Daughter of the Gods: A Novel of Ancient Egypt

by Stephanie Thornton

  “Unanticipated stress?” Hatshepsut asked.

  “It cracked,” Senenmut interpreted, his voice strangled.

  “Yes,” Nomti said. “It’s unsalvageable.”

  “Son of Set!” Senenmut crumpled the papyrus in his fist. “We scoured the quarries for that granite for weeks. The stone was perfect!”

  Hatshepsut couldn’t stop a shiver from climbing up her spine, as if a cloud had suddenly crossed over the sun. Perhaps this was an admonishment from some offended god?

  She pushed away the ridiculous worry. She had done nothing to anger any of the gods. This was simply nature, an undiscovered aberration in the stone that was only now making itself known.

  “We’ll simply have to survey Aswan for another suitable site,” Hatshepsut said. “There’s nothing wrong with the second obelisk?”

  “Nothing the messenger reported,” Nomti said.

  “I’ll send new orders to Amenhetep immediately.” Senenmut was already on his feet. “If he doubles the pace of construction on the new one, the two obelisks can sail at the same time.” He glowered, as if somehow the rock had cracked to spite him. He disliked the taste of failure as much as Hatshepsut did.

  She nodded her dismissal to Nomti. “We knew this might happen,” she said to Senenmut once they were alone.

  “It shouldn’t have happened. I handpicked that slab.”

  “What’s done is done. The work will start over and, as you’ve said, the obelisks can still sail together as planned. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  Senenmut stared at the battered papyrus in his hand, attempted to smooth it out. “You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s ready for the sed festival.”

  “It will be.” She kissed his cheek. “And the festival is going to be perfect.”

  • • •

  The obelisks were barely ready in time for the first day of Peret, the planting season and the start of the five-day sed festival. As the celebration was one of rebirth and rejuvenation, it seemed only fitting that the season match the mood. The rest of the celebration—raising the obelisks, reenacting Hatshepsut’s coronation, and assorted physical competitions—would prove that at thirty-four years old, the female pharaoh still possessed the vitality and physical ability to rule Egypt.

  Hatshepsut marveled at the behemoth sycamore barge that was transporting the two massive lengths of stone upriver toward the docks. Just as had occurred eight years ago, the entire town lined the riverbank to witness the approach of the gold-capped monuments. In years to come, the rekhyt would regale their children and then their grandchildren with the story of the incredible feat accomplished before their very eyes. For her part, Hatshepsut would ensure that this monumental undertaking was recorded in stone at both Karnak and Djeser-Djeseru.

  Future generations would sing her praises long after she was gone.

  This time, she wasn’t taking any chances of angering the fickle gods and earning further wrath directed at the obelisks. On her orders, and only after the stretch of river had been cleared of crocodiles, a herd of white cattle had been driven across the Nile for good luck before Re had risen. Three small boats packed with priests now plied the waters to bless the obelisks, the river, and even the oarsmen of the twenty-seven boats pulling the barge. The sed celebration would start according to plan.

  Priests led a sleek black sacrificial bull from the crowd as oarsmen threw ropes to the barge, like oversized spiders spinning a web. The bull’s muscles rippled as if made of quicksilver and its nostrils flared at the priests’ attempts to calm it. Catching the scent of death on the breeze, the beast lost its temper, braying and snorting, its yellow eyes flaring. The priests scurried to contain the animal, but one took a horn in the ribs and was carried into the crowd to die. The crack of a whip finally persuaded the animal to step foot on the gangplank. The crowd held quiet as the High Priest of Amun intoned a prayer to the Great Cackler to ask his blessing for the occasion. The blinding flash of Re’s light on the priest’s dagger was no doubt the last thing the bull saw before blood surged from its neck. It knelt, then collapsed to the ground as the death spasms twitched their way along its dying body.

  The High Priest crouched over the pool of warm blood to consult the frothy redness before looking into the pattern of clouds overhead. He gave a succinct nod, then turned to face Hatshepsut. “Amun is pleased with the sacrifice!”

  The crowd roared in delight, and two drums beat out a single deafening heartbeat. Then it was Hatshepsut’s turn to speak.

  “We commissioned these obelisks to commemorate our fifteenth year as ruler of the Two Lands and to dedicate the precious monuments to Amun, our sacred father. May the Great Cackler accept these gifts and continue to shower Egypt with his blessings!” She marveled at the crowd as it thundered its approval. She had broken the rules once again. Pharaohs planned the sacred sed celebration only after they had ruled for thirty years, but she had included her years as Tutmose’s regent to reach only half that. Why wait when there was no guarantee she’d ever see thirty years on the Horus Thorne?

  An imperceptible nod to Tutmose gave the signal for him to follow her across the gangplank and onto the barge. Together they uncorked the sacred vials of myrrh and overturned them, dousing the giant stone needles with one final offering to Amun.

  She turned back to address her subjects. “Tomorrow you will bear witness as these obelisks are raised within the walls of Karnak.” Happiness radiated from her voice. “But tonight each of you shall enjoy ox flesh, bread, and beer from the palace!”

  Her announcement was met with another mighty cheer. This would be the one and only time most of the rekhyt tasted meat, a welcome change from their usual diet of dried fish, onions, and bread. The beer was a welcome gift, too, far superior to the thick barley sludge they usually drank.

  “A deft political maneuver, Per A’a,” Tutmose commented as they stepped back on shore.

  “You think so?”

  “You have a gift, an ability to draw people to you, like bees to a lotus blossom.” Tutmose looked askance at Hatshepsut, as if choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t understand why you planned a sed festival after so short a time on the throne.”

  She waited for him to continue, but Tutmose remained silent, his smooth features a perfect mask.

  “Some rules are worth following,” she said, “but others exist simply because that’s the way things have always been done.” She gestured to the throng of Waset’s jubilant denizens. “Look how happy they are.”

  Tutmose seemed impressed. “There’s no doubt the people love you. And you’ve just sacrificed enough to Amun to keep him content for the next fifteen years.”

  “At least.” Hatshepsut gave a wide smile. “Remember that when you’re pharaoh. Keep the people and the gods happy, and everyone prospers.”

  • • •

  Hatshepsut woke the next morning to priests singing hymns to herald Re’s glorious victory over black Apep. The fuzzy rectangles of light streaming from her windows were softer than usual, and dust motes danced languidly in the air. The sun god hid his face behind a thick bank of clouds—a perfect day for the sed festival chariot race.

  Hatshepsut leapt from her bed, startling the sleek black cat curled at her feet. Today there would be a reenactment of her coronation and the chariot race—one she hoped to win. Her mattress was still dented with the imprint of Senenmut’s body; he had already left to oversee the raising of the second pair of obelisks. She wanted to be there, but knew anxiety would leave her without any hair or fingernails if she went to watch.

  Mouse waited with a breathtaking linen kilt shimmering with thousands of silver beads and a pectoral and corselet strung with bands of gold and lapis, layered to represent the feathering of birds. Gold was revered as the skin of the gods, but silver was even more precious, symbolic of the bones of the sacred deities. Today Hatshepsut would be drenched with both precious metals to remind everyone of her link to the gods.

&nbs
p; After she was scrubbed, plucked, and oiled from head to toe, a barrage of slaves ushered her to her dressing table. The heavy pectoral and matching earrings Mouse draped from her neck and ears had been a gift from Senenmut for her naming day several years back. The electrum moon hovered over lapis lazuli stars, that startling blue-and-gold-flecked gem reserved for royalty, and matched a ring of Senenmut’s that she had taken to wearing on her thumb. Mouse drew thick lines of kohl to her temples and brushed gold dust over her eyelids, then dabbed delicate drops of jasmine perfume behind her ears. The bull’s tail went round her waist and the pharaoh’s braided false beard was strapped to her chin. The dwarf finished the ensemble with a new Nubian wig—one that smelled of beeswax and scratched worse than sand—and the striped blue-and-gold nemes headdress, the uraeus bearing its fangs and poised to strike.

  Hatshepsut was ready.

  Nomti waited to drive her by chariot in stately procession to Karnak for the ceremony. Despite the early hour, most of the City of Truth had roused itself to catch another fleeting glimpse of its pharaoh. The streets had been swept clean of signs of last night’s debauchery in preparation for the most royal of eyes.

  Hatshepsut’s heart swelled under the weight of the moon pectoral, and she twisted Senenmut’s silver star ring on her thumb as the chariot drew closer to the avenue before the Gate of Amun. Four stately obelisks now stood at attention, the two originals wrapped entirely in gold, now joined by two massive granite sisters capped with electrum, all reflecting Re’s light to flood the Two Lands. Despite the overcast skies, the monuments rippled with light so pure that only the nine gods could have sent it. After all of Hatshepsut’s heartache and worry, the obelisks were home safe.

  The gods smiled upon them after all.

  The coronation reenactment went smoothly. As the High Priest of Amun removed the nemes headdress to replace it with the red and white double crown, Hatshepsut saw most of the same players gathered once again—including Neshi, Ti, and Ineni—all with more wrinkles around their eyes and a little extra weight to pad their waists. Tutmose and Neferure stood below the dais, their shoulders not quite touching.

  And then it was over.

  The scent of the myrrh used to anoint Hatshepsut’s forehead swirled on the breeze as she stepped outside. Gooseflesh crept up her arms at the uncustomary chill brought about by the clouds overhead.

  Senenmut and Nomti stood on either side of her electrum chariot, arms crossed before their chests. Her black stallion pranced and snorted, the golden bells on his leather girths tinkling. She stopped, feet braced as if expecting a battle. “It’s a good thing your expressions can’t injure, or I’d be seriously maimed right now,” she said.

  Nomti stepped into the basket to secure the reins. “Are you still set on doing this?”

  “Doing what?” She knew full well what Nomti meant.

  Nomti looked down on her like an errant child. “Driving yourself.”

  “I’ve driven my own chariot since I was old enough to see over the basket,” Hatshepsut said. “Earlier, actually, since my father had a step built for me.”

  “We’re well aware of that,” Senenmut said. “We’re also aware that you prefer to drive your chariot like a cheetah on the hunt.”

  “Well, that only makes sense.” She grinned. “After all, it is a race.”

  “I didn’t save you from Mensah all those years ago only to watch you get trampled by a horse,” Nomti said. “I’ll drive you.”

  “You most certainly will not.” Hatshepsut slapped his hands off the reins. “You two are worse than a couple of old women. These games are in my honor. I can’t be driven around the arena.”

  “There are other games over the next few days you’re supposed to participate in as well.” Senenmut rubbed the stallion’s forehead. “You can’t compete if your neck is broken.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me breaking anything.” She waved Nomti out of her chariot. “Except my opponents.”

  Nomti looked like he wanted to use the whip on her. “I scoured your chariot myself—it’s oiled and as safe as can be.”

  Hatshepsut rolled her eyes. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  “Promise you’ll be careful,” Senenmut said.

  “I promise to be careful,” she gave him a wicked grin, “to win.”

  “Hatshepsut!”

  She turned to see Aset running toward them, waving her arms. She stopped before the chariot, bracing her hands on her knees and struggling to draw deep breaths. “Tutmose informed me that you plan to drive yourself today.”

  “You’re too late.” Hatshepsut gestured to Nomti and Senenmut. “They already tried to stop me.”

  Aset straightened. “You didn’t listen to them, did you?”

  “Never.”

  “Good.” Aset grinned and slapped the horse’s rump. “Don’t kill yourself. But don’t let those boys beat you either!”

  At least someone understood her.

  The stallion leapt forward at the crack of her whip, trotting toward the makeshift arena that had been constructed for the sed festival outside the city. Anemone petals littered the path; the fragrant confetti blew in the breeze as the crowd cheered. It didn’t take long to reach the track seething with its mass of spectators. Hatshepsut counted eight other chariots waiting to start as she pulled into line, and Ti was the only other person remotely close to her age. He smiled and bowed before fiddling with his horse’s girths. Tutmose joined them, navigating his chariot between her and Sennedjem, rounding out the number to an even ten.

  “Are you sure you want to race today?” Tutmose asked her, his usual somber expression out of place today amongst the cheering and bets being placed. There would be plenty of prizes for the winner—a necklace of golden bees, a tract of fertile land in the Delta, and a clutch of fresh slaves from Nubia—but Hatshepsut wished only to prove that she still possessed the vitality to win a race like this one, symbolic as it was of her ability to rule.

  “Of course I want to race. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Is everything all right?” Hatshepsut had to holler over the growing din as she checked her reins.

  “Yes.” Tutmose pursed his lips together, then sighed. “Actually, no. But I didn’t want to mention it until after the sed festival.”

  Clouds passed over his face, and he avoided her eyes. Whatever it was, Tutmose wasn’t happy about it.

  Neshi was scheduled to start the race, but he was engrossed in conversation with one of the scribes who would record the order of the finishers. “We have a moment,” she said. “You can tell me now.”

  Tutmose stared at his horse’s rump. “Satiah is pregnant.”

  “Satiah?”

  “One of the kitchen slaves. Her mother is Ipu, one of Neferure’s old menats.”

  Hatshepsut recalled the name then and the girl-slave with heavy breasts that bounced as she kneaded bread. Her fingers tightened on the reins. “And I presume the child is yours?”

  Tutmose nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  His eyes finally met hers. “Quite sure. The child is due in a few months. I haven’t told anyone else, just my mother.”

  Too late for any herbs to take care of the pregnancy. Hatshepsut forced herself to relax her grip on the reins, yet her nails had already cut angry purple grooves into her palms. Tutmose was young, and as was often the case with the young, stupid. Thank the gods she sat on the Isis Throne, and not a youth still driven by what he carried between his legs. “You must marry Neferure immediately. A kitchen slave can be a concubine, but only Neferure can be your Great Royal Wife. This child is a threat to the succession.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.”

  How could he have been so utterly careless?

  She wanted to rail at Tutmose, but his hangdog expression told her he’d already done an ample job of tormenting himself. Now it was left to her to clean up his mess. Still, she recalled a time when she was young an
d brash and had done more than her share of stupid things. Tutmose would learn from his mistakes as she had, and become a better man for it.

  The race seemed suddenly inconsequential, but Neshi stepped onto the track, passing from hand to hand a rock the size of his fist and painted with red ochre. Representative of the hearts laid upon Anubis’ scale, the red stone would be flung in the air by Neshi to signal the start of the race. When it hit the ground the drivers would attempt to drive their chariots around the track four times, and try not to usher themselves, or any of the other drivers, to meet the jackal god prematurely.

  “Let the race begin!” Neshi’s arms tensed and the stone flew into the air in a blur of red, only to be trampled underfoot moments later. Hatshepsut’s stallion bolted forward in a cloud of dust. Only Ti, Tutmose, and Sennedjem ran ahead of the pharaoh’s electrum chariot. She leaned as far forward as she could, shouting wildly and flicking the reins.

  She felt like Horus hurtling to earth in pursuit of her prey with the wind slicing her skin. Despite Tutmose’s news, the race was exhilarating, the wheels grinding under her, the sheen of her horse’s flanks flashing.

  She plied the whip and urged her horse to pass Sennedjem as she completed her first lap. The second lap continued at the same fierce pace, with Ti and Tutmose neck and neck and Hatshepsut a chariot’s breadth behind them. She could hear Sennedjem behind her, cursing at his horse, and she laughed at the sound.

  By the third lap, her stallion discovered some untapped well of energy and sprang forward to overtake Ti on a straight stretch. Surely the crowd was yelling, but she could hear only the panting of her horse, her own ragged breathing, and the tinkle of golden bells.

  Tutmose was the last left to beat, pushing his mare as if a demon chased them. Hatshepsut’s single chance at overcoming him would come on the final lap. She jerked the reins to force her horse to the left, and planned to push to Tutmose’s side and overtake him on the next curve. There was no way she was going to let Tutmose beat her, not after the disaster he’d just created.