The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “I know Ankhhor to be a devotee of the Aten,” Hatshepsut said. “Indeed Amun's divinity means nothing to him, nor any other god's. He cares only for the physical aspect of the sun: that which he can see, a soulless fire without will or intent. His family – his daughter, his brother – they were pawns to him, tools of his will, and he intended their use to glorify not only himself, but his god, who is bereft of all good things, even of life.

  “I take your meaning, Hapuseneb. My husband was a child under Nebseny's influence, and had Ankhhor succeeded in killing me, Iset would now be Great Royal Wife, and God's Wife, too. It would all have gone to Ankhhor, and to the Aten.

  “The throne of Egypt must never again be so easily manipulated. Amun must not be so threatened. I will not see maat come under a godless man's assault, not so long as I draw breath.”

  She stood. Her head spun with the effort, but she held herself proud and straight. “My father was crowned Pharaoh though he was not a king's son. Why? Because the Heqa-Khasewet champed at our borders, waiting for a king to fall, waiting for a weakened Egypt to topple into their grasp. Instead, Thutmose the First fell upon them, and slaughtered them like dogs. He taught them the truth of Egypt's strength. Now, it seems, another enemy clamors for Egypt's weakness. But neither Ankhhor nor any other ambitious man shall sink his claws into the throne and claim it for his own self.

  “My son Thutmose is an infant. He will grow into a great man; by the gods, I swear it. But now he hardly walks two steps under his own power. When I see Ankhhor's hand laid at my feet, which man will rise up next to try to seize the throne of Thutmose the Third?”

  “Begging your pardon, Great Lady,” said Sikhepri, old and fat, but deft in his politics, “you must marry again. Take a new man as king, and young Thutmose may be his heir, to rule when your new husband goes to the Field of Reeds. A grown man on the throne, sure of himself, formidable – that would put an end to schemers such as Ankhhor.”

  “I performed the funerary rites in Thutmose's name,” she said. “I opened his father's mouth, and my hand was my son's. No; by law – by the will of the gods – Thutmose the Third is already your king, and no man's heir. That shall not change. But the Pharaoh needs a co-regent.”

  “You, of course, Great Lady,” Hapuseneb said. “You are the wife of his dead father, and you have accounted yourself well as queen.”

  She inclined her head in acceptance of the praise, but she said, “No. Put Egypt in the hands of a queen regent, and Egypt still has only a child for Pharaoh. A child will be a target for any man of Ankhhor's stripe: a temptation too great to ignore. As Sikhepri said, it is a formidable man Thutmose needs beside him: another Pharaoh. A joint kingship: that is what I propose. A leader who will guide him as he grows, and share the throne equally when he is of age. Not a queen whom every man in Egypt knows will be retired to some estate the moment the Pharaoh is strong enough to draw a bow.”

  “You will marry, then, Great Lady?” someone ventured. A few noblemen glanced doubtfully at Senenmut where he sat upon the floor.

  She lifted her chin, gazed down the length of the great hall, and met no man's eye. “In my blood is the right to the throne. In three days' time I shall present to you – shall present to all of Waset – my son's co-regent, your new king.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  DAWN HAD NOT YET COME. The promise of it hung in the air, a shimmer of expectation. Hatshepsut parted the draperies that hid from her the great railed balcony known as the Window of Appearances. From that balcony she would look down from the palace's height, through the sun's morning rays onto a crowd of waiting citizens. But the plaza was empty yet, still grayed by the memory of the retreating night. The darkness lessened to the east, but the sky was still colorless. She wondered, what hue would this morning's sunrise be? Red and pink and gold, like any other, no doubt. The thought soothed her somewhat, but still her belly was a knot of tension.

  She turned back to her women. In this unfamiliar room, situated at the palace's highest point, they fumbled here and there, tripping over the chests they had brought up from her chambers. A guard clapped outside. She nodded to Tem; the woman demanded to know who sought entry to the presence of the God's Wife. There was a time when she trusted any guard, and would have ordered the doors opened at once. Never again.

  Tem swung the doors wide to admit Senenmut, then shut them quickly again. Her Chief Steward bore the outline of a long, flat box across his forearms, concealed by a drape of linen. She plucked the cloth aside. The box was very fine, leafed in gold, lined along its edges in brilliant cabochons of carnelian and turquoise. The lid was carved with the image of the winged scarab bearing the sun-disk upon its outstretched forelegs. Her eyes rose from the lid of the box to meet Senenmut's. They shared a conspiratorial smile.

  “Dress me,” she commanded her women. They took her gown from her, the simple linen traveling dress she had worn on that fateful journey south. The pre-dawn air raised a chill on her skin, and all at once she ached for the feel of Iset's warmth beneath her bed-linens. But she turned, faced Senenmut, her limbs trembling. He did not avert her eyes from her nakedness.

  Ita and Tem bent over the chests. They withdrew a man's long kilt, folded and pleated. She held out her arms as they wound it about her hips, secured it with an intricate knot. Ita lifted from the chest a golden belt, and fastened it, too, around Hatshepsut's waist. It featured a long apron beaded with the image of the cobra goddess, Wadjet, the protector of the king. They painted her eyes simply, lining them in kohl, forgoing the bright colors and intricate wings of a courtly lady. Her chest they left bare, except to blow a sheen of golden dust upon her nipples.

  Another clap at the door. Senenmut turned to give the challenge, and Hatshepsut's eyes watered when Ahmose's voice answered.

  “Admit her.”

  Ahmose stepped into the chamber behind the Window of Appearances with the quick movements of trepidation. But when she looked upon her daughter, a smile chased the worry from her face.

  Tem opened a second chest. Her hands hung suspended over its contents, fearing to touch.

  “Dress me,” Hatshepsut said again. With trembling awe, the woman withdrew the blue-and-white banded cloth of the Nemes crown, the symbol of the Pharaoh's power. It had taken some doing to procure it. The men whose duty it was to guard the sacred vestments of the Pharaoh did not take their work lightly. She had been obliged to send for a scribe and put into writing her proclamation that Senenmut was now the Steward of the Diadem, outranking the guards. They had given way quick enough when they saw the scroll, marked with the symbol of the king: for did she not speak in Thutmose's name, and enact all of his desires? “He desires nothing but his nurse's breast,” Senenmut had muttered. “Ah, well, you have already given me more titles than I can count. What is one more?”

  Tem affixed the cobra circlet to Hatshepsut's brow, and reverently tied the crown into place, folding and draping its long arms over her shoulders, gathering it with golden bands at her nape.

  “Yes,” Ahmose said. It was a word weighted with the fulfillment of a lifetime's longing.

  Hatshepsut considered her mother for a long moment. Her eyes rested on the lines of Ahmose's brow.

  “Leave us, all except Nehesi,” she said to her servants. They departed; even Senenmut. When she was alone with her mother, she allowed her lips, her chin to tremble with the force of her doubt. “Will this work, Mawat?”

  Ahmose took her hand. “You know it is the will of Amun. You feel it in your heart.”

  Hatshepsut nodded, though all she felt in her heart was the terrible ache for Iset, the same pain that had plagued her these three days past. It would never leave her, she knew.

  “Besides,” Ahmose said, smiling, “your steward has worked hard, I think, to ensure that it will.”

  Hatshepsut laughed, looked away, abashed. Senenmut had hardly slept for the span of those three days. He had formed up a contingent of loyal men, and in the name of the Great Lady they had gone from h
ouse to house, blessing each with vouchers for bread and beer, with baubles confiscated from the High Priest's own storehouse. “If this does not bring the people to your cause,” Senenmut had said, “not even an act of the gods could do it.” “I only need to buy their loyalty until they grow used to the idea.” “One good flood will convince them. And if it does not, I will think of something else.”

  A murmur sounded outside the door. Hatshepsut glanced around for Nehesi, but he was already moving, one hand on his dagger.

  “Who is it?”

  The door guard's answer was hesitant, muffled. “Er – the Lady Iah of Ka-Khem.”

  “No; send her away,” Ahmose said. Her grip tightened on Hatshepsut's hand.

  “Admit her.”

  “Hatshepsut!”

  “What can she do against my guard? I say admit her, Nehesi.”

  He did as he was commanded.

  Iah tottered into the room, her fine dress soiled with some ugly, oily stain. Her face was dark with smudged kohl, the locks of her wig matted. She stared at Hatshepsut for a long, silent moment, uncomprehending. Then with a cry she threw herself to the floor, her palms stretched along the ground. A fine-woven bag lay where she had dropped it; a brown stain marred its corner.

  “Rise.”

  “God's Wife. Great Lady,” Iah sobbed, her face still pressed to the floor. Hatshepsut bent to her, guided her upright, folded her in an embrace. “Oh, gods, my daughter, my child!”

  Iah's tears fell upon her shoulder, left their mark on the cloth of the Nemes crown.

  “He brought you to Waset after all.”

  “Yes, Great Lady. He made me come. He promised me that I would see Iset again, see her...” she faltered. “See her crowned.”

  “I know.”

  Nehesi stooped, lifted the bag. He raised an eyebrow, a grim, unspoken question.

  “You brought me a gift, I see,” Hatshepsut said. “How did you do it? Tell me, if the telling isn't too much for you.”

  “We stayed at Nebseny's fine home – the one at the edge of the city, with the fountain in the courtyard. The day after...after the funeral, I was sitting beside the fountain cooling myself when I heard the criers in the street. I heard Ankhhor's name, and held my breath to listen. The criers were moving from home to home, you know how they do. They stood outside Nebseny's gateway and shouted that Ankhhor's life was forfeit. They did not know we were there; they only shouted their business and moved on. But they said Ankhhor had attempted to poison the Great Royal Wife, and that the King's...the King's Mother....”

  “Yes, all right; go on.”

  “I turned to run into the house, for I was frightened, and suddenly Ankhhor was there beside me. He had no remorse, Great Lady. I saw it on his face. His only thought was how he could get out of the city alive. I knew, looking at him, watching the thoughts churning within his heart, that he had no care for my Iset, nor even for me; that he would leave me behind if it came to that, and I would never see my living children again.”

  She buried her face in her hands, drawing wild, panicked breaths. Ahmose moved to her side, stroked her arms until she calmed.

  “I vowed inside my heart that he would not separate me from another of my children, that none of us would be his pawns again. I faced him calmly – the gods know how I found the strength to do it, for inside, my ka screamed Iset's name. But I faced him, and told him, 'We must prepare to leave. Come inside with me; we will disguise ourselves, and when night falls we will make our way to the quay and hire a different ship. We will be gone with the sunrise.'

  “The gods blessed me, for he came along willingly. He was like a black bull going to the slaughter, arrogant and unknowing. I opened my chest and began holding up garments, suggesting how to hide our identities. And when he came close, I looped my shawl around his neck and tightened it. He fought; he was strong. But the gods gave me their strength. They did it for Iset's sake. I was stronger.”

  Nehesi opened the bag. Hatshepsut glanced inside; the hand was pale, curled like a leopard's claw.

  “What reward do you seek, Lady Iah?”

  “None,” she replied, eyes downcast. “It is enough to be free of him. It is enough to know that he will take no more of my children for his own ends, and discard their lives like so much meaningless refuse.”

  “All the same, I will see you rewarded.”

  “Then grant me, Great Lady, my husband's wealth. I would use it to restore the temples of Waser and Iset in Ka-Khem, those he allowed to fall into disrepair. I will re-dedicate them in my daughter's name.”

  “It will be as you say. And this thing more: there will always be a place for you at court, Lady Iah – for you and your children. Whenever you wish to stay in Waset, to see your grandson grow, you will have an honored place by my side.”

  “My grandson.”

  “He has Iset's face. Would you see him?”

  Iah's eyes brimmed with tears. She could not speak. Ahmose moved to the door, summoned Little Tut and his nurse. Iah took the Pharaoh into her arms with a cry that tore at Hatshepsut's heart. It was a sound of immeasurable loss and love.

  Senenmut crept back into the chamber. “Great Lady? It is time.”

  She turned to stare at the drapery, suddenly overwhelmed with fear. The hair's-breadth crack between the heavy curtains glowed with light, a forceful red that struck tears into her eyes.

  “Senenmut. I cannot do it.”

  “Certainly you can.” He pulled the final kingly trapping from its chest: the ceremonial false beard, one great lock of braided lapis and gold. He tied it below her chin. She flinched from its stiff, unwieldy weight.

  Iah's pained cry settled into silence, and Hatshepsut heard the voices of scores of people – hundreds of people, gathered in the plaza below the Window. The nobles and priests were there, waiting to see the man she had chosen to reign beside Thutmose.

  “When they look on me they will jeer and spit.”

  “Trust in the work of your steward,” Senenmut said. “You did not choose him because he is a fool.”

  No. I chose him because I love him. Because he is as the breath of life to me, the brother of my heart. And in the great hall I spoke from my heart's pain, because my sister is dead. Gods save me, I am a fool. “I am acting on my heart's whim,” she said, protesting. “Wine on a fire. Is this maat? I do not know; I cannot see.”

  “And you do not care,” Senenmut whispered.

  Gently, Ahmose took Little Tut from Iah's arms. With the babe on her shoulder she drew the curtain aside. Tut gazed at Hatshepsut with Iset's eyes, trusting and loving. The morning light burst into the room. The crowd cheered, chanted. Their voices pulled her out onto the balcony, into the warm, golden dawn.

  She looked down from a great height; the balcony seemed to rise beneath her, to stretch her higher into the clear new sky. She saw the faces of the nobles clustered below, their eyes and mouths round with shock. The crowd's cheer faltered to a murmur of confusion. Her throat went tight.

  Ahmose stepped to her right, Thutmose riding on her hip. Senenmut appeared to her left, the long gilded box in his arms. He lifted the scarab lid away. Inside, lying on a red silken cushion, lay the dual staffs of the Pharaoh's divine office.

  Amun, if I am your son in truth, turn their hearts to me.

  She took the crook and flail in her trembling hands. She crossed them at her chest, held them before her bared breasts for her people to see.

  Hapuseneb was the first to shout his acclaim, his palms raised high. But quickly the crowd, their hands full of Senenmut's gifts, took up his chant, until the nobles, too, were forced to raise hands and voices in salute.

  The light of the god spilled upon her face, warmed her hands. A ribbon of light ran across the river, touched the distant red cliffs, set them aglow. The god heard their voices as he ascended to the height of heaven. Her name rebounded from the fiery heart of Amun-Re, and the sound of it filled the whole of the Two Lands.

  So said Amun, lord of the Two Lands,
before his daughter Hatshepsut: Come to me in peace, daughter of my loins, beloved Maatkare. Thou art the king who takes possession of the diadem on the Throne of Horus of the Living, eternally.

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

  THE END

  THE CROOK AND FLAIL

  The She-King: Book Two

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  Skip ahead to SOVEREIGN OF STARS: Book Three

  "Remember the Mistress of the West, the Sovereign of Stars. If she asks any gift of you, you must not deny her, God's Wife."

  Hatshepsut has fulfilled her divine destiny and taken the Pharaoh's throne. But she knows her position is precarious. In all Egypt's long history, never has a woman ruled as king -- and Hatshepsut must use all the cleverness and bravery at her disposal to keep the reins of power from tangling in her fist.

  As she wrestles with foreign enemies and domestic politics, her heart becomes ever more troubled. Her daughter Neferure, distant and strange since infancy, is chosen by one goddess in particular: Hathor, the Sovereign of Stars, she who wears seven faces -- and not all her faces are gentle.