by Marié Heese
I nodded. The Great Commander has a considerable sense of his own importance and normally travels with several guards and slaves.
“So, I thought it might be advisable to linger a little longer. I was outside on the portico, so I slipped around to the side where a window to Hapuseneb’s office stood open. There were palms in pots, and I could crouch down and approach close enough to hear without being seen. I crept nearer on all fours.” He chewed another date.
“I have no doubt that you heard something of note,” I said, “and that you will tell me in your own good time.”
His crooked grin was a grimace. “You cannot imagine what I heard,” he said, his voice so low that I had to lean forwards and listen carefully.
“They are plotting to do her harm,” he said.
“What! To do harm … you mean, to the Pha …”
“Shhhh! Do not speak it.”
“Are we speaking of murder?” I whispered, aghast.
“Maybe … not quite that. But evil spells are being cast. Dark magic. They want her to fall ill. Perhaps they are hoping that if she feels weak enough, she will abdicate.”
“She has been very tired of late,” I said. “She does not complain to me, of course, but it is clear to an observer who sees her often that she is not well. But what …”
“They were using wax figurines. You know how it is done.”
“Yes, I do know. How did you find out?”
“I crept right up to the window,” he said, “and I peeped in, and I saw the little figurines on the table. With sharp needles stuck into them. I heard Hapuseneb chanting incantations. He would not do such things in the temple, of course.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” I was cold with dread. These actions boded nothing but ill for the Black Land, and for Her Majesty. Then I added: “But you said figurines, not just a figurine? There were more than one?”
“Two,” he said. “The one was much taller than the other, and black.”
I stared at him. “Khani,” I whispered.
“Shhhh. Yes. And you know, it is said that the wound he suffered on his recent campaign festered badly and he is not yet properly recovered from it.”
“He supports Her Majesty,” I said. “He is probably her most loyal supporter. If he fails her … Oh dear, oh dear, what are we to do?”
“You must warn her. She must take counter-measures. And watch her back.”
“Yes,” I agreed wretchedly, “I know I must, and it is more urgent than you realise. You are … you are quite sure of what you saw and heard? There was no …”
“No mistake,” he said, with finality. “I saw what I saw. Even with one eye. I heard what I heard. And then Hapuseneb put the wax models away in a chest.”
I nodded. How fiendishly clever of him, I thought. To have previously told the Pharaoh a distorted version of a terrible truth. Her Majesty must know what is actually happening, who the real conspirators are. But oh, why does this responsibility have to rest on me? All I ever wanted was a quiet life. Work to do and enough to eat. How did I get into this situation? It is not good. Not good at all.
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH SCROLL
The reign of Hatshepsut year 21:
The fourth month of Peret day 2
Truly, today I am surprised to find that I still live and breathe. Early this morning when I set out to the temple to conduct the dawn rituals, I did not expect to meet with violence. Of course Hapuseneb usually acts for me at the temple of Amen-Ra at Karnak. But lately, because of the many matters weighing heavily upon my heart, I have visited the shrine myself and I have tried my utmost to hear what the God speaks.
Already when I left the palace, before dawn, accompanied as always by two ladies-in-waiting and the Royal Guard, I noted unusual activity in the streets. There were undoubtedly more men abroad than on other days at that hour. Nor were they all Thebans, I thought. They had the look of rural folk and persons from the lower classes: peasant farmers, watermen and stonemasons – muscular, stocky figures in rough-spun loincloths. They seemed to be walking with some definite goal in mind.
I was puzzled. But once we reached the temple and I turned my attention to communing with the God, I forgot these men. Even so early the day was already sultry and the cool darkness of the shrine felt like a refuge. I fixed my eyes on the blue, jewelled gaze of the God. Please, Lord, I besought the holy one in my heart, please, Lord, speak to me. I am thy seed, I am the fruit of thy loins, thou put me on the throne. I have need of direction and counsel. I have need of guidance. Lord, what would thou have me do?
But the God was mute. I went through all the steps of the ritual, dizzy with hunger and the scent of incense; I bathed and anointed and clothed the God, I decked him with jewels, I offered food and wine, I abased myself. The chantresses sang sweetly outside the shrine and the priest intoned the magic formulae faultlessly. Yet still the God was mute.
For one mad moment I was filled with frustration and rage and I came close to dragging the golden statue from its niche and dashing it to the floor. I wanted to tear the gaudy costume from the lifeless doll, smash its immobile face against the temple wall, claw the unseeing eyes from their sockets and cast the broken statue into the depths of the Nile. I stood trembling as anger coursed through me.
In that moment I felt as if I were standing on the edge of an abyss. What if indeed this were merely a figurine, truly no god at all? What if the God – even all the gods – were merely inventions of the priests? What if the sun were but a ball of fire, Hapi but a course of water swelled from time to time by rain, what if there were no Amen-Ra, no Isis, no Osiris, no Horus, no Apophis, no Seth?
In that moment I had a frightful vision of a universe where there was no Afterlife, where the Fields of the Blessed did not exist; where all our steles and inscriptions, our magic charms and amulets, our grave goods, our tombs and our funerary monuments were meaningless and doomed to crumble into dust. Where there was no spirit world peopled by the transfigured dead.
Could it be that the high calling of the Pharaoh was but a waking dream? That I had given my life, had spent my strength, had renounced my one true love, for nothing? Could it be that there is no Ma’at?
It was a terrible vision, bleak and desolate. But it could not be true. I summoned all the life force within me to reject it. I could not live in such a world. For in that world, what was the meaning of my life? I had dedicated myself to the service of Khemet and its people; I had vowed to satisfy the gods; I had sworn to maintain Ma’at. That dedication was the reason for my existence. For that purpose Khnum had created my Ka upon his potter’s wheel, had caused me to breathe. Ma’at is all.
Cold with fear, I bit my lip until it bled. I closed my eyes. “Forgive me, heavenly father,” I whispered aloud. “It was Seth who almost mastered my heart. It was the destroyer who tempted me. I am thy dutiful son, the Living Horus, and I honour Osiris and I honour thee.”
There was no response. On shaking legs I backed out of the shrine, sweeping the floor hastily. I left the temple as fast as I could, striding along the passage through the outer halls into the light.
“Make haste,” I told the bearers of my sedan chair. “Pharaoh does not feel well.”
They set off at a swift pace, but soon they slowed as a hubbub of voices sounded in my ears. I put aside the curtain and peered out, but I could not see what was causing the delay. The press of people was so close that my bearers were being jostled. I waited for the captain of the Royal Guards, a burly officer, to shout and clear a passage for us to pass, but I did not hear his commanding voice. Then he stood beside me and spoke urgently in a low tone.
“Forgive me, Majesty,” he said, “but the danger is great. Pharaoh must allow me … Please, Majesty, come at once!” Unbelievably, he had gripped me by the arm and was hustling me out of the chair. One of my ladies had scrambled into my place. She was pale and her eyes were wide with fright.
“Majesty will please enter the rear chair,” urged the captain, propelling me towards it. Always
when we went to the temple one lady’s chair went ahead and one behind mine, while guards marched in front and behind with one on either side of the central one. Now, with the customary order changed, we suddenly altered course. Each chair reversed smartly and we set off back to the temple, bumping as the bearers broke into a trot. The curtains were closed and I could see nothing, but there was shouting all around and I had to cling to the grips to avoid being thrown out.
Then the bearers swerved, moving swiftly along what had to be a side street, since we could not yet have regained the entrance to the temple. The chair was set down and the curtains ripped aside.
“Into this house, Majesty,” the captain instructed me. “We must take cover until order is restored.”
I saw two of my guards backing the terrified owner of the house into a lower room as our party clambered up onto the flat roof. Somewhere in the background a baby squalled. More guards were posted at the top of the narrow stair. I knew that they would protect me with their lives. One of my ladies threw her shawl over my head to hide the golden cap crown that proclaimed me Pharaoh. I drew the end across my mouth and nose. Cowering from my beloved people! I could not believe that it had come to this.
As we gained the flat roof I could see where we were: close to the wall around the temple complex, diagonally across from a side gate leading to a storage area. The street was crowded and as I watched the crowd surged towards the gate.
“Grain!” The single word was yelled repeatedly. “Grain! We want grain!”
So that was it. They were expecting handouts, sacks of grain from the temple stores. But to my knowledge no such order has gone out. It is not yet time for such an intervention, the situation is not yet as critical as that. People still have vegetables from the second harvest, limited though it was. Yet everyone fears the hungry months that loom ahead and a rumour of grain allocation would have drawn the anxious heads of households from many royal cubits around Thebes.
Now I noted that there were armed soldiers in considerable numbers amongst the peasants. It occurred to me to wonder how they had known so soon that they might be needed. Suddenly the seething mass of men seemed to boil up like a desert storm in a dry wadi. Everywhere fighting was going on, peasants armed with short staves or walking sticks grimly battling the soldiers with their short swords. The riot eddied around the house, shouted orders echoing over hoarse shouts punctuated by screams of pain.
“Guards! Stand fast!” commanded the captain, pushing past them to run down the stairs and check the outside entrance. There was no knowing what the enraged mob might do. Yet surely the soldiers must soon gain the upper hand.
I watched in horror as the struggle below grew uglier. A woman coming from the market with a small child on her arm and a basket of onions and turnips became caught up in the mêlée. The vegetables scattered as she dropped the basket and clutched the screaming child to her breast. A blow from a wildly wielded stave gashed the mother’s forehead open and blood streamed over her face and drenched the child. Blinded, she staggered and fell. As she rolled in the dust she was kicked and trampled by the frenzied men.
“Majesty!” shrieked one of my ladies.
I turned, to see a man dressed in the loincloth of a peasant leap onto the roof behind me. He crouched, holding my terrified gaze intently. The sunlight glinted on a sharp blade in his hand. My ladies screamed in fear and skittered away from me.
Suddenly the noise of the fighting below seemed to fade away. There were only two people left in all the world. Only myself, un-defended and alone, on this common rooftop in the bright morning light, facing a man with dusty bare feet, smelling his rank sweat, hearing his fast uneven breathing, knowing that he was Death finally come for me. So this was the destiny the gods had always meant for me: to be killed by a man of the people – my people, whom I had loved and governed and protected all the years of my reign. Once before it had almost happened, in a boat upon the water, but my little scribe had foiled it. Now it was time. I hoped he would strike true.
Then a second person’s head appeared above the low ledge behind the crouching attacker. I had time to think that there had to be a ladder, before the lithe figure vaulted onto the roof and the attacker swung around.
“Khani!” I cried.
“Majesty, stand back!” he called to me, as he leapt forwards to engage the man in combat. It was immediately clear to me that despite appearances the stranger was no peasant. Sinewy and lithe, he fought with the strength, agility and cunning of a trained soldier. Feinting and lunging, he cut and parried with speed and skill. Khani overtopped him by a head and had a much greater reach in his powerful arms, but he was still thinner than he used to be and soon his breath came in gasps. To and fro they battled, ducking and weaving.
The attacker hovered like a hooded cobra gathering itself to strike. Then he rushed forward and somehow slipped under Khani’s guard; a red gash opened on the taller man’s upper arm. I gasped in horror and my women shrieked, but Khani kept his footing and his nerve and backed away, circling, drawing the danger away from me. Now the stranger had changed his grip on the knife and bent into a crouch; it was clear that next he would aim upward at the belly rather than slashing at the heart. Round and round they shuffled, bare feet scraping on the roof tiles, each one watchful, tense and deadly.
I was terrified for my champion. It was obvious that he had not entirely recovered from his recent illness, for he was visibly tiring. His colour was bad and perspiration gleamed on his drawn face. By the breath of Horus, I thought, let him not lose this struggle! How I have wronged him! Please, please let him not die for me!
Then, as his opponent’s weapon flashed forwards again, Khani caught his wrist, threw him to the ground in a wrestling grip, and plunged his short dagger into the man’s chest up to the hilt. Blood spurted in pulsing gouts. In a moment, the eyes that had held mine with such venomous intensity but moments ago had turned to pebbles of dull glass and the intended instrument of my death clattered from a lifeless hand. Khani let him fall and stood over him breathing heavily.
“I thank you,” I said, shakily. “You came just in time.”
“I followed him,” said Khani, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I suspected …”
Behind Khani’s back, I saw the captain of the guard appear at the top of the stairs, dagger in hand. With two leaps, he had reached us.
“No!” I screamed, “No, no, no, no, nooooo!”
Yet I could not prevent his arm from rising, could not stop his downward lunge, could not hold back the fatal blade from skewering Khani from behind. Could not drag Khani back from the shore of the Netherworld to which he had been banished with one cruel blow. Could not restore his breath, could not cage his Ka.
He sank to his knees before me, a splendid warrior fallen like a broken obelisk. I clutched at him despairingly.
“Majesty,” he whispered. “Majesty. King … Ma’atkare Hatshepsut. I salute thee.” He bent his head forwards, apparently intending to kiss my hand. Blood welled from his lips and dribbled warmly across my skin. The morning smelled of it. He expelled a last breath and fell at my feet.
The captain had an expression of triumph as he wiped his blade on his tunic. “It is done, Majesty,” he said. Clearly he expected praise.
“You have carried out your duty,” I managed to say tonelessly. He had killed my faithful friend, my protector, whom I had loved since we were both merely children, who had spied for me and given me sage advice, who had steadfastly watched my back and had saved me from the blade of the traitorous attacker, and he expected praise! In truth I wanted to slap his smirking face. I wanted to weep and wail and tear my hair. I wanted to fall to my knees and beseech the gods to look upon my dear lost friend with mercy when he stood before them at their dread tribunal. To make him welcome in the Fields of the Blessed.
But I did none of these things. I walked, deliberately, to the edge of the roof and looked down. In the street below the fighting was endi
ng as the soldiers chased after those peasants who were able to take to their heels; many lay wounded or sat groaning by the wayside holding bloodied heads. I could not see the woman or the child and I hoped they had escaped.
“We should be able to leave soon,” I said. I showed no weakness, for I am still Egypt.
When we had arrived safely at the palace and I was at last alone, I noticed that my footprints on the painted tiles were smudged with blood. Then I shivered and shook as if I had an ague.
All day the acrid smell of smoke has hung in the air. There was rioting across the city, and the peaceful citizens of Thebes became a howling mob. It was as if Seth and his cohort of devils ran amok in the streets and set fire to anything that would burn, destroying all in their path, while the soldiers sent by the Great Commander to restore order did so as viciously as possible. By nightfall many bodies hung head downwards from the walls and the crows picked at their eyes.
Alas! What has become of my beautiful city, hundred-gated Thebes? What is to become of Khemet, deserted by the gods, bereft of its rich black earth?
When I went to my bedchamber, heartsore and exhausted, I fell upon my knees and prayed to Hapi, who had cradled me when I was a child, upon whose bounty all depends.
“Oh Hapi, why do you not come forth and assuage the thirst of the earth? You, who have always been limitless! Since you are no longer generous, everything, everyone exists in anguish. The creatures suffer, the faces of men grow hollow. Upper Egypt and Lower Egypt suffer together: Work cannot progress, men have no food, the children no longer play. Since you have grown cruel to us, silence is everywhere. Denuded of all that is good, the country is close to collapse.
“Oh Hapi, our generous mother, why have you turned against us? Why do you refuse your children life? The priests pray tirelessly with magic spells and incantations. Offerings and sacrifices are made to you, birds and antelopes bleed on your altar. The harpist seduces you with pleading songs. The people of Khemet utter desperate supplications! Why have you not responded with the inundation?”
