by Jerry Dubs
Traders filled the boarding houses and families from distant lands crowded together in their own neighborhoods. And each had their own sounds and smells and together they made Men-Nefer the most cosmopolitan city in the world.
Waset was the great soul of the Two Lands, but Men-Nefer was its raucous voice.
“Pharaoh Thutmose,” Pawura said, approaching and kneeling. “I will accompany you.”
“No, Pawura,” Pharaoh Thutmose said. “I am going to my father’s house. I long to be embraced by his ka.” He smiled and looked toward the city.
“I would go to him as a pilgrim, not a conqueror,” he said with a thoughtful smile. “You, Pawura, take the maryannu to the barracks, bathe, eat, drink. Celebrate what you have accomplished.” He put a hand on Pawura’s shoulder.
“You and I, we are the fist of Amun. We have conquered the Shasu, we have annihilated the Hittites. Our glory will spread like the light of Re. So rise, Pawura, take the young heroes with you. Eat and rest, then go on to Waset. I will meet with you there.”
Pawura blinked back tears. Keeping his head down, he asked, “Should we prepare a homecoming?”
“No, Pawura, let the parades and the feasts wait for General Pen-Nebheket and the army. Your glory, our glory, will shine more if others polish it. Now, go, relax and enjoy yourselves. I must visit with the great father Ptah.”
Leaning down, Pharaoh Thutmose gripped Pawura’s arm and raised him to his feet. Once the charioteer was upright, Pharaoh Thutmose opened his arms and embraced him.
Pawura stood in shock.
General Pen-Nebheket was aloof and formal.
Pharaoh Thutmose had been even more distant, a desert mirage drawn to the gods. But he had proven himself a man.
No, Pawura thought, more than a man. He had attacked the vast Hittite army without fear. He rescued the survivors of Shu’s sandstorm.
Pawura’s heart and ka knew that Pharaoh Thutmose truly was a god. And when he finally took the throne as his own the Two Lands would thrive as they had never could under Pharaoh Hatshepsut, a mere woman who claimed divinity.
Looking into the man-god’s eyes, Pawura wished he could give him a token of his faith, some proof of his love and loyalty.
If I could, I would give him my ka. I would. He thought of the trophies he had cut from the buried Hittites, and he thought with a fervent love, I would give this man my own hand.
***
As he entered the city, Pharaoh Thutmose found himself walking more erect.
His head, which had grown accustomed to turning to watch the other chariots, suddenly felt stiff. His hands that had gripped the reins of his team of horses and through the strong leather straps had directed their power, slowly curled themselves into fists. His legs, after weeks of being bent, strong and balanced, now seemed to turn into stone.
Without turning his head, he looked to his left and right.
He was just inside the city walls, standing on the stone roadway that led past a storage area for merchants. There were pens of geese, open baskets of fruit, cloth-draped boxes, a group of tethered donkeys and, slouched against bags of grain, a pair of sleeping merchants.
Palm tree trunks swooped into the air about him, capped by crowns of jagged fronds that stood black against the star-filled sky. The air, rising about him as the ground cooled, carried the grassy smell of donkey droppings, the sweet aroma of rotting fruit, the raspy snort of a snoring merchant.
Life, he thought, looking down as his own body, which felt as if it were slowly turning into stone.
I have been alive. And now ...
Pausing, he thought of the quiet, incense-filled temple of Amun where he had spent his youth and of the intense stillness of his army tent, where he and his servants had waited while battles were fought and then he thought of the riotous swirl of sound and motion as he raced across the desert with the young heroes.
He raised his right hand and flexed the fingers, relishing the working of the joints, the tightness of his skin, the strength of the muscles that moved beneath his tight skin.
Smiling, he lowered his hand, relaxed his shoulders and resumed his pilgrimage to Hut-ka-Ptah.
Serenely he walked the stone road, marveling at the different way he saw the world now. He thought of the view a hawk would have as it circled the sky, what the chariot horses saw as they raced across the desert, how the world must look to a crocodile as it chased fish in the river Iteru.
Soon he was standing by the eastern entrance to the temple complex.
The tall wall, nearly as high as the front of the sandstorm had been, stretched off into the darkness to his right and left. The wide pylon that embraced the triple entrance was guarded by eight statues, the outlying six were each the height of three men, the central pair were even taller, the height of six men. Each statue wore the double crown of the Two Lands and each stood stiffly, their arms held tightly to their sides, their fists clenched, just as Pharaoh Thutmose had been taught to stand and walk.
He stared at their faces, solid, knowing, royal. They were Narmer. Or perhaps Menes. No one alive knew, their inspiration lost to the long history of the Two Lands, just as no one knew how the giant pyramids outside the city had been built.
No one could build them today. The secret of their magical construction was lost in history, too.
Someday I will be lost to history.
No, he thought, my name with be carved on the pillars of the temples, on the walls and the bases of the statues. I will live forever.
Smiling at the thought, Pharaoh Thutmose gathered his dignity and stepped into the welcoming shadows of the House of the Soul of Ptah.
***
He had been here before, when Hapuseneb had taken him to visit the earthly homes of the gods. There was Waset, of course, and the temple of Amun, where Pharaoh Thutmose had been raised; the temple of Mut, great mother goddess; and the temple of Khonsu, her adopted moon child, whose face was reflected in the sacred lake.
They had visited Iunu where the god Re was welcomed with the electrum-covered obelisk by the sacred river.
And they had rested in Men-Nefer, ancient home to Ptah and to Hathor, Lady of the Sycamore.
He and Hapuseneb had spent several months here, living in the temple. They had come here seven years earlier, just after Hapuseneb had revealed his great vision from Amun and raised Pharaoh Hatshepsut to the throne.
Pharaoh Thutmose remembered it as a time of confusion. Hapuseneb had been uncharacteristically distracted, casting fleeting, worried glances at nine-year-old Thutmose. But the boy, who had been thrilled to learn that his stepmother was divine, had lost himself in the mysteries of Ptah.
He had wandered the temple for hours on end, tracing his fingers across the silver potter’s wheel in the secret chambers of the god, bathing alone in the sacred pond, sitting cross-legged in the shadows of the hall of records, reading and rereading the painted hieroglyphs that told the story of creation.
Walking the hallways now, he felt Ptah embrace him and welcome him home. The tarry smell of oil lamps, the biting edge of smoking incense, the quiet shuffle of hurrying acolytes, the cooing of pigeons and the murmurs of chanted prayers all wove their ways through the stone columns, filling the air around him.
He breathed deeply, felt the tension of the desert journey evaporate and, smiling at the thought, he turned to his right to find the lotus-filled pond where he could wash away his weariness.
***
Naked, standing thigh-deep in the dark, cooling water, Pharaoh Thutmose raised his cupped hands to splash water against his chest. As each rivulet ran down his stomach, across his thighs and rejoined the water, it took with it the dust of the desert, the smell of blood and the heat of the long journey.
In the water he saw a rippling reflection of Nut’s dark belly and the cold, distant face of Khonsu. The sky and moon wavered in the water, and Pharaoh Thutmose thought, this is where the eternal and the ephemeral meet. This is where that-which-has-always-been gives breath to that-w
hich-is.
An owl swooped past him, its heavy wings silent in the night. Closing his eyes, Pharaoh Thutmose breathed in the water-cooled air carrying a light scent of myrrh.
“You there! What are you doing in the lake? Get out of there.”
Pharaoh Thutmose opened his eyes and saw an angry guard. The man wore a yellow-trimmed shendyt and a long, ceremonial spear that he stamped against the ground as he glared at the wet intruder who had dared to enter the sacred water.
Smiling, Pharaoh Thutmose raised his face to the guard and said, “I am Djehutymes, born of Thoth. I am Men-kheper-re, the lasting manifestation of Re. I am the fist of Amun, and I have come home.”
Seeking an audience
“Why is Governor Seni so insistent?” Senenmut asked, bending to whisper worriedly in Maya’s ear as she sat on the high-backed golden throne in the reception room.
Holder of more than forty official titles, loving companion to Pharaoh Hatshepsut and tutor to her daughters, Senenmut was the most powerful man in the Two Lands. And he was beginning to develop a nervous tic in his right eye.
Two attendants stood behind Maya, who was dressed as Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Each girl held a long-handled fan of ostrich feathers, which she waved languidly. The gentle current drifted down the dais and past a series of oil lamps that lined the stone walkway that led to the throne. The breeze caught the silky black plumes that rose from the lamps and swirled them into nothingness.
Maya watched the smoke dissipate and wished that her worries would dissolve so easily.
She had agreed to pose as Pharaoh Hatshepsut while the ruler secretly accompanied the expedition to Ta Netjer, but she had never expected the trip to take so long. They had been gone for more than six months and there had been no word from them since they had departed from the eastern port of Saww.
Her father, Imhotep, had gone with them, and so she was confident that the trip would be a success; her father had left for the trip certain that they would return. And her father always returned, even from death.
But he hadn’t known how long they would be gone, nor had Akila, his time-traveling companion.
Pharaoh Hatshepsut assured Maya that all she would need to do was visit the temple each week and hold court to resolve whatever disputes had not been settled by the city judges or the provincial court. Senenmut would announce rulings on disputes after a whispered “consultation” with Maya.
All Maya had to do was look beautiful and regal.
Senenmut also would run the empire, issuing royal rulings as needed, unless young Pharaoh Thutmose miraculously returned early from the army’s excursion in Sinai. But, Pharaoh Hatshepsut had assured her, that was unlikely; General Pen-Nebheket moved slower than a well fed crocodile at noon.
And all had gone well until Governor Seni, who had known Pharaoh Hatshepsut since her childhood, had arrived from Ta Netjer and requested a personal audience with her. They had postponed the audience twice and a wiser man would read that as a refusal, but Seni had made a third request.
“I don’t know,” Maya whispered to Senenmut without turning her head. “He has been very insistent, I agree. But can we not continue to refuse him?”
“It would be unseemly,” Senenmut said, his right eye blinking uncontrollably. “We have no reason to deny him an audience. But I know Ma’at-ka-re. She would not have summoned him as she was preparing to leave Waset, and if he hasn’t been summoned then why has he made the long journey? Especially now and especially him. She never liked him. He reminds her of the time when her brothers were murdered.”
Maya, who had seen the bloody bodies of Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s brothers when she had first stepped through a time portal twenty-seven years ago, shivered at the memory. Yet, her fears were here and now.
She heard a gentle cough and looking up saw a scribe, with a young servant fidgeting at his side, waiting just beyond the lamps. The boy carried a reed basket holding scrolls of unused papyrus, stoppered jars of water, cakes of ash and ochre, and a collection of finely tipped brushes. The scribe wore a thickly curled black wig that ended just above a wide, ornately beaded necklace that was draped above his soft, fleshy chest.
Turning back to Senenmut, Maya smiled and darted her eyes toward the distant doorway, which was guarded by two soldiers, their muscled bodies shining with oil, their pleated kilts belted with a blue strap. Beyond the guards, morning sunlight splashed through high windows in the hallway that led to the reception room.
And from the doorway came the sound of approaching footsteps.
A sudden panic gripped Maya and she fought to keep Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s serene smile on her face. “Senenmut, I feel like the beard has slipped. Is it straight,” she said, moving her mouth as little as possible in case the glue that held the narrow, false beard had loosened.
Senenmut gave a small, reassuring nod and then, holding a hand over his twitching eye, he sighed.
“We will talk more of this, Pharaoh Hatshepsut, at your pleasure,” he said in his official court voice, loud enough to carry to the attendants and to the scribe.
Silently nodding approval as she had seen Pharaoh Hatshepsut do countless times, Maya gave thanks that Pharaoh Hatshepsut spoke little in public.
For although Maya could dress like Pharaoh Hatshepsut and although she was built like the ruler and although her features, especially after the servants completed her makeup, uncannily resembled Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s, Maya’s voice was different.
It was lower than the ruler’s soft soprano, a voice that had never been tested by the happy shouts of childhood or the squeals of laughter Maya’s mother had often evoked. Maya’s accent was different, too. Despite living most of her life in the court of Pharaoh Hatshepsut, Maya’s consonants retained the harshness of her childhood in the time of King Djoser, more than a thousand years earlier.
“Your first petitioner is Governor Rekhmire,” Senenmut said, raising his voice so the guards could hear him. Bowing, he backed away from the throne, turned toward the doorway and nodded to the guards.
The scribe slid between the pillars, carefully placed a pillow on the stone floor and sat cross-legged. The young servant knelt beside him and set the basket of papyrus within reach, took a jar of water and a black cake from the basket and placed them on the floor.
When the scribe turned his head slowly in question, the boy quickly got to his feet and retrieved a square, wooden board which he placed in his master’s lap.
Ignoring the scribe, Maya looked toward the distant doorway.
The guards reappeared, backing to the side as Rekhmire, mayor of Waset, entered.
Rekhmire was the third generation of his family to govern the capital of the Two Lands. With a well-trained bureaucracy in place and with a treasury that was second only to the royal treasury, the city was smoothly run. The markets charged fair prices, the bakers, the butchers, the beer brewers and the furniture makers were always well supplied with wheat, large cattle and small cattle, bread, and scarce wood. The roads were maintained, the piers replaced when needed, and the canals dredged regularly.
The city was a model of ma’at.
Except for the temples.
There was constant tension between the needs of the gods and the needs of the people. That stress had brought Rekhmire to the palace today.
Hapuseneb, high priest to Amun, had decided that the sacred pond needed to be enlarged and so he had informed Rekhmire that Amun needed land to the south of the complex.
Rekhmire knew that he would never win a dispute against the priest who had raised Pharaoh Hatshepsut to the throne. However, the land Hapuseneb wanted was part of Rekhmire’s son-in-law’s estate and Rekhmire’s daughter had complained to her mother that the temple was always swallowing up their land.
Which, Rekhmire knew, was true. He didn’t understand why the gods, who never actually walked the land, needed so much of it. But he did understand that keeping his wife and daughter happy was important enough to try to persuade the god Amun to consider a more wester
ly expansion.
Walking confidently, yet humbly — an artful combination of straight back and bent head coupled with measured steps that were slow enough to suggest hesitation, Rekhmire approached the throne.
Entering the room he had caught a glimpse of Senenmut and Pharaoh Hatshepsut conferring.
Perhaps if my appeal to Pharaoh Hatshepsut fails, I can talk privately with Senenmut, he thought. He has been buzzing about her more and more lately. Perhaps he is seeking another title.
Stifling a smile at his impertinent thought, Rekhmire passed the last lighted lamp, knelt and bowed his head. “Pharaoh Hatshepsut, long life!”
***
“Others see her. Others are admitted into her divine presence,” Governor Seni muttered into a cup of beer.
Mahu tore off a piece of bread and glanced at Thuya. She frowned at his hesitation and tilted her head toward their house guest.
Gathering his courage, Mahu said in the voice he used as a policeman, “Dear uncle.”
Seni stopped drinking and looked at his nephew.
“I made some inquiries at the palace.”
Seni’s face became a mask.
“You were not called to Waset,” Mahu said.
“I don’t need to be ‘called’ to Waset. I can travel the Two Lands as I wish.”
“Yes, dear uncle,” Mahu said, his voice slowly uncoiling like a waking snake. “I have never been to Ta-Seti, so I do not know the ways of your distant province. However, I have lived in the shadow of the royal palace all of my life and I know that Pharaoh Hatshepsut has never been to Ta-Seti. I know,” he held up a hand as Seni started to protest, “that the expedition to Ta Netjer is meant to open a trade route that would isolate Ta-Seti even more.”
