by Marié Heese
“I wanted … I wanted to have one perfect memory,” I said, blinking away tears myself. “For just one night, I wanted to be free … to be simply a woman, spending time with her lover. Even the God has a night of freedom. Just one night.”
“Even the God. Yes, of course, we must never forget that Pharaoh is divine,” he sneered. “And a god cannot be mated with a mere human being, especially not a common man born in a little house built of mud bricks. No, we cannot have that!”
“Well, it could not happen. Then I would be the wife of a commoner while Thutmose, who is half royal, would be married to a wife of the full blood royal. You see what a weapon that would be in their hands?”
He sighed deeply, looking around him at the superb monument he had built for me, testimony of love and devotion beyond compare. Then his gaze returned to mine, suddenly sharpened. “And if there should be … issue … from this night?”
“There will be no issue,” I said. “I have made sure of that. No, this was one precious night, and I thank you for it, but there will never be another.”
He stood there staring at me, bafflement and fury in his eyes that had been so loving but moments before. “I cannot believe this,” he said. I saw that he was shaking. He folded his arms as if to hold himself still. “I cannot believe that you could do this.”
“You should believe it,” I told him.
There was a long silence. Then: “Pharaoh has spoken,” said Senenmut with deep bitterness. I could not blame him.
“I know that you will take our secret into the Afterlife,” I said. “I depend on your discretion.”
He nodded curtly. He bent down and collected the pile of branches that had been our couch and hurled them away. He packed up the baskets and stalked down to the shore, ignoring me completely, in absolute silence. The dawn found us standing on the quay, shivering in the chill wind that blew from the bleak water.
Here endeth the nineteenth scroll.
I think they were observed. It is merely a suspicion that I have, yet it could be true. The reason for this suspicion is to be found upon the temple wall – the outer northern wall – low down, almost hidden behind some bushes. It is a scurrilous little drawing, crudely executed with some sharp instrument. Not done by an artist, far from it – merely a few lines scratched by some common person with dirty thoughts. Yet it has sufficient detail for one to recognise the female Pharaoh, who is depicted on her knees, being mounted like a dog by a man who could be Senenmut.
My guess would be that it was done by one of the undergardeners. But is it a drawing of something actually observed, or is it merely the scribble of someone with a grievance, an expression of hatred intended to reduce the great King to a common slut? It is true that most people are terrified of the west bank at night, for they fear the spirits whose abode it is. But perhaps a worker missed the last boat home, and crept up to the temple to shelter from the chill; a worker who saw, perhaps, some lights, who heard a flute, drew nearer, peered …
I do not like to imagine this. No, no, it must have been mere spite. Besides, there were never any rumours about that night. About the relationship of Her Majesty and Senenmut, yes, of course there were rumours. But there was never anything as specific as the events related in this scroll. I would have heard.
I will never, never, speak of this. I should not have read this scroll at all. I regret having set eyes on these words, but it is too late. Yet now at last I understand the coldness that came between them in the end. It was obvious to all who had seen how they were together before. Oh, yes, I understand.
THE TWENTIETH SCROLL
The reign of Hatshepsut year 20:
The third month of Shomu day 15
Yesterday Mahu came to me with a tale of rumour-mongering in the taverns that has left me shaken. As usual he was reluctant to speak, but I could see that he had been brooding on this and he knew that I ought to be told. He hates to be the bearer of bad news, so he stuttered and stumbled through his report, avoiding my eyes. But tell me he did.
“Come on, Mahu, out with it,” I said, irritably. “You asked for an audience. You must have something to say.”
“It is merely a rumour, Majesty,” he said. “Truly, there is no proof – no proof whatsoever – only what is said, in the taverns, and then only when men are drunk, and careless.”
“What do they say?” No doubt more mutterings about the unnatural nature of a female Pharaoh, I thought. Every so often somebody starts that hare.
“It concerns Khani,” said Mahu, rocking forwards and backwards as if he would much like to flee. He spoke so softly that I was not sure what I had heard.
“Who? What did you say?”
For once he looked straight into my eyes. “General Khani,” he repeated. “It concerns him.”
“Continue.” Now he had my attention.
“They are saying … s-saying that the promotion to general has gone to his head.”
Well, there would always be those who would say that. I was not surprised. “Continue.”
“They are saying that his ambitions now … know no bounds. That he seeks … that he seeks …”
“To become the Great Commander?” I enquired.
“Yes. B-but more.”
“More?”
“That he seeks the throne,” whispered Mahu. “That he would be rid of both General Thutmose, Majesty, and yourself. That he has borne a deep grudge, all these years, for the humiliation that his c-country suffered, and his family, at Egyptian hands. That he seeks r-revenge. That he envisions a … a N-Nubian on the throne and Egypt a vassal state of Nubia, instead of the other way around.”
I stared at him, aghast. This is a possibility that has never occurred to me. Yet perhaps it should have. Now that it has been spoken, it sounds dreadfully plausible. By Seth and all his devils! A Nubian on the Double Throne! It shall never be!
I was much perturbed by Mahu’s report. Yet once I had grown calmer and considered the matter, I reminded myself of how easy it is to start a rumour and how often such rumours have no vestige of truth in them. There have been rumours about me that were entirely devoid of truth. It is a sly and underhand weapon, but it can be very effective. This tale about Khani has already succeeded in causing me to doubt him, to lose my absolute trust in his loyalty. This is terrible, considering our long and close relationship.
I have cast my thoughts back over the years and I can find no single instance of any action on Khani’s part that would support these rumours. I remember the day I spoke for him, and how he bowed to me, not to my husband the Pharaoh. From that day there has been a bond between us. I remember the little monkey he brought to divert me when my son was still-born, and how it messed on Hapuseneb’s tunic. I remember Khani’s wide smile when he helped to carry me through the cheering crowds on the day that I was crowned. I remember how he came to me when the division of which he had been made Commander was quartered in Thebes, four years ago.
He had asked for an audience in my small audience chamber and when he arrived, he indicated that we should speak completely privately. I sent the guards away and closed the door.
“Yes, Khani?” He has an extremely imposing presence, I thought. The years of military training had filled out his frame and he stood tall and powerful.
“Majesty.” He made a deep obeisance.
“Please rise. Pharaoh is pleased that your division is quartered here. Now we shall see more of you,” I said.
“I have a suggestion to make, Majesty,” he said in his deep voice.
“Tell me.”
“While we are quartered here, I could make regular reports to Your Majesty, about … anything that might be of particular interest. In my position I hear many things. Naturally, I also know what the military are planning, especially …”
“Especially the Great Commander Thutmose?”
“Exactly. It might be helpful to Your Majesty to know what he intends before he imparts that information himself.”
“If at all?”
“If at all. I know he has reason to feel … hard done by. Such men are dangerous.”
I nodded thoughtfully. It would indeed be of great assistance to me in maintaining my supremacy.
“And, Majesty, I think it would be best if these regular reports were made discreetly. Let me not come too often to the audience chamber. Let me come quietly, while most people are resting, in the afternoons, to the residential palace. I can travel in a closed sedan chair, carried by men I trust.”
“Very well,” I agreed. “I appreciate your devotion, Khani. Thank you.”
“I live to serve Your Majesty,” he said.
In truth, he always has. And yet, perhaps Mahu’s message is a timely warning to me not to trust anybody implicitly. Not one single person. Khani’s words about Thutmose might well apply to himself: Was he not hard done by, as a child? Is he not perhaps dangerous? Khani himself told me to watch my back. Well, I shall do so. I shall watch my back and bide my time. Ibana must be told to observe Khani very closely. Yet of course – I must doubt even Ibana, just as I must doubt everyone else. How have things come to this?
I think poor little Bek saw me looking troubled, so he thought of a new way to divert me. He has found a lute and somebody has taught him how to strum it. He does not do so expertly, but he manages a few chords and accompanies himself as he sings. He has a remarkably fine voice, sweet and clear, and he sings with a kind of melancholy feeling that almost moves one to tears. Doubtless this is far from his intention, but that is what it does to me.
After Mahu had left, Bek sidled into my room, strumming. When I smiled at him, he sat down on the floor, stiffly, cradled the lute and sang. I think the song must have been his own invention, for I do not recall that I ever heard the bard sing those words. The tune was simple, but sweet, and memorable to the ear.
I sing of a seed that is sown
In the earth, soft and deep,
A seed that must wait for the sun
To awaken it from sleep.
I sing of a plant that unfurls
Little leaves, brave and new,
Of a stem that grows up to the light
And of roots thirsty for dew.
I sing of a tree, broad and strong,
Bearing fruit, bringing shade,
Where the birds may make nests safe and sure
In the midst of a cool glade.
Now he strummed more loudly, with deeper chords.
I sing of a storm that will break,
That will roar, that will rend
Branch from branch till the strong tree is cleft
Into halves that ne’er will mend.
Softer, now:
I sing of a tree fallen down,
Gone to earth, gone to earth,
And a drift of a handful of dust
Blown away by the God’s breath.
“Why, Bek, that’s beautiful,” I said. “You shall become a bard!”
He smiled, looking almost like his old self. But his song has made me sad. It has brought memories.
Looking back, I think that the celebration of Djeser-Djeseru marked the high point of my life and of my reign as Pharaoh. Somehow, from that time onward, it was as if the gods began to withdraw their support from me, gradually but inexorably. Indeed, I had already forfeited the support of the one person on whom I had most depended.
Ever since the night at Djeser-Djeseru, Senenmut’s attitude towards me had changed. He was no longer my beloved, telling me mutely of his love with every glance; he was no longer even my friend who sat with me companionably in the cool evenings sharing some wine. He became punctiliously correct, carrying out all his tasks with as much competence as ever, but he withdrew his heart from me.
It was my own fault, I knew. I had treated him badly. He had good reason to be angry. And yet … and yet, I could not regret that night. Nor, I would swear to it, did he. But he was angry and he punished me. I remember that he came, not long after that extraordinary night, to ask for leave of absence, standing stiffly to attention in my small audience chamber.
“Majesty,” said Senenmut, “I beg that Pharaoh will excuse me from my duties for some weeks. The work on the great temple is complete, after all, and there are no major projects in hand.”
“What would you do?” I asked.
“Return to Iuny,” said Senenmut. He had been back to the small town where he had grown up a number of times over the years, but never for very long. “My mother has passed into the Afterlife and I wish to arrange an appropriate burial.”
“Why, I am sorry for it,” I said, sincerely. I had quite forgotten that Senenmut still had an aged mother living. “Of course, you should go.”
“A suitable tomb has been prepared close to my own,” he told me. “Work on it was begun some time ago. And since I am now a man of substance thanks to Your Majesty’s generosity …”
His words were grateful, but his tone was sardonic. I merely inclined my head.
“… it is possible for me to undertake, also, the reburial of my father, and even of some other members of my family who died earlier when I had limited means, and who were therefore given poor interments. I intend to have them all reburied together with appropriate grave goods. May they live.”
“A noble aim,” I said. “Certainly, we will spare you. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“And shall we see you, perhaps, at the palace this evening?” I hated the sound of supplication in my voice. But I had missed him so, for he had stopped coming of his own accord and I would not order his attendance.
“If Your Majesty insists.” His tone was flat.
“Pharaoh does not insist,” I said, regally. “Naturally you will be busy. Go, go.”
He kissed the ground. And he went.
In the year that followed, year 14 of my reign, two events took place that shook me seriously. I must write first of the one that caused me the greatest personal grief.
By that time I had lost many people who were dear to me. To some extent it was a comfort to think of them as happy spirits in the Fields of the Blessed, or in the case of my late father and husband (may they live) who had been Pharaohs, riding triumphantly with Ra in his solar barque. And yet sometimes I fear that the dwelling place of the inhabitants of the West may be deep and dark, with no light to brighten it, no north wind to refresh the heart. I hope I may be wrong. But it cannot be denied, as it has been written, that “None has returned from there, to tell us how they fare”.
Be that as it may, that year I was to lose yet another beloved person to that unknown world. And it happened so suddenly, without a glimmer of warning. I do not know which is worse: to know that a loved one is ill, to snatch at hope, to search desperately for cures that do not work, only to watch that person suffer, dwindle, and at last depart; or alternatively to find that someone has been cruelly taken away with no chance even to say farewell. Both experiences are terrible. But in any case it matters little even if I could solve that conundrum – which I cannot – for one does not have a choice.
I had just completed a morning session in the Grand Audience Chamber, receiving tribute and holding discussions with visiting diplomats, when Hapuseneb urgently requested an audience. I was tired and tried to put him off, but he insisted on seeing me alone immediately.
“What is it, Hapuseneb?” I enquired crossly. “Can it not wait?”
“No, Majesty, I fear not,” he said. His face was impassive. “I have grave news.”
“Well, out with it,” I sighed. I was expecting some political crisis to have blown up.
“We have received news that the Chief Steward of Amen was discovered dead in his house this morning,” he told me.
“The Chief Steward …” I stared at him stupidly. “The Chief … you mean Senenmut? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“But that … that cannot be. There must be some mistake. Just yesterday he was with me. We … we spoke of additions to the gardens at Dje
ser-Djeseru. No, Hapuseneb, there has been a mistake.”
“No, Majesty, I fear not,” he said, inexorably. “Senenmut has departed to the Afterlife.”
“How do you know? For sure?”
“It was discovered early this morning,” he told me, “but we thought it would not be wise to disturb Your Majesty in the audience chamber. Naturally, I went to apprise myself of the accuracy of the information. The Chief Steward lay in the forecourt of his villa and he was not breathing. He was quite cold. I judged that he had not breathed for some time. To be sure, nevertheless, I called for the Royal Physician, and he concurred.”
“You knew it and you did not tell me!”
“Majesty, there was no purpose. I made the necessary arrangements. He has been taken to the House of the Dead and I gave instructions for a full …”
“You did what? You had no right! No right to have him taken away! No right at all!” I was screaming now.
“But, Majesty, he has … he had no kin living with him … I could not leave …”
“You had no right,” I sobbed. “I should have had the time … I would have wished … would have wished to say farewell. But you, you couldn’t wait to get rid of him, you vulture, you have always hated him, and now you are alive and he is dead and you just … you …” I was weeping now, huge, shaking sobs, the tears running down my face and dripping onto my robe.
“Majesty, do not upset yourself so,” he said, alarmed. “I shall call for Hapu. Please, Majesty, sit down.” He stretched out a hand towards me.
“Do not dare touch me!” I shouted. “I am the Pharaoh! Touch me and I’ll have you put to death! I should … I should …”
He made a deep obeisance, kissing the floor before my feet, and then retreated, muttering about Hapu. I sat down and buried my face in my hands.
I felt utterly bereft. And the worst of it was that he had gone to the gods with anger towards me in his heart. I knew I had given him cause. But with or without reason, he should not have parted from me so. Cold looks, and then nothing. Nothing. Gone. How could I bear it? The tears had dried up and instead I felt as if I had been dealt a huge, gaping wound. I wrapped my arms around myself. If I did not hold myself very tightly, I felt sure that my heart would fall out through the rent and lie bleeding upon the ground.
