Daughter of the Gods (31 page)

For a moment, she feared what he would say, but his next words were more terrible than she’d expected.

“I want a child with you, Hatshepsut,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her forehead. “I want to see your belly swell with my daughter. I want to watch you carry my son in your arms.”

She struggled for words, but the only ones that came to mind seemed a pitiful joke. “And you call me greedy.”

It was far too late for a child now that she had claimed the Isis Throne. A son borne of her body could supersede Tutmose’s claim to the throne, would surely invite future civil war. It would be easier to give Senenmut her crown.

He touched her cheek, took her hand again. “When it comes to you, yes, I am greedy.”

She stared at their hands entwined together, his dark from the sun and stained with charcoal, hers thin and delicate in comparison. “But we have Neferure.”

“And I love Neferure.” He kissed her hand. “But I want a child of our own, someone who will carry both our blood even after we’ve gone to the Field of Reeds.”

She gave a watery smile. “The ultimate building project.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He chuckled. “Although I think the building of this particular project would be far more enjoyable.”

“I’m not sure I can still have children, not after Neferure—”

His expression hardened. “I know about the pessary, Hatshepsut, and about your visits to the Royal Physician. I won’t pretend to understand why you’ve needed them all these years, but I feel I’ve been patient long enough.”

She retrieved her hands and hugged her elbows. “We’ve already discussed this. Why now?”

“What do you mean, why now? I’ve wanted it for seven years. Longer, probably.”

“Why didn’t you mention it before? Why not after the first time—”

Her voice trickled away, the memory of her mistake a heavy weight on her
ka.
And then she realized why he’d never pushed to try for another child, why he’d fallen silent on the subject. “You believed I got rid of it, didn’t you?”

His face contorted. “I did, for a while.”

“You thought me such a monster?”

“I was hurt; I couldn’t think straight. Having a child would have endangered Tutmose’s future succession, made your bid for pharaoh a risk no one would have supported.”

“That hasn’t changed.” That he could have thought her capable of destroying her own child made her want to scream at him, to rake her nails across his face.

The air around them seemed suddenly cold. “You’re pharaoh now,” he said. “You can do what you like.”

She shook her head. “No, I can’t
because
I’m pharaoh.”

“You can’t?” He gave her a sharp look, one meant to impale her. It worked. “Or you won’t?”

She smoothed the lines that radiated from his tired eyes. “And what if I had your son? What would happen to Egypt then?”

“Who’s to say you’d have a boy?” His tone was defensive, as if he already knew the impossibility of his dream.

“The gods would give me a boy.” She’d worn her knees out praying for Neferure to be a boy, but to no avail. It was guaranteed the gods would send her a son if she prayed for a daughter. She sighed. “What would happen if the reigning pharaoh had a son while there was already a hawk in the nest? What would happen after I died?”

“You’d have to decide who would take the Isis Throne after you—our son or Tutmose.”

“Exactly. And regardless of whom I named, both boys would have an equal claim to the throne. I won’t plunge Egypt into civil war after I’m gone.”

“So you sign some proclamation, choose one of them as your co-regent before you die.”

“You know it’s not that simple. There would be a power struggle no matter what I did. It’s too late for us to have a child.”

Silence shrouded them. A cloud passed over the moon and hid his expression. “I don’t ask for much, Hatshepsut.”

“I know.” And it was true. All his titles, all his wealth, had been bestowed freely by her hand. She’d suspected that Senenmut might wish to share the double crown, to rule with her on the Isis Throne, but he was a much better man than she’d given him credit for. She didn’t deserve him.

He sighed. “You won’t give this to me, will you?”

His face was a dark blur as she drew in a ragged breath. “I can’t. But I’ll make it up to you, I swear it.” She caught his hand to keep him from leaving. “Senenmut, I love you.”

“I know,” he said, striding away from her anyway and calling the final words over his shoulder. “But not enough.”

•   •   •

It didn’t take much to persuade Neshi and Ti to indulge Hatshepsut’s desire for a trade expedition. Ti was overjoyed to have something to sink surplus treasury funds into—Hatshepsut had yet to splurge on anything other than her building projects—and Neshi was determined to lead the expedition himself. The only question that remained was where the voyage should go. Unfortunately, the project had lost much of its appeal for Hatshepsut after her argument with Senenmut, and she postponed several planning meetings with the twin brothers. Senenmut hadn’t broached the subject of a child—she doubted he would again—and while she’d showered him with a clutch of fresh titles, even she knew that no title in the world would ever make up for his not being a father.

And then one day he was gone.

She waited for him on the docks for a trip into the valley to take measurements for her temple and recruit artists from the Place of Truth. Her impatience grew as Re climbed into Nut’s belly, hampering their chances of making it there before the worst heat of the day. Finally, she sent a slave to fetch him, but the boy returned alone.

“
Neb
Senenmut is gone,” he said.

“What do you mean, gone?”

The slave’s hands trembled. “His slaves claim he left yesterday and that he packed for a trip of many days.”

Many days. Yet he’d left without telling her. For a moment she wondered if there was a chance this was a permanent move, and felt loneliness crash upon her.

She left the slave cowering on the docks and hurried to inspect Senenmut’s chambers, the sound of her sandals on the tiles echoing off the corridors’ high walls. His largest chest was missing, as were many of his most precious belongings: the pectoral of golden bees she’d bestowed upon him a year ago for his service to Egypt, a cedar statue of Thoth, and even all his architectural plans for her temple. The rooms were filled with Re’s light, yet they felt desolate.

He’d left her.

Surrounded by silent slaves, Hatshepsut had never felt so alone in her entire life. She retraced her steps to her own apartments, then sat at her desk, staring at a sheet of blank papyrus. She waited for the hieroglyphs to take form, for the right words to beg him to come back.

But there was nothing she could do or say to make this right. She would not order him to return or to stay with her; she loved him too much to demean him that way. It was only natural for a man to wish for a wife and children, the two things she could never give him. She had to remain loyal to Egypt.

Still, loyalty was a cold bedmate, and didn’t fill her heart with happiness as Senenmut’s laugh did.

The day slipped into another and yet another, until a week had passed. Her slaves learned to avoid her until only Mouse could stand to be in the same room with her, and then only because the poor dwarf had grown mostly deaf over the past years.

Darkness had fallen, and Mouse sat polishing a set of silver bangles as Hatshepsut curled at the window with a cat in her lap, staring out at the reflection of the Nile. On a still evening, it was possible to hear the murmur of the river’s great god Hapy, one of Egypt’s most ancient deities, as the bent old man adorned himself with papyrus reeds and spoke to the frogs. Hatshepsut had almost drifted to sleep when Mouse’s voice woke her.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, so loud the cat startled and ran off. “
Neb
Senenmut returned to court tonight.”

“What?” Hatshepsut straightened, wincing at the crick in her neck. “When?”

“While you were dining with Tutmose and Neferure.” Mouse picked one of her back teeth, revealing a gaping hole where she’d recently had another pulled. “So, now you can stop moping about and let all your slaves get back to work.”

Hatshepsut was already on her feet. She’d rehearsed this scene in her mind too many times to count over the past few days, usually at night, when she ached for Senenmut’s reassuring warmth next to her. She’d beg him to come back if she had to, and had almost managed to persuade herself that perhaps it was the gods’ will for her to have another child.

Almost. Yet in her heart she knew it would go against
ma’at
to invite possible chaos and civil war. Still, she’d do almost anything to have Senenmut back.

She ignored the guards outside his door and drew a steadying breath before stepping inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark; the shutters were closed against the moon and no oil lamps burned. Her heart lightened at the fresh scent of cinnamon she’d so missed, although there was another scent as well, something exotic. She stopped with a start as she approached the bed.

Senenmut lay on his back atop the rumpled sheets, his bare chest rising and falling in sleep. Curled on her side next to him was a young woman nestled under the sheets with her face toward the wall. The braids of her wig fanned over Senenmut’s arm, as expertly woven as the most intricate fisherman’s net. It was then that Hatshepsut recognized the source of the exotic scent in the room: the girl’s costly narcissus perfume.

Hatshepsut’s hands flew to her mouth, but the moan of pain escaped anyway. Senenmut didn’t move, but the girl stirred.

Hatshepsut fled as fast as her feet would carry her, not stopping until she’d reached her chambers and slammed the door behind her, yelling at Mouse and the slaves readying her bed to leave. They’d barely scurried from the room before she fell to her knees in front of her shrine to the gods. Behind the tallest statues of Amun and Sekhmet was a small ivory figure, a smiling cow-faced goddess gifted to her by an albino hand so many years ago.

Hatshepsut grabbed the goddess, wincing as Amun clattered to the ground. She didn’t realize how hard she squeezed Hathor’s statue until something snapped in her hand. The ivory goddess lay in her palm, broken in two yet still laughing, always laughing. It was unfathomable that such a seemingly insignificant goddess, relegated to oversee only music, love, and dance, could topple all else. Such was the power, and curse, of love.

In denying Senenmut children, she’d also denied him immortality of the flesh and pushed him into another’s waiting arms. Any number of women would be beside themselves to marry Senenmut and bear his children.

The one thing Hatshepsut had denied him had proved too much.

•   •   •

Head pounding after a night spent staring at the ceiling above her empty bed, Hatshepsut was unable to close her eyes against the image of Senenmut and his young woman that was now seared onto her mind. She’d alternated between the urge to storm back to his apartments and scream at him like a demon from the afterlife, and forcing herself not to curl up like a child and sob herself to sleep. She didn’t know what she’d do or say to Senenmut when she saw him, but one thing was certain: She couldn’t chance a scene that would fuel the gossips for years to come. Much as she hated it, she would have to go to him.

And so she dragged Mouse from her pallet long before Re had finished his battle with dark Apep, and ordered her dwarf to ready her for the day. She wore no crown or headdress, no pectoral of precious stones, not even any rings—only a sheath of the softest linen and two stark lines of kohl ringing her eyes. It wasn’t as his pharaoh that she would speak to him, but as the woman who shared his heart.

She dismissed the guards posted outside his apartments and braced herself to step inside once again. These rooms would be empty after today, for much as she might wish to keep Senenmut near, she was not so magnanimous as to let him remain with his woman beneath her nose. Egypt’s third district at the farthest reaches of the Delta was in a need of a
nomarch
; she would send him there and be done with this, go through life with only half a heart, and that half scarred beyond use.

She expected Senenmut to still be abed, but the door opened to reveal a multitude of burning oil lamps. Her heart tripped at the sight of him, bereft of his wig and golden armbands and seated behind a table covered with scrolls. His face was as hard as a statue as he looked at her, as if he’d been waiting for her. They started at each other for a moment: a man and a woman, both broken.

She glanced around for the young woman, but his chambers were empty.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He nodded, and a thick silence settled between them. Finally, Senenmut cleared his throat. “I expect we’ll need to meet with Ti and Neshi today regarding the trade expedition—”

“I know about her.” Hatshepsut clasped her hands around her elbows, as if cradling her heart to protect it from further damage. She needed to get the words out and leave here—leave
him—
before she lost her composure.

“Her?” Senenmut cocked his head, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Her hand fluttered toward his bed, the mattress still bearing the imprint of two bodies. “The woman in your bed.” The words stuck in her throat. “I understand, but I can’t have you here, not with her—”

“You understand?” Senenmut spoke the words slowly and stared at her, thunderstruck. “What do you understand?”

“That what I can give you pales in comparison to the joys of a wife and child.” Hatshepsut tilted her chin and dropped her arms. She would do this with grace and pick up the fragments of her heart later. “You have my permission to leave court, and I gladly gift you the governorship of the third
nome.
It is my most fervent hope that you are able to find happiness there.”

For she would never be happy again, not without him.

Senenmut rose and came to stand before her, the vein under his jaw throbbing and his eyes sparking. “So I can leave with my
wife
—and that’s the end of the matter?”