The Crook and Flail

by L. M. Ironside

  His silence had gone on too long. Naparaye was on her feet again, a movement faster than the flicker of a water strider's legs. She turned up her fine, straight nose and looked pointedly away from Senenmut, out into the great crowd of servants dodging between tables, of nobles' backs bent over conversation, ladies' shoulders swaying in merriment.

  “Come, now,” Nehesi laughed. “Don't be put off by my shy friend. You can see how he blushes – he is a maiden priest! Have mercy on the poor lad.”

  Senenmut gasped, mortified. He had, in fact, lain with several women, though he was not about to divulge the specifics of his private life to one such as Nehesi.

  “If you need a lesson, beautiful Naparaye, there is much a soldier can teach you that a priest cannot.”

  Naparaye shot Nehesi a challenging glance.

  “How to nock an arrow, for one. And how to peg a tent.” He roared with appreciation for his own wit.

  To Senenmut's surprise, Naparaye smiled. She brushed past Senenmut; he was beneath her notice now, less than a servant. She plucked a flower from one of her garlands and tucked it behind Nehesi's ear, then leaned close to whisper. When she had drifted away again, Senenmut raised one eyebrow, a silent query.

  “She is staying,” Nehesi said, “with her troupe at the blue rest house at the high end of the fishermen's avenue. Though I do not suggest you go knocking on her chamber door tonight. She will be entertaisugрying,ning a guest.” He stuffed bread into his mouth, grinning as he chewed.

  Senenmut drowned his humiliation in wine, and schooled himself to keep his eyes off the dais. The suffering he had caught in Hatshepsut's eye was burned already onto his heart. He did not need to witness her sorrow again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They walked together far into the dry red valley, Hatshepsut and Senenmut, trailed by Nehesi and a contingent of guards bearing skins of beer, sacks of food, and swords – always swords, for Hatshepsut had never lost the caution Ahmose had raised her with. The evening was pleasantly warm, and the going was kind to their feet. Several days had passed since the wedding feast – days, ah, and nights, too, during which Thutmose had left Hatshepsut blessedly alone in her extravagant new apartments. She had spent those days absorbed in her rule, more often than not sitting the throne of the Great Royal Wife with the king's seat empty beside her. Thutmose frequently failed to return to his audiences from the mid-day meal, or sometimes begged off entirely, preferring to drive his chariot in the hills beyond Waset while Hatshepsut saw to the governing of Egypt alone. Nights she spent in an agony of loss, pacing in the dark through the private garden of the Great Royal Wife, its paths new and strange to her, a bewildering dream-world redolent with the scent of unfamiliar flowers and air salty as tears.

  She had tormented herself with questions, and railed in her heart against the gods. She would be a woman in truth one day soon, and would be of an age to take Senenmut as her lover. He was no longer her tutor; when the moon finally touched her loins she would be no longer a child, and her love for Senenmut would be as maat as it ever could be. But if she were to fall pregnant – ah, the gods would surely curse her for a sinner. For she would not allow Thutmose into her bed – of that she was certain – and any child she might bear could never be his. No – for the sake of maat, she would remain lonely, without a lover, without even a son to dote upon – with only her serving women and her pale night flowers for company. She had sacrificed her own ambitions and her mother's reputation as a prophetess, all for the sake of order. If she disrupted maat again, what was all this terrible sacrifice for? She had chosen her path, and Senenmut must not walk it with her.

  They trekked deep into the ancient valley, to the place where the cliffs soared, red and glowing, into a brilliant sky. Against the cliff face the old temple of Mentuhotep crouched, the shoulders of its pyramid sagging above ruined porticoes and the crumbling slope of its ramp. The disuse of the place overwhelmed her with a sense of poignancy, sharp and sweet. She could think of no better place to cut Senenmut free.

  A broken line of myrrh trunks, long-dead, stretched across the valley to the base of Mentuhotep's tomb. She paused and gazed down the remnant of the once-great avenue, imagining a time when it must have bustled with life, when priests came and went, when women sang the memory of the departed king, when the trees themselves dripped with beads of precious incense, sweet and soothing. Now there were only the pale bones of trees, a home for the vultures. She made her way to one and calle; N T0d her guards.

  They laid a blanket out for her, and food. She took Senenmut by the hand – how little she had touched him, and how she would miss the warmth of his skin, that rare, precious treasure. Together they sat beneath the myrrh tree, in its latticed shadow, to eat.

  “You quoted the Book of the Dead for me,” she said, toying with a cone of soft white cheese wrapped in thick papyrus. “On the steps of the temple, that day when I stood against Mutnofret's men. You spoke of Re, and Sia and Hu.” She watched as he swallowed hard, washing down bread and cold duck with a mouthful of beer.

  “I saw that day what you intended to do. The moment I drove into the temple's courtyard I realized you would proclaim yourself Pharaoh. And it seemed the gods whispered in my heart that it was maat, that you should take the throne. I know you better than most. I wanted them to see, too, what you are.”

  “What am I to you, Senenmut?”

  He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. She would have taken his face in her hands and kissed him then, as she had kissed him before but longer, pouring her ka into his mouth as the gods had poured the ankh into his body and made him live for her – for her! But her guards were looking on, so she busied herself instead with the cheese.

  “You standing there, the knife in your hands, facing down all those who spoke against you. Just a slip of a girl, but braver than any soldier I've ever known, and fiercer than a jackal. In that moment I wanted to protect you, not only from the men who would take away what is yours, but from the knife, too – from what you would do to yourself. And I saw, too, that I could not. I am only a man, and you are the child of the god.”

  She lowered her face, accepting his words. But the words heated and agitated her heart with a ferocity she did not understand, and could not name. That is what I am to him. Half-god. Not even a woman. Untouchable.

  They sat in silence. A wind moved through the myrrh tree; its bleached, dry twigs clattered faintly, a small sound like holy rattles in a far-off temple.

  “I doubt myself when you are near me, Senenmut.”

  He looked up, startled and wounded.

  She smiled to relieve the sting of her words. “You were right to rebuff my affections, but you shook my certainty by turning away from me.”

  “I...I am sorry, Great Lady.”

  “There is no need to be sorry. You were right to do it. But I feel shaken and doubtful even now. You take something crucial from me, just by being near. I am the Great Royal Wife now, and soon I will go to the Temple of Amun to begin my duties as God's Wife. I cannot doubt myself. I can have no weakness.”

  He exhaled sharply, a sound very much like a sob. “Great Ladysizg ne, do not...do not send me away. I know your mother has retreated to her own estates and has left you alone....”

  “I have her stewards,” Hatshepsut said, waving his concerns away with a languid turn of her wrist.

  “A steward is not a regent. Nor is he a mother. You need people around you who are devoted to you, who will support you...”

  “I have my women, and Nehesi.”

  “Please, Great Lady, do not do this. I can help you.”

  It chilled her skin, to speak to him as if he were nothing to her. “You will help me best by being far from my side.” She gestured for Nehesi; the man blotted out the sun as he stood above her, passed to her hands the wool sack he carried. When her guard had withdrawn again to a respectful distance, Hatshepsut gave the bag to Senenmut. “It is not so bad as you think. Open the sack.”

  He did. Inside wer
e two scrolls. The first was the deed to a house just north of Waset, a scenic farm high on a promontory overlooking the bend in the river. Its fields produced wine grapes and barley; Senenmut would live off the substantial wealth of his new estate for the rest of his life. The second scroll was addressed to the masters of the House of Imhotep, far to the north in the city of Ankh-Tawy. It was a guarantee of his expenses at the grandest school of architecture in all of Egypt.

  “Great Lady,” Senenmut said, his voice rough. “I cannot accept this. It is too much.”

  “It is nothing, compared to the love I have for you.” She marveled at the lightness of her own voice. “There is more.”

  His hand went deep into the bottom of the bag. When his fingers found her final gift, she saw how he faltered, his mouth growing tight and pale as though he endured a terrible blow. He drew out her side-lock, tied with a red length of thread so it would not unravel.

  “The gods gave me your wisdom,” Hatshepsut said. “And gave you my heart in turn. I shall never forget you.”

  “Nor I you, Great Lady. Never, as long as the river rises. I am your most faithful servant, no matter how far from your side I may be.”

  PART TWO

  HAND OF THE GOD

  1485 B.C.E.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thnbs Xe second day of the second month dawned in a blue glory, filling the land with light, the sun's bright rays sparkling across a valley of water. The Black Land slept beneath the flood, gathering the Iteru's rich darkness into itself, making ready to bring forth, when the river withdrew again, barley and wheat, herb and fruit, green leaf and the flesh of game – all the wealth of Egypt, her power everlasting. The avenue that led from Ipet-Isut, from Amun's Temple at the very heart of the city of temples, was thronged with people, nobles in their soft, bright linen rubbing elbows with coarse rekhet in winter-wool frocks. They raised great feather fans and waved bundles of sweet grasses, their arms laden with dried flowers and herbs. The morning was full of song.

  Hatshepsut, seated easily beside Thutmose on a broad litter, beamed at her people as a contingent of priest-guards carried them down the avenue lined with seshep, statues of kings-as-lions, their crowned heads rising stern and ancient above outstretched feline paws. Even Thutmose managed a pleasant demeanor today, raising his hand in acceptance of the crowd's cheers. This was the beginning of the Beautiful Feast of Opet, the festival to mark the annual rebirth of Waset's gods and confer on the Pharaoh long life, the power of Amun, and a continuation of his reign.

  More than a year had passed since Thutmose had been crowned, since Hatshepsut had sent Senenmut away. During the course of that year she had immersed herself in the duties of God's Wife of Amun, glad for the comfort of ritual, the distraction of devotion. Though her voice was only serviceable at best, still she loved to lead the priestesses in song, loved to lift her iron sesheshet high and raise its clanging, rattling din, the sound so pleasing to the god, while the priests made their offerings. She loved, too, the moments when she would enter Amun's black sanctuary alone. By feel she would find the god seated on his throne in absolute darkness, and caress his cold, mysterious, male form, blind in the deep silence, whispering praises to him, knowing that he heard her and was pleased.

  Because she was God's Wife, it was she who had led the priests this morning, well before the sun had risen, in washing and dressing Amun. They had draped about his shoulders garlands of flowers and braids of gold. They had tied about his wrists and ankles strings of precious stones and bells of electrum. And when he had been anointed until he was slippery and sweet with the oil of olives and myrrh, they had carried him through the darkness to his waiting barque, and under her direction the priests had set him gently inside. They drew blue veils about him – blue for the color of his skin. At last Thutmose had arrived, trailed by the attendants who bore the king's little ka-statue. Her husband had propped his statue before the god – before Hatshepsut, for she stood beside Amun within his veiled alcove, one hand on the god's golden shoulder. Thutmose begged for blessing, for long life and wisdom. She had liked that – ah, she had! – the sight of this boy who called himself a man, who called himself a king, kneeling before her.

  Little, though, had she liked the sharpness in Nebseny's eyes. Months before, the old High Priest had gone to join the gods at last, and the priesthood had raised Nebseny to take his place, with the blessing of the Pharaoh – and of the Pharaoh's mother, no doubt. Imperious as ever, missing nothing, Nebseny had squinted at the tableau – Thutmose in supplication, pushing forward his ka-statue, Hatshepsut standing proud and satisfied behind the blue veil at the side of the god himself. Nebo tquiseny disliked what he saw; she was certain of that. He never had cared for her, not since that day on the temple steps.

  Outside Amun's temple they had mounted their litter and watched as the god's barque, borne on the backs of priests draped in leopard skins, preceded them. Before they left Ipet-Isut to pass before the crowd, two other barques joined them – Mut, mother of the gods, shrouded in red, her bright white vulture wings barely visible through the mist of her veils; and Khonsu, the moon-god, the son, whose white draperies showed his silhouette plainly in the morning light.

  Along the avenue the celebrants shouted their questions to the gods, and as bow or stern of their barques dipped the questions were answered, yes or no. Will my crops be plentiful this year? Will my trade with Hatti be good? Mut, will you give me sons? Khonsu, will the girl I love consent to marry me?

  Hatshepsut eyed Mut's barque, watched the gilded form of the goddess inside her house of veils, and whispered, “Holy Mother, will my blood ever come?” But at the moment she asked her question, neither bow nor stern dipped, and Hatshepsut was left unknowing.

  Troops of soldiers joined them, their breastplates and shields decorated with falcons' feathers of smoke-blue and pale clay. At the first small chapel the sacrificial cattle were driven onto the avenue. The cattle's horns had been dyed blue, and their thick dark necks bore wreaths of woven papyrus leaves. Musicians thronged behind the royal litter. The reedy voices of pipes rose and broke through the shouts of the crowd.

  Thutmose turned to smile at her, and Hatshepsut smiled lightly back, even though Mut had left her question unanswered. It was rare that her husband acknowledged her. She did not mind his absence from her life, but it was pleasant to receive his good graces today.

  “It will be a good festival,” he said.

  “Ah, the river is high. The fields will be as fertile as ever.”

  “My own field grows more fertile.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I received a letter from the king of Hatti. He sends a daughter for my harem. She should arrive a few days from now. And the noble house of Ankhhor, governor of the sepat of Ka-Khem, sends a daughter as well. She is said to be very beautiful, and sweet-tempered, which is more than I can say for you.”

  He said it not unfondly, and Hatshepsut tossed her head in good-natured protest. The long ribbons adorning her God's Wife crown fluttered about her. She would not argue with him today. The Feast of Opet was a time of joy.

  “Ankhhor. Is he not the brother of our new High Priest of Amun?”

  “Nebseny? I don't know. It's not for the king to concern himself with the lineage of every citizen; leave that to the scribes. Why should I care about Ankhhor's brotheoth+0">Nr? It's his daughter concerns me.”

  Hatshepsut shrugged. “I wish you well of them both – Ankhhor's daughter and the Hittite princess. May they give you hundreds and hundreds of sons.” From all Hatshepsut had heard from the harem women, the great king Thutmose did nothing more than eat and boast when he visited his concubines. She suspected he was still uncertain of those particular kingly duties. He was, after all, still shy of twelve years old. A man's desires would be upon him in a year or two, and woe to the harem when that day dawned. “Will you give the women a feast when their new sisters arrive? They'll be expecting it.”

  “I must leave that to you. The campai
gn in Ta-Seti is finally concluded; the Kushites have ceased raiding my southern border and have scattered back into their rocky ditches like dogs with their tails between their legs. I leave tomorrow. I will make a display of the men we captured.”

  “Thutmose the Second is a great warrior,” she said wryly.

  He spoke of the southern army's victory as if he had actually effected some influence in the matter. It was not uncommon for one or another of Egypt's enemies to make war when a new king took the throne. Indeed, it was all but tradition for the strength of the Two Lands to be tested whenever the reign of a new Pharaoh dawned. This time Kush had descended in a flurry of small, fast raiding parties, attacking outposts and farming villages, herders and traveling merchants. Like demons they came seemingly from nowhere, raping and killing and thieving, then vanished again into the ravines and bluffs of their rocky, desolate land. Thutmose was too young and altogether too useless to lead the defense himself, and so Hatshepsut had sent in his place three generals to see to the campaign on the king's behalf. As good as they were, Ta-Seti, Egypt's southernmost sepat, was a difficult defense. It lay in a hard land where the river itself broke into wild cataracts. The going was difficult, she had been told. Chariots were all but useless beyond the river's banks. Soldiers were often obliged to chase down raiders sitting astride their horses, as drovers' children sat astride cattle. The fact that it had taken fully a year to throw off the Kushite raids troubled her.

  “I shall be glad to see to the women's feast, then,” she said, wondering how she might take some active part in strengthening Egypt's southern border. It was all well and good for Thutmose to sail upstream to Ta-Seti and count severed hands and strut about like a puffed-up he-goose. The real work of protecting Egypt would fall, as it always did, into her hands.