Sovereign of Stars (35 page)

“It is your temple, my love. You made it.”

“I made it for you.” And unbidden, unexpected, tears
sprang to Senenmut’s eyes. He wanted to tell her all the words that
thudded at once in his heart, crowded on this tongue. That her body
was his temple, her kas his offering fire, that no matter how the
years and the strain of power fell upon her, lining her sharp,
unlovely face, she was always the girl in the garden to him, the
one who pressed the scarab bracelet into his hands. He wanted to
tell her that she was a light like the stars, arcing across an
eternal sky, bright, unending. But faced with her smile, he could
not speak. He drew a breath to steady himself, and took her wrists
once more, and guided her as she tapped her magic into the
stone.

“There,” she said when it was done. “And now you
will live forever.”

With her,
Senenmut pleaded silently to the
gods – to whatever god still deigned to look upon the two of them
with any shred of favor.
Please let it be.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The flood receded, the crops were sown, the gods
remained content. Hatshepsut went on with her duties, tending to
maat attentively between her lone visits to Djeser-Djeseru. The
visits grew fewer as Thutmose’s campaign intensified in the
northeast, and Hatshepsut was required to spend longer hours at
court, receiving the steady stream of messengers who brought her
news of how the army fared against the Heqa-Khasewet. There were a
daunting two weeks when the news was rather dark – a good portion
of the Egyptian army destroyed by clever ambushes, and another lot
of men lost to the common diseases that plague the camps of
campaigns. In spite of their ill parting, she fretted for Thutmose,
longed for his safe return. She went each night to Ipet-Isut to
leave her offerings and her earnest, almost desperate prayers at
every shrine in turn. Every shrine but Hathor’s. Hathor’s shrine
was the territory of Neferure, and Hatshepsut was seized by a
superstitious fear when she contemplated going inside. If she did
it – if she showed her despised face to the goddess she had spurned
– Neferure would never be returned to her, and she would lose
Thutmose, too. She knew it with a certainty she had never felt
before, not in the fields of Kush, not as her obelisks were raised,
not in Iset’s arms, or Senenmut’s. And so she quietly passed by
Hathor’s shrine, ducking her head in her Nemes crown so the goddess
would not notice her fear.

At last, half a year after he’d departed, a
messenger boat arrived at Waset’s quay, the Hapi-Ankh priest
onboard sounding a great bronze gong from its stern. “Victory,” the
man called in a high, nasal voice. “Victory against the
Heqa-Khasewet!”

Hatshepsut prepared a festival for Thutmose’s
return, and when his great, swift war ship moored, the entirety of
the city was turned out to greet him. The moment his flashing
silver sandals touched the stone of the quay, Waset came to life
with cheers. Hatshepsut welcomed him into her two-seated litter,
and he kissed her cheeks before the watching crowd, greeting her as
a long-gone son greets his mother, lifting her hand with his own
above their two crowns.

The litter carried them up the main road thronged
with celebrants. Rekhet crowded the rooftops, waving their arms;
families of the higher classes leaned from their windows to salute
the returning king. The smell of thousands of flowers, flung before
the feet of the royal litter-bearers, made the city’s usually
rather fetid air sweet as a garden in the season of emergence.

Hatshepsut leaned close to his ear and called above
the shouts of the city, “You seem content.”

He patted her knee, a brusque, happy endearment, and
replied only, “I am glad to see you again.”

They passed through the gates of the palace followed
by Thutmose’s entourage – a fine-looking crowd of nobles and
ladies, many of them wearing the muted colors and longer wigs
popular in the tjatis of Lower Egypt, the northern reach of the
kingdom. Hatshepsut stood regally still to receive their bows, then
looked round for Thutmose. He was engaged in quiet, almost urgent
conversation with a lady in a pale red robe, who nodded
attentively, her delicately painted eyes keen on his face.
Hatshepsut was loath to interrupt him, and was somewhat tired by
the morning’s spectacle. She indicated to Kynebu that he should
make arrangements for Thutmose’s entourage, and made her way to the
Great Hall unescorted for the triumphant king’s formal
reception.

The hall was nearly empty when she reached it, its
broad, gleaming, dark-veined malachite floor faintly echoing with
the hurried steps of the staff who went about their last-minute
preparations. Lamps as wide as shields burned between the massive
painted pillars, their reflective discs glowing like a line of
banked stars. Vases as wide as two men standing hip to hip were
scattered here and there, and they overflowed with flowers, bright
and sweet. A long line of musicians rushed into the hall as
Hatshepsut made her way down its impossible length. Her eyes were
on the two thrones on the elevated dais, small beneath the towering
figures of Amun and Waser on the rear wall of the chamber, but no
less imposing, no less obvious in their power. The musicians began
to play as she climbed to her throne. She turned slowly to face out
into the lovely green length of the Great Hall. It spilled out
before her, a river beneath her feet, a current carrying her as it
had carried so many kings before.

Kynebu pushed the double doors wide. They were small
from this distance, Kynebu a toy of a man clutching the staff of
his stewardship. It looked like a reed from the height of her
throne.

The steward called above the music. “The Good God,
Menkheperre Thutmose, the third of his name.”

Thutmose entered with his entourage ranked behind
him. He came to the foot of the dais, and to the credit of his
followers, most of whom had likely never seen a palace as large as
the Great Hall, let alone the hall itself, they kept their eyes
appropriately downcast in the presence of their kings.

“Welcome home,” Hatshepsut said, “formally,
officially. Welcome.”

“Is this all?” Thutmose said, a teasing note in his
voice. “I expected a feast.”

“You shall have one, but not until night falls.
Egypt is well pleased with her king, and she will show it.”
Hatshepsut glanced beyond Thutmose’s shoulder at the northern
courtiers gathered behind him, a signal that she wished to be
introduced.

“Erm,” Thutmose said, suddenly tense with
anxiety.

Hatshepsut raised her brows, and the tight band of
her double crown pinched at her forehead.

The girl in the light red robe stepped forward. She
made a deep and humble bow, showing her palms to the throne and
holding the pose gracefully, uncomplaining, until Hatshepsut
ordered her to rise.

“This is my lady, Meryet-Hatshepsut, daughter of the
house of Senedj of Ankh-Tawy.” Thutmose paused awkwardly. “She is
my Great Royal Wife.”

Hatshepsut swallowed hard. Despite her firm hold on
the arms of her throne, the Great Hall seemed to spin around her
for a moment, whirling away Thutmose’s words as he went on
introducing the various members of the house of Senedj. He had
taken a new woman as his wife, and named her the chief of all his
women. There was nothing so unusual in that. Was he not the king?
But in doing so, he had clearly repudiated Neferure – cast her out
of his own house, divorced her before the gods. He must have, in
some temple or other, probably in Ankh-Tawy with Senedj and his
brood looking on. Else, how could he have taken this slip of a
girl, this little unknown chit who dared to wear Hatshepsut’s own
name, as his Great Royal Wife?

Then she drew in a slow, deep breath, calming her
frantic thoughts, and she smiled at the girl. Meryet-Hatshepsut
returned the smile fractionally, testing the Pharaoh’s mood. Her
eyes shone with intelligence, with the habit of careful
consideration, a rare trait in a woman of her age. She could not
have been older than fifteen. And Meryet-Hatshepsut –
beloved of
Hatshepsut
, the name meant. She must have been born sometime
around the end of Hatshepsut’s first year of reign. The house of
Senedj had meant to send a clear message of support by naming a
daughter thus. Hatshepsut felt herself softening toward the
northern family, though not by much. For all the flattery of the
girl’s name, she had still displaced Neferure who, though
unaccounted for, was Hatshepsut’s own daughter, her own blood.

As the evening fell, Hatshepsut welcomed Thutmose
and his new Great Royal Wife into her chambers, led them out into
the garden which was glowing in the last red light of sunset, the
blossoms on the hedges like clusters of fire. They made their way
to the shore of the lake, Hatshepsut drawing the girl into
conversation, probing carefully at her limits, gently assessing.
The girl was young, of course, but especially astute. She was as
keen-eyed and quick as the best palace stewards, as careful as a
seasoned diplomat.

“I should be pleased,” the girl said, her voice low
but soft, “if your majesty would call me simply Meryet. My whole
name is rather long, don’t you think? And the latter part sits
better upon you, Majesty, than I.”

Artfully done
. Yes, this Meryet might do very
well as a Great Royal Wife. Hatshepsut had to concede that the girl
was more collected than Neferure, and more outwardly turned – more
concerned, as was proper for a woman of her new station, with the
affairs of state, and not just with temples and goddesses. At
length their conversation grew thin, and Hatshepsut glanced at
Thutmose, who strolled contentedly at his lady’s side. Meryet
caught the subtle shift of Hatshepsut’s eyes, and with a smooth bow
she excused herself to some distance away, affecting an interest in
the fish leaping from the lake to take the evening flies, pocking
and marring its silverine surface.

“Well,” Hatshepsut said.

“You’re angry,” Thutmose replied. He was decked in a
lovely, fine kilt of the formal length, brushing his sandals and
falling from his golden sash in a spill of sharp pleats like the
rays of a sun-disc. An eye-of-Horus pectoral hung upon his chest,
enhancing the broadness of his shoulders. His wig was the Nubian
style plaited vertically, banded horizontally, short to his chin.
He looked so fine a man that Hatshepsut nearly fluttered her hands
at the sight of him like an addle-headed old nurse.

“I’m not. Truly. I was at first – not angry, but
surprised. But she is a good choice. You chose well.”

“Senedj has a powerful house,” Thutmose said. “Good
connections, and loyal, as you can see. He has influence over many
other houses in his region. He holds them quite tightly. I made
sure of it first. I was careful to be sure.”

“I am sure you were.”

“And Meryet is an intelligent woman – you can tell
that for yourself.” He seemed anxious that she should agree with
him, concerned that perhaps Hatshepsut had not noticed.

She laid a hand on his arm. “She is. A very fine
young woman.”

“Through her house, we have more sway than ever
before in Ankh-Tawy. It’s an important city, an important
alliance…”

Hatshepsut cut his words short. “And you love
her.”

He looked down, suddenly abashed, and gave a
self-deprecating little laugh. “Yes. And I love her.”

“I’m glad, Thutmose.”

He drew her close, pulling her tight to his strong
young body with one arm about her shoulders. Distantly, from the
direction of the Great Hall, the din of voices raised – the nobles
of Waset gathering for the feast. “There is more,” Thutmose said
quietly. “She is already with child.”

“Ah,” Hatshepsut sighed. “Amun’s eyes, but that is
good news.”

“An heir.” Thutmose turned, gazed at his Meryet, who
stood with one hand clutching the neck of her robe, her eyes
patient on the fish. “The gods are content, I think, Mawat.”

“Yes, child. Yes, my Little Tut. The gods are
content.” Hatshepsut raised her voice. “Meryet, my little daughter,
Great Royal Wife. If you have had your fill of the fish, we have a
feast to attend. Your husband is home victorious, and Egypt waits
to celebrate him.”

They walked to the Great Hall together, Hatshepsut’s
arm linked with Meryet’s. The memory of Neferure was a distant
pain, distant enough that Hatshepsut found the strength to push it
well away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Walk
, the voice called. It woke Ahmose from a
fitful sleep.

“Mut?”

The goddess did not answer.

Ahmose pushed herself carefully up from her bed. Her
arms shook with tremors these days, which even honeyed wine could
not quite control, and a weakness had overtaken her day by day
until she could scarcely walk on her own anymore. She went about
her estate with a servant close by at all times, in case she should
have need of a younger woman’s shoulder, a strong arm.

Walk
.

“I am trying,” Ahmose muttered. She took a few
hesitant steps away from the safety of her bed, and to her
surprise, her legs held steady.
It is about time they did what I
want them to do.
She had passed her fiftieth New Year – her
fiftieth year of life. She was old, she knew, but not so old that
her body should refuse to obey. Whatever plagued her had crept up
on her faster than it overtook other old women. There were men
twenty years her senior still working in the palace – even in the
bakeries and forges, the weaving mills of Waset. Not many, but
some.

The weakness made her peevish and short with her
servants, a fact she regretted, but in the face of these new
limitations she could never seem to hold her temper in check for
long. It wasn’t fair. But justice was a thing for men to fret over,
not the gods.