My lids flutter open, but all I can see is blackness. My eyes might as well be closed. Only when Nedjem brings the lamp closer does the flicker of its flame begin to illuminate my quarters in the Theban palace. And slowly, as its undulating light reflects off the gilded patterns on the walls, the room takes shape and the walls come alive.
Riotous color—crimson, lapis lazuli, obsidian, green, and ocher—emerges, including a favorite image of the goddess Hathor wearing her headdress of cow horns and a sun disk. A pantheon of gods decorates my walls, interspersed with vivid patterns of lilies and lotus flowers. Only the decoration of my parents’ chambers and the chambers of the first high priest of Amun rival my own. But then, those are the only stations in the land that are higher than mine. For I am the Princess Hatshepsut and the God’s Wife of Amun, chief among all the gods.
“The ablution awaits, Your Majesty Princess Hatshepsut, I mean,Hemet-netjer,” Nedjem pleads, her voice sounding impossibly young, as she apologizes for not using my priestly name.How old is she?I wonder. I suppose she could have twenty years or fifty. The maid has been with me since I left the royal nursery and moved into my ownquarters in the palace, but I’ve never guessed at her age—or anything about her, for that matter.Strange, I think,that these questions should come to me now, unbidden.
I shuffle toward Nedjem, yawning as I approach her. Lamp held high, she leads me down a warren of palace corridors, pitch-black except for the torches intermittently hanging on the walls. Passing by columns and through gateways and doors, the sound of drums and rattles grows louder the closer we get to the Temple of Ipet-Sut, a key structure within the palace compound.
When we finally reach the sacred places of the gods, I follow Nedjem into the chamber containing the sacred pool. Servants in linen shifts and girdles line the walls, but only temple women hand-picked by the priests to ready me for my most important daily ritual step forward.
They slide off my finely woven sleeping shift, and I step into the cool waters of the pool. The familiar scent of rose and frankincense washes over me as I submerge myself deeper and deeper, until my hair and face and body becomes one with the waters. Weightless and momentarily free of my burdens, I am no longer the God’s Wife; I am only Hatshepsut.
When I surface, the women’s eyes are wide with concern. Was I under the water too long? Were they worried about my safety or the time? The latter, I guess, as much depends on the timeliness of the daily ritual. Either way, all they could do is watch and fret, since only the God’s Wife can enter the purifying waters of the sacred pool.
Do I imagine that they rush to dry me with the linen cloth and then lead me to the robing chamber? One does not hurry along the God’s Wife, so perhaps my thoughts and observations are still heavy with sleep. The immersion in the pool has awakened me somewhat, but—no matter how many years I’ve undertaken this daily ritual—my body still struggles with the hours before dawn.
A temple servant slathers my skin with rare oil selected from one of the alabaster jars on the marble dressing table, and then dresses me in a pure white linen gown stitched with countless pleats, cinching ithigh around my waist. Another maid rings my brown eyes in kohl and places a ceremonial wig, heavy with elaborate braids not to mention an ornate gold diadem, over my very short dark hair. After Nedjem slides bracelets on my wrists, rings on most of my fingers, and a gold and carnelianusekhcollar around my neck, I leave the chamber and begin my procession toward the sanctuary where Amun can be found.
In the outer chamber of the sanctuary, temple laborers and priests bow to me as I enter, then hurriedly return to their tasks. Servants finalize the platters of meats, fruits, breads, and drinks to be used as offerings to Amun, while priests and priestesses continue their chanting. Drums beat and tambourines shake, growing louder and quicker in tempo. The mood becomes expectant, almost frantic, and the servants and priests alike sway as the rhythm crescendos. My heart thrums in time with the instruments as I pause on the threshold of the inner sanctum alongside the high priest. We alone are permitted to see Amun.
“Are you ready,Hemet-netjer?” he turns to me and asks.
“If you are ready,Hem-netjer-tepi,” I answer with nod.
Together, we step inside the sanctuary of Amun. The sound recedes as we go farther inside to light the torches lining the walls with our own. A surprisingly compact, windowless room painted with gleaming symbols of life and death as well as day and night, the sanctuary contains only one object, an enormous statue of Amun. Although the statue is veiled, glimmers of gold and hints of turquoise peek out from under the gossamer fabric covering it.
Together, the high priest and I recite the sacred prayers, beseeching Amun to be reborn. Only through his daily rebirth, we chant, will the sun rise. Otherwise, the citizens of the world will perish. When we finish, the high priest walks backward out of the sanctuary, erasing his footprints with a specially made brush, leaving me alone in the presence of Amun. Only I, the God’s Wife, can undertake the final rites.
I approach the statue, feeling the power of the god grow with each step I take toward him. As I slide off the veil, I face Amun in all his golden glory. Staring into the god’s vivid blue eyes, I feel the air betweenus vibrate with an urgency that is at once familiar and singular. I pray that, once again, I am worthy to rouse the god to rise and give life to us all by causing the sun to rise and the Nile to flood. Because the fate of my people, ofallpeople really, rests on me.
Chapter Six
1486BC
THEBES,EGYPT
“Enough!” my father bellows, and the crowded audience hall reverberates with the sound of his voice.
The courtiers and palace officials and servants are stunned into silence. As Lord of the Two Lands of Egypt who has conquered the Levant and Nubia in his military campaigns, my father, Pharaoh Thutmose, wields unfathomable might, and this power does not even account for his authority as representative of the gods of earth. His orders are sacred commands that must be obeyed instantaneously and with exactitude.
The two tax officials who have been debating differences in the charges levied on the Upper and Lower regions of Egypt have been rendered immobile by my father’s edict. Every single person in this vast chamber is motionless and must await permission to reanimate, even me, the pharaoh’s eldest daughter by his esteemed Great Wife. This call for stillness is one of my father’s favorite tactics and one at which I excel. Since I can remember, I’ve practiced the statue-like regality of the gods; it is expected of me. I can almost hear Mother encouraging me during the long periods of rehearsing regnal immobility, whispering, “Your father would shine with pride at your stillness.”
But the people here today have not had my years of training. They believe they have heeded the instruction of Thutmose, but I can see them flinch and twitch. The embroidered fabric of theirrobes quivers as they desperately try to calm their bodies. And my father sees it too.
Father rises from his throne, appearing impossibly tall with the double crown upon his head. He steps down from the dais and paces in front of the supplicants, pausing as he nears visibly quaking administrators and stopping to face the two tax collectors. Both are dressed in the finest robes, and yet how paltry their garb seems in comparison to the resplendence of Thutmose.
“Do I not stand before you wearing the double crown?” he bellows to the tax collectors.
“Yes, my lord,” the two men reply in unison, their voices shaking.
Neither man raises his eyes to my father, and for that, I am thankful. Others have forgotten that my father is not a man but a god and taken the natural, but very forbidden in this formal setting, step of meeting his gaze. I do not want to witness the aftermath of such disrespect ever again.
“What does it signify?” he roars. For a moment, I can envision him as he was before he became pharaoh of all Egypt: a feared and triumphant military commander under the previous pharaoh, Amenhotep. Unlike most divine rulers, Father wasn’t born to the role, and he has confided in me that he’s the stronger for it. Holding a secret this momentous—it is heresy to suggest kingship should originate outside a royal bloodline—makes me feel closer to my father.
Hands on hips, he towers over the men, perfectly balancing the heavy gold crown on his head. The outer portion, inlaid with carnelian, fits tightly over his head and ears, but even with that sturdy base, it can be difficult to stabilize the tall, conical centerpiece decorated with mother-of-pearl out of which a curled spire projects. One evening, Papa made me hold the double crown, wanting me to understand the weight of leadership.
One of the men chokes out, “The reddeshret-crown symbolizes Lower Egypt, while the whitehedjet-crown embodies Upper Egypt, my lord.”
“And together, what do they mean?”
