“Neb Senenmut is gone,” he said.
“What do you mean, gone?”
The slave’s hands trembled. “His slaves claim he left yesterday and that he packed for a trip of many days.”
Many days. Yet he’d left without telling her. For a moment she wondered if there was a chance this was a permanent move, and felt loneliness crash upon her.
She left the slave cowering on the docks and hurried to inspect Senenmut’s chambers, the sound of her sandals on the tiles echoing off the corridors’ high walls. His largest chest was missing, as were many of his most precious belongings: the pectoral of golden bees she’d bestowed upon him a year ago for his service to Egypt, a cedar statue of Thoth, and even all his architectural plans for her temple. The rooms were filled with Re’s light, yet they felt desolate.
He’d left her.
Surrounded by silent slaves, Hatshepsut had never felt so alone in her entire life. She retraced her steps to her own apartments, then sat at her desk, staring at a sheet of blank papyrus. She waited for the hieroglyphs to take form, for the right words to beg him to come back.
But there was nothing she could do or say to make this right. She would not order him to return or to stay with her; she loved him too much to demean him that way. It was only natural for a man to wish for a wife and children, the two things she could never give him. She had to remain loyal to Egypt.
Still, loyalty was a cold bedmate, and didn’t fill her heart with happiness as Senenmut’s laugh did.
The day slipped into another and yet another, until a week had passed. Her slaves learned to avoid her until only Mouse could stand to be in the same room with her, and then only because the poor dwarf had grown mostly deaf over the past years.
Darkness had fallen, and Mouse sat polishing a set of silver bangles as Hatshepsut curled at the window with a cat in her lap, staring out at the reflection of the Nile. On a still evening, it was possible to hear the murmur of the river’s great god Hapy, one of Egypt’s most ancient deities, as the bent old man adorned himself with papyrus reeds and spoke to the frogs. Hatshepsut had almost drifted to sleep when Mouse’s voice woke her.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, so loud the cat startled and ran off. “Neb Senenmut returned to court tonight.”
“What?” Hatshepsut straightened, wincing at the crick in her neck. “When?”
“While you were dining with Tutmose and Neferure.” Mouse picked one of her back teeth, revealing a gaping hole where she’d recently had another pulled. “So, now you can stop moping about and let all your slaves get back to work.”
Hatshepsut was already on her feet. She’d rehearsed this scene in her mind too many times to count over the past few days, usually at night, when she ached for Senenmut’s reassuring warmth next to her. She’d beg him to come back if she had to, and had almost managed to persuade herself that perhaps it was the gods’ will for her to have another child.
Almost. Yet in her heart she knew it would go against ma’at to invite possible chaos and civil war. Still, she’d do almost anything to have Senenmut back.
She ignored the guards outside his door and drew a steadying breath before stepping inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark; the shutters were closed against the moon and no oil lamps burned. Her heart lightened at the fresh scent of cinnamon she’d so missed, although there was another scent as well, something exotic. She stopped with a start as she approached the bed.
Senenmut lay on his back atop the rumpled sheets, his bare chest rising and falling in sleep. Curled on her side next to him was a young woman nestled under the sheets with her face toward the wall. The braids of her wig fanned over Senenmut’s arm, as expertly woven as the most intricate fisherman’s net. It was then that Hatshepsut recognized the source of the exotic scent in the room: the girl’s costly narcissus perfume.
Hatshepsut’s hands flew to her mouth, but the moan of pain escaped anyway. Senenmut didn’t move, but the girl stirred.
Hatshepsut fled as fast as her feet would carry her, not stopping until she’d reached her chambers and slammed the door behind her, yelling at Mouse and the slaves readying her bed to leave. They’d barely scurried from the room before she fell to her knees in front of her shrine to the gods. Behind the tallest statues of Amun and Sekhmet was a small ivory figure, a smiling cow-faced goddess gifted to her by an albino hand so many years ago.
Hatshepsut grabbed the goddess, wincing as Amun clattered to the ground. She didn’t realize how hard she squeezed Hathor’s statue until something snapped in her hand. The ivory goddess lay in her palm, broken in two yet still laughing, always laughing. It was unfathomable that such a seemingly insignificant goddess, relegated to oversee only music, love, and dance, could topple all else. Such was the power, and curse, of love.
In denying Senenmut children, she’d also denied him immortality of the flesh and pushed him into another’s waiting arms. Any number of women would be beside themselves to marry Senenmut and bear his children.
The one thing Hatshepsut had denied him had proved too much.
• • •
Head pounding after a night spent staring at the ceiling above her empty bed, Hatshepsut was unable to close her eyes against the image of Senenmut and his young woman that was now seared onto her mind. She’d alternated between the urge to storm back to his apartments and scream at him like a demon from the afterlife, and forcing herself not to curl up like a child and sob herself to sleep. She didn’t know what she’d do or say to Senenmut when she saw him, but one thing was certain: She couldn’t chance a scene that would fuel the gossips for years to come. Much as she hated it, she would have to go to him.
And so she dragged Mouse from her pallet long before Re had finished his battle with dark Apep, and ordered her dwarf to ready her for the day. She wore no crown or headdress, no pectoral of precious stones, not even any rings—only a sheath of the softest linen and two stark lines of kohl ringing her eyes. It wasn’t as his pharaoh that she would speak to him, but as the woman who shared his heart.
She dismissed the guards posted outside his apartments and braced herself to step inside once again. These rooms would be empty after today, for much as she might wish to keep Senenmut near, she was not so magnanimous as to let him remain with his woman beneath her nose. Egypt’s third district at the farthest reaches of the Delta was in a need of a nomarch; she would send him there and be done with this, go through life with only half a heart, and that half scarred beyond use.
She expected Senenmut to still be abed, but the door opened to reveal a multitude of burning oil lamps. Her heart tripped at the sight of him, bereft of his wig and golden armbands and seated behind a table covered with scrolls. His face was as hard as a statue as he looked at her, as if he’d been waiting for her. They started at each other for a moment: a man and a woman, both broken.
She glanced around for the young woman, but his chambers were empty.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
He nodded, and a thick silence settled between them. Finally, Senenmut cleared his throat. “I expect we’ll need to meet with Ti and Neshi today regarding the trade expedition—”
“I know about her.” Hatshepsut clasped her hands around her elbows, as if cradling her heart to protect it from further damage. She needed to get the words out and leave here—leave him—before she lost her composure.
“Her?” Senenmut cocked his head, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Her hand fluttered toward his bed, the mattress still bearing the imprint of two bodies. “The woman in your bed.” The words stuck in her throat. “I understand, but I can’t have you here, not with her—”
“You understand?” Senenmut spoke the words slowly and stared at her, thunderstruck. “What do you understand?”
“That what I can give you pales in comparison to the joys of a wife and child.” Hatshepsut tilted her chin and dropped h
er arms. She would do this with grace and pick up the fragments of her heart later. “You have my permission to leave court, and I gladly gift you the governorship of the third nome. It is my most fervent hope that you are able to find happiness there.”
For she would never be happy again, not without him.
Senenmut rose and came to stand before her, the vein under his jaw throbbing and his eyes sparking. “So I can leave with my wife—and that’s the end of the matter?”
Her heart cried out at the word wife. There was no formal wedding ceremony for nonroyalty; a man and a woman moved into the same house, broke bread, and made their claims on each other’s hearts. For all she was aware, Senenmut might have been married for a week by now. She managed a nod. “You may. Go well, Senenmut of Iuny.”
He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I didn’t expect such generosity,” he said.
“You are dismissed.” She meant that he was dismissed from court, but the words seemed small and silly, as she was the one now left to retreat from his rooms. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her against his chest, a rumble of laughter growing in the back of his throat. She struggled against him, but his arms were as tight as any ropes. She would let him leave the palace, but she would not be laughed at.
“Let me go!”
“You are a stubborn little fool, nefersha,” he said, grunting to keep her from breaking loose. “I presume you mean the girl in my bed last night?”
She winced at the painful truth, but struggled to keep her voice from wavering. “Why? Is there more than one that I should be aware of?”
“No, just that one. And this little show of yours would have been rather impressive, were it not for the fact that the girl you saw in my bed is my sister.”
It took several moments for the words to penetrate her mind. She stopped struggling, feeling his breath on the top of her head. “Your sister?” It was a family duty for royal siblings to marry in order to model the gods and ensure the purity of the bloodline, but otherwise the practice was virtually forbidden to the rest of Egypt’s people. “I’m sure you have an excellent excuse for keeping your sister in your bed. If she really is your sister, that is.”
His arms tightened around her, and a glance at his face revealed an expression as if he’d like nothing so much as to strangle her. “I’ll tell you the whole story, but only if you promise not to gouge my eyes out when I let you go.”
She glared at him and he gave an exasperated sigh. “I suppose that’s as close as I’ll get to a promise,” he said.
He released her, and she crossed her arms tightly in front of her chest. “Go on.”
“I went home to Iuny to clear my mind.”
“I don’t see why you had to leave.” Even to her own ears she sounded as if she were pouting.
He pursed his lips. “You have the gift of muddling many a man’s thoughts. It’s like having Sekhmet roaring in your ear day and night.”
“And?”
“Nofret-Hor is my youngest sister,” Senenmut said, taking his seat again. He looked far too relaxed for Hatshepsut’s liking. “The baby of the family.”
“She didn’t look like a baby to me.”
“Perhaps not, but she’s still afraid of the dark, although she wouldn’t thank me for telling you that. I fell asleep last night and she crawled into bed next to me after the lamp burned out.” He smiled. “She’s only two years older than Neferure. In fact, Neferure is the reason why she’s here. Nofret-Hor asked to come to court, and I thought it good timing with the Beautiful Feast of the Valley coming up.”
“I’m not sure I understand the connection.”
Senenmut ran his hands over his bare scalp. “My little sister wished to meet my daughter, Hatshepsut. She wanted to meet Neferure.”
My daughter.
“Oh.” Hatshepsut’s hands fell away, her eyes filling at the simple words.
Senenmut rose and gathered her into his arms, his chin resting where the double crown would have been. “It took me several days of moping around Iuny, watching my brothers with their children, before I realized that I already have what I wanted.”
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought. And as impossible as it may sound, you were wrong. Of course I’d be happy to fill several stables with our children, so it was hard for me to understand your decision. But I could never leave you, Hatshepsut. I may as well cut out my heart.”
She pressed closer, listening to the heavy beat of that heart. “I’m glad to be wrong,” she said, splaying her hand over his bare chest so she could feel its steady rhythm. “Just this once.”
His familiar laughter rumbled above her and she smiled at the sound, another gift from the gods.
“I didn’t make the decision lightly,” she whispered. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine these apartments and the palace corridors ringing with the laughter of their children. Instead, there was only silence.
“I know,” he said.
They stayed that way for a long while, until Senenmut pressed a kiss onto her forehead. “You’d best go change,” he murmured.
“Change?” Hatshepsut looked down at her sheath. “Why?”
“Because I thought to present my sister to you this morning,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. “I’ve told Nofret-Hor how beautiful the pharaoh is, but—” He shrugged.
“But what?” Hatshepsut stood with arms akimbo, lips pursed together.
Senenmut laughed and kissed the back of her hand. “But right now you look like an angry fishwife. One with nowhere near enough jewels to impress a girl of thirteen floods.”
She kissed him then, a kiss full of apology and happiness. A kiss of promise.
Senenmut groaned, his lips still on hers. “Nofret-Hor just ran to the bathing pavilion. You’d best go before we give her an eyeful of more than just the pharaoh’s jewels.”
Hatshepsut laughed, her heart light as she danced from his arms. And she made a silent promise to the gods as she ran back for another kiss before darting out the door, lest she and Senenmut find themselves tangled in his bed.
Never again would she take this man for granted. Instead, she swore that their shared sacrifice for Egypt would bind them closer together.
• • •
Hatshepsut did meet Nofret-Hor later that afternoon, and gifted the awestruck girl with enough jewels to buy the entire village of Iuny.
“Am I supposed to wear all these at once?” Nofret-Hor whispered to Senenmut, her brown eyes bulging. She wasn’t terribly pretty, but her eyes sparked with intelligence as they darted about, taking in everything around her. Hatshepsut was struck by the family resemblance between the girl, scarcely on the cusp of womanhood, and Senenmut, but also by the stark contrast between Nofret-Hor and Neferure. Senenmut’s sister had been raised on the muddy banks of the Nile and had the energy of a water bug, while Neferure seemed as fragile as a lotus blossom.
Hatshepsut had hoped the girls would strike up an immediate friendship, but Neferure remained quiet and withdrawn, finally opening up on the morning of the Beautiful Feast of the Valley as they boarded the royal barge that would accompany Amun’s cedar boat to the West Bank, the land of the dead and the setting sun. Today the golden statue of the Great Cackler had left its newly constructed shrine in the Red Chapel in Karnak and traveled in a stately procession so that the hidden god might be reborn and granted new energy after a tiresome year of ruling this world. Neferure’s face lit with rapture as she described the ceremonies she dedicated to the god of gods each morning at Karnak, the singing of hymns and preparation of offerings to the sacred statue as Re rose and bathed the supreme god in his light. These new duties were training for the day she would receive the title of God’s Wife, a royal title Hatshepsut currently held. Nofret-Hor had barely managed to stifle a yawn and fidgeted under the golden awning as Amun’s ram-headed boat stopped at several places along the Nile’s banks, allowing Egypt’s people to place offerings
of bread and flowers at the god’s feet, but she squealed with glee when Dagi asked if she’d like to steer the royal barge. Neferure had paled when Dagi had offered her the steering rod, its end topped with the gilded head of Horus, and made an excuse about needing to sit in the shade to avoid the glare of the river.
Horus and his golden sons watched the scene with unblinking glass eyes from the tops of the standard shafts, the snapping of the red and white pennants mingling in the breeze along with the low tone of the rowers’ song. Hatshepsut pretended to inspect the offerings of wine and natron pellets waiting for Amun but instead observed her daughter from the prow. There was no doubt that Neferure took after Thutmosis with her fair skin and hesitant nature, and Hatshepsut herself had favored Pharaoh Tutmose and not her mother. Was it common for the gods to cast daughters from the same clay as their fathers instead of their mothers?
Senenmut seemed to read her thoughts and gave her a hand a gentle squeeze. “We don’t all follow the paths our parents plan for us. If we did, I’d be in a field in Iuny, sorting manure, and you’d only be regent. Neferure will chart her own course.” His eyes grew soft. “She’s growing into a thoughtful young woman.”
“Perhaps. I wonder if your mother can spare her youngest daughter for a bit longer?” Hatshepsut asked Senenmut. It might benefit Neferure to spend time with another girl close to her own age, especially someone as vivacious and lively as Nofret-Hor. Hatshepsut smiled as Nofret-Hor motioned to one of the rowers to move over on his bench and took his place, her oar out of sync with the others. Senenmut’s sister beckoned for Neferure, but she shook her head, her long white robe fluttering in the breeze. She looked ready to faint when Nofret-Hor jumped up and pulled her over anyway, but then she let out a peal of laughter as Nofret-Hor took up the rowers’ song, belting out the words off-key and adding in her own bits urging them to row faster.
Senenmut smiled at the rare sound of Neferure’s silvery laughter. “They do complement each other, but I promised to return Nofret-Hor after the festival. Our mother has grown frail and is almost deaf now,” he said.
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