The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

He sprang into the air. His hands smacked against the stone still, clawing; his fingertips held him, though they shrieked in pain. He flailed his legs against the mudbrick wall, searching desperately for a toe-hold, and hands caught at his leg, braced him. Meritamun crouched beneath his foot and straightened, levering him upward with his foot braced on her shoulder. His chest cleared the sill.

  Thutmose grunted, twisted himself sideways, reached one arm through the window, pulled himself halfway inside. The room was dark, unlit; couches and tables loomed in the blackness, four-footed and crouching like beasts waiting to spring. Thutmose heard a sob from the second floor, and a woman’s voice pleading. He kicked, pulled, cursed – and he was through, toppling onto the thick rugs of Neferure’s floor.

  He held himself very still, waiting, but no alarmed cries came, and the heart-wrenching sobs continued unabated. He crept to the front door and dragged aside the chest that leaned against it, marveling that little Neferure had been strong enough to place it there. Then, bracing himself against the menacing dark, he groped his way to the staircase and climbed to the second floor.

  The beautifully appointed sleeping chamber of the Great Royal Wife was on the second story, where the windows and wind-catchers might cool her rest during the worst heat of summer. A single lamp flickered on its three-legged stand, the warmth and merriment of its light a grotesque counterpoint to the scene unfolding before Thutmose’s astonished eyes. Amidst the finery of the Great Lady’s chambers, between a large standing chest of oiled cedarwood and the red silk couch that had been a wedding gift from Thutmose, the form of a woman huddled, pressed against the prettily painted wall, her arms thrown up over her face. She bled from a gash on her arm, an ugly wound that pulsed a dark flow onto the bright white tiles and puddled about her drawn-up feet.

  Neferure stood before her, back turned to Thutmose, as tense and fierce as Sekhmet. She held a copper blade in her hand, its edge streaming with the other woman’s blood.

  “Tell me,” Neferure said, her voice vibrant with triumph, thick with disgust.

  “Please, Great Lady,” the woman begged.

  Neferure advanced toward her, raising the blade; although the woman did not look up, she cringed back from the sound of Neferure’s sandals on the floor, another piteous scream rising from her throat, broken by hysterical sobbing.

  “Stop; I will tell you,” she cried, and a note of defeat wailed in her voice. “The steward is your father. Him – your nurse – Senenmut.”

  Neferure paused in her advance. Her shoulders relaxed, her head tilted as if considering something of no consequence – a child’s song, a pretty stone. The only sound was the cowering woman’s weeping.

  “By all the gods, Neferure, what is this?”

  She whirled at the sound of Thutmose’s voice, and the woman pressed against the wall looked up from the poor shelter of her own arms. It was Batiret, Hatshepsut’s fan-bearer. When she saw it was the Pharaoh who spoke, her tears began afresh, her face wrinkling with the sobs of her relief.

  There was a crash from the lower floor, the door being flung open with force, and masculine shouts. Meritamun had summoned the harem guards. Neferure stared at Thutmose for one heartbeat, her eyes flashing with fury. Then she bent slowly, gracefully, and laid her knife upon the tiles. It gave one solitary ring, bright as a temple chime, when it connected with the floor.

  Neferure smiled lightly, and, as the guards came up the stairway shouting for the Pharaoh, she held out her hands before her and went willingly, docilely, into Thutmose’s custody.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT WAS LONG PAST MIDNIGHT. Khonsu had closed the white disc of his eye hours ago, draining the soft silver touch of moonlight from the world, leaving it bleak and bare. In perhaps two hours more Re would arise golden and glorious from the horizon, spreading his warmth and benevolence across the Two Lands. But for now, the sky was emptied of divinity, and Ahmose felt terribly alone.

  She had not been asleep when the Pharaoh’s messengers found her. She woke after only a short time in her bed, and, knowing she would not get back to her dreams any time soon, she had dressed without waking her body servant and made her way to the portico of her estate, elevated on a little bluff that overlooked the river. She had not really wanted sleep tonight, anyway. Her dreams had been unsettling mazes, full of bright colors that confused the heart and burned the eye, full of voices speaking in strange tongues, repeating with the image of blood spilling from the rim of a bowl, running over the knuckles of an unfamiliar hand. Ahmose sat patiently, her eyes on the river, until the sails appeared, moving quickly from the direction of Waset.

  Thutmose’s men had been surprised to find her waiting at her little quay, alert and ready, but they bowed to her and handed her aboard without even taking the time to tie their lines.

  “Trouble at the palace, Great Lady,” one had said. “The Pharaoh wishes your counsel.”

  And now she rode in a litter through the sleeping streets of Waset, the curtains drawn tight against the bleakness of the night sky. The litter tilted, making its way up the final rise before the palace wall. Her eyes blinked as a brief, denser darkness settled over her – the passage through the great pylons into the palace’s outer court. When she stepped from her litter into the pre-dawn courtyard, Ahmose shivered.

  She was conducted at once to Thutmose’s chambers. A double guard was on duty, standing still as statues in their blue-and-white kilts. In the hall outside a young man paced, his kilt rumpled and stained with spots of wine, his hands twisting into knots. She recognized him: Senenmut’s assistant, the brilliant scribe. Kynebu – ah, that was his name. She had no time to greet him; her eyes met his, and she stumbled one step backward at the force of helplessness and anger burning in his eyes. Then the Pharaoh’s doors swung wide, and Ahmose was called in.

  She saw Neferure first, small and still on one of Thutmose’s great couches. The girl sat with her hands folded primly in her lap, her eyes downcast, mild, looking at the floor without emotion, bearing the force of the anger that filled the room. Two great hulking guards stood to either side of the Great Royal Wife.

  Thutmose stalked between Neferure and a stool in the corner, where young Batiret, Hatshepsut’s fan-bearer, sat shivering and whimpering, a pair of the Pharaoh’s women fussing over her, speaking to her in low, soothing tones. A length of linen bound one arm just below the shoulder. Ahmose could plainly see the red stain seeping through the bandage. Batiret’s lip was split, too, and a small cut stood out above one eyebrow, clotted with dark blood.

  “What is it?” Ahmose said slowly, sick realization growing in her stomach.

  “What indeed!” Thutmose clenched his fists, unclenched them, rounded on her with a stark rage on his face that Ahmose had never seen before.

  “You put these ideas into her heart, Ahmose. You!”

  Ahmose glanced at Neferure. The girl did not look up, did not respond to Thutmose’s shouts. She only remained quietly in her place, her eyes fixed on nothing, peaceful as a cow in a field.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Majesty. I beg enlightenment.”

  “I cut her,” Neferure said, her voice light as a pipe. “I found out.”

  “Found out what?” Ahmose felt her hands go cold, her face go hot.

  “That Senenmut is my father. That I am a product of filth and adultery.” She said it easily, without rancor, a statement of plain fact.

  Ahmose sucked in a chilled breath.

  “It’s why I am the way I am, isn’t it, Grandmother?”

  Ahmose said nothing. Her mouth was stopped by sudden fear.

  “Amun spurns me – the gods will not enter me, because my very beginnings are a vile offense to them. No wonder I have never been able to reach them, as you can do. Now it makes sense.”

  “I did not put these thoughts into her heart,” Ahmose said quietly, urgently, as Thutmose paced. “I did not counsel her to abuse a servant.”

  “She used a knife on the poor woman! Look at her!”


  Batiret cringed under their stares, and the women tending her huddled close in defense.

  “I…” Ahmose tried to form some response, but she could see only the vision from her terrible dreams, the blood spinning in the bowl, dropping over its rim to fall upon hot, smoking coals.

  “Neferure must be confined,” Thutmose said, loudly, a command to the soldiers – to everyone present. “She will remain under strict guard until Hatshepsut returns. No one will see her but one servant of my choosing – and myself, should I have any need to speak to her further.” He glared at the girl, and Neferure went on blinking into the near distance, unconcerned. “Make it so,” Thutmose said to one guardsman. The man saluted with a fist across his chest, then sped away to prepare a confinement chamber.

  “If I may, husband,” Neferure said. “I would ask for one of my shrines to Hathor to be placed in my room, if it pleases you. And a harp, so that I may play hymns.”

  Thutmose looked uneasily at Ahmose, searching for some reason to object. But Ahmose could think of none, and reluctantly, she raised her chin.

  “Very well. Now get her out of my sight.”

  The girl went unresisting from the chamber. When she was gone, Thutmose knelt beside Batiret, who shivered on her stool. “Sweet lady,” he said, “loyal woman. I cannot make this right for you. I cannot undo what my wife did. You have always been a good servant to the Pharaoh – to my mother, and to me. You will be compensated. And you will be protected; I will see to it. What would you have? Would you be released from service?”

  “No, Majesty,” Batiret said quietly. “I would continue to serve Maatkare. I would ask only – there is a certain scribe, Kynebu.” Batiret’s eyes flooded with tears once more, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “I would see him if I may, Majesty.”

  “I believe the lad is outside now,” Ahmose said. “Shall I send him in?”

  Batiret fell into Kynebu’s arms, keening, and he led her gently away, kissing her hand, tucking her trembling shoulders under his arm. The women who had tended her followed, with instruction from Thutmose to communicate with Hesyre in the morning. He wished to know how Batiret fared, and would send her gifts to make some small amends for the abuse she had suffered.

  When the lot of them were gone, the young king dropped all his careful self-possession as a child drops a stone into the water. The Pharaoh’s majesty and anger fell away from him with an undignified plunk. He rounded on Ahmose, a terrible plea in his eyes.

  “Gods, Ahmose, help me. I don’t know what to do, how to handle this.”

  She drew a deep breath, seeking steadiness that would not quite come. Her legs trembled, and she sank onto the end of the couch, far from where Neferure had perched. “We haven’t much choice but to await Hatshepsut’s return. And her judgment. The matter concerns her, after all. And she is the senior king.”

  Thutmose snatched the wig from his head, hurled it against the wall. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, let out a long breath that hissed through his tight-pressed lips. When he had marshalled his emotions, he watched Ahmose steadily for a moment, and she felt pinioned by his stare.

  “Is it true?”

  She nodded.

  Thutmose sighed. “And what of the throne – of our house’s safety? How long has this been going on, right beneath the gods’ noses, and what kind of punishment can we expect? Gods, Ahmose – none of my women are with child – not a one of them, and not for lack of trying! Is this the price we will all pay? Or will it be something else, something yet to come? You are god-chosen: tell me!”

  “Thutmose,” she said, and her voice sounded weak even in her own ears, “Majesty, even the god-chosen do not know what the gods intend all the time. I cannot see the end of this. They show me nothing. I am sorry.”

  He sank onto the couch opposite her, slumped, his shoulders trembling.

  “We all must live with the uncertainty,” Ahmose said quietly, “until the gods choose to make their judgment known.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE PHARAOH RETURNED TO WASET in triumph nearly a month later. She stood straight and regal beneath a sun-shade, surrounded by her servants and a chosen cadre of noble ladies who stared with wide eyes from behind their fans as the ships were unloaded. Noble men ranked themselves well back from the quay, heads bobbing like storks as they watched the treasure of Punt come ashore, as they discussed the new wealth, its exotic nature, the obvious bravery and cleverness of Maatkare, her obvious favor with the gods. Basket upon basket came ashore, mounded high, the mounds secured with sturdy, coarse linen, holding the goods tight against the rocking of the ships and the stumbling of the expedition’s donkeys through the sands of the Red Land. The cages were borne down the ramps with their baboons huddled close inside. Ivory, silver, obsidian, agate, cloth dyed the intense sun-yellow that Queen Ati had favored – all the fine goods made their way to shore as Hatshepsut looked on in approval, then gave the signal for the litters and chariots and servants to do their part. She stepped aboard her own fine litter, uncurtained so the city might look upon their Pharaoh’s victorious face, and made her way to the great palace at the head of the parade.

  Her family was waiting to greet her when she was lowered into the courtyard. Thutmose stood in his red and white double crown, arms folded across his chest, eyes distant and troubled in his mask of careful paint. Despite his obvious distress, she smiled to see him. She had been gone only a few months, but it seemed in that time he had grown yet more, become more of a man, and her heart was constricted by the strength of her love for him. Little Tut, she said to herself, longing to hold him in her arms again as a tiny babe.

  Ahmose waited a step behind the young Pharaoh. The long strands of an ornately braided wig fell over her shoulders to the middle of her chest, framing a face that seemed far more deeply lined than Hatshepsut had remembered. There was something of worry in the look Ahmose turned on her daughter, something of regret and shame – something of fear.

  As the parade of goods made its way into the courtyard behind her, accompanied by raucous cheers and the singing of palace servants, the excited chattering of the courtiers, Hatshepsut looked round for Neferure. At first she thought the girl absent. Then she spotted her, standing sedately between two very large palace guards. The size of them made Neferure look as tiny and fragile as a child’s doll, and Hatshepsut was overwhelmed by a surge of warmth for the girl, a gladness in her presence that she seldom felt. She stepped toward her daughter, her hands just moving, just beginning to outstretch for a mother’s embrace – and stopped short, blinking. Neferure wore the vulture crown upon her head, the golden visage of the goddess Nekhbet rearing from the smooth, pale brow to stare into Hatshepsut’s eyes, the wings of lapis and carnelian, malachite and gold falling to either side of the demure little face.

  It was the crown of the Great Royal Wife.

  There was no time to ask questions. Hatshepsut swept past Thutmose and her mother, led the whole lot through the wide promenade flanked by its rows of sandstone columns, into the Great Hall where her throne awaited her. The parade followed behind, chanting her name, and Hatshepsut could feel joy at none of it, for an unseen dagger as cold as the spray of the cataracts twisted inside her gut. She flowed down the length of the Great Hall like a cataract herself, noisy and wild, her golden sandals slapping against the polished malachite floor, and climbed the steps of the royal dais to all but throw herself upon her throne. Thutmose took his throne with careful ceremony, staring out across the hall, avoiding Hatshepsut’s eyes.

  Her subjects filled the whole length of the hall, lining the walls to a depth of five or six men, decked in celebratory bright colors, the perfumed wax cones of festival attached to many of their wigs and filling the vast space with a riot of sweet scents. Hatshepsut raised a hand, and the presentation of the goods commenced. The baboons leapt and twisted on their leashes, baring their sharp teeth, snorting at the crowd, glad to be free of their cages at last. The bo
lts of yellow cloth were unrolled and carried in the many hands of a long rank of servants, past the front rows of the crowds to the left and the right, that they might touch the fine fabric and wonder at its spectacular dye. Senenmut and Ineni led in a contingent of basket-bearers, their shoulders well browned from the desert sun. They tipped the baskets out at the foot of the dais: nuggets of silver ore, sawn rounds of ivory, and whole tusks, too, longer than a man was tall.

  Nehesi approached the throne, his great arms wrapped around the breadth of one of the heaped baskets covered with linen. Two dozen more men paraded behind him, each with a basket of his own. Nehesi tore the cover from his burden and upturned it at the foot of the dais. The translucent pieces of resin rattled as they poured onto the gleaming green floor, resins of amber and pale green, deep green and golden-grey, and resins of blood red – all of them crucial in the making of the ceremonial incense that so pleased Egypt’s gods. Nehesi’s men upended their baskets atop the pile, and it grew in height and breadth, spreading, raising until it was as tall as Nehesi, while the court first gasped, then murmured, and finally raised a cry of Maatkare! Maatkare! The cheer shook the very pillars of the Great Hall.

  And last, the true prize entered to parade the Pharaoh’s victory before her subjects. Teams of men bore poles upon their shoulders, and between the poles swung the saplings – the precious myrrh trees for Amun’s garden, roots bound in sturdy cloth, suspended from the poles like prized birds on a hunter’s string. The court exclaimed as one over the sight. It was as fine a good as any trading mission had procured, for now Egypt could harvest its own myrrh in great quantities, and Amun, the lord of all the gods, would never lack for its scent.

  When the ripple of voices died away, Hatshepsut called out in a voice that all could hear: “Chancellor Nehesi. Lord Ineni. Great Steward Senenmut. Stand forth.”

  They did, stepping to the foot of the dais with bowed heads.