The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “What happened?” Mutnofret was beside them now under the fig branches. Ahmose passed the boy to his mother.

  “A vulture,” Ahmose said. “It bit him.”

  “A what?”

  “There was a dead hare, and vultures came.” Ahmose glanced at Hatshepsut, who stood naked and rocking on her heels, hands clasped behind her back. Better not to mention that Ramose had been racing the King's Daughter. “Ramose ran toward it before anybody could stop him. A vulture landed near the hare, and the bird bit him.”

  Mutnofret stared at her, eyes wide, mouth dropped open in shock.

  “He needs a physician,” Ahmose said. “It’s bleeding badly.”

  Mutnofret glanced at the stain on Ahmose’s dress, nodded. Awkwardly, she took Ramose in her arms and hurried down the path.

  Ahmose knelt once more and grabbed her daughter, hugged her fiercely. If Hatshepsut had reached the carcass first…but no. No, of course. Ramose’s fate was not Hatshepsut’s. An icy hand clutched at her heart, and she let her daughter go. The King's Daughter wandered to the path, peered after Mutnofret, and said nothing.

  Ahmose became aware of miserable sniffling nearby. It was Wadjmose. His head hung low, and now and then he brushed at his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Come here,” she said to him, holding out her arms. He drifted to her without looking up. She pulled him close. “You are not to blame, Wadjmose.”

  He shook his head and sniffed.

  “Tell me what happened. How did you find the hare?”

  The boy, struggling to marshal his voice, said nothing for a long time. He tugged at his sidelock, kicked his toes in the dust of the fig grove. At last he said, “Amunmose saw a hawk fly by. He said it looked like it had something big, but it couldn’t fly with it. We went after it – you know, the way it flew – to see if we could catch it.” He paused, wiping his tears. “We saw it drop the hare. Then the hawk flew away. Some of the children wanted to go get the hare so we could say we caught it, but I didn’t think it was safe. I said no.” He looked at naked Hatshepsut. As if she could feel her brother-cousin’s eyes on her, the girl turned back from the path and held his gaze with her own bright black eyes. “Hatshepsut ran for it, and I couldn’t keep Ramose back. You know he always follows her everywhere. Then…then…”

  “It’s all right. This is not your fault, sweet boy. Now I need to change out of this dress, and then we can go visit Ramose. I suppose the physician is sewing up his arm right now.”

  “Sewing him?”

  “Just like a rag doll,” she said, and though she tried to make her voice cheery for the sake of the children, she thought of Opet’s torn doll – She’s dead! – and shivered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “HOW IS HE TODAY?” AHMOSE asked.

  Twosre shook her head and looked away. “Not well, Great Lady. The fever has grown worse. I was at his bedside this afternoon when they changed the bandage on his arm, and the smell…”

  Numb, Ahmose nodded. It was no more than she expected, yet it still tore at her to know that innocent Ramose, soft little Ramose, suffered. She allowed herself to hope, though. Perhaps he would not be taken by Anupu. Perhaps a warning to the Pharaoh was enough for the gods. Perhaps the boy’s life would be spared. “How is my sister?”

  “She is frightened, of course, but bearing up.” Twosre paused, watching Ahmose’s face for a long moment, and then said, “I do not think she blames the King's Daughter, if that’s what you are asking.”

  It was what she was asking. Ahmose was comforted to know that Hatshepsut would not be blamed. This was not the girl’s fault, after all. If blame lay anywhere, it was with the king. He had tempted the gods by disobeying their wishes, and now she feared Ramose would pay the price.

  “Has the Pharaoh been to see Ramose?”

  “Ah, Great Lady. He has hardly left the boy’s side the whole two days since Ramose was bitten.”

  Ahmose knew she should go to the boy’s bedside, but she felt too angry, too frightened, to look her husband in the eye. “Is there any hope he will recover, Twosre?”

  Twosre fell quiet, looking out over Ahmose’s garden. Darkness was gathering over Waset. Bats piped from the branches of the trees and insects murmured among the flowers. At length she said, “I think it is unlikely, Great Lady. I am sorry.”

  The words unseated Ahmose’s fear. “I will go to him tonight.”

  It was a long and daunting walk across the courtyard, lit now by the first touches of starlight from a deep purple sky. The door to Mutnofret’s chamber was open slightly to allow the breeze inside. She pushed it wide and went in.

  The antechamber of the second wife’s apartments had been converted into a sickroom. A small bed was set up in the center, and Ramose lay sprawled atop it, his linen-wrapped arm held stiffly out across the mattress, his small body bent and shining with sweat. He seemed to be asleep, though his head tossed restlessly. Thutmose and Mutnofret sat on stools beside the bed, their backs to the door. Two serving girls worked palm fans up and down, up and down, stirring and cooling the air over the child’s body. A musician played soft temple hymns on a harp in one corner.

  Ahmose came to Tut’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder. He jerked, as if he had been dozing, and looked up at her. “Ahmoset.”

  “How is he?” she asked, although she knew the answer already.

  “Not well,” Mutnofret said, and her voice was thick with exhaustion. “The wound has festered, though they packed it with a poultice and chanted spells to chase the demons away.”

  Tut shook his head slowly, side to side like a hound searching for a scent. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Have you been to the temple?”

  Tut made no reply for a long time. His eyes wandered over Ramose’s body, the small chest, the thin legs. “No,” he said at last. “I have not left this room, except to see to my own needs.”

  “I will go,” she said. “I’ll bring any offerings you wish me to take. Mutnofret?”

  She meant only to ask whether Mutnofret wanted anything in particular left at a shrine, but the second wife stood, slowly and carefully, as if she were an old, old woman. “I’ll come with you. I need to pray.”

  They waited in the palace courtyard under the night sky for a chariot to take them to the temple. There were guards nearby, standing at a respectful distance, voices low so as not to disturb Egypt’s grieving ladies.

  Mutnofret breathed the fresh air deeply and pulled off her wig. There was no one to see but the guards; Ahmose supposed she was beyond caring about propriety, anyhow.

  Mutnofret ran a hand over days-old stubble and sighed. “I needed to get out of that room, the gods forgive me.”

  “I imagine you did. I think the gods will understand.”

  “I am a terrible mother for leaving my child. He could die at any time, but I had to do something other than sit and stare.”

  It chilled Ahmose, to hear how matter-of-factly Mutnofret spoke of her son’s death. If Hatshepsut lay in a fever, Ahmose did not believe she could face it so calmly. But Mutnofret had hardly slept for two days, and lack of sleep could do strange things to any person’s mind.

  “You are not a terrible mother,” she said, squeezing Mutnofret’s hand. It was clammy, unresponsive. She let it drop again.

  “He’s going to die,” Mutnofret said flatly. “What am I to do? What will I do without him?”

  Ahmose wanted to say, You do not know that. He may yet survive. But she knew it. She had known it the moment the vulture landed. Anupu had marked Ramose for his own. Amun’s will would be done.

  “There is no mortuary temple for my sons.” Mutnofret’s voice was low and monotonous. “I will have to lay him in my own tomb, until one can be built.”

  “If he dies, we will build him a tomb. The gods will know where to find him.”

  Mutnofret nodded, dull and dark. “Yes. They will know where to find him.”

  “Mutnofret, I think you need sleep more than you need to go to
Ipet-Isut. Look at yourself; you can hardly stand.”

  Hooves popped against paving stones. The chariot swung into view. Mutnofret watched it draw close, and said, “I will sit in the chariot. It will be easier than standing the whole way. But I need to go to the temple before Ramose dies.” There was an urgency in her voice now.

  Ahmose raised no more protests. She helped her sister into the chariot.

  Mutnofret sat, her back propped against the side of the vehicle, her head leaning back and bumping whenever the wheels rolled over a rough patch of road. The driver walked the horses, and they rode to the Holy House in silence.

  Ahmose held their offerings wrapped in fine red linen and watched her sister’s face. Mutnofret had aged so much in the past three years; the finest net of lines spread out from the corners of the second wife’s eyes, maturing her face but marring her prettiness not one bit. Mutnofret’s beauty was a serene one now, where before, when they were younger and more at odds, it had been a fiery beauty. She was still like a goddess, though, with clear skin and penetrating dark eyes. No passage of years would ever make Mutnofret anything but beautiful. Ahmose wanted to touch her, to embrace her, to forgive her for all the wrongs of the past, now that Mutnofret was so delicate and fine in her sorrow. Instead, she clutched the bundle of meat and bread to her chest and turned her eyes toward Ipet-Isut.

  The guards at the Holy House’s gates allowed them to drive the chariot all the way to the two great temples at the heart of the complex. When they arrived at the forecourt, Ahmose helped Mutnofret down from the platform and steadied her while she trembled. Then Mutnofret took the bundle and led the way into the dark heart of Mut’s temple herself.

  “Wait for me, please,” Mutnofret said when they reached the doorway to Hathor’s sanctuary – Hathor, the protector of mothers. “I would be alone with the goddess.” Mutnofret disappeared into the black bosom of the sanctuary.

  Ahmose sat on the floor of the temple, her back against a wall alive with painted figures. The temple was quiet, deserted in the night. Ahmose sat very still, feeling the ache of exhaustion in her limbs and heart. She closed her eyes, breathed, quiet and still.

  And in a moment or an hour – she could sense no passage of time – she saw again, on the dark side of her closed eyes, Mut walking on the river of light, carrying in her arms the boy Hatshepsut.

  Why? Ahmose asked, bold and challenging. She should be afraid of questioning the goddess, especially here in Ipet-Isut, in Mut’s own home. But grief had taken her beyond fear.

  When Mut’s mouth opened, Ahmose’s own voice came out. The will of the gods shall be done.

  Don’t do this to us. We will not survive it.

  And now it was Twosre’s voice, figs and earth: Do you serve weak gods?

  Ahmose sagged in the dream-river, bending this time not under a weight of worship, but of sorrow.

  Mut bent forward, forward, until her shining face was a hand’s breadth before Ahmose’s own. She smiled lovingly. She reached a white wing forward, and it became an arm, a hand that pointed a finger, a finger that touched the surface of the Iteru. The water stilled, as smooth and clear as a mirror. Ahmose watched the water. Her own face looked back at her, and now beside her reflection was Thutmose, and Hatshepsut. Just beyond them she saw the faces of Mutnofret and the boys. And beyond them, all of Egypt, faces as innumerable and precious as stars.

  It is for these, my beloved children, that I raise up the prince with nine kas.

  Though her eyes were closed, Ahmose blinked. And saw again the red veils, the comforting bed, the nine striding boys, smiling at her, knowing her. Nine kas. Hatshepsut was more than even Ahmose had suspected. With nine kas, she could be anywhere, everywhere. She would have power unknowable. Ahmose’s heart wavered, unable to fully understand.

  Nine kas? My child?

  Eight male, one female, and each one pleasing to the gods. As you are pleasing to the gods, God’s Wife.

  You cannot call me that, Ahmose said, never knowing where her boldness came from. I was never the God’s Wife.

  On the contrary, child. You were, and are. Did you not lay with my husband Amun to conceive our child, our bringer of the floods, our soul of maat? Our prince?

  My child is a girl, Ahmose said, weeping.

  Mut was amused. Her perfect face shone with her laughter. Believe that if you must.

  I must. The Pharaoh thinks Hatshepsut is a girl. What can I do? I have tried to convince him. He will not believe.

  Nor will he ever believe. And that is why we do this thing.

  Ramose. The name was blood in her mouth, tears in her eyes. Please.

  Mut’s white finger stretched forward again and touched the water. Ripples spread from the place, rings spreading and multiplying, a handful of pebbles thrown into the palace lake. The ripples surged outward, shaking the water as they went. They distorted the world as they passed, broke the surface of the mirror into glimmers of light. All the people of the land were touched by the spreading ring; all the people were shaken. But the first to be shaken was Tut.

  A sigh from the sanctuary opened Ahmose’s eyes. Mutnofret leaned against the door frame, her eyelids fluttering. Ahmose pushed up from the ground stiffly, went to her sister and nudged beneath one arm, holding her up.

  “Let’s go home,” Ahmose said. “You need rest.”

  “No. Help me to the next altar. I will need you to say the prayers now; I am tired. But I will be with you.”

  Ahmose hesitated, torn between appealing to the gods – Perhaps there is still hope – and seeing to her sister’s immediate needs. Mutnofret’s chest quivered. She drew a ragged breath. Ahmose made her decision, took the bundle of offerings from her sister’s hands, and helped her to the next sanctuary door.

  Tut may shake, and Mutnofret may shake, and all of Egypt may shake. But Ahmose would stand at the center of the spreading rings, and for her family’s sake she would not be shaken.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  RAMOSE WAS LAID IN A tiny golden sarcophagus in Mutnofret’s tomb. The sun was high and scolding. Ahmose kept her face turned toward the ground and held tight to Hatshepsut’s hand as Menketra, the High Priest, recited the ceremony to commend the boy’s ka to the gods.

  He had died the same night Ahmose and Mutnofret went to Ipet-Isut. While they prayed in the Holy House, Ramose’s tiny flame flickered out with no one near but his father, the king. They had returned to find the Pharaoh weeping silently over his son’s body. Mutnofret, her face as blank as a statue’s, stared at the scene, then wandered into her bed chamber and fell onto her mattress, still dressed and wigged. Ahmose and Tut undressed her gently while she slept, her body as heavy and formless as silt. She stayed asleep for nearly three days, and when she woke she cried for a week. But now, seventy days later, she watched the ceremony with calm, wistful eyes.

  The tomb lay in a lush green valley not far from Ipet-Isut. A dark rock bluff rose above the entrance, hung with a rank growth of vines, smelling of green life in the afternoon air. It was a good place to await eternity. Ramose’s sweet little ka would be happy here.

  While Menketra recited prayers, a shadow passed over the ground where Ahmose’s eyes rested. Her scalp prickled with foreboding. She tracked the shadow with her eyes: a flying bird, the gentle sound of feathers in the wind. She looked up to the bluff above the tomb’s mouth in time to see a vulture alight, just as it had done before the dead hare in the women’s garden, with a careless shrug of its wings. It looked down on the mourners, its white crest raised, strange obsidian eyes glittering in its naked face. It spread its wings wide and held them, basking in Re’s light, triumphant. Ahmose held her breath. Nekhbet, the vulture goddess, come to see that we finish the job she started.

  Ahmose glanced at Mutnofret. The second wife saw the vulture, too. She looked at it unafraid, a simple question hanging round the black lines of her eyes. Then she looked away again, as if she knew she would receive no answer from this god or any other.

  Hatshepsut, d
ressed properly today in a girl’s long belted tunic, tugged at Ahmose’s hand. She pointed up at the vulture and seemed about to speak, but Ahmose held a finger to her lips. The girl frowned – frowned at her mother, frowned at Ramose’s funeral. She frowned at white Nekhbet, too, as if to say, You took my friend away. Ahmose could feel a storm of words building in the King's Daughter. She looked around for Sitre-In; the nurse swept in and quietly took Hatshepsut away, off to the edge of the crowd, and distracted her by picking flowers to weave into her sidelock.

  “As the Royal Son Ramose journeys into the afterlife, we know that he will be guided by Hathor. He will be with the rising sun each morning, so that we will never forget him.” Menketra finished the rites, and blessed the sarcophagus with salt and oil and ankh. Then it was time to carry Ramose down into the tomb. Tut and the other bearers came forward, lifted the pitiful small golden sarcophagus between them, and stepped over the tomb’s threshold. The darkness swallowed them. The vulture took flight.

  Mutnofret sighed, a desolate sound, a wind in the desert. Wadjmose and Amunmose held onto her two hands, both boys fighting back tears. Ahmose knelt and held out her arms to her nephews. They both leaned into her; she shielded their faces from the gathered nobles while they sniffled and sobbed.

  “Where is he?” Amunmose asked.

  “He is with Waser,” she told him. “It is a wonderful place, always green, because Waser makes all the green things grow. It is never too hot there, and there is always still water for swimming, and lots of good things to eat. And there are many other children for him to play with.”

  “Won’t he miss us?”

  “I am sure he will,” she said, smiling at the boy’s innocence. “And we will miss him, too. But we must be happy for him. He gets to live with all the gods, and he will never have any worries again.”