The Crook and Flail (12 page)

“I am ready,” she said.  Then, “Wait.  Senenmut, open that wardrobe there.  Yes, that one, with the carvings of Mut on the doors.”

Senenmut did as she commanded.  Of course.  He was always loyal, always devoted.  Oh, how he would miss her!  But a Great Royal Wife had no need of a tutor.

The opened wardrobe revealed row upon row of slender shelves, and on each one a different crown, gleaming in the light that streamed through the wall of columns.

“The cobra crown,” she said. 

Senenmut hesitated.  “Please, Lady.  I cannot touch the cobra crown.  I am only a priest.”

“You can,” she told him.  “I permit it.  Bring me my crown.”

Senenmut drew a deep breath.  His shaking hands moved very slowly toward the simple golden circlet with its little rearing cobra.  When his fingers closed on the crown and no gods appeared to strike him down, he moved with greater speed.

Hatshepsut took the crown from her tutor’s hands and settled it firmly on her brow.

Senenmut let out a deep, tortured breath, a tearing sigh of loss.  She looked into his eyes for a long moment, read the sadness there, and touched the side of his face with her cool hand.

A moment later she was striding away from him, raising a hand to summon Nehesi to her heels.  Senenmut followed in her new and powerful wake, all the way back to the audience hall.

***

The hour away had done little to cool tempers; Hatshepsut could tell that much as she approached.  When the door guard admitted her the rage inside the chamber poured over Hatshepsut as hot and sharp as a wasp's sting.

Nehesi bellowed to be heard above the shouting.  “The first princess, Daughter of the King, Hatshepsut, may she live!”  His voice cut like a war drum.  The arguing stopped.

Hatshepsut stepped around her bodyguard, revealing herself to the assembly.  Voices, instantly subdued, riffled air still raw and bruised by shouting.  

And then, the voice Hatshepsut had feared to hear.  “Hatet.  What have you done?”

Ahmose’s face was pale with shock.  Hatshepsut met her mother’s red-rimmed eyes and held them for a long, sorrowful moment. To preserve maat, she must call her mother’s visions false and break Ahmose’s heart. 
Forgive me, Mak ed-rimmed awat.  All I do, I do for Egypt.

“This fighting is a waste of words.  I will not have my people squabble like carrion crows.  If you cannot settle disputes civilly, I shall settle them for you.”

Mutnofret stood, tense and wary.  The braids of her wig were tangled about her face.  “What trick is this, child?”

“I am no child.  I stand before you a woman.  Have you mislaid your eyes?”

“But you...”  Ahmose took a few steps toward Hatshepsut and faltered.  Her eyes found the cobra crown on her daughter’s brow, and her face hardened. 

“I am fourteen years old: of marriageable age.  I have come to inform this council that I will marry my brother Thutmose and be his Great Royal Wife.  You are all witness to this proclamation.”

Ahmose flinched as if Hatshepsut’s words were a blow.  “Hatshepsut, you cannot do this!  You know of my visions.  I told you what they mean!  I am on the verge of securing the throne for you, the true Pharaoh, and you would spit in my eye?”

Mutnofret rounded on Ahmose.  “You are on the verge of nothing.  For hours you have squawked at us about visions and gods.  But these good men and priests would see righteousness upheld!  None of us will support a girl as king.  The throne belongs to Thutmose.”

Ahmose ignored Mutnofret, and the noises of assent from the men gathered around her.  She stared steadily at her daughter, her eyes pleading, compelling.  “What of the priests of Annu, Hatshepsut?  The men who journeyed all this way to support your claim to the throne?”

“I know they made a great sacrifice in coming to my aid.”  She turned to Messuway and Nakht.  “Your loyalty is like the breath of life to me.  Like you, I know the importance of maat.  Without order, Egypt is nothing.  Without unity, we may as well surrender to the Heqa-Khasewet, who will come testing our borders again.  My father taught me that much.”  She turned back to Ahmose, who trembled.  “Mother, you have done so much to prepare the king’s throne for me.  I can only pray to all the gods that they will make me as good and as wise a Great Royal Wife as you.”

“Great Royal Wife,” Ahmose said, as if the title were a foul oath.  Her lips twisted.  She glanced back over her shoulder at Mutnofret, then, without another word, she left the hall.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Hatshepsut sat quiet and straight beneath the canopy of the royal barge.  A strong wind blew down from the north, raising the surface of the Iteru to white-edged chop; the deck of the barge glimmered with spray.  The ceaseless rocking of the great ship, stern raidgeed- D`sing before bow, jolting down again just as the bow lifted into the sky, made her feel distinctly ill.  Or perhaps it was the presence of Thutmose beside her that sickened her so.  He sat kicking his feet on his golden chair, shifting this way and that to watch the oarsmen bend and strain rhythmically at their task.  Hatshepsut could feel Ahmose's silent, disapproving glare burning into the back of her head.  Her mother had not spoken to her for a week – not since the council meeting, not a word during the planning of the wedding feast.  The force of Ahmose's rage was a palpable thing, sharp-quilled and fire-hot.

Hatshepsut was robed in white, her gown overlaid with a heavy net of malachite and electrum beads.  In her lap lay a bundle of fragrant lotuses.  Her ornate woman's wig was stiff and restricting, its locks banded with tubes of lapis; her neck and shoulders ached.

“You look green,” Thutmose observed.

“I think I may vomit,” she said lightly, looking away from him.

“You'd better not.  Mother would be angry.”

Hatshepsut stared at him.  “Mother?  You're to be the king now, so
you'd
better not keep clinging to Mutnofret's hand.”

“I'm to be the king now, so you'd better stop trying to provoke me.  It's not working, anyhow.”

“Oh, isn't it?”

The barge reached the midpoint of the river.  Waset looked like a toy village on the green-brown bank, the kind children build of stones and sticks in the mud beside the fields.  On the gentle rise to the east of the city, the miniature palace stood pale in the sun.  Hatshepsut squinted at it resentfully as the High Priest of Amun made his way to the bow.

“Let the bridegroom approach!”

Thutmose, having rehearsed his part with his mother, slid out of his seat and sauntered to the priest's side.  Hatshepsut admitted to herself that he did look as kingly as a boy of eleven could manage.  He wore once again the long kilt of a grown man, neatly folded into dozens of pleats, and his belt was woven of thread-of-gold.  He bore himself proudly beneath the weight of a colorful pectoral and the tall double crown of Egypt, its white pinnacle rising from a desert-red base.  Of late he had grown.  He would be a tall man one day, and not a torment to look upon, for all his plumpness and his smug pride.  She would do her best to...not to love him; she could not see herself ever loving him.  She would do her best to tolerate him.

“As Atum brought forth all things from the water, so do we bring forth this new union.  Aakheperenre Thutmose, Lord of the Two Lands, king of all Egypt, stands forth to welcome his bride.”

Hatshepsut sighed.  She took up her lotuses.  It was an effort to walk smoothly, the barge heaved so, and her feet dragged as though weighted with stones.

“Hatshepsut, king's dp> рeffortaughter, do you consent to marry this man?”

“I consent.” 
Though he is no man.
She plucked a lotus from her bunch and offered it to Thutmose.  She was pleased to see that some of its petals were wilted and brown around the edges.  She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

The High Priest offered Thutmose a little bowl of salt.  As she opened her mouth, Hatshepsut closed her eyes, her will finally faltering.  She could no longer bear to look on her half-brother's face.  It was Senenmut she longed to stand with.  If she had been crowned king she would have taken Senenmut for her own, made him Great Royal Husband, and kept him....  She choked at the sudden, overwhelming taste of salt on her tongue.  Hatshepsut buried her face in her lotuses to hide her spluttering.  Thutmose had dropped an enormous pinch of the stuff into her mouth; she spat into her flowers, hoping no one could see, and glared at him over the violet spikes of the petals.

Thutmose smirked back at her.  Beneath the red edge of the double crown, his eyes glimmered with silent and cruel laughter.

“It is done,” the High Priest intoned.  “Joined before the gods, Aakheperenre Thutmose and Hatshepsut, the Great Royal Wife – may she be fruitful!”

As a troupe of musicians began to play at the rear of the jolting barge, Hatshepsut, swallowing hard, the taste of salt burning her tongue, risked a glance at her mother.  Ahmose's eyes were downcast, her face still.  Amid the celebrants clapping and swaying, the former queen regent was as defeated, as spent and wilted as a discarded lotus.

***

They feasted well into the night.  Hatshepsut and Thutmose sat together at an ornate table upon the dais in the great hall of the palace, tasting and approving each dish as it was brought before them.  Hatshepsut merely sampled the steaming cuts of roasted beef, the bowls of stewed kid, the fish baked in ornate casings of river clay, carved so deftly that they looked as live and fresh as if they had just been hauled onto the deck of a boat.  Thutmose, though, had a hearty appetite.  He gestured for portions from many dishes and enjoyed them noisily, chewing and slurping until Hatshepsut felt nearly as ill as she had on the barge.

Every wealthy house within a week's journey of Waset attended the feast.  The wedding of the new Pharaoh was an unparalleled opportunity for currying favor with the courtiers and ambassadors who influenced trade; in high spirits, new friendships could be made, new promises extracted.  She gazed down at them, at the hundreds of men and women seated around groups of tables, making merry over cups of wine and baskets of sweet bread.  Had any of these women, dressed in their bright gowns, swaying and sparkling in their jewels, feel so uncertain at their own wedding feasts?  She wondered.

The length of the hall stretched away below her feet.  Bodies seemed to emerge from the shadows of the massive painted pillars as spirits appeared in the deep of night, then drifted into darkness again, the colors of theearрe hall ir linens dimming.  Where light fell about the lamps and braziers, laughter seemed to ring louder until it was almost mocking, the sound of carrion birds at a carcass. 
My thoughts are too dark.  I mustn't let them show on my face.
  A servant bearing jellied fruits appeared at her elbow, bowing, offering up her tray.  Hatshepsut took one and bit into it, and used its sweetness to conjure up a smile.

Acrobats – the most skilled group in Upper Egypt, Sitre-In had told her, trying to coax a bit of excitement – tumbled down the length of the chamber, their lean, hard bodies oiled and dusted with gold, flashing in and out of pools of lamplight as they went hand over foot, quick and lithe.  They finished their performance in a pyramid, standing atop one another's shoulders; the smallest of them, a girl hardly older than Hatshepsut, naked but for a bit of linen tied around her loins, leapt from the pinnacle, her golden skin dazzling as she fell into the arms of two young men below.  The girl posed for her applause; Hatshepsut joined her guests in acclaiming the troupe, resolved to play the part of the happy bride, for maat's sake if not for her own.  She slipped a bracelet from her wrist and gestured to Sitre-In, who sat just below the dais with Hatshepsut's servants.

“Give the girl this, with the compliments of the Great Royal Wife.”

“Yes, Great Lady.”  Sitre-In bowed. 
My nurse has never bowed to me before.  Must she always, now that I am the Pharaoh's wife, and will she ever call me Hatet again?
  Maat demanded a nigh unrecognizable new world: she sat upon the dais, Sitre-In bowed at her smallest command, and she was Thutmose's wife. 
What am I to make of it all?

“A romance!” someone called from far down the hall.  “Let us have a romance, to make the Pharaoh and his lovely bride smile!”

“Ah!” came another shout.  “A romance to mirror the love of our king and his lady!”

“That promises a dull performance,” Hatshepsut muttered.

“What?”  Thutmose's mouth was full of the jellied fruits.

“I said, 'Yes, let us have another performance.'”

Thutmose waved to his chief steward; the players were admitted into the great hall.  “You know what comes after the feast.”

“Sleep.”

“Not for you.  I'll have some spear-work to do on you, wife.”

Hatshepsut rolled her eyes.  “Did you learn that language from your mawat?  I'm sure she would be pleased to hear you speak that way.  And anyway, aren't you rather young to be throwing your little spear, Oh Mighty Bull?”

“I've been practicing.”