“Lord Ineni.” Senenmut clasped his forearm warmly. “It has been too long.”
“You are a busy man these days, Senenmut.”
“I do the tasks the Good God sets me, as do we all.”
Batiret fetched a painted clay jug from the blue-shadowed shaft beneath a windcatcher. When she poured, the wine was so cool Senenmut could smell its inviting crispness. He raised his bowl to his lips gratefully; the day was hot, even in the king's chambers.
“And what task has the Good God set us today, I wonder,” Ineni said, tasting his own wine.
Senenmut recalled Hatshepsut's growing agitation at last night's feast, the dark slits of her eyes as she watched the tjati whispering into Opet's ear. He could not say, The king is frightened again. Not even to Ineni. It was disloyal, but more: Senenmut was not at all certain Hatshepsut had no reason to fear. The harem was fairly brimming with women who might conceivably provide an ambitious noble a path to the throne. Nine years had passed since Iset's death – ah, and Nebseny's, and Ankhhor's. Hatshepsut's wrath had been swift and efficient, but men's memories seldom lasted nine years. Not when Egypt's throne hung before them, a prize they might yet win.
Senenmut had puzzled it all out last night, remaining awake nearly until dawn, staring into the darkness of the unlit chamber while Hatshepsut turned in restless sleep beside him. The harem was full of royal and semi-royal women; Hatshepsut could not banish them as she had Mutnofret. To do so would only bring about the wrath of near-countless great houses, and foreign kings besides. Hatshepsut may feast the harem and keep the treasury of the House of Women overfull, may send them musicians and sweets and Egypt's finest seamstresses, but there was one thing she could not provide her women. They had no chance now to bear the Pharaoh's children, and thus to further their families' various glories. No chance until young Thutmose came of age, and that was still some four or five years away, at least. Many of them would be too old for children by Thutmose's majority, and those who were still fertile may be too aged to spark the typically fickle interest of a very young man. In the House of Women, Hatshepsut had a pot over a high blaze, and it was a breath away from boiling over. How long before they began petitioning for release – for marriage to powerful houses? How long before great men began to woo them in earnest, to use the women's royal blood and their children as claims to the throne?
And however will I stop them?
Batiret saved Senenmut the trouble of trying to formulate a reply to Ineni's question. She hastened to set her jug on the floor and made her way toward the doors well before Senenmut caught the sound of Hatshepsut and her guards returning. The fan-bearer swung both doors wide to welcome the king.
Hatshepsut wore a man's kilt in the day's excessive heat. The floor-length, bright white linen was overlaid with a long beaded apron. The vibrant blue-and-green polished stone feathers of a vulture spread its wings across her chest. The pectoral was large enough to cover her breasts completely, offset by a counterweight that swung by a thick gold chain down the length of her short but elegant back. The double crown of the Two Lands, white and red and spired like an obelisk, rose from her brow.
Batiret clapped loudly to summon the king's body-maids; they emerged from the bedchamber in a rustle of airy gowns, took the crown from her, loosed the pectoral's chain and caught it as it slipped from Hatshepsut's body.
“The apron, too – here. And my wig.”
“Your wig, Majesty? With these men here to see you, and...”
“It's hotter than beneath a spice-seller's kilt.”
Hatshepsut pulled the wig from her own brow and tossed it at one of her women. The wig's hundred tiny braids separated as it flew, spread in the stifling air like the arms of startled women. The body-maid let loose a small squeal of dismay as she snatched it to her breast.
“My apologies to the High Priest of Amun. My old nurse was never able to beat the coarse language from my tongue. The gods know she tried.”
Hapuseneb the High Priest bowed. A vast collection of medallions swung from a tangle of cords round his neck: protections and beseechings of all kinds, all to channel the power of Amun. “Majesty, with the offering you just made at Amun's temple I am prepared to forgive your tongue and your nurse most anything.”
“I take it you know Lord Ineni, High Priest?”
“Ah, an accomplished architect and tomb-builder, if I am not mistaken. Amun smiles on you.”
“Hapuseneb.” Ineni inclined his head.
Hatshepsut took a bowl of wine from Batiret, then dropped peremptorily onto one of the couches. “It is too hot to play-act as coy politicians today. Let us be forthright, shall we? Ineni is a good influence amongst the nobles, but as my reign goes on, everlasting if it be the gods' will, men will find their own ambitions too great a temptation to ignore. I already faced that trouble once, and I will not face it again. How, then, do we curb Egypt's nobles?”
At such a frank question, the men were momentarily speechless, grasping for some solution to Hatshepsut's problem. But as the cool wine flowed more freely, so did their words, their ideas, until the king's chamber grew lively with their voices and the emphatic gestures of their hands, even in the stifling heat.
“I know noble men,” Nehesi said. “They respect great wealth more than anything else – more even than kings, or gods, with apologies to you, Majesty, and to you, High Priest.”
“Maatkare has made Egypt wealthier than any king before her,” Hapuseneb pointed out. “But this wealth takes the form of cattle and cloth, trade goods and increased yields of crops. It is real, ah, as real as any gold bauble. Yet men like Ankhhor do not see such wealth, I think. They see only the glint of gems, or the fineness of a gown's weave. It's treasure they must see in order to recognize – and fear – your power.”
Hatshepsut leaned back against a cushion. Her breasts heaved with her sigh. “And how do I convert Egypt's trade wealth into trinkets shiny enough to impress a lot of fat old men?”
“Hiring craftsmen to make wagons full of jewelry and fine cloth, just for the fun of the thing?” Nehesi shook his head. “It would be too ostentatious, even for a king. They would see at once that you were trying very hard to prove something. Any advantage you might gain from the wealth would be lost in appearing less than confident before them. No – what you need is another campaign. Into a rich land, this time – richer than Kush. You need to capture treasure, bring it back in triumph.”
The men went very still at his words. Ineni swirled the wine in his bowl, his eyes thoughtful, considering. Senenmut glanced at Hatshepsut; her face had blanched.
“He may be right,” Hapuseneb admitted. “Kush seemed to fortify you, not only in the eyes of the army, but, if you will forgive my presumption, Majesty, in your own eyes. Another campaign – north this time, perhaps...”
“No.” She turned her face to Senenmut, held his eyes with her own dark stare. He recalled how, years ago, she returned with her fleet in triumph and paraded through Waset's streets at the head of her army. That night he had clutched her to his chest in the pale gray twilight, out in the garden beneath the forgiving coolness of the sycamore, while she sobbed out the story of the man she had killed – the man, his woman, his child. It was all she could talk about, all she could think about, for weeks afterward.
“Great Lady,” Nehesi said, “a campaign can do much for your ends. Hatti has always been rich in copper, and...”
Batiret bent close to Senenmut's ear. “Lord Steward, your man is here. He begs your attention.”
“My man?” Senenmut looked around. The slant of light falling in through the wind-catcher's bars angled more acutely than he'd thought to see. It was a darker golden hue, too. Far more time had passed than he had realized. He was expected to meet with his scribe Kynebu nearly an hour ago. Senenmut made his excuses to the circle, now coming very near to squabbling with their king, and allowed Batiret to accompany him to the chamber doors.
Kynebu, a smart lad of sixteen years with a fine, steady hand
and a good head for numbers, stood in the king's hall tapping a fat scroll against his palm. “Master Senenmut. You forgot our appointment, I think.”
“The Pharaoh's work has kept me. Still keeps me, I'm afraid.”
The boy smiled in his usual good cheer, held out the scroll. “No matter; I've finished the work for you.”
“There's a good man. Remind me to double your wages.”
“Triple them, I think. I made an extra copy of the plans in case you should find it useful, and recopied your notes so they are more legible.”
Senenmut frowned. “I am accounted a more than fair scribe, Kynebu.”
“No doubt, Master!”
“One does not rise to my position with a sloppy hand.”
Kynebu winked, and drew from his sash a small bundle wrapped in stiff, greasy papyrus of a coarse, common make. He tossed it to his master. When Senenmut opened it, the aroma of nuts spiced in honey rose up to meet him.
“The Great Scribe's favorite sweet, because he is a good and worthy master.”
“Bribery does not become a man of your station,” Senenmut said. But he tipped a few of the nuts from the papyrus into his mouth. The sweetness invigorated him at once. “Ah. I could face a dozen more hot afternoons doing the Pharaoh's work now.”
“So, triple my wages, then?”
“Get on, you. I will send you more work tomorrow.”
Senenmut quickly emptied the package of the remaining spiced nuts, chewing carefully as Batiret closed the door firmly on the praises Kynebu sang to her. The thick scroll crinkled where he'd tucked it under his arm. He pulled it free and shook it in the air to dissipate the moisture of his own sweat from the papyrus.
“What are you waving about there?” Hatshepsut called. “A sword for the campaign these three would have me undertake?”
Senenmut stopped chewing. His hand tightened on the scroll. He swallowed reflexively, astonished at his own inspiration, and winced as sharp bits of spiced nut scraped down his throat.
At last he managed, “A sword? A campaign? Ah, perhaps it is, at that.”
Hatshepsut summoned her maids to clear away the food and wine; Senenmut unrolled his scroll atop the king's table, weighted its corners with their silver drinking bowls. The king leaned toward the table, humming her interest. Even Batiret, waiting some distance apart with her lady's great fan of white plumes, craned her neck to see. Their interest was gratifying, but it was Hatshepsut's reaction Senenmut cherished. Her face grew very still, eyes widening, mouth compressing into a tight, pale line. He watched the pulse over her collarbone speed.
“It's beautiful,” she whispered.
“What is it, by Amun?” Hapuseneb's hand trembled as it clutched the strands of his amulets.
Senenmut allowed himself a thrill of pride – a rare pleasure, for he tried to remain humble. It was not always easily done. Hatshepsut had made him a great lord, and to retain proper humility sometimes felt as much a chore as any of his other duties. “Plans,” he said, pleased that his voice did not carry too sharp a note of pride, “for the mortuary temple of Maatkare Hatshepsut, the Good God.”
Kynebu had done his work well. Senenmut was an excellent hand when it came to writing, but he had only ever possessed average skill at drawing. The boy had taken Senenmut's detailed notes and calculations, turned them into a stunning depiction of the temple that would soon stand tall above the great, dry valley folded within the yellow cliffs on the west bank of the Iteru. Senenmut recognized it at once, the dimensions, the lines, the terraces rising one above the other, the porticoes both welcoming and enigmatic, intoxicating and inscrutable, like the face of the woman he loved. He recognized it, and yet Kynebu's sketch was more beautiful than Senenmut had imagined the temple to be. He flushed, looking down on the symmetry of it, its boldness and pomp. Its ramps rose like two crescendos from the harmony of pillar and courtyard, lifting the eye and the ka to the sanctuary that rested at the temple's crown. Senenmut knew, with a hot wash of justifiable pride, that Egypt had never seen its like before. A fitting tribute to the woman who was king.
“It's like a song,” Hatshepsut said, tracing the course of the upper ramp with a finger. “It sings.” She stared up at him, and her eyes were wide with gratitude and wonder.
“It is beautiful,” Ineni said. “The pyramids in the north stand higher, but are not half so artful or entrancing. My congratulations to the architect.”
Senenmut bowed in thanks.
“This could do it, all right,” Hatshepsut said. “Here is a treasure even a man as snake-hearted as Ankhhor will understand.”
“Then my king instructs me to build it?”
She raised her eyes to his, and they were bright with gratitude, with love. “Build it, Senenmut. Your king commands.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The men rose to return to their various duties. Amidst the farewell bowing and murmuring of her praises, Hatshepsut laid a hand on Senenmut's forearm as he rolled up his miraculous scroll. Their eyes met; he gave a minute nod, and she watched with quiet approval as he found enough small, insignificant tasks to occupy him about her chambers until the men depated and she and her steward were left alone with Batiret. At length the fan-bearer withdrew as well, taking the emptied wine jugs with her. They clattered as she gathered them up and shoved aside the door to the servants' quarters with her hip. Then the door closed, and Hatshepsut was alone with the Great Steward.
She sighed and pressed herself against Senenmut, fitting her forehead against his neck, her palms against his back. Her hands knew just where to go. The territory of his flesh was so familiar to her now, the borders of his ribs and shoulders, the valley of his spine, the well-trammeled front of him, soft and warm, where she pressed herself as she had uncountable times before. He was her home, as the palace, as these very chambers, never could be.
“And so Her Majesty approves of her temple?”
“You know I do. How not?”
“Pharaohs are often fickle.”
She drew away from him, laughing. Beads of sweat cooled on her skin where it had touched his. “It is a house fit for a god. Egypt has never seen its like before.”
“So you were wise to send me packing off to Ankh-Tawy all those years ago, to learn architecture. I have become the greatest builder in the land – is that the way of it?”
“Your pride is appalling.” She kissed his cheek, and felt him smile beneath her lips. “One would almost believe you the Pharaoh, and I your servant. The temple still must be built. Now it is only a few pretty lines of ink on papyrus.”
“Only?” He clutched at his heart. “My lady wounds my very ka.”
“Perhaps it will not stand. Perhaps the walls will fall over. I shall call you the greatest in the land only when I see it standing.”
He pulled her onto the couch; she tumbled down beside him eagerly, stretching her body along the length of his own, buoyed by the twin pleasures of the temple and Senenmut's hands. She could have purred, had she been a cat. She raised up to kiss him, but worry tightened his face, and she froze, staring.
“What is it?”
“The temple, Hatshepsut. It will do only half the work of keeping the noble houses in your hand.”
A groan rose up in her throat, but it escaped as nothing but a quiet breath, as if even her body had grown too weary of politicking. “Half the work?”
“Your harem.”
Her brows lifted.
“It is full of well-bred women: your cousins; your half-sisters, like Opet. Women who carry the blood of kings in their veins.”
“I care for them well. I treat them as sisters. Some have even gone to war with me; they are loyal to their Pharaoh.”
“That is as may be, and yet they are women like all others. They crave the touch of a man now and then, and why not? The gods made us all alike.” His hands roamed down her spine, over her hip, as if to illustrate his point. “A woman in the Pharaoh's harem craves more than that, too. She is there for a reason: to give the k
ing a child, if she can, and secure her own fortune, and the fortune of her family. You cannot give any of your women a child. Why should they remain in your House of Women, serving you, if all their service is for naught?”
“Because I am their king,” Hatshepsut replied. To her dismay she fairly sputtered, so great was her distress at Senenmut's words.
“By rights, that should be reason enough. And yet it is not. Most women desire children; you know this is true. The women of the harem may desire children more than most, for a harem woman's child is a token of power.”
“I have no wish to mistrust my own cousins and sisters. And yet…”
“It is not so much the women I mistrust – not yet, though it is not reasonable to expect them to remain childless and loyal forever. It is the men of powerful houses who deserve your suspicion.”
She caught that fish at once. Indeed, it had been thrashing in her net ever since the Feast of Min. “Such men will court my women. You are right – I know you are.”
“Ah. And without any reason to stay in your harem – without the hope for children who may secure them far better standing than any nobleman may provide – they will petition you for release, so that they may be free to marry.”
“Then I must allow them to marry. I will not keep women against their will.”
“And once they marry, and breed a few sons with men already rich and influential, sons with Pharaohs' blood...?”
“Yes. I see the trouble.”
Loosing her women back into Egyptian society could reap a harvest of challengers to her throne – would almost certainly do so. By the time her cousins' sons came of age, she would be an old woman, easily displaced, and Thutmose may lack sons of his own to secure their family's legacy. Hatshepsut's own grandfather had managed to produce only royal daughters, after all. No, until Thutmose was married and had a son or two of his own, the women must remain.
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