Daughter of the Gods (33 page)

“Give me a ship and I’ll find it,” Neshi said.

“We might as well throw gold into the Nile,” Ti countered. “It’s been too long since the last trip. There has to be something safer.” It was interesting to watch the identical men argue—they so rarely disagreed.

“But there’s a description of the route right here.” Neshi smashed his finger into Amenemhat’s account. A piece of the decrepit papyrus flaked off. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Hatshepsut reread the vague account aloud, imagining the voyage in her mind’s eye. “Down the length of the Nile, through the Delta’s marshes, overland across the Sinai, and down the Red Sea. There you will find the Gods’ Land, filled with myrrh and frankincense, ivory and ebony, giraffes and baboons. The land of Punt.”

“Imagine all of that decorating your temple.” Neshi was practically salivating. “There’s something you could write about on one of your obelisks.”

“Or on the temple itself,” she said.

The idea was more than tantalizing—new luxuries unseen in Egypt for five hundred years, brought back to her mortuary temple, her single most important monument. It made her wish she could travel to Punt herself to witness it all firsthand.

“If you’re willing to lead the expedition, I’ll finance it,” she said to Neshi. A grin broke across her face as he whooped with delight.

“I’ll stay here, if you don’t object,” Ti said to Hatshepsut. Neshi sobered slightly, but Hatshepsut nodded. She couldn’t recall a time when the two men had been separated. “Good,” Ti said. “After all, someone has to stay behind to make sure you don’t spend all your money on temples and expeditions.”

It took many months to design and build the appropriate seaworthy vessels, but finally, as Senenmut broke ground on her temple, the entire court and most of Waset gathered to send off two hundred men and five ships from the docks. Hatshepsut wished she could join them, but as pharaoh her place was on the Isis Throne, not gallivanting off on some wild adventure. Such was the price of the double crown.

The outcome of such a massive and dangerous undertaking wouldn’t be known for months, perhaps years. The voyage might be a wild success, or, should Neshi fail, it might be a dark shadow on her reign.

The red sails puffed like giant ruddy cheeks, and hundreds of sturdy cedar oars were raised in salute to Hatshepsut. The High Priest of Amun intoned a prayer, surrounded by a clutch of solemn
wa’eb
priests, as he overturned a vial of myrrh into the Nile to bless the waters. Neshi gave his a final bow from the front of his boat as acrobats and dancers took to the crowd on shore, vendors hawking overpriced melons and half-burned meats over the beat of the boats’ drums. She prayed she would see them all again.

Hatshepsut stayed to watch as the last red sail melted into the brown horizon. The Great Cackler himself would protect the expedition, just as Sekhmet watched over her.

The gods loved her too much to forsake her now.

YEAR FOUR OF PHARAOH HATSHEPSUT

T
he morning sky was aglow with buttery young sunshine, warming the granite in the forecourt of Hatshepsut’s mortuary temple. The breath of the gods whipped puffs of white into a fluffy bird with the beak of an ibis and the feathers of an ostrich, then morphed it into a ship with billowing sails, a reminder of the ships that had set off from the City of Truth three years ago. Hatshepsut and the rest of Egypt had long ago given up hope of hearing from Neshi and his men. Surely they were lost, killed on the overland trek across the Sinai Peninsula or drowned in a storm while sailing the Red Sea.

This would be the greatest stain on her rule as pharaoh. What should have been one of the brightest accomplishments was instead an abysmal failure. And even that didn’t plague her as did the thought of those two hundred men meeting unknown and possibly gruesome deaths while their
kas
were obliterated, with no bodies left behind to mummify and place in their tombs. It was as if the gods wished to remind her not to become complacent, to remember that disaster could strike at any time.

She had hoped that the discovery of Punt and the completion of her mortuary temple would be the crowning achievements of her reign, but now the temple would have to stand alone on that pinnacle. The sacred place was almost finished, christened Djeser-Djeseru, the “Holiest of Holies.” It was all Senenmut had promised her, and more.

On this morning of dancing clouds, Hatshepsut traveled to the Western Valley to check the progression of the temple’s final frescoes in the Hall of Birth. The northern portico of the mortuary temple was devoted to the story of Hatshepsut’s divine birth to her mortal mother, Ahmose, and her hallowed father, Amun. The invisible god had been her father’s patron, so it was scarcely stretching the truth to claim him as her divine father, yet another way to overcome the obstacle of a woman ruling. If the Great Cackler decreed it, so it would be.

Hatshepsut gazed at the chiseled outline of Osiris Tutmose, glad she had commissioned Aka to depict her father rather than a younger artist who had never met the pharaoh. The figure was stylized, but miniscule details identified him from the mass of other men depicted on the walls. He was there in the hook of his nose, the way the lips curved up slightly at the edges, and the receding chin. His figure loomed over everyone else’s on the relief, even the gods’.

She wished he could see her now.

Another frieze depicted her as pharaoh. This time the figure bore no likeness to the subject. The cartouche above the image identified her throne name—Maatkare—but she wore the short kilt and false beard of a man, a mirror of her costume at all formal occasions. She despised it. Not only did the beard scratch and leave a rash on her chin for days afterward, but she hated the pretense. Her monuments were scattered about Egypt, but her advisers had deemed the deviation of a female pharaoh too outrageous for the illiterate
rekhyt
to stomach, so each image depicted her as a man. It was one thing for the commoners to accept the pharaoh as a living god, but quite another for them to swallow a woman as that god. She understood the logic, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

Footsteps crunched behind her, followed by the scent of cinnamon on the air and the low hum of Senenmut’s voice.

“Do you like it?”

She nodded without turning around. “It’s exquisite, more majestic than I could have dreamed.”

This would be her tribute to Egypt, something to last for all time.

Her pyramid.

“Your father would be proud,” Senenmut said. “He might even be a little put out to discover that thus far, his daughter’s reign has been even more successful than his own.”

Hatshepsut laughed at the truth. “You exaggerate.”

“Humility doesn’t sit well on you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Egypt has been at peace for over a decade, her enemies vanquished and her storehouses perpetually overflowing. Your people adore you. I adore you.” His eyes swept over the columns and reliefs of the temple he had built for her. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, Egypt is now littered with your monuments.”

Her chuckle echoed off the columns and into the sunshine. “I suppose it is.”

“Even your mother would be proud,” he added.

“She’d be proud of this.” Hatshepsut pointed to the carved depiction of Ahmose being led to the birthing chamber by her attendants. “You can’t tell if she’s pregnant or simply eaten too much at dinner.”

Senenmut laughed, that throaty chortle that still had the power to make her feel a little warmer. “A final gift for your mother.”

They stood that way for some time, swathed in each other’s embrace. A timelessness imbued within the temple’s stones made the rest of the chaotic world seem far away.

Hatshepsut was the first to speak, her voice so low it blended into the breeze. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Really?” Senenmut arched a brow. “I have a surprise for you, too.”

“The best minds think like me,” Hatshepsut joked, and received a playful jab to her ribs in response. “Which one first?”

“After you.” Senenmut released her with a mock bow.

She took him the long way through the temple, wandering through the chapels dedicated to Hathor and Anubis. Although Hatshepsut still favored Sekhmet and Amun, she had chosen to honor the cow goddess of love and the jackal god of death, having come to appreciate their positions as the creator and taker of life, greater even than that of the nine gods. One relief showed Hathor as a cow suckling the infant Hatshepsut, and another depicted Anubis introducing Hatshepsut to the world of gods in the next life. The rest of Hatshepsut’s days would be written on the walls in between, but her story began with Hathor and would end with Anubis.

It was to Djeser-Djeseru’s second terrace that Hatshepsut guided Senenmut, to a statue niche on the southern wall. Above the door were fifteen empty stone vessels, each dry now but soon to be filled with sacred oils and unguents. The alcove was empty as well, but would house a statue of Amun once the temple was finished. Senenmut stood back, unsure what he was looking for.

“Look carefully.” She could hardly wait for him to find it, but the surprise was well hidden, just as she’d intended.

Senenmut perused the carvings, mumbling the hieroglyphs as he went. He finished scanning the wall and gave her a quizzical look.

“You’re sure there’s a surprise here?”

“Look closer.”

He continued the search, lingering over an inconspicuous offering scene depicting a kneeling man holding two ankhs—the symbol of eternal life—to the supreme god. An image of Hatshepsut stood before the man, offering a green vial of perfume to Amun. Senenmut inhaled sharply as he read the hieroglyphs that identified the supplicant.

“Me? You put
me
in here?” He expression was blank with shock. “But this is a holy site.”

In ordering the artist to include Senenmut, Hatshepsut had broken with a tradition countless millennia old. The portrayal of a person in a site as sacred as this one was not a mere picture, but a true substitute for the person represented. By placing Senenmut’s image within the temple precincts, she allowed him to bask in the power and glory of Amun just as she would for all time. The sacrilege was no small favor.

She shrugged, trying her best to appear nonchalant. “For some reason I can’t fathom the idea of eternity without you.”

She’d barely lived through that once. There was still a pig heart buried in the garden to prove it. Yet Senenmut stared at the image of himself as if it were a cobra poised to strike.

She sighed. There was only one way to wake him from this stupor. “I’ll have the workmen chisel it off tomorrow.”

“No.” Senenmut spoke quickly. “Don’t do that. I’m just . . . in awe. To think that a
rekhyt—
”

“I don’t care about that and you know it. All that matters is that you have a place with me in the next world.”

Senenmut laughed. “You don’t want to be bored when you get to the Field of Reeds.”

It was Hatshepsut’s turn to laugh. “Perhaps.”

Senenmut clasped her hand in his and kissed it once. “Thank you.”

“This isn’t the only picture of you.” She bit her lip and traced the white scars on her wrists, unfaded even after all the years since Neferubity’s death.

His eyes narrowed. “How many secret Senenmuts have you hidden around here?”

“Well, they’re all very small and out of the way, where no one will really notice.” Hatshepsut stalled. She felt like a little girl admitting to stealing not one but dozens of honey rolls.

“How many?” Senenmut prodded.

“Sixty.”

“Sixty!”

She had sworn to make it up to him when he asked for a child. Now she had returned him sixtyfold. “You’re stuck with me for eternity,
sehedj ib
.”

One who gladdens the heart.

The name was fitting; Senenmut made her heart feel as if it had wings. She chuckled at the look of horror plastered on his face. “I asked the artists to scatter you all over the place.”

“What in the name of Amun are you thinking?” He glowered at her now. “One picture might not be noticed, but sixty?
Sixty?
”

This she had expected.

“Just listen for a moment.” She spoke calmly and gestured for him to sit at the base of one of the pillars with her. He did, but she had a feeling his fingers itched to wring her neck.

“What I did three years ago was an aberration tolerated only because my seven years as regent were idyllic. I can control what Egypt says about me during my lifetime, but not what will be said of me—of us—years down the road.”

“I don’t see how I play into this.”

“When has a
rekhyt
ever risen so high?”

“I thought you didn’t care about my birth.”

“Answer the question.”

“Never.” It wasn’t a bluff because it was the truth.

“What if history decides to erase us, to remove the female deviation and her consort from the record? What if our bodies are destroyed and my monuments torn down? Without some tangible evidence of our lives on earth, we could disappear from the Field of Reeds. I can’t let that happen to either of us.”

Senenmut pulled her closer. She shivered, trying to push the nightmare from her mind.

“I’ve planned the odds in our favor,” she said. “Even if this temple falls to the ground, somewhere in the rubble the images of you and me will keep our
kas
alive.”

“I think Egypt will laud you as one of their golden kings for all eternity.” Senenmut entwined his fingers through hers. “But it’s probably wise to be prepared.”

“And we both know I’m extremely wise.” She shot him a mischievous grin. “It’s one of my better qualities.”

His lips silenced her. “Thank you,” Senenmut repeated. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“You’re welcome,” Hatshepsut said. Then she poked his ribs. “I believe that’s only half the surprises for the day.”

A quick smile flashed across his face. “Follow me.”

They passed the T-shaped pools in the lower courtyard and left the temple boundaries, but Hatshepsut envisioned the underground arc of her new tomb where it rested beneath their feet. She had abandoned the dangerous and unfinished cliff tomb and instead ordered a second tomb dug to physically link her with Djeser-Djeseru when she flew to the sky. They walked outside her temple’s courtyard, stopping at an inconspicuous door dug into the rubble at the base of the lion-colored cliff.

“Wait here,” Senenmut said. “And close your eyes.”

She motioned to the limestone boulders strewn about them. “This isn’t a surprise. It’s the quarry for Djeser-Djeseru.”

“Do what you’re told for once,
nefersha
.” Senenmut smiled. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I come back.”

She pouted, then closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face before she heard Senenmut return, accompanied by the acrid smell of a burning torch. She felt its heat before he took her hand.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

It was disconcerting as they started down a set of extraordinarily steep stairs. She stumbled once, but Senenmut steadied her. The temperature rose the farther in they went—a result of the heat and stale air trapped within—and beads of sweat dripped at her temples. She reached out several times to be sure the walls weren’t closing in on them.

She lost track of the number of steps before the ground leveled out. Senenmut stopped, then dropped her hands.

“Open your eyes.”

They were too deep in the earth for even the faintest reminder of the sun, but the torch cast a warm glow upon exquisitely painted walls. Shadows danced to a silent melody, bringing the surreal figures of gods and goddesses to life. A false door was carved into one wall of the tomb, so painstakingly crafted that Hatshepsut was tempted to try to open it. She recognized the style—this door would serve its only purpose in allowing the
ka
of the deceased to enter and exit the room each night.

This was the closest she would come to the afterlife until she traveled to the Field of Reeds. The dark figures etched into the rock were fluid, lifelike. Seated above the unblinking eyes of Horus were three people enjoying a banquet—one woman and two men. The first man embraced the younger, and a woman held a lotus in full bloom to his nose.

Hatshepsut read the glyphs. “‘Ramose and Hatnofer.’ Your parents.” She reached out to the middle figure, but her skin barely brushed the stone. “And you.” She breathed deeply, inhaled the aroma of stale air and the burning oil of Senenmut’s torch. “This is your tomb.”

“My gift from you,” Senenmut said. “I finally built something for myself, but I couldn’t quite leave you out of it.” He gestured to another scene, this one of a man in open adoration of the pharaoh before him. But this pharaoh was different from the ones cut into the stones of Djeser-Djeseru. The figure wore the double crown and bull’s tail, but lacked the false beard and wore a sheath instead of a kilt. The curves under the clothing attested to the fact that this was no man, but a woman.

Her eyes stung. At least here in the darkness of Senenmut’s tomb she could be depicted in truth. It was a precious gesture.