“Kiss me!”
He frowned, and hesitated. “Ahmose, you know I adore you, but last night was…”
“I’m your queen! Do as I say and kiss me!” She pulled him to her, pressed her mouth to his, guided his hand to her breast. It was as if her body exerted some strange control over him. His objection melted away. He pinched her nipple through the rough fabric, and it scratched at her, hurting deliciously. She shivered.
“Let’s get off the road,” he said, and broke away from her to stir the horses into action.
They climbed the dirt path again to their rock on the hill. This was where they came most often to be alone together. The rock was as familiar to her now as her own bed.
She unknotted her dress while Ineni hobbled the horses. The cloth fell away, so she stood in nothing but her sandals and wig. When he straightened from his work, his eyes were on her body for a long, breathless time. Then he came to her, and lifted her up. Her sandaled feet tapped on the rock. She stood over him. He pressed his face against her belly, his fingernails pricking at her spine until she arched her hips backward. Then he hunched, and his breath was against the place between her legs, and she gasped when she felt the fire of his kiss there. She held tight to his shoulders so her shivering legs wouldn’t drop her to the stone.
Something just as hot and wet as Ineni’s mouth fell on her shoulder. Then her arm. Then her back. She opened her eyes. Ineni’s back was speckled with shimmering light. A horse whinnied. The ground began to hiss, and in an instant Ahmose’s body was soaking and chilled.
Ineni looked around, eyes wide, mouth gaping. He ran a few steps toward the horses, which were tossing their heads and lashing their tails, then back to Ahmose, who hopped about on the rock and grabbed for her tangled gown.
“Get the horses,” she cried over the sound of water pounding earth. She managed to pull the wet dress around herself and worked it into a sloppy knot. Water pelted her from above and below, splashing up off the hard stony ground to cover her hem with mud. She ran to help Ineni manage the beasts.
“Unhook them from the chariot,” he called.
She’d never hitched a horse before, but she seized one leather line running from harness to chariot and followed it with her hand. It was obvious enough where it hooked. It took her only a moment to pull the strap free.
“Now the other!”
She dodged around the back of the vehicle. It lurched toward her as the horse backed, screaming, and she nearly slipped in the mud, but righted herself on the wheel. The other horse was free in an instant. Ineni pulled the horses, still linked together by their harnesses, away from the cart, allowing them to kick and dance in a circle around him. He held tight to the long reins. His mouth moved; he must be soothing them, but all she could hear was the roar of the rain.
At last the horses seemed resigned. They stood still, ears pinned, backs hunched against the stinging rain. Ahmose came toward them slowly.
“I’ve never seen rain before,” she said, teeth chattering.
“Nor I. I’ve read about it plenty. We’re lucky to be on the highlands. A sudden fall like this can make floods all through the valley. Kills livestock. People, too, if they’re caught in a wash.”
Kills livestock. With food so scarce, Egypt could ill afford to lose a single goat or calf. She swallowed hard. “What do you think it means?”
Ineni’s eyes were shadowed under the dense grey sky. She could read none of his feelings in his face, but his silence spoke well enough. She looked away, ashamed. This was Horus’ wrath, surely. Horus had seen their wickedness, had disapproved of their defiling the sacred Feast of Khonsu. He had opened up the skies in punishment. Now Egypt would lose precious cattle, and it was Ahmose’s fault. I’m sorry, her ka cried out. I’m sorry, Lord Horus! I will never…even in her own thoughts the words were bitter. She forced them out, resolute, chastened. “We can’t do this again, Ineni. The gods – they won’t have it. If I’m to be God’s Wife, I must keep myself only for Amun. Amun, and my earthly husband.”
He nodded, patting a horse’s soaking muzzle, not looking at her. “I know.”
“I would have it otherwise, if I could.”
“And I.”
“But it can’t be. We know that now.”
One hand came free of the reins and touched her lightly at the nape of her neck, trailed down the wet cloth clinging to her back, all the way to the back of one thigh. She wanted to sob, to rail against the gods. Instead, she stood still and took Horus’ rebuke. Each of the thousand-thousand drops that stung her skin shamed her. Never again.
***
Ineni drove her all the way back to Ipet-Isut. The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come on, and a cold wind blew the grey sky away to the south. A band of colors arced across the river between Waset and the Holy House. The foreign beauty of it was piercing, shocking. Every sensation is weightier with my heart broken. Ahmose kept her hands on the chariot’s rail all the way home.
She didn’t care if the temple guards saw her climb down from the steward’s chariot, soaked through with a face like stone. She marched past them in her cheap wig and smeared makeup, down Ipet-Isut’s avenue, which was stunned and deserted in the wake of the downpour. She kicked her chamber door closed and stripped off the gown for the second time. It hit the floor with a wet smack. She untied her sandals and threw them across the room, heaved her wig at the wall, climbed miserably into her bed before she saw the scroll lying on her bedside table. It stared at her, taunting and ominous. With trembling fingers she picked it up and untied the red cord that bound it.
You have taken my title, and flaunted it before the court. You have betrayed your family. All my children are dead, and I have no more happiness in this world. I am an old woman, with no strength to punish you in this life as you deserve; and if the priests believe you the God’s Wife, there is nothing I can do but this. You take my last shred of joy for yourself, and so I curse you with all the unhappiness of an old woman’s heart.
Ahmose sucked in a ragged breath. Nefertari. Had Mutnofret told her? Or had word simply reached the estate in the southern hills at last? It hardly mattered now. That arrow was loosed, and nothing Ahmose could do would call it back into her quiver.
Cursed with unhappiness. Lady of sorrow. She gave voice to her sadness at last, pulling her blanket over her head and wailing, wailing. How could it go so wrong just as it went so right? Was this Horus, or some darker god who cut at her heart? Was there any difference now? She howled under her blanket until her eyes were swollen and hot. When Twosre came in to sit silently at her side, patting, stroking, she stopped her keening but not her tears.
TWENTY-FIVE
Again the Nile rose, spans shorter than the year before. The harvest was small, the stores near empty, the cattle thin and dull-coated. Men muttered. Women’s eyes were dark. The Black Land reeled on the verge of a plunge into famine.
Nothing that could be salted and eaten was thrown back into the river. Suspicious stews were prepared in Ipet-Isut with stringy white meat or tough chunks of fish, bony fins still attached. The broth was watery and greasy. There was little bread and less milk, and all the fruits were withered or over-ripe. Ahmose ate it all, and gratefully. Her belly was never empty, and she thanked the gods for that blessing. She had no idea whether the same was true of the rekhet. No reports of death by starvation had yet reached her, but that did not mean people weren’t dying. She saved bits of the best fish and meat and porridge from every meal she ate, burning these offerings at every sanctuary in the Holy House by turns. She pleaded with the gods to spare her people, to intervene. But the gods were silent, and Ahmose was guilty and afraid.
There was no feast for Prince Wadjmose’s weaning. The prince marked two years of age quietly, with no public acclaim. It was not fitting for the Pharaoh’s son, but feasts were an ostentation the throne could no longer afford. Even at the palace, meals were smaller, simpler, and less savory. Mutnofret complained daily, but there was nothing to be done. All
of Egypt must wait out the lean times and save feasting for future days. Even the Pharaoh’s house must be humble and patient.
“It’s not fitting that Wadjmose’s weaning should go uncelebrated, though,” Ahmose said to Twosre one dull, dry morning. They were picking scraggly herbs in Ahmose’s palace garden in the hour before court came to session. “He is the first prince. And I’m sure when Tut returns, Wadjmose will be the heir. There should be some sort of acknowledgment. Just not a feast.”
Twosre shrugged. “Of course, of course, but what to do? Any kind of celebration at the palace is always feasted. It wouldn’t make the nobles think highly of the prince if frog stew and watered-down milk were offered them.”
“Why don’t we have a ceremony at Ipet-Isut? There’ll be no expectation of a feast there, I’d think. A feast wouldn’t be seemly. But it would mark the occasion, at least.”
“A fine idea. You and the High Priest could hold it in the forecourt of the Amun temple. Quite a big crowd can fit there. No one will miss a feast, if they get the honor of attending a ceremony at the Temple of Amun.”
“Exactly. And I imagine it will make Mutnofret very happy, too.”
It was more than a year since Ahmose had given up Ineni’s companionship, and since then she had devoted herself wholly to her duties. She still kept Mutnofret from the throne hall, telling the court the second queen was busy with the princes’ tutors, or entertaining foreign dignitaries. It would impress no one to know the truth: Mutnofret was banned from court by the God’s Wife, and stewed helplessly each day in her apartments.
When Thutmose returned from his campaign, he would be cross to see such discord in the royal family. Ahmose knew she needed to reach out to Mutnofret, to make an offering of goodwill to her distant, cold sister. She held no false hope that they would be close again. Those days were gone forever, washed downstream like a fragile leaf midriver. But some semblance of unity, some togetherness, would please their husband when he came home. Perhaps she could at least make Mutnofret smile. A smile was worth riches, in these lean and frightening times.
***
“It’s good to see most of Egypt’s greatest houses still know how to show respect.” Twosre gave a wry smile.
Ahmose and her woman were well concealed behind the line of myrrh trees that grew between the pylons outside the Temple of Amun. They peeked through the branches at the crowd, which swelled by the minute. There were representatives from every important family in Waset, as far as Ahmose could tell, and many faces she didn’t recognize. Visitors from Iunet and Abedjwet, Edfu and Swenet, come to pay their respects to the first prince. And to be seen doing it. Even during lean times, even with Thutmose off at war, there was strong support for the throne. Ahmose remarked on it, wondering that so many would make the journey during times like these.
“The Pharaoh has done well by the people, Lady. That’s the plain truth.” Twosre tugged at her elbow, pulling her back toward the Temple of Mut. Ahmose took one last, long look at the crowd milling in the twilight, then turned to follow Twosre. Tut has done well, but what have I done? Will he still need me beside him when he returns?
Back in Ahmose’s small temple chamber, tonight’s clothing and jewels were already laid out. Faithful Twosre had been to the Waset palace early in the day, fetching this dress and that shawl, this wig and that collar from the queen’s chambers. Ahmose had become so used to the simple garments of a priestess, even wearing her simple white shift and ribbon crown to court, that she hardly knew anymore how to dress herself for affairs of state. Twosre was a treasure beyond price.
Ahmose was unhappy to see, though, that Twosre has chosen the red dress – the Mut dress. The one she’d worn when she took the temple. It was a hard thing to look on. The dress carried too many painful memories. How she’d plotted with her sweet Ineni, how he’d swallowed hard when he saw her in it. How they’d conspired to take Nefertari’s title – for the sake of Tut’s throne, of course! – and how her grandmother had spurned her, and cursed her. Nefertari’s curse had been a true one. Ahmose couldn’t recall a single moment of real happiness since the day Horus poured down his punishment on her, that far-off day in the hills when Ineni had lifted her up to stand on the rock, when he had…
“Why that dress? Are you sure it’s appropriate?”
“Never a better one. You look just like a goddess in it. And here, I’ve brought your nicest wig from the palace. Gold beads. Very pretty! Now undress. We need to get you ready for the ceremony.”
Just like a goddess. Ahmose sighed and undid her knots. It took some fidgeting and tugging to get the red gown on. Ahmose was sixteen now, and her body had filled.
“I don’t remember being able to walk so well in this dress,” Ahmose said, taking five or six steps across her chamber, then back again, testing the gown’s give.
“I had it altered a bit to fit your new body. You’re not the skinny little thing you once were.”
“Thank the gods for that.”
“Sit. I need to paint your face. I think your husband will be pleased when he comes home and sees how you’ve matured.”
Ahmose’s stomach pinched tight at the thought. Would she go to him at the palace, or would he come here to her temple chamber at night, after her prayers were done? Making love on a ride, under the open sky, as she had with Ineni was out of the question. Even dressed as a commoner, Tut would be recognized. Two rekhet fooling about nude in the hills wouldn’t be worth noticing by passing hunters or soldiers, but the Pharaoh and the God’s Wife…. Ahmose blushed at the thought. No, it wouldn’t be right. And anyway, to be secret lovers under the open sky – this was for her and Ineni only. And it was gone forever. I’ll sort it out after Tut comes home, she told herself, and resolved to stay focused on Wadjmose’s ceremony.
Twosre had chosen golden torques for her arms and bright hoops for her ears. Tiny golden bells hung on chains around her ankles, so that every step chimed. There was a glittering ring for each finger. But for her brow, just the slim circlet of the cobra crown. Twosre held up a hand mirror and tilted it slowly so that Ahmose could see each part of her by turns. She looked powerful and righteous, exactly as the God’s Wife ought – and nothing like she felt.
They took a private route to the forecourt where Wadjmose’s guests waited. Ahmose led Twosre through a maze of narrow lanes that snaked among the priests’ living quarters and a few ancient sanctuaries. They passed beneath great painted pillars that gave way to pylons, then to walls, blacker than the sky in the warm night. The roof of the Temple of Amun choked out the starlight. With the ceremony about to begin, the interior of the temple was quiet. To their right, a powdery orange glow scattered across the floor, deepened, strengthened. Ahmose blinked at the gathering light.
A temple servant hurried toward them, a torch of rushes held high. It gave off a strong smell: sap, earth, the smoke of offerings. “Holy Lady,” the young man said. “Allow me to lead you to the forecourt.”
She nodded at him, quiet and poised. There was a job ahead of her, a duty of state. She was the Great Royal Wife again, not only the God’s Wife. Her ka was a cool vibration within her, a steady and confident beating like the sound of a dancer’s drummer heard at a great distance. She’d gathered herself in. She was ready.
Menketra, the High Priest, was waiting for her just inside the front entrance to the temple. She nodded a greeting. There was a strange spark in his eye when the temple-boy’s torch caught it. The High Priest’s lips trembled and paled when he looked at Ahmose. It made her wary, though not afraid. Not exactly. She was like the bird that sees the approaching cat and tenses, holding itself ready for flight should the cat spring.
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd outside. Mutnofret must have arrived. Only Mutnofret’s frank beauty could stir a crowd in that way. Ahmose nodded at Menketra; together they stepped around the pylon and into the forecourt. Priests raised ankhs on poles, directing the crowd back. A large half-moon cleared before Ahmose and the High Priest. The
gathered nobles subsided into reverent quiet.
“Make way for the queen,” a steward called. The crowd parted at the apex of the moon’s curve to let Mutnofret through. She was dressed beautifully, as always: jeweled, scented, robed in blue. A wide collar of gold and turquoise caught up the light of the stars. Mutnofret was a stunning woman, if ever the gods had made one.
She carried Wadjmose on one hip. The boy’s face was pale with fright, but he did not cry. His solemn black eyes stared at Ahmose, unblinking. His head was shaven for the first time, the sidelock of youth tied above one ear. It was tufted, sticking out like a duck’s tail. He studied Ahmose as Mutnofret carried him closer, then, as if deciding she was safe, smiled at her, showing dimples in his cheeks. His face was so like his mother’s, with long eyes and a fine nose.
When Ahmose glanced at her sister, Mutnofret, too, smiled. It was tight, tremulous, and had something of an apology in it. They were standing face to face now. Mutnofret whispered, “Thank you.” It meant much to her, Ahmose knew, that Wadjmose was not forgotten during Egypt’s tenuous time, that Ahmose was on Mutnofret’s side in the matter of heirship, if in nothing else.
The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King) Page 19
