He turned his face to look at her. Tears shone in her eyes.
“My father always told me that maat was everything, that it was the very soul of the sun, the essence that created life. What has maat given me – given us?”
“Us?”
“Not only you and me – all of Egypt. Thutmose on the throne – a Pharaoh who runs from his enemies. A child-king whose only cares to play with his harem pets. Maat has left me isolated – left me to fight for my station while some northern tjati plots to strip it from me. It has left me to fortify our borders when my husband cannot be bothered to even know where the borders lie! It has left me to see to the court, to worship, to justice – alone!” She knelt above him, took his face in cold, hard hands. “If I were Pharaoh – if I had had the strength to claim the throne when I should have, you would be my Great Royal Husband. Don't laugh! I would have made it so. Who would have dared stop me?”
“The priests of Amun, for one. And all the nobility for another. Even a Pharaoh cannot act without some restraint.”
She sagged into the grass. “I know. I know it's hopeless even to think of it. It always was hopeless, no matter what my mother thought. Ahmose and her useless visions.” They both lay silent, empty as forgotten vessels. Senenmut watched the moon slide in among the branches of the sycamore, a slow and inevitable sinking.
Hatshepsut reached for him. His hand moved to intercept hers; their fingers laced together. She whispered, “But I still do not care. About maat.”
And in one quick movement she was atop him again, her face eclipsing the moon. Its light limned her in silver, and she hung for a moment poised among the stars. The glow around her seemed the presence of her ka itself – of all her kas, bursting from this body that could not contain them, could not house such greatness – by the gods, it was impossible, she was impossible, and maat was impossible, and Senenmut cared nothing for it, nothing. Reverent, he cupped her face in his hands, held her with trembling awe. She leaned, and slowly her eyes closed, and her mouth found his, and he could isolate her by facets no more. Every fire inside him woke at once. His senses brimmed, left him helpless beneath her, weakened, pinioned by her intensity, her shining. He panted, unmoving, as she pushed his kilt aside. He shut his eyes when she raised the skirts of her gown to her waist. As they came together, she moaning, he holding his breath, he thought perhaps the light of her kas would burn him away. It would burn maat itself away, and Senenmut would rejoice to see the flames.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE HATHOR FESTIVAL WAS OVER. Hatshepsut had performed all the rites of worship, presided with the Pharaoh over the great feast, her entire body tensed in anticipation of danger. Since falling pregnant, the terrifying dreams had returned, the nightmare of birthing the goddess who turned to Sekhmet before her eyes, who thirsted for her blood. Thutmose's coldness had only made the Hathor Festival a greater strain. He turned toward her only when ceremony or propriety demanded, and when he looked into her face it was with a force of loathing that chilled her from within. Yet no ill had befallen her. Hathor seemed appeased once more; the year would progress, fertile and pleasant. And perhaps her dreams would recede, too.
She lay in her bed watching the sun rise through her wall of pillars. Her heart reverberated with the feel of the nightmare's familiar impression: the dull, dense surprise as the cow-goddess drifted from between her bloodied thighs, light and airy; her rising horror as the form of Hathor stretched, lengthened, the lovable face distorting with a grimace of rage, the teeth turning to white daggers, the eyes to blind fire.
She rolled from her bed, stood warily. She was four months with child now. The morning illness had mostly left her, though some days she still felt dizzy and sick on rising. This morning she was lucky. Her legs were strong, her stomach without complaint. The morning air on her naked body felt fresh and bracing; she stretched; the dream recede into nothingness, and she shivered with relief and pleasure.
It was Iset who arrived to dress her. Hatshepsut greeted her with some surprise. “Are you to be the mistress of my bedchamber now?”
“No; only a dear friend who misses her lady. With the festival and the harvest, and all your travels, I have not seen you for so long – and Little Tut, of course. He keeps me well occupied. I paid Tem a silver bracelet to sleep late so that I could have the honor of dressing the Great Royal Wife.”
Hatshepsut embraced her. “Iset. I have missed you; don't think I have not. These past months have been frantic, but you have been always with me, sister of my heart.” She kissed her cheek. Iset's smile was as soft and lovely as the dawn light. “How is the boy?”
“Wonderful. He is so strong, so smart. He's beginning to talk, I think. At least, he tries. His nurse says he is the best baby she has ever cared for.”
“I believe it.”
Iset went to Hatshepsut's great free-standing chest and pawed inside, searching for her favorite gown. “Shall I give you some harem gossip, just like old times?”
“Have you been to the House of Women?”
“Ah, I like to take Tut there to play with the other babies. None of them are as adorable as he, though. I think the other mothers are envious.”
“Surely your gossip is not of jealous mawats.”
“Oh, no. It seems your husband has lost face among his soldiers.”
“The only thing that surprises me about that news is that it took so long to reach Waset.”
“Many of the concubines are from good Waset families, you know, and their mothers and sisters often come to visit. Apparently one can hear whispers in this wine house or that.”
“What sort of whispers?”
Iset found the dress she sought, blue with golden thread at the hem. She held it to her cheek a moment, admiring the softness of the fabric. You are two years older than I, and already a mother, Hatshepsut thought, watching with some wistfulness. And yet you are so innocent, you may as well be a child. She felt a sudden urge to shelter Iset. But whether she needed protection from her family's plotting or from Hatshepsut's own, she could not say. The realization made her ashamed and angry, as it did whenever she allowed her heart to turn to thoughts of the girl.
“Whispers that say the Pharaoh is weaker than a woman.”
“He cannot like that. Has he heard?”
“That I cannot say. But he has gathered up Tabiry and her girls – it seems he plans to leave Waset again. They say he plans to return to Kush and make war, to regain the respect of the southern garrison.”
“How utterly ridiculous. Will he never learn?”
Iset draped the blue dress over Hatshepsut's shoulders, and bent to tie it just so at her waist. Her face came level with Hatshepsut's chest, and she halted, staring. Her breasts had grown yet more, she knew. They were certainly a good deal fuller than when Iset had seen her last. She waited, silent and still, for Iset to speak. The girl placed one hand on Hatshepsut's belly, felt the small rising swell. She jerked upright, and though she said nothing, her face was eloquent with fear.
“Yes,” Hatshepsut said.
“Oh.”
“When I went south to inspect the fortress, I lay with Thutmose, and I have conceived.”
Iset nodded, looked down at her feet. The dress lay forgotten about Hatshepsut's shoulders; she knotted it herself, doing a poorer job than Iset would have done. It pulled across her stomach in a way that seemed to accent its slight roundness.
“Iset, I know what you are thinking. Here, sit with me.” She took her by the hand, led her to the bed. Iset's skin was cold and pale. “Your son will remain the heir, Iset. I swear it. Even if I should bear a boy, he will wait in line behind Little Tut. My child will be his brother's heir, not our husband's.”
“But you are the Great Royal Wife. Your sons come before any other's. It has always been the custom.”
Only if they are sired by the Pharaoh. “Then I shall change the custom,” she said lightly. “You and I have shared much. You are more than a friend to me, Iset; you are my heart's
sister. When I think on Little Tut, I think on my own child. When I hold him, I hold my own son in my arms. We share him together. He was our idea, together; we created him. Do you remember how we decided, that night in Peret, with the owl calling in the garden?”
Iset nodded, then grinned ruefully. “Though I did all the work in making him.”
“And that is why you are King's Mother, and ever will be. No one will take that from you.” For if they do, all I have will be taken from me. Oh, Iset, how I wish I could tell you everything – all of it: your father's plot for you, and Senenmut, and how I have used you, too, to protect my own interests. But I cannot. You would not understand. You are too innocent. You would never understand.
Iset's eyes filled with tears; they spilled over to run down her smooth cheeks.
Hatshepsut gathered her to her chest. She could not tell whether the girl cried with relief or sorrow. The gods damn this throne, and everything I have done to keep it. And the gods damn me, for wanting more.
It was only in the afternoon, when Hatshepsut had seen to her courtly duties and was free to take her leisure in her garden, that she wondered how she would explain Little Tut to the nobles and priests. When she birthed her son, they would all expect him to be named the heir. And she would change the custom, as she had promised Iset, as she had promised Nebseny and Ankhhor, to set a harem girl's child above her own – no, not even a harem girl, but a servant. What excuse would her people believe? What could she possibly tell them to save herself, to save Senenmut, to save all of it? She felt a twisting in her belly. Perhaps the child had moved, or perhaps it was merely her own anxiety curling there, a fist beneath her heart.
“Hatshepsut?” Sitre-In's voice called from the direction of her chambers. She walked back steadily, slowly, resisting the childish urge to run to her mawat, to bury her face in her skirts and weep.
“What is it?”
“Your steward is here, Great Lady.”
“Senenmut?”
“He has an urgent report for you, so he says.”
The report was chilling. Senenmut recounted how, not an hour gone, the court magicians had begged an emergency council with the Pharaoh. They had consulted their charts of the stars, their lists of days, and had brought the dire news of a fire in the night sky.
“A fire? What in Amun's name does it mean?”
“I have read of such things,” Senenmut said, talking low so his words would not carry to her women.
Hatshepsut stared vacantly at the thin, frail shape of Batiret; she watched the girl drop her spindle awkwardly in the shade, a stern furrow between her brows, while Ita and Tem spun deftly, their mouths moving on their incessant gossip.
“Fires hang among the stars at intervals of tens or of hundreds of years. They are portents, Lady. They foretell great dangers or evils.”
“What am I to do about this?”
“There is nothing you can do,” Senenmut said. “I only wanted you to be prepared, for the people will surely make much of it. When fear runs through a city, there can be riots.”
“This hanging fire – does it tell of a god's displeasure? Is it a sign of Amun's wrath?”
He held her eyes, steady and silent. At last he said, “You and I have nothing to fear.”
“I hope you are right.”
She dismissed him and returned to the solitude of her garden. The gods' displeasure – Hatshepsut shivered, though the afternoon was hot and buzzing with flies. The child twisted again in her belly; her heart lurched in response. Great dangers or evils. If indeed the gods were preparing to punish Egypt, it was due to their anger with the throne. It could be nothing else, for the Pharaoh's divine purpose was to act as conduit between gods and men. Responsibility fell upon the throne. But was it Thutmose's weakness that displeased them, or some other lack? Is it his absence from the throne they abhor – or mine?
She sat miserable in the brutal glare of the sun, slouched upon the grass where days before she had rolled with Senenmut. A wide and terrible vista opened before her, a scene of all her transgressions, all her failures in maat. She, the Great Royal Wife, carried a child that was not the king's. She had sworn to put her own son aside – the child of the Great Royal Wife's body, regardless of who sired him – in favor of Little Tut. And she had spurned the throne of the king when she knew it to be her birthright. Any of these, or all together, might be the cause of the hanging fire. But she felt, deep in the seat of her kas, that the coming fire would burn for her.
“It is me,” she said, her face turned to the blazing sun. Its heat dried the tears as they welled from her eyes. “I have done wrong, O Amun-Re, my lord and my father! Only show me how to make it right again, and I shall!”
Amun gave no answer. He only sank into his western seat, pulling his light from the world with an inexorable slowness. Hatshepsut feared the coming night. When the first star appeared, hanging bright and silver above her lake, she shivered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SHE MOVED ON A SMOOTH current. With the curtains of her litter drawn tight, shutting out the sight of the terrible night sky, she may as well have been sailing. Upriver, to Ka-Khem. She recalled the angry coughing of the deby far in the darkened marsh, the feel of Lady Iah's soft bed, its cool linens on her skin. She shut her eyes to push the images further away, the things she wished not to see, not to feel. Iset lying in her arms, gentle and trusting – Little Tut smiling upon her knee, reaching for her with his fat little hands, his skin as soft and sweet-smelling as down. Senenmut – that was most painful of all – Senenmut in the garden, moonlit and shadowed, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure.
Her hands were cold. They clutched a small bag, simple and unassuming, pure plain linen drawn with a string. She could feel the prickle of the herbs' stems poking through the cloth, digging into her fingers and palms.
Long before full darkness had come, the hanging fire had revealed itself, poised high above her garden, a silver slash of unmoving, unwinking light. It seemed to point directly down to where she sat huddled beside the lake's stone wall. It was the track of a fierce, bright claw scoring the flesh of the night; it was the scepter of Hathor, the Sovereign of Stars, and Hatshepsut did not know how to appease the goddess's rage.
The priestess Bakmut had provided the herbs. She had ever been loyal to Hatshepsut; she was sensible, old enough to spurn gossip, and had pledged herself to the confidence of the God's Wife. In Bakmut's small sleeping cell, Hatshepsut had made the priestess swear secrecy upon the very ka of Amun, then had whispered her need. Two days later, she had returned to the Temple as they agreed, and Bakmut had slipped the bag into her hands.
The placid sailing of her litter came to an abrupt halt. It lowered, and the curtain was drawn aside. She held up her hand as a sunshade although it was night, as if her hand might block Hathor's scepter from her sight. But its light was everywhere. It had intensified the past two nights, and now it added to the familiar cast of moon and stars a foreign, frightening glow. Nehesi pulled her to her feet. He escorted her back to the echoing solitude of her chamber. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground so she would not see the hanging fire.
Alone in her room, she took an offering bowl from her shrine box. She filled it with oil and myrrh, fanned a flame alight, wafted the smoke over the tiny figures of the holy family, Amun the father, Khonsu the son, Mut the mother. The sweet smoke wreathed Mut in a halo of white, and Hatshepsut crouched frozen, staring into the face of the goddess, staring through the goddess into a deep blackness where the air was thick and choking.
I do this for Egypt, she told Mut. The child craves for flesh, for blood, and by night my dreams are of Sekhmet. Hathor hangs her scepter in the sky, and points to my shame. Would you have me unleash destruction upon my land?
Mut did not answer. She only smiled, her eyes distant, her mouth enigmatic and still.
She shifted on her knees, bending under the weight of her duty. She remembered the sound of soldiers shouting her name. They are mine. I raced
with the news of the ambush; I came down from the hills to protect them. I am their guardian. They are my people, mine to protect. She squeezed her eyes shut, for on the curling of the smoke she saw Senenmut at her wedding feast, turning away from the painted girl, the golden acrobat with the chains of flowers around her slender, beautiful neck. She saw his face turn up to hers, saw the ache of desire pulse through him. She trembled. Amun, let this be right. My god, let this be all that is required of me. I cannot sacrifice more.
When she stood, the alien silver light had fallen low through her pillared wall, coloring the floor of her bedchamber with patterns of blue and white. She did not know how long she knelt, how long she prayed. Her knees were tender; they would be bruised in the morning.
In her standing chest she found a tiny silver kettle, part of the treasure she had kept from Retjenu. She dipped it full of water from her ewer and set it among the glowing embers of myrrh in her offering bowl. The droplets on the outside hissed into steam. When the water was hot, she measured a quarter of the bag of herbs and let the dry, bitter leaves fall from her palm. They turned the water dark. A delicate, green scent rose with the steam. Carefully, with a corner of her blanket wrapped round her hand, she poured the brew into her wine cup. She offered one final plea to Amun for mercy, to Mut for forgiveness. She drank.
Hatshepsut huddled on the low wall of her lake. Hathor's scepter hung above, pointing its accusing, clawed finger. Its reflection sent a path of silver light from water to heavens. The brightness attracted moths; they spun in a column of luminous, flitting wings, revolving and tapering like the fingers of dust that sometimes grew up from the desert on especially hot days. She watched the image of the scepter shatter and reform as bats dipped to the lake's surface with a touch as light as Maat's feather, strafing for the insects.
The She-King: The Complete Saga Page 51
