She repeated the prayer-spell and the question three times. And then she felt it—the stirring of air, the almost imperceptible change of atmosphere in the room.
She had the name. It lay before her. “Men-soneb”—a priest of Amun recently come from Khemnu.
Well, he was finished. His name would be obliterated forever. Angrily she smashed her fist into the water. Her golden bracelets glittered ominously as she scooped up the leaves and threw them to burn in the brazier.
As she turned to go she remembered who had given her the name. She bowed quickly to Djehuti and Seshat, Master and Mistress of Names and Naming, Guardians of the records of Millions of Years. Through tight and angry lips, she promised them that justice would be done to those who misused the powers that were given by the gods. Then she left the chapel with a firm and purposive step.
* * * *
The first thing Hatshepsut did was to confront Mut-awa.
She dismissed all her attendants and called only Mut-awa to her chambers. The woman came quickly and cheerfully, showing no sign of anxious guilt or apprehension.
Hatshepsut set her to fetching and laying out clothes, but she did not seem to be able to find one that pleased the Pharaoh. Mut-awa's cheerfulness soon faded as she was sent scurrying hither and thither for the garments, only to be told irritably that they were not what Hatshepsut had in mind. It was clear that her mistress was in a strange and perverse mood. As soon as she recommended something, Hatshepsut dismissed it with scorn, and if she advised against it, it seemed that was the one thing the Pharaoh wanted to wear.
Hatshepsut was tense and angry, but she was also playing a game with her maid, trying to rattle her so that she would not find is so easy to dissemble when finally the important questions were asked.
But Mut-awa, though becoming increasingly uncomfortable under Hatshepsut's unreasonable treatment, showed nothing but puzzled patience and loyalty.
At last Hatshepsut stopped the game and confronted the woman outright with the accusation that she had betrayed the secret entrusted to her.
Mut-awa was shocked and indignant. Never! Never had she let slip a word!
Hatshepsut persisted, and said some harsh and unkind things.
Tears came to Mut-awa's eyes, but she swore on all the gods, and finally on her mother's grave, that she had not breathed a word.
Hatshepsut paused, for the first time doubting that the oracle had been right; she knew the seriousness of such an oath to Mut-awa.
Hatshepsut paced the room restlessly for a while, thinking.
Mut-awa was crumpled on the floor, weeping.
Suddenly Hatshepsut rounded on her.
“Do you know a priest of Amun called Men-soneb?” she demanded, glaring into her eyes.
Mut-awa gasped.
“Majesty,” she said, trembling, “you know he is my husband."
“Your husband?” shouted Hatshepsut in astonishment. Mut-awa was a woman of middle age with very little physical attractiveness. She had never been married, never had any life but one of close personal service to Hatshepsut, first as young princess and then as Pharaoh. But earlier this year Mut-awa had come to her and asked her blessing on her marriage. Hatshepsut at the time had been preoccupied, and, apart from being delighted for her maidservant, for whom she had great affection, she had scarcely taken any notice. She remembered vaguely giving instructions for generous wedding gifts—but then she had forgotten about it. Mut-awa had continued to attend her faithfully and well, as though there had been no change in her life.
Looking intently into the face of her old servant, Hatshepsut knew that Mut-awa had not knowingly betrayed her trust. She had been used by her magician husband. Her anger subsided. She stooped down and took the woman by the arms and raised her to her feet.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I should not have doubted you."
“But why, Majesty? Why? Has Men-soneb displeased your Majesty?"
Hatshepsut looked at her. She could see the pain there, the fear that a shadow was about to engulf her life. Mut-awa knew something about Men-soneb that made her fearful.
“Tell me about your husband, Mut-awa,” Hatshepsut said gently, drawing the woman down to sit beside her on the couch.
Mut-awa's shoulders drooped. Her hands were in her lap, folding and unfolding nervously. Her tears had stopped flowing, but she kept her head down so that her mistress could not see the growing terror in her eyes. She was remembering...
“He—he is much younger than me, Majesty,” she said at last in a low, broken voice. “Very handsome.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes brimming with tears again. “I'm sure he wouldn't..."
“Hush, my dear. I'm accusing him of nothing. How did you meet him? Who are his parents?"
It became clearer and clearer to both of them as Mut-awa talked that the handsome young priest of Amun who had seemed so instantly enamoured of her and asked her to marry him within days of their first meeting could well have had an ulterior motive.
Mut-awa told Hatshepsut, falteringly, that since the first days of blissful union he had been very cold towards her and, in fact, she had seen very little of him. “When I am here with you he always seems to be off duty, but when I am free to go home he is busy at the temple."
“Had he been long at the temple here, when you met him?"
“No. He had come from Khemnu that week."
Hatshepsut put her arm around the woman's shoulders.
“My poor Mut-awa,” she said.
“What has he done, Majesty? What has happened?"
Hatshepsut would not tell her. She wanted to see him—and she did not want Mut-awa to get to him first and warn him. She thought of having him killed summarily, before he could do any more harm, but she was afraid his powers in magic might be so great that he could create a spectre of himself to haunt her forever.
She called the guard from the corridor and told him to keep Mut-awa in the room.
Mut-awa was shocked.
“It is for your own good, my dear,” she said. “I want to speak with Men-soneb alone. You must not worry. It may be that I am as wrong about him as I was wrong about you."
“Whatever he has done,” pleaded Mut-awa, “he is young. He may have been foolish. Please, Majesty—whatever he has done, I'm sure —"
“Whatever he has done,” said Hatshepsut, “I will not judge hastily or unfairly. For your sake, if for nothing else, he will have the benefit of any doubt, however small."
With that she turned on her heel and left the room, Mut-awa's eyes gazing after her in despair.
Hatshepsut was angry with herself that she had not paid more attention to her close attendant's marriage. She was also angry that her officials had not investigated the man. It was unbelievable that they had let such an obvious enemy through the net. One of Men-kheper-Ra's spies married to her close confidential attendant! She tightened her lips and wondered whom she should dismiss from office in disgrace, and whom she should condemn to those fearful Nubian prisons she had hardly used since taking the double crown.
But perhaps Men-soneb had somehow blinded them by magical means. He was obviously capable of it. What then? Should she lose more of her best men for something that was not their fault?
But nothing could be decided until she had taken the measure of Men-soneb. She sent for him to attend her in the throne room. Then she called for the double crown. Surprised, the Master of the Royal Vestments clothed her in suitable robes and placed the outward and visible sign of Pharaoh's powerful magic on her head.
When Men-soneb arrived the area was surrounded by guards but the throne room itself was empty apart from Pharaoh, in full regalia, seated on the throne.
She saw before her a handsome young man bowing at each step as he slowly crossed the vast expanse of floor. He came at last to lie prostrate before the steps that led up to the lion throne. He was in the panther skin dress of a “sem” priest, and Hatshepsut knew by that that he was high up in the Amun priesthood. The “sem” priest must be wel
l versed in magic, for it was he who touched the embalmed mouths of kings, of royal and divine statues, with an instrument of iron fallen from the stars, to give them speech. She had been present at many “opening of the mouth” ceremonies and knew how impressive and awe-inspiring they could be. But she had not seen this young man before.
Although as he entered he looked unexceptionable, as he approached she could feel waves of dark and powerful energy emanating from him. Had she been foolish to attempt to confront him alone?
“I am not alone,” she whispered. “I am Pharaoh and all the gods are with me. On my head is the double crown, surmounted by the double uraeus, the cobra goddess, Weret-Hekau, Great-in-Magic."
She now had no doubt that he was the one who had created the spectre that had entered her son.
She hastily began to erect protective symbols around herself.
In the air above her she visualised the winged sun disk that was carved above every temple entrance. She “saw” it in a blaze of golden glory—the two cobras curled around the burning sun, spitting protective fire. The wings of the golden falcon spread, shimmering, on either side, as they kept the image hovering where she had placed it. On either side of her she visualised Amun-Ra and Mut and, between them and the sun disk, she visualised beams of dazzling white light. She, on her throne, was placed directly on the light beam that ran between the two gods and was thus contained in a triangle of light linking herself, the great spirits, Amun and Mut, and the winged disk.
She felt she was no longer operating as her ordinary self capable of making mistakes like any other human being, but as her greater “Self", in tune with her higher consciousness and capable of achievements that would reverberate throughout many realms.
She commanded him to rise.
He rose.
She wondered how Mut-awa could have loved him. His expression was cold and arrogant and as hard as black diamond. She could see that he knew why she had called him here; there would be no element of surprise to give her the advantage.
She did not look him in the eyes, but addressed herself icily to a point just above his head.
“Men-soneb, I believe you have been misusing your skills as priest."
“I, Majesty?” he said with mocking, exaggerated innocence.
“Don't play games with me, sir. I know and you know what you have done."
He was silent.
She could feel him willing her to look at him. She knew instinctively that if she did she would be lost. She continued to stare just above his head, but she could feel the beads of sweat beginning to gather under her heavy crown and trickle down her forehead. It seemed to her that her neck would break with the weight of the crown. She had never felt it so heavy.
“It is sorcery,” warned Amun at her side. “Keep your head up. Do not look into his eyes."
“I see you, sir, for what you are. You thought to destroy me with the phantom you created."
“I created no phantom, Majesty,” he said smoothly.
“I can and will destroy you, sir, but first I am going to make sure you are powerless."
“Majesty,” he crooned. “It was not I but you yourself who created the phantom."
The shock put her off guard, and for an instant she met his eyes. A fearful pain shot through her heart, and her limbs seemed to grow numb. With a tremendous effort she pulled away her eyes, and, sweating and shivering, stared desperately at the image of Horus on the opposite wall.
“You lie,” she ground out from between clenched teeth.
“No, Majesty. Look into your heart. Was there not guilt there the night you first saw the phantom? Was there not fear?"
She stood up, gripping the arms of her throne.
"You created it. You sustained it! You seek to destroy me!” she screamed.
He said nothing, but she could feel his will pulling her eyes back to his.
In desperation she called out for the help of Sekhmet, whose image was carved upon her throne.
Suddenly a flash of blue-white light seemed to come from the winged disk and like a bolt of lightning, shoot down directly at her, entering the top of her head and then bursting out in two separate beams from her eyes straight into the eyes of the priest before her.
He shrieked as the light entered his body. Within moments there was nothing left of him but a coil of black smoke rising from a heap of what looked like black and greasy ropes lying smouldering on the floor.
She could not believe what had happened and stared at the place where he had been.
Even as she stared the ropes seemed to move and she saw that they were not ropes at all but black serpents, some already slithering across the floor to make their escape. Knowing what that would mean, she scrambled down the steps, the crown falling with a crash to the ground. She beat at the snakes with the royal crook and flail, screaming as she did so for the guards.
Within moments of the men entering it seemed as though all the snakes were slain.
But were they?
Shaking, she sat on the steps of the throne looking anxiously for any movement from the scattered fragments.
If just one had escaped...
* * *
Chapter 17
Mut-awa was told that her husband, accused of spreading rumours about the Pharaoh, had been ordered to leave the Two Lands and never return. Hatshepsut, seeing the woman's reaction to this, thought it prudent to retire her from her service. She could not risk having someone so closely associated with her who was nursing any kind of resentment. She saw that Mut-awa was well rewarded for her long service and tried to persuade her that if Men-soneb had truly loved her or been half the man she thought he was, he would have taken her with him.
The name of Ast had not been written in the silver bowl, but Hatshepsut would not give up the idea that Men-kheper-Ra's mother was behind the whole thing. She fretted so much over what to do about the matter it became almost an obsession.
Of all her husband's women, Ast was the only one Hatshepsut really disliked. The others she scarcely noticed. Some of them had been brought to his “House of Women” virtually as hostages to keep their fathers, rulers of neighbouring states, under control. Others were bartered by their fathers for gold and exquisite furniture. Some were the daughters of local noblemen whose loyalty the King wanted to ensure. Some had taken the fancy of the King. Ast was the only one, Hatshepsut felt, who had been personally chosen by Aa-kheper-en-Ra because he genuinely loved her. This in itself Hatshepsut would not have resented, for her own relationship was, after all, only a political one; but the woman would not retire, as the others had done, into comfortable obscurity. She still kept an entourage worthy of a queen, and interfered whenever she could in matters of state.
Nothing could be proved against her, but it was clear the lavish parties she constantly threw in her part of the palace provided a good meeting ground for the disaffected friends of her son.
Not for the first time, Hatshepsut considered what she might do to get rid of Ast. But, as before, she always came up against the problem that if she did anything too openly hostile she might precipitate a rebellion by forcing Men-kheper-Ra to take action in defence of his mother.
But this time she was determined not to let her go unpunished. The spectre had almost destroyed her by destroying her peace of mind, and the confrontation with Men-soneb had nearly ended in her annihilation. What would Ast try next?
Ast was lounging in her garden, recovering from a night of heavy drinking, when one of her attendants came running up in a state of agitation to tell her that the Pharaoh had arrived unexpectedly.
Even before the words were out, Hatshepsut was approaching along the path.
Ast did not move, but watched her—as a cat watches a mouse—the whole length of the garden path. Then, when the Pharaoh was standing right in front of her looking down at her with suppressed fury, Ast rose deliberately slowly and, equally slowly, bowed.
Hatshepsut tightened her lips. If Aa-kheper-en-Ra could see her now! The woma
n used to be beautiful, but in the last few years she had eaten too much and drunk too much and lived an indolent and unhealthy life. She looked much older than Hatshepsut, although she was the same age. Her once slender body was bulging everywhere and her face was unpleasantly puffy. Festering resentment and bitterness had dimmed the sparkle of her eyes, and her smile, though frequent, was now rarely from the heart.
“Such an honour,” she said sarcastically. “Hatshepsut spares a moment from her busy life!” Ast never acknowledged that Hatshepsut was Pharaoh and refused to call her “Majesty".
“I think you know why I have come,” Hatshepsut said coldly.
“Surely not to gloat over a woman who should be Great King's Mother, but is treated no better than a commoner."
“To see a woman who is known to misuse magic, and a woman who is known to plot against her Pharaoh."
“You'll find no such woman here."
“Certainly none that will succeed."
Ast narrowed her eyes, cat-like, but said nothing.
“I believe Men-soneb, the magician, was one of your friends."
“Men-soneb, the magician?” Ast asked with mock innocence. “I have many friends,” she added, stressing the word “many".
“He was a priest of Amun-Ra."
“Ah, well,” Ast interrupted quickly. “A priest of Amun-Ra! He would have been one of your Hapuseneb's friends."
Hatshepsut did not miss the emphasis on the word “your".
“He was no friend of Hapuseneb."
“But Hapuseneb as High Priest must have chosen him for the temple."
“Hapuseneb has thousands of priests and officials under him. It would be easy for an unscrupulous person, in a privileged position, to slip someone in..."
“If that is so, I suggest you dismiss Hapuseneb, for surely he cannot be relied upon to perform his duties satisfactorily if he doesn't even have control over who is appointed priest in his own temples."
Hatshepsut bit her lip.
“I didn't come here to argue with you, Ast. I know you, and I know what you are capable of. I came here to warn you..."
“Warn me?” Ast's lip curled.
Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun Page 25
