Sovereign of Stars (12 page)

She was admitted at once into the king's chamber, as
she knew she would be. She entered with her chin raised, flush with
a new confidence she had never before felt in the presence of her
mother. She felt the power of the gods beating within her,
throbbing with the strong, steady pulse of her heart.

When the guard on the door announced the God's Wife,
Hatshepsut sprang from her couch and came to meet her, pulled her
into an embrace that lasted a moment too long. Neferure squirmed
away, took a step back to regain her regal composure.

“Gods, but I feared when I saw the bull....
Neferure, my daughter. If I'd lost you, I would have gone mad.”

“Lost me?” Neferure wanted to tell her mother not to
be foolish; the bull had been in her command all along. Was the
beast not the embodiment of a god, and did the gods not love her?
But a familiar voice shouted from the rear of the chambers, a
wordless cry of relief, and Senenmut rushed to her side. He
gathered her into his arms, kissing her cheeks and giving vent to a
sound that was nearly a wail. She laughed at his silliness and
wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him in return, until
Hatshepsut spoke again. Neferure recalled herself and stepped away
from her tutor, resumed her tilted chin and her air of
confidence.

“Yes, lost you,” said Hatshepsut. “You are lucky to
be in one piece. Perhaps you are too young for this God's Wife
business after all. I was hasty...”

“No,” she said quickly. “It suits me.”

Hatshepsut sighed. “A year ago you were demanding
that I make you a Hathor priestess. You said Amun spurned you. Has
the god changed his heart, then?”

Neferure's chin and ka fell a little. “No,” she
admitted. “But at least the work keeps me near the gods.”

Hatshepsut tilted her head to one side. Her eyes
were very dark in their cage of black kohl, and stern as Thutmose’s
gebgeb birds. They lingered on Neferure's face a long while. She
held her mother's gaze with great effort, but she was proud that
her legs did not shake.

At last Hatshepsut said, “You have been...different
of late, child.”

“Different, Mother?”

“Settled. Dare I tempt the gods to make me a fool by
saying it aloud? Yes,
settled
.”

Neferure's hand flexed at her side. She could still
feel the dryness of the bull's dusty coat, the intensity of holy
life quivering within his great, blowing, roaring body. She felt
still the connection that had thrilled from his forehead where she
had stroked him, into her palm, up her arm, into her heart. It sped
its beat again as she recalled that she had touched a god. Neferure
felt anything but settled. She felt like a chariot horse when the
reins are loosed.

She held her tongue, waiting.

“Maat,” the king said, as if to herself. “I am the
Pharaoh; I should see clearly what is maat.”

“Do you not see clearly?” Neferure's voice was high
and shaky. A curious energy flowed through her; her blood was all
waves and whitecaps.

“What if, child. What if I sent you to Iunet, only
part of the time?” Hatshepsut at once turned away, paced the floor
of her great, richly decorated chamber. She picked up some small
silver bauble from a waist-high table and turned it over in her
palm, watching it intently as though its rotations might reveal
some great mystery. Neferure squinted at the bauble; it was the
figure of a bull.

“It could be useful, after all, to have my…to have
the God's Wife trained in the ways of the Lady of Seven.”

Hatshepsut glanced up, looked to Senenmut. The
steward frowned in mild confusion and said nothing. Hatshepsut
replaced the silver bull on its table and turned back to face
Neferure.

“I shall think on it, child. Continue your work, and
let me pray, and consider all the consequences. If it is maat – if
Amun wills it – you may have your time with your goddess yet.”

Neferure clapped her hands together; she bit back
the squeal that fought to spring from her throat. Squealing would
be most undignified. But she beamed at her mother, and at her
tutor, overcome with joy and the heat of triumph.

Hatshepsut laid a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing is
certain yet. Much depends on the High Priest, and on the god.”

“Do not allow your hopes to run way from your good
sense,” Senenmut added quietly. But his voice was warm, and carried
in it a note of the same happiness Neferure felt filling her heart,
spilling over like a vessel overwhelmed by sweet, cool wine.

“I will not; I swear it.”

Hatshepsut smiled, shook her head. “It is good to
see you so pleased, Neferure. If ever I knew what maat looked like,
I could swear your happiness is its very image. Now run along;
Takhat is waiting. You have a feast to prepare for, God's Wife of
Amun.”

“Thank you, Mother. Oh – thank you, thank you!”

**

That evening when the court gathered for the Feast
of Min, filling the great hall with the colors and songs of
celebration, all the talk was of Neferure. Hatshepsut suspected it
would be. She gave the invocation in a loud, clear voice that
commanded attention, yet so sensational were the rumors that half
the guests could not keep their eyes on their Pharaoh. They eyed
the King's Daughter instead, and whispered with heads together when
Hatshepsut had finished her speech. She could read Neferure's name
on their lips.

It troubled her in ka and in heart, to know that
such a young girl should be the center of these wild stories. But
Neferure seemed oblivious to the attention. She sat serenely at her
small table to the left of the Pharaohs' thrones, eyes humbly
downcast, attending to her supper with courtesy and grace. She even
seemed to be engaging politely with Takhat for once.

A great side of roasted beef entered the hall,
garlanded with long loops of braided herbs. Three strong men
carried it fore and aft on a stout pole. It dripped red juices down
among the bearers’ feet. The scent of smoke and spices trailed it
like a banner. The people cheered to see it, raising their beer
bowls high as the beef paraded down the length of the throne to the
foot of the dais, where Hatshepsut approved it with a nod and a
smile and commanded the cooks to cut a portion for each guest in
attendance.

With the crowd distracted by the spectacle, she eyed
this face and that warily, searching for some sign that the rumors
might be multiplying and flying. The tales were already lively
enough. Neferure had kissed the bull, they said, and the bull knelt
to her. Or she had ridden on its back. Or she had slain it with a
touch of her hand, then raised it back to life with a word.

The truth of the matter was hardly supernatural. The
bull had been raised in the presence of people since it was a calf.
Once its rage at the flies had passed, why should it not calmly
accept the attentions of a child? All bulls enjoyed a scratch
between the horns – even the newest acolytes to Min's priesthood
knew as much.

The kitchen staff bore in more courses: trays heaped
with sticky honey cakes, melon balls wrapped in flower petals,
waterfowl and game birds roasted or stewed, sweet or savory.
Between each course the entertainers moved about the tables, women
in bright-banded wigs singing sweetly with their harpers in tow,
drifting from one great man to another, laying a hand on a
shoulder, proffering a lotus blossom to a lady of the court.
Acrobats wheeled and tumbled, their bodies glistening with paint,
their brief loincloths flitting like sun-beetles on the wing. At a
particularly daring tumble, the court would raise its cups and
bowls high, cheering, and Thutmose would reach for the tray of
trinkets his servant held. He scattered handfuls of jewelry, rings
of gold and silver, chains bearing lapis and turquoise pendants,
and tossed larger handfuls as the court increased its acclaim. When
an especially light and pliant young girl flipped toward a table of
drunken nobles, lifted herself to a hand-stand upon the merchant
Ranefer’s unsteady shoulders, then vaulted clear over his
companion’s heads, Thutmose nearly shouted himself, so thrilled was
he with the girl’s performance. He lifted a double fistful of
baubles and let them fly through the air, and the girl gathered up
the best of them in her hands as she tumbled past the dais, then
bowed low in thanks.

As course followed course and singer followed
acrobat, Hatshepsut found herself bracing for the aftermath of the
Min incident. She watched her children attend to the feast,
Thutmose with cheer and enthusiasm, Neferure with quiet dignity,
while a creeping sense of foolishness plagued her thoughts.
Neferure had not intentionally upstaged the Pharaohs at the Min
Festival, yet she had stolen their majesty all the same. Hatshepsut
picked at her dish of duck breast stewed in pomegranate seeds,
wondering what her subjects thought of her now. The Good God
Maatkare leapt from the path of a charging bull, but an
eight-year-old girl had seemingly tamed it with a touch of her
hand.

Will they think my authority is diminished?

She allowed her eyes to wander down the length of
the hall, scrutinizing each conversation from the lonely pinnacle
of the throne. Ladies in beaded gowns tipped their heads together
to mutter close to one another's ears, the cones of perfumed wax
adorning their wigs coming together in a conspiratorial manner.
Noblemen nodded over their beer with intense murmurs.

At a nearby table, where the women of the harem sat
passing bowls of sweets and laughing, the tjati of a local district
knelt to make conversation with Opet, Hatshepsut's half-sister. She
watched as the man spoke near Opet's ear, smiling; Opet glanced up
toward the dais, her eyes wide and startled.

He is plotting,
was Hatshepsut's immediate
and forceful thought.
He knows she and I share a father, that
marriage to Opet could place him on the throne. He thinks me weak,
frightened, powerless.

She resisted the urge to clutch Thutmose to her
protectively. Instead, she looked round for Senenmut.

“That man down there – the tjati of Herui. What is
he doing?”

Senenmut smirked down at the women's tables.
“Looking for a little favor with a pretty lady, I assume.”

“He is plotting something.”

He stifled a sigh – she could see him struggle to
stifle it. “Great Lady, I advise you against...”

“We must find out what they are planning.”

“They are planning nothing.” Senenmut's voice
dropped low so that none, not even Thutmose who sat swinging his
legs in anticipation of the next performer, might overhear how he
argued with the king. “I would advise you against allowing old
fears to overtake you.”

“Are they so very old? I saw the way Opet looked up
at me when he whispered to her. She looked startled, and…and
speculative.”

“They were probably looking at Neferure. Everyone
else is.”

Hatshepsut drew a deep breath, held it until it
pushed painfully against her chest. Senenmut was right. She must
not allow fear to rule her. The old fears were gone now, she
reminded herself. She had driven them away on the battlefield in
Kush.

When she exhaled, the tension drained from her, and
only a calm cunning remained in her heart. “How is Ineni
managing?”

“Managing, Great Lady?”

“His influence amongst the nobles.”

“As well as ever, as far as I can see.”

And how long would be go on managing? His mind was
still sharp, but he was older than Ahmose, and the gods never gave
years back to any man. It was but a matter of time before Ineni
left for the Field of Reeds, and when he did, who would be her rein
on the nobles' bits?

She searched the hall again until she found him.
Ineni sat in the midst of a circle of great men, merchants and
governors, judges and architects. His mouth moved in careful
speech; his head tilted in that thoughtful way he had, mild and yet
so impossibly clever. The men leaned toward him eagerly, like
children seeking sweets from their nurse. Even at this distance she
could see the age on his face, the slight stoop of his
shoulders.

“Go to Ineni, Senenmut. Give him a summons to my
chamber, tomorrow at mid-day.”

Senenmut bowed again and turned to descend the steps
of the dais. She caught his hand. He smiled down at her, briefly,
covertly.

“And the High Priest of Amun, too.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Senenmut arrived outside Hatshepsut's quarters
before mid-day, just as Nehesi rounded a pillar and stepped into
the king's outer hall. The Medjay moved with the same bullish
stride and imposing power he had always shown – a marvel, for
Nehesi was older than Senenmut, and at thirty-three years, by the
grace of the gods, Senenmut was no longer a fresh colt. Of late he
had noted a persistent ache in his right knee, and his shoulders
did not want to ride as squarely as they once had. They drooped
some, if he did not pay them heed. The effect made his chest and
stomach seem rather rounder and softer than they were. True, Nehesi
was an active soldier. The profession tended to weed out those who
could not meet the physical demands of the work early on. Only men
lucky in breeding and extensive in blessings could keep up with
such a career.

Senenmut's work had its own demands. In addition to
managing his estates, he oversaw – in an official if not a
practical capacity – dozens of the king's interests, including the
granaries, the treasury, and the sacred cattle of Amun. And the
King's Daughter – never forget her. Most of his work, excepting
that which involved Neferure, was conducted by scroll and scribe,
with Senenmut seated at a table, running figures and tallies,
issuing orders for the dispensation or acquisition of this or that
or another. Small wonder a man such as Nehesi, who hurled spears
and rode the chariot day in and day out, should still have the
physique of a young soldier.