The Heretic Queen

there are nearly six hundred thousand of them, and in a time when there’s not enough food for Egyptians, some of my father’s men are saying that measures must be taken.”

“What kind of measures?”

Ramesses looked away.

“What kind of measures?” I repeated.

“Measures to be sure that there are no more Habiru sons—”

I gasped. “What? You wouldn’t allow—”

“Of course not! But the viziers are talking. They’re saying it’s not just their numbers,” Ramesses explained. “Rahotep believes that if the sons are killed, the Habiru daughters will marry Egyptians to become like us.”

“They are like us! Tutor Amos is a Habiru and his people have been here for a hundred years. My grandfather brought the Habiru to Thebes when he conquered Canaan—”

“But Rahotep is telling the court that the Habiru worship one god like the Heretic King.” Ramesses lowered his voice so that none of the servants who were passing could hear him. “He thinks they’re heretics, Nefer.”

“Of course he would say that! He was a heretic himself—a High Priest of Aten. Now he wants to show the court that he’s loyal to Amun.”

Ramesses nodded. “That’s what I told my father.”

“And what does he say?”

“That a sixth of his army is Habiru. Their sons fight alongside Egyptian sons. But the people are growing angrier, Nefer, and every day it’s something different. Droughts, or poor trade, or pirates in the Northern Sea. Now everything has to stop while hundreds of dignitaries arrive and you should see the preparations. When an Assyrian prince came this morning, Vizier Anemro gave him a room that faced west.”

I covered my mouth. “He didn’t know that Assyrians sleep facing the rising sun?”

“No. I had to explain it to him. He moved the prince’s chamber, but the Assyrians were already angry. None of this would have happened if Paser had simply agreed to be vizier.”

“Tutor Paser?”

“My father has already asked him twice. He’d be the youngest vizier in Egypt, but surely the most intelligent.”

“And both times he declined?”

Ramesses nodded. “I can’t understand it.” He looked down at the scrolls I was carrying. “What are these?” There was a glint in Ramesses’s eyes, as if he was tired of talking about his wedding and politics. “It looks like several days’ worth of work to me,” he said, and snatched one of the scrolls. “Have you been missing classes?”

“Give it back!” I cried. “I was sick.”

I made a grab for the papyrus but Ramesses held it higher.

“If you want it,” he teased, “you’re going to have to catch it!”

He sprinted across the courtyard, and with my arms full of scrolls, I gave chase. Then a shadow loomed across the stones and he stopped.

“What are you doing?” Henuttawy demanded. The red robes of Isis swirled at her feet. She snatched the scroll that Ramesses had taken and shoved it at me. “You are a king of Egypt,” she reminded him sharply, and her nephew flushed. “Do you realize that you have left Iset all alone to decide which instruments shall be played at the feast?”

The three of us looked across the courtyard at Iset, who didn’t seem all alone to me. She and her friends were huddled together, whispering. Ramesses hesitated, and I saw how keenly he felt Henuttawy’s disappointment in him. She was his father’s sister, after all. He glanced apologetically at me. “I should go and help her,” he said.

“But first, your father wants you in the Audience Chamber.”Henuttawy watched, waiting until Ramesses was inside the palace before she turned to face me. Her slap was so hard that I staggered, spilling Paser’s scrolls across the courtyard floor. “The days when your family ruled in Malkata are over, Princess, and you will never chase Ramesses around this courtyard like an animal! He is the King of Egypt, and you are a child who is tolerated in this palace.”

Henuttawy turned and strode toward the billowing white pavilions. I bent down to pick up Paser’s assignments, and several servants came running.

“My lady, are you all right?” they asked. The entire courtyard had seen what had happened. “Let us help.”

One of the cooks from the kitchen bent down to collect the scattered scrolls.

I shook my head firmly. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

But the cook piled my arms with papyrus. At the entrance to the palace, a woman’s hand took me by the shoulder. I braced myself for more of Henuttawy’s violence, but it was Henuttawy’s younger sister, Woserit.

“Take these scrolls and place them in her room,” Woserit ordered one of the guards. Then she turned to me and said, “Come.”

I followed the hem of her turquoise cloak as it brushed across the varnished tiles and into the ante-chamber where dignitaries waited to see the king. It was empty, but Woserit still swung the heavy wooden doors closed behind us.

“What have you done to anger Henuttawy?”

I still held back tears. “Nothing!”

“Well, she is determined to keep Ramesses away from you.” Woserit watched me for a moment. “Tell me, why do you think Henuttawy is so invested in Iset’s fate?”

I searched Woserit’s face. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Haven’t you wondered whether Henuttawy has promised to help make Iset a queen in exchange for something?”

I placed two fingers on my lips in a nervous habit I had taken from Merit. “I don’t know. What could Iset have that Henuttawy doesn’t?”

“Nothing, yet. There is no status or bloodline that my sister could offer you. But there is plenty that she can offer Iset. Without Henuttawy’s support, Iset would never have been chosen for a royal wife.”

I wondered why she was telling me this.

“There are a dozen pretty faces Ramesses might have picked,” Woserit continued. “He named Iset because his father suggested her, and my brother recommended her due to Henuttawy’s insistence. But why is my sister so insistent?” she pressed. “What does she hope to gain?”

I sensed that Woserit knew exactly what Henuttawy wanted and I suddenly felt overwhelmed.

“You have never thought of this?” Woserit demanded. “This court is going to bury you, Nefertari, and you will join your family in anonymity if you don’t understand these politics.”

“So what do I do?”

“Decide which path awaits you. Soon, you will no longer be the only young princess in Thebes. And if Iset becomes Chief Wife as Henuttawy wishes, you will never survive here. My sister and Iset will push you from this court and you’ll end your dusty days in the harem of Mi-Wer.”

Even then I knew there was no worse fate for a woman of the palace than to end up in the harem of Mi-Wer, surrounded by the emptiness of the western desert. Many young girls imagine that marrying a Pharaoh will mean a lifetime of ease spent wandering the gardens, gossiping in the baths, and choosing between sandals beaded with lapis or coral—but nothing could be further from the truth. Certainly, there were some women, like Iset’s grandmother, the prettiest or cleverest, who were kept in the harem closest to Pharaoh’s palace. But Malkata’s harem could only house so many women, and most were sent to distant palaces where they were forced to spin and weave to survive. The halls of Mi-Wer were filled with old women, lonely and bitter.

“Only one person can make sure that Iset never becomes Chief Wife with the power to drive you away,” Woserit insisted. “One person close enough to Ramesses to persuade him that Iset should be just another princess. You. By becoming Chief Wife in her place.”

I had been holding my breath, but now, it left me. I sat down on a chair and gripped its wooden arms. “And challenge Iset?” I thought of rising against Henuttawy and suddenly felt sick. “I could never do that. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” I protested. “I’m only thirteen.”