The musicians arrived precisely on time. She directed them to a corner of the room, well lit and warmed by braziers. They tuned their instruments as she sucked on the goose's wing bone, waiting.
At last she heard Sitre-In's sharp clap outside her door.
“Come.”
Sitre-In led in the daughter of Ankhhor, dressed in a fine blue gown of a hundred pleats, her throat and wrists jeweled with turquoise and gold. Iset bowed low before Hatshepsut, her delicate, soft hands outstretched. “How may I serve the pleasure of the Great Royal Wife?”
Hatshepsut dismissed her nurse. Sitre-In could not resist a skeptical frown at the great heap of food on the table.
“I told you once that you must sing for me in my chambers, Iset. My heart craves for music.”
Iset smiled. Her features were fine as a carver's masterwork, and took to expressions of pleasure as readily as though the gods had made her to feel only joy. The prospect of singing for the Great Royal Wife seemed to delight her quite sincerely.
“You honor me greatly.” Iset peered around the room, taking in the high ceiling with its cycles of the stars laid in gold, the depiction of winged Mut upon the floor, picked out in tiny enameled glass tiles and twice the size of a mortal woman. The musicians stroked their harps; along the walls long, fine tapestries of goddesses seemed to sway in response to the soft music.
Hatshepsut lifted her bowl of stew to her lips and motioned for Iset to begin. She took up a place several paces from the musicians, clasped her hands beneath her breasts, and at once the room filled with her sweet, lilting voice. She began with a simple hymn to Amun – appropriate, for the last night of the Feast of Opet. The musicians took it up easily, and Hatshepsut could not tell whether Iset followed the music or the music followed her song. It did not matter. Voice and harp, flute and timbrel wove together, wreathed Hatshepsut in a rich pleasure so intense she could almost feel the music stroke her skin.
When the hymn to Amun was done, Iset bent her head to consult the musicians. They soon began a rollicking sailor's song; Iset clapped as she sang, stamped her fine, narrow feet, swayed with the words like a boat on the river. An epic was next, the Song of Sinuhe, the man who fled Egypt for fear of his life but returned again as an old man, for the Two Lands pulled so at his heart that he could not die in peace so far from its beauty and its gods. She sang ballads, war songs, hymns to all the gods of Waset. She sang lullabies and children's chants. She danced the quaint dances of the farming districts. The musicians were as tireless as she.
At last, when she had performed for nearly two hours, Hatshepsut raised a hand to stop her. Iset's face and collarbones flushed a pretty shade of pink. She stood, panting a little, waiting on Hatshepsut's word.
“Are you hungry, Iset?” She surely was, after so much activity.
Iset smiled timidly.
“Come, share my meal.” There was more than enough for both of them. In truth, the meat and stew had gone cold, but the honey cakes were as sweet as ever.
Iset bowed her head. “Thank you, Great Lady. I am honored.”
Tem brought a small, three-legged stool; Iset sank down upon it gracefully and accepted with a nod the platter of goose that Hatshepsut pushed toward her. The singer ate with delicate restraint, but Hatshepsut could tell by the way she did not balk at the cold roast that her exertions had left her famished. When the girl was engrossed in the food, Hatshepsut began to speak.
“You are from Ka-Khem.”
“Ah, Great Lady.”
“I sailed past Ka-Khem once, when I was a little child. Though in truth, every boat sails past your home. It is bound on all sides by the river, is it not? It must be very beautiful. Tell me of it.”
“It is mostly a wild place, all marshes with great flocks of ducks and herons. There are crocodiles in the reeds, and at night deby come up from the river to graze. I could hear them barking at one another from my bed chamber in my father's house.”
“I hear your father Ankhhor governs Ka-Khem well.”
Iset's features stilled for one heartbeat. Then she beamed. “Father will be pleased to know that the Great Royal Wife knows his name, and is satisfied with his work. I shall write to tell him.”
“Your district has always been important to Egypt's prosperity. Grain, flax, oxen...we cannot do without the wealth of Ka-Khem. I am grateful to Ankhhor for his wisdom and loyalty.”
“Ka-Khem was not always so fertile. My father has worked hard; he improved the planting and harvesting methods and increased his lands' yields threefold. It was his success as a land-owner that led your royal father to name him tjati, and he has taught all the lords of Ka-Khem how to improve their lands, too. He has been a good ruler.”
“Who ruled Ka-Khem before Ankhhor?”
Iset shrugged. “Some old man. Hapi...Hebi...I cannot recall his name. Father was glad to replace him, and glad for your royal father's blessing. In a stroke of Pharaoh's writing-brush our family became the highest in the district. Father was much impressed by how quickly a man's fortunes can change for the better, if one is in the good graces of the royal family.”
“Does your father love this? The wealth, the power?”
“He is very fond of power.”
Iset seemed to stare for a moment into a dark and forbidding distance. The sudden change in her sweet demeanor clutched at Hatshepsut's belly with a clawed hand. She pushed forward the plate of little honey cakes to distract the girl.
“What man does not love power, after all?” Hatshepsut said airily. “Men spend all their lives climbing the highest hill, don't they? But I have let this supper go cold. Tem, pour the lady Iset some wine. We must warm her up.”
Hatshepsut sipped sparingly at her own wine, barely wetting her lips as Iset told her all about the charms of Ka-Khem, the games she played as a child with her brother and sisters, the barley fields shining silver under the waters of the Inundation. When Iset had finished one cup of wine, Hatshepsut called Tem to pour another, but Iset placed her hand upon the rim. “Wine dizzies my heart quickly, and it would never do for me to lose my manners in the presence of the Great Royal Wife.”
Hatshepsut ground her teeth. She had planned to rely on the wine to loosen Iset's tongue. She would need to try another angle. She sat up and gestured Iset to join her on the couch. The girl seemed to hold her breath a moment; her wide, expressive eyes brimmed with delight as she paused, clutching her necklaces with one trembling hand. Then she stood slowly and crept to the Great Royal Wife's couch, sank onto it with tentative, breathless care.
Hatshepsut leaned toward Iset until her face nearly rested on the girl's shoulder. “The High Priest Nebseny. He is your father's brother, is he not?”
“He is, though I confess I do not know him well. He left for Waset to join the Amun priesthood when I was still a little girl. Father was furious. He...” Iset trailed off, uncertain, but Hatshepsut coaxed her words with a friendly touch, brushing the girl's shoulder with an encouraging hand. “My father Ankhhor has unusual ideas, Great Lady. They are not popular with everyone.”
“Unusual ideas? About what?”
“About the gods.”
“Oh?”
“He is a follower of the Aten.”
Hatshepsut drew back, an involuntary twitch of suspicion. The Aten could hardly be said to be a god. It was merely the roundness and brightness of the sun – a golden disc without will, without thought, without word or intent.
Iset turned toward her, raised her hands in swift conciliation. “I am devoted to Amun and Mut, Great Lady. Do not think that all of my father's house share his views.”
Hatshepsut shrugged. “It was only a moment's surprise. The Aten is a small god, and his influence is nothing beside Amun's power. I am not offended.”
“At any rate, Father was furious that Nebseny was leaving to serve Amun. Nebseny was Father's favorite brother, and before my own brother was born, he planned to make Nebseny his heir. So you can understand why he was so angry.”
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“Well, eventually Nebseny wrote to father from Waset to beg for vouchers and gold, for he had found trouble getting into the Temple of Amun – something about the Temple allowing the young men of Waset in first, before immigrants to the city – and he could find neither bread nor beer. He was living above a poor fruit-seller's shop, earning his very small keep by killing rats. Father decided he could not have Nebseny living in such a state, even if he had turned his back on the Aten. Word might get back to Ka-Khem and all the district would laugh at the house of Ankhhor. So he sent plenty of gold to Nebseny, enough to set him up with a home worthy of our family until he could convince the Temple of Amun to accept him. All it took was a few rats to reconcile them.” Iset gave off a quick burst of shrill, nervous laughter.
It afforded Hatshepsut some comfort to know that Nebseny once killed rats to earn his keep. But it also inspired in her a grudging respect. The High Priest was indeed devoted to Amun; that could not be denied.
“In fact it was probably Father's support that helped him attain his station. He came to Waset a beggar, but thanks to Father, he rose to become a lord. And see where he is now!”
“It is a tale to sing of,” Hatshepsut said, musing. “And you, Iset? What does your father think of you?”
“Oh...Father has always been good to me.”
“How so?”
“I wanted for nothing growing up in his house.”
“Did he dote on you?” Hatshepsut reached for the wine jar, but Iset's hand was there before her own. She allowed the girl to fill her cup. Serving her wine seemed to distract Iset from the question; once Hatshepsut raised the cup to her lips, Iset reluctantly went on.
“Father? Oh, no. He provided all we could want, but he is not a man to dote.” Her voice sank, barely more than a whisper. Anxiety widened her eyes. “He is very stern. He does not approve of families that spoil their daughters.”
“But even so, you must be his most beloved daughter. Why else would he send you to Pharaoh's harem, unless he wanted you to have a life of great leisure and beauty?”
“It has all been so beautiful,” Iset agreed. “I suppose Father thinks highly of me, yes. He taught me the value of obedience when I was very young, and I have always been quick to do his will. My sisters are sometimes rebellious, but not I. And now here I am, living in a splendid palace, with everything I could wish for at my fingertips. Ah – and I am far from Ka-Khem. I miss it sometimes, but on the whole it is better to be in Waset.”
It was not the beauty and ease of harem life that Ankhhor wanted for his favorite daughter. Now that she had some measure of the man, Hatshepsut was sure of that.
“I know the king was pleased when your father made a gift of you. News of your beauty and sweetness sailed up the river before you, and you have not disappointed.”
She blushed. Her smile was shy and tremulous. “I do my best not to disappoint, Great Lady.”
“Has the king favored you?”
Iset's mouth tightened. A certain hesitancy came over her, stilling her features and widening her eyes. “He has not yet. The king favors few women, and when they emerge from his chamber all they speak of are his wandering hands and crass jokes.” She flushed again, realizing she had spoken ill of the Pharaoh. “Oh! Begging your pardon, Great Lady. I did not mean....”
Hatshepsut barked a laugh. “Never apologize to me for telling the truth, Iset. The king is still a boy. He will figure out how to get his sons one day.”
Only half of Iset's pretty mouth curved into a smile. Hatshepsut thought she could see distaste there. It was not the opportunity to lie with the king that stirred Iset's enthusiasm for the harem life.
When their conversation had run its course, Hatshepsut called Ita and Tem to show Iset back to the courtyard and her litter. Iset bade her farewell with a charming bow, shy and flustered and appealingly meek.
Sitre-In arrived with more serving women, who at once set about clearing away the remains of the meal. She stood a moment, eying Hatshepsut with a skeptical stare that bordered on insolence. “What in the name of the green grass was all that about?”
“Pharaoh sails north in two days, does he not?”
“You know he does. He goes to bless the temples of the Delta, and to meet with the builders Ankh-Tawy. He desires monuments, or some such; perhaps a tomb. I don't know all the details. Why?”
“I shall sail with him. Send for my stewards in the morning. They will manage the court while I am away.”
Sitre-In narrowed her eyes. “What are you planning, Hatet?”
Hatshepsut leaned back on her couch, letting her shoulders droop, her chin fall. She hoped she looked innocent. “Isn't it time the Great Royal Wife accompanied her husband on his travels? The court will think us strange if we are always apart. Perhaps I wish to build some monuments of my own. Oh, don't scowl at me, Mawat. I am itching for adventure, that's all. Life is so boring here. I have not been out of Waset since I was four years old.”
“Whatever you are plotting, I know you well enough to know that you won't tell me until it's too late to stop you.” Sitre-In dusted her hands together, brushing her own misgivings to the floor. “Very well; I will gather the Great Lady's stewards in the morning, as she commands.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HATSHEPSUT SHIFTED ON HER THRONE, willing herself not to swing her feet or fidget with her hands. The day's court session brought an endless stream of nobles with petty gripes, merchants complaining of taxes, ladies begging favors of the throne.
The king's throne beside her was empty, as it so often was. Thutmose was habitually here and gone, sailing to and from Waset's harbor like a desert rat popping in and out of its burrow. He had left for his trip northward a day early with no word of it to Hatshepsut except by one of his stewards. By the time the news had reached her it was too late to join the Pharaoh on his ship. No matter. I shall take a boat of my own. It would be more pleasant by far to sail without Thutmose. She imagined how he would react to the sight of her ship chasing him up the Iteru, overtaking him, sliding past and far beyond as she waved sweetly to him from her deck. The prospect obliged her to suck in her cheeks to chase the smile from her face.
On the morrow she would turn the court over to her most trusted administrator, Wadjetefni, her mother's former steward, and begin her journey north. Wadjetefni was a man well-versed in the running of the kingdom; she placed the throne in his hands with full confidence and considerable relief. But the man had not assumed the burden yet, and the day taunted her with its slowness.
The Overseer of the Granaries of Amun was reading, in his flat, droning voice, figure after figure from a sheaf of papyrus. Hatshepsut squinted her eyes to keep her mind focused on his tallies and predictions for the harvest. This year should see a record reaping of grain. Egypt's wealth would increase many-fold; the stores would overflow.
The gods were well pleased with Thutmose on the throne. That truth could not be denied, and still made her sorrowful at times, when she was alone in her apartments and no one, not even her servants, could see her grief. She felt now and then a distant, distracting stab, a thin sense of betrayal and confusion, most prevalent when thoughts turned to her father. She had been so sure, reading over the scroll of Waser-hat. She had felt so powerful on the steps of Amun's temple with the knife in her hand. It had all felt so maat. But Thutmose the First had not named her heir after all. It had all been an illusion, that trip to Annu, the memories of the old priests. This was maat: Thutmose as king, and Hatshepsut his Great Royal Wife. It must be true, or the land would not fare so well.
The Overseer concluded his presentation. Hatshepsut made the appropriate signs of approval – a nod, a wave of the hand – and he was led away.
Wadjetefni came forward, bowed with a scroll in his hand. “An envoy from Retjenu, Great Lady, seeking the succor of Pharaoh.”
Retjenu lay far to the north and east of Egypt's borders. It was a land of blighted desert; its people were prideful and difficult;
they never shaved and clothed themselves in coarse, inelegant wool, and seemed to take yet more pride in their uncivilized appearance. Even their kings dwelt in tents among their flocks of sheep, as dirty as rekhet children, as arrogant as falcons. She braced herself, putting on a stern expression to forestall the presumptions this Retjenu man was certain to make, as the crowd in the great hall parted to admit the envoy to her presence. But the man who stepped forward was haggard beneath his tangled, unkempt hair and beard. His skin was sickly pale. And his eyes stared hollowly, vacant as if his ka had half-fled. He carried with him a letter for the Pharaoh and an air of great strain, the like of which she had never before seen on a Retjenu. Wadjetefni accepted the letter and read it aloud for her as she sat, still and regal on her gilded seat, gazing down upon the wretched man.
“To Mighty Pharaoh, lord of the great life-giving river, from all the chieftains of this land which you call Retjenu, which we call Canaan. We are your humblest servants. We proclaim your strength! Ever has our land been a friend to Egypt. We send this man to you in our direst despair. The rains were insufficient. Our herds already grow weak. We send him now, praying to God that he reaches Mighty Pharaoh in time. By the time he stands before you a drought most terrible will have befallen us. Never in hundreds of years have we suffered so. We beg grain from Egypt, that our children and wives will not starve. Take pity on us, Mighty Pharaoh! All know that Pharaoh's heart is as kind as his arm is strong. Be moved by the suffering of our little ones. Without your aid they will surely starve. We beg this of you as your most dedicated servants.”
Hatshepsut watched the envoy as Wadjetefni read. His bleak eyes roamed over the foot of the throne, seeing nothing. She wondered if he had left a wife and little ones at home, in his rough desert tent, surrounded by his starving, dying herds – all of his wealth on mortal hoof, dropping into the harsh dust of his savage land. The man, for all his foreign ways, for his strange wool garb and his long, goatish beard, had eyes like Senenmut's on their last day together, stricken and pained.
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