The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh (16 page)

“Oh, Hapuseneb,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I am s-sorry, but you sh-should not have hit it.” And I laughed some more.

He was outraged and stalked out of the room without being dismissed, calling for a slave to bring water and towels.

Khani and I sat giggling helplessly. “Oh, dear,” I said, “he’s going to be furious for days. Oh, my. It has done me so much good to have a laugh. Thank you, Khani.”

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

The little creature afforded me much joy for a few months, but then it suddenly took ill and died. It seemed to me that it was too closely connected to my still-born son, that therefore it too could not have a strong life force. I was sad to lose it, and it made me miss Khani. So I wrote to tell him, and after that several letters passed between us while he was training, being delivered by ships travelling up and down the Nile.

When I had recovered my strength, my husband lay with me often and tried hard to make a son. It was not long before his seed had once more taken root. But I could not be joyous, as I had both times before. It was not a happy pregnancy as both of the two previous ones had been. Each time before, I had felt blessed. The third time I felt sick.

Yes, I was sick to my stomach every day for all those moons that I carried my third child. I was tired and I could hardly eat. It was as if a strange growth had taken root in my body, which wanted to be rid of it. As for my spirit, it was sick too. I have vowed to tell the truth in these writings and I shall set down what I have never admitted – not even, perhaps, quite clearly to myself: I never wanted her. No, I did not. It was just over a year since my little son, he who has no name (may he yet live), was born and did not breathe. I was very much afraid that the new babe would be the same and I could not envisage enduring such suffering again. And besides, I did not want another babe. I wanted the one who had been born to me, the child that should have been my strong, my valiant son, mastering horses, leading men and drawing a bow that none but he could bend.

It was a hard time I had carrying her and a hard time bringing her forth. Two days I laboured, and I thought to die squatting on the bricks. The pains swept through my body without mercy, shaking me, tearing my bones asunder like a prisoner on a rack and squeezing me inside until I almost had no breath. The midwives had begun to despair when at last she came into the light. A small and insignificant girl child, screaming as if in protest at what was happening to her. And she went on screaming, it seemed to me, with barely a pause, for at least five moons. I bade Inet and the wet nurse take her from my sight.

Inet was angry with me. “You should never, never reject a baby,” she scolded.

“Inet, I’m not rejecting her, I’m just sending her away for a while so that I can rest. I’m so tired, and all she does is scream. Let the wet nurse feed her somewhere else. Besides, what can a baby know? It knows nothing of what is going on.”

Inet shook her stiff black wig. “She knows. Believe it. It is not Ma’at, to push a child away.” She limped out of the room after the wet nurse with the screaming baby, exuding disapproval.

Oh, what nonsense, I thought, the hot tears sliding down my cheeks. And the last thing I needed was for Inet to be cold to me. I had already had to contend with my husband’s disappointment when the new baby was not a son. He sighed deeply and shook his head, although he said nothing. I believe he knew that we had had all the opportunities the gods would grant and there would be no full-blood prince to follow him. For once, I thought, I would like someone to think of me. I want somebody to sit next to my bed and tell me I have been brave, I have suffered weary months of discomfort and many hours of pain and I have endured it all, I have done well. I want my mother Queen Ahmose, may she live, to sit here and hold my hands in her cool hands and comfort me. Instead I must be a disappointment to all and get scolded by Inet. It is not just.

By the time Neferure had seen five risings of the Nile and Meryetre two, my husband the Pharaoh, may he live, was tiring apace. He had always used to visit his minor wives, and called for a concubine or two from time to time, but those visits happened less and less often, and soon he came only to my rooms. He liked to sit with me in the cool of the evening, drinking a little wine and conversing. Then we would move to the bedroom, where candles burned, incense scented the air and fine fresh linen decked the bed. One night especially remains in my memory, for it was the very last time we lay together.

His body felt strange to me as we held each other and kissed gently. My arms were surprised at how thin, how fragile his slight form had become. He nuzzled me, murmuring with pleasure as he inhaled the perfume of the unguent that I had rubbed into my skin. He began to lick my neck, my shoulders and my breasts, and soon I was pulsing with desire; it had been too long since he had been with me. I wanted him to take me – I wanted him to master, yes, to ravish me, as Shu had ravished Tefnut, in the beginning of the world when the gods coupled and brought forth creation. I could feel his member expanding against my thigh. I moved under him, our bodies slippery and warm, and I moaned with yearning.

I arched to meet his thrust, but alas, however hard he tried, there was no spear. Nothing more than a slightly swollen but wilted lotus bud. He gave a sob, and buried his face in my neck. His thin shoulders shook. I could feel his hot tears trickling across my face.

“I cannot,” he wept, “I cannot, my love, I am so tired. I am weary in my bones and however much I wish for it, I cannot do this.”

I patted his heaving shoulders and murmured: “There, there,” as one does to a weeping child. “No matter. Do not distress yourself.”

Gently I rolled onto my side and eased him down next to me. The desire in my loins was like a burning thirst in the desert but I willed it away. At length the sobs subsided and he fell into a light sleep, waking with a start from time to time and much disturbed by dreams. All night I held the Living Horus in my arms and comforted him.

Within months he was so often ill that it was clear he would not reign much longer. He was always tired, coughed a great deal, and bore dark bruises on his body even though he had not been injured as far as I could see. His joints ached. At night he perspired heavily and I had to keep a couple of slaves at hand to sponge him down regularly. His teeth pained him greatly and his gums bled. Seeing him suffer was hard for me, for though I never loved him passionately yet I was much attached to him; one must feel so towards the husband who initiated one into the marriage bed with skill and patience. Also he was a gentle soul who did not deserve the punishment of the gods.

He was deeply concerned about the governance of the Two Lands. One day shortly before he went to the Afterlife, he called me to his side.

I sat on a stool and held his hand. It was hot and felt papery.

“It weighs heavily on my heart that we have no son to follow us,” he said. “I want you to make me a promise.”

“Yes, husband?”

“You must promise to betroth Neferure to my son by Isis. She must wed young Thutmose,” he said.

“Surely that will not be necessary? I …”

“It must be,” he said, struggling to breathe. “She has the pure blood royal. He is but … the child of a … concubine. He will need her … to hold the throne.”

I can hold the throne, I thought, but I did not say it, for it would have upset him even more. Why, I thought in impotent fury, why is a half-blood prince to be preferred to a fully royal princess? But I will show the Black Land that a woman can hold the throne. I will demonstrate the power and ability of a female Pharaoh. Then my daughter can follow me.

“Promise me,” he insisted with the implacability of a weak man.

So I promised. Yet I could never bear the thought of Thutmose, he who would be King, that one who has hot eyes, touching and defiling my lovely child. I promised but I had other plans.

Soon the time came when the Pharaoh could no longer eat and he grew weaker with every wavering breath. Only the concoction that Hapu made from dried willow bark eased his suffering to any degree; he did not even need poppy juice to help him sleep, for he was drifting into a shadowy world where he was seldom awake. None of the physicians’ charms, spells or incantations, none of the sacrifices or prayers intoned by the priests, had any effect.

Even though I was there, I could not tell exactly when his Ka took flight. I sat by his side inhaling the cloying scent of his favourite floral incense. Feeling light-headed. At one moment it seemed to me that a darkness shadowed the room, and then he was no longer with us. He simply ceased to breathe, and Egypt mourned. The men stopped shaving and grew beards. The women let their hair down and lamented. The Black Land mourned its loss, as I did mine.

I was sad that he lost his strength so soon, for he had great dreams. But I had strength enough, I thought, to live as I had dreamed. I acted as regent, with every intention of acceding to the throne in my own right when the seventy days had passed. For was I not the chosen of the gods? The one with the true blood royal? Who had in effect already reigned for years?

But I made an error that I would never fall into again: I relaxed my guard; I was not alert; I did not ensure that I had eyes and ears everywhere keeping watch for me. During the seventy days of mourning the priests must have made their plans; so the move that they made that day in the temple, when the barque of Amen-Ra dipped to the child of the concubine, caught me unawares. I had not expected that they could dream of placing a juvenile upon the Double Throne. It is Pharaoh’s duty to sustain vigour and vitality, lest Khemet lose its life force and prove unable to maintain Ma’at, which would allow the forces of chaos and evil to conquer the land. Always, always those forces lie in wait and have to be opposed, and only a strong Pharaoh is capable of doing that. Certainly not a child of ten.

I was absolutely furious, but I controlled myself and none could tell what my true feelings were. Although this coronation was utterly unacceptable, I could not act in a manner that seemed to contradict the god’s will. I saw that it would take some time and careful planning, but I vowed that I would gain the throne at last. While the child was yet young I would be regent, but it would not be for long. It is not unknown in the history of Egypt for two Pharaohs to share the throne, one always being in the ascendancy. I would ensure that I myself was crowned, and I would become the major power. It was inevitable and it was necessary. Khemet needed me.

I realised at once that I would have to counter the power of the priests; this could be done by gaining the support of those who did not wish the priesthood to become all-powerful, namely the nobles, who formed the Party of Legitimacy, and the military. And also the bureaucrats. I believed that the nomarchs heading the provinces of Egypt would support me if I assured them that such support would be profitable. In this way I laid my plans and made my moves. Yes, I became regent. Only for a while.

Here endeth the eighth scroll.                      

My friend Ahmose, the scribe who now works for the priests, has brought disquieting information and I am in much doubt as to whether I should pass it on to Her Majesty or not. It is this: Many documents are passing from the Great Commander Thutmose of the Army to the Vizier of the South, Hapuseneb, and back again. These documents are sealed and sent to and fro by courier, so Ahmose has not been able to read any of them. At first they were but few; however, lately the traffic has increased.

I see Ahmose regularly, but always in a tavern, so that none should suspect that these encounters are anything more than the meeting of two old friends. He looks considerably more presentable these days, almost sleek. Certainly better fed and neatly clothed. His scar has faded and now that his face is fuller it appears less crooked. Yesterday when I arrived at the Wishing Well he already had two large jars of beer waiting, and a bowl of olives, the juicy black kind that I like.

After some inconsequential chatter, he lowered his voice and leaned forwards confidentially. “I have not yet succeeded in taking a look at any of the communications between Hapuseneb and the Army Chief,” he murmured, “yet sometimes one can tell quite a lot about a document from its context without having read it. Such as when it was written, for example, and who was present at the time.”

I nodded.

“I have noticed,” he told me, “that a certain tax collector comes often to see the Vizier at his private residence, which is very suspicious. Also, I can think of no good reason why a tax collector should come around so often at the present time. It is the season of sowing, there is no harvest to report on as yet.”