She snorted, swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “You don’t know Aset very well.”
“It’s not as if you’re casting Tutmose aside, as Mensah planned to. You’re only delaying his turn to wear the double crown.”
She closed her eyes and nodded into his chest. “I’ll ensure he has the best education and military training, everything he needs to succeed me after I pass to the West.”
Senenmut’s arms tightened around her. “Let’s not talk about your dying while you’re still covered in the blood of would-be assassins.”
They held each other like that for some time, the events of the day and the enormity of their discussion settling like the silence of a tomb. Finally Hatshepsut tipped her head to look at him.
“Do you really think I can do it?”
“I know you can. And you’ll see—Aset will come around eventually.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He smiled. “I usually am.”
They moved over to Senenmut’s bed, his good arm wrapped around Hatshepsut, and almost everything right in the world. Senenmut settled into sleep, his chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm, but Hatshepsut stared at the ceiling, her thoughts whirling like the winds of the khamsin.
Aset might one day forgive her, but nothing would ever be the same when Hatshepsut took Tutmose’s crown. There was a good chance her bond with Aset would become her first true sacrifice in Egypt’s name.
She only wondered what other sacrifices the gods might demand of her.
Chapter 24
Bound by copper manacles on his neck and wrists, Mensah cowered on the flowered tiles before the empty Isis Throne, squinting through swollen eyes at Hatshepsut sitting in the glittering golden alcove. An angry purple bruise clamped his left eye shut and a dried crust of blood caked his forehead and chin. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of filth and feces. He must have soiled himself over the course of Nomti’s torture. He was lucky to still have his hands and ears.
“Mensah, son of Imhotep.” Hatshepsut looked down her nose into his bloodshot eye. “We find you and your fellow conspirators guilty of attempted regicide and murder. The penalty for such treason is death.” The cross-legged scribe at her feet struggled to keep up with her words, his brush flicking frantically over the papyrus. The recordings would be kept for a short time and then burned so no trace of Mensah’s name would remain to keep his ka alive. “You will be taken immediately to the Great Double Gate, where you shall be thrown onto a wooden spike.” Mensah winced at the sentence, but she wasn’t finished. “Once you are dead, your body shall be burned and the ashes flung into the Nile. You shall cease to exist in the afterlife, just as in this life. This is Ma’at’s wish.”
“Please, Per A’a,” Mensah shrieked as two medjay hauled him away by his copper chains. “Not my ka. Let my body rest in my tomb, I beg of you.”
He was a fool to think she would allow that. She already had plans to seize his tomb and reallocate it to another noble, perhaps Neshi or Ti. No one would meet Mensah or his fellow conspirators in the Field of Reeds. They wouldn’t even make it to Ma’at’s scales before their ashes fed the Nile’s crocodiles.
Hatshepsut signed the bottom of the scribe’s papyrus, listening to Mensah’s wails fade down the corridor. In a few days’ time, the hieroglyphs of her name would be wrapped with the sacred cartouche that only pharaohs were allowed. Ma’at’s justice was sweet.
She traded the papyrus for the golden crook and flail, carried them with her as she strode to the lapis audience window above the Walls of the Prince to watch as Mensah’s sentence was carried out. The occasional russet smear of Mensah’s blood on the tiles marked the path for her to follow. A narrow set of stairs climbed to a small balcony with a view of the main gates—a window used only for formal appearances by the pharaoh to the populace, the same window where she’d once watched Enheduanna parade to the palace and her too-early death. A thick layer of sand left over from the khamsin covered the balcony. Carved ankh symbols formed a painted vine of life around the window, framing the hastily arranged execution ground waiting below.
A medjay shoved Mensah up a small wooden platform situated next to a cedar stake half the height of a man. The top of the pike was stained black, a remnant of other traitors’ blood from generations past.
At the sound of the drums a crowd, consisting of a few curious rekhyt but mostly courtiers ordered to attend by royal decree, gathered. This was a public execution, witnessed by enough people to ensure that the traitor’s death would soon be on the lips of every priest, farmer, and fisherman in Egypt. Everyone would know the price exacted from traitors, something to remember as Hatshepsut took the throne.
She caught Nomti’s eye from where he was on the platform with Mensah and nodded for him to secure the linen bag over Mensah’s head. The former vizier bucked against his ropes like a bull about to be sacrificed, but he finally succumbed, although his shoulders still shook. There were only two possibilities open to Mensah as he left this life: a very quick death if the wood pierced his miserable heart, or a slow and agonizing demise if the spike missed its target. It was in his best interest to be still and allow the executioner to do his deed properly.
Hatshepsut held up her hands and the drums stopped. “Citizens of Egypt,” she called out. “We banish this traitor’s body and name from this world to ensure he shall never rise in Amenti. Let this be a warning to all those who might wish to incite chaos against Ma’at’s perfect order.”
The drums pounded a steady heartbeat as medjay guided Mensah to the edge of the platform. His bare toes hung off the edge. The crowd held its breath in complete silence, and then the medjay slammed their shoulders into Mensah’s back. As stiff as a board, he fell forward with a spray of blood and a sickening squelch. The spike missed his heart, piercing his stomach and exiting out his back. He screamed—the high screech of a falcon—and scarlet blood trickled down the stake to stain the earth. A woman keened as Mensah writhed upon the shaft, his head still in the sack and arms and legs bound.
Re reached his pinnacle before all the life seeped from Mensah; perhaps Anubis was less than pleased at the prospect of claiming a traitor. Sweat gathered under Hatshepsut’s arms, trickled like blood down her back. Still she stayed and watched.
Finally, he stopped moving and his chest stilled. Slaves poured oil on a nearby pile of imported cedar and pine, then tossed a burning light onto the logs. The bonfire roared to life as four medjay lifted Mensah’s body from the pike. All his guts poured forth, entrails dangling from his stomach as his corpse was heaved onto the pyre. He wasn’t the final obstacle in Hatshepsut’s path to the throne, but she vowed that he would be the last blood sacrifice she would make.
She remained until the embers grew cold and the greasy smear of smoke cleared from the air. Slaves lit torches as dusk spread; then they gathered the ashes and doused the bloodied earth with buckets of water.
Hatshepsut hoped never to see another execution as long as she lived.
• • •
Hatshepsut’s hair was still damp after her visit to the bath pavilion, her skin pink where Mouse had scoured her with natron until she thought she might bleed. Nomti fell into step behind her as she left her chamber, his hand on the hilt of his curved sword. Her skin prickled with fear at each stray sound and her neck was still tender, the black bruises from the night before hidden under a wide pectoral collar of lapis and a turquoise winged scarab.
Mensah lurked in the darkness every time she closed her eyes, impaled and slowly bleeding to death on the stake. Her body was clean, but her ka would carry the stain of his execution forever.
The greatest gifts in life came with the greatest costs.
She gathered her thoughts for what she was going to say when she reached the Hall of Women, the words she’d focused on during Mensah’s drawn-out demise. Her feet slowed as she approached the massive gilded gate, wishing she could forestall what she was about to do.
A small price to pay. That’s what
she kept repeating to herself, yet this was another stain about to find its home on her ka.
She almost turned around, but the golden gate swung open. The one person she wished to avoid—yet desperately wanted to see—raised her hand in greeting.
Aset walked toward her and enveloped her in a warm hug. “I’d guess you can’t wait for this day to be over.”
Hatshepsut nodded. Her day of triumph didn’t feel as victorious as she’d imagined. And she had a feeling it was about to get much worse.
Aset squeezed her shoulders. “You did the right thing, Hatshepsut. I know it doesn’t make it any easier, but Mensah deserved to die.”
“I know.”
Aset rubbed her arm with one hand, then glanced at the ground. “How is Senenmut?”
Hatshepsut started. She hadn’t expected Aset to show concern for the man she openly disliked. “He is well. Gua says his arm will heal so long as he rests.”
“You might have to barricade him in his chambers, then.” Aset smiled and Hatshepsut managed to return the gesture. “Speaking of rest,” Aset said, “I seem to recall the Royal Physician saying the same thing about you.”
“I’m fine.” Hatshepsut took a deep breath. “I was coming to see you, actually.”
“Me? Don’t be silly. Go to bed.”
“By the gods,” Hatshepsut said, her voice low. This was so much harder than she had imagined. “Aset, there’s something else, something important I have to tell you.”
“Sekhmet’s breath,” Aset said. “You’d best get it out quick—you look like you’re about to be ill.”
“Egypt is vulnerable with Tutmose on the throne. Someone stronger than a ten-year-old boy needs to wear the double crown in order to avoid another rebellion like Mensah’s.”
“What?” Aset blinked, struggling to comprehend Hatshepsut’s words. “But Tutmose is the pharaoh, the only heir to Thutmosis and your father. There’s no one else who shares their blood—” She stopped and shook her head, the bells at the ends of her wig tinkling like a flurry of angry bees. “No—”
“Aset.” Hatshepsut wanted to touch her, to stop her friend’s trembling. “I’m going to be pharaoh. It’s the only way.”
Aset clenched her hands into fists at her sides and stepped toward Hatshepsut. Nomti moved closer, but Aset slowly raised her hands, palms open. “I must have misheard you,” she said to Hatshepsut, the sharpness in her voice echoing down the corridor. “For a moment, it sounded like you were planning to steal my son’s throne.”
“Tutmose will still become pharaoh, but not until after my reign.”
“So you’ll keep the throne warm until my son is older and then step aside?”
“No. A pharaoh never abdicates.”
Aset slapped her—hard—but Nomti pinned Aset’s arms behind her back before she could do further harm. She struggled against him, and if the glint in her eyes was any indication, she wanted to do much more damage.
Hatshepsut touched the fire in her cheek, then dropped her hand and stepped close enough to feel Aset’s breath. “Please,” she said. “Try to understand—”
“I understand perfectly well.” Aset spat at her feet. “I wish I’d let you die. You may as well be dead, at least to me.”
Hatshepsut stepped back, struggling to keep her face a mask. “I’m sorry, Aset—I truly am. But this is the way it has to be.”
“Only because it’s the way you want it.”
“This is for Egypt. I hope one day you’ll understand.” She turned and walked away, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder even as she heard Nomti fall into step behind her, and feeling as if she was leaving behind something precious and irretrievable with Aset.
“Ammit will eat your heart for this!” Aset screamed at her back. “I loved you like a sister, but you’ve betrayed Tutmose! And Egypt!” There was a splintering crash, and Hatshepsut turned to see shards of alabaster and pink lotus blossoms strewn about the floor, puddles of water on the tiles. “I hate you!”
Hatshepsut forced herself to continue walking, one foot in front of the other, all the way to her chambers. Nomti motioned for the guards outside to fall back and barred the entrance with his arm.
“Aset will be a dangerous foe after this,” he said.
Hatshepsut’s hand fluttered to her temples. She didn’t care to discuss this now, but Nomti wouldn’t be dismissed so easily. “It’s my opinion that Aset should be removed from the palace,” he said, “perhaps sent to your estates in Bubastis, at least until you can be sure she won’t seek revenge against you. Your Keeper of the House there is loyal to you and won’t shirk from the added duty of watching Aset for suspicious activity.”
“Suspicious activity?” Hatshepsut closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, not wanting to think on this new reality. Her friend and sister was now her enemy, all by her own hand. “Aset hates me, but I doubt she’ll try to have me murdered in my bed.”
Nomti clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you know exactly what transpired between her and Mensah before he almost had you killed?”
“He tried to persuade her to join him, but she refused.” Hatshepsut’s voice climbed until the waiting guards gave them a sharp glance. She drew a deep breath, ready to dismiss Nomti so this conversation could reach its end. “Then she fled to hide Tutmose.”
“That was after Mensah spent the evening in her chambers. The possibility remains that she might have initially been tempted to join him.”
Hatshepsut opened her mouth to reply, but the protest died before it could leave her lips. Nomti was right to be concerned, although she doubted Aset was capable of such duplicity, as she’d always worn her emotions plain on her face. But as much as Hatshepsut hated to admit it, Nomti was probably right about Aset being a threat to her safety. Still, she could scarcely stomach the thought of punishing Aset further. “I can’t send away Tutmose’s mother, not as I’m about to be crowned.”
Nomti shrugged. “It might be said that the former concubine of Osiris Thutmosis requested time to recuperate from the recent coup away from the palace. Grant her some rich grazing land or dedicate a monument to her as Tutmose’s revered mother as a public token of your appreciation. She’ll forget soon enough.”
Hatshepsut doubted very much that Aset would be so easily distracted. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’d be banishing her. I can’t send her so far away as Bubastis.”
“It’s not banishment if you plan to recall her in a few years, once she’s had time to realize that Tutmose will still be pharaoh one day.” Nomti crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing like a desert cat’s. “My only concern is for your safety. I stand firm by my warning: Aset cannot remain here, Per A’a.”
Per A’a. Pharaoh.
She had thought the title would sound sweet, but the word seemed impossibly heavy now that it belonged to her. Had her father felt like this when he took the throne? Had Thutmosis?
Finally, she nodded. “Fine. Aset will be sent away, but not to Bubastis. She’ll go to Dendera instead, so she’s not as far away, and perhaps will even serve the Temple of Hathor. Regular reports will be sent to her regarding her son.”
Nomti signaled to the guards to return to their places. “I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”
The doors to Hatshepsut’s chamber shut silently behind her. The walls pushed in on her, the warm air threatening to suffocate her. Seams ripped as she yanked the neck of her sheath, clenched her teeth, and wanted to throw something as Aset had done. Instead, she climbed the ladder to the roof, gulping in deep breaths of the tempered night air.
“Is this what you wanted?” she yelled at the stars. “Another price I have to pay?”
But if the gods heard her, they didn’t answer. It was possible that she had been wrong in assuming the double crown would fulfill their wishes.
Instead, perhaps the gods had finally abandoned her.
PART IV
Pharaoh
1481 BC–1458 BC
Her frag
rance was like a divine breath,
Her scent reached as far as the land of Punt,
Her skin is made of gold,
It shines like the stars in the hall of festival …
She had no equal among the gods
Who were before since the world was.
—FROM THE OBELISK INSCRIPTIONS AT KARNAK
Chapter 25
YEAR ONE OF PHARAOH HATSHEPSUT
The coronation was not ostentatious. And unlike her brother’s and Tutmose’s ceremonies, held at the palace, Hatshepsut was crowned at Karnak, open for the world to see.
No woman had ever become Pharaoh in a time of peace, and only two others—Nitokerty and Sobkneferu—had ever worn the double crown. Both women were the last links in their dynastic chains—a trend Hatshepsut refused to follow. She would rule well, and prove that a woman could govern as well as a man. Then, should some catastrophe befall Tutmose after he assumed the throne, Neferure would be able to wear the double crown as undisputed leader of the Two Lands.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but Hatshepsut could feel the presence of each of the great nine gods as she entered Karnak’s holy ground, all the gods and goddesses leaving their sacred shrines to flank her as she walked toward the golden pavilion where the High Priests of Horus and Set waited with the crowns of Lower and Upper Egypt. Interwoven papyrus reeds and lotus blossoms formed a fragrant carpet underfoot, and red and white standards fluttered in the breeze, further proclamations of the united Two Lands.
Tutmose stood under the pavilion, only ten years old and already as tall as she, while Senenmut and Neferure stood a step below him. A newly carved red granite statue of Amun that stood the height of two men gleamed brightly in the sunshine. Hatshepsut had herself inspected the god’s body for cracks the night before and had laid the offerings of incense and myrrh at the feet of the hidden god with her own hands. She wasn’t taking any chances today, having gone so far as to allow Nomti earlier this morning to personally escort Aset to the barge that was carrying her to Dendera. Only the gods knew when Hatshepsut would see her friend again, but she hoped the passage of time would bank her friend’s anger and they would soon be reunited.
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