The Heretic Queen

  Paser raised his brows. “Those foreign petitioners wouldn’t have been simple for Iset. Once the court begins to recognize your talent for languages, perhaps we’ll start sending those cases to her instead.” He smiled at Woserit. “If Rahotep thinks he’s the only one who can play this game, then he’ll discover very quickly that he’s wrong.”

  “What were your impressions of the Audience Chamber?” Woserit asked.

  I looked between them, wondering what she wanted me to say. “It was filled with interesting people,” I said carefully.

  “Did you find it tiresome?” Paser asked.

  “With so many petitioners to talk to?” I exclaimed. “No.”

  Paser glanced at Woserit. “She’s not another Iset,” he said thankfully, then turned to me. “When the people see how valuable you are, the tide of love for Iset may change.”

  “Especially if you are pregnant,” Woserit added.

  We both looked down at my tunic, with its amber studded belt emphasizing the smallness of my waist. They both knew the story of my mother. It was a legend now at court, how she had been poisoned by the Heretic King and lost her first child. She had been tall, with wide hips for childbearing, but it was years before Tawaret blessed her womb again with my brother. Yet she’d wanted more children, and I could only imagine how she must have felt when her third had come into the world robbed of its breath. And then, while she had been pregnant with me, there was the fire in the royal courtyard. I shuddered to think of her gentle heart having to bear the news that everyone she had ever loved—her mother and father, her son and husband, both of Nefertiti’s remaining daughters—was gone. Was it any wonder that after my birth, she had no more energy left for living?

  “We are not always our mother’s daughters.” Woserit read my mind. “Your aunt gave Pharaoh six healthy girls.”

  “Then I should hope to be more like the Heretic Queen?” I whispered.

  “In this regard, yes.”

  I was silent for a moment, then asked, “And if I never become pregnant?”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Woserit shot Paser a look, and he said warningly, “Nefertari, a Chief Wife’s duty is to give Pharaoh a son.”

  “My aunt never gave her husband a son!”

  “But she gave him children,” Woserit said sternly. “Six princesses to marry any prince. Ramesses married you for the children you will bring him.”

  “He married me for love!”

  “And sons,” Paser said. “Do not mistake him.”

  I stood from my chair. “And he would rather have a son than a wife?” I demanded.

  There was silence in the chamber, and the crackle of the fire in the brazier seemed unnaturally loud. Paser gave a heavy sigh, and Woserit reached out to touch my hand. “No man ever thinks of childbirth as a choice between his children and his wife. Every husband hopes for both.”

  Woserit stood from her stool and wrapped me in her arms. “You are not fated to die in childbirth, Nefertari.”

  “How do you know?” I pulled back to look at her face.

  “Instinct.” She shrugged. “You are meant to have a very long reign. If you give Ramesses a prince. And if he makes you Chief Wife.”

  “And he would never make me Chief Wife without a son.”

  Woserit shook her head. “He cannot.”

  When I returned to my chamber, I went to the balcony and watched the moon drift behind thin wisps of cloud. Even though the wind was cool, there was still no dusty scent of rain in the air. No relief from the drought and the rising hunger. Already, there were reports of men stealing the food offerings from mortuary temples to feed their families. And when a group of these thieves had been brought before their elders, the old men had pardoned them with the belief that it is better to feed the living than the dead. But how long would it be before the gods grew angry, or even the wealthy began to starve and the people rebelled? Then, what would it matter if I was pregnant? Had I seven sons, the people would still blame me.

  “You have had a very long day, my lady. You must eat something,” Merit chided. Her squat body was framed by the doorway, and she held up the cooked perch for me to see. I left the balcony and she handed me the bowl, slamming the wooden doors shut behind us. “Standing out in the dark and the wind,” she grumbled. “Don’t you have any sense?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I objected. “It’s how Amun must have felt when he emerged from the dark waters at the beginning of time, when everything was possible.”

  “Was it possible for him to get sick as well? Because that’s what you’re about to do, my lady. Sit next to that fire.”

  I did as I was told, and Merit took a blanket from the wooden chest and draped it over my shoulders. “Did you know there’s already talk about you in the palace?”

  I lowered the bowl. “What kind of talk?”

  “First, you must eat!” She crossed her arms over her chest, and when I’d taken a bite of perch to satisfy her, she smiled. “The kind you want,” she revealed. “It was about the Audience Chamber. You must have done very well today. There was surprise in the palace that someone so young could command so many languages and deal so justly. I heard it in the baths, and in the kitchens as well.”

  I put down the bowl of fish. “But those are just servants.”

  Merit passed me a long look. “And what kind of gossip do you think the people trust? Gossip from the mouths of cooks, or courtiers?”

  “Do you think it’s possible to change the people’s hearts?”

  “It might be easier,” she said quietly, “if the River Nile would overflow its banks.”

  I went to my mother’s shrine and looked into the face of the feline goddess. In the firelight, it was impossible to see that she’d once been broken.

  “Mut watches over you,” Merit whispered. “But there is nothing she can do if your body is not strong!” She thrust the half-eaten perch at me again. “Eat!”

  I looked over her shoulder and gasped with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  Ramesses stood in the door. Merit inhaled so sharply at the sight of him that her pelican’s pouch disappeared. “Your Highness!” She rushed across the room to get him a proper chair. I looked at Ramesses in his short kilt and bedroom sandals and repeated my question. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I would come here tonight.” He added sheepishly, “If you don’t mind? Iset is going to sleep, and I want to be with you.”

  I could see that Merit was shocked, but she excused herself at once. I sat across from Ramesses at the brazier.

  “Your first Audience Chamber, and all of Thebes is talking about you. You have a great talent, Nefer. And I was thinking that perhaps . . . although, of course, you don’t have to . . . but I was hoping that you would look over the reports from Egypt’s spies.”

  I hid my disappointment. Was this why he had come to me? “You don’t trust the viziers’ translations?” I asked quietly.

  Ramesses shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Bribery is a strong temptation. How do I know what the viziers are giving me is accurate? Or that there isn’t more to these reports they are missing or concealing? My court is full of spies.”

  “Among your viziers? They’d be jeopardizing their ka to lie to a Pharaoh,” I said sternly.

  “You can’t see your ka. But you can see a chest full of Babylonian gold. I could work all day and still not finish reading what is sent to me. I must trust my viziers and their scribes. But the most important messages, from Hatti and Kadesh—I’d like you to read them.”

  This was an opportunity—a chance to make myself more valuable than Iset. “Of course.” I smiled. “If you’d like, you can bring them every night.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A HUNGRY PEOPLE

  THE ENTIRE COURT knew that it was Iset’s time with Pharaoh, so when Ramesses arrived in the Audience Chamber with me on his arm, there was a stiffening of backs among the viziers. Iset wore a look of deep disgust, but it wasn’t h
er sneer that caught my attention. It was the fact that there wasn’t a single petitioner in the chamber.

  “Where is everyone?” Ramesses questioned. As we reached the viziers’ table, Paser rose.

  “I have dismissed the petitioners for the day, Your Highness. There is something more important.”

  Ramesses looked to Vizier Anemro, who rose as well and began to wring his hands. “As you know, Your Highness, the Nile hasn’t overflowed its banks in four years. The granaries in Aswan are already empty. And this morning . . .” He glanced uncertainly at Paser. “This morning, the scribes have told us that our Theban stores may only last until Pachons. Six months at the most.”

  “So little?” Ramesses exclaimed. “That isn’t possible. My father said there was enough for another dry season!”

  Paser shook his head. “That was before Your Highness’s victory feast, and your marriage, and the extra rations of grain that the Theban people received for every celebration.”

  I saw the blood drain from Ramesses’s face. “The scribes gave out extra rations of grain every time?”

  Anemro swallowed. “It is the custom, Your Highness.”

  “And no one thought to stop this custom when the Nile has run low for four years?” he shouted. “Our season of overflow is nearly over. If the river doesn’t overflow by next month, crops will fail. Come summer there will be famine within this city. And no one can predict how long it might continue. Or what its consequences might be!”

  The river’s load of black earth gave Egypt not just its name, but its very life as well. I squeezed Ramesses’s hand in mine and asked calmly, “So what can be done?”

  Paser spread his palms. “I would like to suggest we use this time to address the situation.”

  “Arrange several tables beneath the dais,” Ramesses instructed. “I want everyone in this chamber to offer their suggestions. Nefertari, Iset, you too.”

  When the servants arranged the viziers’ tables beneath the dais, Rahotep spoke first. “I suggest that Your Highness visit each of the granaries, to be certain this is true.”

  Ramesses turned to Anemro. “Have you verified that the granaries are nearly empty?”

  Vizier Anemro nodded swiftly. “Yes, Your Highness. The scribes have not lied. Outside of Thebes, in the city of Nekheb, some of the granaries have lain empty since Thoth, and families are already experiencing famine. Soon, people will be taking to the streets. Murder and theft will increase,” he warned fearfully.

  “We need a solution before Inundation is over and Harvest arrives,” Paser said.

  “And what do you suggest we do?” Rahotep demanded.

  There was silence in the chamber while everyone waited, then Paser said thoughtfully, “The people of Nekheb must be given food. Begin emptying the temple granaries,” he said. “And when those are finished, look to the army’s.”

  “The temple’s granaries?” Rahotep exclaimed. “And starve the priests?”

  Even Vizier Anemro was shocked. Behind him, courtiers began speaking nervously among themselves.

  “In every city the temples have nearly six months of surplus grain,” Paser replied. “And here in Thebes, the army has at least three months.”

  “That is a fool’s idea,” Rahotep pronounced. “What happens when the army has nothing to feed itself with?” he demanded. “What will be more dangerous?” he asked. “A hungry rabble, or a hungry army?”

  Ramesses looked to Paser. “We need to be sure that when the granaries are emptied this summer, new grain is coming in. This court will need to discover a fail-safe way to be sure that the Nile overflows with enough time to plant and harvest. Or if it doesn’t overflow,” Ramesses said slowly, “that enough water can be taken from the river to irrigate the land.”

  “So what will Your Highness have the people do?” Rahotep asked. “Carry water from the river back to their fields?”

  “Even if a hundred people worked on every farm,” Anemro objected, “it would be impossible!”

  “What if we built more canals going from the river to farmers’ lands?” Ramesses asked.

  “There are already hundreds of them,” Rahotep dismissed. “But when the Nile doesn’t flood its banks, they don’t flow. No number of men with water jars will change that.”

  “There has to be a way!” Ramesses said. There was a defeated silence in the Audience Chamber, and he looked to me. “Speak. What would you do?”

  “Until a method is discovered of bringing water up from the river into the canals, I would do as Paser suggests.”

  “And if none is ever discovered?” Rahotep raged. I wondered how Henuttawy could bear to look into his deformed eye at night. “How many Pharaohs have endured such years of drought?”

  “And how many have brought the greatest minds in Egypt together in order to search for an answer?” Ramesses gripped his father’s crook in his hand.

  “I am sure the farmers have searched for an answer,” Anemro replied feebly. “And with all respect, Your Highness, how do we know that one will be found in two months? Because that’s all that’s left before it’s too late to plant.”

  Ramesses looked to Paser. “A solution must be found by Mechyr. Summon General Anhuri and Asha. We will release grain from the temples of Nekheb today.”

  “Your Highness!” Rahotep rose in desperation. “Is this wise? If you are doing this because you are afraid that the people will blame the princess Nefertari—”

  There was a gasp across the Audience Chamber. Ramesses shouted, “I am not afraid of anything!” The viziers beneath the dais grew still. “We have no other choice but to feed the people. Would you have them starve when there’s perfectly good grain?”

  “Why don’t we ask the princess Iset?” Rahotep suggested. “You have asked for the princess Nefertari’s opinion; what does the princess Iset have to say?”

  Iset shifted uncomfortably on her throne. Ramesses asked her, “Is there anything you would like to add?”

  She glanced at Rahotep. “In three thousand years,” she repeated his argument, “no way has ever been found to bring water up from a low river.”

  “That is certainly true.” Ramesses nodded. “But now my viziers and I have two months to find one.”

  “And if we don’t?” Anemro asked.

  “Then we will all starve!” Ramesses said angrily. “Not just the people, but the priests and generals with them!” At this, the doors of the Audience Chamber swung open, and Asha approached the dais with his father.

  Ramesses stood from his throne to address General Anhuri. “We are opening the temple granaries in Nekheb,” he announced. “You and Asha will inform the other generals of this, and notices will be posted on every temple door so the people know what to expect.” He turned, then looked between me and Iset. “The largest granary in Nekheb belongs to the Temple of Amun and will require the greatest supervision. Would either of you like to oversee its grain distribution?” His eyes lingered on mine, and I realized what he was doing.

  “Yes,” I said at once.

  “Out there in the dirt?” Iset recoiled. “With all of those people?”

  “You are right. Stay here where it is calm,” Ramesses said. “I would not want you to risk the child. Asha, take Princess Nefertari to the Temple of Amun. Paser, summon my father’s architect, Penre, and every other architect in Thebes. We will not see petitioners until we find a way of flooding the canals.”

  IN THE city of Nekheb, I stood between Asha and his father while a swelling crowd filled the temple courtyard, shouting for food. Behind us, three dozen soldiers with spears and shields at the ready guarded unopened bags of grain.

  “Don’t bring the heretic to the Temple of Amun!” one of the women shrieked. Another cried, “She’ll anger the gods and bring us more hunger!”

  Asha glanced at me, but I understood what needed to be done, and I observed the crowd’s growing rage without flinching.

  “You are brave,” Asha whispered.

  “I have no other cho
ice. And until Ramesses finds a solution, I will stand here every day.”

  But the crowds looked at me with loathing. I was the reason for their suffering, the reason their crops had failed in the dry earth and the waters of the River Nile had not flooded their fields.

  General Anhuri held up a proclamation. “Under the orders of Pharaoh Ramesses and Princess Nefertari, the granaries of Amun are to be opened to you. Every morning, when the sun begins to rise, a cup of grain will be given to every family that lives between here and the Temple of Isis. Children may not receive cups themselves unless they are orphans. Anyone found to have joined the line twice will forfeit their grain for seven days.” There was a rush of questions and exclamations, and over the rising din General Anhuri shouted, “Silence! You will form a line!”

  I stood with the soldiers who were passing out grain and, like a common scribe, tallied the number of cups being given. But as the morning wore on, the faces in line grew less and less hostile. By the afternoon, a woman muttered, “Amun bless you, Princess.”

  Asha smiled at me.

  “She is only one woman,” I reminded him.

  “How else does it start? And that’s what Ramesses wants, isn’t it? To change their opinion?” Asha seated himself on a bag of grain. “I wonder how he and Penre are doing.”

  I had been thinking the same thing since I had left the palace, but in the Great Hall that evening, Ramesses was not at the table on the dais, and the architect was missing as well.

  “So I hear you are counting grain now,” Henuttawy said, as she and Woserit took their places. “From princess to peasant. I must admit, you are capable of the most astonishing transformations, Nefertari.”

  “I should think that your nephew knows exactly what he’s doing,” Rahotep remarked, “sending her to the temple to pass out grain. Associating her with food and plenty. I’m sure that’s obvious to everyone here.”

  “Really?” Woserit asked. “It seems to me Nefertari has agreed to help in order to be kind.”