by Marié Heese
Soon Hapu arrived bearing some medications which he urged me to drink. “Majesty, you have had a shock. Please …”
“Oh, go away and leave me alone! You cannot do anything anyway! Nobody can do anything!”
“Just a sip,” he coaxed me. “Just a sip. Please …”
I swallowed some of the bitter draught he held out to me. It made me catch my breath. I breathed deeply. “Did you see … did you see him, Hapu?” I asked. “There has been no mistake?”
“No, Majesty. No mistake.”
“But how … what … how could it have happened? He was perfectly well last night. He had no complaints.”
“His heart just stopped,” said Hapu. “The signs were clear. He was no longer a young man, Your Majesty.”
“Nor was he old,” I said resentfully. “Only forty. That is not old.”
“A fair age,” said Hapu. “Not many live that long. And he worked hard all his life.”
This was true. He had never been a sedentary scribe and nothing else. When they were working on the two great obelisks for my coronation, he had thought nothing of taking up a hammer himself; he told me this, proud to have made a contribution to the actual work. I saw his hands, scarred and callused in my service. Always he had had such energy, such strength. I could not believe that it had simply stopped, that that powerful life force had simply ceased to be.
“I would have wished,” I said, my voice shaking, “I would have wished to say farewell. Before they … before …”
“I am sorry, Majesty,” he said, looking woebegone, “we did not think. We acted for the best. The Vizier has given orders for a full mummification treatment to commence at once.”
I nodded. The draught had taken effect and I was beginning to feel numb and distant, as if I were not truly present. “Yes,” I said. “That should be done. Hapu …”
“Majesty?”
“Are you sure there were no signs of … of anything … no knife wound, for example? No … bruises … no injury to the head? Did you examine …”
“Majesty,” said Hapu, whose judgement I had come to trust, “I looked with care. There were no signs of violence, none at all.”
“Could he have been poisoned?”
“There were no signs of that either,” he said. “Some kinds would leave a smell, or might have caused vomiting, or some foam around the lips, or a change in the colour of the skin … There was none of that.”
“Would there necessarily have been one of those signs?” I wanted someone to blame for this terrible thing. I wanted someone to be guilty, someone to punish as harshly as possible.
“No,” said Hapu. “There are some that do not leave a trace. Majesty, please, do not torture yourself with such thoughts. I looked and I found nothing. His heart gave in, it was tired. These things happen. You must resign yourself. It is a sad loss, indeed it is Khemet’s loss, for he was a great man. But it was the time for him to journey to the Fields of the Blessed. The time to rest.”
But first he would have to face Ammit, I thought. He would have to traverse the dreadful Netherworld and be judged by the gods. His heart would have to be weighed against the feather of Ma’at. Oh, Osiris, I thought, treat him with mercy. Surely his heart is light. I would do all that might be done to help him on his way. Every ritual, every prayer, every magic spell, every incantation, amulet, scarab or charm that could assist his safe passage would be ordered on his behalf. His body would receive the very best treatment that could be had from the House of the Dead. And I would have him buried with due ceremony in his grand new tomb with the stars on the ceiling, in the great sarcophagus that I had given him.
I made all these plans. But they did not comfort me. All gone, I thought, sadly, they have all gone, all those who had once loved and supported me. To survive is to be lonely. Nobody warns one of that.
Although my mother, the Queen Ahmose, had passed into the Afterlife many years before Inet, it was only after Inet went to the Fields of the Blessed that I felt like an orphan. And it was when Senenmut went into the Afterlife that I truly felt like a widow. It is strange that I felt like that, although we did not break the jar together, while when my husband Thutmose passed away – even though I had loved him, a gentle love, almost as if I had been his mother rather than his wife – I did not feel bereft. But now I did. My most able official, my most trusted adviser, my confidant, my lover of one magical night, my implementer of dreams, my best – indeed, my only – friend: all these were lost to me in one black night. I mourned him as if I had been his wife. I mourn him still.
But I had no peace that year, no time to recover from that dreadful shock, no time to gather my strength, no time to find my balance again. The second event that shook me concerned a rebellion in Canaan, centred in the town of Gaza, which posed a serious threat to our dominion in Asia. It was clear that the Canaanites required a sharp lesson and I gave the order to Thutmose to march there and re-establish our authority. He leapt at the chance to demonstrate the fighting ability of the soldiers that he had been training so assiduously. Taking two crack divisions, he departed with dispatch.
The expedition proved that the military had indeed reached a high pitch of professionalism under his guidance. In former years, this had not been the case. There had not always been a well-trained army on standby. Those predatory vagabonds the Hyksos were able to conquer Egypt because our arms and our soldiers were inferior, much though it pains me to acknowledge that. But we learned from them and we threw them out of Khemet, and ever since then we have maintained a powerful military. The expedition moved with the swiftness and deadliness of a striking cobra. Within only a number of weeks the rebellion had been crushed and the army returned victorious.
Thutmose rode into Thebes in his gilded chariot, standing with his thick legs braced as his driver guided the spirited horses, waving to the cheering crowds who threw flowers in front of his wheels. The army that marched in his wake brought prisoners to be pressed into slavery, and heaps of treasure piled onto groaning carts. This he had great pleasure in dumping in front of my throne in the Grand Audience Chamber while the assembled counsellors and nobles clapped and stamped their approval. He had a young prince in chains dragged in and set his sandalled foot upon the youth’s bent neck.
“So,” he stated in a ringing voice, “does Pharaoh punish those who rebel against the dominion of Egypt!”
More enthusiastic applause.
He makes it sound as if he were the Pharaoh, I thought. I waited for the noise to die down. “I thank the Great Commander, who has so ably executed Pharaoh’s will,” I said. “We shall reward him suitably. We shall bestow the Gold of Honour upon him at the next Window of Appearances.”
That, I thought, was rather clever of me. It was a sought-after and rich award, that chunky gold necklace, and he could hardly refuse to accept it. But the ceremony would serve to emphasise my position as supreme: I would be enthroned in my great Window at the main palace in Thebes, surrounded by reliefs depicting myself as a crouching sphinx plus many emblems of kingship, while he would be below, clearly the humble recipient of the Pharaoh’s gift.
Yet he had scored a signal victory, and not only in the field of war. The people were ecstatic. To them he was a hero, there was no denying that. All the way down from the North the crowds by the roadside had shouted their adulation. Naturally the military were united in their pride. Even some of my elderly counsellors, who had been inclined to see him as a juvenile, now treated him with respect. Tales of his remarkable achievements and bravery on the battlefield, that were of course soon embellished, did the rounds. It was said that he had personally killed thousands of the enemy, never missing a shot with his great bow from the back of his racing chariot. I doubted he had had that many arrows, but I knew better than to say so. He was the hero of the day; and for the first time in my reign I truly feared for my crown.
The night after Thutmose returned from his expedition I dreamed again of war. Once more I strode alone on that battlefield, on f
oot, armed with my dagger. Once more the scorching sun burned down upon me. I heard the barbarians howl. With frightful clarity, I saw the men rending each other and heard their piteous shrieks and groans. I smelled again the blood that had become mixed with the hot sand. And once more the sounds faded as the voice, that strangely familiar voice that I can never quite place, hissed to me: Kill him for Khemet! Kill him for Khemet!
As always, in my dream I knew that the Nubian soldier would come running towards me. And I knew that I would have to obey the voice. I would have to kill him again.
And so he came running, his eye bleeding as before. I knew that he would kill me if I did not stop his murderous rush. I raised the dagger and plunged it deep. He fell dead at my feet, his gore bathing my dusty sandals. I dreamed that I put my foot upon his neck. “So,” I cried in a ringing voice, “does Pharaoh punish those who rebel against the dominion of Pharaoh!”
Once more I knelt upon the burning sand and experienced that overwhelming thirst for blood; once more I lapped his eyes. Oh, horrible, horrible! I struggled awake in such disgust that I found myself retching, and my attendant ran to fetch Hapu. I lay in a pool of perspiration, almost unable to breathe. Hapu gave me a calming draught, but I did not feel better until I had bade my ladies wash me, pouring cool water over my head, and perfumed myself with myrrh.
I hate that dream. I hate myself when I have that dream. I wish I could expunge it from my memory. But I cannot.
Here endeth the twentieth scroll.
THE TWENTY-FIRST SCROLL
The reign of Hatshepsut year 21:
the first month of Akhet day 5
Well, it is the new year, but it has not had an auspicious beginning. Yesterday afternoon, Hapuseneb came to the residential palace bearing bad news for me. He seemed anxious that I should hear it as soon as possible. I was annoyed, for I felt it could have waited for the morrow. But he was bursting to tell me.
Among the many duties of his office there is the task of monitoring the annual rising of the Nile. It is now that time of year when the green water should begin to appear in the south. However, it seems that this is not happening.
“Majesty,” said Hapuseneb, “the water level is low. There is reason for concern.” His lashless eyes were hooded, but I thought I detected a gleam of satisfaction. I have long suspected that Hapuseneb no longer supports me, and a poor inundation would undermine my powers as seriously as almost nothing else could do. He knows this very well.
“Are you sure?” I was immediately alarmed. I know that the dog-star Sothis is once more visible in the pre-dawn sky, so the flood should take place soon.
“It is too early to be sure,” he answered, typically cautious, “but the indications are not good. I have had a report from Elephantine. The Nilometer there does not show the extent of increase that one would expect.”
This was indeed cause for concern. “What about the vegetable harvest?” I asked.
“I fear the second harvest will not be very satisfactory,” he told me. “At its lowest point the river was extremely low, so irrigation was difficult.”
“We need to know the extent of food supplies in stock at depots across the country, as well as in the White House,” I said. “You should send to all the nomarchs and ask for tallies.”
“This has already been undertaken, Majesty.” He looked smug.
Of course, he needed such reports before the flood was in full spate, since agricultural activities must be suspended for three months during this time. Then farmers are employed on public works and live from the table of the ruler. Naturally we would have sufficient stores for this period, but if the inundation were really too low and planting could not take place, we would need far greater stores to take care of the people for much longer.
By the breath of Horus, I pray that he may be mistaken. Never has there been a danger of a failed inundation during my reign. Last year’s flood was normal and the harvest was very good. How can the waters not rise? Oh, Hapi, can you have forsaken me? This is Hatshepsut, whom you cradled and kept safe when she was a child. You have ever been on my side.
I shall make offerings. This cannot be.
Just as the Grand Vizier was leaving, a slave came running and made a deep obeisance. “Majesty,” she said, “Yunit has asked me … Yunit says …” She looked very upset and stuttered without making sense. She was new to the palace and it was the first time I had set eyes on her. She seemed overwhelmed by my presence.
“Yes, girl, what is it? Out with it.”
“Yunit is in labour, Majesty, and has been for some time. She …”
“Has the physician seen to her yet?”
“No, Majesty.”
Hapuseneb looked at her severely. “Surely you are not bothering the Pharaoh with the problems of female slaves,” he said. “Go to the palace housekeeper. Really, you should know your place.”
“I shall come to her,” I said, glaring at him. “Yunit is one of my favourites. I am concerned for her.”
“A dwarf, is she not?” She had served refreshments when he was with me more than once in the past. I do not think he would have remembered any other slave, but the diminutive Yunit, who is also very pretty, had clearly made an impression.
“Yes. And I think she carries a very large baby. It will be difficult.”
“Majesty is gracious,” he said loftily, clearly meaning that I was ridiculous. I ignored this, saying farewell and then walking swiftly along the corridors to the slave quarters at the back of the palace compound. I knew that Yunit would have been seen to by midwives. Also there was a physician whose responsibility it was to see to the health of the palace slaves; after all, a sick slave cannot put in a day’s work. But he was not a man who had had much experience of deliveries and the midwives would not have called for him to assist with a difficult birth. They could usually do whatever was needed.
As soon as I entered the room it was clear to me that the situation was bad. The room smelled rank; Yunit lay on a pallet drenched with sweat and her hair, normally thick and wavy, was nothing more than dank strings. Her eyes seemed to have sunk into her head. She lay staring at the ceiling, making tired little whimpering sounds, much as an animal might do that had been caught in a trap for many hours.
Two midwives, one considerably older than the other, fell to their knees and kissed the floor when they saw me. They too looked exhausted.
“Majesty!” exclaimed the older of the two. “You are too gra-cious!”
I walked to the bed and took Yunit’s hand. She did not even turn her head to look at me. “Yunit,” I said, softly. “It is I, Pharaoh. I have come to help you.”
Dazed eyes turned to me and two fat tears rolled over her cheeks.
“It hurts,” she whispered. “Can you make it stop? Please make it stop!”
“How long has she been in labour?” I asked.
“A night, a day and another night, and today also,” the older midwife told me. “We have tried everything we know, but nothing will avail. She is too tired now to squat upon the bricks. She fell over and we let her lie down. It is not good, but …”
I turned to the girl slave who had fetched me. “Go and call Hapu,” I ordered her. “Run. Tell him it is urgent.”
“H-H-Hapu?”
“The Chief Royal Physician. You do know what he looks like?”
“Y-y-yes, Majesty.”
“Well, then. Hurry.”
I sat down on a stool next to the pallet and stroked Yunit’s hand. “We will do the best we can, my dear.”
“Bek,” she sobbed, “can I see Bek?”
He had of course been banished by the midwives. “Soon,” I promised. “We’ll call him soon.”
Hapu came promptly and conferred with the midwives. Then he said, “Majesty, I must examine the patient. But it has been so long … I think we will have to try the option that we almost tried when the little prince was born.”
I understood. “Very well,” I said, “you must decide. I shall await the
outcome in my rooms. You will let me know?”
“At once, Majesty.”
The sun was setting when at last Hapu was admitted to my presence. His round face was tired and solemn and his tunic was stained with blood. He made an obeisance.
“Tell me quickly,” I said. “Could you … did you …”
“We cut the babe out of her body,” he said, and sighed. His hands, I noticed, were trembling. “It was a perfectly formed little boy child, not a dwarf. Normal, and big. She was never going to be able to give birth in the usual way. Had I been called sooner, perhaps … But I fear, Majesty, that the babe was dead. It must have died hours ago.”
My eyes pricked. I was reminded, naturally, of my own boy child who never breathed. It always seems to me to be such an enormous waste when a child does not breathe. For what did Khnum painstakingly fashion the little body, if he would not also breathe the life force into the newly-born? It does not make sense to me. Truly, at times the gods are strange
“And Yunit?”
“We sewed up the wound. Minhotep assisted me. But she was very weak. I do not know whether she will last the night. I am sorry, Majesty.”
“You did your best, Hapu, I know that. It must be a hard thing to do.”
“Yes, Majesty, it is,” he said, looking surprised.
“Thank you. Thank you for your efforts.”
Within an hour I was informed that Yunit had passed into the Afterlife. Bek had been with her, said the older midwife, who came to inform me, and when he realised that she was no longer breathing, he let out such a howl that the slaves thought Seth had descended upon the palace and there was consternation. But the slaves’ physician had given him a draught of poppy juice, she said, and he was now asleep.
I told her that I would see him in the morning.
Now more than ever, I realise what a blessing it was that the little Amenhotep was born naturally and that he survived. And Meryetre, of course. Poor little Yunit. The burden borne so long, and all for naught. I think she was already very weary when her time came. I am tired myself, and I feel deeply sad. So sad that it is almost as if my bones ache. Somehow these events seem like bad omens.
