Chapter Twenty
THEBES, EGYPT
The drums beat low and slow, reverberating deep within me.
I walk in time with the rhythm until it matches the thumping of my heart.
I feel at one with the musicians and the priests and the royals and the viziers and the dignitaries and the thousands of citizens marching in this funeral procession since dawn—to bury my father, Pharaoh Thutmose.
How could he be dead? The vibrant ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt who raised our land to new heights in trade, military expansion, building projects, even artwork?
The father who made me his pupil in the three seasons before his death?
It seems impossible that he should be gone, leaving me—and a nation—bereft.
I’ve had seventy long days as my father’s body was being readied for the afterlife to grow accustomed to the reality of his passing.
Yet, I still expect him to glance over at me from his golden sedan chair—carried aloft on the strong shoulders of his men—and bestow upon me a small, wry, unexpected smile.
I cannot envision him lying deep within the gold and lapis lazuli sarcophagus, his canopic jars arranged around him like a flower, on the oxen-pulled sledge at the head of the procession.
The cries of the Kites of Nephthys interrupt my musings.
Walking alongside the sledge, these women, dressed from head to toe in the blue-gray color of mourning with matching powder on their faces, are skilled in the art of mourning and appease the gods with their shrieking and beating of their breasts.
None of us royals are to weep and so they do it for us.
And anyway, we are meant to believe there is no need for sorrow, as my father has simply begun an entirely new journey to the afterlife.
But I mourn.
The procession reaches the east bank of the Nile, and there await several mortuary barges.
My mother and I step onto the lead barge and stand at the prow on either side of the sarcophagus.
We are joined by two women who symbolize the goddesses Isis and Nephthys, here to assist with my father’s journey to the afterlife.
Sailing from the east side of the Nile, which symbolizes life, we cross its wide blue waters to the west bank, which represents the land of the dead.
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, with ushabti, models, and tekenu nearby 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 the Aaru, 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 the sarcophagus—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 gold atef crown 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 has nearly as 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 an eyas,” 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 our eyas grows 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. ”