The skin on Ahmose’s arms raised into gooseflesh – a prickle of foreboding. “If we are to be near-equals, and both of us queens, who will bear Thutmose’s heir?”
Meritamun looked steadily into her daughter’s eyes. “That will be for you to decide.”
FOUR
Ahmose took the spindles and distaffs from Aiya’s arms and helped her sit in the shade of the olive tree. The girl was Ahmose’s dearest friend, a pretty, shy, golden young thing. Aiya was the daughter of a foreign king far to the north; she had been given to the Pharaoh as a peace offering three years ago, along with casks of wine, animal skins, horses, and chests of copper and gold. Aiya seldom spoke of life in the savage north. It must have been a terrible place, and her father a beast of a man. What kind of people sent their daughters to distant lands as gifts?
Surely life in the Pharaoh’s harem was better than life in her savage homeland. Aiya seemed happy enough. She was chatty – with Ahmose, at least – and was the best spinner in the House of Women, despite her young age. It was Aiya who had taught Ahmose to spin, and they often passed their afternoons together beneath the largest olive tree in the garden, laughing and gossiping while they dropped their spindles in the shade.
The girl spoke the Egyptian tongue fairly well. Her accent was thick, but she had picked up the language quickly. She wore Egyptian clothing, loved Egyptian music and sang with a pure, clear voice. The only concession she refused to grant Egypt was her hair. She flatly refused to shave her head and wear a proper wig. It sometimes made her the target of snide remarks in the women’s quarters, but Ahmose loved Aiya’s golden hair, and often combed her fingers through it, weaving it with flowers while they passed their hours in the garden.
Aiya was also pregnant – hugely so – and proud of her unborn child. She was certain it was a boy. She would bear the son of a Pharaoh, the last of Amunhotep’s children. The girl was just fourteen, only a year older than Ahmose, but already eager for motherhood.
“I heard you are soon queen,” Aiya said, playing with the spindle in her lap.
“You heard rightly, I’m afraid. Mutnofret hasn’t spoken to me in the two days since our mother made the announcement.”
“Poor Mutnofret.”
Ahmose propped her distaff against her hip.
“I suppose she has every right to be angry with me, although I didn’t choose this for myself. I would undo it if I could.”
Aiya shook her head. “She should be angry with mother. Ahmose is not for blaming.”
“I know you’re right, but if I were in her place I think I might feel the same way.” Ahmose licked her fingers and twisted her flax fibers, pulling them smoothly away from the distaff and securing them to her spindle. Her threads weren’t always perfect, but they were usually even and strong. Some day she would spin as well as Aiya, with threads as fine and strong as a spider’s web. She’d had plenty of practice lately. Spinning relaxed her, allowed her mind to focus. It seemed Ahmose had done nothing but spin since the Pharaoh died.
“When is wedding?”
“Ten days,” Ahmose said, concentrating on the weight and speed of her spindle instead of on the specter of her wedding. “I hope you’ll sit beside me at the feast.”
“If baby is not coming!”
“I can’t wait to meet your son. Have you thought of a name yet?”
Aiya’s smile was shy. “How you say it in Egyptian?” She lapsed into her native tongue, and after all the time they’d spent together, sharing secrets and stories, Ahmose understood the words well enough. “Of all the great men, he is first.”
“Hatshepsu.” Ahmose gave her the Egyptian word. “It’s a good name, Aiya. Very strong. Perfect for the son of a Pharaoh.”
Aiya beamed, her lovely, pale eyes on her spindle. At last she said, “You should visit Mutnofret, tell her your heart.”
“I’ve been afraid to talk to her. She must be so hurt and so angry. I don’t think I can bear to see her in such pain.” Or to face her rage.
“She needs her sister.”
Perhaps it was true. For all Mutnofret’s fierce temper, she had always been close to Ahmose. There was no one Mutnofret loved or trusted more than her sister.
Aiya should be a priestess, not a harem woman. She always knew exactly what to say. “Maybe you’re right, Aiya. Mutnofret needs me now. I’ll go see her this evening. Gods protect a fool, but I’ll give it a try.”
***
Mutnofret received Ahmose graciously, but her eyes were puffy and red beneath fresh, neatly drawn kohl. They made their awkward greetings, both of them preched tensely on the edges of the ebony stools in Mutnofret’s elegant room. A dish of fragrant figs lay untouched on the table between them. A tiny, silent fly circled the figs.
“I had no idea this would happen,” Ahmose said, dejected.
“I know. It’s not your fault.”
“I went to see our mother. I asked her to take back her decision.”
Mutnofret looked hopeful for a moment. Reluctantly, Ahmose shook her head.
Mutnofret’s mouth turned down, but her eyes remained calm. “I’ve been crying for two days straight. I feel like a fool, but I can’t seem to stop.”
Ahmose laid a hand atop her sister’s. “I don’t blame you, Nofret. I’d cry, too. I have cried, in truth. This is so unfair to you. I didn’t want this. Don’t want this; you must believe me. But I don’t know how to change it.”
Mutnofret’s chin quivered, but no tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know how to change it, either. I just wish I understood why.”
“It’s because of my stupid gift. My being god-chosen. Mother thinks it will make the priests and nobles accept Thutmose more readily, if a god-chosen wife stands behind his throne.” Best not to tell Mutnofret the rest of the queen’s reasoning.
Mutnofret rolled her eyes. She pulled her hand out from under Ahmose’s. The gesture stung, but Ahmose chided herself. She’s hurting. Keep patience.
“Thutmose,” Mutnofret said. “You say his name with such familiarity. Have you met him before?” There was a considering, almost light-hearted note in her voice. Trying to take her mind off her anger, perhaps. Ahmose gladly went along. She told her sister of the forbidden night-time ride with the general.
Nofret laughed, clapping her hands at the romance and mischief of it. Her pleasure seemed genuine. “So you think he’s a good man. And he has a taste for adventure, I see. At least that is something. It could have been worse, I suppose. I guess I’d rather be second wife of a good, brave man than first wife of a naked baby.”
“You must meet him soon, Nofret. I know you’ll love him.”
“Do you love him?” It was a startling question. Ahmose hadn’t considered it until now.
“I…I think I do,” she said, just to feed Mutnofret’s cheery mood. “At least, I found him to be…suitable. When we rode together.”
“Suitable! How like a queen you sound.” Mutnofret laughed again. There was no barb in her words, and, warming, Ahmose smiled tremulously.
“I don’t know how to be a queen, Nofret. Not like you do. I’ll need your help. I won’t be able to do it without you.”
This time it was Mutnofret who took her sister’s hand. Their fingers intertwined. “I’ll be right behind you, Ahmose. When do you think I can meet your Thutmose?”
“Let’s send a message to him tonight. If luck is with us, we can see him tomorrow.”
***
“He’s not very handsome, is he?” Nofret whispered. “And how old is he? He looks thirty at least.”
They waited beside the palace lake. A breeze stirred the surface of the water, cooling Ahmose’s skin, raising the scent of lotus. Tiny waves lapped at the raised stone lip of the reservoir. Thutmose walked toward them with a stride like a bull’s, purposeful and direct. A little ball of excitement rolled around in Ahmose’s stomach; she shrugged at Mutnofret’s words. She hadn’t considered whether Thutmose was handsome. He was just Thutmose, good at driving horses, strong a
nd kind, with a jackal’s laugh.
“Good morning, Great Ladies.” Thutmose bowed lower than was necessary, one hand steadying his rather plain wig. He wore the simple white kilt of a soldier, falling in pleats to his knees. The only sign of his new status as Egypt’s heir was a brilliant Eye-of-Horus pectoral laid over his broad brown chest, gold set with cabochons of blue and red and green. “Shall we?” He indicated a small craft moored against the stone wall, a miniature version of the great pleasure barges that sailed the Nile. Food and flasks of wine were laid out on a low platform at the center of the barge.
Thutmose climbed onto the lake’s lip, then offered a hand to Mutnofret. She hiked up her skirt and took his hand, her cheesk coloring when her skin touched his. Ahmose, watching, bit her lip.
When Mutnofret had lowered herself gracefully to a stack of cushions, Thutmose turned to help Ahmose aboard. “I swear I’ve met you someplace before,” he said with a wink. Ahmose giggled, which made him break into his horsey grin. When his hand closed around hers, a shaky heat flared through her. Her palm tingled with the memory of his rough, callused fingers even after she’d seated herself by Nofret’s side.
Thutmose loosed the ropes holding the barge, then found the quant and began poling them toward the center of the lake. “And so the great journey began,” he said. “The lucky soldier stole the two beautiful princesses from their father’s house and put them on his magic boat. He took them far away down the Nile, where nobody would be able to find them….”
“You don’t need to steal me,” Mutnofret said. “I’ll come along willingly.”
“Will you, now?” Thutmose let the boat slow, then tucked the quant into the hull. The barge drifted. He made his careful way to the table, strong arms stretched low to counter the boat’s rocking. “Let’s have some breakfast, shall we?”
There was honey for their bread, and berries in milk, and two kinds of cheese. Ahmose could barely eat, her stomach was so fluttery. She recalled how close she’d stood to Thutmose in the chariot, how strong he’d looked standing on the crest of the hill in the moonlight, and her skin felt too hot in the sun. She had never been so closer to a man than she had been to Thutmose, and here he was again, sharing his morning meal. She kept glancing at the shapes of the muscles in his arms and shoulders, the path of a raised vein that ran over the outside of his arm like a tiny brown river. She was fascinated by the maleness of him.
As they talked, Thutmose would sometimes give his big, barking laugh. The first time he did it Mutnofret blinked, obviously taken aback by his uncouth manner. He was unlike the noblemen Mutnofret was used to, Ahmose knew. But as the First Princess became accustomed to Thutmose’s sense of humor she began trying to make him laugh, coaxing it out of him with funny stories or bawdy jokes. At first, Ahmose laughed right along with Thutmose. But as he paid more attention to Mutnofret, each of his smiles brought a twinge of jealousy. Soon Mutnofret was reclining on her cushions, stretching in the sun, eyes closed, head back, soft neck bared. Her body was long and round, like curves of the river, as ripe as Iset and lovely as a song.
“Mmm, the sun feels so nice, don’t you think?”
Thutmose said nothing, only sipped his wine; but his eyes wandered from Mutnofret’s face down the line of her throat to her breasts; then to her softly rounded belly and hips, curving bright through her sun-soaked linen. Ahmose bit her lips together and looked away, sharply aware of the smallness of her own breasts and the hard angles of her young body. Beside Mutnofret, she was as plain as a pebble. She wished they were back on the shore again.
“I’ve brought you both some little gifts,” Thutmose said. “What about it? Are you interested?”
Mutnofret sat up at once and leaned forward, closing her eyes and holding out her hands. Thutmose had a leather bag in the hull next to him. He pulled out of it a small bundle wrapped in blue fabric, dropped it into Nofret’s palms. She opened her eyes, then opened the cloth. “Oh! What is this stone?” It was a pendant made of some shiny, bright white rock, carved in the shape of a crouching lioness.
“Not a stone,” Thutmose said. “It’s ivory. It’s so white because I just had it carved for you yesterday. I asked your mother about you and she said you are as fierce as anything the gods ever made. I thought a lioness would be perfect. I hope you like it.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mutnofret said, clutching the pendant to her heart. “I’ll wear it at our wedding feast. Look, Ahmose.”
She held the lioness out so Ahmose could examine it. It was indeed a marvelous carving, perfectly detailed. Its eye was a tiny, hard, sparkling flake of obsidian. Thutmose must have paid plenty to commission such a skilled carver.
“And here is your gift, Ahmoset.” She blushed. Only Nofret and her childhood nurse had ever used the familiar name with her before. It made her delightfully giddy, for Thutmose to address her with such affection.
He handed her a red cloth bundle, larger and heavier than Mutnofret’s. She squeezed it through the cloth without unwrapping it. It was about as long as her hand and bumpy. Another carving, then.
When she peeled back the red cloth, she gasped. The face of the goddess Mut looked back at her. The carving was exquisite. Mut’s face, arms, and bared breasts were of rosy alabaster; her hair was jet; her carnelian dress was polished to a brilliant sheen. The double crown of Egypt was upon her head, ivory and red jasper, as delicate as a feather. Ahmose could not speak.
“To beautify your worship, my god-chosen wife.” Thutmose’s words were light, as if this gift was a bauble, as if calling her wife was all in a day’s jesting. But Ahmose’s hands clutched the statue of Mut as if they would never let go, and her heart held onto the word as if its sound was the breath of life.
Wordless, Ahmose turned to show her gift to her sister. Nofret’s smile was tight. It never touched her eyes.
FIVE
“I believe you were right about Thutmose,” Mutnofret said.
She had invited Ahmose to bathe with her after supper. They lay in Mutnofret’s tiled pool, relaxed and quiet. Crushed herbs floated on the water, their earthy scent rising on the steam. Two of Nofret’s women arrived, carrying a kettle of hot water between them. They upended it into the bath, and the heat crept up Ahmose’s legs.
Meeting Thutmose, flirting with him, appeared to have brought Mutnofret around. She was still hurt, of course; sometimes it showed. But Nofret seemed committed to renewing the closeness she and Ahmose had enjoyed until that mad day in the throne room.
“How was I right?” Ahmose asked lazily.
“He is suitable.” Mutnofret rolled over in the water, propping herself on her elbows. Her back swept down into the bath; her buttocks rose out of the water again, two perfect round islands.
Ahmose sat up and crossed her arms over her small breasts. “I’m glad you like him. I’m sure he likes you as well. I think he’ll be a good husband, don’t you?”
“Mm, much better than a baby for a husband. What strong arms he has.”
Ahmose’s face burned. The bath was far too warm. “I think I’m ready to get out now. Will you scrape me?”
Nofret rose, elegant as an ibis taking wing. The water streamed from her body, sparkling in the light of the bath’s braziers as it ran off her rounded flesh. She reached a hand down to help Ahmose to her feet. Her eyes traveled down Ahmose’s body; the corner of Nofret’s mouth quirked.
“What?”
“You need to be plucked, little sister. Let me call one of my women. They’re very good. They never miss a hair.”
While they waited for the woman to come with her tweezers and ointments, Ahmose and Mutnofret scraped each other’s skin with curved copper strips. It was invigorating after the hot bath. Water puddled on the tiles around their feet.
“And how is your little Northern friend?” Mutnofret asked, sliding her scraper down Ahmose’s back.
“Aiya? She’s as well as can be, I suppose. She’ll have her baby soon.”
Mutnofret tutted. “Poor young thing
. She’s so small.”
The scraper hissed like a cat as it slid over Ahmose’s skin. She shivered. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, the dangers of childbirth, the risk.” Mutnofret’s voice was light, unconcerned. “You know what they say about all that terrible business.”
“Well…of course it’s dangerous, sometimes. But you don’t think Aiya is really in more danger than most, do you?”
“But Ahmose, she’s so young.”
“She’s not that much younger than you.”
“You don’t see me with a big belly. I’d never risk my life that way, until I was sure I was old enough to survive.”
The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King) Page 4
