Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun

by Moyra Caldecott

  He enjoyed his work, but he was glad to get back to the island town, wash the quarry dust off his skin and climb into bed with his lover.

  When Hatshepsut had attended to all the necessary civil and religious matters, and had chosen the ivory and gold and lion skins she wanted to take back with her, she went with him to the quarry.

  Work was stopped at once so that there would be no stone dust to choke her or flying chippings to endanger her eyes. He took her to the area where the best granite was found and suggested which parts would yield suitable pieces for the obelisks. She walked among the giant blocks of stone silently, indicating that she wanted to be alone. She laid her hands on the cliff and meditated. These obelisks must be perfect. They must come virginal from the mountain, flawless, intact. They would be her statement to her god. They would be the outward form of her vow.

  She chose the exact pieces she wanted, and at sunset they returned to the river, in time to see the waters blood-red as Atum sank beneath the rim of the western desert. It was nightfall and the jackals were howling before they stepped once more onto the boat that was to ferry them across the river.

  * * * *

  Those early years were very good for both Hatshepsut and Senmut. Stimulating discussion of ideas, plans for new building, lovemaking—all seemed perfect. Men-kheper-Ra was no threat, and the Two Lands were totally behind her. When she sat in the great hall, she sat alone and gave judgements and listened to petitions. She was wise and sensible, and earned everyone's respect.

  But as Men-kheper-Ra grew older, some said she would have difficulty in keeping the double crown to herself. Some began to think their fortunes would rise higher if they supported the young prince.

  Ast bided her time.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  The wind tugged at the heavy ropes and the huge pegs that held them to the ground. The tent had been pitched against a rocky cliff as soon as the approach of the storm was called by the outrider. Boulders had been rolled over the edges of the outer covering of tar-soaked skins, but still the wind, blasting at the fabric, fought to rip it up, working at the smallest weaknesses, striving to reach the frail and frightened humans sheltering within.

  Inside the royal tent only one showed no sign of fear. Angrily, impatiently, Hatshepsut strode to and fro, to and fro. Her entourage, cowering together, watched her as, head up and shoulders squared, eyes sparkling dangerously, she dared the fearsome storm god, Set, marauder and dweller in the desert, to invade her territory. She believed that somewhere beyond the darkness of the swirling sand the eyes of Amun-Ra could see what was happening to his daughter, and he would not let her die. Not here, not now. Had he not lifted her up so that she was Pharaoh of this mighty land? Had he not asked things of her that as yet she had not had time to bring about?

  Her adolescent daughter, Neferure, was afraid. Hatshepsut could feel it, but the girl knew how to conduct herself as the heir to the throne should, and pretended a calm she did not feel. She sat upright on her ebony chair, with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her lids lowered so that no one could read if there was fear in her eyes or not. Hatshepsut, looking at her, remembered that it was always difficult to tell what Neferure was thinking. Sometimes she was glad of this, sometimes she regretted it.

  Hatshepsut wished that Senmut were with them. There had been unavoidable delays in starting, and he had gone on ahead. They were to meet where the east-west desert route crossed the north-south one. But this was still many hours ahead, and meanwhile the storm might have struck him before it reached her. The tents he was using were not as heavy and durable as hers and would be more vulnerable.

  She could see the lips of her companions moving with their prayers, but she could not hear their voices against the shrieking and wailing of the wind. She could see their hands clutching amulets, fear almost a palpable presence among them.

  She suddenly rounded on them.

  “Stand up!” she shouted. “Face him out. There's nothing he wants more than to see you crawl and cower. Am I not Pharaoh? Am I not the female Horus of pure gold, the daughter of Amun-Ra?” She raised her fist and shook it at the side of the tent that was bulging inwards from the force of the wind. “His wrath is nothing to my wrath! His power is nothing to my power!"

  For a moment her people thought she was going to open the tent flap and challenge him eye to eye, and they trembled—though now they stood and ceased their whining and their gibbering. Many wondered if she could indeed quell the storm with the sheer power of her will. All knew that the small, slender body housed a mighty spirit. They began to be less afraid. Was the roaring of the wind and the rasping of the sand against the skins of the outer walls lessening? Had the lamp flame stopped guttering and spluttering? Even the murk of fine sand that had managed somehow to penetrate the air inside the royal tent seemed to have begun to settle.

  Fiercely Hatshepsut held her ground, visualising herself outside the tent, standing on a pinnacle of rock raging back at the storm, commanding the dark god to lay his weapons down, to prostrate himself to the daughter of Amun-Ra. She felt excited, exhilarated, unafraid. There was nothing she could not do with her Divine Father's help. There was nothing she could not achieve.

  It was as though she stood on a pinnacle high above the storm. She could see the angry red clouds of sand billowing from horizon to horizon, darkening the land, but above her the sky was pure and clear, the hot eye of the sun staring down.

  The dust clouds were already subsiding. She could sense it. She knew it.

  “He is leaving,” she said to her companions.

  Now there was no doubt. The howling was not so close. They could hear the sound retreating into the distance until it was no more than a faint, insubstantial, lonely sigh. The tent walls were no longer heaving and shuddering, but sagging inertly, weighed down by the weight of the sand that had fallen on them.

  Inside the royal tent there was total silence. Everyone stood still, listening, hardly daring to believe that they had come safely out of the desert's rage.

  And then they were sure and fell down at her feet, calling out her names of power and glory. Hatshepsut, Maat-ka-Ra, had outfaced the desert storm. She was indeed Divine Pharaoh of the Two Lands, the right hand of Amun-Ra.

  She looked across their heads and met the eyes of Neferure. The girl was looking directly into her own eyes. Was it fear she read there? Fear—not of the storm but of her mother? Almost at once the princess lowered her eyes again and bowed. Hatshepsut sighed. She loved her daughter passionately, but always there was a distance between them ... something deep inside the girl blocking the passage of her love. No matter what she did she could not break it down. She bit her lip. She suspected Senmut alone had the girl's devotion. Busy as she was, she ought to have made more time to be with her.

  Impatiently she indicated that they should rise, and began to issue sharp commands that the tent flap should be forced open and the digging out should begin. She was anxious to see what damage had been done to the rest of the tents and the animals, most of which had been tethered between rocks out in the open.

  The rest of the day was spent digging away sand and counting the cost of the storm. Several goats and packhorses were dead, and three slaves. On the whole, they had escaped lightly from the desert's anger. Hatshepsut was impatient to move on, but was forced to bide her time and pass the night where they were. The landscape had changed dramatically since the day before and the guides had to study the stars to plot their course. Dunes were where there had been no dunes, and bare, jagged skeletons of rock showed where before there had been smooth mounds of sand.

  Hatshepsut slept heavily for a while after the evening meal, but at about midnight she woke and went out of the tent. To the left, beyond the row of tethered animals, she could see a small group of guides and drovers consulting together and occasionally pointing at the sky. So still and clear was the desert air now, she could hear their voices though they were barely whispering. She walked away, unobserved. T
he left eye of Horus, never sleeping, shone down over the desolate wastes. It gave her enough light to climb a rocky knoll, the encampment and the whispering men now out of sight. The knoll continued towards the east in a long spur. She walked its length, anxious to get as far away as she could from her companions.

  She looked at the desert. In many ways, though she feared its dangers, she was fascinated by it. She could understand Set's rages, for she herself had uncontrollable anger from time to time.

  Something in her reached out this night towards the desert prince, the violent and passionate strength of Set. He was always the dark god, the feared one. Yet on the barque of Ra he stood at the prow, with his spear protecting the mighty one from his enemies.

  “Will you protect me?” she whispered, shivering, afraid to say his name, yet desiring him.

  Something was forming in the desert before her. Something potent ... numinous ... supernatural...

  It seemed to her she could see the giant figure of Set the god—man-bodied, animal-headed, silhouetted against the silver of an almost full moon. She felt strange, as though she were weightless ... as though she were in silence ... as though she were other than herself.

  She stepped forward to the very edge of the rocky ridge on which she was standing, reaching out her arms yearningly towards him, longing to know, once and for all, the truth about him.

  He was motionless before her, as tall as the rocky hill on which she stood. The moonlight was behind him. She could not see his eyes though she knew they were on a level with her own.

  Her heart was beating fast. Now she was afraid as she had not been in the storm. Yet still she reached out her arms.

  “Speak to me,” she whispered. “I have to know you. I am Pharaoh. I have to know all things."

  "You do know me," a voice replied that could have been within her or could have been without.

  “I do not know if you are an illusion or reality. Let me touch your hand."

  She was trembling, but she was determined she would not leave this ridge until she knew what she wanted to know.

  "You cannot touch my hand."

  “Why?"

  No answer.

  “One day ... will I?"

  "You cannot touch my hand."

  “Why?” she almost shouted, becoming angry. “Because you are not there? Because you are dreamed up in my own mind? Because you are nothing — less than nothing!"

  "Because I will destroy you."

  “I am Pharaoh,” she said fiercely, “the daughter of the greatest of all gods—the Invisible One, Amun-Ra."

  "Farewell, daughter of Amun-Ra." His voice was faint and growing fainter every moment ... the figure was fading ... but even in the last syllable she could hear the mockery.

  He had gone—and she did not know for sure whether he had been there or not. Tears of frustration streamed from her eyes. How long must she endure half-truth, illusion and deception? When would she see with eyes of eternal fire? When would she know that which Is, from that which Is Not? Amun-Ra had promised—but not delivered.

  The desert felt really empty now. She was cold and lonely and depressed. She began to walk back to the camp and stumbled and stubbed her toes more than once on the rocks before she came at last to the shelter of her tent. She crept in without being noticed and wearily drew the rugs over her head.

  * * * *

  The next morning the caravan set off again. They were heading for the amethyst mines, the official reason being that Pharaoh wanted to inspect the work and conditions personally, as the miners had recently petitioned her in some desperation. It was not strictly necessary that she should go herself—a high official would have served as well—but she saw it as an opportunity to get away from the constant strain of intrigue and whispering at court, a chance to be with the two people she loved most in the world, Senmut and her daughter, and a chance to meet the desert face to face, a challenge she always found exciting and stimulating.

  Neferure had not been pleased at first with the decision that she should accompany the party. She was a girl who liked the luxuries and comforts of the palace and hated travelling. But two things made the journey worthwhile. One was that Senmut would be going, and the second was that she would escape at least for a while the drudgery of studying to read and write. She was tired of the little figures she was expected to draw on slivers of smooth stone. When she was Pharaoh she was determined she would have scribes to do this work for her—so why should she waste her time learning to do it herself? Her mother said it was because a pharaoh could trust no one—not even a confidential scribe—and should be able to read anything and everything that was written, and hear everything that was said. Hatshepsut pored over plans with Senmut and the other architects and argued about details that only a master in the trade should understand. Was there anyone in the world with as much energy as her mother? Neferure sighed. Hatshepsut had ambitions for her daughter that her daughter did not share. She was not at all sure she wanted to be Pharaoh in the way her mother was. She would much rather be like her grandmother, Aah-mes, the woman in the background, the Great Royal Wife, her sole concern to bring children into the world and look beautiful at all the public ceremonies.

  When she was very young, her mother had been more fun to be with. Hatshepsut, Senmut and she had sometimes picnicked together in a place remote from the formality of the court. There were even evenings when her mother had come to her bedchamber, dismissed the nurse, and sat at the foot of her bed telling her stories, sometimes showing such tenderness that long after she had left the room the child could still feel the warmth and comfort of her arms around her.

  Senmut had been more fun in those days too. It was before he grew too busy to spend time with her. How she loved him! When he tried to teach her something, it was a pleasure to learn. With him each hieroglyph had a story to it—often more than one. She felt the mystery of them, the magic of them. She felt she was exploring the invisible realms and the signs she made were the keys to open the doors to them. But now with her new tutor the signs were dead. She learned them off by heart and resented the time she had to spend at them. She also resented the time she had to spend clearing up the equipment at the end of each lesson. The slates on which the raw pigments had been ground had to be washed thoroughly, as did the little dishes in which she had mixed the pigments with oil or water. If the reeds had worn out, she was made to cut the ends and chew the reed again to make the fibrous brush for use next time. She was sure the servants should do this, but he insisted that she should do it herself. The wooden palette and the cakes of ink had to be carefully placed in the box—everything in its proper place before he would let her rise. Even the knots to hold the whole thing together for carrying had to be tied and retied until they were correct. And then to end it all, the prayer to Djehuti had to be said. If anything was skimped or shoddily done she would have to start again.

  She tired of hearing how noble the scribes’ profession was and how the traditional method of doing things was the only proper way. Senmut had cut corners. Senmut had made signs sing. He had even invented a few new ones and taught them to her, swearing her to secrecy, saying they would be a private code between them and no one else must know about them—not even her mother.

  “When either of us is in trouble,” he had said conspiratorially to her one day when she was still wearing the sidelock of youth and sitting cross-legged at his feet, “we can send a message to each other using these signs. When either of us gets such a message we must come to the other's rescue at once. We will swear it."

  “I swear it!” she had cried, envisaging all kinds of adventurous situations in which she would send a secret message to Senmut, but never once foreseeing a time when she would send one and he would not come.

  * * * *

  Senmut and his party were at the meeting place, waiting anxiously to see if the Pharaoh's entourage had weathered the storm they had seen in the distance, but had not had to suffer themselves.

  For the first time s
ince they had left home Neferure's reserve broke down and she jumped from her chair and ran straight into the arms of her guardian and protector, her tutor, her friend, Senmut, “Superior of Superiors, Chief of Chiefs and Overseer of all Pharaoh's works throughout the Two Lands". He grinned and swung her round in his arms. At fourteen she was already slightly taller than her mother, but she was slender and no weight at all. Over her head his eyes met Hatshepsut's. But this the girl did not see.

  * * * *

  The miners were all lined up for the royal visit, clean and neat and orderly. There was no sign of the truculence and disaffection, the resentment and brooding violence that had been such a feature of the past months. The foreman, Pawero, who had been trying to deal with the rebellious workforce and knew if something was not done soon his life would not be worth a jar of chickpeas, was relieved beyond measure when the lookout spotted the approaching caravan of pack mules and horses. It was unusual for Pharaoh to travel far into the desert in answer to a complaint from the miners, and the men were nervous. Either their grievances would be attended to or their lives would be in danger—but either way things would not go on as they had before. The shifts were too long, and there was too little food and too little water. No one liked the foreman. He expected too much and was too ready to mete out punishment for the most minor of offences. The men knew that their rations were cut so that his might be increased.

  When it was time for those who had been there longest to return to their families, they carried with them secret instructions to petition Pharaoh and a slate containing the mark of every man on the site except the foreman and his officers.

  Pawero had known nothing of the petition until he received a message that Pharaoh herself was coming to inspect the mines. In his rage at the miners action, he thought up the most extreme punishments for the ringleaders—but Nu, his second in command, pointed out that the better policy would be to alleviate the miners’ sufferings at once so that when Pharaoh arrived she would see that there was no substance to their complaints.