She grew restless. She stripped and bathed, called a servant to shave the stubble off her scalp, then bathed again, just for something to do. Anxiety warred with victory inside her. She paced around her garden, kicking stones, swatting insects, plucking petals off yellow flowers until at length her new body servant, a tall, thin woman, arrived with supper and a musician.
The musician was a good idea, a soothing distraction. She complimented the servant on her forethought, then, feeling generous and expansive, gave her two jeweled wig ornaments as a reward and begged her to gossip. The woman – Twosre was her name – was not as good with rumors as the women in the harem, but she would do. Ahmose liked her earthy voice and the scent of figs that rose from Twosre’s garments. They laughed over their shared supper, flax-seed cakes with cold white fish wrapped in musky lettuce leaves. Twosre thumped the table with a hard hand whenever she laughed.
“Tuyu is such a she-cat; she is after that poor steward Ineni all day and night! She fancies him, and she’ll get him into her bed if it’s her final act in the living world. Whenever she has a chance she tries to grab him under his kilt. He looks like he’s about to die each time! I tell you, you’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Why, though?”
“Why what? Why Ineni? I suppose he’s handsome, in an innocent sort of way. And he’s the Pharaoh’s steward, and an architect besides. Maybe he will make a good husband some day.”
“No, why does Tuyu want him in her bed?”
“For the pleasure, of course! Why does any woman want a man in her bed? To make her belly big?” Twosre, apparently realizing that producing an heir was indeed why Ahmose wanted her husband in her bed, bit her lip and glanced away.
“But it’s not pleasure, really.”
“Who told you that, Great Lady?”
“Mutnofret.”
Twosre raised her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose your sister did not know anything of pleasure before last night. She was inexperienced before her marriage, of course. She might be forgiven for thinking it’s not a pleasure, if she didn’t know.”
Ahmose held Twosre’s eye with a direct look. “Tell me truly. Does it hurt?”
The woman shrugged. “Yes, sometimes. The first time, usually.”
“And is there blood?”
“Well…yes. But….”
Ahmose nodded. “I thank you for the truth, Twosre. Mutnofret did not lie. Not this time, at any rate.”
“Great Lady, you look so pale! Are you afraid?”
Ahmose stood and wandered to one of her jewelry chests, lifted a necklace, a broad net of red and blue beads, and draped it around her shoulders. She turned back to Twosre. “What do you think? Does this look good on me?”
Twosre seemed confused. Her face became even thinner as she puckered her lips. “Of course. Great Lady, if there is anything I can do for you...any question I can answer….”
“You have already answered the only questions I needed to ask.” Ahmose turned back to the chest, replaced the necklace with great care. She would be brave. She would be dutiful through the pain. She would ignore the blood. She would make Thutmose love her. She would. Mutnofret could not have all of him. And anything Mutnofret did, Ahmose would make herself do, too. Even this.
“Very well, then.” Twosre stood and began stacking the remains of dinner onto her wooden tray. “I will just clear this away. Shall I dismiss the musician?”
“No. Leave her here. I would like more music while I…while I prepare.”
Twosre smiled. It was half pity, half affection. “Good luck tonight, Great Lady.”
Ahmose wore the blue and red necklace. She adorned her arms with cuffs of gold and electrum, bracelets of ivory and faience; she found the box of oils in her bathing room and scented her scalp, her neck, her breasts, the place between her legs. She dressed herself in the finest gown she owned. It was not Mutnofret’s enchanting open weave, but the finest bleached linen, white as the moon. She knotted it tightly; so tightly she could only take small steps, so tightly she could barely bend to do up the knots. But when she looked at herself in her big electrum mirror, the fine, tight linen clung to her body, rounded her hips, pushed her small breasts up and out.
Then there was nothing to do but wait.
She sat uneasily on her bed, squeezed by the gown, and concentrated on the harper’s soothing music. The evening glow in her room deepened, reddened; quickly it faded altogether and her chamber was transformed into a temple of dim dusk-purple. She thanked the musician and dismissed her. The calls of roosting birds replaced the plucking of strings; when the birds had gone to sleep and the floor glowed with stripes of moonlight, the hum of night insects began.
She waited, still, silent, apprehensive. The shadows slanted by degrees. At last Twosre’s muffled clap sounded outside her bed chamber door.
“Come.”
The door creaked open. Twosre’s thin face peeked around its edge. “The Pharaoh is here to see you, Great Lady.”
“Send him in.” She was proud that her voice did not shake.
Thutmose entered, but his hand remained hesitantly on the door. Ahmose rose from the bed. His eyes traveled her body. They were lit from without by the moon, lit from within by the same hunger she had seen when he had gazed at Mutnofret’s body on the lake barge. Her heart quickened.
“Come in,” she said.
He did.
Thutmose reached her in a few steps; it seemed to Ahmose as if he floated, flew across the distance that separated them. His hands reached for her, stopped in doubt. She swallowed and stepped to meet his hands, fit her shoulders between them so he could feel the warmth of her arms, the shape of her.
His touch was light, careful. “Are you sure, Ahmoset?”
She nodded, pulled the wig from her head without stepping out of his touch.
Thutmose’s hand was at the knot of her gown. In a heartbeat it was undone; the fabric fell away with a sound like a bird’s wings. Her body, freed from the gown’s pressure, felt more exposed than she was prepared for. She gasped.
Thutmose seemed to take the sound for excitement. Before she knew what he was doing, his hands were everywhere, light and sure. They ran down her arms, removed her bracelets, dropped each one to the floor atop the gown. They crossed the span of her shoulder blades, traced down her spine, grazed against her buttocks. A curious heat spread through her; her skin was alive, insistent; her palms throbbed with the beat of her heart.
He scooped her up, easy as lifting a bow, and laid her on the bed. She stretched along her linen sheets, hot with excitement; she arched to look at him. His hands were at his kilt, undoing it, pulling it away. Naked, he climbed onto the bed beside her.
Something bumped against her leg. It was hard like a knife’s handle, but silky-smooth. She looked down at it. Thutmose’s member, his bloody spear. She had seen a few before, on her naked half-brothers and when rowing slaves urinated over the sides of barges. But never before had one seemed so threatening; never had she seen one like this, awake and expectant. She lurched upright and shrank against her bed's headboard.
“What’s the matter?” Thutmose’s voice was thick with impatience.
He would put a seed in her. She’d grow a baby like Aiya’s; she’d die in a hot, stinking pavilion as Aiya had died, too small, too young.
“Ahmoset.” He took her hand gently, guided it toward the thing. She stiffened, refusing to touch it.
Thutmose sighed. He lay back on his elbows. His spear fell, defeated.
“I’m afraid,” she said. The admission made her feel unspeakably stupid. She pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them tight, and rocked from side to side.
“You needn't fear.”
“It will hurt. The blood.”
“Only for a moment. Only a spot of blood.”
She shook her head. Not that; that would hurt, yes. Mutnofret had said so and Twosre had confirmed it. It was Aiya’s hurt she feared – Aiya’s sweating forehead against Ahmose’s lips, Aiya’s body
jerking as the knife came down. Aiya’s baby, blue and dead, lying on a bloody breast.
She could not do it. She would not do it.
Mutnofret had won.
Ahmose was certain Tut would be angry with her. Instead, he sat up and hugged her gently. His hands were comforting now, not hungry. She allowed him to pull her close. He rocked her, murmuring, planting kisses on her bare scalp. “It’s all right. Sweet girl, sweet woman, it’s all right.”
“No, it is not. If I do not give you a son…”
“Then Mutnofret will. I need you by my side to keep the gods with me, Ahmoset, not to give me a son. You have no duty in a bed – unless you want that duty. Until you want that duty. A day will come when you do want it. You will see.”
Ahmose said nothing. She would never desire such a death.
“Ahmoset, I promise you, I will not force you. I will not come to you again until you ask me. But you must mean it – really mean it – the next time you bring me to your bed. Promise me that.”
She held her breath for a long time. Then she let it go with a sigh, and said, “What if I never bring you to my bed?”
He did not hesitate. “You will still be my Great Royal Wife. I will not set you aside. I will get my sons from Mutnofret. But it won't be that way, Ahmoset. You will send for me; I know you will someday. I will be patient until then.”
Ahmose made no reply.
CHAPTER TEN
THE SEASON OF SHEMU DREW to a close. The Iteru crept higher, day by day filling the hot earth with the promise of renewal. The river’s water rose from deep within the valley to darken parched earth, then soak it, then saturate it until all about were layers of thick brown mud and the shimmer of new insect life on morning air. At last the canals of Waset began to fill. Puddles stood in the new canal beds, reflecting a brilliant sky, throwing light into the eyes from below so that any worker in the fields must paint his eyes heavily with cheap kohl or squint through his day’s labors. The puddles grew, stretched blue arms one toward another until Waset’s canals filled with the gurgle and hush of moving water. The Black Land lay carpeted in a mantle of wildflowers; weeds burst into life, striving to attract their share of insects and shed their seeds before Egypt’s farmers plucked them out of the ground. Akhet – the season of the Inundation – had begun.
Ahmose loved this time of year better than any other. She ordered that a small pavilion should be raised on the roof of her hall, and there she spent most of her time, from the earliest hours of the morning until well past sunset. Whenever court did not call, she took her meals in her breezy rooftop sanctuary or spun flax there with Twosre and Renenet, breathing in the bright green scent of wet earth and reawakened life.
Tut encouraged her to resume her dream-reading. The pavilion provided a natural place to do so; it was neither as public as the court hall nor as private as her apartments. Twosre saw to her needs as she listened to the dreams of noble women and palace servants alike. Word spread quickly through the city, and by the time the Inundation was well underway Ahmose was being petitioned for dream-reading by Waset’s rekhet. Soon she could not manage the demand on her own. Tut devoted Ineni to the service of the Great Royal Wife; under his careful management Ahmose’s days were well planned.
Akhet was a good time for a funeral. The very land sang hymns of rebirth as the river raised its fertile hands above the valley. The royal family set out from the palace an hour after sunrise, carried in their litters through the streets of Waset where the air was still and thick with the smell of fish and refuse. Tut and Ahmose rode together on a great throned platform carried by sixteen men, Mutnofret on a smaller litter immediately behind. Even this early in the morning, even during the Inundation when there was no race to plant or harvest and sleep could be had more freely, the rekhet crowded the route from palace to river. They cheered and waved as Ahmose and Tut passed, holding children up for a view, jumping to see above the crowd.
Behind them, the wails of a throng of paid mourners rose into the sky. They channeled the grief of the family, lamenting and scooping dust onto their heads, tearing their garments, shaking fists at the sun. Amunhotep had been a great Pharaoh, long-reigning and strong. He had many mourners; their cries were like those of the great flocks of geese in early Shemu, each individual voice merging into one relentless cacophony. Ahmose smiled to hear it. It was right that Amunhotep should be loudly mourned.
At the head of the procession, Meritamun and Nefertari rode litters directly behind the king’s coffin. They had moved out of the Waset palace just before the wedding, taking up in an estate on the bluffs to the south of the city. Ahmose had not seen either woman since her wedding feast. She wondered how her mother and grandmother felt today. Did their hearts cry out as loudly as the mourners? Nefertari, at least, must be sorrowful. She had only one living child left – Meritamun – and the twist of her daughter’s spine was slowly taking her life away. Meritamun too would die before the old God’s Wife.
At length they reached the water steps where the royal barge rocked gently in its moorings. Broad and deep, fitted with two masts and bristling with oars, the barge’s sides were painted red and white, the colors of Egypt’s two crowns. The litter lowered. Tut gave his hand to Ahmose to lead her down the steps and onto the barge.
He went back right away to lead Mutnofret aboard. Ahmose watched as Mutnofret and Tut walked hand-in-hand down the great steps to the mooring. Though she was at odds with Mutnofret, she still felt keenly her sister’s disappointment at being second wife. It must be possible, though, to find some stable ground with my sister. Surely their rivalry for Tut’s affections could not keep them apart forever.
As for Tut, he kept his word to Ahmose. He did not try to return to her bed, but he came to her during the day, and often. It was well known around the palace that Ahmose and the Pharaoh often rode together in the evenings, taking their chariot out into the fields, past ancient temples and tiny villages, sometimes so far they could see the desert lying red and hot on the eastern horizon. Most days they shared the morning meal, too, in Ahmose’s garden or in Tut’s lush courtyard. She had heard no rumors that the Pharaoh invited Mutnofret into his leisure. Perhaps Ahmose was to be the Pharaoh’s companion, and Mutnofret was to be his brood mare. I can live with such an arrangement, she thought, smiling.
Ahmose found Nefertari and Meritamun beneath a shaded canopy. She sat upon a bench with them and sipped wine while the sailors cast off the lines. The barge shoved away from the city’s shore. It lumbered out into the water, wavering; then the current took it and it shuddered a deep rumble against the rising Iteru. The oarsmen shouted to each other as they churned the current, steering the craft deftly, pointing its nose upstream. Fabric snapped hard in the wind; the sails raised, bellying out into the brisk southward breeze. The barge steadied, pulled, cut through the chopping waves with increasing speed. Waset receded on the eastern bank. Several spans downstream, another barge carrying the hired mourners cast off. They were on their way to the western shore.
“You are doing well as Great Royal Wife, I hear,” Meritamun said.
“I am doing my best. I suppose that’s all I can do.”
“And how is Mutnofret taking it?”
“Better. She fights with me less, but I see her less, too. I think she just avoids me.”
“I hear she is trying for a son.”
The unasked question hung stagnant in the air between them. Ahmose said nothing, turning her eyes to a small troupe of dancers performing in the center of the barge.
“And you?” Meritamun apparently would not be put off.
“We have…we have tried,” Ahmose said carefully. It was not a lie. She had tried.
“I am glad to hear it. Sons are important for a Great Royal Wife.”
“You never had any sons, Mother.”
“If I had, none of us would need face this mess now. Think on that, Ahmose.”
“I am doing all I can do,” she said, a bit sharply. “I am still new to womanhood. Per
haps I need time to…”
“I know you love your sister, Ahmose, but recall that we put you behind the throne for a reason. You must remain the Great Royal Wife. Give your husband no reason to set you aside. If he does, there is no telling how the people may react to him.
“You allow him to dote on Mutnofret in public. Yes, I know he is affectionate toward you around the palace. I have heard. But only servants see what goes on in the palace. What do the people see today on this barge? The Pharaoh walking hand in hand with his second wife, and now he sits on the other side of the boat with her while you have tucked yourself away with a couple of old women. What must they all think, Ahmose? And more importantly, what must Mutnofret be thinking? I will not have you risking Egypt’s security by failing to…”
Nefertari laid a dry, bony hand on Meritamun’s leg – just that, and the former Great Royal Wife fell silent.
“Ahmose was a good choice,” the God’s Wife said, her voice like worn leather. “Be still, Meritamun.”
Well upstream of the water steps on the western shore, the crew furled the sails of the barge. Now they would coast, under guidance of the oars alone, to their mooring. Ahmose loved to ride the river downstream during the Inundation. Nothing was so exhilarating: the rush of wind, the dizzying expanse of the river, the white-tipped waves shouting and slapping against the boat’s hull. She let Meritamun’s tirade slide off her shoulders, and smiled as the oarsmen turned the barge nose-north. They flew down the river, angling always to the west. Gulls followed the boat, screaming above the music, squabbling over bits of food, dropping their treasures into the water. When the boat neared the moorings, the oarsmen backed water and the barge shuddered, jolted, boomed, slowing ponderously, until it coasted to the water steps. Men leapt ashore carrying ropes, tied the barge to stone pillars as thick as a circle of gossiping women.
Refreshed and cheered by the ride, Ahmose jumped to her feet. Nefertari grabbed her hand, motioned for her to bend her head close.
The She-King: The Complete Saga Page 8
