Daughter of the Gods: A Novel of Ancient Egypt

by Stephanie Thornton

  A guard trailed Aset, a lean medjay whom Nomti had chosen to keep an eye on Tutmose’s mother. Aset was dressed in a form-fitting sheath far too tight and translucent to hide any weapons; her nipples had been rouged under the fine linen and all her body hair had been plucked away. The second medjay followed her with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the curves of her backside. Both guards fell back at Hatshepsut’s signal, although Nomti didn’t look pleased at the silent order. Aset’s features twisted into an expression of pure malice as she passed Hatshepsut’s guard, but then she turned her attention to Hatshepsut and swept into a deep henu. “I’ve come to make peace with you, Hatshepsut,” she said as she straightened.

  Hatshepsut was caught momentarily off guard, then recovered and motioned Aset to a bench. “That’s hardly the reaction I expected from you,” she said, smoothing the pleats of her skirt and trying to collect her thoughts.

  “I’ve carried this grudge against you for years now. I don’t wish to face Anubis’ scales and find my heart so heavy with bitterness that I’m unable to enter the Field of Reeds.”

  Hatshepsut didn’t speak for a moment, startled again at the stunning ease of Aset’s return. She’d hoped to have a conversation like this with her, but as time had worn on, it had seemed more likely that frogs would fall from the sky. A glance at Nut’s clear belly told her that wasn’t going to happen, at least not tonight.

  “I’ve missed you,” Hatshepsut said, finding a truth in the words that she’d held at bay these past years. “I don’t deserve such kindness.”

  “I don’t agree with what you did.” Aset dropped her hand and picked her nails. Her thumb had started to bleed. “But I understand why you did it.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  Aset sucked the tip of her finger, then clasped her hands before her. “Does it matter?”

  “It does matter. To me.”

  “Then yes. I forgive you.”

  Hatshepsut searched Aset’s face for any trace of malice, but her features were scrubbed clean. She seemed to have aged at least twenty years since the coronation.

  “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I know that now, but I couldn’t help being angry. For Tutmose.”

  “He’ll be pharaoh after me, I swear on Sekhmet’s sun disk.”

  “Good.” Aset studied her. “He seems to be doing well in his apprenticeship to the military. I hope one day to see him follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.”

  “He’s a smart boy and a quick learner.”

  “Good,” Aset said stiffly. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

  There was still a wall between them, but it wasn’t so tall that it couldn’t be chipped away in time. It was more than Hatshepsut had hoped for.

  She stopped Aset as she stood to leave. “I’ve missed you, Aset.”

  Aset smiled, yet traces of sadness clung to her dark eyes. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  Aset walked from the garden, and the lean medjay fell into step behind her. Hatshepsut wanted to trust Aset again. She just didn’t know if she should.

  Several weeks had passed since that night, and although Aset had offered her friendship, Hatshepsut had grown accustomed to the sight of Aset’s retreating back each time she entered a room, followed by the shadow of her guard. Finally, Hatshepsut decided their single shared interest was the only route to earning back Aset’s friendship, so she invited Aset and Neferure to watch Tutmose’s skirmish at the military training ground. Egypt’s hawk in the nest filled out his armor and was taller than most of the other soldiers; Tutmose slept in the barracks and could swear and spit with the best of the men, much to his mother’s chagrin. Of course, few soldiers were as well-read or could speak as many languages as the hawk in the nest, but the men seemed willing to overlook these shortcomings in their future pharaoh.

  The other soldier—a young man with dirty feet and overly large teeth—danced around the ring, looking for a hole in Tutmose’s defense.

  “Want me to let you win?” The wind carried Sennedjem’s words to Hatshepsut. “It might help you impress your princess.”

  Hatshepsut snuck a glance at Neferure through her lashes. The poor girl winced as if the men were strangling kittens instead of talking about her.

  Tutmose charged the other soldier, slammed his shoulder into his friend’s flank to throw him off balance, then smashed the butt of his scimitar into Sennedjem’s shield. The force of the blow knocked Sennedjem back. He fell, his head and shoulders landing outside the ring drawn in the dirt.

  “Match!” The trainer’s hand cut through the air. “The round goes to Tutmose!”

  Tutmose grinned and offered his hand to his friend. It didn’t matter now who was watching—the soldiers cheered and many collected bets from those who had wagered against the hawk in the nest.

  “Caught me off guard there.” Sennedjem laughed and brushed the dirt from his kilt. The two clapped each other on the back, releasing puffs of red dust before Sennedjem waved at the stands.

  Tutmose bowed in their direction, but his eyes lingered on Neferure. Her hair was loose today, a shining sheet of mahogany held back by a thin gold diadem to emphasize her cheekbones. Without asking permission, Hatshepsut’s daughter had grown into a woman, just as Tutmose had become a man.

  Perhaps too much of a man for one still so young. Senenmut’s spies had recently reported Tutmose’s nightly visits to Satiah, a girl-slave in the kitchens with breasts as big as water jugs that swayed enticingly when she kneaded bread. For now, Hatshepsut was willing to ignore the indiscretion, allowing a reminder regarding Tutmose’s duties to Neferure to suffice as his only consequence. Once he married Neferure he could have as many rekhyt as he wanted in his bed, but until then he needed to restrict his interests to his books and military training, despite the allure of certain kitchen slaves.

  And yet Hatshepsut wondered how Neferure would react if she heard of Tutmose’s interest in Satiah. Neferure reminded her of a spring butterfly, graceful and rare, but so fine that the slightest touch would irrevocably damage its wings. She fluttered about at all the palace functions Hatshepsut required her to attend, and would bolt at the first opportunity with some excuse about her temple duties.

  Hatshepsut had bestowed the title of God’s Wife upon Neferure, and with that came heavy responsibilities. Her daughter was usually up before Re rose to dress and anoint Amun’s gold statue at Karnak. She spent most of her afternoons singing and chanting prayers to the god, and saw to the distribution of temple offerings. The musk of incense had become Neferure’s permanent perfume, the holy scent made from countless sacred ingredients clinging to her pale skin.

  And now, just as it seemed Neferure might crawl under her seat, Tutmose freed her from his eyes to spare a smile for his mother, then gave a deep bow of acknowledgment to Hatshepsut. She often wondered what he thought of her now that he was older, whether he truly realized what she had done in claiming the throne as her own. The idea that he would receive the finest military training and gain a calm and stable Egypt after she passed to the West was usually more than enough to soothe the occasional qualms of her ka.

  She smiled as he picked up his belt and walked to the observation stand, the men behind him already dispersing in search of their mats or a cup of beer.

  “Well done.” Aset glowed at her son. “That was quite a maneuver you pulled out there.”

  Tutmose buckled his belt and glanced warily over his shoulder as if to check whether anyone had heard his mother’s praise, but they were all out of earshot. “Luck. Tomorrow Sennedjem will probably throw me.”

  “I see you’ve moved on to the scimitar.” Hatshepsut eyed the bronze weapon hanging at his hip. “Do you like it?”

  “Senenmut showed me the trick to holding it.” He tossed the blade lightly and caught it by its hilt. “The Syrians knew what they were doing when they came up with this. It’s like an extension of your arm.”

  “It’s time to eat.” Aset clapped and stepped down from the
stands, holding out her hand for Tutmose. She ignored the sheen of sweat and dust on his skin and linked her arm through his. “As your mother, I claim you for lunch. I thought I’d see you more now that I’ve returned to the palace, but it seems like ages since we’ve talked. Perhaps we can discuss Pharaoh Kamose’s military victory against the Hyksos over oxtail soup.”

  “It’s Pharaoh Ahmose,” Tutmose muttered. “Kamose died before the Hyksos were defeated, as did his father.”

  “Such similar names,” Aset said. “Does it really matter?”

  Hatshepsut winced, hoping Tutmose would bite his tongue. It mattered very much, for Pharaoh Ahmose had expelled the terrible foreigners from Egypt and founded their family’s dynasty. Aset had always detested history—she’d once claimed Hatshepsut’s scrolls on the reigns of Khufu and Khafre would be best suited for lining cages in the palace aviary—but at least she was making an effort for her son.

  Tutmose’s gaze trailed after the men and for a moment he looked as if he’d rather clean chamber pots than spend the afternoon with his mother. But then his face cleared and he patted her hand. After all, duty was duty.

  “I can think of nothing better I’d like to do.” He sheathed the scimitar and bowed to Hatshepsut and Neferure, but turned around as an afterthought. “Neferure.” Did she cringe as he spoke her name, or was it the sun making her squint? “You look lovely today, your eyes especially.”

  A rosy blush overtook Neferure’s cheeks. And it was true. The sun made her eyes shine so that she looked even more ethereal than usual, her skin as translucent as a lotus petal. Tutmose bowed to his future wife and continued down the path with his mother, Aset’s guard following a few steps behind them.

  Hatshepsut and Neferure watched them go, then ambled back up the path to the palace, taking the long way around the lake. Neferure plucked a lily from the waters, absentmindedly picking the petals and dropping them as they walked. The yellow petals fluttered to the ground, scattered by the princess’s footsteps. She bit her lip, showing slightly crooked teeth, seemingly lost in thought.

  “How is Nofret-Hor these days?” Hatshepsut asked.

  “Fine,” Neferure mumbled. “She’s to be married soon.”

  “I’m sure she’s excited.” Hatshepsut knew from Senenmut that Nofret-Hor had chosen her own husband, a scribe from the Temple of Thoth. Hatshepsut planned to send them a lavish wedding gift, perhaps even present them with a plot of land and vineyards in Iuny.

  Neferure only shrugged and sighed, dropping more flower petals to the path.

  Hatshepsut wished she could catch a glimpse of the inner workings of Neferure’s mind. It was easier to discern the secret motives of glossy courtiers than it was to pull one solid answer out of her silent daughter.

  “I can’t stand it anymore.” Hatshepsut motioned for the guards to fall back. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.” Neferure flushed again, her cheeks crimson fire now compared to the gentle pink that had warmed her face earlier. Those same eyes now darted to her mother’s face and down to the mangled lily.

  Hatshepsut took her daughter’s fingers and squeezed them. “Neferure, anyone can see you’re upset. Was it Tutmose? I’m sure he didn’t mean for his comment to embarrass you.”

  “No, I know, it’s not—” Neferure stumbled over the words. “It’s not Tutmose.” Her lower lip trembled. “It is, but it’s not.”

  Hatshepsut pulled Neferure into her arms and held her tight. Her daughter’s heart fluttered like a sunbird. “Whatever’s bothering you can’t be that terrible. And you can tell me anything, you know that.”

  “I know.” Tears clung to the corners of Neferure’s eyes, but she allowed Hatshepsut to lead her to a granite bench at the edge of the lake. They sat in silence for some time as a pair of swans built a nest in a clump of reeds. Past the lake, the heads of two giraffes stood tall above the menagerie buildings. The baboons and monkeys squawked from behind the wall.

  Finally, Neferure spoke, twirling the same loose thread on her sheath between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you ever doubt the path the gods had chosen for you?”

  So that’s what this was about.

  “Every day until the double crown was placed upon my head,” Hatshepsut replied. It felt strange to say the words, but they were true. “I’ve been terrified of failing since the day my sister died and I realized I’d have to become Great Royal Wife.”

  “But you didn’t fail.” Neferure’s eyes welled with tears and she tugged at the thread, opening a hole in the linen. It broke Hatshepsut’s heart to see her so miserable.

  “You won’t fail either.” Hatshepsut slid closer. “You’re doing beautifully at the temple. The priests inform me of your progress every time I see them.”

  “What if that’s all I want?”

  There was a long silence. Reeds snapped as the swans worked to build a home for their cygnets.

  “Neferure, the gods have given you a gift, an opportunity to serve them in more ways than one. Your work at the temple is infinitely important.” Hatshepsut knelt on the ground so Neferure had to look at her, clasped her hands to keep her from picking at the thread. If she kept at it, she wouldn’t have much of a sheath left to ruin. “But serving Egypt as Tutmose’s Great Royal Wife and partner on the throne is even more important.”

  Tears spilled onto Neferure’s cheeks. She was young. It was natural for her to be frightened of the future.

  Hatshepsut hugged Neferure, feeling the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. “You’ll make a wonderful Great Royal Wife. And Tutmose is a smart young man—”

  She stopped, realization dawning as her arms dropped back to her lap. “It’s Tutmose you’re worried about, isn’t it? You don’t want to marry him.”

  Neferure stiffened. “No, it’s not that. Tutmose always tries so hard to please me. Too hard, perhaps.” She stared past Hatshepsut to the swans, fingers unfolding in her lap like lotus blossoms. “I don’t think I’ll ever make him happy.”

  Hatshepsut laughed in relief. “My precious girl, you couldn’t be more wrong. I can’t think of a better pair to share the throne.”

  “Better than you and Father, I suppose.”

  Hatshepsut sobered. She had never belittled Thut to his daughter, but it was no secret that theirs had not been a love match. “I suppose so.”

  “And you won’t allow someone else to become Tutmose’s Great Royal Wife?”

  “You know I can’t do that. Your fully royal blood completes his claim to the throne. And if something were to happen to him as it did your father, you would need to rule Egypt in his place.”

  Neferure’s face turned whiter than the swans’ feathers. She shook her head. “That can’t happen. I wouldn’t be able to—”

  “You could,” Hatshepsut chided her gently. “I had to.”

  Neferure’s face crumpled, her hands fluttering in her lap. “I’m not you, Mother. I don’t have your gifts. I want to stay at the temple, become a chantress or perhaps a priestess.”

  “That’s not an option, Neferure.” Hatshepsut stood and shook her head. “You are destined for greatness, not obscurity.”

  “What if I don’t want greatness?”

  “Then you’ll need to content yourself with doing your duty.”

  Neferure wished for the impossible. This was the way things had to be, the only possibility.

  “You’ll grow into the idea with time.” Hatshepsut offered her hand to Neferure and was shocked by the chill of her fingers. “You won’t marry Tutmose until you’re ready.”

  “You promise?”

  “I give you my word.” She kissed Neferure’s forehead, inhaled the scent of sunshine on her skin. “And I promise one day you will be ready.”

  She would have to be.

  Chapter 28

  YEAR EIGHT OF PHARAOH HATSHEPSUT

  Alone in the Pharaoh’s private garden, Hatshepsut and Senenmut were silently absorbed in their scrolls as two peacocks—recent gifts from the Phoenician
ambassador—meandered through the garden, idly picking at flower petals and insects. The birds were terribly loud and gaudy, but Hatshepsut rather liked the unique addition to the royal menagerie. If their screeching became unbearable, she’d order the cooks to come up with a sauce that would complement roast peacock.

  She closed her eyes to the morning sunshine, letting the well-worn papyrus of The Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor drop to the grass. She’d read the story countless times as a child, but now the adventure reminded her of Neshi’s trip to Punt. Of course, that expedition had lacked the talking golden serpent.

  Eyes still closed, she allowed Re’s warmth to lull her toward sleep, until the angry slap of sandals on the garden tiles pulled her back to reality. Nomti had intercepted an unfamiliar messenger at the garden entrance, and now he gestured toward her and Senenmut.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Senenmut said, shielding his eyes to peer in Nomti’s direction.

  Nomti dismissed the messenger and walked slowly toward them, arms tight at his sides. Whatever tidings the messenger bore weren’t pleasant.

  He stopped several paces away, his face unreadable beneath the tattoos.

  “What is it?” Hatshepsut asked.

  “The messenger was from Aswan,” Nomti said.

  “What happened to the obelisks?” Senenmut set down his papyrus.

  Hatshepsut had ordered two more colossal obelisks hewn from Aswan’s quarries to accompany the pair already raised at Karnak. These newer obelisks were scheduled for completion in two months, to commemorate the anniversary of her ascension to the Isis Throne. And they were massive, a third larger than the previous ones.

  She’d never been one to dream small.

  Nomti clasped his hands behind his back. “The workers followed common procedures for removing the granite from the quarry, placing wood in the vertical cuts and wetting it to allow it to expand.”

  “And?”

  “The first obelisk released unanticipated stress while still attached to the bedrock.”