The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh by Marié Heese Page B

Then she raised her head and her voice came back. “But you are healthy, are you not, my child?”
    “Yes, Mother,” I said proudly. “I am healthy.”
    She nodded. “You will need all your strength,” she told me. “You know that the Double Crown will eventually pass to your half-brother Thutmose, son of Mutnofert. He will be the second Pharaoh of that name.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “And you must wed Thutmose. Through you he will have a clear entitlement to the Double Throne. Your role must be that of Great Royal Wife.”
    “I know,” I said with some bitterness.
    “Mark me well,” she said. “Whenever a Pharaoh passes into the Afterlife, the forces of chaos gather and threaten the destruction of the Two Lands. Your father, may he live, is not well. When he … when he passes …” A coughing fit overtook her and she gasped for breath. I handed her some more juice. She sipped, and continued. “The Royal House must avoid any suggestion of weakness or the jackals will rend the carcass of Khemet and chew on our bones.”
    I shivered. “Yes, Mother.”
    “So, though Thutmose your brother is himself frequently ill …”
    “I have seen it.”
    “… yet he is able and dedicated to Khemet and I believe he will do well enough with a strong wife by his side.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “Pharaoh must hold the Two Lands safe.” She gestured with her hands, her finger joints enlarged with age and the skin spotted with brown, yet enacting a powerful grip as if clenching on the reins of a runaway chariot and hauling it back from the brink of an abyss. “Never again must it fall to foreign invaders who reject our customs, ruin our temples and desecrate our gods. Never, never again. You must be strong.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “You must be strong for Khemet,” she said, her dark eyes intense. “Promise me.”
    “I will be strong.”
    “After I am gone, you will act for your father in the place of the Great Royal Wife,” she said. “Watch, and learn. And, Hatshepsut …” She extended a bony hand and gripped my wrist.
    “Mother?”
    “Trust nobody absolutely,” she whispered. “Be ever vigilant. Remember, Seth and his cohorts do not rest.”
    I clutched the amulet I wore around my neck and made a sign to avert evil. “I will remember.” I assured her.
    She sighed and closed her eyes.
    “Mother?”
    No answer came.
    I wanted her to say something more. Something meant for me alone – me, her daughter, Hatshepsut, not the future Royal Wife, not the Keeper of Khemet. Something simple and loving. But the strength had gone from her. She never opened her eyes again.
    From that time, when he lost the last prince of the full blood royal and his Great Royal Wife soon afterwards, it seemed to me that my father changed. On the one hand, he too, like Inet, shrank; his girth, which had grown as he aged, now fast became reduced. On the other hand, he appeared to have somehow become … I can only describe it as hard. Hard in his body, as if he were a living embodiment of one of the many stone sculptures of His Majesty; hard also in his heart, for he no longer took joy from life as he had when my mother lived. He never went hunting, never practised archery, ate and drank little at feasts, derived no pleasure from tumbling acrobats and dancing girls, no longer called upon the bard to sing …
    At this point in the writing of my memories, I was interrupted by a great commotion. A babble of voices and weeping and wailing, punctuated by sharp commands and footsteps, broke the silence of my afternoon rest. The noise went past towards the servants’ quarters and then Mahu the scribe appeared on the portico, looking agitated. He made a deep obeisance.
    “What is it?” I asked. “I did not look for you yet.”
    “Pardon, Majesty,” he said. “There was – there was some trouble at the alehouse.”
    “Was there fighting?” I asked. “Was one of my servants hurt?”
    “I fear so, Majesty,” he said, with an extremely