Sovereign of Stars (11 page)

Yet for all their matching garb, Thutmose felt
conspicuously inferior beside his co-regent. It was not only that
she was taller – though in truth, she was by no means a statuesque
woman. Hatshepsut exuded a compelling force of absolute confidence,
a natural power which Thutmose despaired of ever developing
himself. He loved and admired her, for she was the only mother he
had ever known. And he envied her with the casually entitled envy
only a boy-king can feel. Why should she not have such a force of
presence? She was the offspring of Amun himself, while Thutmose was
the son of a Pharaoh, ah – but a Pharaoh bred of distinctly mortal
flesh.

“You remember what is required of you,” Hatshepsut
said quietly as the approaching procession drew nearer the edge of
the field.

It was not a question, and Thutmose had no need of
questioning. In his drive to become as much a Pharaoh as she, he
had immersed himself in his studies, surpassing the expectations of
his tutors, even of Hatshepsut herself. He remembered the required
steps of the Min ceremony. Of course. They were in his blood now,
so thoroughly had he pored over the scrolls and practiced the
movements, the words, even rehearsing alone in his chambers when
his tutors had left him. He nodded without looking up at her.

The procession came singing, acrobats with
long-braided, unshorn hair flipping hand over foot along the broad,
dusty road, priests and priestesses waving papyrus-frond banners on
painted poles high above their heads. Thutmose caught a flash of
gold from the midst of the parade. It flashed again, and he heard a
bellow.
The white bull.
The representation of Min in the
flesh, who would oversee the opening of the harvest and impose his
mighty fertility upon the Two Lands – and upon the Pharaohs – for
another year.

Beyond the bull, the statue of Min bobbed above the
crowd, held aloft on a broad wooden shield borne by a cadre of
priests. The nobility of Waset thronged behind, clapping and
singing, some of them already well and truly drunk, to judge by the
stumbling and laughter. Let them be merry: the fields had been
remarkably fertile this year, and it was only the first of three or
perhaps four reapings. This harvest would be one to celebrate.

When the priests of Min reached the edge of the
field, they used staffs and switches to maneuver the white bull
into position so that he faced from the east, from Min's direction,
with the red desert at his scornful back and the black soil before
his approving gaze. Thutmose watched the beast warily. It was huge
– much larger than he had expected, its shoulders high and rounded
with tense, quivering muscle. The priests had pampered it and
fattened it on sweet grains and beer; its body trembled with weight
and power when it stamped a gilded hoof. A burnished sun-disc was
tied between the bull's upright horns, and when it tossed its
great, stern head amongst a cloud of black flies the disc shivered
and swung and threw bright light into Thutmose's eyes.

The shield that bore Min's statue sank to the ground
so the god might watch the proceedings. When the priests backed
away, there was Neferure, slim as a reed, frail-looking, with her
large, haunting eyes peering solemnly out from the cascade of
ribbons adorning her God's Wife crown. She stepped upon the shield
with tiny silver sandals and laid one hand on Min's shoulder. She
was only a little girl, but already she was beautiful, with
delicate features and luminous skin, and a quiet, obedient,
thoughtful nature. More than once, Thutmose had wondered why
Hatshepsut had made no move to betroth her daughter to him. He had
overheard enough talk amongst soldiers and guards and drunken men
at feasts to know that grown men were especially happy when they
could marry beautiful women, and Neferure would grow up to be the
most beautiful woman in the world. Gazing at his sister now, at the
brightness of her crown and the elegance of her small hands,
Thutmose wished jealously for her, but she remained as distant and
aloof as a star.

When the nobility had drawn up in a wide arc and
some semblance of quiet fell over the crowd, Hatshepsut raised her
palms toward the statue of Min. Thutmose did the same.

“A blessing to you, Min, who fertilizes the Mother.
Deep is the secret of what you did to her in the dark.”

The High Priest of Min stepped forward, bearing the
ceremonial hoe. Its handle was carved at each end with lotus
blooms, and it was painted in bands of red and blue – too ornate an
instrument for any rekhet farmer to use. Thutmose had his doubts
about its ability to break the soil. But he stepped forward to
receive it, proud that his movements were sure and direct. He drove
its tip into the earth, pulled with all his strength; the roots of
grasses and weeds made a tearing sound as the deep black earth
revealed itself, full of the rich scents of growth and renewal.

The High Priest appeared again, and passed a golden
vessel of river water into Thutmose's hands. The vessel was heavy;
he took an unsteady step, clutching it to his chest, his heart
lurching in a moment of terrible panic. Water sloshed onto his
shoulder, and his face went hot with humiliation. But he righted
himself, and with great solemnity he poured the water into the
trench he had opened.

“The earth is renewed,” the priest intoned. “Thanks
be to Min.”

Hatshepsut came forward from the emmer field to
stand at his side. The priestesses sang their hymns to the god
while the sun grew ever hotter. Thutmose willed himself to remain
immobile, staring over the heads of the gathered crowd with what he
hoped was a mysteriously distant expression, silently cursing the
flies that landed on his legs and arms to drink his sweat with
their prickling tongues.

Over the harmonies of the hymn, the white bull's
tail sliced repeatedly through the air with a sharp whistle like a
goose's wing. Thutmose heard the best grunt and stamp. Suddenly he
gasped in pain – one of the flies had bitten him on the back of his
knee. He could not stop himself slapping at it, shaking his leg to
ease the sting.

Mercifully, the hymn came to a close and Neferure
presented the double crowns, red and white, to the two Pharaohs.
The opportunity to bow his head to the God's Wife and receive the
new crown was welcome; with his face ducked and Neferure's slight
body blocking the eyes of the crowd, he could flick the sweat from
his eyes.

“Thank you, sister,” he murmured.

Neferure made no reply.

Thutmose was still too small to draw the ceremonial
bow, and so he retreated gratefully to the emmer, where the flies
were less thick, as Hatshepsut stepped forward. A priest had
planted four different-colored arrows point down in the soil.

“In the name of myself, Maatkare Khnemet-Amun
Hatshepsut, and in the name of Menkheperre Thutmose, the third of
his name, the Good Gods, I fire these arrows to the four
winds.”

She drew the bow so effortlessly, looked so strong
and divine as she held herself poised for a moment, the fletchings
against her cheek, her eyes keen and far-seeing beneath the double
crown. When she loosed, each arrow passed above the crowd faster
than a falcon diving.

It was Thutmose's turn to resume the ceremony. He
reached both hands into the small wooden cage the High Priest
proffered. The black gebgeb birds inside scolded and snapped at his
fingers, but he caught one and drew it forth. It glared at him with
a spiteful yellow eye.

“For the son of Horus, Imsety,” he announced, and
tossed the gebgeb into the air.

It fluttered, faltered, caught itself on indignant
black wings, and sailed into the field of emmer.

Thutmose drew out another.

“For the son of Horus, Hapi.”

The second gebgeb flew in the opposite direction to
its brother. It was a good sign.

“For the son of Horus, Duamutef.”

This bird soared over the heads of the noble ladies
gathered in a knot to Thutmose's left. They shrieked
good-naturedly, and the bull snorted. The deep animal sound made
Thutmose uneasy.

He reached into the cage for the final bird, but it
evaded him, rattling between its wooden bars, screaming. At last he
caught it and winced; its strong bill closed over the skin of one
knuckle and twisted viciously, but Thutmose would not let it
go.

“For the son of Horus, Qebesenuef.”

He tossed the gebgeb into the air. It scolded as it
righted itself against the hot blue sky, then sailed directly
toward the white bull of Min.

He heard the women scream before his eyes registered
the danger. The bull, already tormented beyond its patience by the
flies, raised its head to roar at the black bird. The motion jerked
the restraining ropes free from the priests' hands, and in a
heartbeat the bull was charging straight toward Thutmose. He was
aware of the High Priest leaping out of the way, but could not seem
to make his own legs move. The bull bore down upon him, and his
eyes filled with the image of the sun disc swinging wildly between
the sharp horns, blinding him with its brilliant and terrible
light.

A hand hard as bronze caught his upper arm, yanked
him backward into the wheat. He had a brief glimpse of a canopy of
green-and-gold emmer heads nodding above him, shielding him from
the bull's view, as he fell hard onto his backside. Thutmose
scrambled up at once. Hatshepsut was beside him, her hand still
clutching him, her eyes wide with shock.

The awful, roaring weight of the bull thundered
past, scattering nobles into the field and back toward the temple
road. But rather than give chase, it turned, flipping its head this
way and that in a fury. The sun disc spun madly on its ties.
Thutmose could smell the bull – a sharp, bestial odor of sweat and
power, of a god's rage. He watched, helpless, as its eye fell upon
little Neferure standing still beside the statue of Min.

The bull bellowed, and Thutmose screamed, “No!”

He could do nothing to stop it. It lowered its horns
and charged.

Thutmose heard a strange, sudden sound, high and
wailing and helpless. In an agony of disbelief, he realized
Hatshepsut was crying out for her daughter, all her regal composure
gone, her voice womanish and afraid.

There was an explosion of dust and a terrifying
thunder like two great blocks of stone scraping. Thutmose could not
see; all was too-bright dust glimmering in the sun, obscuring
everything, everything but the sounds of panic.

But in another moment the dust settled, dissipated
on a river breeze. The bull stood quivering in its tracks, its legs
still rigid from the abruptness of its stop.

Neferure stood on her toes at the edge of Min's
shield, face to face with the white bull. She reached a small, pale
hand up and allowed it to smell her skin. It blew out fiercely.
Then it lowered its head, nodded, bowed. Neferure caressed the
broad white forehead, the tense, mobile ears, the triumphant,
shining horns.

She peered up from amidst the ribbons of her crown,
caught Thutmose's eye. The piercing force of her look stole his
breath away, and he knew all at once that the girl held within her
ka a power as great as Hatshepsut's. Perhaps greater.

For the first time in his life, the young Pharaoh
feared his sister.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Neferure had been back in her small private
apartment only a handful of minutes before the summons came. She
heard a clap at her door, followed by Takhat's muttering as she
scrambled to answer it, dumping the load of linens she had been
sorting for washing and pleating onto Neferure's fine red couch.
Neferure, reaching up to place her God's Wife crown upon its shelf,
froze and held her breath, listening.

“To the palace?” Takhat said. “But we must prepare
for the feast! If we go to the palace now, there will be no
time...”

The messenger said a few words Neferure could not
catch, and Takhat hastened to reassure him. “No, of course not. The
God's Wife is always the humble servant of the Horus Throne. Did
you bring a litter for the Great Lady? Good. You may go; we will be
along shortly.”

Takhat scowled as she shut the door – nearly slammed
it, in truth. Neferure finished securing her crown and turned to
face her servant, waiting.

“Well, is that not the way of things! You are wanted
at the palace,
immediately
, to hear that puffed-up fancy of
a man tell it.
Immediately,
said he! As if I haven't enough
to do already, preparing you for the Feast of Min. Pah!” She fairly
spat at the pile of linens. “By all the gods, I work harder every
year, and who sees it? Not the Pharaohs, oh, no! No, not even you,
Lady! You see only yourself in the mirror, or your little statues
of Hathor.”

Neferure frowned at her, trying for a stern look,
although in truth her heart was leaping. She had known her mother
would send for her –
known
it, and it had come to pass.
It must have been a god who told me. How else could I have
known?

Takhat clutched frantically at this bit of linen and
that necklace, wedged a small cosmetics box beneath her bony arm,
and bundled Neferure from the apartment, still sighing and groaning
over her sad lot in life. The brightness of the sun in the harem
courtyard made Neferure blink; it blazed off the gilt sides and
canopy of an ornate litter. Ringed about it were eight men with the
sun-darkened skins and flat, muscular shoulders of bearers, and a
contingent of palace guards, too, standing at attention in kilts
striped blue and white. It gladdened Neferure to see that the
golden uprights which held the litter's curtains were carved with
Hathor's smiling face.

Neferure clutched her hands to her pounding heart as
she boarded the litter and sank onto its cushioned chair. Takhat
drew the curtains to shut out the dust, and one of the guards
barked an order. The litter lifted onto the shoulders of the
bearers, and Neferure's heart lifted, exulting, into the sky.