Daughter of the Gods (12 page)

“You can have all that, but I have a job for you as well.”

“A secret one, judging from the apparent lack of entourage today.” He peered at her through one eye, his expression hooded. “Does the pharaoh know we’re out here?”

“Thut gave me permission to visit the West Bank. He thinks I’m going to visit our father’s tomb.”

“So, he doesn’t know what you’re really up to?” Senenmut frowned. “For that matter, neither do I.”

She waved her hand. “Thut’s too busy with his latest concubine to care.”

Senenmut’s eyes opened a little wider. “That didn’t take long.”

“Thut can be very efficient when he wishes to be.”

“You disapprove of the girl?”

“Actually, no. She seems malleable, a
rekhyt
dancer in the Temple of Hathor. Anything that keeps Thut from my bed—”

His jaw clenched. The last thing she wanted to discuss with him was her brother in her bed. Hatshepsut smoothed her linen sheath over her legs, needing something to do with her hands. “It looks as though she’ll be keeping Thut indisposed for some time.”

Silence fell, and then Senenmut asked, “Does Mensah know you’re out here?”

“Mensah? Why would he need to know?”

“He seems to hold some claim to your affections.”

“That was a long time ago.” She wanted to add
when I was young and stupid
, but held her tongue. “And I don’t need either Mensah or Thut’s permission to pick out my tomb.”

“Planning on dying soon?” Senenmut closed his eyes again. Re’s light danced on his face.

“No, but I’d hate for my
ka
to disappear into oblivion simply because I hadn’t planned ahead.”

“Your father began planning his tomb the day he took the Isis Throne.”

“Yes,” she said. “Some tombs on the West Bank are for royal families going years back, but farther south, the valley is completely empty. Essentially we can make a fresh start.”

“We?” Senenmut looked at her.

“You seem to have a knack for architecture, Senenmut of Iuny,” she said grudgingly. “First in the military and now with your temples in Nubia. I thought you might like to try your hand at something everlasting.”

“And your brother? Am I designing his tomb as well?”

Hatshepsut shook her head. “I hope to outline my tomb and then present him with the sketches. He can follow suit or do something different. There’s no decree that says he has to be buried in the valley. Although since our father is there—”

“I’m sure he’ll mimic you.”

She shrugged. “Possibly.”

“I believe I’m up for the challenge of building your tomb, but I’d like Ineni on the job as well.” Senenmut dipped his finger into the green waves of the Nile and started to sketch something on the dry planks of the bench. “There’s no one in the capital with more architectural experience.”

“He designed my father’s tomb,” she said. “I think the two of you would make a perfect team.”

“What are you thinking in terms of design?”

“Something simple. Inaccessible.”

“Like a cliff tomb?”

She looked at the picture he’d created from damp wood and water. A cliff rose from a valley, a tiny dark doorway perched under the ledge. From there, a narrow shaft descended into the mountain. She nodded. “Precisely.”

The design faded in the heat, but its imprint remained in Hatshepsut’s mind. Now they just had to carve it into stone.

The boat lurched as it docked, and Senenmut shaded his eyes as he stood, looking out at the desolate golden sands before him on this, his first visit to the forbidden Western Valley. “The land of the dead.”

Hatshepsut stood and brushed the wrinkles from her sheath. “Shall we?”

Dagi was already on shore, the plank outstretched for them to disembark. Hatshepsut was halfway down the incline when her sandal caught a warped section of wood. She stumbled forward and was about to pitch headfirst into the river, but Senenmut’s arm snaked around her waist to stop her.

“You all right,
Hemet?”
Dagi asked, his arms out to help her.

Hatshepsut pushed an imaginary strand of hair from her eyes. “Except for my pride, yes.”

“We promise not to tell anyone you almost took an unscheduled swim. Right, Dagi?” Senenmut’s voice was infused with laughter. She enjoyed the feel of his arm around her, perhaps a little too much.

“My lips are sealed,” Dagi said.

Senenmut’s arm fell away, replaced with his open palm on the small of her back to guide her down the final steps of the narrow plank.

“We’ll be back in a couple hours,” Hatshepsut said to Dagi.

“The food’ll be ready.” He handed a skin of water to Senenmut and bowed as the two started up the thin path cut through the sands.

The sun-baked earth yawned unendingly before them, sparse tufts of grass tucked into pillows of brown sand. An ever-present haze of shimmering heat clouded the far-flung cliffs. Tucked within those sepulchral rock faces were uncounted tombs, the final resting places for pharaohs, queens, and other royalty from dynasties long since past. It was here that Neferubity had been buried what seemed a lifetime ago. A trained eye could discern a shadowed entrance here and there, but most of the tombs had long since disappeared beneath blankets of sand, just as the inhabitants had intended. To those who still walked the earth, the valley was empty, forsaken. But for those buried within its rocks, this was a city teeming with centuries of Egypt’s most illustrious
kas
as they departed the underworld each night to reunite with their earthly bodies. Each time the angry winds of a
khamsin
blew, the secret rooms with all their precious treasures were protected anew, providing a deterrent against tomb robbers for centuries. And of course the handful of guards paid by the throne to protect the valley also assisted in ensuring the perpetual sleep of those buried here.

Senenmut and Hatshepsut walked in silence. The lazy hum of the river disappeared until they heard only rocks crunching underfoot. A thin sheen of perspiration clung stubbornly to her skin as Re’s heat intensified. They reached the foot of the cliffs and paused for a moment to rest in the meager shade of a boulder off the path.

“Anything strike your fancy?” Senenmut took a long drink from the water skin. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and tossed the jug to Hatshepsut.

The water tasted like leather, but she drank her fill. “These cliffs are too easy to access. Farther up they get steeper. Dangerously steep.”

“Perfect.” Senenmut offered his hand to help her stand. He looked to the west. “What is that?”

Where they stood they could see only the Red Land, with no trees and no view of the Nile, yet still there were wonders to be found. Hatshepsut shaded her eyes, smiling at the sight of the secret community nestled into a rock amphitheater. “The Place of Truth.”

“It looks like a village, but that’s not possible, not here on the West Bank.” Senenmut glanced at her. “Or is it?”

“My father founded the town,” she said. “For the workers building his tomb.”

“A secret village of stonecutters?”

She nodded. “And plasterers, craftsmen, artisans. Everyone needed to build a royal tomb.”

“And they stay out here, hidden in the desert, of their own accord?”

Hatshepsut cocked her head at him. “Of course. At least after we drag them out here in chains and whip them into submission.” He blinked, and she laughed. “The servants in the Place of Truth are paid three times their normal wage and are allowed to work on their own tombs on their days off. They’re sworn to secrecy about what they do, but those who live here are honored to be chosen for such a position.”

Senenmut stared awestruck at the village. “A secret city of Egypt’s most talented artisans.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to meet them?”

His eyes widened. “Could I?”

“Of course.” She grinned. “But only if you can keep up.”

Their skin glistened with sweat by the time they reached the border stones of the Place of Truth. Headed toward them, a workman in a loincloth carried a box of paints in one hand and a leather satchel in the other, his head bent against Re’s glare. He glanced up at their approach, continued on his way for a moment, then dropped into a full
henu
in a puff of dust.

“Please rise,” Hatshepsut said, sneaking a glance at Senenmut. He watched her without speaking, his expression unusually serious. She returned her attention to the workman, recognizing his thin nose and the cleft in his chin. “You are Aka, are you not?”

An easy smile spread across the worker’s face. “I am indeed,
Hemet.
You have a fair memory.”

“I met you when I accompanied my father to inspect the paintings on his tomb,” she said. The trip had been years ago, before her father left for Canaan. “Your work was among the finest I’ve ever seen.”

Aka’s ears turned red. “You are too kind,
Hemet.”
He bent to pick up his satchel. “I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you today. The women of the Place of Truth will be frantic to sweep their steps and scrub the children’s faces.”

Hatshepsut laughed. “I don’t mind dusty stairs or smudged cheeks. I’ve asked
Neb
Senenmut to help design my tomb. He was unaware of the existence of the Place of Truth until today.”

“As are most people,” Aka said. “I’d be honored to accompany you into the city, if you’d like.”

They followed Aka into the tiny town, entering through tall white gates that opened onto the single main street, so narrow that the buildings on either side shaded it from the sun, leaning toward one another as if to listen to the gossip from within one another’s walls. Children played tag in the alleys, and two boys raced hoops with wooden sticks. They glanced at the newcomers, seemingly unimpressed, at least until Aka hissed and motioned them to their knees. Several women stepped outside to see what the commotion was about, including one breastfeeding a chubby-cheeked infant, and another holding a string of lamp wicks she’d been braiding, but they all fell into deep
henus
at the sight of the Great Royal Wife.

“You must be hot and thirsty after your trek from the river,” Aka said. “My house is at the end of the street and my wife just brewed a fresh batch of barley beer.”

“That would be lovely,” Hatshepsut said, slowing her pace as they approached the market, trailing quite the crowd behind them. She waited for the inevitable as Senenmut inspected the copper goods, wooden furniture, and inlaid baskets.

“They’re the finest I’ve ever seen,” he said, straightening after examining an ivory jewel box with stark black hieroglyphs running down the center. “All of it.”

“I told you they were the best,” Hatshepsut said, sharing a smile with Aka. She shifted on her feet, eager to keep moving to allow the illusion of a breeze, then glimpsed something—or someone—from the corner of her eye. The man ducked into a dark alley so fast she had to stand on tiptoes to see past Aka to ensure she wasn’t imagining things.

The artisan glanced behind him. “Is something wrong,
Hemet
?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought I recognized someone.”

Senenmut followed her gaze. “Another artisan?”

She shook her head. “Someone from Waset.”

Aka removed a perfectly folded square of linen from his pocket and wiped his brow. “The water carriers are here today to refill the well. These hills have no water, so we rely on a handful of water carriers from Waset to supply us every week,” he explained to Senenmut before looking to Hatshepsut once again. “Perhaps you recognized one of them.”

“Perhaps,” Hatshepsut answered slowly, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Or perhaps the heat is making me see things.”

Senenmut studied her with concern. “Your face matches the ivory on this box. We should get you out of Re’s glare.”

“Please,” Aka said. “Follow me.”

The interior of Aka’s house was dark, a result of the tiny windows cut high in the walls, but much cooler than the air outside and immaculate with its expertly woven reed mats and sparse furniture. His tiny sparrow of a wife fluttered about, producing two alabaster cups and a clay jug of beer so thick it almost required chewing. Senenmut set down his cup with a grin. “This reminds me of home,” he said to the mistress of the house. “And for that I thank you very much.”

Aka’s wife flushed at the compliment, bowing to Senenmut over hands stained from grinding her husband’s paints. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of you,” Aka said to Hatshepsut. “Your father visited the West Bank often before he flew to the sky. In fact, you remind me very much of him.”

“I do hope to come here often to check the progress of my tomb,” Hatshepsut said, smiling at the compliment and setting down her own empty cup. This project would provide a perfect excuse to leave the Hall of Women on a regular basis. Surely Thut couldn’t deny her that.

They parted from Aka at the north gate; he was headed to the south of the valley to paint scenes on Mutnofret’s tomb, but pointed them west toward some promising cliffs. Hatshepsut inquired whether there was anything the Place of Truth needed and promised to send a new flock of geese to replace the one Aka told her had been eaten by desert dogs the month before.

“We’re getting awfully tired of dried fish.” Aka laughed, then bowed once more and continued on his way.

Hatshepsut and Senenmut, having refused Aka’s offer of donkeys, walked toward the west in silence, and Hatshepsut found her mind wandering back toward the little town with its crooked houses and streets filled with laughter. For a moment she imagined what her life would be like if she lived there, brewing her husband’s beer and grinding his paints as Aka’s wife did, instead of in the palace. The idea made her feel warm and pleasant, but also bored. She wanted more from life than the comfort of a dark house and the protective walls of the Place of Truth. Not only that, but she didn’t even know how to brew beer.

Hatshepsut banished the idea. The gods had chosen a different path for her; it wouldn’t do to worry about what might have been.

She and Senenmut walked in a companionable silence broken only by Senenmut’s occasional humming, a sound that lightened Hatshepsut’s heart as they picked their way around boulders and climbed over hills of broken limestone. Re had scarcely moved when Hatshepsut found what she was looking for: a perfectly terrifying vertical incline. The cliff began at the base of an ancient riverbed, long since dry, and stretched up into the sky.