The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  Now the mud grew thinner, cooler; now it moved so lightly against her skin. The clinging mud washed from her legs. Her dress floated on the water’s surface. Still she pushed forward until the current tugged at her and she wavered against it. The water’s chill surrounded her thighs, pierced the place between her legs. She gasped.

  A figure stood upon the surface of the river, facing away, gazing out toward the red cliffs that marked the boundary of the Black Land. Its hips were wide and curved like the ribs of a harp. Where its feet touched water the stars’ reflections split and ran, sailing downstream, a hundred thousand barges voyaging. It stood upon a river of light.

  The figure turned, perfect face looking down on the creature trembling in the river. Vultures’ wings cradled an infant that glowed like the sun.

  Mut.

  You would know your fate. You have already spoken it. Weeping child, do you never listen?

  Mut’s obsidian eyes closed, a slow, deliberate blink. When they opened, they were as blue as the midday sky. You will bear no sons, Mother of the Pharaoh.

  The goddess took one perfect step toward her, another, another. The stars beneath the divine feet pooled and scurried away with the river’s flow, as if Mut’s brightness shamed them. With each step the goddess took he poor beast in the river sagged lower with the weight of awe, the beautiful burden of worship. Ahmose would have slipped under the water’s surface and drifted away like a star, but the water held her up.

  The goddess bent and placed the child of light in her arms. The creature of the river, this lowly thing, transfixed by glory, held the golden babe close to her heart. She looked into its face. In its eyes were all the floods, all the emergences, all the peace, all the war, all the people of Egypt crying out in sadness and in joy. Its right eye was righteousness, its left, salvation. Its lungs breathed the sweet breath of life. Its tiny fat hand flexed, formed a fist. The river roared, roared in Ahmose’s ears, roared its tribute. The child opened its mouth, and its voice was the river’s voice.

  The bitter cold of her antechamber floor woke Ahmose. The chill had crawled inside her. Every muscle was cramped; her mouth was dry. She lay crumpled in a heap, face pressed against the floor, legs curled, breasts painful against the tiles. The lower portion of her ribs felt bruised; they had dug into the hard tile floor. With shaky arms she raised herself. Her legs tingled as blood flowed back into them.

  She must have exhausted herself. She had prayed so fervently for a reading of Thutmose's dream that she had worn herself out and fallen forward onto the great emblem of Mut worked into the antechamber floor. Her god statues stood mute, looking down on her from the table where she had enshrined them. Nearby, her offering brazier was cold and dark. Greasy ash coated its inner surface. The faintest smell of blackened meat still hung about the room.

  Ahmose had no idea how long she had lain on the floor. Her body was all knots and aches, stiff and clumsy. The tingling in her legs made her totter painfully all the way into her bed chamber, where the barred wall admitted dawn’s pink light. She threw herself onto her bed without undressing, but restful sleep evaded her.

  Massaging the pains out of her arms and legs, Ahmose considered Mut’s message. To look upon the goddess’s face had been more than she could bear. Even now, safe in her bed in the waking world, she felt as though her body might break from the impossible, sweet, terrible strain of worship. She squeezed her eyes shut. She could push away the image of the goddess, but not the image of the child.

  There was no answer here – only more questions. She could not be the mother of the Pharaoh if she would bear no sons. Yet Mut could not lie. What was the riddle here? Would some ill fate befall Mutnofret, so that Ahmose must raise her sister’s child as her own? That seemed most likely, most apt to fit the goddess’s words. And Tut’s dream – who knew? He could have been mistaken about the identity of the dream-mother. It could well be Mutnofret he saw, in spite of his insistence that it was Ahmose. Mutnofret was far more beautiful, but the sisters shared a certain harmony of features. In the dream world they might be mistaken for one another. One who was not god-chosen could not always trust his own interpretation of a dream.

  Lady of sorrow, she called me. That filled her with a stab of fear. If something befell Mutnofret…she would indeed mourn, yes. Mutnofret was her sister, after all, and had once been Ahmose’s friend. Even now, after all their bitter rivalries, to lose her would be the greatest sadness Ahmose could imagine.

  Was this the answer, then? Would Ahmose become mother of the Pharaoh when the heir’s true mother died? No; even that was not clear. Her god-dreams were always as clear as a mirror’s reflection. This one was still a haze; she could discern no meaning at all.

  It is not time to make my move. Not yet. But I mustn’t stop preparations, either. Ineni must be allowed to continue. Until I know for certain what the goddess meant, I must keep on as I have planned. Mutnofret could be hiding any trick at all under her wig, and Ahmose must not be made to look foolish again.

  Suddenly restless despite her aches, Ahmose levered herself up out of bed and shook the weakness out of her legs. It was still too early for many servants to be about. Her own women would still be abed. She wandered out of her hall, hesitating at the foot of the roof-stairs. But no – it was not her pavilion she wanted this morning. She crossed the courtyard and entered the palace proper, wending through corridors only dimly lit by morning's glow. Columns reached golden-hued into the deep blue shadows above her. Servants rustled in the dimmest corners, rousing to their early duties.

  The rear door to the throne room stood barely ajar. She crept up on it, peered into the dense purple dimness of the great hall. From her vantage, to the side of the dais at the room’s head, she could just make out the two gilded thrones and the dim suggestion of the crook and flail standing in their supports.

  Mutnofret had seated herself on the throne of the Great Royal Wife, shrouded in shadows. Her form became truer as the darkness receded. Back straight, chin tipped high, Nofret stared out across the empty room. Her eyes blazed with a distant fire, as though her ka saw a hundred thousand subjects kneeling before her. She raised a hand, graceful and strong as a leopard, pronouncing judgment upon nothing.

  Quietly, Ahmose backed away from the door. Her heart turned to a sharp blade. She could be the passive younger sister no more. Soon she must put her hand on Mutnofret’s shoulder, and her grip must be unbreakable.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  YOUR MOTHER’S TIME TO DEPART grows near. Her breathing grows ever more difficult. I fear she will not live another month.

  Ahmose read Nefertari’s letter with the dull ache of regret smoldering in her heart. Meritamun had been a great ruler, if a distant mother. Her death would be a loss to Egypt. And poor Nefertari – she would outlive every one of her children, it seemed.

  Ahmose rolled the papyrus carefully and laid it on the table beside her couch. A few more were stacked there: a week’s worth of notes from her grandmother. She had been corresponding with Nefertari for months now, sending the news of the palace up the river to the old woman’s estate. It was not purely for the pleasure of it. Ineni would arrive soon to collect the letters.

  “Mutnofret’s woman is here.” Twosre stood in the threshold between bedroom and antechamber, a hand on her angular hip. Her stance said, Shall I send her away with a kick to her rump?

  Relations had not improved between Ahmose and Mutnofret. As Mutnofret’s belly grew larger, so did her sense of entitlement. She was more vocal at court, often speaking up before Ahmose had a chance. Thutmose had noticed. His eyebrows would raise sometimes when Mutnofret jumped in with her judgments before the Great Royal Wife had been consulted. Mutnofret no longer maintained her proper demeanor in public dealings, but a king's daughter and the mother of the Pharaoh's unborn child could hardly be chastised in front of the court. Whether Tut ever reprimanded her privately, Ahmose did not know. She often wanted to ask, but balked at the thought of looking so weak in her husband’s ey
es.

  Instead she avoided Mutnofret entirely. Before she left her rooms, she sent Twosre into the courtyard as a scout to report on Mutnofret’s whereabouts. If the second wife was lounging there – as she often did, with one eye on Ahmose’s hall – Ahmose would take another route, or retreat to her garden to wait Mutnofret out. When Ahmose took to her roof-top pavilion and Mutnofret came to call, she was politely but firmly denied access; Ineni gave her one excuse after another until at last she gave up and went away.

  So it was that the sisters hardly saw one another at all outside of court. It seemed to Ahmose that Mutnofret’s belly grew in leaps, noticeably larger and more accusatory at each successive court session. During the course of her pregnancy Mutnofret had become a stranger to Ahmose, an invader in the palace, but she seemed content to harry Ahmose only now and again. For the most part she left her alone, apparently happy to have confined Ahmose to solitude and to inflict occasional embarrassment at court.

  Never before has the second wife sent a servant directly to Ahmose’s rooms.

  Ahmose stood and gestured to Twosre, a command to bring the servant. Twosre was gone only a moment, and returned trailing the woman Sitamun.

  “How is the second wife?”

  The skinny woman bounced on the balls of her feet. She looked like an undersized carp jigging in the net. “Oh, Great Lady! You must come at once. Lady Mutnofret’s pains have begun!”

  “Where is she?”

  “In her rooms. I have sent for a physician already, but my lady calls for you. Please hurry!”

  A clap sounded outside the entrance to her apartments. Ahmose sent Twosre to answer it, then laid a hand on Sitamun’s shoulder. “It will be well. The goddess Tawaret is with my sister.” She was not entirely certain whether the words were meant to soothe Sitamun or herself.

  “Your steward,” Twosre announced. Ineni was close behind her. Quick as always, he had caught the room's tense atmosphere; his eyebrows arched in a silent question.

  Ahmose shook her head slightly. “There is no time for us now, dear Ineni. My sister’s child is on the way. These are for you.” She scooped Nefertari’s scrolls up and pressed them into his hands. “Come to me tonight, please. We have much to discuss. Now, Sitamun, go back to Mutnofret and tell her I am coming. I will make an offering to Tawaret first. I will be as quick as I can.”

  Twosre caught Ahmose’s eye with a flat stare. “You look pale, Great Lady.”

  “I am well.”

  “Do you want me to accompany you, Lady?”

  “No, thank you. I will manage on my own.” The door shut softly behind Ineni and the anxious Sitamun. “It will be good for me, I am sure, to see another birth. One that goes well,” she said firmly, as if her words could make it so.

  Ahmose stood for a long time outside Mutnofret’s door. Even through the thick limestone walls, the muffled sounds beyond the door had a feeling of urgency, of strain. She could make out no words, but the rustle and bump, the murmur, the tension of the half-formed sounds brought her close to panic. Mut's dream-words prodded at her heart, scrabbled for a hold upon her ka. Lady of sorrow. Mother of the Pharaoh, you will bear no sons. She would not let the words in. She would not! Mutnofret would be well. All would be well. Ahmose breathed deeply, rubbed her fingers back and forth over the Tawaret charm she had tucked into her blue linen belt. Finally, before the last thread of her courage could snap, she pushed the door open.

  The anteroom was empty. The door to Mutnofret’s bedroom hung half open, and the forms of many women passed back and forth across the gap. Ahmose made for it with the pounding heart of a soldier going into battle.

  The moment she was inside Mutnofret’s bedroom, the scene of Aiya’s death sprang up before her eyes. The frightened urgency of the women was the same. The dense air of dread was the same. The same holed seat sat in one corner. Was Mutnofret in some trouble, then, too? Would she also die under a hideous knife? No. No, it will be different. All will be well.

  “Ahmose.” Mutnofret’s voice called from somewhere in the press of women. She went toward it.

  Nofret lay on her bed, naked, wigless, eyes shut. Her stomach was enormous, a great, swollen thing painted all around with dark lines where the skin had stretched. A midwife bent over the second wife to dab a cool cloth against her cheeks, and Nofret tossed her head. She called for Ahmose again.

  “I am here, sister.” A hundred painful thoughts had run through Ahmose’s mind before she entered these rooms. As she had prayed to Tawaret, she had wondered whether Mutnofret had only summoned her here to play another cruel game with her, to renew her fear of birth. But now – now, seeing Mutnofret in such distress, so helpless, she wanted only to ease her sister’s fears. She took her hand and squeezed.

  “You must try to relax, Great Lady.” A woman bent over Mutnofret, patting her forehead with another damp cloth. Well into the season of Peret, the days were cool and pleasant; yet here in the confines of Mutnofret’s room, with so many women crowded around the bed, the air was stifling. “Relax everything, right down to your bones.”

  Mutnofret’s stomach tensed, heaving; she groaned deep in her throat. Her hand tightened around Ahmose’s fingers.

  “What is going on? Tell me what’s happening,” Ahmose demanded.

  “She has begun her labor, Great Lady. The baby is making his way to the door.”

  “I know that. What is it doing to my sister?”

  “Tiring her; that is all.”

  “When will the baby be out?”

  “I do not know, Great Lady,” the midwife said. With a shiver, Ahmose recognized the same woman who had presided over Aiya’s doomed delivery. “Only the gods know. Some babies come very quickly; a few hours. Others take days.”

  “Days?” Her head spun at the thought of any woman remaining in such a state for days.

  “The second wife is young. This is her first child. I think perhaps he will not arrive until late in the night-time.”

  Mutnofret panted. Her arms went limp. The pain had subsided, it seemed. Ahmose began to sweat from the heat of so many bodies.

  “Are so many women necessary right now, if the baby won’t arrive until night?”

  The midwife looked annoyed at so many questions, but Ahmose was the Great Royal Wife, and could not be brushed away. “No,” she said hesitantly. “Your sister, Great Lady. She ordered that we all attend her.”

  “She needs fresh air.” We all do, gods know. “Clear some space.”

  “She may walk, Great Lady. It would do her good. It will speed the baby’s coming. We have tried to coax her out of bed, but she refused.”

  “Get up, Mutnofret.”

  Nofret groaned and shook her head side to side.

  “Mutnofret, you cannot stay like this until night. Get up and walk with me in your garden. You should be in a proper birthing pavilion, not here.” She tugged on Nofret’s hand. Slowly, carefully, still with her eyes squeezed shut, Mutnofret sat, then stood. The midwife helped Ahmose guide her to the garden door. The fresh air roused her; her eyes opened and she took several deep, shaking breaths. “Why is she in her rooms and not in the women’s garden?”

  “Great Lady, she refused to go.”

  “But the birthing pavilion is in the women’s garden.”

  “Of course, Great Lady, but…”

  “It’s improper for the second wife to give birth squatting on her bed like a rekhet. Set up a pavilion out here, in Mutnofret’s own garden,” Ahmose said, struggling not to shout. Why should she have to tell these women their business?

  The women buzzed, then one spoke up. “Great Lady, it will take time, and we haven’t the supplies.”

  “Do you know my steward Ineni?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Tell him Ahmose commands him to procure the supplies this very hour. He will make it happen. Jump! The Great Royal Wife has given you orders!”

  The midwife offered to walk with them, but Ahmose waved her off. Mutnofret seemed to be regaining some st
rength, now that she was out in the cool garden air. Ahmose tucked herself under Nofret’s arm; they took steady, even steps back and forth through the garden. It was a pretty place, peaceful and private, if rather small and confined. Mutnofret took measured breaths. Now that she had a task her mind seemed to focus and her fear dispel.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said weakly.

  “Of course.”

  “I know…I know you dislike birth.”

  Ahmose said nothing.

  “It means much to me that you are here.” She stopped abruptly, groaning.

  “Lean on me,” Ahmose said. Mutnofret sagged into her. The full weight nearly buckled Ahmose’s knees. She stood very still while the pain took its course, then subsided. Mutnofret straightened, and Ahmose bent her knees one after the other to ease her own pain.

  “I do think the walking helps. At least it gives me something else to think about.” Mutnofret tried a tiny laugh.

  “Have you thought of a name?” Ahmose asked, a further distraction.

  “I haven’t wanted to. I thought to name him before he was born might curse him.”

  Or her. Ahmose smiled. “With all the praying you have done, I doubt this baby could be cursed.”

  They walked a long time. The midwife brought chairs outside so they could rest, but always chivvied Mutnofret back to her feet after a few minutes. Ahmose began to grow tired, and the midwife’s assistant took her place, propping Nofret up, supporting her through the pains.

  “I am glad you came, Great Lady,” the midwife said as they watched the scene in the garden. “I believe we never would have gotten her out of that bed. It is dangerous to delay labor in that manner. So many things can go wrong.”

  Ahmose did not want to think about that.

  The afternoon stretched on. At last, poles and bolts of cloth arrived. Gratefully, Ahmose set about directing the servants in setting up a makeshift pavilion. Soon its walls were waving gently in the cool breeze.