I sit with this information for a moment in silence. It rings true, and I suppose I should have anticipated this specific threat. But the past few years have been inundated with challenges. I can’t allow this, not only for myself but for my own daughter, who will undoubtedly marry Thutmose III one day.
I open my mouth—about to seek Senenmut’s counsel—when the stomp of feet running in unison echoes in his chamber. Is it my soldiers or theirs? We glance at each other, this unspoken question passing between us.
I glance around the small space. Where on earth would we hide inthisroom from the soldiers? He grasps my hand, and pulls me into a simple wooden wardrobe that abuts the bed. Closing the doors tight behind us, he shields my body with his as another layer of protection. And then we wait.
His skin is warm on mine. My breath, heavy with fear at first, begins to slow, and soon matches his own. In the pitch blackness of that close space, with Senenmut’s body up against me, I feel something stir within me, something that I’m not certain has ever been awake.
The sound of marching feet slowly disappears. But neither one ofus makes the first movement to leave the wardrobe. Is it fear that’s holding us here? Or is it the attraction building between us?
Senenmut speaks first, in a whisper so low I can barely hear him. “I will make certain you are safe, Your Majesty.”
“I am grateful for your loyalty,” I whisper back. Then I add, “I would like you to call me by my given name, Hatshepsut, when it’s just us two.”
He pauses for a long moment. Have I asked too much? No one ever calls the king or queen by their given name except close family. I now understand he may see this request as both an honor and a source of discomfort.
Finally, he speaks. “I owe everything to you, Hatshepsut. You saw a potential in me no one had before. But my loyalty does not stem merely from the opportunities you’ve given me far above my station.”
“No?”
“I am loyal to you because I believe in you as a pharaohanda woman.”
Now I am silent. I know what it must have cost him to say those words. It is another taboo to refer to me as a woman instead of in my divine role. Without thinking, I reach up in the dark until my fingers reach his cheek. I trace the line of his cheekbones and nose and lips with my fingertip. He holds his breath, and so do I.
I think we are going to kiss, but then a shout reverberates throughout Senenmut’s room, and we pull apart. As it reaches us, the sound becomes clear: it is my queenly name. If these were my enemy’s soldiers, they would not be announcing their presence in my palace. They’d be continuing in stealth, searching for me. Or plunging a sword into the wardrobe.
We can leave this space safely, but Senenmut’s words cling to me, taking new shape and meaning the longer they stay with me. I feel my cheeks warm at the thought of his thinking of me as a woman—but I am also struck by his thinking of me as a pharaoh.
Suddenly, I see a solution to this puzzle in this word. The necessary future unfolds before me like the white, black-tipped wings of the sacred ibis.
“Senenmut, I know what I must do, to protect Thutmose the Third and my daughter and our family line.”
“What is that, Y-”—he almost says “Your Majesty,” but then corrects himself—“Hatshepsut?”
“Slowly, almost without the people realizing, I must become a pharaoh.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
1474BC
THEBES, EGYPT
It begins with a crown. Not just any crown. Not one of the many ceremonial headdresses I wear, each designated for specific rituals or any number of the repeating events on the rotating wheel of the year. For the very first time to this most important occasion—the Opet festival in which the pharaoh initiates the annual rebirth of Amun, which, in turn, ensures the fertile harvest of the Nile valley and Amun’s blessings—I wear the very specialatef.
I fit the heavy gold diadem on my head to ensure that it will not slip off when I turn my head this way or that. The tall golden shapes comprising the crown—the double plumes and the ram’s horns—make it heavier than any I’ve ever worn before. When the crown lists to one side, I reposition it over the new short wig I’ve commissioned.If I’m going to wear the atef, then I must wear the wig to match, I told Senenmut. This crown with this hair will send my first message. No one wears theatefexcept the pharaoh.
This is the initial step Senenmut and I mapped out. When we stepped out of his room at the palace into the waiting arms ofmyarmy—circumventing the immediate plot against me—we went directly to the library. There, among the papyri, we began the hunt for precedent, some earlier historical guide that would justify all the actions to come, and would make the people of Egypt welcome me as pharaoh.
To the surprise of neither of us, we didn’t find anything in the official archives. But then, one afternoon, I received a message from Nedjem during my daily audience. As soon as I heard the words whisperedin my ear, I raced to the library, leaving behind a line of supplicants. There, Senenmut greeted me, with two papyri in his hands and the widest grin I’d ever seen on his usually serious face.
“I foundtwowomen pharaohs,” he exclaimed, handing me the papyri.
“There aretwo?” I asked, incredulous.
“Two.” He beamed. Too impatient for me to read the words myself, he continued: “The first was fifteen hundred years ago, and her name was Merneith. There are not a lot of details, but she started off as a regent to her young son who’d been named pharaoh. Over time, she came to assume the kingship for herself. And then, only three hundred years ago, Sobkneferu, daughter of Amenemhat the Third, became pharaoh.”
My heart raced. I couldn’t believe it. Studying our lineage is part of every royal child’s education and, of course, I knew of Amenemhat III. But I’d never heard of or even seen the name Sobkneferu on a temple wall. Unrolling one of the papyri, Senenmut pointed to an image underneath the name Sobkneferu. There stood the outline of a woman, wearing theatef.
But that wasn’t all. “Look closely, Hatshepsut,” Senenmut urged.
