Senenmut winked in Hatshepsut’s direction and she suppressed a smile and took her place in a massive golden litter. Led by the High Priest, it began its short journey from Amun’s inner sanctuary. A solid gold statue of the Great Cackler in his double-plumed crown was balanced on the gilded sedan chair. Not even the sparrows dared chirp as Amun’s sacred statue approached Karnak’s outer courtyard. The supreme god rarely mingled with men, but Hatshepsut had persuaded the newly appointed High Priest to make an exception today. The golden statue had been anointed with precious myrrh oil so that the god of gods shone from his crown to his sandaled feet. Four boy-slaves bearing ostrich-wing fans cooled the god as supplicants laid offerings of flowers, incense, and jewelry at the edge of the path. Cornflower and lotus petals festooned the pebbled walkway to provide a scented carpet for the bearers’ feet.
The High Priest of Amun held up his hands, and the litter stopped before the ancient altar. The new priest’s upper jaw jutted out so that his lips could barely close, and his eyebrows joined together above the bridge of his nose. Hapuseneb was a distant relation through Hatshepsut’s mother; Hatshepsut had taken to heart Senenmut’s suggestion that their shared blood would guarantee that the priesthood wouldn’t be tempted to rebel again.
The High Priest of Amun controlled the temples, and through the priesthood and the army, Hatshepsut would control Egypt.
At Hapuseneb’s side, Set’s priest held the white leather crown of Upper Egypt so that it hovered over Hatshepsut’s head, and Horus’ priest held Lower Egypt’s copper-red crown. “The crown of Upper Egypt and the crown of Lower Egypt will unite at the word of the pharaoh,” Hapuseneb said. “As you have kept your subjects and the Two Lands from evil, so may Amun, the king of the gods, be compassionate toward you.”
Hatshepsut glittered in the sunshine as the High Priest of Set first placed the white crown upon her head and then the High Priest of Horus added the gleaming crown. The combined weight of the double crown was surprisingly light.
She grasped the crook and flail with cool hands and sank gracefully to her knees. The High Priest of Amun placed a piece of flatbread imprinted with an ankh, the symbol of everlasting life, upon her tongue. It was gritty, the dough having been sprinkled with sand blessed by all the High Priests before it was baked that morning. “Ankh, udja, seneb,” Hapuseneb proclaimed over her head. “May the great nine gods refresh your nose with life, prosperity, and health so your reign may shine like the star that does not end.” Then he stepped back and beckoned her to stand.
The rehearsed words tumbled from her lips.
“It is with a humble heart that I, Hatshepsut, seek to lead the Two Lands as pharaoh. In the presence of Amun and my people, I ask for the Great Cackler’s sacred blessing to rule Egypt. This shall be my privilege and burden until the day I pass to the West. O, Amun, will you accept me?”
All eyes were on Amun now, but the golden god remained silent. Then the litter tilted forward so that the statue bowed to her. It wasn’t as clear a sign as the cracking statue in Karnak’s temple years before, but one the High Priest had promised after a sizable donation of vineyards and oasis farmland.
“The King of the Gods blesses Hatshepsut,” the High Priest exclaimed. “May the pharaoh’s reign be long and prosperous. Ankh, udja, seneb!” Cheers loud enough to wake any gods who may have missed the ceremony erupted from the temple as the crowd repeated the prayer for Hatshepsut’s life, health, and prosperity.
This moment would forever etch her name on Egypt’s history. Twenty-six years old and dressed in a man’s long kilt of cloth of gold, Hatshepsut wore all the pharaoh’s trappings—the bull’s tail to denote strength, false beard to associate her with Osiris, and the golden uraeus at her brow for protection. Instead of her usual titles—those that had identified her for the past seven years—the High Priest called out her new titulary, one that would forever mark her as pharaoh and join her with Amun.
“Horus powerful of kas, two ladies flourishing of years, Horus of gold divine of appearances, king of Upper and Lower Egypt, beloved of Amun-Ra, Maatkare Hatshepsut!”
The cloud of incense parted and she breathed in sweet air, felt the warm slick of sacred oil as the priest anointed her forehead in the name of the gods. Her name would now be engraved into the list of all the pharaohs who had ruled over Egypt, a living god in her own right.
She had earned it.
• • •
It was unbearably hot in the palace that night. Shomu had reared its head early and had them within its scorching grasp again, cracking the mud left from the Inundation and scalding the long leaves of the barley and emmer growing along the Nile. Hatshepsut and Senenmut climbed alone to her roof and escaped into the night air for some welcome relief. They lay together on a fresh reed mat, occasionally shifting to allow the breath of the gods to cool the dampness that clung to where their limbs touched.
“I want to build you something.” The roughened skin of Senenmut’s thumb traced her jaw in the subdued lamplight.
Hatshepsut’s silvery laugh floated up to the half-moon above them. “You’ve already built so much for me.” She kissed his hand. “I don’t need anything else.”
“None of that will compare with what I want to build. Today you achieved immortality. Your name will live forever,” Senenmut murmured in her ear, his quiet voice a caress. “Now it’s my turn.”
Senenmut’s statement brought back the echo of words Hatshepsut had heard long ago, words she hadn’t thought of in years.
Your name will live forever.
You shall be the downfall of all those you love.
Egypt will prosper, but those closest to you will find only anguish and ruin.
She trembled in the dark. Senenmut pulled her closer and kissed her hair. She had caused Aset anguish, but was still determined that her friend would forgive her. She’d never loved Mensah, only lusted after him; he had caused his own downfall. But what about Senenmut? The thought of a future without this man was inconceivable—he was as much a part of her now as her lungs or heart.
His next words ripped the air from her.
“Someday one of us will die like this—wrapped in the other’s arms. But I want both our names to live for eternity.”
She had to force herself to breathe, imagining Djeseret cackling at her terror, her panic growing now that the first part of the prophecy had come true.
Was she doomed to fulfill the rest?
“Don’t say that,” she said. “Neither of us is going to die anytime soon. I won’t allow you to.”
“And I always follow orders.”
She felt Senenmut’s smile as he kissed her neck. She refused to believe the witch’s soothsaying or the words Amun had spoken in her head. Together, she and Senenmut would laugh over the ridiculous prophesy in their old age. Of course, that was only if she ever decided to tell him. Speaking the words aloud might give them too much power.
“What do you have in mind for this building project?” She nestled her head into the crook of his arm, willed her heart to stop its frantic pounding.
“I want to build your mortuary temple,” Senenmut said softly, as if he was afraid she might reject the idea.
“A morose thought.” Hatshepsut chuckled. “But practical. My father started building his as soon as he began his tomb.”
“Then you’ll let me build it?”
“Of course.” She turned and rewarded Senenmut with a long kiss, her tongue teasing his. “You were saying?”
Senenmut groaned as she slipped back to his chest. “You drive me mad, woman.”
“You wouldn’t want it any other way.”
He sighed, but she felt the happiness radiating from him like sunshine. “Your temple will be unlike anything Egypt has ever seen.” He caressed the outside of her thigh. “I’ve been sketching it in my head.”
“Let me see.”
“Look.” He reached off the mat to retrieve one of the charcoal nubs that was always tucked in the pocket of his kilt,
then etched stark black lines on the mud-brick floor, giving birth to his vision. Tall columns hugged three sweeping terraces of an elegant temple, each level flowing into the next with flawless symmetry. The design was stately but fluid, resembling nothing of the geometric and static designs of traditional Egyptian architecture. Delicate trees stood in the temple forecourt, their branches stretching from the ground in fragile V’s. Curious, Hatshepsut traced one of the trunks with her finger, smudging the charcoal.
“Myrrh trees,” Senenmut whispered, his eyes ravenous for her response.
They were trees of the gods, more precious than gold.
“It’s magnificent,” she breathed. “Where will you build it?”
“I’ll show you.” Senenmut pulled her to her feet before she could object.
They sent slaves to wake Dagi and the rowers, dragging the bleary-eyed servants from their beds. The rest of Egypt slept, the pennants of the royal boat hanging drowsily, and all the birds and beasts tucked into trees and grasses for the night. The Nile gleamed like black glass in the moonlight as the boat traveled to the West Bank, retracing the path she and Senenmut had taken on that forbidden afternoon long ago. Things were so different now. It seemed as if she were looking back at someone else’s life to remember that awful day.
She felt a twinge of guilt at Dagi’s yawn as they leapt off the gangplank, but Senenmut’s elation was intoxicating. They ran hand in hand from the river’s edge into the Western Valley while fingers of gray clouds reached across the black sky.
She was breathless when Senenmut finally stopped in the middle of a desolate amphitheater, hammered by the gods into the surrounding cliffs that towered above their heads, the sandy stage spread before them. To the left were the remains of an ancient temple, two lonely pillars and myriad carved blocks the only testament to whatever monument the blanket of sand had tucked in so long ago. Senenmut stood behind her and laid his arms atop her shoulders. His hands in front of her formed three sides of a square to frame the ground of the cliffs.
“Here,” he murmured.
Hatshepsut closed her eyes and imagined the temple blueprint he’d drawn. She opened her eyes and saw it at the base of the cliffs—their rugged beauty melding perfectly into the porticoes and terraces of her temple.
“Yes.” It was all she could say.
“Thank you, nefersha,” Senenmut whispered into her hair. She turned in his arms and their lips met. She would ensure that part of the temple was dedicated to Hathor, a gift to the goddess of love for giving her this man.
On the way back, they walked instead of ran, fingers loosely intertwined.
“We’ll need to find myrrh trees,” Hatshepsut said. She wanted Senenmut’s vision to be complete, down to the last detail.
“I’ll leave that part to you.”
“I’ll talk to Neshi and Ti—perhaps a trade expedition is in order.”
They had caught sight of the boat floating on the glimmering surface of the Nile when Hatshepsut stopped.
“What is it?” Senenmut asked, his fingers still looped with hers.
“When you finish my temple, I want you to build something for yourself.”
He chuckled. “Everything I build is for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, I rather like seeing my name stamped on something that will last forever.”
“No.” Hatshepsut squeezed his hand. “I don’t mean a temple dedicated to me or to the gods. I want you to build something for you. I don’t care what it is, but it has to be perfectly selfish—something for you alone.”
“Is that an order?” Senenmut’s lips grazed her earlobe.
She shivered. “Yes.” There had to be something he wanted, something she could give him.
“Then I’ll think about it,” Senenmut said. “I wouldn’t want to disobey the pharaoh, now, would I?”
“No, you certainly wouldn’t.” She laughed and started back to the waiting boat, but his hand in hers anchored her to the path.
“There’s something else I want, Hatshepsut.”
The look on his face silenced her laugh. His eyes were soft, his expression more vulnerable than she’d ever seen it. There was only one thing more Senenmut could want, something she could never give him no matter how much she loved him.
For a moment, she feared what he would say, but his next words were more terrible than she’d expected.
“I want a child with you, Hatshepsut,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her forehead. “I want to see your belly swell with my daughter. I want to watch you carry my son in your arms.”
She struggled for words, but the only ones that came to mind seemed a pitiful joke. “And you call me greedy.”
It was far too late for a child now that she had claimed the Isis Throne. A son borne of her body could supersede Tutmose’s claim to the throne, would surely invite future civil war. It would be easier to give Senenmut her crown.
He touched her cheek, took her hand again. “When it comes to you, yes, I am greedy.”
She stared at their hands entwined together, his dark from the sun and stained with charcoal, hers thin and delicate in comparison. “But we have Neferure.”
“And I love Neferure.” He kissed her hand. “But I want a child of our own, someone who will carry both our blood even after we’ve gone to the Field of Reeds.”
She gave a watery smile. “The ultimate building project.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He chuckled. “Although I think the building of this particular project would be far more enjoyable.”
“I’m not sure I can still have children, not after Neferure—”
His expression hardened. “I know about the pessary, Hatshepsut, and about your visits to the Royal Physician. I won’t pretend to understand why you’ve needed them all these years, but I feel I’ve been patient long enough.”
She retrieved her hands and hugged her elbows. “We’ve already discussed this. Why now?”
“What do you mean, why now? I’ve wanted it for seven years. Longer, probably.”
“Why didn’t you mention it before? Why not after the first time—”
Her voice trickled away, the memory of her mistake a heavy weight on her ka. And then she realized why he’d never pushed to try for another child, why he’d fallen silent on the subject. “You believed I got rid of it, didn’t you?”
His face contorted. “I did, for a while.”
“You thought me such a monster?”
“I was hurt; I couldn’t think straight. Having a child would have endangered Tutmose’s future succession, made your bid for pharaoh a risk no one would have supported.”
“That hasn’t changed.” That he could have thought her capable of destroying her own child made her want to scream at him, to rake her nails across his face.
The air around them seemed suddenly cold. “You’re pharaoh now,” he said. “You can do what you like.”
She shook her head. “No, I can’t because I’m pharaoh.”
“You can’t?” He gave her a sharp look, one meant to impale her. It worked. “Or you won’t?”
She smoothed the lines that radiated from his tired eyes. “And what if I had your son? What would happen to Egypt then?”
“Who’s to say you’d have a boy?” His tone was defensive, as if he already knew the impossibility of his dream.
“The gods would give me a boy.” She’d worn her knees out praying for Neferure to be a boy, but to no avail. It was guaranteed the gods would send her a son if she prayed for a daughter. She sighed. “What would happen if the reigning pharaoh had a son while there was already a hawk in the nest? What would happen after I died?”
“You’d have to decide who would take the Isis Throne after you—our son or Tutmose.”
“Exactly. And regardless of whom I named, both boys would have an equal claim to the throne. I won’t plunge Egypt into civil war after I’m gone.”
“So you sign some proclamation, choose one of them as your co-regent before you die.�
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“You know it’s not that simple. There would be a power struggle no matter what I did. It’s too late for us to have a child.”
Silence shrouded them. A cloud passed over the moon and hid his expression. “I don’t ask for much, Hatshepsut.”
“I know.” And it was true. All his titles, all his wealth, had been bestowed freely by her hand. She’d suspected that Senenmut might wish to share the double crown, to rule with her on the Isis Throne, but he was a much better man than she’d given him credit for. She didn’t deserve him.
He sighed. “You won’t give this to me, will you?”
His face was a dark blur as she drew in a ragged breath. “I can’t. But I’ll make it up to you, I swear it.” She caught his hand to keep him from leaving. “Senenmut, I love you.”
“I know,” he said, striding away from her anyway and calling the final words over his shoulder. “But not enough.”
• • •
It didn’t take much to persuade Neshi and Ti to indulge Hatshepsut’s desire for a trade expedition. Ti was overjoyed to have something to sink surplus treasury funds into—Hatshepsut had yet to splurge on anything other than her building projects—and Neshi was determined to lead the expedition himself. The only question that remained was where the voyage should go. Unfortunately, the project had lost much of its appeal for Hatshepsut after her argument with Senenmut, and she postponed several planning meetings with the twin brothers. Senenmut hadn’t broached the subject of a child—she doubted he would again—and while she’d showered him with a clutch of fresh titles, even she knew that no title in the world would ever make up for his not being a father.
And then one day he was gone.
She waited for him on the docks for a trip into the valley to take measurements for her temple and recruit artists from the Place of Truth. Her impatience grew as Re climbed into Nut’s belly, hampering their chances of making it there before the worst heat of the day. Finally, she sent a slave to fetch him, but the boy returned alone.
Daughter of the Gods: A Novel of Ancient Egypt Page 31
