Having accompanied my father on this most crucial part of his journey, once we reach the riverbank, we release him to the head priest of Amun, who will now escort the sarcophagus to the secret location of my father’s burial chamber deep in the mountains above Thebes. There, he will be entombed in a larger stone sarcophagus, withushabti, models, andtekenunearby or in a neighboring chamber. All of these objects will animate in the afterworld and restore his life to its former glory—after the priest performs the Opening of the Mouth ceremony so my father’s senses will be restored in the next realm.
The priest gives us a moment to say our final farewells. My mother lets out a low keen and caresses the sarcophagus as if it is my father’s cheek. Then, with a halting step, she walks toward the tent hosting the funeral feast for Thutmose, leaving me alone with my father.
I place my hand over the painted image of his hands on the sarcophagus lid, and pretend our fingers are linked. “I thank you for the gift of these past three seasons in which you passed your knowledge and wisdom to me.” Wanting him to have the safest passage into the afterlife, I add, “Papa, I pray to the gods that I make you proud from your new home in theAaru, and I wish you well in your journey there.”
“Hatshepsut.”
I hear my name, and for a fleeting second, I think it’s my father. But then I realize the sound comes from behind me—not from within thesarcophagus—and I whip around so quickly my crown nearly falls from my head.
A boy, tall in stature but slight, almost sickly, in build, stands there, the pockmarked skin of many illnesses evident in the sunlight despite the overlay of powder. With his goldatefcrown and girdle, he tries at aristocratic command, but he pales in comparison to the memory of the man lying in the sarcophagus. This paltry likeness of my father is the last person I’d like to see at this moment, and yet, I suppose he hasnearlyas much the right to be here as me. He is to be Thutmose II, my father’s son by Mutnofret and his chosen successor.
“May his journey be swift and easy.” He says the expected phrase.
I answer with the ritualistic reply, “And may his way be bright.”
“I hope I haven’t rushed you, Princess Hatshepsut.” His voice is apologetic. And young, so young.
“No, I have had time enough to wish him well.” I give him a respectful bow, and then begin to speed away. I am eager to flee this moment and him. Soon enough, I will be unable to do so.
He reaches for my hand and I feel his fingers around mine. “I don’t think we have ever been alone together, Princess.”
I slide my hand out of his grip. “We aren’t alone now. We are with our father,” I say with a nod to the sarcophagus, then hasten away to the tent.
I have no wish to engage with the throngs of royals and government officials crowding the tent, but I race toward it anyway rather than spend time with Thutmose II. A gusty wind kicks up, sending the tent’s linen fabric flapping and dust from the pathway flying into the air. By the time I step under the shady coolness of the tent, I must look a fright, because my mother and Nedjem race to my side to wipe away the dust from my cheeks and straighten my wig and crown.
Servants circulate throughout the tent’s interior, offering wine, fruit, beer, and bread and honey to the guests. The mood is merry, and while I understand this is meant to be a celebration of the life and accomplishments of the great Pharaoh Thutmose, I find the laughter and the indulging and the banal chatter to be inappropriate and strange.
When I notice the musicians begin to assemble on the periphery of the tent, I am tempted to withdraw into a corner and curl into my memories and my mourning. But I know my mother must put my father’s designs in motion this very hour. And I must be on hand to help fulfill those plans.
I stand at my mother’s side, waiting for Thutmose II to finish with my father and enter the tent. The moment he does, Mother signals the steward to call the guests to the tables for the meal. As they take their designated seats, she gestures to the single open chair to her left and calls out to Thutmose II, “Will you join us?”
His face breaks into a boyish grin, and he strides over to the seat, leaving his mother, Mutnofret, alone. My father’s second wife’s expression falls, and I almost feel bad for her. How she and my mother loathe one another, and this triumph for my mother must sting.
As soon as Thutmose II sits, a bell is rung and my mother speaks. “Today, the falcon has flown to heaven and his successor has arisen in his place,” she says, lifting her wineglass in the direction of Thutmose II and inviting our guests to drink in his honor.
The pharaoh-to-be beams at my mother, pleased with being given his just deference after enduring many months of rumor and slander over his fitness for the throne. “Our new falcon, however, is still but aneyas,” she says, using the word for an unfledged falcon who’s taken early from its nest for training.
Thutmose II is no longer smiling. He’s uncertain how to read this change in the toast.How naive and untrained he is for the wiles of court life, I think.Why did Mutnofret not prepare him better? Did she believe she still had time to do so?
“Pharaoh Thutmose, in his wisdom and sagacity and with the help of the gods, prepared for such an occasion as this.” She hands her steward a papyrus, then continues. “Until oureyasgrows to his full size and he has the wingspan of the falcon god, Horus, I will serve as regent, helping guide him in his mother’s stead. And then his wife will take on the role, because it was Pharaoh Thutmose’s last wish that Thutmose II should marry his beloved daughter, Hatshepsut.”
Chapter Twenty-One
1481BC
THEBES,EGYPT
I scream, and it is not the first time.
How could a day for which I’ve longed and prayed for six seasons cause such agony? A day for which I’ve suffered countless nights of indignity with my mother, priests, Nedjem, and a dozen handmaidens as witnesses to my union with Thutmose II? More than anything in the world, I wish this pain undone by whatever means.
Like the tide, it recedes, only to return multifold. In the space between the waves of anguish, I pant and swear and pray. I call for my mother, then push her away. I receive the ministrations of the high priest, then beg for him to leave. I pace and squat and sweat and bleed.
Most of all, I curse Thutmose II.
How could that pale, lackluster, bowlegged boy be the source of such monumental pain? Even worse, how could he be king? He’d just managed to endure the coronation rituals, which took place a few days after my father’s funerary procession. He was hardly impressive in the feats of endurance and strength or chanting of long, sacred, memorized texts. Thutmose II had never received the years of training that my brothers, Amenmose and Wadjmose, had undertaken, and the lack had been apparent to all.
But he did indeed complete the rituals and had just enough energy remaining to enter into the marital contract my father requested. To my shame and the embarrassment of the women assembled for the occasion, however, he did not have enough vigor to perform on the day of our union. That particular act took him nearly a full season,nightly sacrifices to the gods, and several consultations with the high priest of the Goddess Taweret, the protector of mothers and children during pregnancy and childbirth.
