On the other hand, Moses had nothing but loathing for one who would betray her own people. Oh, perhaps she thought of this as the least bloody way of settling the war. But the fact remained that her father’s power would be broken—no doubt he would spend the next ten years putting down all the rebellions that would rise as soon as word spread throughout Ethiopia of his ignominious defeat at the hands of Moses the Egyptian.

  Could she really have fallen in love with him? Was it on such a silly fulcrum as this that the lever of history rested? A woman on a city wall sees a tall warrior in a chariot and betrays her people out of love for him—only barbarians did things like that.

  “I have a better idea,” said Moses. “You are obviously much . . . cleverer than your mistress. I will take you as my . . . wife, and free you from . . . slavery as I do. You show me the . . . secret way into the city.”

  The girl recoiled from him in horror. “And betray the trust my mistress has placed in me?”

  “So you’re more loyal than she is.”

  The slave girl rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Am I a fool? Do you think I believe you would raise me up to be your wife? You would take me as a concubine, perhaps, but my life would be little different from what it is now, except that you’d be the man who took me whenever he wanted, instead of it being her father.”

  Moses said nothing. He was Hatshepsut’s best pupil, and she had learned the art of politics from watching the murderous Mutnefert, who was now his nominal step-grandmother, since Hatshepsut had married her cowering son and made him co-Pharaoh under the name Tuthmose II. One did what one had to do for the good of the house of Pharaoh. And so the girl was right—he would never take her as a wife, because any children she had could not be permitted to be in the line of succession. Moses’ own position in that line of authority was weak, since he was adopted, while if Hatshepsut had other sons they would be of Pharaonic blood twice over, through their mother and their father. He could not afford to take a slavegirl as his wife.

  “Will you marry my mistress or not?” demanded the girl.

  Moses laughed at her. “You speak as . . . boldly as if you had an army at your back.”

  “I have a city at my back,” said the girl. “I have your own self-interest.” She smiled. “And even though you haven’t seen her, I can assure you that my mistress is young and beautiful and a prize for such a man as you.”

  “Such a man as me?”

  “Why, you’re the son of slaves,” said the girl, “and she is the daughter of a king.”

  Moses felt the blood rise in his neck. The girl saw, too, that she had made a mistake.

  “That’s the story they tell of you, in Saba,” she said. “I know nothing about—”

  “I’m not going to . . . kill you or even strike you because of your ignorance,” said Moses. “But I am the son of the . . . Pharaoh Tuthmose I and his daughter-wife Hatshepsut.”

  “So the tale of your parentage as an Israelite slave is—”

  “That may have been the origin of my . . . body,” said Moses, “but I was given to the River and the River gave me to the . . . daughter of Pharaoh to be her son.”

  She looked at him with amusement. “Ah. The gods strike again.”

  Moses didn’t like her impious tone.

  “Oh, are you serious?” she said. “All this business about Pharaoh being a god? Tharbis’s father is supposed to be a god, too, and look where it’s got him.”

  “So . . . he’s a weak god.”

  “He’s a man who is very, very sorry he didn’t prevent his rebellious greedy subjects from raiding Upper Egypt.”

  “And Pharaoh is a man?”

  “From what I hear, Pharaoh is a woman.”

  “Changed by her father—”

  “Yes, by her father, a god—but has she fathered any children lately? Besides you?”

  “Do you talk to your . . . mistress like this?” asked Moses.

  “Like what? With utter honesty? Yes.”

  “Impudently?”

  “Honesty always sounds like impudence to the vain and stupid.”

  Moses felt his temper flare, but he would not shame himself by striking a servant or a captive. A man’s dignity is never upheld by losing his self-control; Jochabed had taught him that, and he knew it was true.

  “Tell your mistress that I will marry her within the hour of our . . . taking of Saba; that her . . . father will continue to reign in Ethiopia as long as he . . . kneels to me and gives homage to my father, Pharaoh; and that I insist that you be given your . . . freedom at the same moment Tharbis becomes my wife.”

  “Do you hate my honesty so much?”

  “I don’t want my new wife to have the . . . benefit of your advice, or soon she’ll be ruling Egypt in place of . . . my father.”

  “Your mother.”

  “Hatshepsut.”

  The slave girl laughed.

  “Do you have a name?” asked Moses.

  “None that you need to know,” she said. “Because right now I belong to my mistress, and the moment you marry her, I’ll be free. In neither case do you have the right to ask.”

  “You remind me of my sister Miriam. You are so . . . careless—you seem to be free already.”

  “If you had slapped me the first time you thought of it, you can be sure you would never have heard another honest word from me.”

  “There are countless women in Egypt that I have not . . . slapped, who nevertheless . . . flatter me shamelessly.”

  “But would they if you were not Pharaoh’s son?”

  “Is your . . . mistress as honest as you?”

  “No,” said the girl. “But be glad of that. You find me refreshing right now, but I can assure you that no man can bear to live with a woman who speaks nothing but the truth to him. My mistress has often told me that no man could endure me for more than an hour.”

  “I think you underestimate the ability of some men to . . . bear the truth.”

  “No, you underestimate the ability of some men to believe that when they are told what they want to hear, it must be true.”

  “Why did your mistress send you, if she . . . knew you would offend me?”

  “Because she knew you would try to bribe me to betray her, and she trusted me to refuse. And because if you were the kind of man who could not bear to hear me speak plainly, then you were not the kind of man she wanted to marry.”

  “Did she really say that?” asked Moses.

  “No,” said the girl. “I said it, and she said, ‘You know, you may be right.’”

  “Tell me how we shall go about . . . stealing this city from under the . . . king’s own nose.”

  * * *

  In the event, it was pitifully simple. Moses and a company of a dozen soldiers made their way across a ford and entered a postern gate, where Tharbis, who was in fact a rather dimwitted and homely girl, kissed Moses emphatically and continuously while his men went on to take control of the gate. Within a half hour the screams of the citizens became the impossible backdrop to their idyll, and Moses had to pry her away from him in order to get to the palace doors to keep his soldiers from breaking in and capturing the royal family. As it was, he presented himself to the king of Ethiopia as his son-in-law-to-be, and the poor man, recognizing defeat and betrayal when he saw them, sanctioned the marriage on the spot. By dawn, Moses was proud owner of a treacherous wife and a pillaged city. And, true to his word, the slave girl—whose name he never again asked—was set free and sent home with part of Moses’ share of the spoils and fourteen sturdy manservants to protect her—and the wealth and high station that were now restored to her and her family.

  Moses, for his part, headed home to Egypt, having accomplished all that Hatshepsut needed him to do. She had her victory in Ethiopia. It would affirm her rule in the eyes of the people, proving the favor of the gods.

  As for Moses’ new wife, if she ever bore a child it would be proof once again of her treachery, for Moses never wanted to see her again, now that she had given him Saba without the loss of a single soldier.

  The only real drawback to the entire victory was that now Moses would have to face Aaron and Miriam and Jochabed, who despite all the official declarations still believed Moses to be, first, an Israelite, and, second, their brother and son. And the unbearable thing about it was, Moses knew that they were right, even though he hated knowing it. The son and brother of slaves—and not slaves like the remarkable Ethiopian girl he had just freed. They were born into slavery, part of a nation of slaves, and Moses was one of them, not truly an Egyptian no matter what he did. That was the burden he would carry all his life, and if he failed to succeed to the double crown of Pharaoh, it would be because of the taint of Israelite blood.

  * * *

  Hatshepsut slept alone. She always did—at least in the sense that no one shared her bed. The room, however, was well guarded. Four trusted women and six trusted guards; but none so trusted that they weren’t carefully watched by the others. In a world that included Mutnefert, the murderous old hag, Hatshepsut would never be completely safe—even after marrying Mutnefert’s miserable weasely son Tuthmose II.

  It was all such a balancing act. But it was what she was born for, and Hatshepsut loved it. Particularly because her son Moses—her son, not Tuthmose’s!—showed every sign of being a master of political maneuvering. If she could hold on long enough for him to cement his leadership of the military, and if he could manage some victories so that he would gain the support of the people and the soldiers alike, then she could be sure that the dynasty would be carried on.

  Which is why she could hardly sleep these nights, these weeks since Moses took his army up the river to punish the Ethiopians for their raids against Upper Egypt. She had little fear that he would be killed, or even that he would be defeated. The greatest danger was that he would get caught in some miserable siege or, worse yet, in an expensive, humiliating campaign chasing Ethiopian bandits all over the hills and mountains of that strange and difficult country. He could not be allowed to look like a fool, and this war could not be allowed to drain the treasury and force an increase in taxes. And none of this was under Hatshepsut’s control. She hated it when important things went on beyond her reach.

  She was awake, then, brooding, when she heard the tumult of horses and the clatter of chariot wheels in the courtyard. Not enough for an invasion. A messenger, then? From Moses! Victory? Or . . . not defeat. Not harm to her boy.

  She rose from her bed, and at once three of her ladies were up beside her, dressing her. The guards, of course, looked away from her as soon as she stirred. By the time the messenger came to her door, she was ready to receive him.

  He was not a soldier from Moses’ army. Instead the messenger was from the temple at Karnak.

  “What does Jannes have to tell me that couldn’t wait until morning?” asked Hatshepsut.

  The temple guard bowed deeply. “O gracious Pharaoh, the bitter news I bring—”

  “Tell me who! Tell me what!”

  “The god Pharaoh Tuthmose II is dead.”

  “My husband?” She was stupefied. He was younger than she was, and despite his lazy and debauched ways, he was still in good health.

  More to the point, his palace was upriver, and Karnak was downriver. Why was she hearing this news from Jannes’s messenger? The answer was obvious as soon as she asked it.

  “Which of my husband’s concubines tried to get Jannes to proclaim her little runt as Pharaoh?”

  “I believe it was the boy Tuthmose who was at the temple—”

  “All his sons are named Tuthmose! Except the ones named Amose, of course. Which concubine!”

  “Isis, O Pharaoh!”

  “Wait in the courtyard. You will ride with me.”

  In half an hour she had five hundred soldiers. Perhaps she was overreacting, but since she hadn’t seen this coming, she had no idea how much support Isis might already have arranged. Miserable scheming viper! All these years Hatshepsut had taken such precautions against Mutnefert, her mother-in-law, making sure there was no heir born of the marriage, guarding constantly against Mutnefert’s inevitable attempts to assassinate Hatshepsut so her son could rule alone. But Hatshepsut had never thought to protect Tuthmose II. Why should she? He was the one person in the palace that Mutnefert would never dream of poisoning.

  And now it turned out to be one of Tuthmose II’s concubines who thought of killing her husband and trying to get a share of the crown for her son. Or . . . why just a share? There were plenty of people who would far prefer to see a real Egyptian as Pharaoh after Hatshepsut, rather than the adopted Israelite, Moses. And while Hatshepsut had kept her husband under her thumb, this boy whose mother was promoting him to be Tuthmose III, Hatshepsut knew nothing of him, or how domitable he might be.

  Isis. Which one of the concubines was she? They were such a weak, stupid, mousy lot that Hatshepsut never bothered to keep track of them. What a careless mistake! Mutnefert’s example should have been warning enough that concubines who knew something about poison could be deadly—and the more nondescript they were, the more dangerous they could be if some kind of feral intelligence hid under their oily hair.

  It would be interesting to see why this woman thought she might have success at Karnak. She had brought her son there, presumably to have the priests anoint him. Unless she was very, very stupid, she would have had something prearranged. With whom? Until Hatshepsut knew, she would keep close to these five hundred armed men who answered only to her. Moses had trained with them and vouched for them all. They were hers . . . for now.

  Nothing was hers if she wasn’t careful. It could all slip away, if she wasn’t careful. And Moses wasn’t here. Wasn’t here, when the crisis came!

  Well, he was only a baby the last time I dealt with a crisis, and I did all right, she reminded herself.

  It was nearly dawn when they reached Karnak. Her late husband’s body lay on a bier out in the open, surrounded by temple guards. Hatshepsut immediately ordered the guards disarmed, and she replaced them with a contingent of her own soldiers. But she made sure to couch her orders in the most diplomatic terms possible: “You must be tired, guarding the body of my beloved husband so many hours! Lay down your arms, and let these fresh, well-rested soldiers take your place. Immediately.”

  Inside the temple, it took little searching to find those she was looking for. Jannes brought the woman Isis out himself, and the boy tagged along behind. Not a boy, really, not anymore. A young man, thin and wiry. Perhaps sixteen. A child. But old enough, Hatshepsut could see that clearly—old enough that men would follow him, if the right tale were told about him.

  “The grieving concubine,” Hatshepsut said dryly. “How pious of you, to bring his body here to Karnak, instead of to me, his widow.”

  Isis said nothing.

  “Pharaoh,” said Jannes, “I sent word to you the moment I understood the situation.”

  “And what is the situation?” asked Hatshepsut.

  The boy, incredibly enough, spoke up, even though he was within a mere gesture of having his head lopped off right here in the temple. “Don’t you already know?” the boy impudently asked. “I thought you were a god.”

  “What a fool your son turns out to be,” Hatshepsut said to Isis. “He thinks he wants to be Pharaoh, and yet he’s so stupid that he actually casts doubt on Pharaoh’s divinity.” She turned to the boy. “You don’t burn the house you want to dwell in. You don’t sink the boat on which you ride.”

  “Thank you for the lesson,” he said, still defiant. But she could see that she had wounded him. He had been stupid, but he was smart enough to recognize the fact. Well, what a shame, thought Hatshepsut. If he was flat-out dumb she might have a use for him. But if he was smart, well, he could not be permitted to get even a taste of power.

  “I am stricken with grief for the death of my husband,” said Hatshepsut. “Clearly Osiris needed him more than I. Or perhaps it is my father who called him home.” She turned to the captain of her guards. “I fear that in these tumultuous times, this brave concubine and her bold son might be in danger. I order you to protect them. Take them to my palace and place the woman with Mutnefert. Let’s let the grieving mother comfort the grieving concubine. As for the boy, he will be educated in the palace. I’ll see what he’s made of.”

  Apparently Isis knew enough about the lay of the land to understand that she was being imprisoned with the most murderous woman in Egypt—who also happened to be the devoted mother of the man that Isis had just murdered. There wouldn’t be much sleeping in Mutnefert’s room, and the way color drained from Isis’s face suggested that she knew it. But after just a brief hesitation, she lashed out with words. “He’s already been anointed!” she said. “He is his father’s heir! Pharaoh beside you!”

  “And if I ever agreed to such a ludicrous thing,” said Hatshepsut, “how long would I live? Isis, I know exactly what and who you are, and I can assure you that no matter what you may have dreamed in your frenzy of grief, no actual anointing of anyone took place tonight. Isn’t that so, Jannes?”

  “Pharaoh has spoken the perfect truth,” said Jannes. “For only I have the authority to anoint a king of Upper and Lower Egypt, and I certainly did not anoint this boy.”

  Isis whirled to snarl at him in turn, but the boy himself intervened. “Mother,” he said, “do us no harm now.”

  His voice stilled her at once.

  Yes, the boy was smart. Dangerous. But . . . was there some hint of the spirit of Tuthmose I in him? Yes, Hatshepsut’s instinct had been right. Dangerous as he was, he was blood of her blood. And he might be useful, if she trained him properly.

  “Take them to the palace,” said Hatshepsut. “Clearly they are overcome by grief and weariness.”

  Isis and the boy Tuthmose left, surrounded by soldiers.