right and maat, in a way that nothing felt maat anymore, for now all was a confusion of duty and guilt and rage.
“Lord,” Tjaneni said, his voice mild and helpful, “may I suggest a visit to the priests’ tent? You seem overtaxed by the day’s journey. Perhaps quiet communion with the gods will aid you. I could arrange…”
Thutmose shook his head sharply, and Tjaneni fell silent, bowing his acquiescence.
The last thing Thutmose wanted now was communion with gods. Amun’s eyes! It was the gods who maneuvered him to this trap, was it not? The gods who stirred his enemies to conspire, who allowed them to intrude on his grief over Hatshepsut. It was the gods whose wrath he feared when he forced Hatshepsut to put her lover aside – the gods who had made Thutmose their instrument in depriving her of happiness, before they callously snatched her off to the afterlife.
It was the gods who had seen fit to preserve Satiah in life while snuffing out Hatshepsut’s flame all too soon. And Satiah – was he more furious with that demon of a woman, or with Amun and his kind? Thutmose could not decide. Satiah still had the power to manipulate him – still, years beyond boyhood, with the Horus Throne his, with all Egypt at his feet, with an army at his back. He was still the child tottering under the weight of the ceremonial crown, cowering in a field of emmer, watching that small, slender brown hand stroke the forehead of the great white bull.
His dread of the gods and of his sister weakened Thutmose. He hated himself for that weakness.
“Just tell my cooks to prepare a meal,” he said at last. “And a bath of some sort.”
Tjaneni turned at once to obey the command. When the man was gone, Thutmose told himself he would walk slowly back through the camp, seeing how his men and horses fared, making quiet preparations for the two-day trek south to the low mountain pass. He told himself he would do it, yet somehow he could not tear his eyes from the mocking face of the mountain. He still stood with his back uselessly turned to the camp when Tjaneni returned to announce that his bath was ready.
Inside the rough army tent that served as the royal accommodation, Thutmose stooped over a clay basin, wetting a scrap of linen to wash the dirt from his skin. No brazier was yet lit; the setting sun glowed through the heavy fabric of the walls. He closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face, listening to the musical sound of the water dribbling from the cloth back into the basin. The sound filled him with a curious poignancy, half rapture, half desperation. It was a singularly ordinary sound, simple and honest. Falling water always made the same soft music, whether it fell in the presence of a rekhet or a king.
When his supper arrived, a rabbit roasted whole on a fire-blackened spit and a few onions boiled in wine, he ate in silence, alone. The camp went about its nightly duties beyond his tent’s walls, moving and rustling with quiet efficiency, fiercely focused on the days to come. Full dark descended on the valley. The red glow on the tent’s walls was long gone. Thutmose left his tent, gave a few brief words of reassurance to his guards, and returned to the edge of the encampment.
The sight of that immovable wall of rock drew him, engrossed him with its might and the obvious futility of his cause. A flagrant banner of white stars waved behind the mountains’ crest. The dark bones of the earth reared up, dense against the starlight, clenched like defiant fists. He thought maat might be enclosed in those stony palms, if only he could find a way to make them open and spill their truth, release the stifling grip on his heart.
The gods put the se hills here, too, Thutmose mused. Another reason to scorn divinity.
Footsteps scraped on the faint trail behind him.
“Tjaneni.”
“Ah, me again, Mighty Horus. I thought I might find you here.”
“Are you coming to send me to bed, Mawat?”
The scribe chuckled. “It’s my duty
“Lord,” Tjaneni said, his voice mild and helpful, “may I suggest a visit to the priests’ tent? You seem overtaxed by the day’s journey. Perhaps quiet communion with the gods will aid you. I could arrange…”
Thutmose shook his head sharply, and Tjaneni fell silent, bowing his acquiescence.
The last thing Thutmose wanted now was communion with gods. Amun’s eyes! It was the gods who maneuvered him to this trap, was it not? The gods who stirred his enemies to conspire, who allowed them to intrude on his grief over Hatshepsut. It was the gods whose wrath he feared when he forced Hatshepsut to put her lover aside – the gods who had made Thutmose their instrument in depriving her of happiness, before they callously snatched her off to the afterlife.
It was the gods who had seen fit to preserve Satiah in life while snuffing out Hatshepsut’s flame all too soon. And Satiah – was he more furious with that demon of a woman, or with Amun and his kind? Thutmose could not decide. Satiah still had the power to manipulate him – still, years beyond boyhood, with the Horus Throne his, with all Egypt at his feet, with an army at his back. He was still the child tottering under the weight of the ceremonial crown, cowering in a field of emmer, watching that small, slender brown hand stroke the forehead of the great white bull.
His dread of the gods and of his sister weakened Thutmose. He hated himself for that weakness.
“Just tell my cooks to prepare a meal,” he said at last. “And a bath of some sort.”
Tjaneni turned at once to obey the command. When the man was gone, Thutmose told himself he would walk slowly back through the camp, seeing how his men and horses fared, making quiet preparations for the two-day trek south to the low mountain pass. He told himself he would do it, yet somehow he could not tear his eyes from the mocking face of the mountain. He still stood with his back uselessly turned to the camp when Tjaneni returned to announce that his bath was ready.
Inside the rough army tent that served as the royal accommodation, Thutmose stooped over a clay basin, wetting a scrap of linen to wash the dirt from his skin. No brazier was yet lit; the setting sun glowed through the heavy fabric of the walls. He closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face, listening to the musical sound of the water dribbling from the cloth back into the basin. The sound filled him with a curious poignancy, half rapture, half desperation. It was a singularly ordinary sound, simple and honest. Falling water always made the same soft music, whether it fell in the presence of a rekhet or a king.
When his supper arrived, a rabbit roasted whole on a fire-blackened spit and a few onions boiled in wine, he ate in silence, alone. The camp went about its nightly duties beyond his tent’s walls, moving and rustling with quiet efficiency, fiercely focused on the days to come. Full dark descended on the valley. The red glow on the tent’s walls was long gone. Thutmose left his tent, gave a few brief words of reassurance to his guards, and returned to the edge of the encampment.
The sight of that immovable wall of rock drew him, engrossed him with its might and the obvious futility of his cause. A flagrant banner of white stars waved behind the mountains’ crest. The dark bones of the earth reared up, dense against the starlight, clenched like defiant fists. He thought maat might be enclosed in those stony palms, if only he could find a way to make them open and spill their truth, release the stifling grip on his heart.
The gods put the se hills here, too, Thutmose mused. Another reason to scorn divinity.
Footsteps scraped on the faint trail behind him.
“Tjaneni.”
“Ah, me again, Mighty Horus. I thought I might find you here.”
“Are you coming to send me to bed, Mawat?”
The scribe chuckled. “It’s my duty
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