From behind her shoulder came Batiret's urgent whisper: “Great Lady!”
Hatshepsut glanced back. The girl's eyes were wide and staring. “There is a man, Great Lady, staring at you most impertinently!”
“Where?” Hatshepsut gazed past the thin brown shoulder to the shadow of the scaffolding they had left. Several men milled there, short-kilted in the heat of the day, their heads covered by the serviceable, cropped wigs of builders. They moved with heads down, some studying sheaves of papyrus, some toting reed baskets filled with tools, bread, wood scraps. One man balanced a great jug of water on his shoulder. She noted nothing unusual; it was the typical bustle of a buith=lding site. Then two builders who had been walking shoulder-by-shoulder parted, one of them twisting his mouth in an angry oath, to pass around a figure that stood rooted to the spot.
The wig confounded her only for the briefest moment, for as a priest he had been bald-headed. It seemed her heart had eyes, and they opened wide in delight, took in the familiar stance, the narrowness of his shoulders, the thinness of his arms; his hands were folded at the knot of his kilt in that special way he had; his face was still long, still solemn, still beloved. His presence filled her like the breath of life, and woke the trembling of love along her limbs. In a bright chorus, a poignant quaver of rich, rising harmony, her nine kas sang his name.
Senenmut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“It is good to see you again, man.” Nehesi clapped Senenmut on the back hard enough to knock his short builder's wig askew.
“And you. My assignment to the Pharaoh's new gateway was something of a surprise to me. I never thought to be near Waset again, much less in the palace.”
Nehesi led Senenmut from the courtyard where the chariot of a palace guard had deposited him. Two days had passed since he had seen Hatshepsut beneath the rising supports of the new limestone gateway. He had both feared and hoped he would encounter her there. She had glanced at him, then turned away while he stood useless as a felled ox. He had not been at all certain she had recognized him. Presently, though, the thin little girl who bore her fan had come running. “The Great Royal Wife would speak with you, builder. You will attend her the evening after next.” He had spent those two days in a constant, vague discomfort, strung helplessly between eagerness and reluctance. An unsettling nausea had fallen over him, due no doubt to his lack of proper sleep.
Nehesi swung from an inner hall to lead Senenmut down the outside length of the palace. A cedar roof extended from great supporting pillars to shade the route by day, though now the sun was low and dusk fast approaching. A lone man in the simple but well-made kilt of a palace servant moved along the walkway ahead, dipping his torch into the bowls of bronze lamps between pillars. As each lamp flared to life, it cast a yellow glow across the walkway; lamplight merged with the golden lingering light of sunset, which set the leaves of arbors and hedges in small private courtyards to shining.
Senenmut recalled walking this route once before with Nehesi. He remembered Hatshepsut sweeping down the pathway before him, the sight of her girlish back and shoulders pulling farther away, dauntless, while he struggled to keep up.
Nehesi nodded to the guards on her door. He clapped, his hands meeting precisely in time with two quick, painful beats of Senenmut's heart.
“Come,” her voice said, its strength hardly diminish+0" y">
She lay across a couch of night-sky blue, robed in white linen, her wrists and ankles cuffed in gold. The room was more splendid than Senenmut had remembered, infused as it was now with the smoke of myrrh, with Hatshepsut's own languorous glow. The faience mosaic floor glittered in the lamplight; the walls bloomed with color, row on row of dancing goddesses, of queens, all proud women. But the sight that caught and held his heart was the curve of her body, the line from shoulder to hip that dipped and rose again like the path of the moon through a starry sky. That harsh, unlovely face, its awkward angles softened by a woman's careful paint, stared back at him. He recognized in the happy radiance of her eyes his own surprise, his own joy at their reunion.
Nehesi withdrew.
Senenmut recalled himself and bowed, murmuring some appropriate words of greeting.
She laughed at him. “Come here and eat.”
He took the stool set across the table from her fine couch, and self-consciously attended to the meal. It was fine, rich food – three kinds of roasted fish, stewed fruits, and, Senenmut blushed to see, several of the peeled inner cores of lettuces, long and round-bodied, which were said to make a man tireless in love.
She plied him with questions of Ankh-Tawy, of life in the school of builders. He told her all he knew: of the man who had taken him as an apprentice only six months into his schooling, of the tomb he'd built for the headmaster of the school, so cleverly concealed among the natural features of the site that Senenmut had been released to his journeyman duties a full year ahead of schedule.
“I knew you would be a great architect,” she said, and beamed at him.
“I would never have achieved any of this without you.”
“Do you ever miss Waset? Your old duties here?”
He ducked his head, smiling. “Ah, Great Lady. I have missed you much, and often.”
When they had finished their meal she led him out into a private garden, much larger and finer than the one she had enjoyed as a girl in the House of Women. This garden was four spans at least in width and breadth. It featured a shade sycamore much older and larger than any he had seen before, and beyond it, near the high protective wall gleaming pale in the moonlight, a small private lake. They walked its graveled paths, talking quietly of the years gone since they had seen each other last. No serving women trailed them now. In fact, Senenmut had seen no servants in her chamber or garden since Nehesi had withdrawn.
Hatshepsut carried a cup of dark wine; she sipped from it now and then, tilting her face to the moonlight, eyes closed, savoring the exceptional vintage. He stole glances at her face each time she did it. There was a compelling force in her presence, a might he could not name, and nor could he deny its power. So he surrendered, and turned his eyes on her narrow, angular face whenever she could not see his impropriety. The simple pleasure of the nigambht, of the wine, perhaps even of his poor company brought a flush to her cheeks, a dreamy, wistful, feminine tenderness to the half-smile on her lips. Even the gap between her teeth looked elegant in the dusky garden, fashionable rather than coarse, and those large teeth themselves shone like ornaments of precious ivory. If only the ladies of the court could see her this way, beautified by moonlight, graceful and happy as a goddess. Why, they would take files to their teeth in an effort to look like her.
She left her empty cup on the rim of the lake, then led him toward the garden wall, recounting an amusing tale she had heard from a harem woman. He lost the thread of her words in a sudden cold wash of fear. His unreined thoughts had caught up at last to the more sensible portion of his heart. Sake of Amun, Senenmut. You are a common man. You cannot fall in love with her. There was no chance she loved him now, at any rate; that had been a girlhood folly. All noble girls felt a few heart-pangs for their tutors, provided their tutors were not too unbearably old and wrinkled. It was a common enough thing, quickly left behind with dolls and childhood games by the time womanhood arrived. No, she had summoned him here tonight to hear his stories, to pass an idle evening with a former servant who could perhaps be thought a distant friend. Senenmut clenched his fists, as though he might crush away his yearning with his hands.
They arrived at the garden wall; seeking some distraction, Senenmut ran his hands along it, noted the fine, flush joins of its blocks. The solidity of stone brought him back to his senses. He became aware once more of Hatshepsut's words.
“...but that is not what I think. What do you believe?”
“Er – pardon, Great Lady. What do I believe about...?”
“About men.”
Senenmut hesitated. He shook his head helplessly, lost and light-heade
d.
Something canine, predatory – jackal – glittered through her smile. “I said, do you believe that men can really go two or three times with a woman?” She stepped close. He backed away instinctively until he made contact with the cold wall, then held himself very still. Hatshepsut drew even closer; he could smell the sweet wine on her breath, see the fierce amusement in her eyes. “I do not know what to believe; I have never lain with a man.”
Senenmut could find no answer. He opened and closed his mouth, hoping the gods might supply some suitable response, but they granted him only a small, weak croak.
“I think you should show me,” she said.
“Oh – oh, Great Lady.” He caught her hands as they made their way to the knot of this kilt. Then he realized his brashness in touching the Great Royal Wife, and with a whimper he jerked his own hands away, pinned them to the wall.
Hatshepsut stepped back, laughing. “All right; I will stop being so cruel. I was y">only teasing you, Senenmut. Come away from that wall; I won't harm you.”
She turned away and vanished into the dark garden. Senenmut stumbled after her, shaking with the twin forces of relief and bone-deep disappointment. He found her sitting on the wall of the lake. She had retrieved her cup and was idly dipping it into the water, pouring it out again to shatter her dark reflection. Tentatively, he sank onto the wall beside her.
“I have missed you,” she said simply. “More than I can say.” She watched his face for a long moment, holding his eyes with the same savor she had for the wine. At last she said, “It was true, what I told you: that I have never lain with a man.”
“Not even the Pharaoh?”
“He will not have me. It is all one to me; he's a boaster and a lout, no matter how handsome he is. I have no time for him.” But she turned her face away, her eyes downcast.
“Why will he not have you?”
She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. The beads in her wig clattered as she lifted her chin. “Because I am not as beautiful as other women. What does it matter? I am the God's Wife of Amun; even the High Priest does my bidding. Beauty is useless beside power.”
After years apart, Senenmut was startled to realize how little she had changed. He read the lie in her voice, and saw that the lie was her shield.
“But you are beautiful, Hatshepsut.” Senenmut's heart thudded; he did not know where his audacity to speak such words came from, unless they came from his knowledge of her heart, his desire that she should be happy.
She turned narrowed eyes to him, a familiar look of suspicion.
“I speak the truth. Beauty is not only a finely made face, or a slender, graceful body. No one would call a falcon beautiful – not set beside an ibis. But watch a falcon hunt – see its confidence, the power of its dive, the ferocity of its eye – and tell me, is that not a beauty all its own?” He swallowed hard, and like a fool he went on, heedless of the consequences. “You were beautiful to me, as a falcon is beautiful, when you stood on the temple steps with the knife in your hand.”
She smiled, full and glowing, mouth open, nearly laughing with the pleasure of his words. And in a hot rush of madness, helpless before the loveliness of her smile, Senenmut cast himself on the mercy of her coarse beauty. Let the gods damn him if they would. The joy of her presence after so long apart was too much for a mortal man to resist. Senenmut gave voice to his heart, gladly, without regard for what was good and what was proper.
“And you are beautiful to me now. Your beauty is in your rarity; there is no woman like you in all the world. Flog me for saying it if you must, but I...”
She kissed him, long and deep. Senenmut did not push her away. uldp The taste of her mouth, her tongue, eclipsed his senses, and he rocked helplessly in the embrace, until he lost his balance and broke from the kiss with a shout, catching himself on the lake's wall before he toppled sideways into the water.
She rose, laughing at his blunder. Her hands moved upon her own shoulder; before he could piece together the meaning of her movements the white gown fell away from her body and she stood naked in the starlight.
“Oh gods,” he whispered, and would have backed away again, but the force of her presence pulled him near. She reached out her hands. This time when he grasped her wrists he pulled her fingers to the knot of his kilt. She worked at the white sash first, loosened the great loop of linen until it sagged around his hips. Something dark and heavy dropped from his sash into the garden grass. She gasped and stepped away. “Wait,” he said, and bent to retrieve what had fallen. He offered the objects up to her in his palm: the bracelet of scarabs she had given him long ago, and the black braid of her side-lock.
“You kept these, all this time.” She fingered the braid tentatively. Her face, downcast as she studied his treasures, held a youthful innocence that wracked him with desire, so startling was that pure, unconscious wonder set against her compelling force of presence, her frank, unashamed nudity.
“They are charms to me, magic spells.”
She smiled up at him. “What kind of magic do architects use?” Her hands returned to his kilt, worked the second knot free. The linen unwound.
“We catch falcons,” he said, and pulled her down into the grass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hatshepsut woke exhausted from sleep, as she had done for half a month now. She lay pinching the bridge of her nose, groaning; her head pounded in the onslaught of morning's light. Yesterday when her duties at court and temple were finished, she had felt much too tired for entertainment and had retired with the sunset. She had not even kissed Iset or Little Tut good-night. The realization made her feel absurdly guilty; she dashed sudden tears from her eyes with rough fingers. In truth, she had not seen Iset for some time. Hatshepsut had brought Senenmut to her rooms most nights for weeks on end, as the girl was frequently closeted with the baby. She was absorbed with caring for him; she showed no interest in returning to her duties as fan-bearer. For Hatshepsut's part, it gladdened her heart to see Iset so joyful. If not for Senenmut's attentions she may have felt neglected. As it was, she was content to allow Iset her time as Mawat. But she missed the sister of her heart; there was no denying that truth. She wished for the girl's gentle hands to soothe away the headache.
Be sensible. Get out of this bed. Duty awaits.
She levered herself from her bed; a wave of nausea took her and she gripped the headboard, choking and retching. so p Isetout of; Batiret pushed the bedchamber door open with one skinny hip. She balanced Hatshepsut's breakfast tray; Hatshepsut turned quickly from the sight, her stomach clenching.
“Go,” she managed weakly. “Take it away.”
Batiret sighed; she set the tray on a table and came to her mistress's aid. “Great Lady, you must eat to keep up your strength.” The girl tugged at Hatshepsut's elbow, trying to lead her toward the food.
“I am fine. It was only the wine last night.”
“Great Lady, you had no wine last night. You went to bed directly after your supper. You have slept many hours; you must eat, Great Lady.”
“I do not want to eat. Draw my bath.”
“I will do as my lady commands, after she has eaten. Look, I brought weak beer. There is beef stew if you crave savory, and honey cakes if you crave sweet.”
The stew seemed strangely motivating. Hatshepsut took one faltering step toward the food, though her insides roiled. She stopped, swaying, swallowing the urge to retch.
Batiret placed her fists on her hips, for all the world like a tiny nurse. “Eat or the baby will be a weakling.”
Hatshepsut stared at the girl. “I – I am not with child, Batiret.”
She turned away, fetched the plate of cakes herself and offered the dish to her mistress.
“The stew,” Hatshepsut said at once, squeezing her eyes closed to shut out the sight of the cloying, sticky cakes.
“My mother has many children,” the girl said. “And I have many aunts, and they all have children. And two of my sisters are already mo
thers. I have seen eight babes born in my family already.”
Hatshepsut accepted the bowl of stew from the girl's hands. She carried it back to her bed, huddled on the mattress while she sipped the thick broth. “But I cannot be with child.”
Batiret had served as fan-bearer for an entire season now; Hatshepsut had come to know the girl's subtle expressions and moods well. Now she sat fussing with the breakfast tray with the raised brows and thinned, pale lips that said she had thought better of speaking her mind.
“Say what you will,” Hatshepsut said warily.
“Why can you not be with child, when you spend so many evenings with the architect?”
“I hope you have never repeated that to anyone outside my chambers.”
“Never, Great Lady.” Batiret's answer was fiercely loyalwhar; Hatshepsut trusted the girl. She was too intelligent to gossip.
“I am barren, Batiret. I cannot carry a child.”
“I have washed your cloths myself, Great Lady. I know you have your blood.” The child was too young herself for a moon's blood, and yet there she sat, scowling like a physician, speaking so matter-of-fact about washing cloths and architects.
“I have never had my blood regularly; it comes and goes without any regard for the moon. I have heard women say that such an affliction indicates barrenness.”
Batiret rose, took the bowl from Hatshepsut's hands. She lifted one of her mistress's breasts; Hatshepsut winced, though the girl's touch was light.
“There; do you see? Your breasts are swollen and painful. And look how dark the nipple is.”
Hatshepsut slapped her hand away. She crossed her arms over her bare chest. “You speak of the God's Wife as if she is a milk cow in the marketplace!”
Batiret shrugged. “It is the Great Lady's choice to believe her servant, or not. Either way, her belly will grow big.”
The Crook and Flail Page 19
