt dismissal, and Senenmut was arrested by the flash of an unfamiliar expression: eyes gazing inward at some raw, tender truth, mouth pale and quivering. It was the first time he had ever seen doubt on his young mistress's face.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SEASON OF AKHET, THE inundation, drew near. The morning air was close and damp, opulent with the scent of the flood. Frogs, anticipating the great stretches of still water that would rise along the banks of the Iteru, woke from their underground chambers to rattle the evenings with song. To their choruses, the flood itself arrived, first turning the harvested fields black with dampness, then seeping up to break furrows with lines of reflected sky, at last ascending until every house and road on hillock or causeway stood clear of a vast, sparkling plane of green water. Rekhet opened the sluices in irrigation ditches; their farmland slumbered beneath the water while farmers traveled to construction sites in city and hills to build the tombs of noble men until the season of Peret arrived. When the flood receded they would resume the farming life, planting their fields, tending their crops and cattle, and Egypt would burgeon with its green and growing riches.
Hatshepsut waited for her blood to arrive, hopeful and anxious. But as the flood brought fertility to the land, she remained a girl.
She told no one of her failed attempt to make Senenmut her lover. His refusal had humiliated her. As much as the rejection shamed her, though, she was far more ashamed that she had not seen the situation clearly, that her thinking had been clouded by desire. How unlike her. Senenmut was right, of course. Such an involvement with the king's daughter could be dangerous for him, possibly fatal, and however like a woman she may feel, her bloodless months proclaimed her a child. Senenmut would be unnatural if he desired a child. She burned with mortification whenever she thought of her attempts to seduce him. Childish, she told herself. How could you have been so childish?
In her lessons she was all focus and composure, applying herself to Senenmut’s teachings even more completely than before. He never mentioned the slip of her graces. Hatshepsut still felt a surge of desire whenever she looked at him, though, still cried sometimes at night when her maids had retired. She may weep alone, but a fact was a fact: his heart did not burn as hers did.
For his part, Senenmut remained dutiful as always. He worked eagerly at Hatshepsut's request for her family's histories. He had found more than a dozen scrolls on Thutmose's heirship, and brought every one to his pupil’s chambers. When lessons and feasts did not occupy her, Hatshepsut combed through the scrolls, searching for some answer to the puzzle. Why had her father named her the heir at Annu, and three years later also named Thutmose heir in Waset? For all the scrolls agreed on one point: he had proclaimed Thutmose during the season of the emergence seven years ago, in a gathering of high priests and other powerful men at the Temple of Amun.
Sitre-In noticed Hatshepsut’s pensive mood. She did all she could to bring Hatshepsut around: soothing music during meals, a dance instructor to teach her all the most popular steps. But Hatshepsut was rather coarse and graceless despite her age, and she gave up dance quickly, too discouraged by her lack of natural talent to apply herself. Finally, at her wits’ end, Sitre-In alerted the regent that her daughter was caught up in a blac
k mood, and Ahmose herself visited the House of Women to see to the king's daughter on her own terms.
Hatshepsut dressed in her finest blue gown to greet her mother, angrily aware of how blocky her body was, how unfeminine. The fine fabric slumped about her shoulders and hips rather than falling like water, the way it did over the supple bodies of the harem women. If only she were a woman herself, she might have won Senenmut’s heart. But even the most beautiful clothing could not make her look the part. When Ahmose arrived, Hatshepsut bowed in greeting and tried to conceal her unhappiness behind an emotionless face. It did not work.
“Whatever has come over you?” Ahmose stood, hand on hip, eying her daughter critically.
Hatshepsut wilted a little more beneath the stare.
“Have you nothing at all to say?”
“Perhaps it is the change of seasons.”
“Boredom, like a rekhet child? Shall I send you off barefoot to run errands for some tomb builder?”
The prospect sounded like an improvement over another day of lessons with Senenmut, where she must act as if her foolish attempt at seduction had never happened. But it would never do to admit such a thing to Ahmose. “Please sit with me,” Hatshepsut said, struggling to recall some semblance of courtly manners. She waved toward the cushioned chairs surrounding her senet board. Ahmose took her seat with a natural, casual grace that even Hatshepsut’s simplest gestures lacked.
“Wine and honey cakes,” Ahmose called to Tem, who bowed low and hurried from the room with an energy she never showed for Hatshepsut’s commands. “Sitre-In certainly had it right. You are moping. No, I don’t want to know why; I can guess the reason. I was a girl once, too, you know. All I will say to you is that you had better come out of it, and quickly, too. Young Thutmose is growing older and more confident all the time, and the nobles of the city have begun to question why I have not yet given him the throne. He is ten years old now, old enough to at least sit upon the Horus Seat, if not to rule from it. Time forces my hand sooner than I would like, but we must make our move. I have sent to Annu to summon the priests who were present when your father declared you the heir. As soon as they reach Waset I will present you to the Temple of Amun as your father’s successor.”
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