The Crook and Flail Read online

  She led him back to the pillared porch at her garden door. “My mother and aunt are coming to the House of Women this evening for a feast,” she said. “I must prepare.”

  Senenmut raised his palms to her, a precise, correct bow.

  “Make sure the history scrolls are ready in my chamber. I will begin accepting my burden when the sun rises. It will not take a deby to drive me toward the gods’ will, I promise you.”

  He smiled at her words, his face as long and n="s long anwise as ever, and barely touched by sadness. When he turned away, she saw how carefully he tucked her gift into the edge of his kilt, how his elegant hand lingered on the hoop of gold, which might, she thought, still hold the heat of her skin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Supper was laid out on clusters of tables in the vast communal garden of the House of Women. The summer evening was welcoming, soft, stirred gently by a breeze from the river. The air smelled of moving water, of spice and warmth, of honey-sweet blossoms just closing before the advance of the mild valley night. The tail end of the day’s light graded to dense green shadows among the flower beds.

  Servants, sturdily attractive in their simple white frocks, carried jars of wine from the kitchens or stood near the tables waving flies away from platters with fans of pliant feathers on long, slender stems. Hatshepsut stood in the grass watching the servants scurry through the garden under burdens of roasted meat, great sloshing tureens of steaming soups, armfuls of fine light bread. Among so much plain white linen she longed for her own boy's kilt, but such an informality would be an insult to her mother the regent. Instead she had selected from her great standing chest a loose-woven crimson gown. It displayed through its light fabric the shape of her developing breasts, the breadth of her hips. It would please Ahmose, she thought, to see how her daughter progressed toward womanhood, even if her blood still refused to flow. Sitre-In had hauled a wide, flat box from some niche or other and produced from it an intricate collar of shocking blue faience bars joined with links of gold. “Very fashionable just now, I hear,” Sitre-In had said as she hefted the collar to Hatshepsut's shoulders. It had taken two women to hold it in place and fasten the links at her nape. The collar immediately brought a nagging ache to her neck and shoulders, but her women cooed so over its bright color and elegant lines that she was determined to endure it for the night. Perhaps Ahmose would be pleased by this, too – by seeing Hatshepsut pay a care for what was popular among the women of Waset's royal court.

  A ripple of soft laughter drifted from the pillars of the harem house – controlled, light, feminine laughter, not too loud, dainty hands held over delicate mouths. The former Pharaoh’s harem emerged from the darkened House of Women like bright boats from a river mist. They moved in a muted rustle of linen of every color, every weave, the sheer open weave that displayed the charms of the female body, the tight, liquid weave that flowed and rippled like water in moonlight. Here and there faience collars as bright as Hatshepsut's own gleamed in the final traces of evening light. Dark wigs swung with beaded, banded braids. The women’s voices, petal-soft, rose with the gleaming, languid drifts of winged insects to float, lulling and hazy, above the grass.

  The women parted, fanning out into the gentle evening in twos and threes. At the heart of the harem, the two queens of Egypt walked arm in arm.

  Ahmose, the shorter and thinner of the two, looked straightp ws llaughees ahead as she stepped onto the grass. She was still smiling lightly at whatever jest had set the harem women to laughing, but her black eyes were far distant, serene. Her fine, small feet, shining in silver-threaded sandals, rippled the pleats of her immaculate white gown. Dozens of malachite bracelets ringed her arms; a collar of shining green leaves lay across her narrow shoulders. The gold cobra of the Great Royal Wife circled her head, reared above her brow, as aloof and poised as the regent herself.

  Mutnofret, second wife of the departed Pharaoh, was startling in the force of her beauty. Even Hatshepsut, young as she was, sensed the strength of her aunt’s appeal, saw how brightly Mutnofret outshone her younger sister. The second wife had borne four sons, though only Thutmose still lived. The soft roundness of her belly pressed against the pleats of her blue gown; her breasts lay heavy on her chest; yet her beauty was not diminished. These frank reminders of fertility only ripened her allure. Her face was angled, cat-like, her wide eyes set at an intriguing cant, her broad mouth curved into a slow, confident smile. The easy grace of her movements, the way her elbow crooked lightly around Ahmose’s hand, made Hatshepsut flush with admiration. Mutnofret was not one hair lesser a queen than Ahmose, whatever her official rank might suggest. Both women flashed in the retiring sunlight, gold and electrum lighting each elegant finger of each careful hand. Their belts and wig ornaments sparkled with fine polished stones. There was nothing to choose between them. It was only official decree that gave Ahmose higher standing than Mutnofret. Even attending a mere garden feast, the second wife was as formidable as the first.

  Hatshepsut stepped forward to greet them. She bowed, palms out, properly demure.

  “Well,” Ahmose said, her voice carrying a precise measure of amusement. “I half expected to see you in a kilt, Hatet. Last time your aunt and I held a feast at the House of Women, you were bare-chested and dressed like a boy. I am pleased that you are a lady this evening.”

  “A pity no one can get her to wear her hair like a lady,” Mutnofret said. “Shaving it all off like some filthy market boy. Imagine.”

  “Yes, Aunt Mutnofret.” Hatshepsut could think of nothing acceptable to add. She shuffled her feet in the grass, eyes downcast.

  “Thutmose,” Mutnofret called over her shoulder. “Come greet your sister.”

  Hatshepsut bit her lips together to fight off a groan. She had hoped her half-brother would not attend the supper party, but should have known that hope was futile. Thutmose went wherever Mutnofret went, trailing behind his mother with arrogance rolling from him the way body odor trailed gardeners on a hot day, a miasma of self-satisfaction. He had been allowed to go on living in the royal palace even though he was more than old enough to move to the House of Women for his schooling, as was proper for any prince. This privilege made him smugger by the day, plumping his opinion of his own royal person as a goose grows fat in its pen.

  Prince Thutmose edged from the shadow of a pillar. He was dressed in a formal white kilt, an imitation of a grown man’s fine pleated garrespleated gment. It fell not to his knees but all the way to the ground, and he kicked carelessly at the hem as he walked.

  Mutnofret reached out as her son drew near, laid her hand protectively on his shoulder and pulled him close to her side. “Greet your sister properly.”

  Thutmose gave off a petulant sigh. Mutnofret’s hand tightened on his shoulder; he squirmed, then said flatly, “Hello, Hatshepsut. You look well.”

  She pursed her lips, glanced at Ahmose; the regent’s brows furrowed in warning, and Hatshepsut said quickly, “And you, brother. I am pleased to see you. Won’t you sit with me at the feast? I would…” she glanced at her mother again, who nodded almost imperceptibly, “I would be honored by your company.” The words burned her throat, but Ahmose raised her chin in mute approval.

  The royal children had their own small table beneath the spreading boughs of a sycamore, set apart from the gossiping women. The tree was alive with mobile, whispering leaves, fresh and green. As the sun sank lower and the garden darkened in shades of violet, bats snicked through the boughs overhead. Servants poured oil into the bowls of bronze lamps, set the wicks ablaze. Pools of lamplight spread between tables; moths spun in pale whirlwinds about the flames, sizzled now and then when one drew too near and perished.

  Hatshepsut sat across the table from Thutmose – a small mercy, that she was not forced any nearer. He slouched in his seat. A surly arrogance colored his every gesture. She did her best to ignore him, gazing up at the bats and the sycamore leaves. Servants ladled rich spicy gravy into bowls, cut fine and tender portions from roaste
d joints of meat. Hatshepsut pretended Thutmose did not exist, concentrating on her supper in contented silence. When the servants brought bowls of honeyed milk and fruit, Thutmose spoke at last. “Aren’t you going to entertain me? If you’re to be my wife some day, you’d better be more interesting than you are tonight.”

  Hatshepsut’s bare scalp prickled. “This feast is for the entertainment of the harem women, not for your highness. With no Pharaoh on the throne, my mother must be sure the women of the king's house feel their expectations of luxury are well met; otherwise political alliances may be lost.”

  Thutmose snorted. “Did you memorize that speech, O Great Orator? You talk like a wooden doll.”

  Hatshepsut's face flushed hot. She had, in fact, memorized the words Ahmose had spoken that morning, when she had informed Hatshepsut of the feast. She had liked the sound of them, liked the way Ahmose had laden a simple supper party with such import using only a few well-chosen words. Now she felt like a fool. She glowered at Thutmose. “If you should care to take your proper place in the House of Women, Thutmose, then you might reasonably expect some entertainment tonight. I did not memorize that speech, Mighty Lord of the Two Lands, but perhaps you ought to.”

  “Don’t get short with me, fat-head. Your head looks like a big ugly melon. And you shave it like a boy. You don’t even know if you’re a boy or; Are a boy a girl.”

  “Is this entertaining enough for you, Tiny Horus?” She opened her mouth, showing him a mess of half-chewed fruit.

  “You’re disgusting,” Thutmose turned his face away with fastidious delicacy. “No wonder your mother sent you off to the harem instead of keeping you in the palace.”

  It took a great effort to swallow the fruit; a sudden and painful lump obstructed Hatshepsut's throat. “You don’t know anything about it. You follow your mother around like a halfwit duckling. You probably don’t even see the regent at all. You’re too busy hiding behind Mutnofret’s skirt.”

  Thutmose would not be goaded. He stared flatly at Hatshepsut, his eyes long and slanted like his mother’s. “I don’t need to see the regent, Lady Bald-Head. My mother has given me the finest tutors and priests in the empire to teach me how to be a king. What could I learn about ruling Egypt from a woman?”

  It took the greatest effort for Hatshepsut to bite her tongue. Ahmose did this petulant donkey's-rump of a boy a great favor by acting as his regent.

  Thutmose went on: “I’m glad I don’t have to live here with the rest of the boys and girls. What do you learn from your tutors? Sums and reading and writing? I know all that. I know how to rule the kingdom. I’m going to be Pharaoh some day, and then you’ll have to do what I say.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “You will. I’ll be Pharaoh, and I’ll marry you, and you’ll have to do everything I say, because I’ll be the king and your husband!”

  Like a cobra, rage reared up in Hatshepsut’s heart. She abandoned all pretense of ladylike behavior. If Thutmose wished to drag her onto a battle field, she would oblige him with a fight. “Piss on your throne! I’ll never marry you, ever! And without marriage to me, you can never be king. I’ll go off and start my own country and invade Egypt and throw you in a crocodile pool.”

  “That’s a marvelous idea. You can go off into the Red Land and rule the sand dunes. You can be the ruler of beetles and desert rats. I’ll be the king of Egypt.”

  “Do you think you can be king without me? You, the son of a second wife? You may as well be the son of a harem girl! I am the blood of the Pharaoh and the Great Royal Wife; without me by your side, you are nothing.” All at once she was on her feet, swaying under the weight of her collar. “You won’t have any throne unless I consent to marry you, so you’d best start treating me with respect. And anyway, I’d be a better king than you. At least I can make decisions for myself without tugging on my mawat’s skirt and whimpering. I’m surprised Mutnofret let you out of your swaddling long enough to attend the feast!”

  Thutmose, unflappable, rolled his eyesm" ed his ey. “You can’t be the king, stupid. You’re a girl. You’re an ugly girl with a shaved head, who nobody would ever want to marry, even if it was the only way for a man to take the throne.”

  Hatshepsut hurled her dish of fruit straight into Thutmose’s face. It bounced off his head and disappeared in the shadows beyond the sycamore trunk. Honeyed milk washed down his face and chest; at once he began to bawl like a weaning calf. A hand took Hatshepsut by the upper arm. She did not dare look around. She could tell by the ferocity of the grip that it was Ahmose who held her.

  “What in Amun’s name is happening here?” When Hatshepsut said nothing, Ahmose shook her hard. “Speak up when the regent asks you a question!”

  “He – he mocked me. He said I’m ugly.”

  “She is ugly!” Servants with ewers of water appeared to flock around Thutmose. Two stood by with fresh towels as Thutmose rinsed his chest and arms clean. “She’s ugly and stupid and acts improperly!”

  “Be quiet, Thutmose,” Ahmose snapped. “I gave you no leave to speak.”

  The prince gaped at his regent as if he had been slapped. Then his face crumpled, his chin wobbled, and fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. Mutnofret laid a clean towel on the grass beside him and sank to her knees, stroking his head, dabbing at his chest with a damp cloth. “Hush, little one,” she murmured.

  Hatshepsut snorted. Little one.

  “She can’t talk to me that way,” Thutmose wailed, pointing at Ahmose. “Mawat, tell her she has to be nice to me!”

  Mutnofret made a frustrated noise, half growl, half sigh. “Thutmose, my sweet prince, Ahmose is the regent, and we are to do as she commands.” Mutnofret’s voice was patient and gentle, but Hatshepsut saw the resentment shining in the second wife's eyes as she cut her glance toward Ahmose. She saw the way Mutnofret’s arm held strong and steady around her son’s shoulders. We must do as she commands for now, until you sit the throne. Those were Mutnofret's true words, the words she said with her eyes, her posture. Senenmut had taught Hatshepsut how to watch courtiers' faces, to discern the truth behind their artful speech. She watched Mutnofret comfort the prince through narrowed eyes.

  A crowd of servants and harem women flocked about the children’s table. Ahmose marched Hatshepsut away from the bluster of bodies.

  “I told your nurse to enjoy an evening off because I thought you were old enough to conduct yourself with some measure of dignity. Mut’s sake, Hatshepsut, you are the king's daughter! And you are fourteen years old. I was already Great Royal Wife when I was fully a year younger than you. I had hoped that living in the House of Women might teach you how to be a proper lady. What am I to do wHoum I to doith you if you will not behave?”

  “So you did send me away from the palace to make me be a lady – to teach me how to wear dresses and dance and sing.”

  Ahmose’s face softened. “No. I misspoke. I moved you to the harem because all royal children must grow up in the harem. It is maat – the righteous way. A palace is too busy, far too dangerous a place for growing young people. In the House of Women you may learn all the arts that will make you…”

  “Thutmose doesn’t have to live here. He gets to stay in the palace and learn how to rule the country. If I am to be his Great Royal Wife some day, I must know how to rule, too.” She pulled away from Ahmose's grip, dashed her fists against her thighs in a helpless fury. “This makes no sense!”

  “Hatet, Hatet. How can I make you understand?” Ahmose rubbed at her forehead, smoothed the lines she wore beneath the cobra crown. “It is not for Thutmose’s sake that I’ve allowed him to stay in the palace. It is for Mutnofret’s sake.”

  “Why should Mutnofret care whether her revolting son lives in the palace or the harem?”

  Ahmose looked away, out across the blue shadows of the garden. An expression of great pain crossed her face, then fled again, replaced by the studied calm of the Great Royal Wife. Hatshepsut waited a long time, hands clasped and eyes down li
ke a properly contrite daughter, and at last Ahmose spoke. “Hatet, you are no ordinary girl.”

  I know, she wanted to say. But she kept her peace, and let her mother speak on in a voice that broke often, yet was still clear.

  “I have kept things from you...important things...not because I do not care for you – never think that, my love. You have always been the light of my heart. There are some stories we are not strong enough to know as children...but you are almost a woman now. You are old enough to know the way of the world, my daughter. My son.”

  Hatshepsut’s head came up sharply. Her eyes, wide, disbelieving, held the regent’s. She had not heard correctly. That was it – she had not heard correctly.

  “We will go to your room now,” Ahmose said, “And I will tell you everything.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  They sat together on Hatshepsut’s bed, mirroring one another’s posture: rigid, straight-backed, cold hands folded in laps, mouths in tight pale lines. Ita and Tem had tidied the room and set oil alight in the lamps. The braziers glowed orange and fragrant, reflecting their light off mirror-polished bronze discs. Streamers of dark smoke reached up to the high ceiling, escaped outside past the bars of the windcatcher to the deep erssize=ustblue evening sky. In the dim light, Ahmose’s face was lined and darkened, all harsh angles and deep shadows. Finally she spoke.

  “What I tell you now must remain between us. It is not for any other soul to know. You must never tell anyone; not even your nurse or your tutor.”

  Hatshepsut nodded.

  “Swear it,” Ahmose said.

  She was a stern woman, serious in her duties, but even so, Hatshepsut had never known her mother to be this grave. The quiet force of her voice raised the hairs on Hatshepsut’s arms.

  “Swear it on the goddess.”

  “I swear by Mut’s wings,” Hatshepsut whispered.