Sovereign of Stars (21 page)

“My daughter has always enjoyed adventure.”

“This is no mere adventure. She went because she had
to.”

“Had to?”

“She has built more monuments than any Pharaoh
before her, I think, but has had fewer military campaigns. Her
temples and obelisks are for the gods, yes, but more so for the
people. To prove to them – to make a point, you see – that she has
the gods’ favors, and therefore cannot be lightly displaced.”

“She fears displacement?” It was not a surprise.
Secret bids for Egypt’s throne began nearly fifteen years ago, when
Iset was killed by poisoned wine meant for Hatshepsut’s lips. Of
course the senior Pharaoh feared displacement.

“What she needs,” Thutmose said, his voice hesitant
with care, “what
we
need as the Great House of Thutmose the
First, is an heir.”

“She made Neferure heir.” Despite her resolve to
remain neutral before the king, Ahmose’s mouth tightened.

Thutmose raised his brows when he noted her
expression. “Neferure is a woman, and I wonder whether a woman as
heir might stretch the bounds of what Egypt is willing to accept. I
do not speak of disinheriting Neferure – there is no need, and I
will not see my sister ill-treated. But surely by all the gods’
laws a male heir would come before a female.”

Ahmose sat forward on the silk couch. “You would
marry, then, and get a son. Yes – that would do the trick. Neferure
could remain heir until you have your son. Then she would not be
disinherited – only superseded, as the law of the gods would
decree.” Ahmose had never approved of Hatshepsut’s decision to
proclaim Neferure heir, but as she had fought tirelessly to place
her own daughter on the throne so many years ago, she could not in
good conscience gainsay Hatshepsut’s decision. If Thutmose had a
legitimate heir by a Great Royal Wife, the priests of Amun would
indeed uphold a son’s claim over a daughter’s. Ahmose felt sure of
it.

“It may be our only means of keeping the nobles in
their place – of giving Hatshepsut enough reassurance that she
rests easily at night, and Egypt continues its business
uninhibited.”

Ahmose lifted her chin in admiration for the young
man’s quick and thorough thinking. It seemed impossible that such a
bright and earnest king could descend from Mutnofret’s insecurity
and the pig-headed selfishness of the second Thutmose. And yet here
he was, as worthy a descendant as Ahmose’s dead husband could have
wished for. She felt one brief stab of envy that the boy did not
come from her own blood, then pushed the unbecoming emotion away
firmly
. I am the one he calls Grandmother, after all.

“Your insight is to be commended, Majesty. I believe
you are right.”

“You do?” Thutmose squared his shoulders, and Ahmose
stifled a fond chuckle at his sudden boyishness.

“I told Hatshepsut as much, years ago, well before
she proclaimed Neferure her heir. I warned her against it. I feared
it would pit you and Neferure against one another someday – or at
least, would set Neferure at odds against your future sons. But I
don’t think it would trouble her, to know that you had an heir of
your own. I don’t believe the girl cares for the title at all.”

Thutmose squinted at the beer in his drinking bowl.
“It is difficult to know what Neferure cares for. Hathor – I know
she cares for Hathor. Whenever I visit the harem, I hope to see her
among the other women. But she is always in her little palace,
apart from them. And it seems there is a constant stream of smoke
rising from the rooftop, where her Hathor shrine stands. Beyond the
goddess, though…” He shrugged.

“Well,” Ahmose said, setting aside the familiar pang
of sadness at the thought of Neferure, “I suppose we must choose a
Great Royal Wife, then.”

A flush crept into Thutmose’s cheeks. “I don’t know
how to choose.”

“And so you have turned to your old grandmother.”
Ahmose waved away his embarrassment. “It is only natural. I am
honored to be of service, Majesty.”

Thutmose put forth the names of several young women
from the harem, each of them worthy candidates who could trace
their lineage easily to the throne. He had put as much careful
consideration into this matter as any other, and Ahmose felt a glow
of pride at the young Pharaoh’s competence. They debated the women
in turn, examining the benefits each might bring to Thutmose’s
court with a detachment that left an uncomfortable pinch in
Ahmose’s belly.
This was how my mother and my own grandmother
discussed their choice – Mutnofret or me for Great Royal Wife.
It sickened her, to realize she examined so many young women as if
they were objects, baubles to set upon a bedside table to beautify
a room. And yet what else could she do? The wrong choice could
incite political disaster. Egypt was at stake.
Mother, at last I
understand you.
Ahmose pressed her hands to her stomach to
soothe away her guilt and regret, and the conversation went on.

Thutmose summoned his servants to replenish their
food and fetch wine. They had debated the women for hours, and at
last had settled upon three, all of them girls with royal blood
whose families had so far shown no alarming signs of overt
ambition. A platter of figs and cheese arrived, and Thutmose stared
at it morosely, all the talk drained out of him.

Ahmose leaned back into the luxury of the green
couch, eying Thutmose’s weary expression. There was a becoming
melancholy about him. It charmed her when she recognized its
source, and she laughed lightly. “All three of these girls are good
choices, yet you do not love them.”

He shook his head. “Love doesn’t enter into it,
Grandmother. My duty is to get a legitimate heir, to protect the
throne.”

She recalled the look Thutmose had given Neferure
that morning on the quay, the sidelong glance full of some potent,
un-nameable emotion. “We have overlooked one candidate for Great
Royal Wife, I think.”

He sighed. “And who is she?”

“Neferure.” When she said the name, the prickle of
the gods’ touch ran along Ahmose’s skin.
Yes
, her heart
whispered. Ahmose breathed deep, accepting the certainty, the
inevitability.

Suddenly animated, Thutmose stared at her, a tension
of longing brightening his eyes. “But she is Hatshepsut’s
heir.”

“A position she does not want. I think her heart
craves something else. Consider her: she is dutiful to a fault,
dedicated to maat. She is god-chosen.”
And well do I know how
that qualifies a woman to be a Pharaoh’s wife.
“And she is
lovely.” She added this last offhandedly, but allowed a small smile
when she saw how Thutmose flushed. “If you married her,” Ahmose
added, “and she bore you a son, the child would be unassailable as
heir. You and Neferure are both the children of Pharaohs – she is
the child of two Pharaohs, in fact.” After fourteen years of
keeping up the deception, the lie of Neferure’s parentage slipped
easily from Ahmose’s lips, without a single hesitation. “You are a
Pharaoh yourself. Can an heir have a stronger claim? How could any
noble hope that his fellows might proclaim his son king, if the
best he could offer Egypt was the child of a Pharaoh’s cousin? Your
son with Neferure will be four times royalty, and through her,
descended directly from Amun.”

“Yes,” Thutmose said. “She is the ideal match. But
Hatshepsut has already proclaimed her. What a Pharaoh says cannot
be unsaid.”

Ahmose tasted the wine in her cup. Its initial
sweetness was undercut by a powerful bitter, musky note, not at all
unpleasant. But the echo of it on her tongue slowed her reply, and
she had to swallow several times before the words would come.
“Perhaps the only person who can unsay a king’s words is another
king.”

“Perhaps,” said Thutmose. His fingers twisted into a
knot in his lap.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It took all of Neferure’s considerable discipline to
remain still and silent in her litter. Her heart leapt and sang
within her breast, straining against her flesh and bones, striving
to fly free, a bird on a joyous wind. The city of Iunet was alive
with the din of merchants crying their wares, of women gossiping at
wells, of children laughing as they dashed across the road,
crossing the path of Neferure’s litter-bearers. She watched the
city through the gauze of her curtains, beaming at the people she
passed, although they could not see her face.

Thutmose had sent her to Iunet – Thutmose and
Ahmose. A few days after Hatshepsut set out on her great
expedition, the Pharaoh and Lady Ahmose had come to Neferure’s
palace, and with a knowing smile Thutmose had instructed her to
take a great offering of gifts to the Lady of the West, beloved
Hathor, the goddess who was all goddesses in one. She would spend
two weeks in Iunet, he had explained, measuring out the wealth he
had designated for the Hathor temple and its staff, acting in the
name of the Pharaoh, as he was too busy himself to attend in
person. Neferure had been hard-pressed to keep herself from
squealing like a girl. She embraced her brother, clung tightly
around his neck until he was obliged to disentangle her arms with a
timid smile.

From the moment she boarded her ship at Waset’s
quay, Neferure had felt the swell of triumph rising in her ka.
Iunet lay nearly a day’s sail upriver, and the closer she drew to
its shore the more rapturous she became. She would spend two weeks
with Hathor – two precious weeks in the glow of the goddess’s love.
Neferure could not recall a time when she had been so filled with
joy. She trembled with it, and the smile never left her face.

The procession of treasure wound its way through
Iunet’s dusty streets, with Neferure, the best and brightest gem of
Thutmose’s offering, at its head. Beyond the final homes and
store-houses of the city, the road, raised on an earthen causeway,
cut across a field knee-high with emmer. Through her curtains, she
could see how the late afternoon light danced on the backs of the
small birds that dove down among the wheat heads to snap up their
supper of flies and gnats. The emmer itself glowed, each
seed-bearing tuft of each plant alight with the sun’s warmth. The
goddess had set the world to sparkling, just for Neferure.

At last they reached the temple itself. Perched on
its small hill, it rose above the fields with a stately grace,
backlit by the vermillion glow of the setting sun. Neferure’s
throat let out a tiny squeak of anticipation as her litter sank to
the ground. She controlled herself, closed her eyes, breathed in
the deep, calming breaths Senenmut had taught her, and when her ka
was as still as it ever would be, she parted her curtains and
stepped from the litter with precise dignity. The afternoon was
cool, and the sun well on its way to its nightly journey through
the underworld. No sun-shade was needed, but her women appeared
quickly with their white-plumed fans to stir the gnats away from
Neferure’s skin. Takhat appeared at her elbow, bowing slightly.
“Are you ready, mistress?”

For answer, Neferure strode up the stone ramp toward
the temple at the hill’s crown.

She paused at the ramp’s apex, overcome with the
force of the goddess’s presence. A forest of pillars greeted her,
arranged in neat ranks to either side of an avenue worn smooth by
generations of priestesses and worshippers. Where the avenue ran,
the temple remained unroofed, open to the blood-red sky. As
Neferure gazed up through the pillars, a flight of geese traversed
the narrow patch of sky, sudden and black, their wings speaking
loud in the still air. The speed of their movement set her vision
to spinning. She reached out to steady herself with one hand
against a pillar, and when her flesh touched the sacred stone a
fierce warmth flowed into her, as startling as the passage of the
geese.

“Welcome, God’s Wife.”

Neferure looked round. Two women approached down the
avenue, moving with the quiet pride of priestesses. She felt the
sudden urge to bow to them, to prostrate herself on the stone floor
like a slave. But she recalled her position, and with an effort she
stood firm.

When the women halted in front of her, it was they
who bowed, proffering their palms the way courtiers and rekhet
bowed to the two Pharaohs. Neferure dropped her eyes so they could
not read her startlement.

“We have waited long for you,” said one priestess.
“Longer than was maat.”

“I have also waited long,” Neferure said. Her voice
seemed to murmur back at her from amidst the pillars.

“No matter, Great Lady. The Pharaoh has sent the
promised gift. We will not dwell on its delay. Come.”

They led her through a set of pylons, across a
courtyard, dimmed by the encroaching twilight. The door to the
temple itself stood before her, suffused with a steadily growing
light as inside, amidst the soft chanting of many voices, lamps
kindled to life. The warmth of the temple tugged at Neferure; she
forgot herself and her steps quickened, carried her past the
priestesses who guided her. She heard one of them laugh with
pleasure and satisfaction as she brushed past.

Inside, a melody of color met her eyes. The
righteousness of Hathor so overflowed that it spilled down the
walls in the form of bright paint, of images of the goddess in all
her several forms, intense and vibrant, leaping from the stone
walls into bright and present life. Neferure spun in a circle, her
feet dancing over the great red sun-disk set into the floor, and
the colors whirled. Song rose up to soar amidst the smoke of
incense and lamp-oil high above her head.

O Mistress of jubilation,

Lady of the dance,

Mistress of music,

Lady of the harp,

Lady of song,

Lady of the wreaths,

O Mistress of joy

Without end!