The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh

by Marié Heese

  “When is an ear not an ear?” he asked me.

  “I give up,” I said, holding back tears.

  “When it’s an earwig,” he said, cackling mirthlessly. He clapped the contraption back on his head. “And when is a double crown not a double crown?” he asked, peering slyly through the false hair.

  “Tell me?”

  “When there are two heads to wear it.”

  Yes, I thought, Bek speaks the truth.

  I gave the matter careful consideration, and I have taken two decisive steps. The continuation of covert military activities that were not sanctioned by me cannot be allowed to carry on unchecked. Equally, though, the army must be ready for any genuine contingencies and fully alert at all times. Therefore I have promoted Khani to the rank of general and I have ordered Thutmose to lead an expedition to the South to ensure that all is well on our border with the Land of Kush.

  Khani was amazed at his promotion. Despite my earlier promise, he had not expected it. “But … but … Majesty,” he protested. “The other generals – will they accept me? A foreigner, and a Nubian?”

  “Are you not an Egyptian now, Khani?” I asked, looking at him searchingly.

  His black eyes did not waver. “Indeed I am,” he said. “When we were conquered … when I was brought here …”

  “Yes?” I had often wondered what his feelings had been, but he was never one to speak easily of what was in his heart.

  “We lost to superior warriors,” he said. “They were … unstoppable. We were comprehensively outfought. Naturally I was devastated, but still, I had to admire them. I thought that I too would die that day, when I was brought before the King. I was prepared for it. But Majesty, you spoke for me. I understood that, although I did not understand the language then.”

  “At the time I did not realise that,” I said. “How stupid of me.”

  “Still, I understood that you saved my life,” said Khani. “So my life is yours to order as you will. Egypt is my home and you are my King. I am committed to your service.”

  “I know it, Khani,” I said. “The generals must accept you. You have been excellently trained, you are very able and you lead men well. Besides, General Nehsi is a Nubian and he is widely respected. I foresee no problems.”

  “Thank you, Majesty. I am greatly honoured. I pledge eternal loyalty to you and to Khemet.” He made a deep obeisance.

  His promotion has been due for some time, on the grounds of service and ability, not mere closeness to My Majesty. He serves me well. So have a large number of able men. I have always preferred men to women, who so often seem to think only about small things.

  My orders led to an acrimonious and exhausting scene in the Grand Audience Chamber, but I was steadfast. I had insisted that Thutmose come from Memphis to receive my instructions, so that he could not get away with claiming to be out of the city on a hunt or some such excuse.

  He was enraged and strode the floor like a caged lion. “If there is a rebellion on the boil in the South – and I have not personally had warning of this …”

  “I have better spies than you do, nephew,” I said.

  “Then some other general could be sent. Why on earth must I, the Great Commander, lead a mere couple of companies …”

  “The Land of Kush must be suitably cowed,” I said, using Khani’s words to me. “They must be in no doubt that Egypt takes any kind of rebellion with the utmost seriousness, and that we are absolutely determined to quash anything of the sort. What better way to convey this message than to send the Great Commander himself?”

  “Must act decisively,” agreed Seni, in his clipped tones. “Essential to be firm. Very firm.”

  “But what about the North?” demanded Thutmose. “Have we not had warnings that matters there …”

  “All the more reason for you to go to Kush,” I said. “We have the bulk of the army in Memphis, with competent generals, should it be necessary to ward off attacks on our northern borders. But if we neglect to secure the South, we could be caught in an enormous pincer that could crush the Two Lands like a nut. That would be disastrous.”

  Seni and the senior military advisers present were nodding.

  Thutmose glared at me furiously but impotently. He could not question the capabilities of his generals, after all. Nor could he claim to be involved in preparations for a major incursion of which his Pharaoh was unaware.

  “Take two companies from the Division of Sobek, since they are stationed here,” I told him. “Khani is their commander, but it would not be politic to send him to quell Kush, you must admit.”

  “Definitely not,” agreed Seni.

  Thutmose opened and closed his mouth but found no words and ground his buck teeth instead.

  “It may eventually be necessary for a serious military campaign in the North,” I acknowledged, “but not immediately, and there are other options to be tried before we send our entire army on the Horus road. Prudence, and patience, my good nephew, may save both the Two Lands and the flower of its men. Prudence and patience are qualities sometimes underestimated by the military, but of great value in proper governance.”

  Several of the men present chuckled audibly at this. Thutmose was not known for his patience. It would do him good to be obedient.

  “Perhaps the army could conduct some military exercises in the Sinai while you are gone,” I proposed. “That would keep them sharp and show the vassal states, especially Canaan and Syria, that Egypt does not sleep. But the southern forts must be supported. You are to leave within seven days. Pharaoh has spoken.”

  Thutmose could do nothing else but acquiesce, but he did not do so graciously.

  “Military exercises!” he muttered to his cronies as I turned to leave. “By Seth and all his devils! Pah! That is what comes of having a female Pharaoh who knows nothing of warfare and precious little of government!”

  Had he said this to my face I would have had to have him arrested. But that would not have suited me. It could lead to serious unrest, and besides there is no more suitable royal person to follow me on the Double Throne. But while I breathe he is no more than a junior co-regent and he must know his place. He shall not usurp my authority, nor shall he force a showdown with me. I pretended to be hard of hearing and I swept out. Yet I heard him clearly, and I shall not forget.

  It is not true that I know nothing of warfare. I have had experience of it, and it has made me detest war and avoid it by all means at my command. I have never been completely free of the after-effects of that battle in Nubia. For soon after we had returned to Thebes, when life had resumed its usual routine and I was securely positioned on the throne, I began to have the dream – the dream that has since then recurred throughout my life. It changes in some details, but in essence it is the same.

  The first time it came to me was about one month later, when I had recovered physically and had, I thought, relegated the terrible memories of that experience to the past, put them away as I had my battle dress, neatly folded up and stored in a chest under some cloaks with the lid firmly tied down and sealed.

  In this dream I am there again, on that battlefield. It is extraordinarily real, without any of the strange distortions and improbable events that usually occur in dreams. I dream that I am on foot and alone, armed with only my dagger. Well, that detail is strange, for in truth I never left my chariot that day, but it would not have been impossible.

  I feel again the burning sun upon my skin and the perspiration running down inside my tunic with its metal disks. I smell the dry hot dust and the horse manure and the peculiar odour of fresh blood. I hear the horses whinnying and the thundering of hooves and the wheels of the chariots crunching on the sand as they race by. I hear the barbarians howl their battle cry. And then all these sounds fade and I hear only a voice, urgent in my ears, and what it says, over and over, is: Kill him for Khemet! Kill him for Khemet!

  The confused mêlée parts and a man runs towards me. It is the Nubian soldier, the one I struck down by hurling my
dagger into his eye. Indeed, as he runs towards me his left eye streams blood, which drips onto his naked torso. But unlike that day he does not fall. In my dream this makes me angry, for have I not killed him already? But still he keeps coming. So I have to strike again, and he is now so close that I do not throw the dagger, I drive it straight into his other eye. It feels like jabbing a melon. More blood spurts out and he stumbles blindly until he finally drops at my feet.

  Now everything happens very slowly. Around me the sights as well as the sounds of the battle fade away. I roll the Nubian onto his back with my foot. I see that he has ritual scars upon his cheeks and long earlobes stretched by the weight of golden hoops. I kneel down on the burning hot sand, which grates into my knees. But I do not care. Because I am overcome with an overwhelming, insatiable, terrible thirst: a thirst for blood. I put my hands on the dead man’s shoulders and I lean forward and I suck and lap at his bleeding eyes. I am so thirsty, but the blood is not enough. I must have more blood.

  I look at my hands and they have turned into a lion’s paws. I cry out, but my voice has become a roar. I am Sekhmet. I sit back on my haunches in the desert and I roar my lust for blood. As I look around me, there are no more human beings in sight. Nothing but the boundless desert that stretches around me, growing ever vaster as I watch, while I become smaller and smaller until I am nothing but a speck upon the limitless sand.

  Then I wake up.

  This dream has taught me what the worst thing is about waging war – the true reason why war distorts Ma’at. It is not, in the first place, the violence and the suffering. It is not the cutting down of men who should have seen many more harvests and watched their children grow. It is not the wailing of the mothers, the widows and the fatherless children left to struggle alone. Dreadful though these things are, they are not the worst. The worst is: War makes desirable that which is terrible. That is not Ma’at.

  Here endeth the twelfth scroll.

  This is DREADFUL, dreadful. I was afraid that some such thing might happen and now it has. As a result of my report based on the observations of Ahmose, an innocent man has died. A man who did nothing against the crown, a man who was merely doing his job. And now … because of me … It makes me feel quite sick to think of it. But in truth, all those visits from a tax collector … well, it did appear strange. There could have been a plot. How was one to know?

  I do understand why Her Majesty has to be vigilant where the Great Commander is concerned. His shadow seems always to be looming over her throne. I understand that Her Majesty feels that she is being threatened and of course she must act. Yet it does seem … it does seem radical. One wonders if it might not be advisable simply to allow Commander Thutmose a greater role in government, particularly as regards military matters. The fact remains that he has been crowned. How long can she hope to keep him under her thumb? And is that truly best for Khemet?

  Oh, dear, oh dear, I am not suited to involvement in political matters. I am a scribe. I note things down. I make lists. I write letters and formal documents. I record events. I do not want blood on my hands. I cannot sleep at night. I wish I had never begun to get involved in such things!

  THE THIRTEENTH SCROLL

  The reign of Hatshepsut year 20:

  The fourth month of Peret day 30

  Yesterday I had a long discussion with Dhutmose, Vizier of the North. I require him to report to me in person regularly and we have private talks before he joins in the deliberations of the Great Council. We met in a small audience chamber, but I made certain that I had a throne chair to sit on and I kept him standing for a while before I graciously invited him to be seated on a low divan. He is no longer young and he is fat and a low seat is awkward for him, especially when he has to rise again. Also I had my back to the window, through which the morning sun streamed, shining brightly on his balding head with the greasy black ringlets artfully disposed to seem more than they are. He had to mop the perspiration from his brow. I learned a trick or two from my late father, may he live; men are often uncomfortable in my presence without quite knowing why.

  The slaves brought cooled and watered wine, some dates and roasted lotus seeds, and I had them all tasted. Then I ordered the slaves out and told the guards to stand outside and allow no-one to disturb us.

  “Well, Dhutmose,” I said, after routine matters had been disposed of. “What else can you tell me of note?”

  He took a date in his fat, beringed fingers and chewed it thoroughly. I noticed that he winced slightly and thought to myself that he too seems to have trouble with his teeth. “An excellent harvest may be expected,” he said. This was good news, which I had already heard from my network of tax collectors who checked on agricultural production across the Black Land on behalf of the Pharaoh.

  “Hapi has been bountiful,” I agreed. During the past flood season the Nile did indeed rise to just the right extent.

  Dhutmose proceeded to report further on a variety of administrative matters. There were no problems of note, and furthermore they were introducing a new device called a shaduf that would help the farmers irrigate more fields, he told me. It would increase yields.

  “Pharaoh is pleased,” I said. “Well, if that is all our business, we have time for a game of senet before our consultations with the Treasurer, have we not?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” said Dhutmose, whose understanding is as sharp as his body is fat and who likes to match his wits with mine. I clapped my hands and ordered the senet box to be brought and set up on a low table that has the shape of a slave woman crouching beneath a slab of inlaid and polished wood. We set up the pieces and threw the sticks to determine who would move first. He had the better of me.

  For a while we concentrated in silence, taking turns to move. I usually won the race to clear all my pieces off the board, but he was a shrewd player himself. His small black eyes, deep in creases of fat, scanned the status of the pieces. Then he murmured: “The Great Commander has taken the road to the South, we are told. A punitive expedition against the Land of Kush?” He moved.

  “A rebellion smouldering at the primary fort,” I told him. I countered his move.

  “Ah. The Commander is a man of great courage in battle, of course.”

  “Yes,” I said shortly.

  “His reputation is known to all.” The sly black eyes peered at me and then slid away. “I have a nephew, a division commander in the army, who assures me that it is well deserved. One hears that he is fearless when driving his chariot. Too fearless, perhaps. Accidents happen so quickly.”

  I looked at him sharply. Dhutmose was boxing me onto a danger square. He removed a piece from the board without meeting my eyes.

  “An affrighted horse, a loose wheel,” he suggested, silkily. “A fall in the desert, a head injury …”

  I shuddered, remembering the death of my brother Amenmose, all those years ago. “The Commander has taken spills,” I said, “and survived them.” I managed to move onto a safe space.

  “Ah, yes. And he has killed more than a few lions too, one hears.”

  “Yes,” I snapped. “He is an able hunter.” I removed a piece also.

  “Yet nobody is completely invincible,” said Dhutmose, making a crafty move. “If, for example, an asp were to slither into his tent one night …”

  “That would be fatal,” I agreed. There is no known cure for the bite of an asp. I removed another piece. Looked carefully at the board, planning my next move. I have been tempted, I admit, to have Thutmose permanently removed. But given the support he enjoys, it would probably not be politic. Also I do not know who might then succeed to the throne of the Two Lands when at last I undertake the journey into the Afterlife. I have always felt so full of vigour that the matter did not concern me much, but this season of seed when the crops are maturing under the winter sun has been a tiring one and I must consider it.

  “One understands that General Khani has the support of the army,” observed Dhutmose. “A man of great ability, and devoted to Your Maj
esty.”

  “But still a Nubian,” I said, blocking his next move. “There is a limit to the level to which he can progress. I do not think, for instance, that Khemet is ready for a black Pharaoh just yet.”

  “Perish the thought,” said Dhutmose. “Your Majesty is yet vigorous. Your Majesty will doubtless reign yet for many risings of the Nile.”

  Long enough, I thought, for another division commander besides Khani to rise through the ranks. When there was none of the royal house left to follow a Pharaoh it has been known for the Commander of the Army to take the Double Throne. Dhutmose’s nephew might be such a man. Or was he merely angling to have the Pharaoh deeply in his debt? I stared at the board.

  For a while the game proceeded in silence. I could be rid of him, I thought; freed for ever of the wolf cub from Memphis. I need only nod. It would not even be necessary to speak the words. Dhutmose glanced up and his black stare reminded me, for a breathless moment, of the hooded cobra whose head I had grasped on the day of my coronation.

  Then I made my final move. His eyes dropped to the game. I said, firmly: “I have every confidence that the Great Commander will return in good health. There is no reason to believe that it will be otherwise.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Dhutmose smoothly. I had wiped the board. “Majesty has won,” he conceded.

  I had indeed.

  “Majesty will live for ever,” he said. The prize, in a game of senet, is eternal life.

  “I will,” I said. I felt assured that my heart was light. It would not weigh heavily against the feather of Ma’at upon the scales of justice in the Netherworld. The thought of that judgement has been much in my mind of late. I leaned back and clapped my hands to order more wine. Bastet jumped onto my lap and settled down, purring. I stroked her, feeling well content. She licked my hand affectionately.