The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh (51 page)

Now I must send the army forth once more, but this time it must be a major campaign of conquest. Nothing less will do. In the dark of the night, I took that decision. I will convey it in the morning. I will give the Great Commander what he wants, and send him forth upon the Horus road, be it to death or glory. Yes, I will do it. Perhaps, having decided this, I can sleep now.

Still, however, sleep eludes me. I keep returning to the song of the blind bard. I recall that he praised the Pharaoh’s actions in repairing what he had found ruined. Well, most of what was destroyed by the Hyksos, who ruined our temples and desecrated our gods, has been restored under my rule. There has been much rebuilding and building anew in my time. In particular there is Djeser-Djeseru. It is like nothing that has ever existed; there is no other such in all the world. I believe the God may be pleased with it. Yes, all over the Black Land the temples are whole again, and the rituals are faithfully carried out. As Pharaoh I have given the Kingdom of the Two Lands a period of stability and healing. That much is true.

Of course the core of the bard’s eulogy was that the Pharaoh had held the Black Land safe in his hands, that he had triumphed over evil. That he had restored Ma’at.

The night air is chill, and the oil lamp that lights my scroll begins to dim. I shall have to write faster. I have served Khemet; I have done my duty, I must write a full accounting. Even if my enemies strike my records from the living stone, my deeds must yet be known.

Throughout my reign festivals and feasts were held on their due dates. I have done what is prescribed, honouring the gods and renewing my kingship; the necessary daily rituals have been carried out, nothing being omitted. I have always been mindful of my duty to link the earthly and the spirit worlds, to guard against malevolent influences and to keep chaos at bay …

Finally, in the early hours of this morning, the oil lamp guttered and went out and I had to lay down my pen.

Yet still I could not sleep. I paced my portico, up and down, up and down. I saw the night grow pale and I watched as the barque of Amen-Ra cast its brightness over the sleeping land. My city was still covered in a haze from the fires of yesterday and it glowed like a cloak of gold. One might have thought it a sign of the God’s benediction had one not known it was in truth the very opposite. For a brief while the scene was beauteous, scented with the sweetness of lotus flowers on the cool dawn air. Then the sun rose higher and the detritus of destruction was mercilessly revealed. The wind brought the bitter scent of ash.

This morning I sent a message to the Vizier that I do not feel well. I am unutterably weary and I cannot face any audiences today. All I feel able to do is to write once more in my journal. I must complete the record. I must leave nothing out.

The question that tortures me is this: Why is it that the inundation has not come? Why has the bountiful river god turned away from Khemet? Why in this time of sowing do the river banks lie dry and barren under the brilliant sun? Why have the priests’ prayers, incantations and sacrifices failed to move the gods to pity? Why does Thebes groan under a pall of smoke and blood? I know not why the gods are angry and do not speak to me.

Or is it possible that I, the Pharaoh, have earned their anger and their enmity? Can it be my fault that the Two Lands suffer? Could I have been wrong in believing myself to be the chosen of the gods?

So much of my strength of will has been expended on keeping the young Thutmose from wielding power. I have held back from war, not only because I have had a horror of it – and indeed, indeed I have – but also, let me admit it here, to block him from great achievements that would have earned him the adulation of the people. My people. I wanted to be always first and foremost in their hearts. He has warned of grave danger, of losing our vassal states, of being attacked by a foe grown bold because we do not act. Now that I have decided to give the order I should – admittedly – have given long before, it may be too late. I may have failed to keep my people safe.

In the light of morning this thought has come to me: Perhaps, when the sacred barque bowed to the child Thutmose in the great temple of Amen-Ra, it was in truth the God speaking to Khemet. Perhaps, through my struggles to maintain my supremacy upon the Double Throne, I have spent my life in wrestling with the gods. Obstructing the will of my heavenly father, Amen-Ra. Perhaps the young Thutmose should have reigned.

It may be that the inundation failed because I, Pharaoh, failed. Nor will it return while I still reign. No, there will be no blessings from Hapi, and the lack will be due to my own actions. Humbly, I confess it. I have tried to reign wisely over this land that the God gave into my care; but I – I, Pharaoh – have contravened Ma’at.

This will hold back the flood: I gave the order to have Khani killed. Khani, my faithful informer, my loyal supporter, my dear friend. I allowed the devils of Seth to crawl into my heart and sow mistrust of a person who always loved me and who has always had my love. I believed that he was a turncoat and a danger to the state, and I gave orders to have him eliminated. I should have been patient and prudent; I should have waited and watched, and I should have had him followed to discover whether he was in truth a traitor or not. But I was afraid and I acted hastily, and I was completely and unforgivably wrong. But I could not reverse my orders before he had proved me wrong and it was too late.

I recall the words of my royal father, when we made the journey to Abydos:
“You should remember that it is easy enough to be ruled. To be a ruler, that is far more difficult. To rule oneself is the hardest thing of all.”
My greatest failure has been that I did not rule myself.

So I grieve for my dear friend and I grieve for the Pharaoh Ma’atkare Hatshepsut, whom the gods have rejected, and for good reason. Hathor no longer supports me with her everlasting arms. Horus does not stretch his protective wings over my head. Wadjet will not spit venom into the eyes of my enemies. Nor will Hapi be bountiful. In vain do I implore the mercy of the gods. Egypt lies barren and it is my fault. I, whom the Divine Light placed upon the earth of living mortals to judge human beings and satisfy the will of the gods, I who am sworn to displace disorder, lies and injustice with the harmony of Ma’at – I have not been worthy.

Yes, I grieve and I am much afraid. For I fear that my heart will weigh heavy on the scales of justice when I move on to the Afterlife. I see Anubis, the jackal-headed one, awaiting me with angry eyes, and I imagine that the hound of hell, Ammit, will have a heart to feed on when I reach the portals to the Netherworld. I greatly doubt that the best entreaties of the priests will effect a safe passage for me. All their amulets, scarabs, spells and incantations will not suffice. No, despite all that the priests can do, my heart will rise up to testify against me.

I shall not see my father Thutmose, may he live for ever, nor my mother Ahmose nor my beautiful Neferure nor my little son, he who was not named and should now be a man. I am sure that I would know him, and he should be beautiful. Nor shall I see my devoted Senenmut again. I shall not ride with my heavenly father in his solar barque. Nor shall I join the never-dying circumpolar stars.

Perhaps the bard was right. Perhaps we go to silence. Nothing else. If that be so, it will be more than I deserve. Whatever the truth of this, at least I will finally be free of the burden that my heart has borne ever since I lost my Neferure and my little son who had no name and never breathed. My mother told me that one carries the sorrow of a lost child like a large and heavy stone for all one’s days; I did not believe her then. I have learned the truth of it. I shall be glad to lay that stone down at last.

One good thing has come from me and will, if the gods are kind, remain to be a blessing to this land that I have loved. That is the small Amenhotep, who should be Pharaoh if he lives to grow to man’s estate. He has the pure blood royal, having passed from my loins through the pinched and narrow vessel that is his mother into the light. He has begun to take lessons in the palace school and his tutor speaks well of his abilities. He will, I do believe, be a good and a great Pharaoh.

He is coming to visit me today with his mother. I have fetched out the little war chariot that he loves and I have ordered his favourite grape juice and tiger nut sweets. I think I hear their footsteps approaching and his delightful laugh. He is a child of the sun. Heavenly father, please let him breathe. Let him become Pharaoh and give him the strength and courage to maintain Ma’at.

May his life be sustained by love, as mine has been. May he too understand this: To love and to be loved is the best way to face the certain knowledge that one must go into the tomb; that one must travel to that land of silence of which the blind bard sang.

Here endeth the twenty-ninth scroll.                      

As I write this, the tears are dropping onto the papyrus and I must pause to mop my eyes for fear of blotting the ink. Her Majesty called me to receive the scroll, as usual. Then she invited me to stay and share some cooled wine, and to meet her grandchild, whom she clearly adored. I did stay to meet the child, and I saw that his fond grandmother did not dote foolishly. He is indeed a happy child and a loving one.

But wait. I am when all is said and done a scribe and I must note what I observed as accurately as I am able. No tears, I shall shed no more tears.

I noted, first, that Her Majesty was looking ill and weary. She had grown very large of girth and had lost the energy with which she always spoke and moved. But when she saw the child, her eyes sparkled again and she called him into her arms. He is a sturdy boy, I think about eight or nine years old now, with a child’s side lock over one eye, and he wore only a light kilt, for the day was warm.

I noted that he had no sense of the sanctity of Pharaoh’s body, but ran to her as a child will and threw his arms around her joyously. She bent down and embraced him. His mother, I saw, felt the heat, even though they had been brought in a sedan chair and had not walked the streets. She had a linen kerchief in her hand and mopped her face with it.

She brought a gift of sweetmeats that her cook had prepared; it was arranged in a little basket on some leaves. They were pink and shiny. “Figs, stewed in sweet wine and flavoured with honey,” said Meryetre. The child wanted one, but his mother would not allow it. “Have a tiger nut, darling, those are a gift for your grandmother,” she said. “You should not eat them.”

She herself did not eat anything but drank cooled wine which the slaves brought.

Pharaoh sat down with the child leaning against her knee and she took a sweetmeat. I had kept in the background, sitting cross-legged on the ground as I always do, but at that moment I could not keep silent. She had sent away her slaves, including the one who must taste all she eats and drinks. “Majesty,” I said, in a low voice.

She looked at me with her lion’s eyes, and they were tawny and as brave as ever. She looked at me and shook her head, very slightly. Her daughter Meryetre did not notice this pass between us; she was circling restlessly around the room, picking things up and setting them down and chattering. She is not normally one to chatter much, but on this day she was chattering. Her speech ran on over our heads like a light and inconsequential breeze.

Her Majesty took a sweetmeat and ate it and then she took another and a third. She praised them, asking if her cook might have the recipe. Meryetre agreed, distractedly, as if she were thinking of something else. And then, as soon as the cooled wine was drunk, she made the child say goodbye and took her leave.

Now I come to what my pen does not wish to write. This happened yesterday afternoon; this morning when the God sailed into the sky, Her Majesty King Ma’atkare Khnemet-Amen Hatshepsut was no more. They gave it out that she had suddenly passed on late the previous afternoon. The palace officials said that she had been suffering from a serious flux for some weeks and it had sorely taxed her strength. She had simply stopped breathing and her slaves had found her lying on the ground.

Thutmose, the one who shall now be the King, has ordered that the seventy days of mourning must be properly observed, and Her Majesty’s body has been removed to the House of Death for ritual purification. There will be a great state funeral and the poor will rejoice, for they will be given bread and beer; the royal stores are not yet totally depleted. She will be buried in the tomb that Hapuseneb has prepared for his Pharaoh. There will be sacrifices in the magnificent funerary temple at Djeser-Djeseru that the late great Senenmut built for the King.