The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  Yet she still seemed sad, for all her brave words. Senenmut pulled her hand gently from the wall, kissed her fingertips.

  Hatshesput struggled to her feet, pressing one hand into her hip, cursing the ache she felt there. “Senenmut – I’ve only just thought of it.”

  “What is it, Lady?”

  “Get your bag – the tools.”

  He went out into the temple proper to fetch them, and she spilled out after him, a laugh rising up in her chest, the sweetest music Senenmut could ask to hear. She snatched the leather bag eagerly from his hands like a child greedy for sweets, and reached inside to rummage among the tools. She pulled a chisel and mallet free of the mess she had made of his papyrus scrolls, and crouched behind the temple door with the chisel raised.

  “Here – what are you doing? You’ll ruin my beautiful temple!”

  Hatshepsut grimaced at the clumsiness of her own hands, the awkward feel of holding a tool to the vertical wall, so different, as Senenmut well knew, from holding a reed pen above a flat sheet of papyrus. “You will have to help me.”

  He crouched beside her, put his arms around her body to guide her wrists with his own hands. “What would you carve?”

  “Your name,” she said simply.

  Senenmut rocked back on his heels. “Gods, Hatet. I am not worthy of such a thing. My name in your temple…”

  “It is your temple, my love. You made it.”

  “I made it for you.” And unbidden, unexpected, tears sprang to Senenmut’s eyes. He wanted to tell her all the words that thudded at once in his heart, crowded on this tongue. That her body was his temple, her kas his offering fire, that no matter how the years and the strain of power fell upon her, lining her sharp, unlovely face, she was always the girl in the garden to him, the one who pressed the scarab bracelet into his hands. He wanted to tell her that she was a light like the stars, arcing across an eternal sky, bright, unending. But faced with her smile, he could not speak. He drew a breath to steady himself, and took her wrists once more, and guided her as she tapped her magic into the stone.

  “There,” she said when it was done. “And now you will live forever.”

  With her, Senenmut pleaded silently to the gods – to whatever god still deigned to look upon the two of them with any shred of favor. Please let it be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE FLOOD RECEDED, THE CROPS were sown, the gods remained content. Hatshepsut went on with her duties, tending to maat attentively between her lone visits to Djeser-Djeseru. The visits grew fewer as Thutmose’s campaign intensified in the northeast, and Hatshepsut was required to spend longer hours at court, receiving the steady stream of messengers who brought her news of how the army fared against the Heqa-Khasewet. There were a daunting two weeks when the news was rather dark – a good portion of the Egyptian army destroyed by clever ambushes, and another lot of men lost to the common diseases that plague the camps of campaigns. In spite of their ill parting, she fretted for Thutmose, longed for his safe return. She went each night to Ipet-Isut to leave her offerings and her earnest, almost desperate prayers at every shrine in turn. Every shrine but Hathor’s. Hathor’s shrine was the territory of Neferure, and Hatshepsut was seized by a superstitious fear when she contemplated going inside. If she did it – if she showed her despised face to the goddess she had spurned – Neferure would never be returned to her, and she would lose Thutmose, too. She knew it with a certainty she had never felt before, not in the fields of Kush, not as her obelisks were raised, not in Iset’s arms, or Senenmut’s. And so she quietly passed by Hathor’s shrine, ducking her head in her Nemes crown so the goddess would not notice her fear.

  At last, half a year after he’d departed, a messenger boat arrived at Waset’s quay, the Hapi-Ankh priest onboard sounding a great bronze gong from its stern. “Victory,” the man called in a high, nasal voice. “Victory against the Heqa-Khasewet!”

  Hatshepsut prepared a festival for Thutmose’s return, and when his great, swift war ship moored, the entirety of the city was turned out to greet him. The moment his flashing silver sandals touched the stone of the quay, Waset came to life with cheers. Hatshepsut welcomed him into her two-seated litter, and he kissed her cheeks before the watching crowd, greeting her as a long-gone son greets his mother, lifting her hand with his own above their two crowns.

  The litter carried them up the main road thronged with celebrants. Rekhet crowded the rooftops, waving their arms; families of the higher classes leaned from their windows to salute the returning king. The smell of thousands of flowers, flung before the feet of the royal litter-bearers, made the city’s usually rather fetid air sweet as a garden in the season of emergence.

  Hatshepsut leaned close to his ear and called above the shouts of the city, “You seem content.”

  He patted her knee, a brusque, happy endearment, and replied only, “I am glad to see you again.”

  They passed through the gates of the palace followed by Thutmose’s entourage – a fine-looking crowd of nobles and ladies, many of them wearing the muted colors and longer wigs popular in the tjatis of Lower Egypt, the northern reach of the kingdom. Hatshepsut stood regally still to receive their bows, then looked round for Thutmose. He was engaged in quiet, almost urgent conversation with a lady in a pale red robe, who nodded attentively, her delicately painted eyes keen on his face. Hatshepsut was loath to interrupt him, and was somewhat tired by the morning’s spectacle. She indicated to Kynebu that he should make arrangements for Thutmose’s entourage, and made her way to the Great Hall unescorted for the triumphant king’s formal reception.

  The hall was nearly empty when she reached it, its broad, gleaming, dark-veined malachite floor faintly echoing with the hurried steps of the staff who went about their last-minute preparations. Lamps as wide as shields burned between the massive painted pillars, their reflective discs glowing like a line of banked stars. Vases as wide as two men standing hip to hip were scattered here and there, and they overflowed with flowers, bright and sweet. A long line of musicians rushed into the hall as Hatshepsut made her way down its impossible length. Her eyes were on the two thrones on the elevated dais, small beneath the towering figures of Amun and Waser on the rear wall of the chamber, but no less imposing, no less obvious in their power. The musicians began to play as she climbed to her throne. She turned slowly to face out into the lovely green length of the Great Hall. It spilled out before her, a river beneath her feet, a current carrying her as it had carried so many kings before.

  Kynebu pushed the double doors wide. They were small from this distance, Kynebu a toy of a man clutching the staff of his stewardship. It looked like a reed from the height of her throne.

  The steward called above the music. “The Good God, Menkheperre Thutmose, the third of his name.”

  Thutmose entered with his entourage ranked behind him. He came to the foot of the dais, and to the credit of his followers, most of whom had likely never seen a palace as large as the Great Hall, let alone the hall itself, they kept their eyes appropriately downcast in the presence of their kings.

  “Welcome home,” Hatshepsut said, “formally, officially. Welcome.”

  “Is this all?” Thutmose said, a teasing note in his voice. “I expected a feast.”

  “You shall have one, but not until night falls. Egypt is well pleased with her king, and she will show it.” Hatshepsut glanced beyond Thutmose’s shoulder at the northern courtiers gathered behind him, a signal that she wished to be introduced.

  “Erm,” Thutmose said, suddenly tense with anxiety.

  Hatshepsut raised her brows, and the tight band of her double crown pinched at her forehead.

  The girl in the light red robe stepped forward. She made a deep and humble bow, showing her palms to the throne and holding the pose gracefully, uncomplaining, until Hatshepsut ordered her to rise.

  “This is my lady, Meryet-Hatshepsut, daughter of the house of Senedj of Ankh-Tawy.” Thutmose paused awkwardly. “She is my Great Royal Wife.”
r />   Hatshepsut swallowed hard. Despite her firm hold on the arms of her throne, the Great Hall seemed to spin around her for a moment, whirling away Thutmose’s words as he went on introducing the various members of the house of Senedj. He had taken a new woman as his wife, and named her the chief of all his women. There was nothing so unusual in that. Was he not the king? But in doing so, he had clearly repudiated Neferure – cast her out of his own house, divorced her before the gods. He must have, in some temple or other, probably in Ankh-Tawy with Senedj and his brood looking on. Else, how could he have taken this slip of a girl, this little unknown chit who dared to wear Hatshepsut’s own name, as his Great Royal Wife?

  Then she drew in a slow, deep breath, calming her frantic thoughts, and she smiled at the girl. Meryet-Hatshepsut returned the smile fractionally, testing the Pharaoh’s mood. Her eyes shone with intelligence, with the habit of careful consideration, a rare trait in a woman of her age. She could not have been older than fifteen. And Meryet-Hatshepsut – beloved of Hatshepsut, the name meant. She must have been born sometime around the end of Hatshepsut’s first year of reign. The house of Senedj had meant to send a clear message of support by naming a daughter thus. Hatshepsut felt herself softening toward the northern family, though not by much. For all the flattery of the girl’s name, she had still displaced Neferure who, though unaccounted for, was Hatshepsut’s own daughter, her own blood.

  As the evening fell, Hatshepsut welcomed Thutmose and his new Great Royal Wife into her chambers, led them out into the garden which was glowing in the last red light of sunset, the blossoms on the hedges like clusters of fire. They made their way to the shore of the lake, Hatshepsut drawing the girl into conversation, probing carefully at her limits, gently assessing. The girl was young, of course, but especially astute. She was as keen-eyed and quick as the best palace stewards, as careful as a seasoned diplomat.

  “I should be pleased,” the girl said, her voice low but soft, “if your majesty would call me simply Meryet. My whole name is rather long, don’t you think? And the latter part sits better upon you, Majesty, than I.”

  Artfully done. Yes, this Meryet might do very well as a Great Royal Wife. Hatshepsut had to concede that the girl was more collected than Neferure, and more outwardly turned – more concerned, as was proper for a woman of her new station, with the affairs of state, and not just with temples and goddesses. At length their conversation grew thin, and Hatshepsut glanced at Thutmose, who strolled contentedly at his lady’s side. Meryet caught the subtle shift of Hatshepsut’s eyes, and with a smooth bow she excused herself to some distance away, affecting an interest in the fish leaping from the lake to take the evening flies, pocking and marring its silverine surface.

  “Well,” Hatshepsut said.

  “You’re angry,” Thutmose replied. He was decked in a lovely, fine kilt of the formal length, brushing his sandals and falling from his golden sash in a spill of sharp pleats like the rays of a sun-disc. An eye-of-Horus pectoral hung upon his chest, enhancing the broadness of his shoulders. His wig was the Nubian style plaited vertically, banded horizontally, short to his chin. He looked so fine a man that Hatshepsut nearly fluttered her hands at the sight of him like an addle-headed old nurse.

  “I’m not. Truly. I was at first – not angry, but surprised. But she is a good choice. You chose well.”

  “Senedj has a powerful house,” Thutmose said. “Good connections, and loyal, as you can see. He has influence over many other houses in his region. He holds them quite tightly. I made sure of it first. I was careful to be sure.”

  “I am sure you were.”

  “And Meryet is an intelligent woman – you can tell that for yourself.” He seemed anxious that she should agree with him, concerned that perhaps Hatshepsut had not noticed.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “She is. A very fine young woman.”

  “Through her house, we have more sway than ever before in Ankh-Tawy. It’s an important city, an important alliance…”

  Hatshepsut cut his words short. “And you love her.”

  He looked down, suddenly abashed, and gave a self-deprecating little laugh. “Yes. And I love her.”

  “I’m glad, Thutmose.”

  He drew her close, pulling her tight to his strong young body with one arm about her shoulders. Distantly, from the direction of the Great Hall, the din of voices raised – the nobles of Waset gathering for the feast. “There is more,” Thutmose said quietly. “She is already with child.”

  “Ah,” Hatshepsut sighed. “Amun’s eyes, but that is good news.”

  “An heir.” Thutmose turned, gazed at his Meryet, who stood with one hand clutching the neck of her robe, her eyes patient on the fish. “The gods are content, I think, Mawat.”

  “Yes, child. Yes, my Little Tut. The gods are content.” Hatshepsut raised her voice. “Meryet, my little daughter, Great Royal Wife. If you have had your fill of the fish, we have a feast to attend. Your husband is home victorious, and Egypt waits to celebrate him.”

  They walked to the Great Hall together, Hatshepsut’s arm linked with Meryet’s. The memory of Neferure was a distant pain, distant enough that Hatshepsut found the strength to push it well away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  WALK, THE VOICE CALLED. IT woke Ahmose from a fitful sleep.

  “Mut?”

  The goddess did not answer.

  Ahmose pushed herself carefully up from her bed. Her arms shook with tremors these days, which even honeyed wine could not quite control, and a weakness had overtaken her day by day until she could scarcely walk on her own anymore. She went about her estate with a servant close by at all times, in case she should have need of a younger woman’s shoulder, a strong arm.

  Walk.

  “I am trying,” Ahmose muttered. She took a few hesitant steps away from the safety of her bed, and to her surprise, her legs held steady. It is about time they did what I want them to do. She had passed her fiftieth New Year – her fiftieth year of life. She was old, she knew, but not so old that her body should refuse to obey. Whatever plagued her had crept up on her faster than it overtook other old women. There were men twenty years her senior still working in the palace – even in the bakeries and forges, the weaving mills of Waset. Not many, but some.

  The weakness made her peevish and short with her servants, a fact she regretted, but in the face of these new limitations she could never seem to hold her temper in check for long. It wasn’t fair. But justice was a thing for men to fret over, not the gods.

  Moonlight streamed through the door to her garden. It made one great bar of silver upon the floor, and Ahmose moved toward it as if drawn upon a string. She stepped into the glow, felt the brush of minute grains of sparkling dust against her cheeks, the motes dancing on the indiscernibly slight rise in temperature within the moonbeam. Eyes closed, her body unshaken and strong again, a memory flooded her heart. She remembered sitting up in a bed, a fine bed with blood-red linens, and reaching out a hand to her husband. Thutmose’s face was half moonlight, half shadow, vital and filled with wonder. The bar of light falling over his form split him in two, man and god, and she saw his other guise, the arm and shoulder blue as lapis. She smelled again the perfume of myrrh. She breathed again the breath of life.

  “You foolish old thing,” Ahmose chided, and opened her eyes.

  The garden beckoned her, all shadow and moon-glint. She stepped barefoot into the grass, and when the cool, yielding blades touched her skin, she heard laughter among the flower beds. Ahmose turned her head. Out beyond her low wall, a single dark raft moved with the current of the river, a chip in a flood, tiny, drifting ever away. The laughter sounded again, and she checked herself from running. Ahmose walked with the dignity befitting a lady of the court, a regent, a Great Royal Wife. And yes, God’s Wife of Amun, too. She turned a bend in the grassy path. A shape moved from one clump of lilies to the next, glowing white in the moonlight, the gown trailing, a wisp of silk ruffled by movement. The pretty young face was tur
ned just away from her, so she could not be sure of the features, but she heard a voice say, low and rich, “I believe you were right, little sister. He is suitable.”

  “Mutnofret?”

  “Sisters, first and always,” Mutnofret whispered, and laughed, her laugh receding into the garden.

  She hurried after the white glow, tears burning her eyes, nearly running. She ached with the need to hold Mutnofret in her arms, to press her cheek against her sister’s, to let their tears mingle in the immeasurably thin space that separated them, a space of so little consequence that only the salt of their weeping could find its way between. But when she rounded another bend in the path, Mutnofret was gone.

  Walk, the voice called.

  Ahmose stood still.

  She thought, suddenly and absurdly, of Meryet. The girl’s belly had grown big, and soon another life would enter the world, another squalling babe, another child running naked through the garden, her wet-nurse cursing her, catching her up, Ahmose’s husband laughing at the spectacle, laughing and drawing Ahmose in close beside him. Let’s ride in the chariot, she whispered, and the child squealed and laughed from somewhere in the garden’s depths, and evaded her nurse again.

  Meryet will bear an heir for the king. Neferure is gone – poor child, we will never see her again. If only you would have taken pity on her, Mut, Amun, and spoken to the girl. It was none of her doing, none of her fault. She could never help who her father was.

  And Hatshepsut – she could not help who she loved, for Ahmose knew as well as any woman that the heart seeks what it will seek, and finds what it will find.

  Walk, said the voice. And Ahmose, her mouth bitter with sorrow for Hatshepsut, for Neferure, for kind and good Senenmut, even for herself, found defiance at last. Fifty years she had been the faithful servant of the gods, always turning to their goad, tame as a steer. Now her legs were strong. She could stand on them unshaking.

  “No,” she shouted at the sky.