by Marié Heese
I set the scroll aside and sighed. This was a most problematic issue and I had put off thinking about it for too long. “It is a great honour to be the God’s Wife,” I observed. “By taking part in the daily rituals, you support the Pharaoh in ensuring the survival and the well-being of Khemet.”
“I know that, Mother. But since one must remain pure, it is a lonely life. Never to break the jar with any man, never to bear a child … A lonely prospect.”
“Is there a … a particular man that you have met, to make you feel like this?”
“No, Mother. I do not meet many men, except for the priests, and they all revere me as the God’s Wife. It just seems to me …”
“Yes?”
“My life is passing,” she said, in a rush. “My life is passing, Mother. When you were my age you had already borne me. Yet I am barren and likely to remain so.” There were tears in her eyes. “I would like a child,” she said. “Of my own.”
“My dear, we need to give this matter some thought.”
“There is Thutmose,” she suggested, “my half-brother. I understand … that I am promised to him.”
“Who told you that?”
“There are … rumours.” Put about by the man himself, I thought furiously. She was a child when I made that promise to my late husband, may he live, and I had never mentioned it. I did not think it would be wise.
“He already has a wife,” I pointed out. I had, indeed, found him a wife when he was sixteen and went to Memphis to join the military. She was one Satioh, a lusty baggage who I reckoned would keep him further occupied and make him forget that he was betrothed to Neferure. I ordered a comfortable palace to be built for them near to the training grounds. Satioh, a plump, light-skinned Mitannian princess with a high colour, proved to be as fecund as the black silt of the Nile, but she brought forth girl children only, which pleased me. Lacking a son, I had plans for my Neferure, and younger girl children borne to Thutmose could not take precedence over her while a male child might.
“But multiple marriages are common in the royal house,” said Neferure, mulishly. “I would be the Great Royal Wife.” She knew this would anger me, and indeed it did.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “That runt is not a suitable husband for the First Princess of Egypt. No, no. Let me think about this. Come and talk to me again in a week’s time.”
I did think about it. I could not contemplate giving her to Thutmose. I have never liked him, nor does he like me. We are like two dogs whose hair rises at the scent of the other. No, no. Besides, such a union would strengthen his claim to rule beside me, and I spend much of my energy avoiding that. Yet perhaps she should be mated, I thought; most girls are married younger than she was then.
Perhaps there was a fine young man among the noble families, I thought. But the matter should not be rushed. Like me, my daughter had the pure blood royal and therefore a better claim than Thutmose to the Double Throne. I greatly desired that she should one day be the primary Pharaoh, as I have been. It would no longer be thought so strange to have a female Pharaoh as it was when I first acceded to the throne. I have shown the way. Egypt has been stable and content under my rule. I have maintained Ma’at and kept chaos at bay by honouring the gods, and Egypt has prospered under my rule. Everyone would know that a female Pharaoh is capable of reigning well over the Black Land.
Nonetheless, if I die while Neferure is yet young, I thought, he will assume the throne in her stead. Perhaps it would be a good strategy to match her with a noble’s son, who could stand by her side and help her maintain her right to rule. On the other hand, my thinking went, if she marries some other person, she could be relegated to Queen and Great Royal Wife while her husband assumes the title and the power of Pharaoh, and that is likely to cause civil war. Thutmose would never accept it. It was a vexing problem. If only that one who would be King would suffer a hunting accident such as my brother Amenmose did, or die on the battlefield, we would be well rid of him, I thought.
I decided that I would ask Senenmut. He and I conferred daily and I did not delay in putting the question to him. “Do you think it would be advisable for Neferure to be married?” I asked him. “I cannot decide whether it would be well judged or not.”
He looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps when she is better, it could be considered,” he said.
“Better? What do you mean, better? She has not been ill, except for a bad cough a while ago, but that is over now!”
“Majesty, she has not been well for quite some time,” he told me. “You have not noticed it? I assumed …”
“Noticed what?”
“The princess Neferure tires quickly and her skin is very pale. Also I have noticed dark marks like bruises on her arms and legs. It has been worrying me, but I thought …”
“She has said nothing to me,” I answered defensively. “She has not complained.”
I called my daughter’s chief lady-in-waiting, an elegant and rather vain person, to my office and questioned her. She confirmed that the princess had been listless and had taken to sleeping for hours in the afternoons, which she used not to do.
“But I think the princess does not sleep well at night,” said her lady. “She perspires much and she is restless. And she does not eat well. I have tried to tempt her appetite with choice morsels, but …” She shrugged her narrow shoulders.
“Why has this not been reported to me?” I asked furiously.
Her kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “Pardon, Majesty, if I have failed in my duty. But the lady is not a child. She did not want … I did not think I should presume …”
“I am her mother, as well as the Pharaoh,” I said, “and I must know when she is ill.” I was filled with dread. My late husband Thutmose, may he live, had exhibited the same signs towards the end of his life.
“Humble apologies, Majesty,” said the woman, making a deep obeisance. “I will in future report all that I observe.”
But already, alas, it was too late. The issue of a possible marriage soon became irrelevant, for within weeks Neferure took to her bed. I could not believe that I had noticed nothing wrong before. She was growing thinner by the day, almost translucent, like an alabaster vase. We tried everything – Hapu, the Chief Physician, had a new suggestion for treatment almost every day, but none of them worked. I fed her pomegranates, spoon by spoon, to try to bring back a blush to her wan cheeks, with no success; we put cool wet linen compresses on her forehead, which soothed but did not cure; she drank watered wine with pulverised dried willow bark in it, which did relieve the fever she had developed, but not for long; she ate various insects mashed up with fat and honey, which only served to make her sick and lose the little food she had been able to consume.
We fought the devils who had gathered around her bed with incense, sistrums, amulets and charms; we beseeched the gods to intervene with incantations and sacrifices; each morning and evening I made her swallow spoonfuls of blood fresh from a slaughtered calf to transfer its life force into her pale body, but all it did was to make her retch. Hapu gave her syrup of figs “to keep the channels open” and at night he prescribed poppy juice in wine. This at least helped her to sleep.
I did not sleep and I ate only a little, just enough so that I did not faint. I poured my spirit into prayers to Imhotep and Bes, imploring them to intervene, begging for a miracle. If the Nile could return every year bringing the good earth, surely the gods could return the life force that was ebbing from my child, I reasoned. Why should she be taken from me? Which of the gods was demanding her presence in the Fields of the Blessed? Was it Anubis, sniffing after her with his jackal’s nose? Was it Osiris, wishing for another beauteous sister? It is too soon, I moaned, it is too soon. She has hardly lived.
Senenmut was not allowed to visit her in the residential palace, but he came to my office every day to ask how she was. Even at such a time, the affairs of state could not be set aside, although I tried to get through the necessary business quickly so that I could get back to the room whe
re she lay. One morning, about two weeks after she first took to her bed, he was with me when Hapu the Chief Physician arrived, his round face shiny with perspiration and his eyes wide with dread.
“Majesty,” he said, abasing himself and kissing the ground abjectly several times. “Majesty, I fear …”
“No!” I cried out. I did not want to hear what he had to tell me. “No!”
“M-M-Majesty …” Nor could he say it. He stuttered and mum-bled.
“What is it, man?” demanded Senenmut. “Is she worse? Out with it!”
“The, the, the P-Princess Neferure, Majesty …” – globules of sweat broke out on his shiny forehead – “has departed to the Afterlife.”
“How dare you let her go when I was not there!” I screamed. “I should have been there! You useless little toad!” I dealt his face a resounding slap. Before I could repeat it, Senenmut had caught my arm.
“Hapu,” he said, “get out of here and close the door. Tell the guards to let no-one in.”
“Y-yes, Sir, yes, at once, Sir,” and he scuttled out.
Grief coursed through me like the waters of a desert storm when Seth lets loose his devils and the heavens weep. Senenmut took me in his arms and held me and I clung to him. In that moment I had forgotten that I was the Pharaoh and may not be touched, and so had he. I could not have remained standing without his support.
“The gods knew,” I wept, “the gods knew she was the first in my heart. They have taken her to punish me.”
He patted my back and rocked me like a child. “I know,” he murmured. “I know you loved her. I know it hurts. Cry. You must cry.”
I remembered a day when she came to share a meal with me and we were served lentils, which she refused to eat.
“Don’t want lentils,” she frowned, “want tiger nut sweeties.”
She loved tiger nuts, the date and nut balls flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom, and coated in honey and ground almonds, that my chief cook made especially for me.
“Finish your lentils,” I said, “they are good for you.”
“No,” she said, firmly. She had but four summers at the time and I did not take kindly to being opposed by a four-year-old.
“You will sit on that chair until you have finished those lentils,” I insisted.
She stuck out her lower lip and lowered her head. And there she sat, as time went by. She did not beg. She did not cry. She just sat there and she waited me out. At length I gave up and Inet took her away. I wished then, remembering that day, that I had given her the sweet things she wanted. What was so important about the wretched lentils, after all? It was just my pride, I admitted to myself; I did not enjoy being crossed. But nor did she.
After the first storm of weeping had passed, I collected myself. “I must go to her,” I told Senenmut. “Please sort out the remaining matters in this office as far as you can and tell everyone else to return another day.”
“Yes, Majesty,” he said.
I looked at him sharply. His face betrayed that he too was grief-stricken; of course he had loved her dearly, and I had not even thought about his pain. “I thank you, Senenmut,” I said gently. Then I went to her room.
The ladies-in-waiting had rent their hair and their clothing and were weeping and wailing as the custom is. I too would join in the public show of grief, but first I needed some quiet time to say farewell. I sent them all out and told them to bring a cake of natron, some soft cloths and a bowl of pure water, and then to leave me alone. This they did.
I kneeled beside the low bed upon which my daughter lay. The sweetness of incense hung in the air. Someone had closed her eyes and she looked peaceful, but it did not comfort me. I was filled with anger at the gods who had stolen her away while I was absent. Yet I would do this one last thing: I would wash her in preparation for what was to come. I took up a cloth and the natron and I began to bathe her carefully. I washed her lovely face and her long slim neck and her shoulders; under her arms, then all along her arms, down to the hands, still bearing traces of henna where her ladies had decorated them before she became so ill. I washed her breasts, which were small and pale like those of a statue, yet still flushed with life and tipped with red like wine. I washed her abdomen that would never carry a babe, her private parts that had known no lover, her long legs that would no longer dance. At last I reached her feet, and they broke my heart. She had such slim and elegant feet. Such perfect toes. I washed them one by one. Very carefully.
Then I turned her over and I washed her back. I washed and washed. Only I could not wash away the bruises left like stains upon her flesh.
When I had done I laid her down straight and looked at her. Yes, the god Khnum, when he created her body on his potter’s wheel, had wrought exceedingly well.
Then I began again.
At length there was a knock at the door and Senenmut peered around it. “Majesty,” he said.
“Go away.”
“But Majesty …”
“Go away!” I shouted. “I am busy here, can you not see? I am …”
He came in despite my orders. “Majesty,” he said, “it has been hours. You must let her go.”
“I am bathing her,” I explained.
“I know,” he said. He bent down and removed the cloth from my grasp. “But the priests will purify her now. You have done enough.” He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. My knees were stiff and painful and I stumbled. Again he supported me. “You must let her go,” he repeated.
“They will cut her open. They will cut her open, and they will take out … take out …” For the second time that day I wept so hard that it hurt my throat.
“Majesty,” he said, holding me, “her Ka must have a home. You know it is necessary. You know it must be done. You must let her go, now. The shining ones await her in the Fields of the Blessed. She will not be alone.”
“Her heart will be found light, will it not?” I asked. “Ammit will not … will not …”
“Her heart will be so light that the scale will dip towards the feather of Ma’at,” he assured me. “Ammit will go hungry. I am sure of that.”
“But they will put her in a sarcophagus,” I said, voicing another thought that had preyed on my mind. “She was afraid of that, you know it.” With a vividness that wrenched at my heart, I remembered a long-ago day.
When Neferure was eleven and Meryetre eight, Bek had joined the palace staff. He was a gift from General Nehsi, who had bought him on an expedition to Canaan. The same age as Neferure, he had followed her around, trotting in her wake like a little dog, offering presents and making jokes to see her smile. He made her a doll out of a collection of wooden spools – an oddly-jointed doll, with a carved box into which it fit exactly.
The two little girls played with it in the sleepy afternoons, on the palace portico, while Inet watched and I dozed on a day-bed.
“It’s an Osiris doll,” said Neferure to her sister. “See, it has a sarcophagus.”
“His brother Seth made it,” said Meryetre, who had been tutored by Senenmut’s half-brother Senimen. “And he and his friends tricked Osiris into getting into it. One friend climbed in, but it was too small. And another friend climbed in, but it was too big. And then Osiris climbed in, and it was just right.” She put the doll into the box. “And Seth closed the lid, and he cast the sar-sarphapocus into the Nile!” At this, she hurled the box into the nearby fish pond, where it floated, half-submerged.
Neferure burst into tears. “No! No! He doesn’t want to be inside it! It’s scary! It’s very, very scary!” Her voice wobbled woefully.
Inet rose from her seat on the portico and limped forward. She reached out with her walking-stick and hooked the box back within reach. She opened it and took out the doll. “But Isis saved him,” she reminded Neferure. “His sister-wife saved him, remember?”
Neferure sniffed.
“There,” said Inet. “We’ll set him down in the sun and let his box dry out. Come on, we’ll go and find you a tiger nut sweet.�
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Meryetre, ignored by all, remained behind. My eyes fell shut.
When Neferure and Inet returned, I awoke to consternation once again. Meryetre had continued the saga of Osiris by sawing the doll into bits with a sharp knife and burying them around the fish pond.
“My doll!” wept Neferure. “You’ve broken my doll!”
“Well, Seth sawed Osiris up and buried fourteen pieces along the Nile,” said Meryetre. There were indeed fourteen little heaps of dirt around the pond. “That is what happened.” She stuck her lower lip out.
Neferure sobbed.
“But Isis searched and searched,” said Inet, desperately, “and she found all the bits and put them together with her magic. He even gave her a son, Horus, who triumphed over Seth. You know this, Neferure darling. That is why every Pharaoh is the Living Horus. I will dig up the bits and mend the doll, I promise, sweetheart.” She glared at Meryetre.
“It will not be the same,” said Neferure forlornly. “You keep the doll, now that you’ve ruined it,” she said to her sister. “And keep the sarcophagus too, I don’t like it.”
“She was afraid of being closed up,” I said now to Senenmut.
“But her Ka and her Ba and her Akh will roam free,” he reminded me. “You know that the body in the chest is in imitation of Osiris, who was so imprisoned yet is arisen and reigns in the Afterlife. You know it must be done. You cannot prevent it, Majesty.”
“No,” I agreed desolately. “I cannot prevent it.”
“Majesty, you must leave her now. You must come with me, and you must eat.”
My head did not seem to be attached to my neck. “Yes,” I said. I stepped away from him. Oh, how I hungered still to be held, to be comforted by his strong arms. But I stepped away from him and I straightened my back. I said: “I am still Egypt.” And I left the room.
Meryetre was twelve years old when her sister died. She tried her best to comfort me. She would come to my rooms bearing little gifts: a posy of flowers, a bunch of grapes, a cake. Her manner was gentle and she spoke kindly to me, as if I had been the child and she the parent. She has a motherly side that is the best of her. But I would not be comforted.
