Sitting alone in her library, Isetheperu could almost feel time come to a halt. The air was still and deathly silent, and if it weren't for the endless kilter towards the grave she felt with each passing second, and the red haze of sunset sliding across the floor, she could have imagined herself suspended in this moment like a spider at the heart of her web. She leaned against the backrest of her chair and laced her fingers across her sternum. Waiting.
Her gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the heavy set of doors straight across from her, but she was not looking at their intricate designs. She saw instead the view from the throne -- her throne, she had always considered it, despite it having never truly belonged to her in name. She saw the nodding heads of the council men, their faces bathed in the shadow of firelight. She saw the ghost of a future, a man who wore his age like a scar and whose black eyes laid claim to everything over which they swept. Isetheperu saw those things which had come to pass and those things which would soon follow.
Iahotep was not an honest man. Isetheperu had no delusions about that, but she had no cause to alert anyone else to this, not yet. An honest man would not serve her purposes, would not soften under the pressure of her thumb, would not be malleable in the way she needed the Pharaoh to be. She did not trust Iahotep, but she could, at least, trust the consistency of his ambition and greed.
The official announcement would be prepared in a few days' time, when the news would spread throughout the people of Egypt that a new Pharaoh had been named. Many would undoubtedly be relieved to know that the throne would once again grace the ass of a man. How many would understand what was truly happening, Isetheperu wondered. How many would look past the grandeur of the king and see her shadow behind him? Who would gaze at the great Sun and marvel not at his light but at the power of the sky which holds him aloft?
Envy was an ugly emotion, best left to men who squabbled over land and ego and their claim to a woman and the fruits of her body. It was an ugly emotion, but Isetheperu felt it just as strongly as any of those such men, when she considered that all of her intellect and skill and power amounted to nothing in the light of the fact that she did not possess some unsightly lump of flesh between her legs. But then, if she did, she still wouldn't have climbed to the reaches she had over the last fifty years, would she? No, she owed that much, at least, to being a woman -- a woman who had married a Pharaoh, a woman who had not been slain the way all her brothers had, a woman who birthed the last hope of her family's long legacy.
That legacy was all that mattered now.
Isetheperu made no decisions lightly, and her daughter surely understood that. If not now, then she would eventually, whether she came to realize it herself or the Queen Mother had to teach her as much. Unfortunately, it appeared the latter may be the necessary option, as the familiar rhythmic stride of her daughter beat hastily against the floor down the hallway. It was a small sound behind the sanctuary of the door and thick stone walls, but it was enough to break the evening silence, especially once the doors of the room swung inward.
A guard stood on the other side. "Your Majesty," he began, bending meekly at the waist. "Her Evening Radiance approaches --"
"I can see," Isetheperu dismissed him, her gaze locking onto Hatshepsut as she breezed into the room, young, vibrant, angry, and looking very much like her father.
Isetheperu remained sitting, motionless save to nod a signal at the guards to close the doors once more and leave mother and daughter in privacy. "I presume you've heard the good news, then."
It was not only the news that infuriated her but the way it had been delivered. The Council had not even called her before them; instead they had sent her a very brief note informing her that a new Pharaoh had been chosen. Hatsepshut had known that her feelings would not be taken into account and that she must marry whomever her advisors selected, but she had hoped to at least be present when the decision was made.
She had planned to protest if Osorsen was not chosen, to speak of his prowess in battle, his intelligence and cleverness, and his loyalty to Egypt in order to sway them to change their minds. The young Queen had even written a speech to read to them, which she thought was quite good. Though she had been fairly certain that Osorsen would be chosen … there was no man more suitable to be Pharaoh … she had planned for the other eventuality should it occur.
And occur it had. Hatsepshut read the note once more, willing it to change, but the name 'Iahotep' remained on the parchment, seeming to mock her and the future she and Osorsen had spoken about so often. Iahotep wasn't even a noble. He was only the son of a merchant … an old man with gray hair and scars who was nearly old enough to be her grandfather. She hadn't had much contact with him. He was not one of those men who had wooed her. He would probably see her as a necessary inconvenience to be endured so that he could reach every Egyptian's goal.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”
Crumpling up the note, she threw it across the room. The spark of anger inside her ignited and quickly transformed into a blazing inferno. What if the reason she had not been called to the meeting was because the Council was afraid that she would finally speak her mind? Her fondness for Osorsen was well-known, though the love and intimacy they shared remained a carefully guarded secret between them. The advisors had not risen to such prestigious positions by being stupid. They must have known what she wanted and had barred her from challenging their decision.
There was one person who might be able to do so. Her mother. Isethepuru was still the power behind the throne. Surely the council would listen to her and reverse their ruling before it became public. All Hatsepshut needed to do was speak to her.
Now.
Picking up the crinkled note and leaving her rooms, she strode to her mother's chambers, not even bothering to hide her outrage. Servants scurried out of the way, their eyes surreptitiously watching the progress of their angry Queen. Her bare feet slapped across the stone floors and her golden anklets jiggled with each step she took. She had not even bothered to make herself presentable and wore only a soft linen kalisaris that tightly hugged her nubile young body, along with simple gold jewelry. Her long ebony hair bounced against her back and her face was bare of makeup.
When she reached the heavy doors, she glared at the guards standing in front of it and they immediately opened it. One of them tried to announce her as she swept into the room. Hatsepshut was a bit taken aback by her mother's nonchalance. It was almost as if she had been expecting her. Stopping in front of Isetheperu's chair, her dark eyes glittered indignantly. Her hands were balled into fists so tight that her knuckles were turning white. “You mean this?” She opened one hand and tossed the note at her mother's feet. “I will not marry Iahotep, Mother! I won't do it! You must make the Council see the error of their ways!”
How impertinent, how naive. Isetheperu pursed her lips as the wrinkled missive fell silently to her feet, before looking back up to meet her daughter's stormy glare. She had known Hatshepsut would not take the news well -- the girl clearly had a preference in suitors, and Iahotep was not him. But she had not bee certain what action the young queen would take upon first receiving it. Despite Isetheperu's displeasure for having the floor of her her library littered, she could forgive her daughter for her childish outburst. Isetheperu supposed that, from Hatshepsut's perspective, this was some of the worst news she could have received.
The girl, of course, did not know of the way her mother had strong-armed the Council into this very conclusion, how much planning and work she had put into making sure that her desired outcome was the only viable option. The decision was never the Council's to make. It was Isetheperu's family to shape, and Isetheperu's crown to give away. She wondered if Hatshepsut could appreciate what her mother had done for her. Wed to a man of common birth, her daughter would have more authority and autonomy than she ever would have if she were to be attached by marriage to another noble family.
"Must I?" Isetheperu countered. With a heaving sigh, she braced her hands on the arms of her chair and lifted herself to her feet. She met her daughter's gaze for only a second more before turning away, treading over the discarded slip of paper on the floor as she circled over to one of the many shelves lining the wall, bracing her hand against the planks for support as she moved. "Why would I do that?"
The pauses of silence that stretched between her words were a familiar trick, she used them deliberately when giving speeches or addressing the Council. They were not meant to be intercepted by the other's words, but rather to draw in attention, to emphasize the weight and gravitas of the idea she was communicating.
Isetheperu considered for a moment, as her fingers traced over the ends of several scrolls, whether she should disclose to Hatshepsut exactly how much of a hand she had had in the final decision. The thought that her daughter might believe she had been brow-beaten into accepting a match she did not acquiesce to was deeply unpleasant; yet, even so, she would much rather the girl direct her ire towards the scapegoat she had made of the Council. She could not risk being pushed out of her own child's good graces in this most important hour.
Still, Hatshepsut needed to understand why this was in her best interests.
"Iahotep is a good match," she continued, almost absently as she stopped at one shelf and began searching through it until her fingers alighted on their prize. She plucked the heavy scroll from the wall and turned to face her daughter once more, but rather than looking at Hatshepsut, she instead meandered over to her nearby desk and began unfolding the worn parchment. "He is a skilled general and tactician, yes, but that is not unique. It is his other qualities that make him the best option for you, and for your family."
She looked up then, and cocked her brown inquisitively.
Before her, Isetheperu had unraveled an extensive, generation-by-generation record of the lineage of Hei Fakhouri, a legacy on paper, one of the queen mother's most prized possessions. "Is this not a small sacrifice to make, to preserve your heritage? Tell me Hatshepsut, what is it that makes the prospect so alarming?"
Hatshepsut felt guilty for her outburst as soon as she heard her mother's sigh and saw herself heave herself to her feet. She had always seemed so strong, so larger than life, to the young girl, but now she looked frail and wearied by the cares of the world. Maybe she had already tried to warn the Council that their decision was foolish and she had failed. Her question, which had first seemed like a denial, may have been a declaration that she had already done so and knew that trying to sway the Council again would be as fruitless as her first attempt.
Why had they chosen Iahotep over Osorsen? What had he done to outshine the man who had stolen her heart? He was not braver nor more intelligent than Osorsen. Did he have some leverage over them? Had he blackmailed them? She doubted not that he had pressured them into it in some way and that he had picked his time carefully, waiting until Osorsen was away.
Her mother must have seen it too and would do something to stop it. Hatshepsut knew that Isetheperu cared for her happiness and probably knew more about her love for Osorsen than she had ever let on. Maybe she was searching through the scrolls to find one that had some sort of precedent that could overturn the Council's decision. Surely there must be one. Hatshepsut was Queen. If she was truly against the match, wouldn't her apprehension be taken into account?
Her mother's next sentence chilled her to the bone. She had not protested the Council's decision after all, and saw no reason why she should. ”Because Iahotep will be a tyrannical Pharaoh!" Hatshepsut no longer felt remorse over her fit of temper. Her voice rose, louder than it had ever risen in Isetheperu's presence. “Egypt will suffer under his rule! Why can't you see that. Mother?”
While she told herself that her main concern was for her people, deep down inside she knew she was thinking mostly of herself and Osorsen and the grand plans they had made. Unable to stand still any longer, she strode over to the crumpled paper and kicked it, thinking how much she would like to kick Iahotep out of her kingdom for good. Her eyes spun from the note to her mother when Isetheperu claimed that Iahotep was a good match.
The older woman had pulled a scroll from the shelf and walked over to her desk without meeting her daughter's eyes. Why won't she look at me? Could it be that she actually backed the Council's decision? No she would never have done that. Yet her words said otherwise. Her own mother believed that Iahotep was the best choice for her. Isetheperu finally met her gaze with a cocked eyebrow and Hatshepsut's curiosity was piqued. She walked to the desk and stood beside her mother, looking down at the lineage of Hei Fakhouri.
And she thought she understood at last. If Hatshepsut had just one son, he would not only be next in line for the throne, but he would be the head of her mother's Hei as well. If she married Osorsen, then Hei Fakhouri might be absorbed into Hei Moghadam and no longer have an identity of its own. Since Isetheperu had lost so many children, she probably feared that Hatshepsut would have trouble bringing babies into the world as well. By agreeing with the Council's decision, she was safeguarding her own heritage, for Iahotep was a commoner and belonged to no great house.
“Yes and no, Mother,” she replied after a few moments of contemplation. “I know my duty to Father's family and your own, but I don't think that Iahotep is the solution you are looking for. You speak to me of sacrifices but you are willing to forfeit my own happiness. Iahotep cares nothing for me. He just wants to be Pharaoh.” Hatshepsut decided not to mention the fact that the general was far too old for her. That would sound petty. “If I marry him, how do you know that he won't wrest your Hei from your control as soon as he takes the throne? I have heard that he is as ruthless as he is ambitious. We could both lose our heritage and our happiness if the Council doesn't reverse its decision.”
A wan smile tugged at Isetheperu's lips at the protestations of her daughter. The girl was either pitiably naive, or she was thoroughly won over by the charms of Sirdar Moghadam. Likely both. As a mother, she could see the anger, the disappointment and fear warring in Hatshepsut's wide eyes -- the very same eyes Isetheperu had seen reflected in her mirror many years ago but which now stared back at her as almost a stranger.
Was there anything she could have done, she wondered, to make the girl more like her? More cunning and ruthless and endlessly wanting for more and more and more? Or would she be unsatisfied with that too, with any approximation of herself which would be poised to take her place in the years to come?
Well, the girl could start by handling her role with the gravitas it deserved. Isetheperu knew, had seen firsthand, that her daughter was intelligent, was observant and not without her own cunning. But she was also inexperienced and impressionable. A child by spirit if no longer by body. She might one day make a fine queen if only Isetheperu could get through to her, to make her understand.
Fear would always be a more powerful motivator than love. Men took love for granted, forgetting their loyalties so easily, believing that what they had already conquered would be theirs forever. It was only the fear of loss which kept them clinging to those things. It was fear that drove men to action, which enticed them to march towards their deaths, which inspired them to obey, to cherish what they had, to seek greatness.
Of course Iahotep would be a tyrant; he and Isetheperu were too similar. But the young queen-to-be was fooling herself if she believed that the path to the throne required anything less.
Love had no place in leading.
"Oh, my little star," Isetheperu lamented, reaching forward to run her fingers through her daughter's silken hair. Her head nodded slightly side to side, a fleeting moment of true regret darkening her own expression before Isetheperu pulled herself in, bowing Hatshepsut's head under her hand as she planted a kiss to the girl's brow. She lingered there briefly before releasing her, her hand sliding down to rest against her daughter's cheek, then her shoulder.
Of everyone Isetheperu had met in her decades of life, she was sure none deserved happiness more than the darling girl before her now. How precious Hatshapesut was, how gentle and charming and altogether beautiful in all the best ways, free from the desperate yawning void which Isetheperu felt consuming every second of her own life. The girl was good and kind. Unfortunately, fate was not.
"You must know, happiness is the price we pay for this life." She gestured vaguely at the room, the gilded furnishings, their fines clothes, the palace around them, the guards waiting behind the door, the parchment laid out before them.
All of this had to be earned one way or another, coming as a gift from the gods, but the cost was a steep one, and though many yearned for it, few were willing to accept the cost. It was not a debt Hatshepsut had asked to inherit in the way Isetheperu had, but inherit it she had. And now, regardless of whether or not such was fair or just, she must live with the consequences of her mother's sins. They wielded the power to have anything they so desired, save one exception. Since the dawn of time, men had put their lives on the line to risk just a glimpse of such power. But if there was one thing Isetheperu felt sorry for, it was entangling the life of her innocent child in the chains of such nasty business.
Still, she had made her choices, had sown her lot, and there was no room for regret in the endless pit of her desire. She had done only ever done what was right for her and her family. There was only ever one way forward.
Isetheperu took in her daughter's plea, trying not to lash out as her own frustration ebbed and swelled with every passing word. "The same things have often been said about me, my dear. How far your opinion of me must have fallen, to think that I would be manipulated as you've described." A part of her almost wished Iahotep would have the gall to take control of her house, if only to have the satisfaction of watching him try before recoiling like a man burned alive. Her old friend knew Isetheperu as well as she knew him, and understood that whatever move he tried to make against her would be reflected and amplified tenfold.
"All men just want to be Pharaoh," she intoned, taking a half-step back and turning once more to re-wrap the scroll on her desk, her point having been made. Delicate sheepskin coiled tenderly in her hands as she continued, hoping that her words would be taken as the warning that they were. Surely she did not need to speak Osorsen H'Moghadam's name for him to be near in her daughter's thoughts. Isetheperu liked the man and his family, but the friendship between himself and Hatshepsut had festered into something which had grown beyond even her control. The sirdar was no fool himself, being as sharp as he was charming, and though the Queen Regent had looked upon him as a son for many years, she was not convinced that his motives were wholly pure when he sunk his hooks into the Queen-to-be.
"Do not think that I -- and the Council," Isetheperu added hastily, not wishing to alienate her daughter by admitting outright that the decision had been almost entirely hers, "-- have neglected to consider this result from every conceivable angle. You do not have to like the decision, but you do have to accept it. The sooner you do so, the sooner you will see that your situation is not so bleak as you believe."
As she finished wrapping the leather cover back across the diameter of the scroll in her hands, Isetheperu continued. "Egypt has survived far worse than Iahotep," she angled to lift the scroll into the space between them as if to emphasize and meeting her daughter's gaze with her own pointed look. "So will you."
She paused and tilted her head in consideration before adding, "And before you protest his age, just consider: you won't have to wait so long before you are free."
Not so long as I did, Isetheperu thought but refrained from adding. Hatshepsut had such in idealized memory of her father Imopehatsuma. There was no need to further antagonize her by denying the girl that as well.