The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh by Marié Heese
Authors: Marié Heese
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punishment,” I said. “I am Her Majesty’s scribe, and I know who you are. You cannot kill all of these witnesses.” My knees trembled, but I stood fast. By this time, the howls and screeches had drawn quite an audience, including the tavern-keeper and his anxious wife.
“The Great Commander will back me,” said Metufer. “I am within my rights to punish spies.”
“This is Pharaoh’s jester,” I said. “He has done no harm. He speaks true, he juggles for the patrons, I have seen him. L-let him go.”
Bek was sitting on the ground now, his hands to his bloody head, rocking and moaning.
“Please, we want no trouble,” begged the tavern-keeper. “I keep a good house, Sir, please, no trouble here.”
“I say this is a spy,” said Metufer. “Yet you may take him away. Only be sure that he does not speak of what he may have heard. If anything occurs to make us suspect that he has told, he will not only have no tongue, he will no longer breathe. And as I do now to his legs, I shall do to your hands, Scribe.” Deliberately, he stepped on Bek’s little legs that were spread on the ground and yanked them upwards from the heels. Bones cracked.
Another howl rent the air, followed by a series of yelps. The bile rose in my throat.
“Remember,” said Metufer.
Oh, I will remember. I will remember till I die. But I will not speak of it, nor will the dwarf. Only I will write it, so that the record may be accurate. I will note my shame. For if I had acted sooner, if I had run into the tavern when first they began to strike the dwarf, I might have saved his ears. But I was afraid, and I waited too long.
Yes, I shall remember. But I will not speak.
THE SIXTH SCROLL
The reign of Thutmose I year 16
After the mourning period had passed and my mother had been buried in her great tomb for some months, my father one day called me to his office at the administrative palace. When I arrived, he was standing at the window looking out at the water clock that he had had installed in the courtyard. I waited quietly, then made an obeisance when he turned to me. His face was thinner than ever and looked very drawn.
“Your brother Thutmose has been ill again,” he said, abruptly.
“I know,” I said. “Inet has been much concerned. But he is better now.”
My father drummed his fingers against the window frame. “He is a fragile reed,” he muttered. “He has no strength.” Then he walked to his gilded chair with its legs ending in lion’s paws and sat down heavily. “Prepare for a journey of some weeks,” he told me. “We leave tomorrow. We go to Abydos.”
After the stifling sadness of the past months, it lifted my spirits to be out on the noble river. As we sailed northward, the rowers speeding us on with powerful, rhythmic strokes, my father spoke to me as if I was a child no longer, but had an adult understanding. “It may be that Thutmose your brother grows in strength,” he said. “But on the other hand, it might be that he goes to the gods too early. I myself must make that journey soon.”
I protested: “But Majesty, you are not old …”
“I am being consumed from the inside,” he said shortly, his hand on his shrunken abdomen. “I am hardly able to eat anything.”
“But the physicians … the priests …”
“Have tried everything they know, but nothing has much effect. No, I must go to the Afterlife quite soon. And I am tormented by the fear that everything that I have built up, with much trouble and care, the unity I have achieved, the prosperity I have brought about, the boundaries I have extended and defined …” – a spasm of pain twisted his mouth, but he drew in a sharp breath and mastered it – “that everything will be lost, will be destroyed, if there is no strong Pharaoh to follow me. So, Hatshepsut, my daughter, I believe that it may fall to you to hold Khemet.” His dark, somewhat sunken eyes held mine intently.
“I will do it, Father,” I said, standing very
“The Great Commander will back me,” said Metufer. “I am within my rights to punish spies.”
“This is Pharaoh’s jester,” I said. “He has done no harm. He speaks true, he juggles for the patrons, I have seen him. L-let him go.”
Bek was sitting on the ground now, his hands to his bloody head, rocking and moaning.
“Please, we want no trouble,” begged the tavern-keeper. “I keep a good house, Sir, please, no trouble here.”
“I say this is a spy,” said Metufer. “Yet you may take him away. Only be sure that he does not speak of what he may have heard. If anything occurs to make us suspect that he has told, he will not only have no tongue, he will no longer breathe. And as I do now to his legs, I shall do to your hands, Scribe.” Deliberately, he stepped on Bek’s little legs that were spread on the ground and yanked them upwards from the heels. Bones cracked.
Another howl rent the air, followed by a series of yelps. The bile rose in my throat.
“Remember,” said Metufer.
Oh, I will remember. I will remember till I die. But I will not speak of it, nor will the dwarf. Only I will write it, so that the record may be accurate. I will note my shame. For if I had acted sooner, if I had run into the tavern when first they began to strike the dwarf, I might have saved his ears. But I was afraid, and I waited too long.
Yes, I shall remember. But I will not speak.
THE SIXTH SCROLL
The reign of Thutmose I year 16
After the mourning period had passed and my mother had been buried in her great tomb for some months, my father one day called me to his office at the administrative palace. When I arrived, he was standing at the window looking out at the water clock that he had had installed in the courtyard. I waited quietly, then made an obeisance when he turned to me. His face was thinner than ever and looked very drawn.
“Your brother Thutmose has been ill again,” he said, abruptly.
“I know,” I said. “Inet has been much concerned. But he is better now.”
My father drummed his fingers against the window frame. “He is a fragile reed,” he muttered. “He has no strength.” Then he walked to his gilded chair with its legs ending in lion’s paws and sat down heavily. “Prepare for a journey of some weeks,” he told me. “We leave tomorrow. We go to Abydos.”
After the stifling sadness of the past months, it lifted my spirits to be out on the noble river. As we sailed northward, the rowers speeding us on with powerful, rhythmic strokes, my father spoke to me as if I was a child no longer, but had an adult understanding. “It may be that Thutmose your brother grows in strength,” he said. “But on the other hand, it might be that he goes to the gods too early. I myself must make that journey soon.”
I protested: “But Majesty, you are not old …”
“I am being consumed from the inside,” he said shortly, his hand on his shrunken abdomen. “I am hardly able to eat anything.”
“But the physicians … the priests …”
“Have tried everything they know, but nothing has much effect. No, I must go to the Afterlife quite soon. And I am tormented by the fear that everything that I have built up, with much trouble and care, the unity I have achieved, the prosperity I have brought about, the boundaries I have extended and defined …” – a spasm of pain twisted his mouth, but he drew in a sharp breath and mastered it – “that everything will be lost, will be destroyed, if there is no strong Pharaoh to follow me. So, Hatshepsut, my daughter, I believe that it may fall to you to hold Khemet.” His dark, somewhat sunken eyes held mine intently.
“I will do it, Father,” I said, standing very
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