The effect, she had thought, was perfect: an exact balance of female and male. Now, though, as Ahmose halted in the doorway and lowered her eyelids to take in the sight of her daughter, Hatshepsut's heart was buffeted by doubt. Perhaps after all it would have been better to come before the priests as the expected girl, robed and painted. She, too, could charm them and win their hearts; she felt certain she could, despite the Senenmut debacle. But in another moment Ahmose lifted her chin and smiled slightly, then cut her eyes toward the kilt and gave the merest wry twist to her mouth, amused, approving.
“King's Daughter and Great Lady of the Two Lands,” Ahmose spoke formally, “Son of Thutmose, Son of Amun, Hatshepsut: I present the priests of Annu, Messuway and Nakht.”
Hatshepsut would not have thought it possible that two such stooped old grandfathers could bow low, and yet they did, extending their palms to her in a show of supplication. Their hands were knobbed with age, brown and dry as cedar branches.
Messuway spoke in a whispery voice. “It has been ten years since I last saw you, Great Lady, and when you came to Annu you were only a very small thing. But I remember how your father presented you to us at the Annu Temple. I recall how Amun made my heart tremble when I looked upon your face. For as long as I live I shall remember it. We are here to do the bidding of the king – yes, and of the god. You have the backing of Annu, such as it is – whatever the support of two old men far from their temple may be worth.”
Hatshepsut took Messuway's hand with both her own. His was cool, trembling, the skin as thin and wrinkled as an over-read scroll, but she clutched it as if the old priest were as beloved to her as her own mother. “Your support is worth more than riches,” she said. “I know of the magic of Annu. It is a place that has long been sacred to the gods – far longer than has my own city. If the priests of Annu back my claim to the throne, then surely wn f tno other priesthood will fail to do the same. Come – we will all dine together, and you must tell me of your journey from Annu. I have not made such a long trip since the last time you saw me. I would hear of everything.”
The musicians softly played through a selection of northern ballads, chosen to put the old men at their ease. Servants brought fish roasted in grape leaves, onions in tart black vinegar, the musky small boats of tender lettuce leaves filled with shreds of spiced ox-flesh. Their bread was especially fine, even for the palace kitchens, flecked with aromatic herbs, drizzled in olive oil so pure it must have come from the temple's own stores. Hatshepsut, as she smiled and hummed politely in accompaniment to the priests' stories, felt a warm glow of pride reflect from Ahmose as the sacred lake reflects the sun.
“And tell me of the pyramids,” Hatshepsut said. “I recall seeing them from the rail of my father's ship, as we sailed north to Annu. But it was so many years ago; tell me how they look today.”
Nakht chuckled. “They look as they have always looked, Great Lady, impossible and inspiring. They rise up from the land as a bird rises in flight, up into the highest reaches of the sky to touch the sun. No doubt you will see them again, when you claim your throne and make your progression...”
A gruff sound interrupted him, a startled grunt, a wooden bump. She looked around to see the Medjay guard holding tight to the doors' rings. The muscles in his arms tensed as he held the doors closed; they tilted fractionally outward, giving to whoever was tugging at the outside before the guard pulled them securely shut again.
“Here; what's this?”
The door-guard glanced over his shoulder. His face conveyed and equal measure of apology and anger. “Your pardons, Great Lady, Lady Regent, my good priests. Someone is trying to enter.”
Hatshepsut and Ahmose shared an uneasy look. There were more guards down the hall, of course. A brigand in the palace would have been killed already, and an alarm would certainly have been raised. No, only one person could breeze through the palace at will without inciting suspicion.
Hatshepsut stood. “Let my aunt Mutnofret enter.”
The door-guard managed a semblance of a bow and stepped back, a ready hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The doors jerked wide to reveal Mutnofret, smiling sweetly, radiant with victory. She was flanked by two strong servants, their hands still upon the door rings. Hatshepsut could feel Ahmose tense beside her, but the regent remained seated, poised and silent, waiting.
“Mutnofret,” Hatshepsut said. She was keenly aware of the priests' eyes on her naked back – of her mother's eyes, too. She would not shrink before her aunt like a courtier, like some kicked dog. A princess, still immature, ought to greet the second wife with a graceful bow, palms out. But a king would not bow before his wife. Hatshepsut raised her chin. The air of the room all but crackled; a tingle of danger ran beneath her skin.
“You are having a little feast with my niece,” Mutnofret said. “How nice. Isn't she a charming girl?” The second wife came into the audience chamber like a breeze through a sycamore, light, rustling, sweet-scented. She brushed past Hatshepsut without a glance and stood over Ahmose; the regent raised a golden cup to her lips as if to disguise her frown.
Nakht and Messuway rose from their chairs, made their creaky bows. “And you are the second wife, of course,” Nakht said. Surely the priests sensed the tension among the women. “What a delight to meet you at last.”
“At last,” said Mutnofret. “Sister, there has been some mistake. Should not the heir and his mother have been present to greet our guests? Annu is an important city, esteemed by the gods.” Her words flowed so smoothly that Hatshepsut could not tell whether Mutnofret was sincere, or whether she subtly mocked the priests of Annu. “Certainly these men wish to see the heir to the Horus Throne. Why else should they travel so far?”
This plays before me like a spectacle at a feast, exactly as it played the night my father died. She was eight years old once more, small and helpless, staring down at her dirty toes.
Hatshepsut turned to her mother, an involuntary response, and immediately cringed at the impulse. Ahmose set her cup upon the table, gazed across the hall at the painting of Amun and the Pharaoh as if the second wife were nothing – a bird crying in the garden, a pestering fly. “They have seen the heir. I am sure they are satisfied.”
There was silence for one ragged heartbeat while Mutnofret digested Ahmose's cool words. Anger flitted across Mutnofret's face, tense the corners of her mouth, narrowed her dark-rimmed eyes. Then she drew in a breath through her nostrils, sharp and noisy, just as an overworked nurse might when dealing with an unruly child. She laughed lightly. “Oh, my sister. I can see you are still cherishing that old dream of yours. It is the fantasy of every woman in the harem to be called Mother of the King, I know, but you have no sons. It is simply not what the gods intend for you. Leave it be.”
Hatshepsut had fretted over the smallest details of this supper. Now Messuway and Nakht stood gaping from one queen to the other, their discomfort evident. The serving woman who had carried in the sweet course whispered in the ear of the wine-bearer, eyes wide. Even the musicians had stopped playing. Mutnofret's jealousy had spoiled Hatshepsut's first act of statecraft. She clenched her teeth, but the pressure of her own jaws seemed only to further inflame her anger. She advanced on Mutnofret. “The Great Royal Wife is no mere harem woman. You will not speak to her so crudely.”
Mutnofret blinked. She seemed startled to find Hatshepsut in possession of a tongue.
“There was no mistake tonight. You were not invited because you were not needed. These good priests have come to Waset to back my claim to the throne. You have imposed yourself, and I am not pleased.”
“Who,” said Mutnofret, her voice pitched high, t>child who dares insult me?” Her face flushed. The tendons in her neck stood out sharp and hard above the colorful bars of a jeweled collar.
Hatshepsut stepped closer, so close she could feel the warmth of the second wife's body. Mutnofret gave ground reluctantly, sliding her feet back just enough to maintain some distance between them. Her sandals hissed across the
tiles. “This is the child of the king. The son of the king. The eldest, the heir. This child will soon be your king, and you would be wise not to cross her.”
Mutnofret spun, shoulders square, with an air that indicated any reply was far beneath her dignity. She drifted toward the doors where her guards waited under the glower of the Medjay soldier. For a moment Hatshepsut thought she would leave, and allowed herself to sink back on her heels with relief. Then Mutnofret whirled to face the room once more. She took them all in with her burning eyes – the priests, the regent, even the musicians huddled in their dim corner, clutching their harps and horns – but she stared most fiercely at Hatshepsut. “Before you may take your throne, son of the king, you must receive Amun's blessing. Do you imagine the god or his priests will suffer that mockery, to see a girl brought before them in the place of a man? I can think of no greater affront to maat than to try Amun so boldly. Be wary, son of the king. Ask the Lady Regent what happens when we set our own hearts above maat.”
And she was gone, merciful gods, striding away into the dark of the palace. Hatshepsut's blood pounded along her limbs. She felt wobbly and wild, fierce enough to tear the very bricks from the walls, frightened enough to climb into her mother's lap and cry.
Calm, said a quiet, admonishing voice deep in her racing heart. It was Senenmut's – one of his lessons in the garden. The ability to stay calm cannot be overstated. It is perhaps the greatest skill a Great Royal Wife can possess.
“A Pharaoh,” she replied aloud, though Senenmut could not hear her.
The Medjay guard chuckled. His laugh was deep and hoarse, a voice used to shouting. She stared at him, affronted.
“Er – apologies, Great Lady,” he said quickly, and snapped to attention. But his lips quivered with the effort of fighting a smile.
“Insolent!” Hatshepsut called him. He grinned. She found his familiarity somehow gratifying. “Speak freely.”
“I beg your pardon. I know it is not proper for a guard to show such amusement. But to watch you rout the second wife...you, young as you are, with your side-lock and all....” He gave another rasping chuckle. “Like a hound pup snapping at the whiskers of some lady's pampered cat! I fought under your father's command, and I have eyes to see. By the gods, here stands Thutmose's true heir, and no ha mistake."
Hatshepsut smiled. But when she turned back to her mother and the priests, Ahmose's face was grave, and the smile fled from Hatshepsut's lips.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She raced the sun as it climbed the vault of the sky. Amun awaited: her god, her father – the only father she had left. Waset dwindled behind her chariot, and the pale, imposing walls of Ipet-Isut, its lofty pylons impassable and stern, grew ever larger, ever more real between the sleek heads of the two horses who bore her.
The Medjay guardsman handled the chariot as a scribe handles his brush, with an unthinking, faultless skill, movements reflexive, instinctive, assured. His name was Nehesi. When Ahmose's steward had arrived at dawn to instruct Hatshepsut to wait on her mother's word, for Mutnofret had raised her opposition and gathered her men to protest at the Temple of Amun, Hatshepsut had sent Tem to the palace to find the man who had guarded her door at supper. In the fury of the moment she had had no clear plan for the guard. She only remembered that the man had appreciated her strength in facing Mutnofret down. Somehow, the thought of him was a comfort to her then, and she wished for his presence. But by the time Tem had returned to Hatshepsut's apartment with the great bull of a man on her heels, she saw clearly what she must do.
“You are a strong man,” she had said to him, and he had nodded his frank, unhumble acceptance. “I am to go into a den of leopards this morning. I would have you at my back.”
“The hound pup takes on more cats, is that the way of it?”
“Be wary, soldier. This hound pup knows how to bite, and she does not take well to teasing.”
The man had bowed at once, instantly contrite and yielding. “My apologies, Great Lady. I meant no disrespect. As you command, I will be at your back. But what is the nature of the work, if I may ask? Nehesi never goes into battle unprepared.”
Hatshepsut's mouth had twisted, a weak imitation of a wry smile. “Apparently Mutnofret has rallied her men at the Temple of Amun. They intend to bar my entry to the god's presence. They think to prevent me from seeking the holy blessing.”
“And you want me to cut a way through.”
She had considered the several knives sheathed along his worn leather belt, the handle of his curved bronze sword. “Perhaps not cut. But make me a way, yes.”
Sitre-In had come in from the garden as Hatshepsut was speaking. She often spent her early mornings there, tending the flower beds, although the House of Women employed several gardeners. Working amongst the beds seemed to bring the woman peace. But when she heard Hatshepsut'gar&nbsever/p>
“Oh, no,” she had said, “you are to stay put until we have word from your mother!”
“The gods take me if I wait. I will stand before Amun today as planned, or I will be cursed by Set. Mutnofret cannot be allowed to stop me. I will not permit it.”
Sitre-In had lunged for her, but she had dodged behind Nehesi, made a quick egress from her chamber and Sitre-In's furious glower. “I'll tell your mother,” her nurse had shrieked as she led Nehesi briskly from the House of Women. “I'll tell Senenmut!”
Now the outer pylons of Ipet-Isut stretched above their heads. They passed into the cool shadows of the complex; the horses tossed their heads, spraying foam from their mouths. Hatshepsut could see the crowd in the forecourt of Amun's great temple. The number surprised her: more than she had expected, perhaps fifty in all, milling and shouting while, on the steps of the temple itself, a handful of red-belted priests gestured, demanding order or arguing amongst themselves. Never had she dreamed Mutnofret commanded the hearts of so many nobles. And how many of the Amun priests had already been swayed to her aunt's side? Hatshepsut's mouth tightened with a feeling that was half fear, half annoyance. At the sound of her horses' hooves on the hard-packed roadway, several of the men looked around. She watched their mouths open in angry shouts. She could not hear their words over the pounding in her ears. Is it the hooves I hear, or my own heart?
Nehesi drew rein. At once the crowd surged toward them. “Stand back,” her guard shouted, and leaped from the chariot. His hand clutched the hilt of his knife, ready and eager to draw.
Calm. The greatest...the greatest skill... Senenmut's words faltered in her heart. She thought she could hear her tutor laughing at her, or perhaps it was a nobleman in the crowd. Astonishing herself with her own composed air, she stepped lightly from the chariot and stood near to Nehesi's side, back straight, eyes on the temple, haughty and self-possessed.
Nehesi's blades were not needed. The mere sight of him, hulking and bristling, was enough to part the crowd as she moved toward the temple's mouth. On the steps the priests clustered together then fluttered apart like a flock of ibis disturbed, their red sashes flapping.
“They have been whipped into a frenzy,” Nehesi muttered behind her. “They are dogs eager for a fight. Religious fervor is the last thing I like to see in a crowd, even in a small crowd. Anything may happen when the gods are involved.”
Hatshepsut did not reply. It was too late now to withdraw. She must go on to stand before Amun, whatever may come of it.
She gained the steps and sketched a slight bow to the High Priest, barely bending at the waist, the measured, courtly respect a king must show to Amun's chief servant. Then, breathing deep, hoping she did not shake, she turned to face the crowd. “Good noblemen of Egypt,” she said. The crowd had ceased its milling, ceased its murmuring. All saathineyes turned upon her. She felt the force of those stares, suspicious and hard. “The gods bless you for coming to the temple on this most auspicious day, the day when I shall present myself to the god and receive his blessing as heir to the Horus Throne.”
There was the smallest ripple among the crowd as heads t
urned to seek out some brave volunteer who might speak for all. At last an older man stepped forward, deep lines long-formed around his eyes and mouth. His short-cropped wig was slightly askew. She knew him from court: a kindly grandfather, patron of a wealthy house, and a long-time friend to her family. Senenmut had once told her how the old man's house had been staunch supporters of her father, even in the earliest days when he was nothing but a common soldier seeking to find his feet in Waset's fierce political currents. She was saddened to see her father's supporter here, standing against her own claim. But she made herself smile down at him, as delighted as though he had taken her hand at a festival. “Harwa. I am glad to find you here. You have always been a friend to Thutmose, and to all his house.”
“Er....” Harwa lowered his eyes. “Great Lady, we mean you no personal affront, you must understand. It is maat that brings us here.”
“Maat!” someone shouted from the edges of the crowd, a shrill and wild call.
“Maat has ever been my first and greatest concern,” she said, loudly so all might hear. “My father Thutmose taught me to revere it above all else. As your king, I will guard maat as keenly as the falcon guards her nest. You have nothing to fear.”
The Crook and Flail Page 6
