The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “You were a good choice, Ahmose, but still Meritamun is not wrong. You have a battle ahead of you, as surely as your husband has his own war.”

  Nefertari bobbed her dark old head toward Mutnofret. She lounged across the barge from Ahmose, her hand lightly resting on Tut’s arm. He said something to her as the dancers finished their performance, and she laughed, her long, slanted eyes sparkling in the sun.

  “The woman who bears the Pharaoh’s sons has his heart,” Nefertari said. “And the woman who has the Pharaoh’s heart has at least as much power as the God’s Wife of Amun.”

  They made the journey to Amunhotep’s tomb on foot. The mourners made a sorrowful music down the length of a great ravine, green and flourishing with thick growth. Tut walked with Ahmose. She was glad to be in his company, wary all over again of Mutnofret’s smiles. Nefertari’s words worried at her ka.

  Tut had never seen a royal funeral before, and Ahmose quietly rehearsed the Opening of the Mouth with him as they walked. In truth, she had never seen a royal funeral either, but as the daughter of a Pharaoh who might someday bear an heir, the ancient ceremony had been required learning. She knew that Tut must not place a single footstep wrong. Her reputation as a god-chosen woman would only gain her husband a measure of credence among the priests and nobles. Today, he had to be the very embodiment of Horus, conquering death, resurrecting the father. If he could give a convincing show as Horus, it would be ever more difficult for any man to doubt his right to the throne.

  “…And then the bull is butchered,” Ahmose said, “and you are given…?”

  “The foreleg. I point it at his body.”

  “To convey its strength,” she confirmed. “And after that?”

  “The iron.”

  “Do you remember the words you must say?”

  They went over the entire ceremony three times as they walked, their rehearsal well hidden by the wailing of the mourners. Behind the mourners the priests and nobles came, their fine clothing caked with dust from the dozens of feet that went before.

  A few of the higher priests were already gathered outside Amunhotep’s tomb, preparing for the day’s work. They raised their palms in obeisance when they saw Thutmose. He returned the greeting, a gesture of confidence, strength.

  You will do well, my love. You must do well. She looked up at Tut’s face, stoic and bold in the sun. A shadow passed over him from above, darkening his features, sliding up over the tall, white spire of his crown. She followed the shadow’s path. A bird circled above them with pointed wings and long, straight tail. She seized Tut’s hand.

  “Look, Tut!”

  He followed her gaze into the sky, his free hand going up to steady the crown. “A falcon.”

  “Horus blesses us.” Ahmose smiled, opening herself to the gods’ glow.

  The High Priest of Amun raised his arms to the sun as the last of the procession drew up around the tomb. The mourners fell silent. “Let the setem priest be awakened!”

  Thutmose stepped forward. Ahmose’s eyes were on his back, broad and strong and straight beneath the wide jeweled collar covering his shoulders. He made the ritual response in a voice that rang off the red walls of the ravine. “The setem priest has risen.”

  The High Priest draped a leopard skin around Thutmose’s shoulders. He did not move, but stared straight ahead as the priest adjusted the skin. He was as untouchable, as unmovable as a god.

  The bearers of the coffin emerged from the crowd. They laid it on the ground, then with great care lifted the lid and raised Amunhotep’s body. It did not look like a man at all; it was a man-shaped bundle, an unfinished statue wrapped in white linen, crowned with a smiling golden mask. They laid it upon a platform of sand. The priests crowded around, fanning incense over the body and singing.

  Awake!

  Be alert as a living one,

  Rise fresh every morning,

  Awake!

  Healthy forever more,

  A thousand thousand thousand times will you awake.

  Awake!

  The gods protect you.

  Protection surrounds you every day.

  Awake!

  Your son Horus has come to raise you

  You will fly forever as a falcon flies.

  Awake!

  Awake, Ahmose whispered in her heart. Father I never knew, awake and live forever. A pang of regret stabbed her heart. She had never known Amunhotep as Thutmose had. Surely any man who was so loved by her husband had been worth knowing. She imagined her father striding through the sky, laughing with pleasure as his funerary rites were carried out by the mortals below. I hope I will please you as Great Royal Wife, Father. I hope I will be a good wife to your friend, and make you proud.

  The singing done, the body blessed, Amunhotep was returned to his simple inner coffin. To the renewed cries of the mourners, a troop of priests emerged from the darkness of the open tomb bearing an intricately decorated outer coffin, carved and adorned with lapis, carnelian, and gold. They lifted its lid and nestled Amunhotep inside; the wails of the mourners surged. The priests stood the brilliant coffin upright against the tomb’s outer wall. It was splendid. The artisan had done well, capturing Amunhotep’s features perfectly in gold and enamel. The way the morning sun caught the gilding made Ahmose’s heart swell. To be immortal, to live forever in happiness like a god. To be golden like Re.

  When they butchered the bull, Ahmose looked away. She pitied the poor creature, but its strength would go into her father’s ka. It must be done. Eyes closed, she heard the axe fall and looked in time to see Tut receive the bull’s foreleg. He stepped up without hesitating, laid the leg at Amunhotep’s feet. “Strength will be yours as you live forever.” He turned back and took the bull’s hot heart from the priest’s hands. Blood ran down his arms, trickled off his elbows to stain his white kilt. He hoisted the heart so all could see it, then offered it, too, to Amunhotep. “Strength will be yours forever.”

  The high priest shouted in a voice like a snapping sail, “Who is the son who loves Djeserkare, the king, Amunhotep, he who has gone to live forever with the gods?”

  “I am the son who loves Djeserkare, the king, Amunhotep,” Thutmose replied.

  “Then take the netjerwy in your hand, and raise him back to life.”

  The priest held a carved tray of white stone. Ahmose craned her neck to see past Tut’s shoulder as he took hold of the sacred metal rod. It was a bit longer than a man’s foot, split into two hooks at one end. It was made from a fallen star, so Ahmose had heard. Miraculous, astounding, that a star could be made of metal, that mortals could forge it into this sacred rod in her husband’s hand. A whisper of envy was in her ear. To touch a piece of the heavens was a wondrous thing.

  “Horus comes,” the priests chanted in one voice. “Horus comes to split the mouth of Waser with his little finger!”

  Tut stepped to the coffin, the netjerwy held out before him like a divine offering. He hesitated, and Ahmose’s heart burned cold. She was sure he had forgotten the words. Then he turned his head slightly, and she could see the barest glimpse of his face. Sorrow was written plain there. This was not just his king who Tut sent to the afterlife, but his dearest friend. She wanted to run to her husband, to offer him what comfort she could. Instead, she squeezed her hands into fists and prayed.

  Tut’s voice rose with a power that made her suck in her breath. “With gods’ iron of Upper Egypt, with gods’ iron of Lower Egypt, I, Horus, split open your mouth for you, O Waser the King. Breathe in the ankh, the breath of life. Awake, and live forever!” He touched the netjerwy to Amunhotep’s golden lips.

  The crowd in the valley shouted its acclaim. Ahmose stared around her. Nobles’ wives jumped and sang. The mourners clapped, danced, raised their voices in an ululating cry. Priests wept. Thutmose had come through the ceremony as boldly as any man born to rule. She longed to run to his side, so he could sweep her into his arms and spin her in a circle. But she remembered Meritamun’s words on the barge. She walked
to her husband slowly, all possession and calm, before Mutnofret could reach him first. She allowed herself only a small smile.

  “You did very well.”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  “You are Pharaoh now in truth, Tut. Look at them. They all love you!”

  “The ceremony was only my first test. My real trial will come on the battle fields.”

  Ahmose shivered.

  “Don’t worry,” Tut said. “I’ll keep the fighting as far from our borders as I can.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow night, my love.” He stopped short. There was expectation in his voice.

  Ahmose wanted to ask him to come to her bed that night. She wanted to want him in that way. She remembered the way his hands had made her feel, the way he had laid her onto the bed so gently. But she remembered Aiya, too, and could not make herself speak the words. Instead, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I will pray to all the gods for your safety.”

  “So will I.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THUTMOSE WAS GONE FOR BUHEN only two days when Mutnofret paid a visit to the rooftop pavilion. She arrived unannounced, brushing past Ineni, ignoring the steward’s protests. She sank down on Ahmose’s cushions, stirring the air around her face with a fan of green feathers. “Spinning on the rooftop just like a rekhet woman. How quaint,” she said sweetly. “How does the season find you, dear sister?”

  “Well enough.”

  “You’re not planning on weaving your own cloth and sewing your own dresses, are you?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be silly. Spinning helps me concentrate, that’s all. I do my best thinking when I am spinning.” Ahmose finished her twist and laid aside spindle and distaff. She brushed her hands together to rid them of clinging flax fibers. “Shall I fetch you something cool to drink? You look very sweaty.”

  “That would be most kind. And have your woman bring me some salted fish to eat. I crave salt so; it is unbearable.”

  “Cravings? So you did conceive before our husband left.”

  For an answer, Mutnofret smiled. She looked truly happy; this was not just a sly cat’s grin. Ahmose could not help but give a small smile in return. Mutnofret had been so miserable and angry since their marriage was announced. If a child would bring her sister real happiness, then Ahmose could not be entirely dismayed. Motherhood might mellow the second wife, the way whelping a litter often mellowed a fierce bitch. Besides, the baby might be a girl.

  “I only just found out a few days ago. I wanted to wait to tell you until I could be certain. Oh! But I can see you are still not pregnant.”

  Ahmose followed Mutnofret’s downward glance. The knot of her menstrual belt was visible under the linen of her gown, rumpling the fabric. She tugged at the garment as if to conceal her failure.

  “No matter,” Mutnofret went on. “You are still young. I came to ask whether you would like my help at court while our husband is away.”

  All of Ahmose’s instincts shrieked at her to reject the offer. Mutnofret would seize the opportunity to make her look like a fool before as many people as could be managed. But she saw again Mutnofret leaping to her feet in the throne room the day Amunhotep died, shivering with shock. Could she deny her sister a share in the life she had always expected? Yes, yes! Her heart shouted. Deny her; send her away!

  But the eyes inside her, the eyes of her ka, saw Mutnofret’s eyes red from crying, and guilt overwhelmed her. Dimly, she heard herself say, “If you wish. I shall be glad of your company.” She shook her head to still her heart’s anger; disbelief and rage howled from within her own ka. She masked the gesture by brushing at the air as if warding off gnats, though none were near. Stupid, stupid, stupid, cried her fast-pounding heart.

  Ahmose said, “Did you hear the rumor from the House of Women? Baketamun is also with child.”

  Mutnofret pursed her lips. Her eyes narrowed. “No, I did not hear. That is good news.”

  But what could Mutnofret possibly fear? Baketamun was not a wife, nor even a king’s daughter. Her child would not be royal, and therefore not an heir to compete with Mutnofret’s offspring. Unless, of course, Thutmose decided to be as unorthodox as his predecessor in matters of inheritance. It was a troubling thought, even for Ahmose. Would her Tut choose a friend or a soldier to succeed him on the throne, rather than a child of his own blood? He would have more right, greater precedent, than any Pharaoh who had come before. The nobles might accept such a thing once -- but twice? No, not Tut. He would never do it, Ahmose told herself sternly. Then, Would he?

  “So her baby will arrive at the same time as yours,” Ahmose said.

  “Do you think Thutmose is the father?”

  “Mutnofret!” Ahmose stared at her sister. True, the Pharaoh often allowed his most important guests access to the harem, but it was the height of incivility to imply that any harem woman carried a child that was not the king’s.

  “Well? Thutmose often visited the House before he was the Pharaoh. Why should he not permit his friends…?”

  “Baketamun was your friend! How could you be so coarse?”

  Mutnofret sighed. “Ahmose, you are so simple sometimes. The world is not the way you think it, all propriety and rules and…and maat.”

  “What in the name of Mut is that supposed to mean?”

  “Real life is not like the stories. First King's Daughters can be set aside, and women in the king’s harem can have children sired by men other than the king.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to…”

  “You know, you know.” She sighed again, looking away, frowning. “I’m sorry, Ahmose, truly. I did not come here to fight. I don’t want to fight with you. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

  “I know, Mutnofret. This…arrangement…is difficult for you. For me, too. You were raised to be the Great Royal Wife, and I – with my gifts, I could have been a priestess. That is what I always wanted to do, you know. I wish I still could.”

  “I did not know. You never told me.” Mutnofret took her hand. It had been so long since her sister had touched her in kindness that Ahmose’s eyes filled with tears. “You would have made a good priestess.”

  “Wouldn’t it be a lovely thing? The temples are so peaceful. Not like the court at all.”

  “Tell me, priestess, what should I do to be sure my child is healthy, and a boy?”

  Ahmose smiled. “Go to Hathor’s sanctuary at Ipet-Isut. Leave an offering of cow’s milk, and pray to the goddess. Then take a bull calf’s meat to Khnum’s shrine. That should please him. They will both hear your prayers – Hathor to protect the child, and Khnum to shape him into a male.”

  “I will do that. I will tell the gods Ahmose sent me to them. Perhaps they will listen doubly hard, if they know I have your blessing.”

  Week followed week, the Inundation bringing higher waters and hotter days. The smell of water hung always in the air. The insects became nearly as miserable to bear as the heat. Ahmose’s pavilion was curtained now in loose-woven linen, sheer enough to let some semblance of a breeze in but tight enough to keep out the worst of the biting flies. Mutnofret appeared daily at court, watching the proceedings without a word, but ready with good advice whenever Ahmose asked. She was careful to ask often, though Ahmose frequently found herself wondering whether a linen screen could be woven to keep Mutnofret away, too, like the gnats and flies. The second wife could be unpredictable at the best of times, and pregnancy and Akhet combined to make her moods and her tongue sharp.

  Akhet was a troubling time for the court. With the fields flooded and Thutmose too occupied with war to build his monuments, many hands remained idle, and not only rekhet, but nobles as well. More disputes and petitions came before the throne now than at any other time of the year. Ineni and the other stewards did a fine job filtering out all but the direst conflicts, referring a great deal of them back to local juries. It was a tiring business, though, adjudicating disputes over land or cattle or trade goods. Ah
mose was often so exhausted by her work in court that she had small enough energy for reading dreams. Mutnofret hardly seemed to fare better. She was sick most mornings, and had taken to sleeping on her roof – like a rekhet woman, Ahmose was amused to note – soothed by the night’s cooler breezes.

  Thutmose sent many letters from Buhen. They were addressed only to Ahmose. She had no idea whether he also sent word to his second wife, and Ahmose did not think it wise to ask. In any case, Nofret never mentioned any letters from their husband. Rather than risk hurting her feelings, Ahmose asked Ineni to add Mutnofret’s shenu – her name surrounded by the formal royal ring – to the beginning of each letter. The steward did a fair imitation of Tut’s hand. Once the notes had been doctored, Ahmose shared the letters with Mutnofret when she came to the rooftop pavilion to visit.

  Buhen is beautiful, one read. The fortress here is strong. Many legions of men, well fed, plenty of horses, spears, and bows. No sign yet of the Kushites. I am hopeful.

  Met with Kushite warlord yesterday, read another. Black as night and mean as a river horse. Made threats, would not be consoled. Thinks to take the river, all the way up to the cataracts, for his own. We will teach him his lessons.

  One made her shiver:

  Surprise attack this morning by Kushite force while we inspected crop fields. Came upon us from behind, out of a canyon. Were pinned against river. A near thing. Reinforcements came from the fortress and surrounded their rear. We crushed them under our heels. Warlord killed by my own spear. Kush will think hard before coming against Egypt again.

  And there were more, and still more. The conflict seemed to be rising in intensity, building to some terrible climax. Ahmose watched for Tut’s letters with a curious disturbance in her heart, a fierce pressure of mingled yearning and dread. Would a scroll arrive from a steward, informing her of the Pharaoh’s death at Kushite hands? No – not Thutmose, the greatest soldier in all the land. Never.