The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh Read online

  “But there are power-hungry men in Egypt who would love nothing better than to rule over the land. We do not know for sure – do we? – why Wadjmose died. Should the Pharaoh – the gods forbid it – pass into the Afterlife soon, all of his children might need to have a care.” His dark eyes were very serious.

  “I see,” I said in a small voice. I had seen no more than seven risings of the Nile that day, yet it was the end of innocence for me.

  I mourned my brother the Crown Prince. But I began to entertain a secret dream. I dared to dream of greatness.

  It was the songs of the blind bard, coupled with Inet’s tales, that gave form and direction to my dream.

  He came to the harem palace when I had seen nine risings of the Nile. It was the first time that I was allowed to attend a formal banquet where the King my father presided, instead of being sent to the children’s dining room with the rest of the palace children.

  I wore a simple white linen shift and a little string of blue glass beads, but Inet had refused to let me line my eyes with black kohl and paint the lids with green malachite. There would be time enough for that later, she said. Yet she had tied a wax perfume cone on top of my head just like the other ladies had and I felt very grown-up. During the course of the evening it melted gradually, keeping me cool and scented with myrrh.

  It was hot and noisy in the dining hall. I was given a gilded, richly decorated chair to sit on, just like the rest of the adults and their guests, a deputation from Syria who had brought tribute and gifts and all manner of things to barter.

  The dinner went on and on. Female servants kept bringing more dishes piled high with delicacies, piping hot from the kitchen, where (I knew because I loved to go there) the chief cook sweated and shouted and swore and threw things at his minions. At the tables, though, all was decorous. I enjoyed the tender veal and the freshly baked wheat cakes, dripping with honey, and I had a slice of sweet melon afterwards. Naturally the adults ate far more – joints of roast beef studded with garlic, fat roasted ducks stuffed with herbs, rich goose livers pounded to a paste, steamed green beans, lentils and carrots, fig puree, cheese and dates. And of course, plenty of wine that had been cooled in earthenware jars. How could people eat and drink so much, I wondered.

  I remember all these things so clearly because it was the first time, but also and mainly because of the blind bard. He was a member of a group of musicians, most of whom were girls; they played on double pipes and lutes and shook tambourines; the smallest rhythmically thumped a drum and several were expert at clicking the menat. But the bard, whose bald head shone in the lamplight like polished cedarwood and whose eyes gleamed milky white like pearls, played on a small portable harp and his music could have charmed the dead out of their tombs.

  His first song was merry to begin with, ending, however, on a plaintive note. His fingers on the strings were gnarled, but the sound was like water over rocks, like the wind in the trees.

  “Weave chains of blooms to give to your beloved,

  Rejoice, rejoice in the days of youth.

  Be happy, breathe in sweet scents.

  Keep your loved one ever near,

  Do not stop the music,

  Do not stop the dance,

  Bid farewell to all care!

  Pick delights like flowers in the fields.

  For soon, too soon the time will come

  When to that land of silence

  You and your love will both be gone.”

  The bearded Syrians in their gaudy robes were becoming very merry and did not take kindly to the sad, haunting quality of the last lines. “Give us a song of great deeds,” their leader shouted, banging on the table with his fist.

  “Aye,” chorused his fellows, who had already looked deep into the wine jar. “A song of great deeds!”

  The blind bard inclined his head, swept his knotted fingers deftly across the singing strings, and said, in his deep voice: “I sing The Song of the Godlike Ruler.”

  The rowdy Syrians cheered. Soon the power of his music had charmed them into stillness, and they listened even as I did.

  “Hearken to the Song of the Godlike Ruler.

  His Majesty came forth as the Avenger.

  For the enemies of Ma’at were many

  And the Black Land suffered, aye it suffered much.

  His Majesty came forth as the Destroyer.

  He smote the adversaries of righteousness,

  He washed in their blood,

  He bathed in their gore.

  He cut off their heads like ducks.”

  This was far more to the taste of the Syrians, who cheered and then settled down again.

  “His Majesty drove back the fiends of Seth.

  He triumphed over all the foul fiends.

  Aye, he was victorious over his foes.

  He fixed his southern boundary-stone,

  He fixed his northern one like heaven,

  He governed unto the eastern deserts.”

  Now the rest of the musicians joined in, in a swelling chorus.

  “His Majesty came forth as Atum.

  He crushed iniquity.

  He repaired what he had found ruined.

  He restored the boundaries of the towns.

  He rebuilt the temples of the gods.

  His Majesty restored Ma’at,

  And all the people praised him.”

  A trumpet sounded a clarion call above the singing strings and the flutes. Cymbals clashed.

  “Aye, His Majesty was a godlike ruler.

  He came forth as Atum.

  He held the Black Land in his hands,

  He held it safe.

  He triumphed over evil.

  He was a shining one clothed in power.

  And all the people praised him.”

  There were more songs that night and much carousing – and drunkenness, I have no doubt. But Inet came to take me away before things became too rowdy and I did not protest. I lay in my bed, on my sheets of fine linen over a mattress stuffed with lambswool, and I kept hearing the thrilling words of the blind bard:

  “Aye, His Majesty was a godlike ruler.

  He came forth as Atum.”

  How wonderful, I thought, to be a godlike ruler. As indeed my father the great Pharaoh was. How wonderful to hold the Black Land in one’s hands. To hold it safe, to triumph over evil. And to be loved by all, and praised:

  “He was a shining one clothed in power.

  And all the people praised him.”

  A shining one clothed in power. Oh yes, I thought. That was a destiny to desire. Not a tame existence in the harem. And although at that time my elder brother Amenmose was still alive, yet I felt in my bones that such a destiny would be mine.

  Early the next morning I went out into the palace garden and encountered one of the Syrian deputation sitting on a bench in front of the fish pond, staring despondently into its depths. He must have been a young man, but to my eyes then he seemed quite old. He had a curly beard and curly locks and his brown eyes were bloodshot.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  He groaned. “A good morning it is not,” he responded. He spoke our tongue passably well and he had a pleasant voice, although it came thickly from his throat. “I looked too deeply into the wine jar and I am paying the price for it.”

  “Why then are you up so early?” I enquired. “When my brother Amenmose has drunk too much, I think he sleeps until the afternoon.”

  “I am not up early,” he said, “I am still up late. I mean, I have not been to sleep as yet. We caroused all night and then we began to gamble and I lost.” He rubbed his face blearily. “Somehow, someone seems to have stuffed a lambswool sock into my mouth,” he complained. “One that was not recently well washed.”

  “Nor were you,” I said.

  He looked affronted. “You are remarkably pert, for a child,” he said, regarding me with more attention. “Ah, the little princess.” He leaned back lazily. “The little princess with the golden eyes. If I give you
a bracelet, as golden as your eyes, will you send it to me by messenger when you are come of age?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I think we might have more to say to each other in a few years’ time,” he said. The expression in his eyes was one that later I would learn to recognise, but at that time it was new to me. It disturbed me somewhat and yet I liked it.

  “When I come of age, I shall be Pharaoh,” I said. I had not meant to speak my dream but it slipped out.

  He laughed, then groaned and held his head. “Beware of what you desire, my dear,” he said. “You might achieve it. Besides, you have a brother, do you not?”

  I dropped my eyes. Of course I did not wish my brother harm. “I am younger than he,” I muttered. “One does not know …”

  “I shall send you the bracelet,” he promised, with a grin.

  He did so later that day. He knew who I was but I did not know him; when the slave brought the bracelet, of beautifully chased gold, in a little cedarwood box, he told me that it was a gift from the prince. He was the youngest scion of the royal house of the Mitanni in Syria. I had not thought that a prince could smell so. Yet I had liked him and I kept the bracelet. I have it still.

  Here endeth the third scroll.

  THE FOURTH SCROLL

  The reign of Thutmose I year 15

  When I was eleven, Inet’s prediction came true: I was called to serve my father as the God’s Wife of Amen. I was also Divine Adoratrice; this position can only be held by one who is unmarried and pure. I took enormous pride in my task. I had to be present during the daily temple rituals, so that I knew and understood them. I helped my father destroy by burning the names of Egypt’s enemies, a ritual that gave me great satisfaction. I led groups of priests to the temple pool to be purified. I learned the dances that kept the God in a state of arousal. Young though I was, I was assisting my father the Pharaoh, as he explained, to guarantee the eternally recurring recreation of the world through the life-giving powers of the God. And a thrilling experience it was for a girl child who otherwise might have been restricted to the palace schoolroom, or learning to spin flax.

  I also accompanied my father on some of his trips around the Black Land, for my mother, the Queen Ahmose, may she live, had much to do in the harem and was at times not well. I remember the first official journey that my royal father and I made together. Up to that day I had never travelled very far from the harem palace where I grew up, and I was very excited. We would be sailing to Heliopolis, to visit the priests at the temples there, and I would have a role in the rites.

  We were to travel by boat, but although it was an official journey it was not a royal progress and the way would not be lined with cheering crowds. The boat would not be the exquisitely decorated solar barque on which the Pharaoh sailed during the major festivals. It was a large, comfortable vessel, though, with a high bow and stern, and a dais packed with soft cushions and shaded from the harsh sun by a colourful canopy. Slaves stood to attention with fans to keep us cool, and of course the royal guard would attend on us. Several smaller boats bearing bureaucrats and servants sailed with us, and the kitchen boat, from which delectable aromas wafted across the water, was never far behind.

  This was the first time I met Senenmut. He was the scribe chosen to accompany us. At that time, when I was eleven years of age, he was a young man of eighteen. He was deferential, as was only right, but he did not seem overawed at the company in which he found himself, for he had a natural dignity and carried himself with assurance.

  I liked his looks at once; he was taller than most men, with broad shoulders and a strong nose. His dark eyes under thick brows regarded the world with a slightly amused expression. I tried to observe him indirectly, with sidelong glances, and I noted that he had elegant hands with long fingers that were not stained with ink as a scribe’s hands so often are. His hair was thick and dark and he wore it long; when the sun caught it, it had blue-black gleams. It looked as if it would be soft to the touch. I would like to run my hands through it, I thought.

  He helped me onto the dais with a firm grip, and when I looked up to thank him, he actually winked at me. Well! A scribe with some audacity, I thought, feeling my cheeks grow warm. I lifted my chin and pretended to ignore him.

  Once we had taken our seats in the shade, the King my father removed the crown of Lower Egypt that he had worn while being borne to the quay in his sedan chair, and which he would wear again when being met at Heliopolis. I saw that he had but little of his own hair left and the remaining tufts were grey. His dark eyes could still pierce one with a hawk-like glare, but the kohl he wore (as most adults do to help deflect the sharp rays of the sun) could not hide the surrounding folds and lines, and he looked – I must write this down, for I am bound to write the truth – like a leathery, tired ex-soldier with a stiff hip and a soft belly that overhung his studded belt. Clearly his teeth pained him, for he rubbed his jaw and sighed.

  I was saddened by this view of my royal father. I knew that he had been a great general and a renowned warrior, about whose achievements on the battlefield many admiring tales were told. Always he had seemed to me to be a person of great stature and dignity, a person invested with authority and not a little mystery. But I took comfort from the reflection that his royal Ka would surely maintain its force even as his earthly body became diminished.

  We would be sailing with the current, but against the wind, which almost always blows from the north. However, there was very little wind that morning, so the rowers would not have as hard a task as they would have done had the wind been strong. High on the bow a tall Nubian stood, keeping time for the rowers with a large brass gong; the rowers chanted a rhythmic song as they bent to their oars. As usual the river was busy. Other gongs from similar boats could be heard across the water. Shouts and orders echoed. Light boats woven of reeds slipped between the heavier barges carrying large cargoes of materials and food and the fine boats similar to ours that would be bearing persons of status.

  We had set forth early but already the day was warm; the sky was a cloudless blue reflected in the water slipping by. My father was resting with his eyes shut; he seemed to have dropped off to sleep. For a moment I wondered whether he still breathed, but then a gentle snore reassured me. But I was far from sleep and I sat upright next to Senenmut the scribe, imitating his scribe’s pose with the folded knees. Ah yes, time was when I could sit like that for a long time and then jump up and run.

  I was fascinated by the bustling river traffic. Between the smaller boats some large ships were ponderously navigating the waterway towards the quay that we had left, bringing, I knew, cedarwood from Lebanon, gold from the mines in Sinai, ivory, ebony, strange animals and more gold from Nubia.

  “Look, Princess,” said Senenmut, “there go the Keftiu. They have sailed from very far away, where few Egyptians have ever sailed.” He looked envious, as if he too would like to sail to distant lands.

  I decided to allow him back into my favour. “Would you like to do that?”

  “Above all things,” he said, with a sigh.

  “So why are you not a sailor?”

  “My father thought a scribe would have better prospects.”

  “I think our sailors should be more venturesome,” I said. “There may be rich lands that we know not of, with whom we could also trade our grain and wine, our linen and pottery. When I am Pharaoh …” I bit my lip. “If I were Pharaoh,” I amended, peeping at him from under my lids. He kept his face straight, but his eyes were twinkling. I had the feeling that very little would ever escape him.

  “Yes, Princess?” he prompted politely.

  “I would order our sailors to explore,” I said. “To go further than they are used to.”

  He nodded. “You too would like to go further than you are used to, I think,” he said.

  “Indeed I would,” I said. “Indeed I would.”

  Just at that moment we were approaching a bay of striking beauty on the western bank, where
stark, massive rock formations reared up behind a broad plain. A white building, not very big and partially fallen in, stood against the cliffs. Yet it had graceful lines, fronted by crumbling terraces linking with the plain.

  “What place is that?” I asked sharply, jumping up from the dais and moving to the side of the boat. Senenmut rose to join me.

  “The bay, Princess, is Djeser-Djeseru, a holy place where Hathor resides. The building is the temple of Mentuhotep the Second, may he live. He was a great Pharaoh, a unifier and a builder.”

  “I like the sound of that,” I said. “A unifier and a builder. Good things to be.”

  “Yes,” agreed Senenmut. “It is a mortuary temple, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said. The temple of Amen-Ra at Karnak lay at our backs on the east bank and it was a living, working community. If I turned around I could see its impressive pylons and pillars. The west bank, I knew, was the abode of the dead; many mortuary temples stood there, with shrines where offerings were made to feed the Kas of Pharaohs who had gone to the gods. “It is a pity that the temple is in such a state.”

  “Mentuhotep and his successors saw to it that Egypt prospered,” said Senenmut, “but Mentuhotep the Fourth was overthrown by his chief minister, Amenemhat. Maintaining the mortuary temples of the previous dynasty was not … ah … a priority.”

  “He must have been a fool to allow his throne to be usurped,” I said scornfully. “Yet the temple could be restored. Or rather … something of greater … greater magnificence … could perhaps be built beside it.”

  “Djeser-Djeseru calls for a structure that dominates the plain,” observed Senenmut, staring at the soaring, rugged cliffs that glittered in the early sunlight.

  “I agree,” I said, excitedly. “That would be wonderful. It would be the most wonderful temple that the world has ever seen.”

  He whistled faintly. “That would demand an extraordinary design, Princess.”

  “Yes, it would. But it could be done.”

  The bay was slipping past as our boat sailed on.

  “It could be done,” agreed Senenmut. He stared at the site as if measuring it with his eyes. “In fact it should be done. One day.”