Читать книгу The Double Crown - Marié Heese - Страница 10

The reign of Hatshepsut year 20:

The first month of Peret day 7

The faithful Mahu has taken the first scroll away and hidden it. Of course he now holds my life in his hands, and also the life of Khani. Yet I trust my little scribe who follows me around with the brown eyes of a loving dog. He would give all to protect me and he has a scar to prove it. A pity he has not the insight and the political intelligence – and the craftiness – that I once could call upon in one who began as a scribe and rose to greater things. If I still had Senenmut at my side, I would feel less threatened by the dangers that I sense around me now. But I am the Lord of the Two Lands and I, alone, have held sway for a score of years. I am divine; the gods range at my back. I will prevail.

Today I shall record Inet’s second story that goes to prove my undoubted divinity.

“Hathor is not the only one of the gods who have favoured Your Majesty,” she would begin. This is true. There has also always been Hapi, God of the life-giving Nile, Hapi the bountiful, the fruitful, the generous, who each year without fail causes the great river to flood its banks, drawing back to leave the rich black earth behind, bringing fertility to the Black Land; Hapi who has both beard and breasts, and is therefore both male and female as all my life I too have had to be. I have always thought it appropriate that I should have been in Hapi’s especial care.

This is how Inet told the tale.

“You were just like a boy child,” she said. “A rough little girl, always tumbling about with your brothers, running, jumping, climbing, throwing things, shouting …”

“I fought them, too,” I said, lifting my chin. “And I beat them.”

“You bit them,” said Inet severely. “You did not behave like a princess of the royal house, not at all.”

“Go on about Hapi,” I said.

“One day the boys decided to go fishing,” she continued. “They had small harpoons that one of the slaves had made for them. And a coracle woven of reeds, light enough for the two of them to handle.”

“They weren’t very old, were they?” I asked.

“Prince Wadjmose had seen eleven summers and Prince Amenmose nine,” Inet confirmed.

“And I three,” I said.

“Who is telling this tale?” Inet demanded. “If you know it all, why do you make me repeat it until I have to find some cooled wine to soothe my throat?”

“I like to hear it,” I said. “Go on, tell me. I’ll be quiet.”

“You insisted on going along,” she resumed. “Even with only three summers you knew what you wanted and you insisted on getting your way. Wilful, wilful.” She shook her head with its stiff black wig. “Truth to tell, you threw yourself upon the ground and drummed your heels and screamed, and even I could not calm you down. So for the sake of peace they took you along.”

“It was a beautiful day,” I said dreamily. “The sun was shining and the river was blue as the sky, except around the edges where the reeds and papyrus plants made it look green.”

“How would you know that?” asked Inet. “Surely you were too small to remember?”

“I think I do remember,” I said. Actually, Inet had always described it thus, and I had heard the tale so many times that I no longer knew what I could really recall. Besides, the sun always shines in the Black Land.

“Yes, well, the day was fine. The boys were instructed to keep an eye on you and on no account to let you handle a harpoon. And naturally you were accompanied by a small retinue. It’s not as though you went alone,” said Inet, still suffering twinges of guilt as she reflected on what could have happened. “I should have gone too, but I had the headache that makes me blind on the one side.”

“Itruri went,” I said. “And two slaves.”

“Itruri wasn’t a great deal of use,” sniffed Inet. She always was jealous of the elderly man who was the tutor of the royal children. “Sat on the bank under a sycamore tree and watched as disaster came close to wiping out the entire royal line, that’s what he did. The river was just beginning to rise.”

“As the goddess Isis wept for her dead love, Osiris,” I said.

“You know it, little one. Osiris was dead and the summer solstice was approaching. But his death was only temporary.”

“As is all death,” I said.

“You know it, little one. But on this day Isis wept as she searched the world for the pieces of her beloved husband’s body that had been cast to the four winds.”

“By his wicked brother Seth,” I added. I have always had a sneaking admiration for Seth. He was so clever and so ruthless in seeking his brother’s throne.

Inet ignored me. “The waters were swelling,” she continued. “The shoals on the banks where the boys fished were perhaps deeper than usual. There should have been two slaves in the coracle, but because they had you along, there was only room for one. The other one cast off and the boys paddled out briskly.”

“And Amenmose speared a fish,” I said.

“He did.”

“And he was so excited that he fell over the side.”

“He did. And Prince Wadjmose leaped in after him. Wadjmose could swim,” said Inet, “but Amenmose was not yet a good swimmer, and finding the water deeper than he was used to, he panicked and held on to his brother in his fright and the two nearly went down together.”

“So the slave jumped in too,” I said, “leaving me in the coracle.”

“He did. And the coracle bobbed out into the stream.”

“And I could not swim. But Hapi cradled me,” I said. “Hapi protected me. I did not fall in. I did not drown.”

“Praise be to the gods,” said Inet devoutly. “Reaching the middle of the river, where the current at that time ran strong, the little coracle sailed briskly downstream with you alone on board.”

“I was not afraid,” I said.

“No, you were not. Itruri said you waved at him and you were laughing, enjoying the ride.”

“The wind was in my hair,” I said. “It smelled of spice.”

This time Inet did not question my memory. “Itruri was distraught,” she said. “It had all happened so fast that he was at a loss. The slave had managed to get the two princes safely ashore, but there you went, all alone in a fragile boat of reeds, three summers only …” Inet shook her head as she contemplated the scene.

“But some peasants in a felucca saw my boat,” I said. “And they saw that I was too small to be sailing alone. They didn’t know I was a princess, though, did they, Inet?”

“They did not know. But they saw a small girl child alone on the wide water and they came to your rescue.”

“And they carried me home to the harem palace, and my mother was terribly upset,” I said, remembering how she had wept, and held me so tightly that I was almost unable to breathe. Only the previous year my little sister Neferubity had died, of something in her throat that stopped her breath, and my mother had wept, it seemed to me, for months. “Not this one too,” she had cried, clutching me. “Please, please, do not take this one too!”

“I told her I was quite safe with Hapi, but she was not impressed,” I said to Inet. “And my father the Pharaoh, may he live for ever, rewarded the men.”

“He did. But he was angry with you, and you should never forget what he said to you then.”

“He told me, ‘Always remember that your life belongs to Khemet. Do not be careless with it.’ But he did not understand that Hapi cradled me,” I said. “Hapi did not let me drown.”

“That is so,” said Inet.

Truthfully, I have felt a bond with Hapi all my life. I am never happier than when I am sailing upon her bosom. (Although she is both male and female, I believe her female side predominates, for does she not nurture the Black Land like a loving mother?) In times of sorrow, I have fled to her banks and my tears have mingled with the sacred water. As a child, I often escaped from supervision to run down to the river and sit staring at the grand sweep of it, or to cool my hot feet in the soothing shallows. It was not difficult to slip away from the harem palace, where I lived with the rest of the palace children, in the silent, sultry afternoons when all the adults were asleep and the tutor who was supposed to keep an eye on his charges while they rested had also succumbed to the heat.

Here I was interrupted in my writing as my little dwarf Bek, one of my favourite slaves, came running out onto the portico, throwing himself into a series of rolling somersaults as he came. I could not help laughing and refrained from reproving him. He knows he should not rush unbidden into my presence, but he also knows he pleases me and he presumes on my lenience. In truth he is a grown man of some twenty-six summers, but he is no larger than a child of five, although he has broad shoulders and a large head atop his small body.

“A riddle! A riddle!” he cried, coming to a stop with his feet folded neatly onto his thighs. His fine brown eyes sparkled with mirth.

“What is it?” I asked.

“What is small, but potent? Single, yet multiplies? Finite, yet filled with potential?” He looked at me expectantly.

“A seed,” I guessed.

He tilted his head. “A good guess, Majesty. It could be so. But I meant …”

He always wanted his audience to beg.

“Go on, tell me.”

“Me! Me! Me!” he crowed, doing a backward somersault and sitting upright again.

“You multiply?”

“Me and Yunit,” he announced, beaming with delight. “She is with child.”

“Why, Bek, that is wonderful,” I said, sincerely. Bek has been married to Yunit these seven years. She is also a dwarf, although slightly taller than he is. I had not thought they would have children.

“Two moons gone already,” he told me proudly. “And sick to her stomach with it. She is only able to fancy pomegranates.”

“Oh, so? And I suppose I must order my head gardener to supply my slave with pomegranates?”

“Majesty is kind. Majesty is as kind as she is beautiful. I mean he,” and Bek shook his head. It confuses him that I am king although I am female.

“Think of me like Hapi,” I said. “Hapi is both male and female. Strong and bountiful. Destructive and nurturing.”

He nodded, his face clearing. The idea of the river god having a dual nature was familiar to him. “Majesty,” he said, dropping his voice, getting up and sidling closer to me. He glanced at the guards who are never far from me, even during the time of afternoon rest.

“Speak softly,” I said. Bek, small and odd though he is, has eyes and ears that I trust and they are always at my service.

“There is talk in the taverns,” he murmured into my ear. Bek likes to frequent a number of taverns, where he is a great favourite because of his jokes. He earns occasional debens of copper or silver from the patrons, which he stashes away with a view to eventually gaining his freedom, when he hopes to acquire a smallholding where he and Yunit will plant vegetables for the market. He does not know I am aware of this, but Pharaoh must know whereof his servants dream. Dreams can be dangerous.

“Tell me.”

“The Great Commander Thutmose prepares for a major campaign,” he said, echoing what Khani had told me. “The soldiers are getting their gear ready. There is much admiration for the Commander. They are saying he is strong, he is aggressive, he is a lion whose roar will be heard as far as the Euphrates.”

“Go on,” I said, thinking: This is bad news. If there is already this kind of talk in the taverns, the plan must be well advanced, and other than Khani’s message this report is the first I have heard of it. “What else are they saying?”

The discipline of the army is strict and Thutmose, he who would be King, is a stern commander who punishes loose talk. Yet in their cups men will let things drop, and Bek can make himself invisible; he crawls beneath tables and nobody notices him.

“They are saying the Great Commander is decisive. They are saying he will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to defend the Black Land. They are saying he would not be attending to building operations and gardens while our enemies muster on our borders,” he said. He avoided my eyes as he whispered, staring down at his sandals, from which his small toes protruded like a row of olives.

He knew what he was reporting was serious in the extreme. It was criticism of the Pharaoh; implied, oblique, but criticism nonetheless. It was treason.

I sent him away with a deben of silver for his trouble. He who would be King is moving in on me. It is time for me to gather my resources.

Here endeth the second scroll.

It is true that there is much admiration for the Great Commander Thutmose. His soldiers and officers revere him, but the general populace admire him also. I have seen him myself, for although he is stationed in Memphis, where the army undergoes training, he comes to Thebes for the festivals. Indeed, he was here only three months ago, for the Celebration of Nehebkau, when all Khemet rejoices in the rebirth of Osiris. The festivities rivalled those of the New Year, with grand processions, marching bands, dancing, singing and roistering, and there was beer and food aplenty supplied to everyone from the Pharaoh’s stores.

Commander Thutmose took part in various athletic games and competitions, winning almost every time – and there were no allowances made for his status. His physical strength and abilities are truly extraordinary. I was present for the archery competition on the last day, in which several officers of the army and some younger nobles pitted their skills against each other. In the final round, there were three targets instead of just the one, set up a few strides apart, and the test was to shoot at them from a military chariot moving past at speed.

It was a demonstration of the high level to which the soldiers have been trained, for quite a number were able to hit all three. But then the targets were moved further back and at last only Thutmose and one other, a standard bearer from the Division of Horus, were left. The standard bearer, one Metufer, was taller than Thutmose by almost a full head, slender and lithe, and it was a delight to watch him draw his bow to loose off one arrow after another with smooth and practised grace. A cheer went up from the watching crowd as his arrows struck home.

Then the chariot bearing Thutmose came thundering along the circuit. His charioteer was driving it at an even faster pace than Metufer’s, whipping the sturdy brown horses into a tearing gallop, the white plumes streaming from their heads. In comparison with the taller man, Thutmose looked almost squat, but one could see the powerful muscles in his naked torso and upper arms rippling as he snatched his arrows from the quiver on his back with economical movements and sent them winging from the tremendous bow that, rumour has it, few other men can bend. The roar that greeted his third bull’s eye could, I swear by the breath of Horus, have been heard in Memphis. Since Metufer’s arrows had not all struck the exact centre of the targets, Thutmose was the winner.

The prize was a golden bracelet awarded by King Hatshepsut. The Pharaoh was enthroned on a wooden dais and as Thutmose strode up to it the crowd broke into a chant, rhythmically repeating: “Thutmose! Thutmose! Thutmose!” He turned and acknowledged the adulation of the crowd with a victorious salute, his oiled skin gleaming in the sun. The women around me were shrieking with excitement. He passed close by to where I stood, squashed between sweating female bodies, and I noted that he grinned at them, showing his white, somewhat protruding teeth. He has the intense physical presence of a predatory animal. It made me shiver.

Her Majesty had the expression of one who has bitten into a sweet date with a rotten tooth, but she congratulated him graciously enough. His obeisance was sketchy at best. Then he arose and slipped the bracelet over his arm, thick as a mooring rope. Again he turned to wave at the cheering crowd. The chant accompanied him to his chariot: “Thutmose! Thutmose! Thutmose!”

The women around me were going crazy, leaping to try and get a good look at the champion. All that jiggling bounty pressed up close against me was dizzying to the senses, especially as it was accompanied by a somewhat piscine scent growing more powerful by the minute in the hot and humid air. I fought my way clear, desperate for a cooled beer. As I trotted to the nearest tavern, one that I often frequent, I found to my embarrassment that I had to carry my linen bag of scribe’s tools in front of my kilt in order to preserve my dignity.

There was a slave girl serving at the tables whom I have noted before, a well-fleshed wench with plump arms and dimples in her round cheeks. A Syrian, I think, brought here as a child after a punitive expedition in the time of Thutmose the Second, may he live. She was jiggling too, as she threaded her way through the crowded room balancing a loaded tray on an upraised hand, calling saucy answers to the raucous patrons. Her face creased into a huge smile when she recognised me.

“Well, well, the little scribe is here! And walking like a duck!”

I fell onto a chair. “I am not walking like a duck,” I said indignantly. “I have hurt my heel. Now bring me a jug of beer and some bread.”

“Of course, great lord,” she said, and winked.

I sat fanning myself, contemplating Commander Thutmose. He is a dangerous man who has the admiration of the people as well as the respect and loyalty of the army. An outstanding leader of men, who has shown himself to be both crafty and courageous, winning battles through clever stratagems coupled with discipline and utter determination. Yes, yes, indeed a dangerous man.

Truly, the Pharaoh should watch her back.