Chapter Thirty-Four
THEBES, EGYPT
Deep voices echo throughout the chamber, increasing in volume as shadows move across the room marking the passage of time.
The priests and royal family members and government ministers talk over one another, each vying for the final, definitive word on who will rule Egypt next.
I must restrain myself from leaping out of this throne and screaming at them to stop.
The posturing of these men is an utter waste of the country’s focus at a most critical juncture.
How seamlessly I could manage this transition, I think, if only I am permitted to do what comes naturally to me.
Instead, I sit here—regal and immobile—as I wait to learn the future of our country. Wait for ritual. Wait for tradition. Wait for the consensus of these leaders standing before me. Wait, as women have always been fated to do.
Or must I? Must I cower in fear with Neferure at my side, worrying about our future as these men decide for me and for her?
I glance over at Senenmut, who stands to the right of my throne.
Any onlooker would only see the docile posture of an adviser, eyes lowered in the appropriate deference to his queen.
They would not see what I do. A brilliant, self-taught expert in the ways of our land—political and spiritual, if such things can indeed be separated—Senenmut sees our realm with fresh eyes.
In his quiet, strong way, he has taught me that rules need not be broken when they no longer serve the good, only invisibly or carefully bent.
As he has done in his own unusual rise from the lower classes.
Words he said last evening reverberate in my mind now.
He’d whispered a single, startling sentence after hours of poring through papyri on the laws dictating to whom the throne should pass on the death of a pharaoh when the ruler hasn’t selected his successor.
When we learned the answer isn’t clear, Senenmut had said, “Maat is the purview of the gods’ representative here on earth, Your Majesty.
Only that person can presume to know what is best for Egypt, whether answering the question of who should rule or how our country should be ruled.
As daughter of Thutmose the First and wife of Thutmose the Second, you are close to the divine, but”—here he paused, as if summoning his courage—“as the God’s Wife of Amun, you are one with the maat, one with the divine.
Who better than you to steer the course of Egypt’s future? ”
Who better than me to steer the course of Egypt’s future?
Those words surge through me now, as I stare out at this sea of sycophants, so-called scholars, smug priests, and entitled wealthy.
Certainly they don’t understand how to run a kingdom better than I.
Certainly the male infant from my husband’s harem they’d select to sit on the throne would not be a worthier choice than the daughter of the great Thutmose I. Or my daughter.
I stand. For a long moment, only my mother seems to notice. Not that she moves, of course; I only see her gaze shift out of the corner of my eye. But I don’t dare glance directly at her, as my next steps exceed even her reach and ambition.
The men continue to debate without a single pause. They spew out their positions over and over, using only paltry explanations to attempt to hide their obvious lunges at power.
“Thutmose the Third is the rightful next pharaoh. He’s the eldest son of Thutmose the Second, the most eligible in the Thutmoside line and thus closest to the gods,” one particularly insufferable priest says for the hundredth time. “How can we entertain any other option?”
“There is no law—divine or human—which says that the eldest son of the pharaoh must be the next one. And it’s nonsensical when that son is an infant and when his mother is anything but royal,” a lavishly dressed royal says with a sniff.
“I think we can all agree that the maternal bloodline is crucial, although admittedly not as crucial as the father’s.
Can we really allow a baby to sit on the throne, particularly when his mother is not even an ornament of the pharaoh? When she’s in the harem?”
“Are you advocating for a pharaoh from an entirely different bloodline? Perhaps someone from Thutmose the First’s predecessor, Amenhotep?” the general says, seething, then adds, “Which, if I’m not mistaken, is the bloodline you are from?”
At this veiled threat, the guards lining the chamber stand at attention. I cannot allow this dispute to proceed, and I think again about Senenmut’s question: Who better than you to steer the course of Egypt’s future?
“Silence,” I yell, and the fighting ceases immediately. Their faces display shock, and, abashed, the men fall to their knees in obeisance.
I pace the length of the royal dais, letting them stay on their knees for a long, long moment. I want them to remember who is their current ruler before I speak. My next words must be well received.
“I speak to you now not as the Great Queen of Thutmose the Second or the daughter of Thutmose the First, but as the God’s Wife of Amun.” I use my most commanding voice, and a complete hush overtakes the room. “As such, I have been gifted with a vision.”
I motion for the men to stand. I want them to see my face as I describe this miracle.
“While I was in Thebes to serve in the Great Festival, the statue of Amun made its procession toward its biayt. As the priests carried the veiled statue out of its sanctuary and throughout Thebes in search of the festival miracle, Amun directed them to take it this way and that, until it reached the western gates of the royal palace. I sensed the god’s presence and ran from my chambers, through the gates, and toward the statue.
The crowds parted as I threw myself on the ground in front of the veiled god.
I asked him, ‘What is it that you desire? I will do everything that you command.’”
A subtle murmur spreads throughout the men, and I know they are sharing the rumors they’ve heard about that day, which transpired two seasons ago.
The kingdom had been abuzz with speculation about what important message Amun sent me that day.
I’d purposely kept quiet on the matter, suspecting that a day like today might come—when I might have need of a divine pronouncement.
I stare at the men until silence reigns again.
“I lifted the veil”—I pause as I say this, reminding all of them that I alone may lift the veil of the sacred statue of Amun—“and the god spoke to me when I entered the sacred trance. His divine revelation was thus: ‘Hatshepsut, you alone are closest to me, and you alone can ensure maat for the Egyptian people in the times of tumult ahead. Soon, your country will need you, and you must rise up and help lead a unified Egypt, not as a Thutmoside wife and daughter but as my queen and daughter.’”
The men are immobile at this most unorthodox pronouncement. Are they motionless with shocked fury or awe? Does it even matter? Because no one can question the words of Amun delivered to the one permitted to speak to him.
“I did not understand the meaning of Amun’s words until now.
I stand before you as the new regent queen, the one who will stand beside whomever is selected as our new pharaoh to guide and support him as Amun has ordered.
I will be the one to help bestow maat on behalf of Amun and the pantheon of gods. Until our new pharaoh is ready.”