The Bull of Min (The She-King) Page 9

  Nehesi took it, broke the seal, read it with an ever darkening face. “You won’t like this, Great Lady,” he muttered.

  Meryet ordered the messenger to wait outside while she swept Nehesi and Batiret into her apartments.

  “A request for an audience,” Nehesi growled when the door shut solidly behind him. “From the Lady Satiah.”

  Meryet lifted one brow beneath the fringe of her wig.

  “Put her off, Great Lady,” said Batiret. “She knows you will be off balance and fragile today. She only wants to prod at you until you topple. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  “Batiret is right,” Nehesi said. He crumpled the papyrus in his fist, then, with a guilty grimace, he smoothed it and handed it to Meryet.

  She examined the note calmly. The characters were very fine and dainty, perfectly drawn without any flourish to waste ink. The wording was plain and respectful, not goading, but the timing was too deliberate. Meryet saw at once the good sense in Batiret’s warning.

  She was drained, body and ka, by the funeral ceremony, and yet more shaky and unsheltered with Thutmose so far away. But she was the most powerful woman in all Egypt now, and she would not shrink in the face of such an obvious and pitiful taunt.

  “No. Let her come. If she wants an audience with the Great Royal Wife, then she shall have it.”

  “Great Lady…” Batiret began, but Meryet silenced her with a secretive smile.

  “Send for a scribe, and fetch that messenger from the hallway, Nehesi. Tell the Lady Satiah that she shall have her audience this very afternoon.”

  When the double doors opened far at the end of the Great Hall, Meryet was already waiting on her glimmering seat. Behind her, the two empty Horus Thrones stood shining in a wash of lamplight, the flames dancing over every rich detail: every scarab, every god’s face, every jeweled lion and leaping hare. She had instructed the hall’s stewards to cast nuggets of myrrh into the lamps’ flames so that the holy perfume of Punt drifted about her like an ethereal cloud. Behind the dais, figures of gods and kings stretched high along the wall, taller than three men, towering above the gilded thrones.

  The faces of deities stared down from the caps of pillars flanking the massive length of the hall, their eyes upon the small figure in a simple white shift that made its slow, steady way across the slick sheen of the malachite floor. The ornateness of the hall itself served as a reminder to those who might think to challenge the House of Thutmose: the Pharaoh was chosen and sanctified by the gods. No one, not even a priestess, could undo their divine work.

  Meryet watched with an emotionless face, gazing regally down from the height of her throne, as the tiny woman drew nearer. Satiah was indeed dressed as a priestess, as Meryet had suspected she would be. The unembroidered tunic of a temple servant, belted with the turquoise sash of Hathor, reflected in the deep green tiles like a wading bird’s body in a still, tranquil pond. When Satiah came close enough that Meryet could clearly see the fineness and delicacy of her features, framed by the locks of a plain wig, her hands tightened reflexively on the arms of her throne. Had she been a seshep, her lion’s claws would have dug into the throne until the gilding split. But her face remained composed, unconcerned.

  In contrast to Satiah’s frank simplicity, Meryet wore the full treasure of a Great Royal Wife. Her gown was the bright blue color of mourning, for this was still a funeral day, even if Satiah did wish to mock the occasion and toy with Meryet’s grief. Meryet, for her part, would not disrespect the dead. The gown, however, hugged her hips and her narrow waist, revealing through its loose weave just enough of her navel and the crux of her thighs to ride the knife’s edge of high courtly fashion. It was held by a red-beaded band that snugged tightly below her breasts, pushing them up and out, framing them between its gold-threaded straps. A broad collar of carnelian draped her shoulders and chest. Her wig was overlaid by flattened braids of gold, scaled like snakeskin so that each plait moved as she did, and fell down to her shoulders like a fountain of mid-day light. The alabaster wings of the Vulture Crown dropped to either side of her face, lending the sternness of the goddess Nekhbet to Meryet’s countenance.

  Nehesi waited at the foot of the dais, one hand on the hilt of his blade, restless as a pit dog. When Satiah was still several paces away, Nehesi held up his hand in abrupt warning, and obediently, reflexively, the woman stopped. She bowed fractionally, flashing her palms to the throne for barely a heartbeat. It was gesture of calculated insolence.

  Meryet’s mouth tightened. “Lady Satiah.”

  “Lady Meryet-Hatshepsut.”

  Nehesi took a menacing step toward the tiny woman. “You will address the Great Royal Wife properly, or I will personally see you returned to your former quarters in this palace.”

  “Forgive me, Great Lady,” said Satiah, smooth and imperturbable.

  “You asked for an audience, Satiah, and it is granted. Say what you will now, while I am still in a generous mood, for I would sooner see you die than watch you draw another breath.”

  Satiah blinked. “Die?”

  “A just payment for your sins.”

  “Ahhh,” Satiah said, exhaling the word, raising her chin rather more than Meryet thought to tolerate. “It is the Pharaoh’s place to decide who lives and who dies. It is not the work of the Great Royal Wife. Do you not agree? In any case, who indeed is the Great Royal Wife – you or I?”

  “Mut preserve a fool,” Meryet said with a light laugh. “What a dangerous thing to say.”

  “Dangerous? I think not, Great Lady. You are a usurper.”

  Before Meryet could answer, Satiah turned back toward the double doors and clapped. A woman entered hestiantly, carrying a large bundle in her arms. Nehesi shifted his weight as if he thought to draw his sword, but Meryet stayed him with a quick, subtle gesture. The woman at the far end of the hall bustled forward, and before she had passed the first pillar Meryet could see that she carried a child.

  So Satiah has a baby. Did Thutmose know? He must be unaware. He told Meryet everything, but he had not told her this. Before the nurse reached Satiah’s side, Meryet knew the child was a boy. What else could this ruse of an audience be about, unless Satiah intended to put forth a claim to the throne?

  The child’s face pinched; he was on the verge of fussing, but Satiah stroked his cheek tenderly and he quieted. Meryet sized him up in that moment, with Satiah’s attention turned away from the dais, away from the startled expression Meryet struggled to ward away from her face. The boy was small, but he might just be the proper age to have been conceived while his mother was still Great Royal Wife. Or he might be too young by several months. She could not say definitively, and the uncertainty filled her with cold apprehension.

  Thinking quickly, Meryet rose gracefully from her throne. “Walk with me in the garden, Lady Satiah.”

  “I prefer not…”

  “You are under the mistaken impression that you have a choice in the matter. I am not interested in your preferences. You will walk.”

  Nehesi closed in, and Satiah, glancing at the blades weighing down the old guard’s leather belt, nodded.

  Meryet led her guest from the Great Hall, beyond the ambassadors’ courtyard and into a wide, airy garden that ran down the length of the kitchens and storerooms. At the far end of the garden was the old wing of the palace where Satiah had once whiled away many long hours in isolation. When the woman saw the disused wing in the distance her mouth tightened; her eyes shone with a baleful fire, like cold, dark stars.

  “Stay here with the child,” Meryet told the nurse. The woman goggled helplessly at Satiah for a moment, but Meryet turned, knowing she would be obeyed – and indeed she was. She walked on with Satiah and Nehesi until they were well apart from the nurse and the boy. Meryet halted where several paths intersected, a place free of flower beds or shady stands of trees. They were well and truly alone here, and she could speak freely.

  Satiah’s boy had some features of the House of Thutmose – it was plai
n to see in his wide mouth, his strong nose and weak chin. But the same blood ran in Satiah’s body as ran in the Pharaoh’s, and mere resemblance was not enough to convince Meryet that this child was any threat. Still….

  She rounded on Satiah. “You realize, Lady Satiah, that you must reveal your true identity if you think to claim the title of King’s Mother. Thutmose was married to Neferure, not to you.”

  The tiny woman smiled placidly. “I must do no such thing. Neferure no longer lives. I am Satiah in truth. The power of the gods is with me; that is all the advantage I need.”

  “Who is the child’s father?”

  “Do you mean his earthly father, or his true father?”

  “Do not try to frighten me. Your son was not sired by a god.”

  “Not a god…Great Lady.” This last she added only after Nehesi’s fist tightened on the hilt of his blade.

  Meryet wrestled with a decidedly unregal scoff. “Which god, then?”

  “All of them. I am their consort. I am their holiest vessel, and they mean the throne for my child.” As she spoke, her eyelids grew heavy with remembered ecstasy. A tremor shook her small frame, as though an unseen power flexed and heaved inside her.

  Meryet fought the urge to step away from Satiah. Instead, she forced herself to step closer. She could smell the old smoke of incense and charred meat on the woman’s skin. Satiah gazed up into Meryet’s face with complete self-assurance.

  “So you think to threaten me with a child who may be Thutmose’s son? Very well. If the boy truly is the Pharaoh’s child, then he should be raised in the harem like a proper prince.”

  Meryet jerked her head toward Nehesi, and at once he called for a troop of his guards. They were always nearby, forever waiting on their leader’s call like hounds eager for the hunt. The cries of the nurse tore across the emptiness of the garden as they pried the boy from her grip. The nurse set up a shrill wail, but neither Meryet nor Satiah looked glanced in her direction. Their eyes remained locked by the intensity of their mutual loathing, but Meryet saw something other than hatred writhe for one heartbeat in Satiah’s wide-eyed stare: fear.

  You wanted an audience with the Great Royal Wife, and you have had it.

  Satiah recovered her composure, though not without visible effort. She painted a smile onto her lips. It was cold, but to Meryet’s surprise it did not shake.

  “You may return to your estate, Lady Satiah.”

  “Thank you.” Satiah clapped her hands sharply, and the weeping nurse quieted herself. “Take good care of the heir until it is time for him to claim his throne from you and your husband, Great Royal Wife. I charge you with his well-being. The time is coming soon when he will rise up to take back what is his. I have no doubt of it. The gods will not suffer this farce much longer – of that I can assure you.”

  “Go,” Meryet said, shutting her ears to the crying of Satiah’s son as the guards carried him off toward the harem. A weight of loathing settled into Meryet’s gut. “Before I cut your throat myself, Lady Satiah. Go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THUTMOSE WAS AWAKE WELL BEFORE he heard his guard exchange a few low words with the scouting party. He and Tjaneni had retired to their tents to catch a few hours’ sleep before the morning’s march, but Thutmose had drifted uselessly in and out of slumber on his traveling cot, plagued by slow, transient dreams of Meryet rising from her bath, and of Hatshepsut leaning against a golden door frame, staring at him with demanding eyes that sparkles like winter stars in her drawn, sagging face. When he was certain the voices he heard were those of his scouts, he rose from his bed, grateful to leave behind the restless realm of sleep.

  Outside his tent, the sky was a cold gray. Dawn was still distant by an hour or more. The Egyptian encampment spread for spans along the base of the mountain ridge, hundreds upon hundreds of tents standing pale and severe against the darkness of the night plain. He had twenty thousand men all told, eight thousand chariots…and yet it may not be enough to win back the passage to Ugarit, for there were days yet to lose in the march.

  Amun damn me, I should have left Waset weeks sooner. But I could not leave her…not while she still lived.

  The scouts bowed low as Thutmose’s tent door swung closed with a soft thump. Tjaneni was there with them, watching Thutmose’s face with a steady intensity.

  “Mighty Horus,” one of the scouts whispered, “we have done as you commanded.”

  “Good. Tjaneni, wake my staff; have them feed these men and bring them beer. Then fetch all my generals. I would hear what my scouts have to say this very hour, before the sun rises.”

  The generals were not long in coming, though even in the pre-dawn gloom Thutmose could clearly see the traces of their interrupted sleep, the squinting eyes, the red tracks pressed into the flesh of their faces, evidence of rough packs used in place of proper head-rests. They gathered in a loose circle around the door of his tent while the scouts, fed and well recovered from their adventure, told what they had seen.

  Above the encampment, in a place concealed by an outcropping of rock, the ridge was cleft by a high pass. It was a steep climb on this side, they told him, but beyond the grade was somewhat gentler, dropping down onto the fields surrounding the city of Megiddo. The pass itself was treacherously narrow, wide enough for the chariots to move in single file. There were no signs of recent Retjenu activity in the pass itself; it was apparently considered too narrow or too hidden to bother defending.

  When the scouts had related the tale, Thutmose turned expectantly to his generals.

  “It doesn’t sound promising,” said Pihuri. “The climb is steep – we risk the horses’ legs.”

  Sikhepri agreed. “And one chariot at a time? Should the Retjenu suddenly decide the pass is worth defending after all, we would be like ants on a stone, and they would crush us as easily as a boy stamps his foot.”

  Thutmose looked at Minhotep, the most level-headed and careful of all his generals. “I think,” Minhotep said slowly, “the passage to the south is much safer. True, we lose some element of surprise by going south – or even north, where the more remote pass lies – but the going will be easier, the men and horses fresher, your resources intact and fully accessible for the duration of the march.”

  “Indeed, the southern route sounds like the more sensible approach,” Thutmose said.

  His generals nodded in unison.

  “And that is why we will take this pass.”

  Pihuri, startled out of all propriety, sputtered. “What? Great Lord…”

  Thutmose raised a hand to forestall their protests. “Wake the army. I want the first ranks ready to follow me up the mountainside within two hours, fully armed and prepared for hard battle.”

  His generals staggered into the night to carry out his orders, and Tjeneni slipped to his side as quiet and unobtrusive as a shadow.

  “Lord Horus,” Tjaneni said, “please allow me to speak plainly, for your sake.”

  “All right. Speak away.”

  “Is this the wisest choice? Do you give this command because it is a superior strategy, or do you give it because your grief makes you reckless? I would ask the king to think on this question, and to answer it honestly in his heart.”

  Thutmose found his scribe’s shoulder with his hand. He gave a rough squeeze. “I have asked myself that question already, Tjaneni, a dozen times.”

  “And what is the answer?”

  “You don’t believe it’s a good strategy?”

  “Strategizing is not my strength – only firing my bow.”

  “Do you trust your Pharaoh, Tjaneni?”

  “Of course, Lord.”

  Thutmose thumped him on the back. “Good. That’s all I need from you – from you or any of my men.”

  He strode ahead, returning to his scrutiny of the black wall of rock, leaving Tjaneni to see to the preparation of the royal chariot. He hoped his scribe did not notice that Thutmose had given no answer to the question. Thutmose had asked himself already whether
it was strategy or rage that drove him, but had yet to find the answer within his own heart. Even now, with his army stirring to life at his back, he could not predict what the coming morning would hold.

  The sun was no more than a hand’s breadth above the horizon when Thutmose’s chariot left the steep, rocky slope behind and gained the level ground of the pass. Two upthrust stone walls stood close to either side, towering above him as the driver reined in. The pass was indeed narrow, as the scouts had warned. Thutmose could have reached out an arm and brushed the rock wall with his fingertips, had he wanted to drop his spear. The passage was perhaps two dozen strides in length. At its far edge, the path dropped out of sight to the valley beyond. He could see fields and villages on the plain below, their colors just beginning to warm in the glow of morning. No warning shout was raised from the opposite slope, no cry of alarm. The only sounds were the trilling of birds and the singing of morning insects. The pass was, as the scouts had asserted, abandoned.

  “Drive on,” Thutmose said.

  The chariot picked up speed. Soon the rock walls fell abruptly away, and the full force of the morning sun struck Thutmose, heating his great, heavy suit of overlapping bronze scales, beating against the hardened blue leather of the king’s war helmet. From behind he heard the rapid rumbling of more chariots moving swiftly through the pass, the snorting of horses, the tight, gruff commands of his generals and the answering barks of his men. One at a time, they filed between the walls, fanning onto the slope below, arranging themselves into a great curved wing-like formation with Thutmose at its forward tip.

  A man in a dust-colored robe rose suddenly from the rocks of the slope, staggering, evidently roused out of careless sleep. Thutmose raised his spear, but before he could thrust, the man fell backward with a gurgle, the goose fletching of an Egyptian arrow sprouting from this throat. Thutmose glanced over his shoulder in time to see Tjaneni drop his right arm to his quiver, nock another arrow with calm assurance as his chariot took its position beside Thutmose’s.