She was admitted at once into the king's chamber, as she knew she would be. She entered with her chin raised, flush with a new confidence she had never before felt in the presence of her mother. She felt the power of the gods beating within her, throbbing with the strong, steady pulse of her heart.
When the guard on the door announced the God's Wife, Hatshepsut sprang from her couch and came to meet her, pulled her into an embrace that lasted a moment too long. Neferure squirmed away, took a step back to regain her regal composure.
“Gods, but I feared when I saw the bull.... Neferure, my daughter. If I'd lost you, I would have gone mad.”
“Lost me?” Neferure wanted to tell her mother not to be foolish; the bull had been in her command all along. Was the beast not the embodiment of a god, and did the gods not love her? But a familiar voice shouted from the rear of the chambers, a wordless cry of relief, and Senenmut rushed to her side. He gathered her into his arms, kissing her cheeks and giving vent to a sound that was nearly a wail. She laughed at his silliness and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him in return, until Hatshepsut spoke again. Neferure recalled herself and stepped away from her tutor, resumed her tilted chin and her air of confidence.
“Yes, lost you,” said Hatshepsut. “You are lucky to be in one piece. Perhaps you are too young for this God's Wife business after all. I was hasty...”
“No,” she said quickly. “It suits me.”
Hatshepsut sighed. “A year ago you were demanding that I make you a Hathor priestess. You said Amun spurned you. Has the god changed his heart, then?”
Neferure's chin and ka fell a little. “No,” she admitted. “But at least the work keeps me near the gods.”
Hatshepsut tilted her head to one side. Her eyes were very dark in their cage of black kohl, and stern as Thutmose’s gebgeb birds. They lingered on Neferure's face a long while. She held her mother's gaze with great effort, but she was proud that her legs did not shake.
At last Hatshepsut said, “You have been...different of late, child.”
“Different, Mother?”
“Settled. Dare I tempt the gods to make me a fool by saying it aloud? Yes, settled.”
Neferure's hand flexed at her side. She could still feel the dryness of the bull's dusty coat, the intensity of holy life quivering within his great, blowing, roaring body. She felt still the connection that had thrilled from his forehead where she had stroked him, into her palm, up her arm, into her heart. It sped its beat again as she recalled that she had touched a god. Neferure felt anything but settled. She felt like a chariot horse when the reins are loosed.
She held her tongue, waiting.
“Maat,” the king said, as if to herself. “I am the Pharaoh; I should see clearly what is maat.”
“Do you not see clearly?” Neferure's voice was high and shaky. A curious energy flowed through her; her blood was all waves and whitecaps.
“What if, child. What if I sent you to Iunet, only part of the time?” Hatshepsut at once turned away, paced the floor of her great, richly decorated chamber. She picked up some small silver bauble from a waist-high table and turned it over in her palm, watching it intently as though its rotations might reveal some great mystery. Neferure squinted at the bauble; it was the figure of a bull.
“It could be useful, after all, to have my…to have the God's Wife trained in the ways of the Lady of Seven.”
Hatshepsut glanced up, looked to Senenmut. The steward frowned in mild confusion and said nothing. Hatshepsut replaced the silver bull on its table and turned back to face Neferure.
“I shall think on it, child. Continue your work, and let me pray, and consider all the consequences. If it is maat – if Amun wills it – you may have your time with your goddess yet.”
Neferure clapped her hands together; she bit back the squeal that fought to spring from her throat. Squealing would be most undignified. But she beamed at her mother, and at her tutor, overcome with joy and the heat of triumph.
Hatshepsut laid a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing is certain yet. Much depends on the High Priest, and on the god.”
“Do not allow your hopes to run way from your good sense,” Senenmut added quietly. But his voice was warm, and carried in it a note of the same happiness Neferure felt filling her heart, spilling over like a vessel overwhelmed by sweet, cool wine.
“I will not; I swear it.”
Hatshepsut smiled, shook her head. “It is good to see you so pleased, Neferure. If ever I knew what maat looked like, I could swear your happiness is its very image. Now run along; Takhat is waiting. You have a feast to prepare for, God's Wife of Amun.”
“Thank you, Mother. Oh – thank you, thank you!”
That evening when the court gathered for the Feast of Min, filling the great hall with the colors and songs of celebration, all the talk was of Neferure. Hatshepsut suspected it would be. She gave the invocation in a loud, clear voice that commanded attention, yet so sensational were the rumors that half the guests could not keep their eyes on their Pharaoh. They eyed the King's Daughter instead, and whispered with heads together when Hatshepsut had finished her speech. She could read Neferure's name on their lips.
It troubled her in ka and in heart, to know that such a young girl should be the center of these wild stories. But Neferure seemed oblivious to the attention. She sat serenely at her small table to the left of the Pharaohs' thrones, eyes humbly downcast, attending to her supper with courtesy and grace. She even seemed to be engaging politely with Takhat for once.
A great side of roasted beef entered the hall, garlanded with long loops of braided herbs. Three strong men carried it fore and aft on a stout pole. It dripped red juices down among the bearers’ feet. The scent of smoke and spices trailed it like a banner. The people cheered to see it, raising their beer bowls high as the beef paraded down the length of the throne to the foot of the dais, where Hatshepsut approved it with a nod and a smile and commanded the cooks to cut a portion for each guest in attendance.
With the crowd distracted by the spectacle, she eyed this face and that warily, searching for some sign that the rumors might be multiplying and flying. The tales were already lively enough. Neferure had kissed the bull, they said, and the bull knelt to her. Or she had ridden on its back. Or she had slain it with a touch of her hand, then raised it back to life with a word.
The truth of the matter was hardly supernatural. The bull had been raised in the presence of people since it was a calf. Once its rage at the flies had passed, why should it not calmly accept the attentions of a child? All bulls enjoyed a scratch between the horns – even the newest acolytes to Min's priesthood knew as much.
The kitchen staff bore in more courses: trays heaped with sticky honey cakes, melon balls wrapped in flower petals, waterfowl and game birds roasted or stewed, sweet or savory. Between each course the entertainers moved about the tables, women in bright-banded wigs singing sweetly with their harpers in tow, drifting from one great man to another, laying a hand on a shoulder, proffering a lotus blossom to a lady of the court. Acrobats wheeled and tumbled, their bodies glistening with paint, their brief loincloths flitting like sun-beetles on the wing. At a particularly daring tumble, the court would raise its cups and bowls high, cheering, and Thutmose would reach for the tray of trinkets his servant held. He scattered handfuls of jewelry, rings of gold and silver, chains bearing lapis and turquoise pendants, and tossed larger handfuls as the court increased its acclaim. When an especially light and pliant young girl flipped toward a table of drunken nobles, lifted herself to a hand-stand upon the merchant Ranefer’s unsteady shoulders, then vaulted clear over his companion’s heads, Thutmose nearly shouted himself, so thrilled was he with the girl’s performance. He lifted a double fistful of baubles and let them fly through the air, and the girl gathered up the best of them in her hands as she tumbled past the dais, then bowed low in thanks.
As course followed course and singer followed acrobat, Hatshepsut found herself bracing for the after
math of the Min incident. She watched her children attend to the feast, Thutmose with cheer and enthusiasm, Neferure with quiet dignity, while a creeping sense of foolishness plagued her thoughts. Neferure had not intentionally upstaged the Pharaohs at the Min Festival, yet she had stolen their majesty all the same. Hatshepsut picked at her dish of duck breast stewed in pomegranate seeds, wondering what her subjects thought of her now. The Good God Maatkare leapt from the path of a charging bull, but an eight-year-old girl had seemingly tamed it with a touch of her hand.
Will they think my authority is diminished?
She allowed her eyes to wander down the length of the hall, scrutinizing each conversation from the lonely pinnacle of the throne. Ladies in beaded gowns tipped their heads together to mutter close to one another's ears, the cones of perfumed wax adorning their wigs coming together in a conspiratorial manner. Noblemen nodded over their beer with intense murmurs.
At a nearby table, where the women of the harem sat passing bowls of sweets and laughing, the tjati of a local district knelt to make conversation with Opet, Hatshepsut's half-sister. She watched as the man spoke near Opet's ear, smiling; Opet glanced up toward the dais, her eyes wide and startled.
He is plotting, was Hatshepsut's immediate and forceful thought. He knows she and I share a father, that marriage to Opet could place him on the throne. He thinks me weak, frightened, powerless.
She resisted the urge to clutch Thutmose to her protectively. Instead, she looked round for Senenmut.
“That man down there – the tjati of Herui. What is he doing?”
Senenmut smirked down at the women's tables. “Looking for a little favor with a pretty lady, I assume.”
“He is plotting something.”
He stifled a sigh – she could see him struggle to stifle it. “Great Lady, I advise you against...”
“We must find out what they are planning.”
“They are planning nothing.” Senenmut's voice dropped low so that none, not even Thutmose who sat swinging his legs in anticipation of the next performer, might overhear how he argued with the king. “I would advise you against allowing old fears to overtake you.”
“Are they so very old? I saw the way Opet looked up at me when he whispered to her. She looked startled, and…and speculative.”
“They were probably looking at Neferure. Everyone else is.”
Hatshepsut drew a deep breath, held it until it pushed painfully against her chest. Senenmut was right. She must not allow fear to rule her. The old fears were gone now, she reminded herself. She had driven them away on the battlefield in Kush.
When she exhaled, the tension drained from her, and only a calm cunning remained in her heart. “How is Ineni managing?”
“Managing, Great Lady?”
“His influence amongst the nobles.”
“As well as ever, as far as I can see.”
And how long would be go on managing? His mind was still sharp, but he was older than Ahmose, and the gods never gave years back to any man. It was but a matter of time before Ineni left for the Field of Reeds, and when he did, who would be her rein on the nobles' bits?
She searched the hall again until she found him. Ineni sat in the midst of a circle of great men, merchants and governors, judges and architects. His mouth moved in careful speech; his head tilted in that thoughtful way he had, mild and yet so impossibly clever. The men leaned toward him eagerly, like children seeking sweets from their nurse. Even at this distance she could see the age on his face, the slight stoop of his shoulders.
“Go to Ineni, Senenmut. Give him a summons to my chamber, tomorrow at mid-day.”
Senenmut bowed again and turned to descend the steps of the dais. She caught his hand. He smiled down at her, briefly, covertly.
“And the High Priest of Amun, too.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SENENMUT ARRIVED OUTSIDE HATSHEPSUT’S QUARTERS before mid-day, just as Nehesi rounded a pillar and stepped into the king's outer hall. The Medjay moved with the same bullish stride and imposing power he had always shown – a marvel, for Nehesi was older than Senenmut, and at thirty-three years, by the grace of the gods, Senenmut was no longer a fresh colt. Of late he had noted a persistent ache in his right knee, and his shoulders did not want to ride as squarely as they once had. They drooped some, if he did not pay them heed. The effect made his chest and stomach seem rather rounder and softer than they were. True, Nehesi was an active soldier. The profession tended to weed out those who could not meet the physical demands of the work early on. Only men lucky in breeding and extensive in blessings could keep up with such a career.
Senenmut's work had its own demands. In addition to managing his estates, he oversaw – in an official if not a practical capacity – dozens of the king's interests, including the granaries, the treasury, and the sacred cattle of Amun. And the King's Daughter – never forget her. Most of his work, excepting that which involved Neferure, was conducted by scroll and scribe, with Senenmut seated at a table, running figures and tallies, issuing orders for the dispensation or acquisition of this or that or another. Small wonder a man such as Nehesi, who hurled spears and rode the chariot day in and day out, should still have the physique of a young soldier.
Of course, knowing the reason for their discrepancies did not cause them to sting any less. The gods can be monstrous cruel sometimes, Senenmut mused, jerking his body upright and setting his shoulders well back.
“The King's Great Steward has eaten a sour fig,” Nehesi said when he noticed Senenmut's scowl.
Senenmut was about to rejoin, but one of the ornate double doors to the Pharaoh's chamber gave a small, high-pitched creak as it opened abruptly. The fan-bearer Batiret peered out at them, frowning.
“Maatkare is not within.”
Nehesi grinned at the woman as he leaned one massive shoulder against the closed door. “I know, sweet lady. I am her chief guard, after all.”
“Then why are you not guarding her?”
A tiny laugh escaped through Senenmut's nose. Batiret had been in Hatshepsut's service for nearly ten years now. In these very chambers she had grown from a skinny, wide-eyed girl to a woman of simple yet frank beauty, with an open, questioning stare and a serious angle to her dark brows that other men seemed to find enchanting. She was impertinent, but with good reason. Was she not the handmaid of the king? Had she not earned the Pharaoh's most intimate trust, risking her own life to taste food and wine in those dark, early days?
Batiret made a shooing motion with small, golden-brown hands. “Off the Good God's door. You will get nothing from me. It takes more than ox muscles to impress this lady.”
“Oh-ho! Senenmut, our little cat likes to hiss.”
“She is not my little cat, Nehesi. You are welcome to get yourself clawed and bitten; leave me out of it. And leave off her. The poor lady is only doing her work.”
“As you should be, Chief Guardsman,” Batiret said. “Shall I tell my lady you could not attend her because you were too busy looking for a flower to sniff?”
The heat rose to Senenmut's face.
“By Set!” Nehesi roared in appreciation. “She has a tongue like a dock worker! As it happens, Lady Batiret, the Good God is right behind me. I left her with a contingent of my best men. They accompany her and the High Priest of Amun. She summoned all of us.”
A soft yet masculine voice called from somewhere inside the king's chamber. “She did.”
“You've got a lover in there,” Nehesi said. He clutched at his heart, feigning grave injury.
“I have no such thing. If I had, I wouldn't be dull enough to bring him to my lady's chambers for a tryst. What kind of a fool do you take me for, Nehesi?”
Batiret stepped back, let the door swing wide to admit them. She jerked back against it abruptly to prevent Nehesi brushing her skin as he entered.
Ineni sat upon one long couch in the middle of Hatshepsut's chamber. Its legs and back were aged ebony, black as a starless sky, carved with lines of lotus an
d papyrus blossoms. He did not lounge against that ornate backrest, nor lean one elbow on the silk cushions, but held himself straight and alert. In his eyes, keen and penetrating for all the lines surrounding them, Senenmut saw a glimmer of amusement at Nehesi's and Batiret's exchange.
“Lord Ineni.” Senenmut clasped his forearm warmly. “It has been too long.”
“You are a busy man these days, Senenmut.”
“I do the tasks the Good God sets me, as do we all.”
Batiret fetched a painted clay jug from the blue-shadowed shaft beneath a windcatcher. When she poured, the wine was so cool Senenmut could smell its inviting crispness. He raised his bowl to his lips gratefully; the day was hot, even in the king's chambers.
“And what task has the Good God set us today, I wonder,” Ineni said, tasting his own wine.
Senenmut recalled Hatshepsut's growing agitation at last night's feast, the dark slits of her eyes as she watched the tjati whispering into Opet's ear. He could not say, The king is frightened again. Not even to Ineni. It was disloyal, but more: Senenmut was not at all certain Hatshepsut had no reason to fear. The harem was fairly brimming with women who might conceivably provide an ambitious noble a path to the throne. Nine years had passed since Iset's death – ah, and Nebseny's, and Ankhhor's. Hatshepsut's wrath had been swift and efficient, but men's memories seldom lasted nine years. Not when Egypt's throne hung before them, a prize they might yet win.
Senenmut had puzzled it all out last night, remaining awake nearly until dawn, staring into the darkness of the unlit chamber while Hatshepsut turned in restless sleep beside him. The harem was full of royal and semi-royal women; Hatshepsut could not banish them as she had Mutnofret. To do so would only bring about the wrath of near-countless great houses, and foreign kings besides. Hatshepsut may feast the harem and keep the treasury of the House of Women overfull, may send them musicians and sweets and Egypt's finest seamstresses, but there was one thing she could not provide her women. They had no chance now to bear the Pharaoh's children, and thus to further their families' various glories. No chance until young Thutmose came of age, and that was still some four or five years away, at least. Many of them would be too old for children by Thutmose's majority, and those who were still fertile may be too aged to spark the typically fickle interest of a very young man. In the House of Women, Hatshepsut had a pot over a high blaze, and it was a breath away from boiling over. How long before they began petitioning for release – for marriage to powerful houses? How long before great men began to woo them in earnest, to use the women's royal blood and their children as claims to the throne?
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