The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh (36 page)

My guess would be that it was done by one of the undergardeners. But is it a drawing of something actually observed, or is it merely the scribble of someone with a grievance, an expression of hatred intended to reduce the great King to a common slut? It is true that most people are terrified of the west bank at night, for they fear the spirits whose abode it is. But perhaps a worker missed the last boat home, and crept up to the temple to shelter from the chill; a worker who saw, perhaps, some lights, who heard a flute, drew nearer, peered …

I do not like to imagine this. No, no, it must have been mere spite. Besides, there were never any rumours about that night. About the relationship of Her Majesty and Senenmut, yes, of course there were rumours. But there was never anything as specific as the events related in this scroll. I would have heard.

I will never, never, speak of this. I should not have read this scroll at all. I regret having set eyes on these words, but it is too late. Yet now at last I understand the coldness that came between them in the end. It was obvious to all who had seen how they were together before. Oh, yes, I understand.

THE TWENTIETH SCROLL

The reign of Hatshepsut year 20:
The third month of Shomu day 15

Yesterday Mahu came to me with a tale of rumour-mongering in the taverns that has left me shaken. As usual he was reluctant to speak, but I could see that he had been brooding on this and he knew that I ought to be told. He hates to be the bearer of bad news, so he stuttered and stumbled through his report, avoiding my eyes. But tell me he did.

“Come on, Mahu, out with it,” I said, irritably. “You asked for an audience. You must have something to say.”

“It is merely a rumour, Majesty,” he said. “Truly, there is no proof – no proof whatsoever – only what is said, in the taverns, and then only when men are drunk, and careless.”

“What do they say?” No doubt more mutterings about the unnatural nature of a female Pharaoh, I thought. Every so often somebody starts that hare.

“It concerns Khani,” said Mahu, rocking forwards and backwards as if he would much like to flee. He spoke so softly that I was not sure what I had heard.

“Who? What did you say?”

For once he looked straight into my eyes. “General Khani,” he repeated. “It concerns him.”

“Continue.” Now he had my attention.

“They are saying … s-saying that the promotion to general has gone to his head.”

Well, there would always be those who would say that. I was not surprised. “Continue.”

“They are saying that his ambitions now … know no bounds. That he seeks … that he seeks …”

“To become the Great Commander?” I enquired.

“Yes. B-but more.”

“More?”

“That he seeks the throne,” whispered Mahu. “That he would be rid of both General Thutmose, Majesty, and yourself. That he has borne a deep grudge, all these years, for the humiliation that his c-country suffered, and his family, at Egyptian hands. That he seeks r-revenge. That he envisions a … a N-Nubian on the throne and Egypt a vassal state of Nubia, instead of the other way around.”

I stared at him, aghast. This is a possibility that has never occurred to me. Yet perhaps it should have. Now that it has been spoken, it sounds dreadfully plausible. By Seth and all his devils! A Nubian on the Double Throne! It shall never be!

I was much perturbed by Mahu’s report. Yet once I had grown calmer and considered the matter, I reminded myself of how easy it is to start a rumour and how often such rumours have no vestige of truth in them. There have been rumours about me that were entirely devoid of truth. It is a sly and underhand weapon, but it can be very effective. This tale about Khani has already succeeded in causing me to doubt him, to lose my absolute trust in his loyalty. This is terrible, considering our long and close relationship.

I have cast my thoughts back over the years and I can find no single instance of any action on Khani’s part that would support these rumours. I remember the day I spoke for him, and how he bowed to me, not to my husband the Pharaoh. From that day there has been a bond between us. I remember the little monkey he brought to divert me when my son was still-born, and how it messed on Hapuseneb’s tunic. I remember Khani’s wide smile when he helped to carry me through the cheering crowds on the day that I was crowned. I remember how he came to me when the division of which he had been made Commander was quartered in Thebes, four years ago.

He had asked for an audience in my small audience chamber and when he arrived, he indicated that we should speak completely privately. I sent the guards away and closed the door.

“Yes, Khani?” He has an extremely imposing presence, I thought. The years of military training had filled out his frame and he stood tall and powerful.

“Majesty.” He made a deep obeisance.

“Please rise. Pharaoh is pleased that your division is quartered here. Now we shall see more of you,” I said.

“I have a suggestion to make, Majesty,” he said in his deep voice.

“Tell me.”

“While we are quartered here, I could make regular reports to Your Majesty, about … anything that might be of particular interest. In my position I hear many things. Naturally, I also know what the military are planning, especially …”

“Especially the Great Commander Thutmose?”

“Exactly. It might be helpful to Your Majesty to know what he intends before he imparts that information himself.”

“If at all?”

“If at all. I know he has reason to feel … hard done by. Such men are dangerous.”

I nodded thoughtfully. It would indeed be of great assistance to me in maintaining my supremacy.

“And, Majesty, I think it would be best if these regular reports were made discreetly. Let me not come too often to the audience chamber. Let me come quietly, while most people are resting, in the afternoons, to the residential palace. I can travel in a closed sedan chair, carried by men I trust.”

“Very well,” I agreed. “I appreciate your devotion, Khani. Thank you.”

“I live to serve Your Majesty,” he said.

In truth, he always has. And yet, perhaps Mahu’s message is a timely warning to me not to trust anybody implicitly. Not one single person. Khani’s words about Thutmose might well apply to himself: Was he not hard done by, as a child? Is
he
not perhaps dangerous? Khani himself told me to watch my back. Well, I shall do so. I shall watch my back and bide my time. Ibana must be told to observe Khani very closely. Yet of course – I must doubt even Ibana, just as I must doubt everyone else. How have things come to this?

I think poor little Bek saw me looking troubled, so he thought of a new way to divert me. He has found a lute and somebody has taught him how to strum it. He does not do so expertly, but he manages a few chords and accompanies himself as he sings. He has a remarkably fine voice, sweet and clear, and he sings with a kind of melancholy feeling that almost moves one to tears. Doubtless this is far from his intention, but that is what it does to me.

After Mahu had left, Bek sidled into my room, strumming. When I smiled at him, he sat down on the floor, stiffly, cradled the lute and sang. I think the song must have been his own invention, for I do not recall that I ever heard the bard sing those words. The tune was simple, but sweet, and memorable to the ear.

I sing of a seed that is sown

In the earth, soft and deep,

A seed that must wait for the sun

To awaken it from sleep.

I sing of a plant that unfurls

Little leaves, brave and new,

Of a stem that grows up to the light

And of roots thirsty for dew.

I sing of a tree, broad and strong,

Bearing fruit, bringing shade,

Where the birds may make nests safe and sure

In the midst of a cool glade.

Now he strummed more loudly, with deeper chords.

I sing of a storm that will break,

That will roar, that will rend

Branch from branch till the strong tree is cleft

Into halves that ne’er will mend.

Softer, now:

I sing of a tree fallen down,

Gone to earth, gone to earth,

And a drift of a handful of dust

Blown away by the God’s breath.

“Why, Bek, that’s beautiful,” I said. “You shall become a bard!”

He smiled, looking almost like his old self. But his song has made me sad. It has brought memories.

Looking back, I think that the celebration of Djeser-Djeseru marked the high point of my life and of my reign as Pharaoh. Somehow, from that time onward, it was as if the gods began to withdraw their support from me, gradually but inexorably. Indeed, I had already forfeited the support of the one person on whom I had most depended.

Ever since the night at Djeser-Djeseru, Senenmut’s attitude towards me had changed. He was no longer my beloved, telling me mutely of his love with every glance; he was no longer even my friend who sat with me companionably in the cool evenings sharing some wine. He became punctiliously correct, carrying out all his tasks with as much competence as ever, but he withdrew his heart from me.

It was my own fault, I knew. I had treated him badly. He had good reason to be angry. And yet … and yet, I could not regret that night. Nor, I would swear to it, did he. But he was angry and he punished me. I remember that he came, not long after that extraordinary night, to ask for leave of absence, standing stiffly to attention in my small audience chamber.

“Majesty,” said Senenmut, “I beg that Pharaoh will excuse me from my duties for some weeks. The work on the great temple is complete, after all, and there are no major projects in hand.”

“What would you do?” I asked.

“Return to Iuny,” said Senenmut. He had been back to the small town where he had grown up a number of times over the years, but never for very long. “My mother has passed into the Afterlife and I wish to arrange an appropriate burial.”

“Why, I am sorry for it,” I said, sincerely. I had quite forgotten that Senenmut still had an aged mother living. “Of course, you should go.”

“A suitable tomb has been prepared close to my own,” he told me. “Work on it was begun some time ago. And since I am now a man of substance thanks to Your Majesty’s generosity …”

His words were grateful, but his tone was sardonic. I merely inclined my head.

“… it is possible for me to undertake, also, the reburial of my father, and even of some other members of my family who died earlier when I had limited means, and who were therefore given poor interments. I intend to have them all reburied together with appropriate grave goods. May they live.”

“A noble aim,” I said. “Certainly, we will spare you. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“And shall we see you, perhaps, at the palace this evening?” I hated the sound of supplication in my voice. But I had missed him so, for he had stopped coming of his own accord and I would not order his attendance.

“If Your Majesty insists.” His tone was flat.

“Pharaoh does not insist,” I said, regally. “Naturally you will be busy. Go, go.”

He kissed the ground. And he went.

In the year that followed, year 14 of my reign, two events took place that shook me seriously. I must write first of the one that caused me the greatest personal grief.

By that time I had lost many people who were dear to me. To some extent it was a comfort to think of them as happy spirits in the Fields of the Blessed, or in the case of my late father and husband (may they live) who had been Pharaohs, riding triumphantly with Ra in his solar barque. And yet sometimes I fear that the dwelling place of the inhabitants of the West may be deep and dark, with no light to brighten it, no north wind to refresh the heart. I hope I may be wrong. But it cannot be denied, as it has been written, that “
None has returned from there, to tell us how they fare
”.