Daughter of the Gods (35 page)

Tutmose’s gaze trailed after the men and for a moment he looked as if he’d rather clean chamber pots than spend the afternoon with his mother. But then his face cleared and he patted her hand. After all, duty was duty.

“I can think of nothing better I’d like to do.” He sheathed the scimitar and bowed to Hatshepsut and Neferure, but turned around as an afterthought. “Neferure.” Did she cringe as he spoke her name, or was it the sun making her squint? “You look lovely today, your eyes especially.”

A rosy blush overtook Neferure’s cheeks. And it was true. The sun made her eyes shine so that she looked even more ethereal than usual, her skin as translucent as a lotus petal. Tutmose bowed to his future wife and continued down the path with his mother, Aset’s guard following a few steps behind them.

Hatshepsut and Neferure watched them go, then ambled back up the path to the palace, taking the long way around the lake. Neferure plucked a lily from the waters, absentmindedly picking the petals and dropping them as they walked. The yellow petals fluttered to the ground, scattered by the princess’s footsteps. She bit her lip, showing slightly crooked teeth, seemingly lost in thought.

“How is Nofret-Hor these days?” Hatshepsut asked.

“Fine,” Neferure mumbled. “She’s to be married soon.”

“I’m sure she’s excited.” Hatshepsut knew from Senenmut that Nofret-Hor had chosen her own husband, a scribe from the Temple of Thoth. Hatshepsut planned to send them a lavish wedding gift, perhaps even present them with a plot of land and vineyards in Iuny.

Neferure only shrugged and sighed, dropping more flower petals to the path.

Hatshepsut wished she could catch a glimpse of the inner workings of Neferure’s mind. It was easier to discern the secret motives of glossy courtiers than it was to pull one solid answer out of her silent daughter.

“I can’t stand it anymore.” Hatshepsut motioned for the guards to fall back. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” Neferure flushed again, her cheeks crimson fire now compared to the gentle pink that had warmed her face earlier. Those same eyes now darted to her mother’s face and down to the mangled lily.

Hatshepsut took her daughter’s fingers and squeezed them. “Neferure, anyone can see you’re upset. Was it Tutmose? I’m sure he didn’t mean for his comment to embarrass you.”

“No, I know, it’s not—” Neferure stumbled over the words. “It’s not Tutmose.” Her lower lip trembled. “It is, but it’s not.”

Hatshepsut pulled Neferure into her arms and held her tight. Her daughter’s heart fluttered like a sunbird. “Whatever’s bothering you can’t be that terrible. And you can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I know.” Tears clung to the corners of Neferure’s eyes, but she allowed Hatshepsut to lead her to a granite bench at the edge of the lake. They sat in silence for some time as a pair of swans built a nest in a clump of reeds. Past the lake, the heads of two giraffes stood tall above the menagerie buildings. The baboons and monkeys squawked from behind the wall.

Finally, Neferure spoke, twirling the same loose thread on her sheath between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you ever doubt the path the gods had chosen for you?”

So that’s what this was about.

“Every day until the double crown was placed upon my head,” Hatshepsut replied. It felt strange to say the words, but they were true. “I’ve been terrified of failing since the day my sister died and I realized I’d have to become Great Royal Wife.”

“But you didn’t fail.” Neferure’s eyes welled with tears and she tugged at the thread, opening a hole in the linen. It broke Hatshepsut’s heart to see her so miserable.

“You won’t fail either.” Hatshepsut slid closer. “You’re doing beautifully at the temple. The priests inform me of your progress every time I see them.”

“What if that’s all I want?”

There was a long silence. Reeds snapped as the swans worked to build a home for their cygnets.

“Neferure, the gods have given you a gift, an opportunity to serve them in more ways than one. Your work at the temple is infinitely important.” Hatshepsut knelt on the ground so Neferure had to look at her, clasped her hands to keep her from picking at the thread. If she kept at it, she wouldn’t have much of a sheath left to ruin. “But serving Egypt as Tutmose’s Great Royal Wife and partner on the throne is even more important.”

Tears spilled onto Neferure’s cheeks. She was young. It was natural for her to be frightened of the future.

Hatshepsut hugged Neferure, feeling the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. “You’ll make a wonderful Great Royal Wife. And Tutmose is a smart young man—”

She stopped, realization dawning as her arms dropped back to her lap. “It’s Tutmose you’re worried about, isn’t it? You don’t want to marry him.”

Neferure stiffened. “No, it’s not that. Tutmose always tries so hard to please me. Too hard, perhaps.” She stared past Hatshepsut to the swans, fingers unfolding in her lap like lotus blossoms. “I don’t think I’ll ever make him happy.”

Hatshepsut laughed in relief. “My precious girl, you couldn’t be more wrong. I can’t think of a better pair to share the throne.”

“Better than you and Father, I suppose.”

Hatshepsut sobered. She had never belittled Thut to his daughter, but it was no secret that theirs had not been a love match. “I suppose so.”

“And you won’t allow someone else to become Tutmose’s Great Royal Wife?”

“You know I can’t do that. Your fully royal blood completes his claim to the throne. And if something were to happen to him as it did your father, you would need to rule Egypt in his place.”

Neferure’s face turned whiter than the swans’ feathers. She shook her head. “That can’t happen. I wouldn’t be able to—”

“You could,” Hatshepsut chided her gently. “I had to.”

Neferure’s face crumpled, her hands fluttering in her lap. “I’m not you, Mother. I don’t have your gifts. I want to stay at the temple, become a chantress or perhaps a priestess.”

“That’s not an option, Neferure.” Hatshepsut stood and shook her head. “You are destined for greatness, not obscurity.”

“What if I don’t want greatness?”

“Then you’ll need to content yourself with doing your duty.”

Neferure wished for the impossible. This was the way things had to be, the only possibility.

“You’ll grow into the idea with time.” Hatshepsut offered her hand to Neferure and was shocked by the chill of her fingers. “You won’t marry Tutmose until you’re ready.”

“You promise?”

“I give you my word.” She kissed Neferure’s forehead, inhaled the scent of sunshine on her skin. “And I promise one day you will be ready.”

She would have to be.

YEAR EIGHT OF PHARAOH HATSHEPSUT

A
lone in the Pharaoh’s private garden, Hatshepsut and Senenmut were silently absorbed in their scrolls as two peacocks—recent gifts from the Phoenician ambassador—meandered through the garden, idly picking at flower petals and insects. The birds were terribly loud and gaudy, but Hatshepsut rather liked the unique addition to the royal menagerie. If their screeching became unbearable, she’d order the cooks to come up with a sauce that would complement roast peacock.

She closed her eyes to the morning sunshine, letting the well-worn papyrus of
The Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor
drop to the grass. She’d read the story countless times as a child, but now the adventure reminded her of Neshi’s trip to Punt. Of course, that expedition had lacked the talking golden serpent.

Eyes still closed, she allowed Re’s warmth to lull her toward sleep, until the angry slap of sandals on the garden tiles pulled her back to reality. Nomti had intercepted an unfamiliar messenger at the garden entrance, and now he gestured toward her and Senenmut.

“That doesn’t look good,” Senenmut said, shielding his eyes to peer in Nomti’s direction.

Nomti dismissed the messenger and walked slowly toward them, arms tight at his sides. Whatever tidings the messenger bore weren’t pleasant.

He stopped several paces away, his face unreadable beneath the tattoos.

“What is it?” Hatshepsut asked.

“The messenger was from Aswan,” Nomti said.

“What happened to the obelisks?” Senenmut set down his papyrus.

Hatshepsut had ordered two more colossal obelisks hewn from Aswan’s quarries to accompany the pair already raised at Karnak. These newer obelisks were scheduled for completion in two months, to commemorate the anniversary of her ascension to the Isis Throne. And they were massive, a third larger than the previous ones.

She’d never been one to dream small.

Nomti clasped his hands behind his back. “The workers followed common procedures for removing the granite from the quarry, placing wood in the vertical cuts and wetting it to allow it to expand.”

“And?”

“The first obelisk released unanticipated stress while still attached to the bedrock.”

“Unanticipated stress?” Hatshepsut asked.

“It cracked,” Senenmut interpreted, his voice strangled.

“Yes,” Nomti said. “It’s unsalvageable.”

“Son of Set!” Senenmut crumpled the papyrus in his fist. “We scoured the quarries for that granite for weeks. The stone was perfect!”

Hatshepsut couldn’t stop a shiver from climbing up her spine, as if a cloud had suddenly crossed over the sun. Perhaps this was an admonishment from some offended god?

She pushed away the ridiculous worry. She had done nothing to anger any of the gods. This was simply nature, an undiscovered aberration in the stone that was only now making itself known.

“We’ll simply have to survey Aswan for another suitable site,” Hatshepsut said. “There’s nothing wrong with the second obelisk?”

“Nothing the messenger reported,” Nomti said.

“I’ll send new orders to Amenhetep immediately.” Senenmut was already on his feet. “If he doubles the pace of construction on the new one, the two obelisks can sail at the same time.” He glowered, as if somehow the rock had cracked to spite him. He disliked the taste of failure as much as Hatshepsut did.

She nodded her dismissal to Nomti. “We knew this might happen,” she said to Senenmut once they were alone.

“It shouldn’t have happened. I handpicked that slab.”

“What’s done is done. The work will start over and, as you’ve said, the obelisks can still sail together as planned. There’s nothing else we can do.”

Senenmut stared at the battered papyrus in his hand, attempted to smooth it out. “You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s ready for the
sed
festival.”

“It will be.” She kissed his cheek. “And the festival is going to be perfect.”

•   •   •

The obelisks were barely ready in time for the first day of Peret
,
the planting season and the start of the five-day
sed
festival. As the celebration was one of rebirth and rejuvenation, it seemed only fitting that the season match the mood. The rest of the celebration—raising the obelisks, reenacting Hatshepsut’s coronation, and assorted physical competitions—would prove that at thirty-four years old, the female pharaoh still possessed the vitality and physical ability to rule Egypt.

Hatshepsut marveled at the behemoth sycamore barge that was transporting the two massive lengths of stone upriver toward the docks. Just as had occurred eight years ago, the entire town lined the riverbank to witness the approach of the gold-capped monuments. In years to come, the
rekhyt
would regale their children and then their grandchildren with the story of the incredible feat accomplished before their very eyes. For her part, Hatshepsut would ensure that this monumental undertaking was recorded in stone at both Karnak and Djeser-Djeseru.

Future generations would sing her praises long after she was gone.

This time, she wasn’t taking any chances of angering the fickle gods and earning further wrath directed at the obelisks. On her orders, and only after the stretch of river had been cleared of crocodiles, a herd of white cattle had been driven across the Nile for good luck before Re had risen. Three small boats packed with priests now plied the waters to bless the obelisks, the river, and even the oarsmen of the twenty-seven boats pulling the barge. The
sed
celebration would start according to plan.

Priests led a sleek black sacrificial bull from the crowd as oarsmen threw ropes to the barge, like oversized spiders spinning a web. The bull’s muscles rippled as if made of quicksilver and its nostrils flared at the priests’ attempts to calm it. Catching the scent of death on the breeze, the beast lost its temper, braying and snorting, its yellow eyes flaring. The priests scurried to contain the animal, but one took a horn in the ribs and was carried into the crowd to die. The crack of a whip finally persuaded the animal to step foot on the gangplank. The crowd held quiet as the High Priest of Amun intoned a prayer to the Great Cackler to ask his blessing for the occasion. The blinding flash of Re’s light on the priest’s dagger was no doubt the last thing the bull saw before blood surged from its neck. It knelt, then collapsed to the ground as the death spasms twitched their way along its dying body.

The High Priest crouched over the pool of warm blood to consult the frothy redness before looking into the pattern of clouds overhead. He gave a succinct nod, then turned to face Hatshepsut. “Amun is pleased with the sacrifice!”

The crowd roared in delight, and two drums beat out a single deafening heartbeat. Then it was Hatshepsut’s turn to speak.

“We commissioned these obelisks to commemorate our fifteenth year as ruler of the Two Lands and to dedicate the precious monuments to Amun, our sacred father. May the Great Cackler accept these gifts and continue to shower Egypt with his blessings!” She marveled at the crowd as it thundered its approval. She had broken the rules once again. Pharaohs planned the sacred
sed
celebration only after they had ruled for thirty years, but she had included her years as Tutmose’s regent to reach only half that. Why wait when there was no guarantee she’d ever see thirty years on the Horus Thorne?

An imperceptible nod to Tutmose gave the signal for him to follow her across the gangplank and onto the barge. Together they uncorked the sacred vials of myrrh and overturned them, dousing the giant stone needles with one final offering to Amun.

She turned back to address her subjects. “Tomorrow you will bear witness as these obelisks are raised within the walls of Karnak.” Happiness radiated from her voice. “But tonight each of you shall enjoy ox flesh, bread, and beer from the palace!”

Her announcement was met with another mighty cheer. This would be the one and only time most of the
rekhyt
tasted meat, a welcome change from their usual diet of dried fish, onions, and bread. The beer was a welcome gift, too, far superior to the thick barley sludge they usually drank.

“A deft political maneuver,
Per A’a
,” Tutmose commented as they stepped back on shore.

“You think so?”

“You have a gift, an ability to draw people to you, like bees to a lotus blossom.” Tutmose looked askance at Hatshepsut, as if choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t understand why you planned a
sed
festival after so short a time on the throne.”

She waited for him to continue, but Tutmose remained silent, his smooth features a perfect mask.

“Some rules are worth following,” she said, “but others exist simply because that’s the way things have always been done.” She gestured to the throng of Waset’s jubilant denizens. “Look how happy they are.”

Tutmose seemed impressed. “There’s no doubt the people love you. And you’ve just sacrificed enough to Amun to keep him content for the next fifteen years.”

“At least.” Hatshepsut gave a wide smile. “Remember that when you’re pharaoh. Keep the people and the gods happy, and everyone prospers.”

•   •   •

Hatshepsut woke the next morning to priests singing hymns to herald Re’s glorious victory over black Apep. The fuzzy rectangles of light streaming from her windows were softer than usual, and dust motes danced languidly in the air. The sun god hid his face behind a thick bank of clouds—a perfect day for the
sed
festival chariot race.

Hatshepsut leapt from her bed, startling the sleek black cat curled at her feet. Today there would be a reenactment of her coronation and the chariot race—one she hoped to win. Her mattress was still dented with the imprint of Senenmut’s body; he had already left to oversee the raising of the second pair of obelisks. She wanted to be there, but knew anxiety would leave her without any hair or fingernails if she went to watch.

Mouse waited with a breathtaking linen kilt shimmering with thousands of silver beads and a pectoral and corselet strung with bands of gold and lapis, layered to represent the feathering of birds. Gold was revered as the skin of the gods, but silver was even more precious, symbolic of the bones of the sacred deities. Today Hatshepsut would be drenched with both precious metals to remind everyone of her link to the gods.

After she was scrubbed, plucked, and oiled from head to toe, a barrage of slaves ushered her to her dressing table. The heavy pectoral and matching earrings Mouse draped from her neck and ears had been a gift from Senenmut for her naming day several years back. The electrum moon hovered over lapis lazuli stars, that startling blue-and-gold-flecked gem reserved for royalty, and matched a ring of Senenmut’s that she had taken to wearing on her thumb. Mouse drew thick lines of kohl to her temples and brushed gold dust over her eyelids, then dabbed delicate drops of jasmine perfume behind her ears. The bull’s tail went round her waist and the pharaoh’s braided false beard was strapped to her chin. The dwarf finished the ensemble with a new Nubian wig—one that smelled of beeswax and scratched worse than sand—and the striped blue-and-gold
nemes
headdress, the
uraeus
bearing its fangs and poised to strike.

Hatshepsut was ready.

Nomti waited to drive her by chariot in stately procession to Karnak for the ceremony. Despite the early hour, most of the City of Truth had roused itself to catch another fleeting glimpse of its pharaoh. The streets had been swept clean of signs of last night’s debauchery in preparation for the most royal of eyes.

Hatshepsut’s heart swelled under the weight of the moon pectoral, and she twisted Senenmut’s silver star ring on her thumb as the chariot drew closer to the avenue before the Gate of Amun. Four stately obelisks now stood at attention, the two originals wrapped entirely in gold, now joined by two massive granite sisters capped with electrum, all reflecting Re’s light to flood the Two Lands. Despite the overcast skies, the monuments rippled with light so pure that only the nine gods could have sent it. After all of Hatshepsut’s heartache and worry, the obelisks were home safe.

The gods smiled upon them after all.

The coronation reenactment went smoothly. As the High Priest of Amun removed the
nemes
headdress to replace it with the red and white double crown, Hatshepsut saw most of the same players gathered once again—including Neshi, Ti, and Ineni—all with more wrinkles around their eyes and a little extra weight to pad their waists. Tutmose and Neferure stood below the dais, their shoulders not quite touching.

And then it was over.

The scent of the myrrh used to anoint Hatshepsut’s forehead swirled on the breeze as she stepped outside. Gooseflesh crept up her arms at the uncustomary chill brought about by the clouds overhead.

Senenmut and Nomti stood on either side of her electrum chariot, arms crossed before their chests. Her black stallion pranced and snorted, the golden bells on his leather girths tinkling. She stopped, feet braced as if expecting a battle. “It’s a good thing your expressions can’t injure, or I’d be seriously maimed right now,” she said.

Nomti stepped into the basket to secure the reins. “Are you still set on doing this?”

“Doing what?” She knew full well what Nomti meant.

Nomti looked down on her like an errant child. “Driving yourself.”

“I’ve driven my own chariot since I was old enough to see over the basket,” Hatshepsut said. “Earlier, actually, since my father had a step built for me.”

“We’re well aware of that,” Senenmut said. “We’re also aware that you prefer to drive your chariot like a cheetah on the hunt.”

“Well, that only makes sense.” She grinned. “After all, it
is
a race.”

“I didn’t save you from Mensah all those years ago only to watch you get trampled by a horse,” Nomti said. “I’ll drive you.”

“You most certainly will not.” Hatshepsut slapped his hands off the reins. “You two are worse than a couple of old women. These games are in my honor. I can’t be driven around the arena.”