Daughter of the Gods (4 page)

Her brother sighed. “The Akkadians have a ripe young princess they want me to marry as a peace offering.”

Hatshepsut stared at him. “That can’t happen.” It was ludicrous to imagine a foreigner sitting aside the Isis Throne, especially after everything their dynasty had done to rid Egypt of foreign rulers, beginning with expelling the dreaded Hyksos from the Black Land only a few generations ago.

“Of course not,” her brother said.

“There
are
benefits to the match.” Senenmut said. “Your brother will likely produce several heirs, regardless of whom he marries first. Peace with the Akkadians while he and your father live would be a definite boon for Egypt.” He took a long draught of his wine. “Your status in life wouldn’t change one fathom.”

This time her glare could have frozen the Nile. “Except that it would dilute the bloodline. There could be civil war after Thutmosis dies. Not to mention that it would be an affront to Ma’at.” Hatshepsut would have to talk to her brother about his recent choice in advisers; this man had to go.

Thut laid his hand on her thigh. “Obviously, if Princess Enheduanna married me before you, she would become Great Royal Wife and relegate you to secondary status once you and I were married. Senenmut and I have discussed the possibility that if I marry an Akkadian princess first, then any son born to us could inherit the throne before your sons. That is why the marriage is not acceptable until after you’ve married me.”

“So what do the Akkadians want from Egypt instead? Increased trade agreements? Gold from Nubia?”

Thut nodded. “The sand dwellers drive a hard bargain.” He studied her before speaking. “None of us sees a way to push back our marriage by more than a few months. Only long enough to prepare.”

“A few months?” Hatshepsut’s necklace was suddenly too tight.

“Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of a smooth succession,” Senenmut said. “You’re both old enough to be married, and the pharaoh’s health isn’t what it used to be.”

“I understand.” Her voice was so quiet, she wasn’t sure if either of them heard her, but she didn’t care.

Thut fiddled with a gold bangle at his wrist, not meeting her eyes. “Father plans to make the announcement at my mother’s naming-day celebration this evening.”

“Of course.” She didn’t realize she was picking at the wounds on her wrists until the scab started to bleed.

Thut and Senenmut continued to speak, something about increasing their demand for copper from the Akkadians, but Hatshepsut didn’t hear any of it. She wanted to scream.

She rose, ignoring them both as they stood in response. “I need to return to the palace.”

“Of course.” Thut touched her elbow, already reaching for his cane. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just bored with all your blather about copper.” She flashed him the brightest smile she could manage. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Hatshepsut felt their eyes on her back as she clambered into the chariot. She heard none of Waset’s sounds on the return trip, smelled none of the scents of the City of Truth. Once inside the palace walls, she started to walk, no destination in mind, needing time to think. Head down, she turned a corner and barreled straight into Mutnofret’s myrrh-drenched chest.

Set’s blood!
Somehow she’d stumbled into the Hall of Women, the last place she wanted to be.

The women’s rooms and gardens were a gilded prison used to trap the graceful creatures within. Her father had only two wives, but, like all pharaohs, he had once possessed some of Egypt’s most delicate flowers, plucked from their families for the honor of gracing the pharaoh’s bed in the hopes of producing the future hawk in the nest. Yet Pharaoh Tutmose had often been gone campaigning and neglected his other women after Thutmosis was born, more concerned with ruling his empire than siring more children, since he already had four strong sons. Then his three eldest sons passed to the West, and aging Ahmose made sure no new women were brought in to threaten her position as Great Royal Wife; there was already enough rivalry between the pharaoh’s two wives to fill the entire Hall of Women with animosity. Now Tutmose’s old flowers were withered, breasts sagging past their ribs and faces so lined that no amount of kohl and henna could make them young again. And here they would remain. A woman left the Hall of Women only once: on her way to be mummified by the priests of Anubis.

This was to be Hatshepsut’s life.

“My, my, child!” Double chin wagging, Mutnofret giggled as she backed away from her husband’s daughter. In her youth, Mutnofret’s curvaceous silhouette and exotic features had caught the pharaoh’s eye, but now her honeyed cakes were her constant companions. Her pendulous breasts hung down to the waist of her skirt, the nipples painted with red ochre and set with carnelian stones. “Good thing I’m not your mother—she’d have your ear for not paying more attention.”

“I’m sorry, Mutnofret. My mind was elsewhere.” Hatshepsut didn’t wish to get drawn into a conversation about the roast ostrich served at last night’s banquet or the latest fashion of headdress. She sidestepped Mutnofret’s substantial girth. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course, my dear.” The older woman’s kohled eyelids crinkled as she smiled. Her eyebrows were missing, shaved off to mourn the recent death of her favorite cat. The pampered feline had been sent to the Field of Reeds with enough mummified mice and pots of milk to keep it fed for eternity. “I’m sure you have plenty to do this afternoon. You always do—such a responsible girl.” She leaned back and examined Hatshepsut. “One day you’ll make a fine wife for my son—so dedicated.”

Hatshepsut grimaced but managed to slip away from Mutnofret without being cajoled into further conversation. She’d have to make an extra sacrifice to Amun for that little miracle later.

But there was something else she had to do first.

H
atshepsut lay in Mensah’s arms, wanting to run, to yell, to throw something. Their lovemaking on the stable floor had been fierce, which her scratched back could attest to, but that only added to the sensation that her world was spiraling out of control. And there was nothing she could do about it.

The horse in the next stall whinnied softly, then fell silent. Hatshepsut raised her hands in the shadows, scarcely able to make out the dark lines of dried blood on her wrists.

Neferubity wouldn’t have wanted this. Find some other way to honor her.

She grimaced in remembrance of Thut’s words. She knew what had to be done, but that didn’t make her decision any easier.

Mensah kissed the top of her head. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Just thinking.”

“That’s dangerous, especially if it’s you doing the thinking.” He dodged her mock punch. “What are you scheming this time?”

There was no point hiding the truth. Rumors would fly across the Two Lands faster than a heron could fly up the Nile. “Thut wants me to marry him.”

Mensah rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbow. He picked a piece of straw from her hair and twirled it between his fingers. “I anticipated that.” His eyes flicked to her as he lay back in the straw. “I also anticipated your resistance.”

“Would it do any good?”

“It might. If you wanted it to.”

She closed her eyes. His look was too tender—she needed Mensah to be his typical shallow self. “I don’t like the idea of fighting a losing battle. I’d prefer to put my energies elsewhere.”

“I know precisely where you can put all that extra energy.” His finger traced the line of her rib cage, then made a lazy circle around her nipple. His lips curled into a wicked smile. “Your marriage doesn’t mean this has to stop.”

She swatted his hand away and tugged her rumpled sheath on over her head. “Somehow I doubt Thut would be willing to share his Great Royal Wife.”

Mensah gave a bark of laughter. “I wasn’t proposing we tell him.”

But Hatshepsut could never do that to her brother. Whatever her decision, she’d make it with her entire being, exactly as Neferubity would have done. And as much as Hatshepsut preferred to believe she had some choice in this matter, the simple truth was she had none. She didn’t relish the idea of being dragged kicking and screaming before the priests.

She kissed Mensah, letting her lips linger on his.

His fingers threaded through hers. “That felt like good-bye.”

She stood, inhaling the scents of hay and horse dung, the final scents of freedom. “You’ll find some pretty noble’s daughter to take my place soon enough.” She poked his foot with her toe and smiled. “Or, more likely, one of the girl-slaves from the kitchens.”

He winced as he stood, possibly from the insult, or more likely from the scratches Hatshepsut’s nails had left on his back. He towered over her. “It’s not a slave or some empty-headed courtier’s daughter I want, and you know it.”

She touched his chest, reached up to trace his jaw. “I’m sorry, Mensah. I truly am.”

“I won’t let you go so easily.”

She smiled at him, hearing the challenge in his voice. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

And then she turned and walked away, into the orange haze of dusk and away from the warmth of his arms. It didn’t matter how much Mensah fought for her; she’d made up her mind.

She’d honor Neferubity, if it was the last thing she did.

•   •   •

Hatshepsut gritted her teeth as the
medjay
pounded their spears on the ground and opened the giant gilded gate to allow her entrance into the darkened Hall of Women, the entire northern wing of the palace reserved for the royal wives and concubines of Pharaoh Tutmose. One woman with a thick waist and too much henna on her cheeks braided a crown of delicate white lotus flowers as another strummed a harp, filling the night air with fragile notes. The oil lamps flickered as the guards pounded their spears again and a herald announced the pharaoh.

“The Good God, Lord of the Two Lands, Aakheperkare, the Son of Re, Tutmose the Justified!”

The concubines’ faces lit up at his presence, but dimmed quickly once they realized the pharaoh had not come for them. Tutmose gifted the women with a smile or caress, but stopped when he saw his daughter waiting in the shadows. He dropped a kiss on a woman’s expectant forehead and crossed the courtyard to Hatshepsut. Thut claimed their father was ill, but Pharaoh Tutmose still seemed a lion to her, exuding power and confidence with every step he took.

Hatshepsut performed a neat little
henu
. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” he said. “The tincture that Gua forced me to take earlier must have helped. Thank the gods—I wouldn’t want to ruin tonight’s celebration.”

“And my brother informs me you have big news for us?” Hatshepsut asked, her voice as sweet as honey.

“I do. I plan to announce both your marriage and Thutmosis’ co-regency tonight.”

Hatshepsut started. She hadn’t realized Thut would ascend the Isis Throne so soon—she’d assumed his crown would wait until their father had passed to the West. Once they married and Thut wore the double crown, Hatshepsut would assume the title of Great Royal Wife. A gift and a curse from the gods.

“I’d like to speak with you about my marriage, Father.”

“In a moment, Hatshepsut.” The pharaoh motioned her to a small shrine tucked in the corner. A wooden statue of the goddess Isis stood lit by the flickering flame of a tiny clay lamp. In one hand the Goddess of the Throne clutched an ankh, the symbol of everlasting life, and she wore a black crown shaped like a throne. Her dress was painted a bright red, the color of blood and sacrifice, and upon her head was a gold vulture headdress. If Hatshepsut became Great Royal Wife, she would be crowned with the same headdress, and her ties to the mother goddess would be further strengthened if she bore Thut’s son. The goddess stared at her, as if trying to discern her heart’s desires. Hatshepsut looked away.

She still preferred Sekhmet, but Isis had given birth to Horus and was the mother of pharaohs. If Hatshepsut were to give up her freedom, it seemed only fair that she receive something in return. And she knew what she wanted.

An offering of blue and white lotus flowers had been left at Isis’ wooden feet, along with a merry spray of red nightshade berries. Pharaoh Tutmose knelt and retrieved a tiny faience
vial from his kilt and doused the wooden statue of the queen of gods. The scent of myrrh rose to mingle with the perfume of the courtyard.

Her father closed his eyes and began to pray. “Hail Isis, blessed mother. I dedicate my daughter to you. May you bless her womb and make her an obedient wife, one who bends to Egypt’s will.”

Wife. Mother.
Hatshepsut swallowed her scream.

“I know this isn’t what you’d planned for your life.” The pharaoh grasped the shrine to pull himself to his feet. “But I think in time you’ll grow accustomed to life as Thutmosis’ wife.”

“That’s what I wished to talk to you about, Father.”

He took off his wig, ran his hands over his scalp. “What troubles you, daughter?”

She pulled a deep breath into her lungs and forced out the words.

“I need you to teach me how to rule. Train me as you have Thut, as if I were your son.”

The pharaoh’s eyes widened. She’d never seen him so shocked. “Absolutely not. You are a woman. A woman cannot rule.”

“I won’t be relegated to the Hall of Women, content to serve Thut and await a death in childbed.”

Instead, she would sacrifice her freedom in exchange for power and a chance to redeem herself.

“I need to do this.” She knelt and clutched his hands. “For Neferubity.”

Clouds passed before the pharaoh’s eyes at the mention of his eldest daughter, the fourth child who had traveled before him to the Field of Reeds.

His lips tightened. “Giving Egypt its next heir will be your most important duty as Great Royal Wife. Your only duty.”

“I am well aware of that.” Hatshepsut wouldn’t think of that now. “But I would be a far better Great Royal Wife for Thut if I could help him from behind the throne.”

He gave a stiff shake of his head. “Absolutely not. The pharaoh requires advice from those with a steady heart, yet you possess Sekhmet’s temper.”

“A temper you’ve always indulged.”

“No longer.”

“Father—”

“No.” His voice was angry. He straightened under the double crown, towering over her. “You belong in the Hall of Women, at least until you can learn to control yourself.”

She tasted the copper tang of blood in her mouth as she watched her father walk away. He had never refused her anything before, but now, when it most mattered, he denied her.

The doors to Mutnofret’s apartments closed behind the pharaoh, scarcely muffling the excited squeal of his second wife.

Hatshepsut glanced at Isis’ statue. The goddess’ lips were curled in a gentle smile, but then the lamp sputtered and her face settled into its wooden stare once more.

“You’ve heard my prayer,” Hatshepsut whispered to her. “Please help my father see the truth.”

Hatshepsut would find some other way out of the Hall of Women and into Thut’s throne room. She just didn’t know how.

Mutnofret’s door opened again and the light from within spilled into the moonlit courtyard. Hatshepsut stiffened, expecting another reprimand, but Thut emerged instead.

He walked slowly to sit beside her, setting his cane on the ground and folding his legs beneath him, the right one at an awkward angle. His sandalwood perfume mingled with the scents of lotus and jasmine. Each of his fingers was bedecked with gold rings to match the pectoral on his chest, a giant lapis lazuli falcon representing Horus. He resembled their father in the shape of his chin and the hook of his nose, yet there was something different about him, something smaller. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Father is going to announce that I’m to be co-regent.”

“Congratulations.” Hatshepsut’s voice fell flat.

“Don’t sound so excited.”

She couldn’t answer, numb with desperation and hopelessness at the future that yawned before her.

“I’m not sure I want this.” Her brother stared into the night. The concubines had left the harp by the fountain, but their low giggles floated up from somewhere in the darkness. Thut winced and stretched his crippled leg in front of him. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to sit on the Isis Throne.”

Hatshepsut laughed, the sound too loud for the quiet courtyard. Thutmosis shot her an angry look. “I’m not sure why that’s funny.”

She kissed his cheek and leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’s not, Thut. The whole situation is ridiculous.”

Her brother didn’t wish to rule, and she wanted nothing else. The gods really did taunt those they loved most.

“Now that we’re finally alone, I have to ask: Do you want to marry me, Hatshepsut?”

He was the first, the only person, to ask her opinion. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. For Mensah, she felt a wild hunger, a desperate excitement to have him in her bed that she couldn’t imagine sharing with the brother she’d grown up with. She loved Thut, but even when they’d sat side by side as children, reciting the King’s List for their tutors and memorizing the course of the Nile, she’d sensed a dullness to his mind and had bristled at his easy compliance with the rules that she constantly tested. At first she had thought perhaps the lessons came easier to her because she was slightly older, but as time had passed she had realized her brother simply didn’t thirst for knowledge as she did, that he was content to do as he was told and no more. Thut was an indulgent brother, but that didn’t mean he would make a good husband, at least not for her. “I’m not sure what I want,” she said. “Do you want to marry me?”

“I’d be a lucky man to have you as a wife, wild heathen that you are.” He deflected a mock punch with a laugh, but sobered and tilted her chin to look at him. “I know marrying me wasn’t what you’d planned.”

Hatshepsut tried hard to make her smile genuine. “Plans change.”

He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I love you. I promise to do my best to make you happy.”

Thut kissed her nose and looked up into Nut’s black belly, as if he might find the answers there. “Father needs me. I’m of age, and he’s not as young as he used to be.”

“And so you’ll do what you have to.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Just as she would. Yet she still wanted something in exchange.

Hatshepsut opened her mouth to broach the same question she’d asked her father, but Mutnofret’s doors flew open to reveal the concubine in all her glittering splendor. Tonight Thut’s mother had managed to outdo even herself. Hatshepsut was sure every jewel she owned was plastered to her body, plus a few more she’d likely pilfered from the pharaoh’s concubines for the occasion.

“Hatshepsut!” Mutnofret lumbered into the courtyard and gathered her son into a fleshy embrace. Her grin revealed several missing teeth. “I just sent Thutmosis to find you. Come in, come in. We’re all waiting for you!”

Dread spiraled down from Hatshepsut’s heart to settle in the pit of her stomach. Thut’s arm was around her waist as they entered Mutnofret’s cozy dining room, open on one wall to a garden but crammed with more shrines and statues of the gods than even the temples housed. Cats lazed about several of them, including two perched on Sekhmet’s lion head. Hatshepsut’s patron goddess seemed to sneer with disgust as she walked past. The pharaoh and his Great Royal Wife reclined on their ebony chairs and nibbled appetizers from communal bowls of garlic chickpeas and honeyed figs. Ahmose pursed her lips as if she’d bitten a rancid pickle, but Pharaoh Tutmose beamed with satisfaction. Tonight the succession would be made secure and any possibility of civil war averted once his son and daughter married. He would have fulfilled his last required duty as pharaoh.

“You’ve been riding your chariot,” Ahmose said as Hatshepsut tipped a cat from her chair. “And you’re late.”

Riding her chariot, amongst other things. No one needed to know about her meeting with Mensah in the stables, especially not Thutmosis or Ahmose. Hatshepsut’s mother had managed to find more fault with her than usual since Neferubity’s death, a feat Hatshepsut wouldn’t have imagined possible. If she had her choice between enduring the rest of this dinner or swimming through a pool of poisonous asps, Hatshepsut knew which she’d pick. Snakes wouldn’t be so terrible.