Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun

by Moyra Caldecott

  It was not long before certain shrewd and ambitious men, noting her impatience at the subordinate role she was forced to play and aware of the proud blood that flowed in her veins from the powerful princes who had seized Egypt back from the hated Hyksos after centuries of domination, began to gather at her side, waiting and watching for an opportunity of advancement.

  Hapuseneb was one of these. He was Vizier of the South when she became Regent, a brilliant and reliable diplomat, an able administrator—but tired of his long sojourn in the provincial towns of uncivilised Nubia. Since her family had come to power, Waset had grown from a sleepy small town to a bustling city. Either here or Men-nefer would suit him well. But there were not many positions higher than the one he already had. He was not sure what he would ask for, or indeed that he would ask for anything at all. He knew only that with the instability caused by the death of Aa-kheper-en-Ra while his heir was still only an infant, it would be shrewd to be at the centre where decisions were being made. There would be changes—and he would be there when they happened, ready to take advantage.

  A tall man with stern, aquiline features, he came upon her sitting by herself beside a lily pond in the gardens of the palace. She seemed very young and fragile as she sat on the alabaster pavement, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring thoughtfully into a blue water lily. What was she thinking? Was she afraid? She needed a strong man at her side at this time, he thought; but if she married again, all kinds of violent factions would leap into action. A woman by herself as Regent would not cause concern for the future, but with a husband who might be after ultimate power, Men-kheper-Ra and his supporters would be instantly alerted to danger and compelled to secure their claim any way they could. But would she be able to handle by herself the jockeying for power that was bound to go on after a pharaoh's death? Would she be able to see through the hypocrisy and intrigue?

  “Your Majesty,” he said quietly, his reflection appearing beside her own in the water. She did not turn her head but her eyes met his on the still surface.

  Hapuseneb, she thought. She knew who he was, though she had never been alone with him before. She remembered thinking when he was appointed that he was a man better to have as an ally than an enemy. A strong, intelligent, ambitious man. Impressive to look at; a shrewd observer of events; decisive and quick-witted.

  “If you would rather be alone...?” he said quietly, bowing, but she noted that in doing so he lost nothing of his own dignity.

  She turned slowly and looked up at him. She could do with strong, loyal men around her now. She had grown up at her father's right hand and had seen the ruthlessness of those who struggled for power. But could she trust him? What did she know about him? She could have him investigated, of course, but such investigations never revealed what was in a man's heart.

  When she stood up at full height she did not reach his shoulder, but what she lacked in height she more than compensated for in power of personality. She gazed so searchingly into his eyes, he knew he had been wrong to assume she would not be able to judge those around her shrewdly and wisely. He was surprised suddenly to feel at a disadvantage, but he did not lower his eyes. There were some things in his past he would rather keep hidden, and for a moment he wondered if she indeed had the royal cobra vision and could see into his soul. Momentarily he felt uneasy—but his long training in not showing his feelings in public served him well. He stared back into her eyes steadily with just the right degree of respect.

  “I am alone, Hapuseneb,” she said. “No one shares the burden of Pharaoh.” He noticed she used the word for king and not for regent, and wondered if it was deliberate.

  “Indeed, Majesty,” he replied carefully, “but others can ease the weight of the burden."

  “Could you do that, Hapuseneb?"

  “Ay, your Majesty. If your Majesty would allow me."

  His humility was not overdone, and yet in a lesser man it would have been.

  She smiled and relaxed her scrutiny.

  “Come,” she said, “let us walk in the shade a while. Tell me about your life in the southern provinces. I don't want an official report—I have enough of those. Tell me about your thoughts and feelings and how your days pass."

  There was something almost childish in the questions that followed, but he did not underestimate her. He knew his future depended on how he answered her, and suddenly he wanted very much to win her confidence.

  She listened quietly, intently, to everything he said. There was not a word she did not hear and mark, yet her mind was busy with other thoughts. She had walked and talked with the Mysterious One, the Hidden and Magnificent One, Amun-Ra. He had come to her in the night. He had come to her in the day. She was his Chosen One; she felt it, she knew it. He had told her to stress the name “Amun-Ra": Amun united with Ra in his role of universal and eternal sun, source of light and life; and Ra united with Amun in his role of unseen mystery, of unanswerable question. She would build a temple in the world. It would be Djeser Djeseru—the beautiful home of the beautiful but unseen God—and it would rise from the great golden cliffs of the west; and from it she would gaze out across the desert and the green lands to the golden points of the obelisks she would erect in his honour in his temple over the river.

  But this temple was not all she meant to do for him. He would be honoured above all gods by the people in every city in the Two Lands, in every village, in every outlying settlement. From the distant mountains of Nubia to the flat, rich lands of the delta, his name would be above all names.

  In the old days the god Amun had been one among many, and the priests who served him no more important than those who served the other gods. But Hatshepsut Khenemet-Amun (Hatshepsut “united with Amun") had a love for him that she did not have for the other gods and a love for Waset that she did not have for other places. Her father had established his capital at Men-nefer, that great and sprawling metropolis in the north, but Hatshepsut spent as little time there as possible. Waset, the cult centre of her favourite god Amun—“the Hidden One", “he who abides in all things”—was the place she most enjoyed, and it was here she spent a great deal of her time.

  During the bad old days of the Hyksos rule many temples had fallen into disrepair and ruin. Her father and grandfather had been too busy winning back Egypt for the Egyptians to spend much time on restoration. But this was one of the vows she made to Amun very early in her life. She would restore the temples throughout the land and build new ones, not only for Amun-Ra himself, but for those other great beings who hovered over the world keeping the primeval Chaos at bay.

  But to do this she needed strong and trustworthy priests and administrators—men who could plan and organise and make people obey them; men who would be loyal to her and to Amun-Ra and to no one else. Priests she had. Administrators she had. But one man who could combine the qualities needed for both was not so easy to find. She wanted someone who could handle the power she would give him and yet would never turn against her. She wanted him to fear Amun-Ra. She remembered how one of the men who had been carrying her chair that morning had stumbled and the chair had tipped dangerously to one side. She had caught the look of terror in the clumsy man's eyes as she looked at him. That was fear! But it was not the kind she wanted.

  Had her god sent her this man, Hapuseneb?

  Gravely she studied his features—studied the way he moved his hands, his shoulders, his eyes. Everything about him was strong and sure. He respected her as woman and as a great power in the land—but he did not cringe before her.

  “Ah, Holy One,” she whispered, though her lips did not move. “Give me a sign if this man would be pleasing to you."

  Hapuseneb stopped talking. He began to feel strange—as though everything around him was suddenly distant, as though every sound and movement in the world had stopped. He looked into her eyes and knew she felt it too.

  As far as she was concerned, Amun-Ra had spoken. The sun's rays were coming from directly behind him, illuminating his head.

>   “Hapuseneb,” she said confidently. “I have a task for you."

  She told him about her vision, and he listened as quietly as she had listened to him. When he was a young lad he had spent time in the temple. His father had intended that he should train for the priesthood, seeing that he did not enjoy farming. For several years he had served alternately three months behind the great mud-brick walls of the temple, and three months out in the fields. It was in the temple he had shown his aptitude for writing and for numbers, for organising, and for planning. But he had found the atmosphere claustrophobic, the daily routine boring. He had been glad to get out. Could he face it again? Could he sit poring over scripts in the Per Ankh, the House of Life? Could he face those hard-eyed examiners yet again? Did she know about that hot still day when he sat cross-legged before the three chief prophets and was questioned from the time the sun came up until the sun went down, answering every one of their questions so well that at the end it had seemed a foregone conclusion that he would stay with the priesthood forever. And yet the thought had filled him with dismay and revulsion. Why had he studied so hard? Why had he answered so brilliantly? Because he wanted to succeed. Because, at whatever he did, he wanted to excel.

  He sighed. He had known even then, when he was arguing with his father all those years ago, that the Temple would get him in the end!

  But her vision of what he would do as First Prophet of Amun-Ra was very different from what he remembered of the daily routine as a boy apprentice. His would not be the duty to sweep the floor and spread fresh rushes, to chant the holy words from dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn. Other men would be trusted with the routine purification rites, the supplications, the tedious ceremonies. The Temple priesthood acted as surrogates for the whole population. They held the dialogue with the god on behalf of the people. They alone interpreted the god's words to the people—even to the Pharaoh.

  Hapuseneb's eyes narrowed as he thought what it would mean to be in a position to interpret the god's words to the Pharaoh.

  Hatshepsut smiled, and he suddenly became aware of her eyes looking into his heart. She knew him. She knew what he was thinking. She would never be easily deceived. Nor, he thought, would he want to deceive her. If he became what she wanted him to be, he would surely have a status in the land that would satisfy even his ambitious nature.

  He bowed his head slightly—but not too much.

  She hesitated.

  She had him—but was he what she wanted? She could sense that he was not as spiritual as she had hoped. Userhet was more spiritual—but he was getting old and had never had a stomach for administration. Under him the temples of Amun-Ra would quietly go about their business as they had under Aa-kheper-ka-Ra, her father. She wanted something more for her favourite god.

  Amun-Ra had given her a sign. The Mysterious One no doubt knew things about Hapuseneb that she did not know. She appointed him High Priest, First Prophet of Amun-Ra, without further investigation.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Senmut and his brother Senmen had been introduced into the royal household by their uncle, one of the old Pharaoh's scribes, who had stayed on after his death to serve his successor, Aa-kheper-en-Ra.

  Senmut's first professional appointment was as confidential scribe to the young King. He was young also and eager to advance. He worked long hours to please his master and he soon noticed the contempt Hatshepsut, the Queen, had for her husband, and the frustration the Pharaoh suffered in consequence of this. He was turning more and more to minor wives, and to Ast in particular, and the children born to them were soon occupying the royal nursery. Hatshepsut herself became pregnant, though Senmut wondered how the coupling had taken place with so much antipathy between them.

  At first the Queen did not take any particular notice of the young scribe, associating him with her husband's entourage—but he, from the start, was aware of her provocative sexuality and was fascinated by her. Intelligent and fast-thinking himself, he recognised the same qualities in her, and admired them.

  It was at Ipet-Esut that their eyes first met. The King was with Ineni, his father's faithful architect, planning an extension to Per-Amun, the Temple of Amun. Senmut was present to record the decisions that were made, and the Queen wandered by almost casually on her way to consult the High Priest about the arrangements for the Opet festival. Their eyes met, and she was shocked. The dark intensity of his gaze, the admiration, the desire were unmistakable. She was used to admiration—and indeed expected it—but she was not used to such boldness. She continued on her way, annoyed.

  But she could not forget him, and after this she noticed him often.

  Hatshepsut had been inconsolable when her father died, and she mourned a long time, while her brother-husband gave her no support. He had always resented that she had so obviously been their father's favourite and that she had been taken on the royal progress through the Two Lands to be introduced to the priesthood, and not himself. Father and daughter had always been close, sharing jokes, enjoying time together, while he and the other children of the royal household were kept with their mothers, their nurses and their tutors, hardly seeing the royal visage from one month's end to another.

  The day she met Senmut was perhaps the first day Hatshepsut's sorrow and loss of her father began to ease. Their paths crossed frequently and her haughty disdain for his obvious attraction to her gave way to tolerance and eventually, because she was lonely and she noticed that his mind was one of the few at court that could match hers, to friendship. It was this friendship that perhaps more than anything else gave her back her zest for life.

  At this time Senmut had several good friends, young men like himself with intelligence and ambition. They saw in Hatshepsut a stronger prospect for advancement than in the petulant and ailing King. She became the centre of a group of admiring— but not sycophantic—companions. They talked freely to her and she talked freely to them. Those were good times when everything seemed possible.

  Later, when Aa-kheper-en-Ra died and Hatshepsut became Regent for her infant stepson-nephew, Men-kheper-Ra, nearly all of the old companions were given positions of privilege and power. Senmut was made the tutor and guardian of her daughter Neferure, and Chief Steward of the royal household, in charge of all the formal occasions. Nehsi, with Nubian connections but educated at the Egyptian court, was put in charge of the household accounts. Thutiy became Chief Confidential Scribe.

  * * * *

  When Senmut was a young man, before he came to the court, he had spent some years in the North in the House of Life at Men-nefer, the great building attached to the Temple of Ptah that housed the archives of ancient texts, where scholars and scribes studied, copied and memorised. Near the city of White Walls was the great funerary complex of King Djoser, one of the ancient kings who had ruled more than a thousand years before. It stood in the desert, and only priests were authorised to walk its silent corridors and gaze upon the great stepped pyramid that Imhotep had designed, the prototype for all the pyramids of the Two Lands. Hooded cobras, immortal in stone, guarded its sacred precincts.

  For more than a thousand years the mortuary priests had chanted their prayers and spells for the dead king, and the place held his presence still. Deep underground in corridors tiled in turquoise, the king eternally paced out the boundaries of his kingdom as he had done at his jubilee. Through a spyhole in a small chamber attached to the side of the pyramid at ground level, a statue of the king enthroned gazed out impassively, watching the world go by, century after century, accepting the offerings of men born generations after he had first ruled the Two Lands.

  Outside the high walls of the Djoser funerary monuments, other burials had taken place—later than his, but still ancient to Senmut and his contemporaries. This place more than any other in the Two Lands fascinated Senmut.

  Senmut, when he arrived at the archives of the Temple of Ptah, was the youngest of the scribe apprentices. He had a mind infinitely curious, always exploring new possibilities but ne
ver neglecting what he called the durable thread that held all things together.

  He approached his studies with such fervour and understood the most obscure references so quickly that his mentors soon stood back and let him have his head. There were some texts that had so baffled generations of scribe masters that they no longer expected them to be deciphered. Senmut teased at them in his sleeping cell at night by the light of a small flickering bowl lamp. When the oil gave out he would lie awake in the dark, seeing the figures of the text still dancing before his eyes. Sometimes he woke with a feeling of euphoria; something had suddenly made sense. But more often than not he woke as frustrated as he had been the night before—the secret the ciphers held still tightly locked away.

  It was here, in these great libraries of texts, that Senmut first began to admire Imhotep—architect, vizier, treasurer, seal-bearer to the great King Djoser. Later this admiration became almost an obsession. The wisdom book associated with him had been copied many times since Imhotep's day, and everyone knew that errors must inevitably have occurred. No one alive had ever seen the original and no one knew even whether it still existed. As long as anyone could remember, the House of Life had only had the copies, some of them from a time that must have been very close to Imhotep's own lifetime, but none in the great man's own hand. Senmut wanted more than anything in the world to find this original text. He believed Imhotep had been buried near his pharaoh and friend, King Djoser—and that if he found the tomb he would find the original book of Imhotep buried with him.

  One night, after a particularly frustrating time trying to unravel the scribal errors in the great man's text, Senmut went for a long walk in the desert. A full moon silvered the tops of the dunes and illumined the imposing and magnificent stone pyramid that reached in gigantic steps to the sky, echoing the first mound of earth that rose from the waters of Chaos. He looked back from the summit of a small hill at the orderly complex of stone buildings—the high and gleaming boundary walls and the cluster of smaller and later pyramids, of chapels and processional ways, that huddled as close as they could get to this extraordinary and sacred place. Ceaselessly the desert tried to bury the man-made structures in sand; ceaselessly man dug and pushed and swept the sand away.