Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun

by Moyra Caldecott

  He opened his eyes, but there was no one there.

  * * * *

  He must have slept because just before dawn Senmut was woken by a fearsome crash of thunder and opened his eyes to see the sky livid with lightning. The shaman slept on. It seemed as though awesome giants were contending for the square of territory marked out by the shaman's relics. Senmut had experienced storms before, but never like this one. The air crackled and hummed, the sky split open, crashed together, and split again.

  Then the storm spent itself and an uncanny silence fell.

  The sun rose on a beautiful landscape, hills beyond hills fading into mist. They had climbed to the plateau beyond the wall of mountains they had seen from the coastal plain.

  The shaman awoke, refreshed, as though this had been a night like any other.

  * * * *

  About noon of the third day they reached a place that appeared to have no shadows. The shaman stopped and put down his staff, his bag of power objects, his pouch of food.

  “We will rest,” he said. “We have arrived."

  Senmut looked around. There was nothing to distinguish this place, but if the shaman said they had arrived, he would not ask “where?” Thankfully he sank down onto a boulder and lowered his own burdens to the ground.

  He thought they should eat, but the shaman shook his head when he reached for the dried meats in his carrying pouch.

  After a brief rest the shaman rose again, picked everything up and indicated that Senmut should follow him. They clambered down the side of a rocky hill and paused again when they reached the flat at the bottom. It was filled with scrubby bushes—this side of the mountain not being as wet as the other. Insects rasped and sang in the heat. Birds screeched into the air from almost under their feet.

  The shaman seemed to be looking for something in the bushes. Senmut patiently waited until the man found what he was seeking and called out to him.

  Together they heaved back the tough and wiry growth of years, and Senmut was startled to find himself looking into a dark and gaping hole.

  Unquestioningly he followed the shaman down into it. For a while they struggled through the darkness, Senmut stubbing his toes and bruising his shoulders on the rough wall of an underground passage. Then, suddenly, it became lighter and he found himself on a narrow path cut deeply into the rock. It ran below the surface of the land between sheer rock walls, but was open to the sky. The light flickered in only intermittently through the thick branches of the bushes that almost formed a roof.

  Sometimes the shaman took a side tunnel that led off; sometimes he did not. Senmut walked close to him and did not let his attention wander for a moment. He knew he would never get out of this labyrinth alive if he lost his guide. The walls now were so sheer and high there would be no climbing them. He was glad this was not the rainy side of the mountain. He would not like to be caught here in a flash flood.

  At last they reached their destination—a huge chamber at the confluence of three paths. This was not open to the sky, but the shaman fumbled with his fire stones and finally lit some torches and a fire in a small bronze brazier standing at the centre of the chamber. There was a strong smell of incense.

  Senmut noticed with relief a group of drums stacked in a corner. He had been puzzled that they had brought no drums with them, though he had specifically asked to be taught the language of the drums for raising the ancestors.

  He was desperately hungry now and felt quite faint. But he recognised that this fasting was part of the training and tried not to think of food.

  The shaman signed that he should squat down in a particular place and carefully arranged three of the drums before him. He himself sat on the other side of the brazier with three similar drums. There were three entrances to the chamber where the three passages led into it. Through them a faint light found its way. With this and the torchlight he could see reasonably clearly.

  The shaman seemed to spend an interminable time scattering his coloured powder around and intoning incomprehensible prayers. Senmut was tense with discomfort, hunger and impatience. And then he remembered Maat's message: no arrogance; no aggression. Search with sincerity, humility and love. He tried to think only of his respect for the shaman and what he had seen him do. He tried to think of Imhotep, whom he admired beyond all other men. “To learn,” he whispered, “not for idle curiosity. To learn from him—with sincerity, humility and love."

  But somewhere inside him there were other emotions, other motives, that he could not control. He wanted to meet Imhotep face to face so that he, Senmut, would be known as the man who talked with Imhotep. Imhotep's friend. Imhotep's pupil. The man whom Imhotep honoured with his confidences.

  Perhaps he had been wrong to come. Perhaps he was not worthy to receive these secrets. He remembered how often he had sought worldly advancement. Even his love for Hatshepsut wavered between passion and ambition. Would he have loved her had she been a peasant girl from his village? Would he have cultivated their love had he not needed her to open the way for him to carry out the schemes and plans his brilliant and restless mind devised?

  The shaman had stopped chanting and was looking at him intently.

  He nodded. “I am ready."

  Worthy or not, he had come all this way and he was not about to go back again without at least trying.

  The lesson began.

  At first he followed the shaman's lead fumblingly, and then with greater conviction. How long they were there, he had no idea. The light from the doorways dimmed and finally disappeared. They were still drumming when the light reappeared. He could not judge the passing of time. He could no longer feel the hunger and discomfort of his body. He became the drum and spoke with its voice.

  Around him the spirits gathered ... but they were strangers.

  “Imhotep,” he murmured, ignoring them. Why would he not come, the great soul, the hero of his heart?

  One detached itself from the others and stood before him. He was not as Senmut imagined Imhotep to be.

  Senmut began to feel ice-cold, as though all his blood were draining away. The vast dim figure was coming closer and closer. His eyes were greedy and cruel. They were not the eyes of Imhotep.

  Senmut scrambled backwards, toppling the drums as he did so, and losing his own balance so that he was sprawled on the dusty floor with the giant shadow of the ghost-being towering above him.

  The shaman began to beat his drums furiously, his voice rising above the sound, high and weird, part howl, part chant. While still beating the drums with his right hand, he reached into his pouch with his left and brought out a handful of dried leaves. He flung them into the fire. The flames blazed up and, for an instant, Senmut saw the chamber filled with figures—every feature stark and clear. The face of the one leaning over him was the most hideous and evil he had ever seen.

  And then it was as though the fire exploded and sparks and burning debris flew all around the room.

  Senmut hid his face behind his arm, and when he looked up again the chamber was empty apart from the shaman, who had now left his drums and was standing looking down on him.

  The Egyptian looked around the chamber, dazed and bewildered. He began to pick himself off the floor. He had hurt his hip when he fell, the burn on his arm where a spark had caught it was beginning to sting, and he felt sick.

  Senmut looked at the shaman angrily. The man's face was hard to read. Had this been a trap? Was the shaman in fact his enemy and trying to implant some evil spirit in him to carry back to Egypt? He did not want to believe it had been his own fault. He had already forgotten that his motives in calling up Imhotep were impure, and that it was he who had insisted that he be given this instruction although the shaman had warned him of the danger.

  His legs felt weak. The chamber was unbearably stuffy and the acrid smell of the leaves that had been thrown in the fire made him cough and choke.

  He staggered towards the door he thought they had come through, and out into the deep-cut passage. Some ligh
t filtered through the branches that had grown over the top. He could think of nothing but getting as far away as he could, and began to run.

  “Never again,” thought Senmut, “will I allow myself to be in a position when I am not in control of myself. Never again will I risk being taken over by someone else."

  His pace had slowed from a run to a walk. He began to feel stronger. Did he really need to speak with Imhotep? Was it not enough that his example was in the world? He, Senmut, was himself. He had his own strengths: his own reason and purpose for being alive. If he tried to do everything Imhotep's way, and not his own, would he not be a lesser man for it? Would he not accomplish a lesser goal?

  And then he remembered the shaman and realised he was alone. He stopped short. All thoughts of Imhotep and his own high ideals and aims disappeared.

  Was this the path they had taken before?

  He began to concentrate on the details of his surroundings—the sheer rock walls, the scattered, flickering light through the leaves high above him. He walked back to the place where he had last noticed a side path, and stood at the crossing—but could not be sure either path was the one he and the shaman had come down.

  He was hungry. He was tired. He was lost.

  He started to shout, hoping that the sound would carry a long way down the passages. It did, but as it travelled it became distorted: it bounced and changed direction. Even if the shaman heard him he would not be able to pinpoint where he was.

  He leant against the wall and looked up at the height he would have to scale if he were to climb out. There seemed to be no footholds, no cracks—nothing to break the smoothness of the walls. And even if he did get out, would he ever find his way back to his comfortable tent and his friends?

  He slid down the wall until he was sitting.

  He tried to calm himself. He tried to think.

  On this same earth, a long way away, was Hatshepsut. He had not wanted to leave her—but she, in one of her moods, had decided that he must go, that they must try to break from each other; that they must try and restore some kind of balance to their relationship. Just before he left, it had been very difficult. It was as though her passion was ungovernable. She was risking everything to have him at her side. The court was whispering, and he could go nowhere but there were nudges and winks. She herself was beginning to lose the fine cutting edge of her judgement in state matters and was impatient of anything that took her away from him. It was after she had made a hasty decision that cost the lives of several people that, in paroxysms of tears, she insisted he went away. The Punt expedition was about ready to go. Everything had been planned to the last detail—a great deal of it by the two of them together in her chamber. But it had never been their intention that he would lead it.

  Would he ever see her again? There was no one like her, lady of storm and sunlight. She could whip the desert sand into the air with her anger. She could lay it down again with her tenderness. She could make it flower. She could make it sing. How he missed her when he was away from her a day. How he longed to be away from her when he was with her for much longer. It was as though she were more than one person—strong and sometimes vicious and cruel, and then—almost as the wind changed—so sensitive and kind and thoughtful, so generous and loving, that he could lie on her breast and feel he was a child secure in its mother's arms. But the times that haunted him most were the times when they made love. So vivid was his memory of these that, weary, frightened, hungry as he was, he could feel his body stirring and rising, longing to enter that sweet marvellous place, to feel her skin against his, the hardening of her nipple in his mouth, the flow of her passion enveloping him. Ai, she could make love, that woman! When she was in bed she was not Pharaoh, daughter of Amun-Ra—she was a peasant of the earth.

  A pebble dropped, clattering against the rock walls and landing beside him. He jumped, startled out of his intimate and powerful preoccupation. Dazed and bewildered, he could not understand where he was or who the face that appeared belonged to.

  Then it came back, and he leapt to his feet and shouted with relief.

  The face vanished instantly, and a surge of disappointed anger made him curse the son of Apep that had brought him here. Another pebble clattered down, followed by some twigs and dust. The shaman was back, lowering a long rope of plaited hide. The curses dried on Senmut's lips and he waited anxiously for the rope to reach him. If he got out of this alive, if he got back to Khemet, the first thing he would do would be to take his love in his arms and never let her go.

  * * * *

  When the great ships reached Egypt again, more than twelve months later—after they had overcome the hazards of the open ocean and manoeuvred through the narrow canal dug in the twelfth dynasty and only recently cleared by Hatshepsut's army—and finally sailed up the Nile to Waset, where she waited, Senmut's heart was so full of pain and longing for her he could not think how he was going to get through the ceremonies of greeting with dignity and reserve.

  They had been away a long time. Only three ships returned of the five that had set off, and many men had died of fever. But they had accomplished what they had set out to do: they had made contact with the Land of Myrrh; they had established a sea route to the southern lands; and they had brought back gifts for their Pharaoh and their god. There were times when none of them had expected to see their own land again. And now, as they worked their way upstream, they sang praises to their gods and threw garlands of exotic southern flowers into the waters of Hapi, chanting a victory hymn to Amun-Ra. And every day the crowds gathered along the banks of the Nile to see them pass, cheering and shouting.

  It was Senmut's idea that they should reach Waset at dawn.

  Before first light, the crowds gathered, hundreds and thousands of torches lining the river with fire. Small boats stood off ready to herald them in, boys at the masts keeping a sharp lookout.

  When first light broke over the ochre-pink mountains, birds in chattering strings flew out to meet them. Dawn breezes stirred the palm leaves and fluttered the pennants joyfully above the temples.

  The sun began to rise behind Waset, behind the eastern mountains. Hatshepsut lifted her arms as the first brilliant rays of Ra's golden energy appeared above the rim of the distant rocks.

  The voice goes forth, and the earth is inundated with silence, for the Sole One came into existence in the sky before the plains and mountains existed ... You glorify my spirit, you make the Osiris of my soul divine. I worship you. Be content, O Lord of gods, for you are exalted in your firmament, and your rays over my breast are like the day.[6]

  [6—“The voice goes forth...” from Spell 15, Book of the Dead.]

  As though it were a signal, the great boats appeared, moving steadily, silently, towards their anchorage. Not a sound was uttered by the crowd. Not a child cried out. Not a bird squawked.

  Then, as the sun rose into full view, the humming began. Every throat vibrated to Ra's praise, swelling from a low hum to a high and magnificent chant. In gratitude for the travellers’ safe return every voice was raised in praise of Pharaoh's Father, Amun-Ra.

  Standing in the prow of the first boat, Senmut had not stopped watching Hatshepsut from the first moment he saw her. She was standing on a raised plinth, like a statue, Mut's vulture crown enclosing her fine head, wings of gold and turquoise over her ears. Her body glowed golden in the dawn light, her smooth limbs barely misted over with fine linen. Golden snake bracelets twisted around her arms and ankles. A wide collar of gold, turquoise and lapis lazuli rose and fell with her breath. She was Divine Pharaoh. She was untouchable—unapproachable. Why had she chosen to appear as woman this morning of all mornings? It would have been easier for him to bear if she had appeared as she often did on state occasions as male Pharaoh, in a king's garments, with a king's false beard strapped to her chin.

  On the long journey home he had thought about her incessantly, and he knew that when he left, she had been the one sick with love, and he had been fairly detached. Now, he was de
sperate with desire for her, and had even been thinking of ways and means to make it possible for them to marry. Part of her torment had been that she dared not acknowledge her love for him publicly, because he was a commoner, and because her hold on the throne was insecure and there were many who resented him and feared the rapidity of his rise to power. But she claimed to be King and not Queen. Kings had wives who were not called “great royal wife". Kings had wives who were commoners. The young Men-kheper-Ra, her stepson-nephew, whose place on the throne she had virtually usurped, was born of a secondary wife. Hatshepsut's own father was not of purely royal blood. Senmut had not pressed the idea of marriage before because he was not sure that he wanted its dangers and its constrictions. But now he was sure. He did not want to settle for Neferure, her daughter. He wanted to override all opposition, all court jealousies and intrigues. He wanted all the world to acknowledge him as Hatshepsut's choice, the beloved of Maat-ka-Ra.

  She did not look at him once during the ceremonial greetings, and even avoided his eyes when he was standing right before her.

  “It's because we are in public,” he thought. “She thinks we are still playing the games we played before. When we are alone ... then she will look at me. Then she will not be able to hold herself back."

  But when the day's duties were done, when the long day of formality and business was finally behind him, and he went to the Queen's chambers, he was barred from her presence by the guards at the door—the same guards who had admitted him a hundred times before.

  On his insistence, one of her women was called and sent in to tell the Queen that it was Senmut who sought admission—and that he had a special and private gift he wanted to deliver to her personally.

  The message came back quickly. “Pharaoh is tired. She has retired for the night. She will see no visitors."

  Senmut looked at the frightened woman. He knew she was not lying—this was what Hatshepsut had said.

  Bitterly he turned on his heel and strode away.

  * * * *