Amenemheb's uncle was a priest of Ra, and it was he who brought the young captain to Ra-hotep to request permission for the meeting. Nothing was said about its purpose—but Ra-hotep was no fool.
They knew it was impossible for Men-kheper-Ra to go anywhere without Hatshepsut knowing of his movements. There was no open hostility between the two of them, but she kept a close watch on him just the same.
It was agreed that Men-kheper-Ra should make no secret of his visit. He asked his step-mother if he could be the royal representative this year at the great Festival of Sopdt,[18] that was soon to take place.
[18—The star is Sirius—called by the ancient Egyptians “Sopdt", and by the Greeks, “Sothis".]
The festival celebrated the heliacal rising of the brightest star in the heavens. Each year when it rose at the same time as the sun, the life-giving floods came to the Two Lands. Then it was indeed Khemet, the Black Land, for when the floods subsided, they left behind them the rich black alluvial mud that made the country the grain-house of the world.
The festival was a very important one, and there was not a temple in the land that did not greet the star at this time, that did not praise it and sacrifice to it. The major centre had always been the Temple of the Sun at Yunu, for it was the combination of the two divine beings, Ra and Sopdt, that triggered the phenomenon that sustained the earth. The Pharaoh almost invariably took the major role in the ceremony.
But this year Hatshepsut had her reasons for wanting to stay where she was at Waset, and agreed for once that Men-kheper-Ra should take her place at Yunu.
* * * *
Hatshepsut was pregnant with Senmut's child. She and her physician knew it, and her two most trusted women, but no one else—not even Senmut.
When she first discovered it she had been very excited, but very soon the difficulties of the situation began to present themselves. That she felt sick almost continually was the least of her worries. She believed that her grip on the Two Lands would easily slip away if she appeared as anything less than the great male-female divine being she had built herself up to be. She also feared that Senmut might acquire more power than she was prepared to grant him if he was known to be the father of her child, and that the other great nobles on whose support she relied might be jealous and swing against her. Men-kheper-Ra's supporters would certainly fear that Senmut would be made consort, and act immediately to unseat her.
Hatshepsut decided to abort the child. Her trusted physician-priest took the readings of the heavens that were necessary for such a hazardous and far-reaching act, and told her that for maximum protection she should do it at dawn on the day of the Festival of Sopdt.
“As Sopdt pulls the Nile floods into the Two Lands, so will it wash out what is in your womb."
The physician and Hatshepsut never mentioned the child in her womb, but spoke always as though it was some unnatural “thing” that had got in there by mistake.
She could not afford to allow her people to know what was happening, nor even to know that she was ill. Having taken the throne by force of personality and held it in the same way, she had always to appear strong, beautiful and capable. She had to make a public appearance at the festival, so the deed must be done before the rising—in spite of what the physician-priest had told her. She would have to accept the consequences.
She arranged with the physician and the two women that they should be with her in her private chambers in the palace closest to the temple of Ipet-Esut, where the nearest ceremony was to be. She would have preferred to be in her favourite palace on the west bank, but it was too far away. She was to be carried to the temple on a golden chair immediately the abortion was done. She would stand to greet the great star in its rising between the golden tipped obelisks when it was time to do so, as though nothing had happened.
The physician warned her that the pain would be extreme and that she would be bleeding.
“I do not think, Majesty, that you will be able to carry out the ritual."
“Your task is to do what I have asked of you, and mine is to rule this land,” she said coldly. “I do not interfere in your work. Do not interfere in mine."
He and the two women looked at each other but said no more.
They made the preparations carefully. They performed the operation.
Hatshepsut did not cry out once, but her face was ash-white and very drawn when they came to paint on her cosmetics for the ceremony.
Normally she would wear male attire for such a ceremony—but this time the only concession she made to what had just happened to her was to wear female garb. When she stood between the great obelisks and raised her arms, layer after layer of filmy linen hid her body. Her face, painted like a mask, showed no sign of pain. Her voice as she led the chant of praise did not waver.
* * * *
Senmut was celebrating the festival at Suan in the south, where the first signs of the flood would appear. The people believed that there was a huge hole somewhere in that area from which the waters welled up at the command of Sopdt. Priests announced when the first fractional increase in river height was recorded, and then thousands of people would shout and dance for joy. Their livelihood depended on the yearly rising and they were ready with praise for their Pharaoh, who so ruled with Maat that the cosmic order was beautifully maintained.
Senmut, Anhai and Neferure watched the rising of Sopdt and the Sun together—Pharaoh's daughter leading the ritual chant in the south as her mother did at Ipet-Esut, and her cousin-step-brother did at Yunu.
Anhai said her own prayers to the divinity of her childhood, wondering if ceremonies were going on at this very moment in the Temple of the Sun at home —and wondering about her present-life father and if his heart had healed since the death of her mother, Kyra.
So much had happened since she had come to his ancestral land. What would he say if she told him she had spoken with Imhotep, who was as great a hero to him as he was to Senmut? What did she feel about it herself? She had always known that she had lived millennia before in this land. She had even known that Imhotep had been her father—but until that moment on Sehel Island she had not known the significance of it. She had not known what was expected of her by the great beings of the Shining Realms because of this relationship. She had been through all she had been through—the waste of years waiting between worlds for a love that was no longer hers; and the rebellion against her present-life parents and the greed that had made her the apprentice of a sorceress whose one ambition was to destroy the Temple so important to her people. In all this she had thought she was free to make her own choices, make her own mistakes. And yet here she was, with this feeling of inevitability, this knowledge that she had been called to this place and given a task.
She had not been able to tell Senmut all that Imhotep had said to her, for at the time she herself did not grasp it fully. It seemed to her he had started a train of thought in her that continued after the actual vision of him had disappeared. She was to found a centre of healing in his name. She who had spent the first part of this life helping the forces of destruction was now to spend the second part in dedication to the positive good of those around her. It was not exactly a penance, but it was a making good.
As she stood beside Senmut, a step or two behind Neferure, and watched the green-cool first light of a Nile dawn, she should have felt elation and peace. As the great star rose just ahead of the sun the sky was on the move with birds—great strings of them rose from the dark islands and winged away towards the growing light. Silver fish leapt. A sigh of awe rose like a breeze from the thousands of people gathered there.
But Anhai felt a twinge of apprehension. She could not see that Hatshepsut's eyes were dark with pain and that the paint on her face was running with sweat, but she felt that the river might not rise as soon as it should this year. The cosmic order—the beautiful balance of Nature—had somehow been mocked.
* * * *
In the north, at Yunu, Men-kheper-Ra stood in the Temple of the S
un with his arms raised, leading the chant, as were his cousin-sister and his aunt-stepmother at the different key points in the land. But behind the beautiful and ancient words he spoke, his mind was busy with other thoughts.
The meeting had taken place the night before, the conspirators arriving secretly in the night after elaborate security precautions by Ra-hotep. They had left before dawn and would not appear at the festival celebrations. Hatshepsut must not know that any of Men-kheper-Ra's friends and supporters were present at this time in this place.
It had been Ra-hotep's suggestion at the meeting that the matter should be left in his hands. He implied that he had already taken certain steps that would be helpful to them.
“Hatshepsut has spies planted everywhere among your friends so that you cannot make a move without her knowing,” the High Priest of the Sun said. “But I am not under suspicion. If the priests of the Sun choose to support you rather than your aunt, and if the secret of their support is well kept..."
Men-kheper-Ra's face lightened.
“Do you think that will be possible?"
Ra-hotep pursed his lips.
“Shall I say—not impossible?"
“But will they all follow you?"
“No, not all. I must be careful. There are some I can think of at this very moment who are disaffected by the rise of the power of the priests of Amun. There are others I will have to woo. It were better, Majesty, if you and your friends knew no more than you know now. When the situation calls for it, you will be informed. But then there must be no hesitation.” He looked hard at the young prince.
Men-kheper-Ra flushed with embarrassment.
“I was a boy then,” he said. “I will not hesitate again."
“Good,” Ra-hotep said. “It is agreed?"
“How long will we have to wait?” asked Amenemheb impatiently.
“As long as need be,” replied Ra-hotep sharply.
“Wouldn't it be quicker if the army..."
“Do you want the deaths of thousands?"
“No. But..."
“With my plan there will be no need for bloodshed,” the High Priest said.
“I'm prepared to leave it to Ra-hotep,” Men-kheper-Ra agreed at once. “I would not enjoy fighting my own people. We need our strength for our enemies. When I am Pharaoh in truth instead of just in name, I shall extend the empire beyond even the dreams of my grandfather."
“Careful you won't be too old to throw a spear by then,” muttered Amenemheb. Men-kheper-Ra did not hear him, but Ra-hotep did. “That young man is reckless,” he thought. “He could ruin everything if I don't watch him."
* * * *
Hatshepsut passed several days and nights after the festival tossing and turning with a high fever.
She had not expected the foetus to look so human. Nor had she expected it to be a boy. If she had known, would she have done as she had done? As the dark night closed in on her and the sweat poured from her, she did not think that she would make the same decision again.
At first she was angry. Not with herself, but with Senmut, and then with the whole male population for being able to make love so easily and without having to face the consequences. Her anger turned to hatred and, as she lay, she cursed all the men she had ever known. She even turned her anger on her father, whom she had deeply loved, for giving her the aspirations of a man without the body to make the most of them. She cursed her husband, whom she had never loved but to whom she had dutifully submitted. She cursed Men-kheper-Ra. That he existed at all had caused her endless problems. Even now she knew that if she relaxed her tight rein on the Two Lands for an instant, the people, who had seemed to worship her, would think nothing of trampling her underfoot and raising him up—the male prince, the mighty male king!
Amun himself was always depicted as male. Why had he deserted her? Typical! When a woman needed help most, the male god was nowhere to be seen!
She had not asked his permission to abort the child. For every other decision she had turned to him for help, but for this one—this very difficult one—she had not trusted him enough. Was this why he was punishing her? The pain was almost unbearable, the fever dangerously high. Would he go so far as to take her life because she had defied him? She knew he would have told her not to do what she had done. It was against Maat. Destiny had given her another royal child, and she had thrown it away with the garbage. She had not even been able to give it proper burial—for if she had, someone would have found out about it and used the information against her.
It seemed to her Amun-Ra himself was standing in the room beside her. He had given her the child and she had refused it. For the first time in her life she wished she were an ordinary woman and every decision she made were not fraught with so many far-reaching repercussions.
She began to shout at him.
“Why should I feel guilty? Why should I? Do you think I am a slave? Less than a slave? I am led like a leopard on a golden chain. I cannot step where I want to step, or sleep where I want to sleep."
"Ah, daughter, you have asked for this. You have pleaded for power. You have walked the night, paced the colonnades of the day, your shadow at your feet, your shadow at your back, your shadow going before. I have heard your cry. I have listened and I have said, my daughter, if it is your wish to play the leopard, then here is my golden chain that you do not destroy my flock. You bowed your head. You took my chain willingly around your neck."
“Have I not done all that you asked me, time after time?” she said. “I did not want to carry this particular burden, and I am punished like a slave."
"There is no slavery like the slavery of power," he said. "You asked for power. You have power. You cannot have freedom too."
“I will break your chain around my neck. I will give up the power. I will leave the golden throne and give the double crown to the boy who slavers for it, to the woman who stands at his side and is sick for want of it. Anything to free me from this pain, free me from this guilt!"
"And will you give up the crown?" His voice was sceptical.
“What have I become? A walking crown? Have I no legs, no arms, no breasts, no thighs? I will be as much Hatshepsut if I wear no crown!"
"Give it up then, my daughter," he said quietly. "Be no more my chosen one."
“I will give it up! I have given it up. From this moment on I walk where I want to walk and love whom I want to love."
She felt something change. She could no longer see or feel his presence.
She was frightened, and she was alone. That which had sustained her all these years was gone; the subtle and invisible elixir that had infused every moment of her life with significance had somehow leaked away, and her body that had been sensitive to the faintest influence, her mind capable of making sense of the most complex juxtapositions and relationships, her heart tuned like a fine lute to the breath of the gods—all, all were numb and dull. Even the ring on her hand seemed like base metal instead of gold.
“Forgive me,” she cried. “Having known the closeness of your heart to my heart, if you withdraw from me I will walk in the shade and die for lack of the sun. Forgive me! If you do not, I will lift wine to my lips and taste only red dust."
But there was no answer. If he heard her, he gave no sign.
And then—and then she saw that there was someone else in the room, a tall young man, a stranger. He was there and not there. She could see him and yet not see him.
She sensed that he was not of the same order as the gods. He was human, and yet as she looked at him she could see the faint outlines of her cabinet of ivory and ebony that was behind him.
“Who are you?” she asked, but her throat was dry and in her heart she already knew.
His eyes were hard and bitter.
"I am your son," he said coldly.
“You have no name,” she whispered, shivering. “You cannot exist."
"I have a name," he said.
“I gave you none!"
"In your agony you cursed me. You g
ave me a name."
She shuddered.
“What name?” She brought the words out with difficulty. She was more afraid now than she had ever been.
He smiled knowingly, but did not reply. His image began to fade.
“What name?” she screamed.
But he had gone and she was left sinking back onto the bed, wringing wet with sweat, yet shivering with cold.
The door burst open and her two women came running in. They had heard her scream.
“Majesty, what is it?"
She was sobbing and shaking. She clung to their arms.
“Don't leave me! Why did you leave me? Night and day you should be with me."
“Yes. Yes, Majesty. Everything is all right. We are here. We will not leave you."
“Fetch the physician,” one whispered to the other.
“What are you whispering?” Hatshepsut shrieked. “What are you saying?"
“Nothing. Nothing, Majesty. We think we should fetch the physician. That's all we were saying."
“Fetch him then—one of you. The other stay.” Her fingers were biting into an arm of each and would not let go. “But before you go, tell me—tell me something..."
“What, Majesty?” The women were frightened. They had never seen her like this, almost like a child gibbering with fear.
“When—when it was happening what did I say?"
“Nothing."
“You lie! What did I say?"
The two women looked at each other in terrified bewilderment.
“You said nothing, Majesty. You did not cry out once.
“You lie! You lie! You lie!" she shouted furiously, and started to hit out at them, her face distorted and ugly with weeping and rage.
Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun Page 17
