Sovereign of Stars Read online

  “You are trying to start a war,” he said around his mouthful.

  The smile dissipated from her face with a curious slowness, as a water-fog disperses from the city streets on a winter morning, receding by increments, quiet and inevitable. It was replaced by a look of deep contemplation, her brows drawn together, eyes distant once more, but lighting moment by moment with the glow of revelation.

  Senenmut swallowed the fig with great difficulty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  They drifted out onto the king's private lake, the clear waters lapping and gurgling against the hull of Hatshepsut's boat. It was a small replica of the great pleasure barges which plied the Iteru in the cool of the evening, carrying the wealthy from estate to estate, from feast to fancy, their decks ringing with music and flashes of color as dancers twirled for the delight of noblemen and ladies. Hatshepsut's barge was as brightly painted as any of its larger cousins, but it fit only two passengers beneath the red linen sunshade raised on gilded posts. It was a craft meant to facilitate private conversation, for while the palace bustled with servants and politicians, ambassadors and guardsmen, in the center of the king's lake there was none to overhear but the fishes and the flies.

  Hatshepsut's women stood gathered on the shore, awaiting their mistress's return, growing smaller and more distant as Senenmut poled the small barge toward the center of the still, warm lake. The king reclined on a pile of cushions, trailing one hand in the water, smiling whenever one of the tame yellow carp rose to nibble at her fingers. With the ever-present eyes of the palace receding on the shore, he stared openly at Hatshepsut. Her smiles were thin and rare these days. It was a treasure as good as gold, to see her lose herself in the pleasure of the moment – even if that moment was brief.

  Too soon, they reached the middle of the lake and she gestured for him to stop. He laid the quant in the hull and joined her beneath the canopy. The shade of it was soothing, cool even in the windless afternoon, drowsily red.

  Several days had passed since they had seen Mutnofret off, and Senenmut had been too busy with his duties to the King's Daughter to inquire into Hatshepsut's thoughts. But the way her smile had faded at their supper had remained with him, gnawing into his heart with a faint, distant worry. When she summoned him for a private discussion – matters of state, her messenger had said – he attended with both relief and trepidation, for he sensed that this evening she would make her intentions clear.

  “I know how I will keep my throne,” she declared when Senenmut was settled upon his cushions.

  Your throne is not in danger, he wanted to tell her. But her words at their cold supper had remained in his heart, taunting him. Ankhhor was not the only one. I am not naïve enough to think.... He remained silent, waiting.

  She held up one hand in the red light of the canopy, fingers spread. “Egypt is a chariot, and I must hold three reins to drive it. Here...” with her other hand she indicated one space between her spread fingers, “and here...” she touched the next space, “and here. I am a fist.” And she closed hers, held it steady in the space between them. “So long as I hold all three reins in my fist, no man will be able to stand against me, for then he will stand against all of the Two Lands.

  “The first rein is the Amun priesthood. Amun is the king of the gods, and all other gods and all other priesthoods bow before him and before his servants. I have that rein. His name is Hapuseneb.”

  Senenmut nodded. “He is loyal to you; I am sure of it.”

  And why not? Hapuseneb was her own blood, if distantly so – his mother had been a harem woman under the reign of Hatshepsut's father; the woman was a cousin of Ahmose, which made Hapuseneb a cousin of sorts to Hatshepsut. Senenmut furrowed his brow, trying to visualize the complex web of family relations between the king and her new High Priest of Amun. But it was not their somewhat diluted blood ties that had inspired Hatshepsut to raise her distant cousin to his high station. He had been the first in the crowd to proclaim her on that golden morning when she had appeared before her people in the regalia of the king, and raised the crook and flail before her bared breasts. Hapuseneb had not hesitated, and the Pharaoh had not forgotten.

  “He risked his reputation – his very place amongst Amun's servants – to support me. Through him I hold the Amun priests, and through the Amun priests I hold the priests of every other temple, every other god.

  “The second rein is the civil service.”

  Again Senenmut nodded. The nobles who were the merchants and other great men of Egypt – the architects, the scribes, the artisans, the land-owners – employed the rekhet and kept them fed. “What is the name of this rein?”

  “Ineni. He is growing old, I know, but he is still influential amongst them, and very clever. He is loyal to me because he loves my mother; for her sake, he will hold to me, and will do whatever is necessary to hold the nobles to me.”

  “Well enough; I can believe such a thing of Ineni. He is a man of great influence, and he knows into which ears he should speak. That much is true.”

  “The third rein is the army.”

  Senenmut glanced at her face. She watched him levelly, a half-wary, half-triumphant light shining in her eyes.

  “Nehesi?” Senenmut guessed.

  “Nehesi is my man unto death; I have no doubt of that. But he is no rein upon the army's bit. He has little influence outside of Waset, and Egypt's army has a greater reach than the walls of my city. Nor could I make him my rein if I wanted to. Soldiers are not like nobles or priests. I cannot force them to revere a man, no matter how many titles or honors I heap upon him.”

  “Who, then?”

  She lifted her chin, a familiar gesture that meant she knew his complaints were forthcoming, and that she would not suffer to hear them. “I must be the rein in my own hand, and win over the army myself.”

  “What?”

  “I am going to war, Senenmut. This time I shall not fight with figs, I promise you.”

  “Win over the army yourself? You cannot mean to...”

  “Ah, I can. How else do I bring them to me? For I must have them, Senenmut – all of them, generals and soldiers, each one. Would any man of Ankhhor's sort dare to stand against the entire army of the Two Lands?”

  “Great Lady,” he said, hoping the title would ingratiate him, hoping she would listen, “you are young, and inexperienced in battle.”

  “I rode my brother's chariot to save his men from the Kushites. I trampled them beneath my heel.”

  “That was one battle, and you were not in the thick of it. You have no training in warfare, strategy, combat...”

  She waved a hand. “I am the son of Amun.”

  “Gods!” He threw up his hands, his stomach roiling with desperation.

  “They will attack anyhow,” she said coolly, dipping her fingers once more into the lake's placid waters. “The Kushites, or the Hittites, or the Heqa-Khasewet. Some tribe or other raises banners against Egypt whenever a new king comes to the throne; you know this, Senenmut. They have no doubt heard by now that my brother is dead and a new Pharaoh has taken his place. They are due at my borders, and they will arrive, as surely as the flood comes each year. I only propose to give them what they seek.”

  “You told me you wanted peace.”

  She raised her eyes to his. They were as dark and fierce as a falcon's eyes, the skin around them tight with rage. He drew back a little under the force of her glare, burrowing his elbows into his cushions as if he might physically retreat from her ferocity – though Senenmut knew it was not he who incited that stark, wild anger.

  “And I will have it. I will not lose another one I love to a poisoner, nor to a knife in the dark, nor to any vile scheme invented by some loathsome man who sees me as nothing more than a girlchild, weak and disposable. I will not lose Neferure, nor Thutmose, nor my mother, nor a single one of my servants. I will not lose you, Senenmut. I will have peace.” She raised her fist again. “And this is how I will have it.”

  Senenmut lapsed in
to uneasy silence. He watched the anger writhe across her face – anger at her own helplessness, at the impotence of her sex, the precarious way her very femininity made her teeter on the seat of her own great power. If she finds no outlet for this rage, it will consume her. It will destroy her. He would not see her destroyed – and yet going to war may do just that: destroy her, either in body or in ka. I can do nothing to stop her. She is my lady, and my king.

  Reluctantly, Senenmut rose to his knees, bowed at the waist until his forehead touched the deck of her pleasure barge. It rocked gently in the rising evening breeze.

  “Then it will be as you say, Majesty.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The war fleet of the Pharaoh put ashore at Behdet, sending the tjati who ruled the ancient city in the king's name into a panic, for Hatshepsut had sent no word up the Iteru ahead of her ship's prow. As she progressed southward to the Kushite front, word would fly before her – of that she had no doubt. She could not contrive to moderate the gossip of fishermen and merchants, and so she must resign herself to an ever-decreasing advantage of surprise. She could not keep the cities along the Iteru's length unaware for long, but she hoped she might at least win the race against rumor to Kush's shores.

  Behdet was her first port of call. It lay a day and a half south by fast ship, and the Pharaoh's fleet was nothing if not fast. While her sailors worked in groups, securing the lines that held Amun Strides from Darkness to Behdet's worn stone quay, she gazed down from her ship's rail on the furious bustle of the waterfront streets. Fruit- and fish-sellers scattered, sending their children home to fetch their mothers. Seamstresses and beer-brewers emerged from their shops, staring slack-jawed at the spectacle of the Waset fleet pulling into their humble harbor, the ships dropping their bright-colored sails, the oarsmen straining to hold each craft steady in the current until it, too, might pull to the quay and land alongside the glimmering brilliance of the king's own warship.

  Beyond the eruption of running feet and frantic arm-waving in Behdet's nearest streets, the city stretched away from the riverside, low and dusty, to the center of town where the walls of the Horus temple stood tall and bright in the mid-day sun. Hatshepsut raised her palms toward the god's home, and toward the red stone form of the ancient step pyramid rising from the fields and orchards well beyond the temple, hazy and indistinct with distance.

  Behdet was small now, but long ago it had been great: the seat of power of Upper Egypt, when the Two Lands had been two lands in truth, separate kingdoms at odds with one another, before the first Pharaoh Narmer had risen to unite them into the greatest empire the world had ever known.

  Her men ran out a plank ramp for her feet. Nehesi preceded her down the ramp to the quay, and when none dared approach her hulk of a guardsman, Hatshepsut descended.

  The tjati arrived, looking harassed and strained, in a chariot. “Majesty,” he cried, dropping from its platform to kneel in the dust. “You honor Behdet. I apologize most humbly; the royal messengers did not reach me in time, and I had no word of your coming.”

  “I sent no messengers,” she said, struggling to recall the tjati's name. Surely she knew it; the throne had its share of dealings with Behdet. “Goodman Khutawy, get up out of the dust. I wish to see your city's garrison.”

  Word scattered ahead of her in the form of boys running barefoot along Behdet's old, deep-rutted roads. Their side-locks waved like small black pennants; their loincloths were stained with the ocher dust of the city. She laughed as they sprinted like colts, striving to be the first to reach the garrison with news of the coming of the king. Behdet had no fine litters to carry her, and so she rode in the tjati's own chariot with Nehesi for a driver. He drove the horses at a walk and her people thronged behind her, the sailors shouting their joy, accepting dippers of beer from the city women, the soldiers chanting their marching songs. And her women walked among them, dressed in traveling tunics, simple gowns that were yet brighter and finer than anything worn in humble Behdet now that old king Narmer was so long in his tomb.

  The day before she sailed from Waset, Hatshepsut had feasted her harem women. It was the custom whenever a Pharaoh departed that he should pay respect to his women, who were, after all, from important and ancient bloodlines themselves, many of them even gifts of goodwill from the kings of other nations – daughters of royalty. She had done her duty, bidding her friends farewell, expecting the matter to end at that. But Tabiry, the leader of her brother's small traveling harem, had leapt at the chance to take to the Iteru once more, and Tabiry's usual friends had agreed. “But I will have no use for women while I am at war,” she had protested, confused by their eagerness. And Tabiry had said, “You will, Great Lady. You shall see.” In the end, more women joined up than had been customary under the rule of Thutmose the Second, and Hatshepsut had set her stewards to scrambling for an extra ship that was fast enough to keep up with her war fleet. All told, fourteen harem women accompanied her to war. They felt a sisterhood with her, Tabiry had explained; they wanted to see their Pharaoh's victory with their own eyes, and contribute to her might in whatever way women could.

  Now, as her retinue poured from her ships and made for the garrison, the women showed their worth. They danced and sang as they went, clapping their hands, rattling sesheshet high above their heads, twirling the skirts of their bright-dyed linens. And soon enough the pretty young daughters of Behdet's nobles broke from the crowds to follow them, evading the clutching hands of their mothers and ignoring their fathers' scowls. It must feel glamorous, Hatshepsut thought, watching the girls of Behdet take up the song, to do as the fine ladies of Waset did – these princesses from far-off lands, the pampered pets of the Pharaoh. But it was not Behdet's daughters who interested her most. For each girl surely had a handful of suitors, and as the sons of Behdet watched their pretty young lovers join the Pharaoh's ranks their faces grew thoughtful.

  The barefooted boys who had run before her did their work well. By the time Hatshepsut reached the garrison, a collection of long, low buildings ringed by a simple, bare wall, the soldiery stood at attention in orderly ranks outside the walls, hide shields buckled to their forearms and each with a hand on the hilt of his sword. The general showed his palms when Nehesi drew rein.

  “Majesty. An inspection?”

  “Of a sort, General.”

  “You will find nothing lacking. Behdet is small, but she breeds good men. Here are the best in all of Egypt.”

  She walked through the ranks with the general, observing the strength of his soldiers' arms, the steadiness of their stances, while he recited numbers of troops and horses, described in detail his drills and training. At last she returned to the head of the ranks and looked up into the general's face. It was a broad, bluff face, full of honesty and intelligence. She had no doubt he would obey her. She only wondered whether he would do so gladly or grudgingly.

  “It is good that your men are well prepared. I commend you.”

  The general gave a tight smile, lowered his head abruptly in acknowledgment of her praise.

  “Well-trained men are useful to me now. I will take nine-tenths of your men with me.”

  He glanced at her face in surprise, then away again in quick deferment. “If I may be so bold as to ask, Majesty – where?”

  “To Kush,” she replied casually.

  “Raids so soon? I had not heard.”

  “I will not wait for raids, General. For too many generations have kings sat by waiting for this enemy or that to rise up and challenge the throne. We have a new Pharaoh now, and she does not wait for her enemies to strike first.”

  The general barked a quick laugh. It reminded her, with a flash of pain, of her father. He had been a general once, before the gods had called him to the throne. He had been the greatest general in all Egypt, and the greatest king, too. She felt a thrumming power deep inside her, rumbling below her heart, as if her nine kas shouted in chorus. She felt an undeniable confidence, looking upon this general and his orderly troops. Rank
by rank, they were hers. She commanded them. She was the daughter of Thutmose the First; she was the son of Amun himself, and she commanded them all.

  “Make your men ready to sail by this time tomorrow.”

  **

  Her servants erected her tents in the fields beyond Behdet, in the shadow of the red pyramid. It was early in the season of Peret, the Emergence; the earth was black and deep and rich, just beginning to sprout with a thready new growth of weeds. Soon the farmers of Behdet would till the weeds into the soil, further enriching what the Iteru had already gifted them, and these fields would fill with barley and emmer, with flax and onions and the stalks of sweet roots. For now, her soldiers trampled the earth beneath hundreds of feet, and the field lay flat and dark in the sinking sun. The unbleached walls of the encampment's tents shone very bright in the glow of approaching evening, standing as they did tall and proud against the expanse of black earth.

  She left Nehesi at her tent's door while she allowed the harem women to tend her, washing the dirt and sweat of travel from her body with soft cloths soaked in basins of cool water, scraping her dry with curved copper blades. A late golden light filtered through the smoke-hole at the tent's peaked roof; she sat in its beam while Keminub shaved the stubble from her head and massaged her scalp with a bracing oil of mint and juniper that made her skin prickle. Tabiry had been right. The women were useful already. They dressed her in a soldier's short white kilt and laid a marvelous pectoral of vulture's wings across her chest. It was heavy, but she liked the way it glimmered in the beam of light. She turned this way and that, gazing down at it, admiring its sparkle, and slowly she grew aware of a rising din outside, somewhere beyond the encampment. She glanced up and met Tabiry's eyes. The Medjay woman arched her brows; she had caught the sound, too. It was something more than the usual noise of a camp.

  Nehesi clapped his hands at the tent door. She went to him, ducked outside and stood blinking at the distant line of the river, sparkling in the setting sun. A crowd of men advanced toward the camp. She could see the stark upward slashes of spears bristling from the body of the crowd, and here and there the sun fell upon hilt or blade of bronze; it flashed dull red against the uniform color of tanned skin and dust-stained kilts. For one heartbeat she thought perhaps Behdet was attacking. Then she caught the rise and fall of song and the occasional shout of boys' laughter.