The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King)

by Lavender Ironside

  Menketra raised his arms. The priests lowered their poles. The only sound in the forecourt was the buzzing of night insects. At last the High Priest spoke in a voice that filled Ipet-Isut like struck bronze.

  “Men and women of Egypt. We bring you here tonight to witness the weaning of Wadjmose, son of Aakheper-ka-ra, the Good Lord, Thutmose, our king. The prince has reached his second year, by the grace of the gods, and grows stronger by the day.”

  Mutnofret set the boy on his feet. He clung at first to his mother’s leg, staring out at the crowd, but when Mutnofret patted the back of his head in comfort he stepped away from her, facing the many eyes of the nobles like a tiny warrior, his bold little fists twisting in the hem of his kilt. Ahmose bit her cheek to ward off a laugh of delight. He was a strong boy indeed, with all of his father’s bravery. He would make a fine king some day.

  “Bring forth the bread,” Ahmose said. A priestess carried a gilt tray out of the darkness of the temple. Ahmose took the loaf, broke off a small piece, and dipped it in a cup of thin, honeyed milk. She bent to Wadjmose and held it to his lips. He took it, chewed, swallowed, his somber eyes never leaving her own.

  The crowd sighed with approval.

  Menketra blessed Wadjmose with ankh, oil, and salt. Then he faced the crowd again. His voice had changed subtly. “And now I tell you true, O my brothers and sisters of Egypt. I have been sent a vision by the gods.” The strange spark that had been in his eyes was in his throat now. There was a dark, compelling zeal in Menketra’s words. “It has been given to me to know, and to tell you: the Pharaoh’s son is more than any mortal prince.”

  Ahmose paled. What was he doing? They’d discussed the ceremony in great detail. This was not what they’d planned. She breathed deeply, pushing down her fear.

  Menketra’s hypnotic voice poured out over the listeners. “The child is the offspring not only of the king and queen, but of Amun and the God’s Wife. This is a holy prince, a prince that will please the gods with his every word and deed. He will restore prosperity to Egypt. He will be the embodiment of maat, righteousness made flesh!”

  No! Ahmose looked at Mutnofret, afraid her face would betray her confusion and shock to the crowd, afraid it would not show enough of her horror, her disbelief, to her sister. Mutnofret stared back at her, and her eyes were lances, her beautiful face tense and sharp with hatred.

  Ahmose shook her head slightly. Her lips parted. She breathed, “No!” No, Mutnofret, she said with her eyes, she screamed with her heart. I didn’t do this. I didn’t know about this. I didn’t know! Believe me!

  Mutnofret snatched her son up and held him close. Menketra talked on; the crowd murmured; Ahmose understood none of it. All she could see, all she could feel was the force of rage in Mutnofret’s heart. Both women stood still, quaking, rooted uncertainly like trees on an eroded bank. Mutnofret was poised to flee, Ahmose to fall to her knees and beg her sister’s forgiveness. Neither could so much as twitch, though, with the eyes of the nobles on them. They could speak only with their own eyes, and while Ahmose’s said, Forgive me, sister, I didn’t know, Mutnofret’s shouted, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

  When the High Priest at last brought the ceremony to a close, Mutnofret carried her son from the temple without a word. The crowd parted for her, then closed around her. She was gone. Ahmose stared at Menketra. His eyes were dewed.

  “What was that?” she hissed.

  “Holy Lady.” There was real worship in his voice, as on that day when she had appeared before him dressed as Mut.

  “Come into the temple with me,” she said, her voice shaking. He followed her like a dog.

  Ahmose pulled the High Priest into the nearest empty room. Her stomach roiled. The side of Menketra’s face was lit by the faintest sliver of moonlight through the open chamber door. “The child of the God’s Wife?”

  “Remarkable, Holy Lady. I was granted the most incredible vision this very morning, with the rising sun. Your son, with rivers of wealth pouring from his hands. Years upon years of perfect floods. Food enough for every child in Egypt. Monuments – oh! Your son will build a great and holy temple, my queen! It was like nothing I’ve ever seen!”

  “Wadjmose is not my son, Menketra.”

  “What?”

  “He is not my son. He is my nephew. He is Mutnofret’s son. The second queen’s.”

  “No, Holy Lady. I can’t be mistaken. The heir to the throne…”

  “Is not Prince Wadjmose. Not yet, anyway.”

  The High Priest shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought he was yours, and you gave him to a nurse, as usual.”

  “Did that woman standing beside me look like a nurse? You’ve seen Mutnofret a hundred times! You know who she is. You know she is no nurse!”

  “Yes, of course, but I assumed his aunt had brought him to the temple for the ceremony, and you…”

  “Menketra, I have no child.”

  He raised his hands in a gesture of total confusion. “But the gods were explicit, Holy Lady. I know my vision was not wrong.”

  She sighed. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. We can’t make an announcement that the High Priest got his vision all wrong. We’d look like fools, the entire priesthood.”

  Menketra looked crestfallen. Ahmose nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly. “Holy Lady, I regret…”

  “You haven’t begun to regret. We’ll need to appease Mutnofret now. She’s humiliated. It won’t be easy to make her feel she’s been properly soothed, the gods help us.”

  “I’ll write her a letter of apology, first thing in the morning. I’ll send her something from my estates.”

  “That would be a good start. But I warn you, she’s not easy to calm once her anger’s been roused. It would be wise of you to stay clear of her. For a long time.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Holy Lady. But…but Holy Lady, my vision can’t have been wrong. If not this child, then it will be another. It will be yours.”

  She was too sickened to argue. There was almost an apology in Mutnofret’s face tonight. Almost forgiveness. Ahmose had come so close to reaching her sister, and Menketra’s stupid vision ruined everything – forever, perhaps. To quiet him, she said, “All right, Menketra. I believe you. Now I must get some sleep, and you as well. You have quite a letter to write in the morning.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mutnofret wasted no time. Ahmose had just dressed for court and called for a chariot to take her from the temple to the palace. The morning bells in Ipet-Isut had hardly quieted when she heard the shouting outside her chamber door. She opened it. Twosre was trying to fend the second queen off, attempting to block the way to Ahmose’s door without actually laying her hands upon Nofret’s person. But it was no good. It never was any good; not with Mutnofret.

  The moment Mutnofret saw her, she shivered like a coiled snake and shoved past Twosre, slapping the door with her palm, throwing it wider as she crowded into Ahmose’s tiny temple room. Her face was the blade of an axe. Her eyes were wide; they strained with a terrible ferocity, flashed a swift cold fury.

  Ahmose spoke immediately, seeking to still her sister’s rage. “Mutnofret, you have every right to be angry. I’m angry, too. It was Menketra’s doing…the High Priest’s. He was mistaken about his vision, that is all. He’s apologetic. He’s…”

  “The High Priest’s doing! Shaming me in front of representatives of every noble house? How convenient for you, that the High Priest you control should bumble before so many important people.”

  “No, Mutnofret! I knew nothing of this. If I’d known he was going to say those things, I’d have…”

  “Shut your lying mouth! I’ve heard enough out of it!”

  “Mutnofret, I am the queen, and the God’s Wife.”

  Her lip curled. “Are you? You stole a title from our grandmother, and that makes you the God’s Wife?”

  “That’s not the way it happened,” Ahmose said, lowering her eyes.

  Mutnofret’s words trampled over
her. “You stole what was Nefertari’s, and you stole what was mine! I’ve had enough! You’ve finally pushed me over the edge of the cliff, little sister.”

  “I never stole a thing from you! This wasn’t my choice! I never wanted to be Great Royal Wife, Mutnofret. Believe me.”

  “Why should anyone believe a thieving liar like you?”

  Ahmose clenched her teeth together hard. “You don’t understand. I did it to appease the gods. It’s to protect Tut while he’s off making war…to protect Egypt.”

  “Protect the Pharaoh! What protection does he need from you? What have you ever given him, you timid, cowardly child? Pleasure? Sons? I’ve given him two! I took our mother’s rebuke with grace. I’ve served as second queen, when I should be first. I did my duty to Egypt. I gave more than my body, Ahmose, more than my body. I gave my pride! I gave my shame! I gave everything I am and everything I ever was. I gave up everything I hoped to be! I’ve given my husband two sons, and you conspire to take one away, like you took away our grandmother’s title. You’ve taken everything else from me, and now you’ll take my son as well!”

  Ahmose could only stare at her, struck dumb. There was no getting through to her. Mutnofret had built this like a secret palace inside her heart. The walls were already up; Ahmose could never tear them down, no matter what she said. Yet she had to say something. “I’ve never wanted to take your son, Mutnofret. He’s yours. I’ve been writing to Tut, trying to get him to name Wadjmose heir.”

  “Oh, yes, no doubt you have. If the whole world believes Wadjmose is your son and you can get him named heir, then I’ve done all the hard work for you. Well, I won’t stand for it, Ahmose. You shot your final arrow last night. You’ll pay for this. When the Pharaoh returns, he’ll know you for what you truly are. And so will all the people. I’ll see to it myself.”

  “Get out. You won’t listen to reason, so get out.”

  “Get out, says the liar. Get out, as if you still hold some power over Egypt. You think you have the power to command a queen.”

  “The second queen, yes. Get out.”

  Mutnofret screamed like a hunting hawk. She reached out a swift hand, never taking her eyes from Ahmose. She seized something from Ahmose’s bedside table in a shaking, hard fist. Ahmose watched a blur of carnelian and jasper raise into the air, leave Mutnofret’s hand, careen off the far wall with a sound like dropped pottery. Ahmose shrieked, and grabbed up the pieces of her Mut statue. Tut’s gift, broken.

  She stared at Mutnofret, astounded by the impiety and violence of this thing she did. Tears came to her eyes.

  “Tears! You’ll cry a hundred tears for every one you’ve made me shed, Ahmose. I swear this by all the gods. You’ll weep.” She spat the last word into Ahmose’s face, and was gone.

  Ahmose stood still for a long time, breathing steadily to cool her face, to still the frantic pounding of her heart. The pieces of her Mut statue were heavy in her hands. The tears broke and ran, as shame-hot as the sun.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Shemu was one long black blur of sorrow. Ahmose withdrew into her bed chamber whenever time permitted, spinning flax in the close air. She refused to read dreams. Dreams didn’t matter. Not anymore. All that mattered was her nightly ritual at the temple, dancing and chanting until she fell, spent and weeping. Keeping the gods’ eyes on Egypt until Thutmose was home safely – that was all that mattered. There was no brightness in her days anymore, and nothing but sadness lived in her heart.

  Finally, her ka was so blackened that even the news of Tut’s victory hardly moved her. She held the scroll Twosre brought her and sobbed over it, eyes blinded by tears, nose running. She could form no thought but He’s coming home. If her tears had borne silt, her cheeks would have been deep black and ready for the planting.

  Ahmose curled up on her bed in the summer heat, sticky with sweat and hollow with sadness. What would Tut think of the mess she’d made when he returned? Their family was broken, and Ahmose was to blame. She lay for hours, drifting in and out of troubled sleep, fretting over the Pharaoh’s homecoming. At last, unable to stay any longer in the close air of her chamber, she rose. There was still water in her jug. It had long since gone tepid in the heat of the day, but it cleaned her well enough. She poured it into a basin and washed the feel of hot sleep from her body. She scrubbed the crust of dried tears from her face; the skin around her eyes was tender and swollen. She pulled a fresh white frock out of a chest and belted it around her, then went out into her garden wigless and crownless.

  She hadn’t shaved her head in weeks. She’d sunk so far into a depression that tending to her appearance was like carrying a boulder up a hill. The only service she’d requested was plucking. Each stab of pain as her hairs were pulled from her legs, her armpits, her groin was a penance. She couldn’t even say anymore what sin needed punishing. I seemed her sins were innumerable and garish, and each bled into the next, paint pots spilled on a cold floor.

  A merciful breeze had come up while she slept. It stirred the mat of tight-curled hair on her head. It carried the smells of the river, papyrus plants and fish and hippopotamus dung. She closed her eyes and breathed it in deeply, so deeply that her lungs hurt. She pushed it all out again quickly, sucked in another taste of air. Again and again she did this, until she was dizzy enough that she had to lean hard against the garden wall until her head cleared. When she could walk once more, she wandered aimlessly through the paths of her garden, tearing leaves from the plants and letting them fall from her hands, tangling and untangling her thoughts. Soon another pair of feet walked beside her own, pacing out this restless route. Twosre. They said nothing as they walked. Ahmose had no words.

  Dusk slipped into darkness. Night birds called intermittently beyond the palace walls. Servants came to tend to Ahmose’s apartments, murmuring and laughing. When they finished, torches and braziers snuffed out. The great palace of Waset darkened. At last Twosre said in her fig-and-earth voice, “What troubles you, Holy Lady?”

  “You shouldn’t call me that, Twosre. I don’t deserve it.”

  Twosre stopped walking, gazed at Ahmose steadily.

  Ahmose stopped. She said, “My family. We’re broken. We’re destroyed. my sister hates me, my grandmother has cursed me, and I’ve offended the gods. Oh, how I’ve sinned. The river – the famine. It’s my doing. I’m sure of it. My doing.”

  “Not even the God’s Wife is perfect.”

  “I’m not…”

  Twosre raised a hand. The gesture silenced Ahmose. “How you came by the title makes no difference. Do you serve weak gods? Would they have allowed this thing if it was not their will?”

  Ahmose shook her head dully. She couldn’t think. There were wads of linen stuffed inside her heart. Twosre seemed to take the gesture for acquiescence. “I have heard the Pharaoh returns to Waset,” she said.

  “I read his letter. He should be near the Delta by now, I’d guess. Two weeks, perhaps a few days more.”

  “You don’t seem very happy.”

  “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I’ve missed him so much. It’s just that I feel I’ve made such a mess of things here. Mutnofret, and Nefertari.”

  “Sometimes the gods give us a terrible road to walk, Holy Lady. It is sacrifice after sacrifice, at every step. Some pay a higher price than others.”

  “Ah, that we do.”

  “Be joyful,” Twosre said. Her voice was a balm. “Your husband returns. Egypt is safe. And in Ipet-Isut, the priests dance and sing more than they ever did before. You have done much good, whatever your sins may be. Whatever your sins may be.”

  Ahmose remembered the rain on the bluffs, Ineni with the spotted horses whirling around him, the drops falling on his back. She remembered Nefertari’s curse curling in her hands. She remembered Mutnofret’s apologetic smile in the forecourt of the Temple. Nofret, my sister, my only sister. And she remembered the men in the fields, their thin, dusty crops, the barren earth. She hoped with all her heart that Twosre spoke the truth. If her lif
e ended tonight and she met Anupu in the echoing black of the underworld, her heart would bend the scales until they broke.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  There was no body hanging from the bow of the ship this time. Thutmose’s fleet sailed into Waset at noon. Ahmose and Mutnofret stood at the head of the water steps, a nurse holding baby Amunmose on her hip while Wadjmose tugged at his sidelock with one hand and held Mutnofret’s skirt with the other. A dozen guards surrounded the royal family, keeping the pressing crowd well back. There were cheers, shouts, victory songs among the rekhet and nobles who thronged through the city streets and crowded the shore. Pleasure barges sailed out onto the bright green river; wealthy men and women took their mid-day meals on the cool water, watching the return of Egypt’s victorious army. The varied music coming from so many boats was a confused,vibrant jumble.