King and Goddess (12 page)

“Nonsense,” his mother said. “You are brilliant, talented,
and beloved of the gods, but you have no more sense than a new-hatched gosling.
Any idiot would know that with new titles comes new recompense.”

Somewhere he found his voice. It was a dim and feeble thing,
but it was all he had. “I’m sure the queen would—”

“Queens are like anyone else. They’ll take what they can,
and pay as little as they can manage.”

Hat-Nufer sent him to bed as if he had been a child, and
would hear no objections, either. He lay in the suffocating warmth of his
sleeping-room, free for once from Ahotep’s pestering: the brat had been sent to
the Temple of Amon to learn the scribe’s trade, and would not be back till
evening.

So far he had shown little aptitude for the arts of the pen.
Games, now—games he had mastered, whether a child’s game of sticks and pebbles
or a headlong tumble after a ball made of sewn oxhide.

Senenmut the eldest and best, favored of the Great Royal
Wife, sent to bed without his supper, reflected more wryly than sullenly on the
ironies of fate. He had no honor in his own house, no respect from his blood
kin.

Of course, he thought, he had a choice. He could leave. He
was a man in years, favored servant of a queen. He supposed that he had the
wherewithal to manage lodgings, maybe even a servant to bake his bread and wash
his kilts.

He supposed. He did not know. His mother kept the accounts.
His wages fed and clothed him; he thought that she might be keeping the rest in
reserve against fear or famine.

If he was to be free of his mother, then he must learn to
reckon his own accounts. He shuddered at the thought. The reckonings of the Two
Kingdoms were dull, but he could keep them in his head. Petty frettings over a
measure of barley or a length of linen for a kilt or a bedsheet. . . those
bored him to tears. Hat-Nufer could reckon whole tallies in her head, keep them
in order and lose not a single grain of barley.

He needed her. He cursed the need, but there was no escaping
it. Not unless he took a wife; and that prospect was even less alluring than
the constant, niggling presence of his mother.

Sleep dragged at him, too heavy to resist. He had had none
since the night before last. His body lingered in a memory: the queen lying
limp in his arms, worn down with bearing her daughter. She was warm,
sweat-slicked, smelling of nothing but herself: none of the myrrh she so loved,
no flowers or unguents.

He dreamed of her, but the dreams vanished at waking. He had
spent himself in the night. By rare good fortune, Ahotep was sound asleep and
not to be roused for anything his brother did. Senenmut bathed and dressed and
recovered what dignity he had.

He could not elude his mother, not unless he went hungry,
but she carried on as she always had. She made no mention of Senenmut’s failure
to be properly concerned for the welfare of his fortune.

He gathered his belongings as he did every morning, endured
the rituals of farewell: vague from his father, brusque from his mother,
exuberant from his brothers. He went to the palace as always, to the same
duties and more, and his hour, mandated by the queen, of driving a team of
obedient mares round the court of the chariots.

As he returned from that, flushed and windblown and full of
sun and sand and the snorting of horses, he found his lady engaged in a private
audience. The petitioner made him gasp and step back, tensed to bolt.

Too late. They had seen him. “Come,” the queen said: soft,
but a command nonetheless. “Sit with us.”

Sit therefore he must, on a stool with legs carved like
lotus-flowers, in the queen’s lesser hall of audience. It was a small room,
made larger by the paintings on the walls: river and reeds, ducks swimming and
feeding and sitting on the nest. They were vivid, colored and painted in the
semblance of life. Sometimes during very dull audiences Senenmut imagined that
he sat in a boat on the river, watching the water slide past, listening to the
calling of birds in the reeds.

This audience was interesting. Too interesting.

“Lady,” said Hat-Nufer, bold as if this were one of her
neighbors, and a young and foolish one at that: “I thank you most profoundly
for raising my son to his first eminence. But eminence requires more than the
simple title. It has a certain state to keep, in the honor of the king and his
royal kin.”

Hatshepsut betrayed no outrage at the insolence of this
commoner. She was as gracious as she could be with the ambassador of a foreign
king, listening gravely and responding, “Yes, it is commonly thought that the
servant should show himself in a manner fitting to the rank of his master.”

“And that,” Hat-Nufer said, “is difficult on the wages of a
simple scribe and teacher. The princess’ tutor and guardian holds, surely, a
higher rank?”

“He does,” the queen said.

“Then,” said Hat-Nufer, “should not his rank perhaps require
him to occupy a house of suitable size and location, and a household to
maintain it, and the means to maintain them?”

Hatshepsut’s brows raised slightly, imperceptible perhaps to
one who did not know her well. Senenmut could not be certain, but he thought
she might be amused.

He could have wished for high indignation and the ejection
of his mother from her presence; but she had no such mercy. “You are saying,”
she said with grave intentness, as if she truly wished to make no mistake,
“that I should ennoble my daughter’s tutor? Since, after all, a house and
servants and all their maintenance are the province of a lord of men.”

“I am saying,” said Hat-Nufer, unabashed, “that my son has
duties and obligations that require more of him than he can manage on a
scribe’s wages. He comes home at all hours, stumbling with exhaustion; he
forgets to eat; he would forget to draw his allotment of barley and wine and
beer and kilt-linen, except that his father sees to it that that is done.”

Senenmut bit his tongue. Rahotep had never seen to anything
in his life. It was Hat-Nufer who saw to it in Rahotep’s name.

He could not remember when he had been more humiliated. His
mother in front of the queen looked like what she was: a common little woman
with neither delicacy nor breeding, and not much beauty, either; he had his
face from her. She was in no visible awe of the queen’s majesty. And she talked
of him as if he were a hapless child.

The queen did not laugh at her, which was a tribute to royal
upbringing and queenly restraint. “Granted,” she said, “that your son has taken
on himself a difficult if not impossible task: does that render him worthy of a
noble estate?”

Hat-Nufer snorted. “Oh, come! There are perfectly acceptable
houses to be had in decent quarters of the city, that don’t need a prince to
call them home. Set him up in one of them, with a household appropriate to its
size and dignity, and give him a comfortable place to return to when you’ve
worn him out. Not,” she said, “that his father’s house is precisely
uncomfortable, but it’s small. He has to share a bed with his brother, who is
not the most subdued of children. Don’t you think that’s a trifle absurd? He
is, after all, your daughter’s tutor.”

“So he is,” the queen said. “I had considered the matter of
suitable recompense. Since, however, he never asks, nor demands more than he
has—”

“Lady,” said Hat-Nufer, “you know how boys are. When they’re
not too proud to use their wits, they don’t have any to use.”

“Indeed,” said the queen blandly. She refrained from
glancing at Senenmut, but he saw the glitter of eyes under the lowered lids.

Oh, yes, she was laughing. If he could have shrunk to a
shadow and vanished, he would joyfully have done it.

The queen beckoned to one of her chamberlains. “Escort the
lady to my private dining-hall. See that she has anything she wishes to eat or
drink, and that she is provided with a chair and an escort when it pleases her
to depart.”

Hat-Nufer bridled. She was new to the royal art of
dismissal. It was a nasty pleasure to see her escorted deftly out.

He, however, had not been dismissed. He remained where he
was, too stiff with indignation to move or speak.

Hatshepsut preserved her image of queenly dignity. By that,
Senenmut knew that she was plotting something dire.

When she spoke, it was not to him but to her Nubian. “Nehsi.
Show him.”

The Nubian wore his habitual expression of lofty scorn, but
there was a gleam in his eye. Senenmut’s anger warmed him, which was well: his
heart was cold. His mother had done him a great ill turn. Now he would pay for
it.

He did not try to linger. If he had, no doubt the Nubian
would have lifted him and carried him out.

Nehsi would not answer any questions. Threats, Senenmut had
none. Surely nothing could frighten that great beautiful panther of a man.

He led Senenmut through the queen’s palace and out. A
chariot was waiting, drawn by a pair of the queen’s mares: the Star of Hathor
and her yokemate, the Moon of Isis.

Nehsi ascended and took the reins. Senenmut refused to
hesitate. He stepped up behind the Nubian, got a grip on the chariot-rim,
braced as the horses danced forward.

He could not imagine where he was being taken. It could be
anywhere. Back in disgrace to the Temple of Amon. Back to his father’s house.
Even to the mines, or among the builders of tombs across the river in the
cliffs of the Red Land.

They turned down the processional way. The horses stepped
out boldly, moving well together, matching stride and stride. The sun was
strong, its light dazzling his eyes that had grown accustomed to the dimness of
the palace.

He was still half blind, eyes running with tears, when the
chariot turned and passed under the shadow of a gate. For a moment he wavered
in darkness; then the light returned, but lessened, softened by a rustle of
greenery.

The chariot stood in a courtyard that was also a garden,
bounded with rows of trees in pots. The trees were in flower: their sweet scent
drifted around him. A fountain played in the center of the court. Lotus-flowers
grew in it; bright fish darted among the broad green leaves.

It was beautiful and quiet, and cool with water and
greenery. The tiles underfoot as Senenmut stepped down from the chariot were
worn, their bright hard colors faded to browns and greens and blues.

Beyond the court was a house, worn like the courtyard to a
soft sheen. It must have been nigh as old as Thebes. An air of antiquity sat on
it: a faint scent of dust and age. Yet it was meticulously clean, its
furnishings opulent in their simplicity: the carved ebony of a chair, the
inlaid ivory of a table, the gilded feet of a couch. The walls were painted
with images apt to each room: dancers at a feast in the dining-room, in one of
the smaller gathering-rooms a procession of cats and geese, and in the master’s
bedchamber a man and a woman in a boat, hunting ducks in thickets of reeds.

The house was old and quiet but not altogether empty. There
were servants in the kitchen, clustered there as if they had been commanded to
wait. They fell on their faces before Senenmut.

The scent of baking bread wound around him, and the rich
smell of beer in the brewing. The truth dawned on him with distressing slowness.

“This,” he said, trying not to stammer. “This is what
she—what my mother asked for.”

The Nubian nodded. “This is your house. The queen has given
it to you.”

Senenmut was shaking. Gods knew why. He was a man grown, the
servant of a queen. Why should he not have a house that was his to dwell in?

He had expected the mines, that was all; or the shadow of
disgrace. He was caught off guard.

At length he persuaded the servants to stand erect and face
him. They did not seem to be castoffs of the queen’s palace; none was very
young or very old, and they were all sound and hale and clear of eye. Now that
it was clear to them that he would not be the sort of lord who demanded
groveling respect, they held up their heads willingly enough, named themselves
to him, proved that he was not mistaken.

“Yes, we are yours,” said the whip-thin nervous man who had
named himself the cook. “The queen’s majesty has commanded it.” His eyes narrowed.
“You are the princess’ guardian?”

“I am Senenmut,” he said, “who oversees the servants of
Neferure.”

“Then we belong to you,” the cook said. “We’re free, mind
you. We’re not criminals or captives. You pay our wages; you don’t own us. You
do understand that, I’m sure.”

Senenmut did not know whether to laugh or scowl. He settled
for a level stare and a sharp nod. “I understand. I treat you well, you serve
me well, of your free will.”

“You pay us well, we serve you well,” the cook said with a
spark of humor. “You’re young; you’ve much to learn. Never had servants before,
have you?”

“We have a nurse and a maid at home,” Senenmut said; then
caught himself. Home was no longer his father’s house. Home was here, in this
noble residence with its garden court and its proliferation of rooms and its
blunt-spoken servants. The queen had commanded it; so must it be.

“Never,” the cook repeated. “Well; you’ll learn. Better a
babe in arms than a prince with too high an opinion of himself. Do believe
that, sir: princes are miserable masters. Cheap, too. They’ll fill their houses
with captives, then wonder why nothing works as it should.”

“I see you can teach me a great deal,” Senenmut said with
thinly veiled irony. “Is that the queen’s command, too?”

“She’d never need to order us in that,” said one of the
other servants, the boy with the beautiful eyes, whose voice was just breaking.
It cracked abominably as he spoke. He blushed, but he kept his eyes up and
steady.

Senenmut could give way to dismay, or he could cast himself
on the gods’ mercy. He uttered his first command as a master of servants: “Go
on with what you were doing. You—Hapi, is that your name? Did you call yourself
a master of horse?”