Читать книгу The Double Crown - Marié Heese - Страница 13

The reign of Thutmose I year 16

As I sat there at the fish pond trailing my fingers in the water and watching Senenmut walk away, a strange mix of feelings was roiling in my heart, like one of Hapu’s pots in which he boiled up medications. There was sorrow for my brother, so young and strong, so suddenly bereft of breath; there was sadness for my parents who had to weep again for a lost child; there was a measure of fear, for if someone had killed the prince, might they not think also of me, who was the last of Pharaoh Thutmose’s children with the pure blood royal? And there was beneath all these a shiver of excitement … and more than a touch of bitterness. Because I should be next in line for the Double Crown when my royal parents passed into the Afterlife; but since I was a girl, I knew I would be overlooked. I sighed. I should go to talk to Thutmose, my remaining half-brother, I thought. This disaster would change his life, and mine as well.

The corridors echoed with the grief of ritual mourning, but as I walked along them towards my half-brother’s suite of rooms, I heard a different sound. A thin keening, full of such deep sorrow that the hair on my arms stood up. I pushed at the door whence it came. There I discovered Inet, huddled into a tight bundle on a low seat, hugging her knees, rocking and moaning.

I went to kneel beside her and took her in my arms. Why, she is quite little, I thought in surprise. I had looked up to her for so long, but now she seemed to have shrunk with age and grief. “Oh, Inet, please don’t,” I said helplessly. I was yet young enough to be greatly upset by adult weeping.

“My last prince gone,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “Gone to the gods. It isn’t right, it isn’t right for young ones to go first. The gods have got the order wrong. All wrong. Quite wrong.” She shook her head and moaned and rocked. I patted her heaving back.

I realised that she had loved my brother Amenmose every bit as much as my mother had. She had indeed seen more of him as a small child. She had brought him up. Of course she was bereft. “There, there,” I said, as she had so often said to me. I searched for something to say to her. “He will be waiting for you in the Fields of the Blessed, and he will be young and strong, and he will always remain so,” I offered at length. “He will never grow old and have a stiff hip and painful teeth and joints that ache. Think of that.”

She calmed a little and sniffed.

“He will come to welcome you, Inet, when your time comes to go to the Fields of the Blessed,” I told her. “To take you by the hand, and you will row in a little boat together and he will shoot ducks and the sun will always shine.” I found it strange that I was now trying my best to comfort the one who had always comforted me.

“But I want him to be here,” she said childishly. Then she gave a deep, tremulous sigh. “Well, well, it cannot be. We must put up with it. The older one gets, the more one must put up with.” She looked at me closely with her little swollen eyes. “Praise be to the gods that you are strong,” she said. She squeezed my hands. “Thank you, my child. I shall rest now.”

I called for a slave to attend to her and then strode on to Thutmose’s rooms. When I reached the tall bronze doors to my half-brother’s suite of rooms, his guards knew me, of course, and stepped aside to let me through. Inside the heavy scent of incense mixed with medications hung in the air. I recognised the signs: Thutmose was ill again. I walked straight through to his bedroom, ordering fussing slaves out of the way. He lay on a day-bed piled with cushions, clad only in a light kilt. His skin shone with perspiration and he breathed shallowly. It was clear that he was having one of his attacks of fever, that also caused him to have much pain in his joints.

“Brother,” I said.

He opened his eyes. “Ah. Hatshepsut.” He put out his hand.

I stepped forwards and took it. It was clammy and trembled a little in mine. “You have heard?” I asked.

He sighed. “I have heard.”

For a few moments we sat wordlessly. Then he said: “Now I will be Pharaoh. When the time comes. Your blood is better than mine but you are a child and a girl child to boot. The Double Crown will come to me. And I do not want it. It is a heavy burden to bear and I am so often tired. But know this: Bear it I will. I must do it for Khemet.”

I nodded. I understood that Pharaoh was Egypt. “I will stand at your side,” I promised. “I will help you bear it. I already help my royal father.”

“I know,” he said, smiling faintly at my stout words. “I know, and I will depend on you.”

Shortly after the death of Amenmose, my mother the Queen Ahmose, who had been ailing for some time, fell seriously ill. I think that the shock was too much for her.

Some dire disease took hold of her and seemed to squeeze her chest so that she could not breathe. No medications, incantations or prayers to the gods could drag her back from the brink of the Afterlife where she hovered for weeks. They would not let me near her for fear that the devils that caused her to be ill would attack me too. Then one day she called for me.

I entered the room quietly and sat down on a little stool next to her bed. Incense hung upon the thick air in the chamber. I hoped that it would be strong enough to keep the lurking devils at bay. I waited. She did not speak at once, lying with her eyes closed. She had always had a strong face and an attractive one, but now it was drawn and looked like a mask carved from very ancient ivory. I sat quietly waiting while Her Majesty collected her thoughts.

At length she sighed. “Four children,” she said, her voice a little creaky as though through disuse. “Four children have I carried under my heart and brought into this world with much travail. And now there is only the one.”

This statement caused me to feel guilt – although I could not see why it should, for certainly I had had no fault in my three siblings’ deaths.

“I am sorry, Mother,” I said.

“First, I lost my little Neferubity. You remember your little sister, do you not?”

“Yes, Mother. But … time has passed, since she went to the gods.”

“Time has passed. But I miss her yet. Let me tell you how it is, to lose a child.” She stopped speaking and closed her eyes. She was silent for a long time. I thought she had fallen asleep, but then she continued. “First, it feels as if a large and heavy stone with sharp edges has been laid upon your heart. It pains you, here.” She put a closed fist to her breast. “Much like a wound, that bleeds. Then, as time passes, the sharp edges of the stone are worn away. It becomes smoother, like a boulder that has rolled down the river and the tumbling water and the other stones have ground it round. Yet it is heavy still, and there is no way to put it down. You must bear it.”

I was too young, that day, to grasp what my mother was telling me. Yet now I know she spoke the truth. Only not the whole truth. Because from time to time that stone recovers its cutting edge. Quite suddenly. A scent can do it, such as the incense that the midwives burned on the day of the child’s birth. Or, for me, the glimpse of a slave girl who has the same slender and graceful look as my own lost child.

“Yet at the time there were left two princes of the blood,” my mother went on. Tears were now sliding out of her closed eyes.

I patted her hand, feeling helpless. “Do not distress yourself,” I said, but of course this had no effect.

“It seemed … that the succession was assured. Two sons … two princes … strong and handsome. And yet, now there is not one to follow the great Pharaoh when the time comes, may he live for ever. Not one.”

“May he live,” I echoed.

“You are young, my daughter,” she said, opening her dark eyes and looking at me. “I hope you may not ever know what it is to lose a child, but I fear you may have to bear that sorrow as I do. Children are so …” Her voice seemed to grow faint like the wind sighing in the sycamore trees. “So fragile. Even a strong male child is but a reed and can be broken, just like that.” She dabbed her eyes with a linen kerchief. With a trembling hand, she drank some fruit juice that a slave had brought. Then she raised her head and her voice came back. “But you are healthy, are you not, my child?”

“Yes, Mother,” I said proudly. “I am healthy.”

She nodded. “You will need all your strength,” she told me. “You know that the Double Crown will eventually pass to your half-brother Thutmose, son of Mutnofert. He will be the second Pharaoh of that name.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And you must wed Thutmose. Through you he will have a clear entitlement to the Double Throne. Your role must be that of Great Royal Wife.”

“I know,” I said with some bitterness.

“Mark me well,” she said. “Whenever a Pharaoh passes into the Afterlife, the forces of chaos gather and threaten the destruction of the Two Lands. Your father, may he live, is not well. When he … when he passes …” A coughing fit overtook her and she gasped for breath. I handed her some more juice. She sipped, and continued. “The Royal House must avoid any suggestion of weakness or the jackals will rend the carcass of Khemet and chew on our bones.”

I shivered. “Yes, Mother.”

“So, though Thutmose your brother is himself frequently ill …”

“I have seen it.”

“… yet he is able and dedicated to Khemet and I believe he will do well enough with a strong wife by his side.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Pharaoh must hold the Two Lands safe.” She gestured with her hands, her finger joints enlarged with age and the skin spotted with brown, yet enacting a powerful grip as if clenching on the reins of a runaway chariot and hauling it back from the brink of an abyss. “Never again must it fall to foreign invaders who reject our customs, ruin our temples and desecrate our gods. Never, never again. You must be strong.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You must be strong for Khemet,” she said, her dark eyes intense. “Promise me.”

“I will be strong.”

“After I am gone, you will act for your father in the place of the Great Royal Wife,” she said. “Watch, and learn. And, Hatshepsut …” She extended a bony hand and gripped my wrist.

“Mother?”

“Trust nobody absolutely,” she whispered. “Be ever vigilant. Remember, Seth and his cohorts do not rest.”

I clutched the amulet I wore around my neck and made a sign to avert evil. “I will remember.” I assured her.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

“Mother?”

No answer came.

I wanted her to say something more. Something meant for me alone – me, her daughter, Hatshepsut, not the future Royal Wife, not the Keeper of Khemet. Something simple and loving. But the strength had gone from her. She never opened her eyes again.

From that time, when he lost the last prince of the full blood royal and his Great Royal Wife soon afterwards, it seemed to me that my father changed. On the one hand, he too, like Inet, shrank; his girth, which had grown as he aged, now fast became reduced. On the other hand, he appeared to have somehow become … I can only describe it as hard. Hard in his body, as if he were a living embodiment of one of the many stone sculptures of His Majesty; hard also in his heart, for he no longer took joy from life as he had when my mother lived. He never went hunting, never practised archery, ate and drank little at feasts, derived no pleasure from tumbling acrobats and dancing girls, no longer called upon the bard to sing …

At this point in the writing of my memories, I was interrupted by a great commotion. A babble of voices and weeping and wailing, punctuated by sharp commands and footsteps, broke the silence of my afternoon rest. The noise went past towards the servants’ quarters and then Mahu the scribe appeared on the portico, looking agitated. He made a deep obeisance.

“What is it?” I asked. “I did not look for you yet.”

“Pardon, Majesty,” he said. “There was – there was some trouble at the alehouse.”

“Was there fighting?” I asked. “Was one of my servants hurt?”

“I fear so, Majesty,” he said, with an extremely unhappy expression. “But he will be seen to. Majesty should not …”

“Who is it?” I demanded to know. “Come on, out with it. I shall soon find out in any case.”

Mahu does not have the strength of will to oppose me, nor the guile to lie. “It is Bek, Majesty,” he said reluctantly.

“My dwarf? But how did he get into a fight? He does not drink to excess, and he is so small! Who would set upon a dwarf?” I was upset. Bek is a great favourite of mine and as I have written, he spies for me in the taverns.

“It was a … a group of ruffians,” reported Mahu. I could see that he did not want to tell me, but also he knew that I would find out the truth no matter how he resisted.

“Syrians? Nubians?”

“No, Majesty. Egyptians born.”

“Which tavern?”

“The Happy Hippo,” said Mahu.

“The tavern-keeper shall pay for this, “ I said grimly.

“Majesty,” said Mahu wretchedly, “they were extremely drunk. It was not possible to control them. They just …”

“Did they know him for my dwarf?” I asked, growing angrier by the minute. “Was this something other than mere drunken sport?”

“N-n-no, Majesty, they knew him not, but I t-told them. I go there often and I heard him screaming as I g-got there and I told them, I told them, the Pharaoh will be mightily displeased at this. I told them,” repeated Mahu. “The ringleader was a huge man, almost a giant, Majesty, and he had a huge sharp knife, with which he … but then I came upon them, and I told them, and he … desisted.”

Mahu’s eyes were miserable. I had the feeling that he was not telling me the entire truth. He stutters when he is upset. But then, it must have been a frightening sight. My little scribe has not much courage in the general run of things. Yet he bears a scar to prove that once he protected me at the risk of his own life. I do not forget that.

“They were drunk and seeking sport. Some people like to make fun of those who are … different. They … they called him a dog, and … and … I tried to help,” he said, huskily, “but there were four of them, and I …” He looked away. He knows I love the little man. “They almost killed him,” he whispered, “but just then I arrived, for I often go there, and I shouted at them that he was the Pharaoh’s jester, and they would be punished, and at length they let him go. I had him carried here in a chair.”

“Thank you, Mahu. I am grateful that you were there. Would you know them again?”

“Yes, Majesty, but they disappeared. I think they may have been sailors,” said Mahu. “I do not think they will be found.”

“I must go to him,” I said, setting aside my writing implements.

“Majesty, no! I have told them to fetch Your Majesty’s own physician. He will …”

“I will see him,” I insisted. I was beginning to fear for Yunit, who is already several moons gone with the child she carries. “What did they do to him?”

Mahu looked distraught.

“Tell me!”

“They … they broke his legs,” he told me.

“By Seth and all his devils …”

“And … and …”

“Out with it!”

“They s-sliced off both his ears.” Tears stood in the scribe’s eyes. He too was fond of Bek.

“By the foul breath of Seth!” I was so angry that I could hardly breathe. I stepped past Mahu, who was almost dancing in his distress and urgent desire to keep me from seeing Bek, but he knows better than to touch my person. I strode swiftly down the passage to the servants’ quarters.

In the small room that Bek shares with Yunit, the dwarf had been laid down on a table, the better to be seen by the physician. His face had been battered into a purple ruin, and there was much blood, which several female slaves had been attempting to staunch with linen rags. Both of his legs stood out at odd angles. The room stank; he had clearly fouled himself in terror. Yunit stood by his side, her small face pinched with distress, holding tightly on to his hand. He was whimpering like a puppy too soon taken from its mother.

“Where is the physician?” I raged. “Has he not been called?”

At this moment one of the palace physicians sidled in. It was the one who looks after women’s complaints, an oily-looking fellow whom I dislike.

“You!” I said, contemptuously. “Get you hence and call the Chief Physician immediately! And he should bring one used to battle wounds. It is an emergency! Tell them if they are not here straight away I’ll have their ears as well – and yours, you scurvy toad!”

He backed out and scuttled away much faster than he had come in.

I walked up to the table and took Bek’s other hand. It felt like a child’s in size but he gripped mine like a man. He turned his swollen eyes on me.

“Do not speak,” I said. “Ah, they are curs who did this! I shall have their hides!” And yet I knew that Mahu had spoken true. They would probably never be found.

Bek groaned. The tears rolled down Yunit’s face.

“You should sit down, my dear,” I told her. “It cannot be good …”

“I will stay with him,” she said firmly, sniffing. “Until he is eased.”

The Chief Physician, one Hapu, appeared quite promptly with a younger man I did not know so well in tow. “Pardon, pardon, Majesty,” said Hapu, who is portly and was out of breath with hurrying (no doubt he values his somewhat batlike ears), “we did not know it was an urgent matter. This is Minhotep, who is knowledgeable about wounds.”

The younger man, taller than Hapu by a head and built like a military man, made a deep obeisance. When he stood up, he looked me in the eyes. I liked his straight and fearless gaze.

“See to my slave,” I ordered. “He must have the best of care, do you hear me?”

“Of course, Majesty. Please to clear the room,” said Minhotep, in a decisive voice. He had slender fingers, I noticed, as he gently touched the skewed limbs. “Bring boiling water and plenty of linen bandages,” he ordered the fussing slaves. “And some pieces of straight wood, we must have splints. Ask the palace carpenters.”

The slaves trotted off to do his bidding.

“Can you give him something to ease the pain?” I asked anxiously.

“Yes, Majesty. I will mix a draught,” said Hapu.

The slaves departed to do their bidding, but Yunit would not be moved.

“Let her stay with him,” I told Minhotep, adding in an aside: “But see to her also, she has had a great shock, and as you see …”

“A calming draught for her as well,” he promised. “Now, Majesty should leave it to us.”

I returned to my writings, but I was greatly distressed. Yet I set down what had happened, although my hand shook and it will be hard to read. I find that to write down what has occurred helps me to think it through.

I suspect Mahu of lying to me, although I had not thought he was capable of it. I think those ruffians did know who Bek was, and this was a clear indication of disrespect for my majesty. It smacks of revolt. I like it not.

Mahu waited until the physicians came to report. He sat in his scribe’s position, seemingly more relaxed, but he was trembling. At last they arrived to tell me that they had set the broken bones and cleaned the dwarf’s bruised body and his wounds and put on poultices and bandages. He had been given poppy juice for the pain. He would recover, Minhotep said. Soldiers survived far worse than this. Yunit was asleep with a girl to watch over her.

“Will he walk again?” I asked Hapu.

“He will walk,” said Hapu, “but somersaults will not come easy. He will not be entirely deaf, but his hearing will be impaired. Mainly, now, we should watch for a fever.”

“Attend him daily,” I ordered Minhotep, who bowed in assent.

This does not bode well.

Here endeth the fifth scroll.

Her Majesty has a falcon’s eyes. I did indeed lie to her. There were no ruffians in that tavern; no, it was a group of soldiers from the fifth division, the Division of Horus, who attacked the dwarf Bek. They came into the tavern where I was having lunch, but I was sitting outside in the courtyard with my back to the wall under the window and they did not see me. The sun was warm and my beer was pleasantly cool and the bread stuffed with coriander leaves and mint and olive oil was freshly baked.

At first I paid no attention to the rumble of conversation from inside the main room, but then I realised that they spoke of important matters and I pricked up my ears. They were discussing a scouting expedition to Canaan. Of course, they should not have spoken about such things in an ale-house, but they were not sober and they thought they were alone. There were no other customers, for it was early yet. I heard them refer to rumours about the loyalty of the Prince of Kadesh. The Great Commander does not trust him, I heard them say, and he wants to send a few crack troops disguised as Syrian merchants to discover the lie of the land.

Pharaoh would never agree to such an expedition, I knew, for if they were discovered it would be hard to maintain diplomatic relations. Her Majesty much prefers quiet diplomacy to military incursions. She would be sorely displeased. But Commander Thutmose clearly scented danger, and equally clearly, he was about to act without requesting permission from Her Majesty.

“You will look fetching with a curly beard,” said the one with the deepest voice to another of their number. “And rings in your ears.”

The reply was indistinct.

Suddenly there was an oath and a strangled yelp.

“So, you would spy, would you?” boomed the deep voice.

“No, no, Sire, I was fetching out my ball,” protested a voice that I recognised. It was Bek, Her Majesty’s dwarf. “I was juggling for the patrons, Sire, and my ball … See, here I have it, it rolled under …”

“You lie, you little devil,” said another voice. It was sharp and commanding. I ventured to peer over the windowsill. The room was dim and my eyes accustomed to the bright sun could at first make out only vague shapes, but then I saw that one broad-shouldered soldier had Bek by the ear. “So, you would spy, would you,” he said. “Take that, and that, and that …” His huge balled fist slammed into the dwarf’s head and body. I flinched for poor Bek.

The tall one with the commanding voice had drawn his sword. Peering at him, I realised that I knew who he was: Metufer, the standard bearer who had almost beaten the Great Commander at archery. “You were listening. You are a spy.”

“No, no, Sire, a humble juggler merely,” jabbered Bek. “Ask anyone, they know me, Sire.”

“I say you spied. And we know what to do with spies.” His sword whistled as he slashed twice, lopping off the little man’s ears. An inhuman screech tore through the quiet afternoon. Blood flowed over the dwarf’s tunic.

He cowered, rolling himself into a ball. “No, no, no,” he gibbered. “No, nooooo!”

I ducked down and huddled under the sill, terrified that someone might have seen me too. Oh, oh, oh, I muttered, may Hathor protect me, may Wadjet spit into their eyes so that they see me not.

The harsh voice came again. “We have fixed your ears,” said Metufer, “and next we’ll take your tongue and feed it to the dogs.”

At this, I tipped my beer and bread into the fish pond and scuttled around the mud-brick tavern to the front door, pretending that I had just arrived. “Hold!” I yelled.

Metufer lowered his sword and stared at me.

“Hold!” I shouted again. “It is the Pharaoh’s jester! Do him no more harm!”

The standard bearer sneered. Seen close up he had a face for sneering, that one; it was disfigured by a scar that ran across both cheeks; his nose seemed permanently drawn up.

“I have removed his ears,” he snarled, “and I shall remove his tongue also. Nor will you stop me.”

Bek gave another blood-curdling screech.

“You will not escape punishment,” I said. “I am Her Majesty’s scribe, and I know who you are. You cannot kill all of these witnesses.” My knees trembled, but I stood fast. By this time, the howls and screeches had drawn quite an audience, including the tavern-keeper and his anxious wife.

“The Great Commander will back me,” said Metufer. “I am within my rights to punish spies.”

“This is Pharaoh’s jester,” I said. “He has done no harm. He speaks true, he juggles for the patrons, I have seen him. L-let him go.”

Bek was sitting on the ground now, his hands to his bloody head, rocking and moaning.

“Please, we want no trouble,” begged the tavern-keeper. “I keep a good house, Sir, please, no trouble here.”

“I say this is a spy,” said Metufer. “Yet you may take him away. Only be sure that he does not speak of what he may have heard. If anything occurs to make us suspect that he has told, he will not only have no tongue, he will no longer breathe. And as I do now to his legs, I shall do to your hands, Scribe.” Deliberately, he stepped on Bek’s little legs that were spread on the ground and yanked them upwards from the heels. Bones cracked.

Another howl rent the air, followed by a series of yelps. The bile rose in my throat.

“Remember,” said Metufer.

Oh, I will remember. I will remember till I die. But I will not speak of it, nor will the dwarf. Only I will write it, so that the record may be accurate. I will note my shame. For if I had acted sooner, if I had run into the tavern when first they began to strike the dwarf, I might have saved his ears. But I was afraid, and I waited too long.

Yes, I shall remember. But I will not speak.