Daughter of the Gods (37 page)

Tonight the royal family would celebrate the future of their dynasty.

Senenmut arrived first. The sight of him still made Hatshepsut’s breath catch in her throat even after all their years together. Despite the importance of tonight’s dinner, he had skipped the formal wig and wore his customary long kilt. He gave her a quick kiss, but her lips lingered longer than usual. The faintest taste of wine clung to his lips, wedded with the cinnamon scent she so loved. She felt his smile before their lips parted.

“You can’t have missed me
that
much since this morning,” he said.

“I’m just reminded of how blessed I am.”

His eyes crinkled. “I’ll remember that kiss for later.”

“How was the hunting trip with Tutmose?”

“Terrible.” Senenmut attempted a stern expression, but she could see the laughter in his eyes.

“After all these years at court, I’d have thought you might have learned to tell a better lie.” She strummed the fingers of her good hand against the wooden splint that had kept her from joining them this morning. “You can tell me what you took down, as long as it wasn’t an elephant or a water cow.”

“Nothing so exciting—just too many geese to count and a couple swans. Tutmose has quite the arm with his throwing stick.”

“Aset didn’t join you?” Hatshepsut had hinted that they should invite her, hoping to provide a common interest for Aset and her son. Tutmose seemed to go out of his way to avoid his mother since her return, as if he couldn’t reconcile the rough-mannered woman who constantly hovered about him with the remembrance of the mother of his youth.

“We invited her, but she wasn’t interested,” Senenmut said, more relaxed than she’d seen him in a long time. “I’m proud of Tutmose. He’s grown into a fine young man.”

Hatshepsut smiled. It was true, and, overlooking the incident with Satiah, Tutmose was all Hatshepsut could have hoped for in her heir. That fact alone made it easier for her to insist upon his marriage to Neferure, knowing that in time her daughter would come to realize her good fortune in having Tutmose as her husband.

Aset and Tutmose appeared next, entering the garden under one of the arched canopies of creeping foliage and followed by Tutmose’s sleek black hunting dog. The animal was beautiful, despite his striking resemblance to the jackal god of death.

“What a lovely night.” Aset gave a warm smile. “Especially for such an important celebration.”

“Thank you for all this.” Tutmose gestured to the transformed garden, looking uncomfortable in his formal kilt and wig. He glanced about as if searching for something. Or someone. “Is Neferure on her way?”

“I’m sure she’ll be along in a moment,” Aset assured him, picking at her fingernails, then clasping her hands behind her back when she realized Hatshepsut was watching. Aset’s fingers were stained black, but also cracked as if with dried blood. What in Amun’s name had she been doing?

Aset gave a bright grin, showing off her dimples. “Neferure probably wants to look perfect for you tonight.”

Tutmose didn’t seem to swallow his mother’s explanation, but took a seat anyway, his lean dog curling at his feet. Hatshepsut hoped he hadn’t deduced Neferure’s reaction to being told she had to marry him.

Slaves marched in carrying blue faience glasses of wine and golden trays of imported Minoan olives, pomegranate-melon salad, and bread with cloves of garlic baked inside. Hatshepsut waved away a basket of mandrake berries with their intoxicating flesh. They didn’t need help celebrating tonight.

“Are you enjoying your training in the Division of Horus?” Senenmut asked Tutmose between bites of salad. To Hatshepsut’s delight, the two had been spending more time together lately as Tutmose grew into his role as soldier. At first Hatshepsut had thought Tutmose only endured Senenmut’s tales of the campaigns to Canaan and Nubia, but she had watched more than once as Tutmose had listened with rapt attention, asking questions about battle strategies and fighting techniques.

Tutmose’s face lit with pleasure as he looked down at the symbol of Horus on his pectoral, the falcon god’s wings spread wide. He tossed his dog a few scraps of bread. “It’s hard work, but I love it. I can’t wait for the opportunity to campaign.”

Hatshepsut smiled. Since the skirmish in Nubia, she’d made it a point to keep the military close to home. There had been no further rebellions, but she saw no reason to expand Egypt’s borders at the expense of her soldiers’ lives. If Tutmose so wished, he could make that a focal point of his own reign.

She turned to Aset and nodded at her hands. “It looks like you’ve been busy.”

Aset’s fingers curled into balls, as if she was trying to hide the stains and cuts. “I’ve been practicing my hieroglyphs.”

“It appears they’re winning the fight.”

Aset stretched her fingers out, picked at the nails. “The stains are from the ink, but the cuts are from trimming papyrus reeds. I’ve taken up weaving. I make a fairly decent lotus-blossom basket.”

To Hatshepsut basket weaving sounded like as much fun as gouging her eyes with a dull needle, but she kept her tongue. She was happy Aset had a new interest all her own, especially now that Tutmose and Neferure were to marry.

Aset left her couch to sit next to Hatshepsut, her golden plate balanced on her lap. She peeled the flesh from an olive with her teeth and dropped the pit to the ground. Tutmose’s dog glanced up at the possibility of a treat, then rested his head back on his paws. “What have you decided to do with Nomti?”

Hatshepsut set her plate between them, her appetite fleeing. “He claims he’s innocent,” she said. “I’m not sure what to do with him.”

Aset glanced to Tutmose and Senenmut, but they were still absorbed in conversation. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you ever wondered about the night of the
khamsin
?”

“What do you mean?”

The only time Hatshepsut thought about that night was when she woke up from a nightmare of a pillow pressed over her face and a pair of strong hands pressed around her neck.

“Do you think Nomti might have been involved?”

“What?”

Senenmut glanced up at the sharpness in her voice, but Aset shifted on the couch next to her. “What if Nomti knew Mensah was going to use the
khamsin
to sneak into your rooms? What if he allowed it to happen?”

Hatshepsut shuddered. The idea was plausible, but she didn’t care to know if Nomti had betrayed her more than once. She sipped her wine, hoping its warmth would chase off the sudden chill in her bones. “Nomti’s involvement could never be proven. And that was years ago. I can’t imagine that the two episodes would be linked.”

“No,” Aset said, “but still, it’s something to think about.”

Aset moved back to her couch and an awkward silence settled around them. Hatshepsut easily drew Tutmose into a discussion of the historical conquest of the Nine Bows, Egypt’s enemies over the ages and one of their favorite topics to debate. Aset tried several times to join in the conversation, but she knew little about the subject and had to be corrected on inaccuracies about the Hyksos and the Mitanni. Tutmose’s exasperation with his mother grew the more she tried to please him, until finally Aset ceased talking altogether and Hatshepsut had to ask her about the intricacies of basket weaving. They continued talking until their plates were empty and the slaves were ready to bring out the cucumber soup and roast goose. Still Neferure hadn’t arrived.

Tutmose stood and brushed imaginary crumbs from his kilt. The dog sat up, tensed as if ready to run after his master. “I’m going to see if I can track down Neferure.”

Aset shook her head and took a hurried sip of wine before standing. “I’ll find her—she’s probably in her room, fretting over which sheath to wear.”

“No, Mother, I’ll go,” Tutmose said.

“I’m sure he can find her,” Hatshepsut said. Perhaps a moment alone with Neferure would allow Tutmose to smooth things over.

Aset looked unsure, but she relented and sank back down on her couch. “Hurry back.”

Aset waited for Tutmose’s silhouette to disappear into the lamplight of the corridor before she spoke. “Is Neferure really ready to marry Tutmose?”

“I told her she had to be.” Hatshepsut pursed her lips. “Your son’s indiscretion left me no choice.”

Aset frowned. “I’m not pleased about the situation with Satiah myself. Tutmose should have known better.”

At least they agreed on that.

The conversation slowed. Senenmut attempted to draw Aset into a discussion of the upcoming wedding, suggesting which food to serve and what jewelry to commission for Neferure, but clearly neither was his area of expertise. Finally, they all settled into an uncomfortable silence.

And then they heard it. A feral howl splintered the night air and shattered the peace of the garden. At first Hatshepsut thought it might be Tutmose’s dog, but she realized the sound was human, not animal.

“Tutmose,” Aset said.

“Neferure.” Fear flooded Hatshepsut’s body.

Senenmut made it into the corridor first, Hatshepsut and Aset close behind him. They tore past Hatshepsut’s chambers and the palace offices, but he came to a stop just inside the gilded gate to the Hall of Women.

“No, Hatshepsut.” He grabbed her arm, his face stricken, but she pushed him off and continued into the courtyard, drawn to where Tutmose stood with his dog at the edge of a deep pool ringed with lotus-blossom tiles, the same one she had stepped into so many years ago after the banquet announcing her own betrothal to Thutmosis. The granite statue of Amun stood at the edge, the god’s face sneering at her beneath his plumed crown.

Floating below the surface of the pool was Neferure.

Her sheath billowed around her like gossamer wings. The full moon swam in the pool’s reflection, surrounding her in its cool embrace and illuminating the drowned fabric with an ethereal glow. But nothing could light Neferure’s serene face. The life had leached from her so that her skin was tinged an insubstantial white. She was a glorious butterfly, one whose tenuous hold on this world had slipped away.

Hatshepsut moaned and fell to her knees, biting her fist and closing her eyes to the image that would remain imprinted forever on her
ka
. Her lungs collapsed, her heart eviscerated from her heaving chest as she sank even deeper onto the floor, smothered in a veil of grief. She wanted to tuck its edges around her and dive into the black abyss to join her daughter.

She was only distantly aware of Aset’s keening behind her, of Senenmut’s shaky arms as they enveloped her to pull her from the ground. In the midst of her grief, the words of the past returned, garroting what remained of her heart.

Your name will live forever.

You will be the downfall of those you love.

Egypt will prosper, but those closest to you shall find only anguish and ruin.

She had done this. She had broken her promise by forcing Neferure to consent to a future she couldn’t fathom and had caused her daughter to flee this life as surely as if she’d held her under the water herself. Hatshepsut howled in pain and tore at her hair, her clothes, her skin.

It was from Hatshepsut’s sense of duty that Neferure had been borne, and it was also what had killed her.

Hatshepsut shoved Senenmut away, unable to bear his touch or the tears welling in his eyes. Stumbling to her feet, she collapsed again, almost falling into Tutmose as he comforted Aset. Her eyes locked with Aset’s.

“You did this!” Aset screamed. Black rivers ran from her kohl-lined eyes; saliva and snot dripped from her face. “You killed her!”

She lunged at Hatshepsut, but Tutmose and Senenmut held her back. It took two
medjay
to pull her from the garden as she spat and clawed at them. Hatshepsut almost wished they’d let Aset go. She was right.

She had killed her daughter.

“Help me move her,” she whispered to Tutmose and Senenmut, the words pulled from her throat by their roots.

Misery warped Tutmose’s handsome face. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Senenmut—he, too, had lost the only daughter he would ever have.

“Tutmose and I will get her,” Senenmut said as they approached the pool, his voice strangled.

“No.” Hatshepsut shook her head violently. “She’s my daughter.”

Looking down on the exquisite creature held in the water’s embrace, Hatshepsut’s vision blurred as her tears overflowed. She slipped and smothered the sob that threatened to escape her throat. She waded to Neferure and pulled the limp body into her arms—the warmth already fleeing with her
ka
. A wail broke from the back of her throat as she smoothed her daughter’s dripping hair and wiped the rivulets of water that ran down her face. She would never again hold her daughter in her arms, comfort her, tell her how much she loved her.

It took little strength to lift Neferure from the pool and into Senenmut’s waiting arms. Even with her sodden hair and clothes, she still weighed scarcely more than a fledgling. Reverently, Senenmut laid her out on the tiles, his tears anointing her forehead.

A crowd of horrified slaves had gathered. Many of them scratched their skin and ripped their clothes in a display worthy of professional mourners. Tutmose’s dog howled into the night once and then fell silent, as if announcing the departure of the god he so resembled.

Only then did Hatshepsut notice the bulge under Neferure’s waterlogged linen sash, tucked right at her heart. Hatshepsut knew what it was before she retrieved it: the ivory votive statue of Amun. Unable to serve her god in this life, Neferure had taken him with her to her death. Hatshepsut flung away the god, wincing as the statue clattered across the tiles.

“Bring her to my chambers,” Hatshepsut said.

She had to get away from the slaves, away from their howls and Tutmose’s pain. She barely waited to see Senenmut scoop the lifeless princess from the ground before blindly retracing the path to her own chambers.

Senenmut closed the door behind them and laid Neferure on the bed. The water from her hair and clothes bled onto the linen sheets.

“I need to be alone with her.” Hatshepsut choked on the words.