The Heretic Queen

“they will still see your eyes.”

It took until sunset to henna my nails, and Merit paid careful attention to the design on my feet. In the mirror, a gleam of white and gold shimmered back at me. The soft white of Woserit’s cloak framed my face, and the fur trim stood out against my cheeks. When the door to my chamber opened, I heard a slow intake of breath.

“Magnificent.”

Woserit came forward and I could see her reflected in the polished brass. A long, white sheath was pressed against her hips with a belt of polished lapis. Her ankle-length cloak was trimmed in thread of the most stunning turquoise, and a golden cow with lapis eyes fastened it at her neck. Her hair had been brushed to the side, so that anyone standing behind her could see the counterweight of the menat worn by every priestess of Hathor. The sacred necklace had been made of faience, ending in a golden amulet that kept the wearer from harm. There was no part of Woserit that wasn’t remarkable, from her golden anklets to her translucent sheath. I turned in my chair to see her better. “You look beautiful,” I whispered, and I was surprised to realize she was just as striking as her sister, Henuttawy.

She motioned for me to stand, then inspected me as I turned. She lifted the edge of my cloak to see what Merit had done with my feet, then hummed her approval. “You’ll be careful not to cover the henna in dust,” she said. “And do not drag your feet through the sand. Walk carefully tonight.” She drew the hood of my cloak over my forehead, and Aloli arranged my braids, one over each shoulder.

I stared at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman who looked back at me. She was the kind of woman who spent her days in the baths, gossiping with friends, and buying beads from palace vendors.

“Aloli, it’s time for you to get ready,” Woserit said. “You and Merit have done an exquisite job.”

When Aloli and Merit left for their own chambers, Woserit took a seat. She appeared tense. Later, I would come to understand that in many ways the year had been easier for me than it had for her. All I had to do was learn, soaking up the information around me like a papyrus reed, whereas she had to arrange, and plot, and plan. She knew the consequences of failing, whereas I only imagined that I did. But for all her generosity—giving me her room in the palace, keeping me in the Temple of Hathor, arranging Paser as my tutor, and providing me with clothes—she had never asked for anything in return. When I could hear that Merit was snapping and folding sheaths in the ante-chamber, I asked quietly, “What will I owe you for all of this?”

A smile touched Woserit’s lips. “I am not like Henuttawy,” she said. “There’s nothing to repay.”

“But all of this work and time you’ve put into me. Why? For what?”

“You have grown into a mature, clever woman,” she said, and she seemed pleased that I had asked. “I expect you to take Iset’s place and make certain that Henuttawy never becomes as powerful as she wishes to be. That is what I expect,” she said firmly. “A Thebes that doesn’t dance to Henuttawy’s tune, and nothing else.”

I sensed there must be more, but that was all she said. I wondered if someday a larger reckoning would come.

WE LEFT as the sun sank beyond the hills, reaching the quay in front of Hathor’s temple as the water turned the color of wine in the disappearing light. In a boat filled with Hathor’s songstresses, we sailed to the mortuary temple that Pharaoh Seti had built for his akhu. Like the palace, the temple had been built on the western bank, since this is where the sun dies every day and the journey to the Afterlife begins. I had gone with the court many times on its annual progress to Seti’s temple, but tonight was different. As lights flickered on the approaching shore, I felt a nervousness in my stomach that had never been there before. Merit stood next to me on the prow and raised my hood so that the fur framed my face.

“Delicate,” she said as darkness descended. “Soft.”

The full moon reflected on the River Nile and I thought of something Woserit had said. When Iset gets big and bloated with Ramesses’s child, you will still be light and pretty. I asked Merit over the splashing of the oars, “What if Iset is already pregnant?”

“Then there is even more reason to make her queen,” she said. “Ramesses is eighteen. This is the year he will choose a Chief Wife.”

As the boat slipped into the quay, Woserit spoke in my direction. “I should think the court will already have arrived, but the rites won’t begin without us. Or without Henuttawy,” she added. “And we can expect her to be late.”

Palace servants, who were waiting on the shore, held up torches to escort us through the darkness. And ahead, within the courtyard of the mortuary temple, a hundred lamps lit up its towering pylons, casting their glow across the painted murals. In one scene, Osiris, the prince of the gods, was being murdered by his brother, Set. In the light of the reed torches, I could see Set dismembering Osiris’s corpse and scattering the pieces up and down the River Nile. Further along, a painter had depicted Osiris’s wife, Isis, who wore the same scarlet robes as Henuttawy. On the wall, she was shown searching far and wide, gathering her husband’s body parts and piecing them together to resurrect him. Above the gates of the temple the last scene had been painted. The resurrected Osiris had given Isis a child. He was Horus, the falcon-headed god of the sky, and he was avenging his father by destroying Set. Once Set was banished, he joined the jackal-headed god Anubis in the Underworld. Those who had crossed to the land of the dead had to pass the judgment of Anubis before becoming akhu. Gazing up, I wondered how many of my own ancestors had passed this judgment, and whether I would see my mother again on that distant shore.

As we approached the open gates, the chants of the Amun priests grew louder. Woserit turned to me. “Stay close to me, even when I place the offering before my akhu. And when my priestesses begin their hymn to Hathor, remain by my side. There will be hundreds of people in the temple tonight. I want you where Ramesses can see you.”

Merit shot me a warning look, and I promised to keep by Woserit.

“We are here to remind Ramesses what he’s been missing,” Woserit continued as we walked. “If you give too much away, it will be as though you’ve never been gone. And if anyone asks why you aren’t dressed in Hathor’s robes, tell them you’re not sure you want to become a priestess—”

“Especially Ramesses,” Aloli said. “Let him know you are uncertain of where you belong.”

I thought Woserit would be angry at being interrupted, but she nodded. “Yes. He is intelligent enough to make the leap for himself.”

I didn’t like tricking Ramesses in this way, but wasn’t there some truth in it, too? What else would my future hold once my inheritance was gone and I no longer had a place at court? And if he didn’t want me, what was the point of marriage? Who else would ever share my desire for languages and hunting? I might as well become a priestess. My stomach clenched as we passed through the temple gates and into the dark sanctuary that Pharaoh Seti had built for himself and his ancestors. On every wall were scenes of his family story. There was Ramesses I, the general who had been chosen as Pharaoh when childless Horemheb realized he would die without issue. And there was Pharaoh Seti with his quiet, unassuming queen, who stayed in the gardens away from court politics. There were images of Ramesses II being born, with his fiery red hair painted into the scenes. My family had sat on the throne of Egypt for generation upon generation. Where was such a monument to them?

“Stop thinking,” Merit whispered as we walked. “You’ll become upset.”

I steadied my lip as we entered the eastern sanctuary. The Amun priests had finished their chants and hundreds of courtiers filled the chamber. They turned to see Woserit’s procession, and I had the sudden urge to hide deeper beneath the fur of my cloak. Incense filled the room, as did the dank cold scent of walls that had never been exposed to the sun. I followed Woserit to the head of the chamber where her priestesses began the hymn to Hathor. Woserit herself stepped away from the women, placing the bowl she had brought with her before a statue of Ramesses I. To our right, I could see the gleam of Pharaoh Seti’s crown, and next to him, the blue and gold crown of Ramesses in profile. He was taller. And more handsome than I had remembered. The nemes crown framed a lean face with long cheekbones and a soldier’s strong jaw. We were separated by an image of his grandfather, a towering granite statue cast in golden light. I could see Iset standing next to him, the glittering diadem of a princess on her brow, but there was no sign of Henuttawy. Merit noticed, too, and shook her head. “Late as usual.”

“She does it to draw attention,” I said. I had begun to understand the games women played. The voices of Hathor’s songstresses echoed in the chamber, but their chants were now disturbed by the noise of a large group in the hall. When the new arrivals emerged into the chamber, we could see they were wearing the unmistakable red