Despite the shade from the striped canopy overhead, the day is sweltering. Nedjem orders the servants to fan me, but it provides no relief. Restless and uncomfortable, I begin to pace, until I hear my daughter’s voice.
Waving my servants off, I descend the wooden staircase to thespecial, enclosed area created especially for Neferure and outfitted for her comfort with a carved railing along the edge so she can safely stand and study the country she’ll one day help rule. She doesn’t notice me at first, and I delight in watching her work on her tablet at the desk she uses for her studies. Brush in hand, she dips it in a stone jar containing ink, and very carefully makes a mark upon the surface.
My presence finally registers, and Neferure’s tutor leaps to his feet. “Your Majesty,” he exclaims and bows deeply.
“No need for formality, Senenmut,” I say with a broad smile, which he returns along with my gaze. We had eschewed convention some time ago, in private anyway. “It is just us three.”
How fortuitous that Senenmut had visited the royal palace to discuss an arcane tax issue that day, I think. Since then, the brilliant but humbly born man has provided necessary support and guidance that I didn’t even know I needed. He’s given me the precedent for entirely new artwork and building projects, and he serves as high steward in charge of the estates that supply the palace and royal residences. But perhaps most importantly—to me—he has become my daughter’s tutor. After a period of being instructed by her original tutor Senimen, Senenmut teaches and guides her in practical skills like reading and writing as well as the spiritual and historical nature of her position. The role ofmena nesutto the princess is an important one, not only to me but to the kingdom. Senenmut is certainly more of a father and caretaker than Thutmose II. Not that I can blame him. My husband had never known anything different.
“Mother!” Neferure squeals.
The deep brown eyes of my beautiful girl glance in my direction, and she leaps up. Racing to my side, she wraps her delicate arms around my waist. This intimacy is unusual among the royals; like all Egyptian families, our infants and children develop illness and pass to the afterlife young, and so we tend to keep a distance until they’ve reached young adulthood. After Neferure, I was told I’d never have another child—not that I’ve divulged this to my husband, of course. Thus my daughter is particularly precious to me, and I allow nothing to come between us.
I lean down to inhale the familiar, flowery scent of her hair. “Are you and Senenmut working on something special?” I ask.
“Oh yes!” she practically yells. “Let me show it to you.”
Neferure races over to the table where she and Senenmut were working, and brings the tablet to me. On its surface are two pictures of a boat, one with a full sail and one without a mast. I am impressed with her brushwork, and I wonder how much she understands of the symbols.
“These are lovely,” I say with a squeeze of her hand. “Tell me about them.”
“Well,” she announces, “this boat without the mast is the symbol for north, and the one with the sail is the symbol for south.”
“That’s correct. Do you know the reason behind this?”
She beams at the praise. “The Nile runs north, so when a boat heads north, it doesn’t need a mast, just the current. But when a boat needs to go south, it’s got to use a sail at least. Sometimes more, like the boats we are using today. And the symbols match this.”
“Excellent, Neferure,” I encourage my sweet daughter.What an astute assessment for a young girl, I think. Then I turn to her tutor, and say, “And excellent work, Senenmut.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he replies with a bow, even though I’ve informed him that decorum isn’t necessary. “The princess is a bright and receptive student.”
“With a bright and intuitive teacher,” I add, studying Senenmut. He is not handsome, not in the usually accepted sense. His nose is distinctively hooked, and his hair has already started to gray at the temples. But his almond-shaped eyes, framed by perfectly arched brows, are kindly, and his wisdom immense. Not part of the usual courtiers and aristocratic families who are in a constant battle for power, Senenmut’s only allegiance is to me. This unusual man that I summoned to my side from the lower societal ranks has become crucial to me.
A large splash sounds from the side of the boat, and my daughter drifts to the deck rail to see what caused the noise. “Mother, Senenmut, there is a boat approaching very fast.” She sounds alarmed.
We join Neferure at the railing and stare as a royal boat, paintedin the standard crimson and gold, slows next to one of the tugboats. The royal sailor leans toward a man on the tugboat, and in a flash, that newly arrived sailor boards the tugboat and then my barge.
My guards swarm the man once he reaches the deck, but fall back when he begins to speak. I cannot hear his words, but I can guess at the momentousness of his news by their reaction.
I brace myself as the man approaches, my guards in tow. He kneels before me and says, “Your Majesty, Queen Hatshepsut, I come bearing terrible news. The pharaoh of all Egypt has been summoned by the gods to return home toAaru. Thutmose the Second has died.”
Eve
Chapter Twenty-Five
JUNE 4, 1920
HAMPSHIRE,ENGLAND
My maid swings the shutters open wide to bring in the morning light, but all I see is a gray sky to match my mood. Nothing seems to restore to me the vividness of color and the exuberance of spirit I experienced in Egypt.
Certainly my re-entrance into the Season doesn’t brighten my spirits. Stepping back into the rounds of dinner parties and balls and house parties and teas and lawn tennis outings and picnics, I feel as though I’ve never left. As if the same banal conversations have been going on since I left with the same banal people, and I’ve simply rejoined them.
Not even Mr. Carter and Papa’s return home to Highclere in the late spring enlivens me. I help Mr. Carter study artifacts and select next year’s site—my little scarab back in England and on my worktable—and I assist Papa in moving the highlights of his Egyptian collection onto new shelves. But nothing can compare to the joy I felt with my hands deep in the earth, slowly freeing that three-thousand-year-old vase. I yearn for the searing sun of the Valley of the Kings, and lament the time I lost in the valley.
The conversation last night about Egypt only exacerbated my longing and my frustration. What did I expect? Dinner with Uncle Aubrey and his dear friend T. E. Lawrence would necessarily involve talk of Egypt, nationalism, and the ongoing insurrection. After all, Uncle Aubrey served in the intelligence unit of the Arab Bureau along with Mr. Lawrence, and the latter also gained notoriety forimmersing himself with the Bedouin tribes to help the Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire. Although, to look at Mr. Lawrence, he appeared so ordinary, one couldn’t imagine him in full Bedouin garb.
“You do realize that what’s happening in Egypt is just one move in an international game of chess, dear brother?” Uncle Aubrey had asked, as he held his crystal wineglass for Streatfield to refill. My uncle’s rumpled evening suit and uncombed hair belied the sharp mind relied upon by many world leaders.
