Sovereign of Stars (32 page)

Her subjects filled the whole length of the hall,
lining the walls to a depth of five or six men, decked in
celebratory bright colors, the perfumed wax cones of festival
attached to many of their wigs and filling the vast space with a
riot of sweet scents. Hatshepsut raised a hand, and the
presentation of the goods commenced. The baboons leapt and twisted
on their leashes, baring their sharp teeth, snorting at the crowd,
glad to be free of their cages at last. The bolts of yellow cloth
were unrolled and carried in the many hands of a long rank of
servants, past the front rows of the crowds to the left and the
right, that they might touch the fine fabric and wonder at its
spectacular dye. Senenmut and Ineni led in a contingent of
basket-bearers, their shoulders well browned from the desert sun.
They tipped the baskets out at the foot of the dais: nuggets of
silver ore, sawn rounds of ivory, and whole tusks, too, longer than
a man was tall.

Nehesi approached the throne, his great arms wrapped
around the breadth of one of the heaped baskets covered with linen.
Two dozen more men paraded behind him, each with a basket of his
own. Nehesi tore the cover from his burden and upturned it at the
foot of the dais. The translucent pieces of resin rattled as they
poured onto the gleaming green floor, resins of amber and pale
green, deep green and golden-grey, and resins of blood red – all of
them crucial in the making of the ceremonial incense that so
pleased Egypt’s gods. Nehesi’s men upended their baskets atop the
pile, and it grew in height and breadth, spreading, raising until
it was as tall as Nehesi, while the court first gasped, then
murmured, and finally raised a cry of
Maatkare! Maatkare!
The cheer shook the very pillars of the Great Hall.

And last, the true prize entered to parade the
Pharaoh’s victory before her subjects. Teams of men bore poles upon
their shoulders, and between the poles swung the saplings – the
precious myrrh trees for Amun’s garden, roots bound in sturdy
cloth, suspended from the poles like prized birds on a hunter’s
string. The court exclaimed as one over the sight. It was as fine a
good as any trading mission had procured, for now Egypt could
harvest its own myrrh in great quantities, and Amun, the lord of
all the gods, would never lack for its scent.

When the ripple of voices died away, Hatshepsut
called out in a voice that all could hear: “Chancellor Nehesi. Lord
Ineni. Great Steward Senenmut. Stand forth.”

They did, stepping to the foot of the dais with
bowed heads.

The silent Thutmose looked away.

“For your good work in this expedition, I present
you with this, before all the court.” And she lifted her hand,
motioned to her servants. They came at once with the gifts she had
decreed, fine collars, necklaces, cuffs and armlets of gold and
electrum. Bowls of silver, platters of ebony wood, ivory to make
knife handles and drinking cups. Her men accepted the gifts humbly,
and when she dismissed them to their places, Hatshepsut felt
Thutmose shift on his throne with an irritated twitch.

**

Hatshepsut was well pleased to return to the comfort
of her fine apartments after so long sleeping in gritty tents in
the suffocating heat of the desert. But she had no time for the
leisurely bath and massage she wished for. She sent at once for
Thutmose, and he arrived so quickly that she knew he had been
waiting for her summons.

The double crown was gone from his head, but he wore
the cloth wings of the Nemes crown affixed to its golden circlet,
and Hatshepsut was uncomfortably aware that she wore only a wig.
She squinted at him, at his air of defensive swagger. He came
through her double doors and halted, folding his arms tightly
across his chest, jaw set, saying nothing.

“And where,” Hatshepsut said, “is your Great Royal
Wife?”

Thutmose scowled. “In confinement, where she
belongs. I would have left her there for your return processional,
if I’d thought I could have done so without arousing the court’s
suspicion.”

“What right do you suppose you had, to take my heir
and make her your wife?”

Thutmose took one menacing step toward her, and she
was suddenly aware of his strength and size, of the advantage his
very sex gave him. But she did not shrink back from him, did not
call her guards.

“This right,” he said, tugging at one wing of his
Nemes crown. “I am as much Pharaoh as you, Mother, and I am not
insensate to the troubles our house faces. I am not unaware of your
reasons for going to Punt. After all, you and
Senenmut
took
great pains to teach me.”

Hatshepsut’s mouth tightened at the venom in his
voice when he spoke Senenmut’s name.

“Imagine our security if I could have had an heir
growing in my wife’s belly when you returned with all your riches.
Anyone who plotted against you – against us – would have been
thoroughly undone.”

“Why Neferure, my heir? Why not some other woman –
any other woman?”

“Because she is four times royal. Or so I
thought.”

Four times royal.
It was an idea that would
have come from only one source. “Ahmose.”

“She is not to be punished for this. It was a good
plan – better than yours – and it would have worked, if not for you
angering the gods.”

“Be careful what you say, boy.”

“I am no boy. I am the Lord of the Two Lands.”

“As am I.”

“Then behave as if you are, and not like some rekhet
slut rutting in an alley.”

She crossed to him in two quick steps, and her slap
across his face cracked loudly against the walls of the Pharaoh’s
chamber. The circlet slipped on his brow, and the Nemes crown hung
askew.

“How dare you?” Hatshepsut grated.

Thutmose pressed one hand to his reddened cheek,
then dropped it to his side. “How dare
you?
”

Hatshepsut forced herself to walk calmly away from
him, sat lightly upon a couch. After a moment, Thutmose, eying her
warily, joined her across the empty table.

“Explain this mess to me,” she said.

“Neferure has been wild to learn why she can’t speak
to the gods for years. You would have known that, if you ever paid
any attention to the girl, instead of trotting her out for ceremony
and then putting her away again like a trinket in a box.”

“Speak to me civilly, or you will not speak to me at
all.”

Thutmose gave one quick, jerking nod of his head,
and made an obvious effort to rein in his rage. “With you away, she
felt free to search for a reason for her affliction. She found your
fan-bearer, lured her into her own palace, and tortured the poor
woman with a knife until she told everything she knew.”

Hatshepsut pressed her palms together. Her hands
shook, and were cold as a dead fish. “Batiret.”

“She is well enough. I found her in Neferure’s
palace and stopped it before any real damage could be done. But
she’ll have scars; that is certain.”

Thutmose fell silent. He blinked rapidly, unwilling
to allow tears into his dark eyes. Hatshepsut watched him, fearful
of his words, of what he might choose to do now that he knew her
secret. She savored the silence, aware it was her last refuge of
safety, and might be broken when Thutmose spoke again. But he
maintained his silence, and Hatshepsut marshalled enough courage to
speak on.

“So, then, what shall we do?”

Thutmose met her eyes, and in his own she saw his
ambition, his pride, his love for the throne. She saw his love for
her, too, reluctant though it was, and clouded by anger. She knew
in a sudden rush that the balance between them had shifted, and now
hung poised on a fragile fulcrum – knew that there was no senior
king now, but rather two who stood shoulder to shoulder on shifting
footing, equally matched in pride, equally matched in desperation
to retain their respective power. The change struck her like a
blow. She rocked back under its impact, and felt both regret and
relief wash across her, throb with her rapid pulse beneath her
skin.

He has power now – real power. If I meet him in
compromise, he may yet preserve me.

“You know what you must do,” Thutmose said
slowly.

Hatshepsut’s heart cried out, wailing against the
blackness inside her chest. But when she spoke her voice was calm,
the controlled, regal voice of a king.

“Yes.”

PART FOUR

THE GOD’S
JUDGMENT

1466
B.C.E.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The black bull snorted in the dust of its own
churning hooves, a repetitive roar that sounded in time with
Hatshepsut’s own ragged breaths. It tossed its head to avoid her,
rolling its peevish eye toward the gold-plated goad in her hand.
Spittle flew from its muzzle, spattered in the dust, and was
trampled beneath the bull’s blue-painted hooves. The sun-disc tied
between its horns shimmered in the sun; the twin plumes rising from
the disc thrashed against the sky as the bull bellowed and lunged
toward her.

Hatshepsut danced aside. The tail affixed to her
belt swung heavy against her legs and stung when it slapped her
skin. It was the tail of a bull who had been as black as this one
that now reeled around her, calling its anger to the distant
crowd.

The people stood well back, watching breathlessly
beneath a forest of sun-shades. The ceremonial circuit outside
Waset’s walls was wide and dusty, hot as an oven in the mid-day
sun. Hatshepsut was thirsty, her mouth sticky and dry, her nostrils
crusted with dirt. She watched the bull carefully, waited for it to
turn, lunged with her goad and dealt it a stinging blow along its
flank. It bleated an undignified moo and lumbered in the correct
direction – toward the two granite pillars at the far end of the
circuit, where the priests of Hapi-Ankh stood waiting. The bull
picked up its pace, and Hatshepsut ran after it, the black tail
streaming behind her.

The snorting creature saw the two lines of priests
fanning out from the pillars, and slowed its progress just enough
for Hatshepsut to overtake it. For the final spans they ran
together, woman and bull, king and god, she near enough that the
heat of the sun reflected from the glossy black hide and beat
against her skin. When they passed between the granite pillars
raised in celebration of her own glory, she laid a hand on the
bull’s withers, and felt its answering bellow shiver through her
bones. The great ring of watchers – all the population of Waset,
noble and rekhet, priest and royal – shouted in acclaim.

The Hapi-Ankh priests slowed the bull with familiar
gestures, calmed it with the soothing words it had learned as a
calf. Hatshepsut approached with the garland in her arms, and
draped it round the bull’s neck.

“Renewal!” she shouted, raising one fist to the sky,
and the crowd echoed her word.

Nehesi came to her, bearing a skin of cool water,
which she received gratefully. It took several long swallows to
slake her thirst. She tossed it back to her guard half-empty, and
he grinned at her before leading her back to the large dais that
had been erected to overlook the circuit.

It was the Feast of the Tail, Hatshepsut’s
Sed-festival, the jubilee to renew her strength on the throne, to
ensure her ongoing glory. Pipers took up an old soldiers’ victory
tune as Hatshepsut climbed the steps to her shaded throne, and the
people, drunk on celebration and on strong beer, clapped and
danced.

Hatshepsut fell gratefully onto her seat. The golden
plating of her throne was cool beneath the canopy, a pleasure
against her sweaty back. The bull’s tail stuck out between her
knees as she slumped, catching her breath.

Beside her on his throne, Thutmose smiled. “You did
well,” he said, and she was pleased to note that there was nothing
grudging in his voice. Much of the anger he had felt over
Neferure’s origins had dissipated over the past months as their
house continued strong on their thrones, though there was still a
vague uneasiness between them. Perhaps there always would be. How
could Hatshepsut yield her former power, once so complete and
unchallenged, without some conflicted emotion? But Thutmose was
gracious in his strength, careful of her pride, quick to share both
duty and power equally.

He had no interest, though, in sharing her
Sed-festival. It was a celebration typically reserved for a king’s
thirtieth year of rule, and Thutmose was made uneasy by any breach
of tradition. Hatshepsut, recalling that her father Thutmose the
First had died before he could celebrate a Sed-festival of his own,
suggested the rite on behalf of their entire house. “Not just for
me,” she had told her co-king, “but for you, and your grandfather,
may he live. He sat the throne fifteen years, and I fifteen more.
Taken together, the time is right.”

But the time was not right according to Thutmose,
who had glanced sidelong at Neferure and refused to take part in
the ceremonies himself, refused to share in this rite as they had
so often shared rites before. Indeed, it was not until Neferure
herself had warned that the gods would be displeased by such a
breach of tradition that Thutmose agreed to allow the Sed-festival.
Despite the girl’s warning and Thutmose’s superstitious fears, his
loathing for his sister-wife was stronger than his dread. He
approved the Feast of the Tail in Hatshepsut’s fifteenth year
chiefly because Neferure opposed it.

Perhaps, too, Thutmose felt a little sorry for
Hatshepsut, and wished to appease her or comfort her in some way.
She had done what was required of her and sent Senenmut out of
Waset, confining him to his estates. Her bed and her heart had both
been empty for months, but she still filled her throne, and that,
she considered, toying with the long hairs at the end of the bull’s
tail, was enough for now.