Chapter Thirty-Six
THEBES, EGYPT
I step into the antechamber to Amun’s space.
I try to calm the spinning wheel of my thoughts, but the pressing needs of Upper and Lower Egypt plague my mind.
Even though I’ve performed these rituals every morning for thousands of days, as my responsibilities increase daily, the intense focus the rites demand becomes difficult.
Only when my eyes adjust to the dim light do I realize that I am not alone in the antechamber.
Frantic, I glance around for an object to grab, to strike out at the intruder into this sacred space.
Before my fingers clasp around the base of a heavy torch, the face before me takes shape, and I relax. It is Senenmut.
“What in the name of Amun are you doing in here? You could be killed by the guards simply for stepping foot in the gods’ hallowed area,” I whisper.
This alcove leads to Amun’s statue, where I undertake the ceremony to start a new day.
No one is allowed in here except me, and in certain circumstances, the high priest.
“It is a risk I had to take, Hatshepsut,” he whispers back. “I need to get you out of here.”
“Before the morning ritual? How will the day begin without it?” I ask, shocked by his request. From time immemorial, every single day in Egypt has been prompted by the rites I’m about to perform.
How can I dare to anger the gods—and prompt the withholding of the light of Ra—by not completing it? What will befall my people?
His brows knit in confusion and astonishment.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again as if he thought better of the words he planned to say.
“I feel certain the gods will understand this one time, and Ra will shine down on the Egyptian people today regardless. If I don’t get you out now, I worry that you won’t be able to perform the ceremony anyway. Ever again.”
“What do you mean?” I am immobile with bewilderment and, now, fear, but I don’t acquiesce.
He takes the unprecedented step of placing a hand on my arm. I do not think he’s ever touched me before. That is the province of my personal servants; family; and if he still lived, my husband.
“I’ve heard rumors of a plot against you,” he says.
“A plot? Here?” I am incredulous. Who would stage such a plot here, in our most sacred place, with its attendant, terrible risks?
“Here,” he hisses, his voice impatient and urgent. “We must away.”
My body slackens, and I allow him to lead me away without another word. I am no stranger to the specter of threats, mortal or otherwise. It comes with power. But who would dare this?
We wind through the warren of interior corridors connecting the rooms of the temple, until we are back in the palace.
We step into a dimly lit room I’ve never entered before, and Senenmut closes the door behind us.
It has the whitewashed walls of the rest of the palace, but instead of being decorated with a riot of color and imagery as is the case everywhere else, the room is completely plain, save for a bed, a desk, and rolls of papyri everywhere.
The window to the courtyard has been covered with a wash of white linen.
“Is this your room?” I ask.
He nods, then gestures me to sit on the bed, so even my silhouette will not be visible through the shrouded window. I motion for him to join me, and as he moves toward the bed, he hesitates, visibly uncomfortable with this arrangement. The situation demands it.
In the quietest voice I can muster, I ask, “What did you hear?”
“One of my trusted informants overheard that an attempt on your life would be made during the morning ablutions,” he says, his voice unnaturally calm.
“Informants?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he murmurs. “I maintain a web of loyal soldiers and servants who listen very carefully and communicate concerns back to me in code.”
“Do you know who is responsible for this connivance?”
“No, Your Majesty. The plans were overheard but not the instigator.” He pauses, and I can see that he’s not certain he should say the rest.
“Senenmut?” I prompt him.
With a deep sigh, he says, “I do have a suspicion, Your Majesty.”
“Is it people who don’t want me to be co-regent?” I say aloud my secret worry. Mother and I discussed this very real possibility before I even stepped in at Thutmose III’s side, but we’d seen no evidence of an uprising by factions holding that view.
“No, my little spies have heard nothing of that sort.”
“Who then?”
Maintaining a low tone, he forces the words out. “I suspect that the plot originated with another group of royals, those from one of a few family lines with tenuous claims to the throne. Lines that stretch back to the pharaoh who preceded your venerable father. Or even beyond.”
“Could it be the royal branch of the family stemming from my father’s predecessor, Amenhotep?
” I seethe. “Amenhotep died without an heir; that is, of course, how my father became pharaoh. But Amenhotep does have living relatives, I suppose. Or perhaps the threat originated from relatives of Pharaohs Kamose or Taa the Second who preceded Pharaoh Ahmose, Amenhotep’s father. ”
“Or a relation of Ahmose?” Senenmut suggests.
I immediately think of Mutnofret, Thutmose II’s mother, whose father was Ahmose.
She and my mother had a fraught relationship as wives of Thutmose I, and neither my mother nor I were kind to her when Thutmose II ascended the throne.
I regret that, for many reasons. But why would she plot against a reign that involved Thutmose III, her grandson? That would put him at great risk.
When I do not reply, he continues, “I wish I knew the source of this danger. And it pains me to even mention it, Your Majesty, but I’ve had my suspicions for some time; and every time one of these relatives pledges their loyalty in your chamber, it sickens me.
” The pain on his face is very real, but his words raise a question.
“Damn hypocrites,” I say. Then I ask, “Why have you said nothing until now?” I hate having to ask this question. But with a threat of this magnitude, everyone and everything must be viewed through a skeptical lens.
“Because, until now, it was only a suspicion. But now, with this threat and the timing, I am certain.”
“What timing?”
“Certain of these branches of royal families have sons coming of age this year and—” He hesitates.
“And?” I give him license to say that which he’d rather not.
“And a kingdom ruled by a six-year-old pharaoh and a female regent is perceived as weak. This would be the time for them to kill you and wrest control of the throne from the vulnerable child pharaoh. Then their own representative would be the ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt.” He cannot meet my eyes.
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 in this room 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 of us 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 pharaoh and a 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.”