Chapter Eight
THEBES, EGYPT
“A decision must be made, Thutmose. Before it is too late.”
I hear these words echo down the long corridor to the family quarters at the Theban palace on the west bank of the Nile, in a voice that sounds very much like my mother’s.
But surely I have misheard. My mother would not speak to my father in such a way, using a forceful tone and a phrase suggestive of one thing only.
“I need more time, Ahmes,” my father replies to my mother in his unmistakable voice, and I realize I’d heard correctly.
Slowing my pace, I gesture for Nedjem to do so as well.
I have never been privy to a frank exchange between my parents.
The palace and temples and village streets have been rumbling with rumors in the months since Amenmose’s death over who Thutmose will choose as his successor, and I assume my parents are discussing the same conundrum on everyone’s mind.
The solution to this puzzle will dictate the course of my own life, and I want to know my father’s mind before he announces it to the people.
“Only the gods can give us that,” my mother replies, in one of her usual phrases.
Her tone, however, is mournful and a bit angry, and I imagine she’s thinking about how little time the gods granted poor Amenmose.
Then, in a stronger voice, she adds, “More time for what? It isn’t as if a better candidate will emerge from the royal nursery. ”
Although my mother is the pharaoh’s Great Wife, she is hardly his only consort.
Thutmose’s harem contains lesser wives, concubines, and ornaments, whose sole occupation is the production of male heirs.
While Queen Ahmes’s offspring have prominence in the royal lineage, my father’s other wives and the harem nursery are supposed to provide possibilities when tragedy strikes, such as with Amenmose.
No rule exists requiring that my father select the eldest among the sons in his nursery to succeed him, although it has been tradition.
So rumors abound over his decision, and the jockeying for position is well underway.
“You misunderstand. I do not need the time to make my choice from the nursery. I need more time to prepare Hatshepsut.”
I halt my progress altogether. Prepare me for what? Why does my father need time to prepare me? Why am I even part of this conversation? It is hardly as if I will become pharaoh.
My mother shares my thoughts. “What does Hatshepsut have to do with this? Other than to marry whomever you select so the throne will be secured?”
My father does not answer at once. Instead, I hear the sound of his sandaled footsteps pace the cool stone floor as he works out his reply. “I should think that was obvious, Ahmes,” he says.
“Obvious to one of your scribes, perhaps. But not to me,” my usually demure mother retorts, and I am, once again, surprised by this bold side.
“All of my other children are much younger, less prepared and savvy than Hatshepsut. Whoever I select, she will be older, more educated, wiser in the ways of the court and government, as well as a natural leader—” he says, and I swell with pride at his stream of compliments.
Until Mother interrupts, her voice defensive as if my father had just spewed forth insults about me instead of praise.
“Only because you’ve had her tutored like a boy.
Brought her along to audiences and conclaves and festivals like a boy.
Allowed her into the sacred rituals as if she were a priest.”
“And you should be thanking the gods that I have,” he thunders, finally tiring of her challenges.
“Because whether I select Mutnofret’s son, Thutmose, or one of the other boys in the nursery, we will end up with a child pharaoh should I die soon.
This land will need strong leaders to guide him—you as regent until that child comes of age and Hatshepsut as his wife. ”
My mother tuts at the mention of Thutmose’s mother, Mutnofret, my father’s second-highest-ranking wife. She is at constant, competitive odds with my mother, even though, as the first wife, my mother has a higher rank and her children a greater claim to the throne.
“Me as regent? Ruling alongside Hatshepsut as queen?” she asks slowly rather than accusatorially, the significance of his words finally becoming clear to her. And to me.
“Who else?” he answers with a question. As if this had been his plan all along. Amenmose and Wadjmose notwithstanding.
“Who else,” she echoes him quietly.
“Hatshepsut will be magnificent,” Papa says. “And you will help her when the time comes.”
I glance over at Nedjem, needing to know that one other person heard the same words I just did—magnificent. Otherwise, I would always worry that I’d imagined them. Her lovely, dark face brightens with a smile, and I return it.
“Hatshepsut!” Thutmose’s voice booms, and Nedjem and I jump. “You may enter the quarters. There is no need for you to skulk in the hallways outside the quarters like an assassin.”
With Nedjem like a shadow behind me, I creep inside the comfortable space, lined with upholstered chairs and soft pillows unlike most of the palace in which every surface is hard, imposing and awe-inspiring.
But Mama and Papa aren’t reclining before a platter of fruits as they occasionally do in this informal room. They are standing, waiting for me.
My father’s hand reaches for mine. As I intertwine my fingers with his, he says, “Come, Hatshepsut. We have much to do.”