“There are a thousand ways in which you can press your message home,” Aahotep objected hotly. Her own cheeks had become flushed and her eyes glinted angrily. Aahmes-nefertari had never seen her poise so shaken. “It is not only an utterly distasteful request, Ahmose, it smacks of insanity. No. I will not wear it.” He got up slowly and folded his arms.
“I realize that the prospect is abhorrent,” he responded firmly, “but I have more than one reason for asking you to do it. This is not a request from your son, Aahotep. It is a command from your King.” She went very pale, the hectic colour draining from her face.
“And if I still refuse?”
“Then not only will you incur my extreme displeasure but you will spoil a surprise I have for you. Please trust me, Mother. I love you more than any son could ever worship the one who gave him life, because not only did you give it, you also preserved it from the assassin’s club. Trust me and do not refuse.” She gazed long and searchingly into his face, her hands linked loosely in front of her, and gradually her features softened.
“No one but your father could ask such a thing of me, nay even demand it, and be obeyed,” she said at last. “Very well, Ahmose. I will wear the sheath.” At once he beamed, and striding to the door he was gone.
The two women looked at each other. “The blow to his head …” Aahotep began haltingly, but Aahmes-nefertari broke into her sentence.
“No, I do not think so. There has been a steady rationality to everything he has said and done since his recovery. He knows what he is asking of you, and why.”
“Nevertheless the prospect is disgusting.” She shuddered. “Stay with me for a while, Aahmes-nefertari. We can play sennet and talk. I have seen little of you lately and nothing of Tetisheri at all. Is Hent-ta-Hent well and gaining weight as she should?” At her summons Hetepet came in, set up the sennet board, and trimmed the lamps. Mother and daughter soon became engrossed in the game and their easy conversation but occasionally Aahotep cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of the chest where, Aahmes-nefertari knew, the besmirched sheath lay. She did not blame her mother for her apprehension.
The morning of the first day of Pakhons dawned and with it a flurry of frenetic activity in the house. Ahmose had spent the night in one of the anterooms of the temple, taking with him Akhtoy and his body servant, so that he might pray and meditate during the dark hours, be purified, and watch Amunmose perform the god’s first ablutions for the last time. Once officially King, he also acquired the privilege of entering the sanctuary alone and tending to Amun’s ritual needs instead of the High Priest if he wished, but on this important day, as he told his wife before he left her quarters, he wished to savour the last of his youth.
It was a curious turn of phrase and Aahmes-nefertari pondered it while Raa laid out the red, gold-shot sheath she would wear and the cosmetician expertly dropped a bead of water onto the powdered black kohl in his tiny dish. To her it had been Meketra’s blow that had ended Ahmose’s youth, for there was no doubting the subtle but definite changes that had taken place in him since then. But perhaps he saw a weight of responsibility descending on him with the kingly titles he would take and, together with the detachment from his old self divinity would bring, it would serve to separate him not only from every other Egyptian but also from his young self. He is only twenty-one, she mused, closing her eyes at the cosmetician’s murmured request. So much has happened in the last five years to change us all. Sometimes I forget that I am not as ancient as Tetisheri, sixty-five at least, and I expect that Ahmose feels the same.
She had chosen a belt of thin gold links for the sheath, and white leather sandals studded with jaspers. Her wig was heavy, fifty braids falling almost to her waist, brushing gently against arms laden with golden bracelets on whose gleaming surfaces likenesses of Hathor, goddess of love and beauty, and linked hoops of ankhs were delicately etched. Clasping one of her upper arms in the golden embrace of her wings was Mut, the vulture goddess, totem of Queens, her predatory beak facing the rear to protect Aahmes-nefertari from any attack. Green scarabs set in gold graced her fingers and blue lapis lazuli scarabs hung from her earlobes.
Before the wig was placed on her head, Raa carefully settled a heavy pectoral around her neck, a sturdy golden chain holding Mut’s spread wings that fanned out over her breasts. Each feather had been meticulously enamelled in a different colour—red, green, blue, yellow—so that the piece would blaze with life when sunlight struck it. Ahmose had given it to her the previous day and she had taken it wonderingly. “I am sorry that there is no silver in it,” he had apologized. “I have taken all the silver I could lay my hands on for other purposes. But it is beautiful nonetheless. The temple jewellers have been sweating over it for a long time. Wear it as the Queen you are.”
She was too dazzled to enquire what he was doing with silver, a metal prized for its rarity and in short supply at Weset, but now as she felt the pectoral bump against her skin through the gossamer linen of her sheath, the unasked question formed. Raa set the wig over her own pinned hair and handed her a mirror. Taking it, Aahmes-nefertari inspected her copper-coloured reflection critically. Her mouth, usually oddly pale, was bright with orange henna, but paint could not disguise its haughty downward curve, a physical characteristic that had often misled guests into believing that even as a child she was cold and arrogant. When in fact I was intensely shy, she thought fleetingly. The rich dark brown eyes blinked back at her, exotically outlined in kohl and lidded in gold-speckled blue, and the crinkled fringe of the wig brushed winged eyebrows also blackly shiny with kohl.
Ahmose had told her not to wear any gems on her head. But I feel undressed on such a solemn occasion, she thought again, tilting her face from side to side. The wig needs something. He means to crown me, doesn’t he? At that realization a pang of anxiety went through her and she passed the mirror back to her servant. It is one thing to run out to the training ground and browbeat soldiers before hurrying back to my household duties, she said to herself rather grimly. It is quite another to assume the lofty identity of a goddess. “Raa, go and see if my mother is ready and make sure Ahmose-onkh has not pulled off his sandals,” she ordered. “Tell Uni to somehow make Grandmother hurry. Ankhmahor can have the litters brought to the entrance now.”
In the small silence that followed the servant’s departure Aahmes-nefertari drew in a deep, slow breath and gingerly fingered the pectoral. She was already thirsty but did not want to smudge her freshly hennaed lips by drinking. This day is the last of your youth too, she told herself. You have been a Princess, you have married twice, you have borne children, but you were still very much a girl. The rebellion gave your youth a mortal wound, but it will finally die today.
Outside the servants had gathered to see their mistresses in all their unaccustomed finery and the litters, ribboned and garlanded with fresh flowers, waited on the grass. Ankhmahor, in his capacity as Captain of the Followers, bowed to Aahmes-nefertari as she left the shadow of the pillars and walked towards him. He too was carefully painted, his large eyes ringed in kohl, his mouth hennaed. On his head he wore a linen helmet striped in blue and white, the ancient colours of royal Egypt, and a ceremonial dagger, its hilt filigreed gold, the black leather of its scabbard stitched in gold, hung from his belt. He wore white leather gloves. Behind him the escort waited, the men he and she had selected together to guard the household, each in similar helmets and brown leather sandals and gloves, but the weapons nudging their thighs were for use not display. Gravely they saluted her and she smiled at them all, moving quickly to her litter.
As she was lowering herself onto the cushions, Uni and Kares appeared. In spite of their many tasks that morning, they were both attired in the formal garb of a steward, plain white voluminous tunics falling from one shoulder to their ankles and edged in gold thread. On their upper arms they wore the plain, thick gold bands that denoted their exalted station in the household hierarchy and ribbons of blue and white went around their short wigs. Aahme
s-nefertari spared them one admiring look before her eyes found the two women pacing at their heels.
Tetisheri was clad in gold from her head to her tiny brown feet. Gold leaves glinted on her yellow sheath, golden lotus flowers swung from her earlobes, gold glistened in her wig, and gold dust sparked from her painted cheeks. But it was not her grandmother who caused Aahmes-nefertari a stab of sympathy and alarm. Aahotep wore no jewellery at all. Her wig was straight and shoulder-length. Her arms and neck were bare and on her feet were a pair of well-worn and rather scruffy sandals. She came forward slowly, chin high, not trying to hide the hideous brown stains slashed across the plain white sheath. Even as Aahmes-nefertari watched, a flake that had been encrusting its skirt became detached and spiralled onto the path. A murmur of shock went through the assembly but Aahotep ignored it. Ankhmahor sprang to hold back the curtains of her litter and as soon as she was safely inside he closed them firmly. Tetisheri bent to peer in at Aahmes-nefertari. She was grinning impishly, the gold particles in the henna of her lips making tiny points of fire as she spoke. “I know why Ahmose made her wear it,” she said happily. “He came to me last night and explained. We had a most interesting discussion.” That was clever of you and wise too, my husband, Aahmesnefertari thought. Make Grandmother your accomplice, smooth her ruffled feathers, and you remove her claws. “I could not tell Aahotep what he said, of course, but I did assure her that this would be the proudest day of her life,” Tetisheri went on. “She decided not to adorn herself although Ahmose said she could. Jewellery simply looked ghoulish with all that dried blood.” She chuckled and straightened.
“Does it have something to do with the silver Ahmose told me he was amassing?” Aahmes-nefertari asked, momentarily inquisitive in spite of herself. “Is he dedicating a shrine or a statue in her name in the temple?” Tetisheri looked blank.
“Silver?” she said sharply. “No, I didn’t know that. But I hope he is not going to make an expensive gesture to Amun’s priests, not with silver. It is too scarce. When he defeats Apepa and can open normal trade routes, we will have all the silver we can afford, but not yet.” She would have gone on, but Ahmose-onkh interposed himself between them, one hand still imprisoned in a nurse’s fist.
“You look pretty, Mother,” he said. Aahmes-nefertari smiled at him. His clear brown eyes had been ringed in kohl. A long golden tear ending in a tiny hawk with folded wings hung from one of his little earlobes, and both wrists were encircled in gold bracelets.
“And you look very handsome in your pleated kilt and new sandals,” she answered. “No, Ahmose-onkh, leave your youth lock alone or you will lose the clasp and the plaiting will come undone.”
“But the netting scratches my neck,” he grumbled. “When can I take the sandals off? My feet are hot.”
“Come in here beside me.” She patted the cushions. “I have things to tell you. I will give him back to you when we reach the temple,” she called up to the patient girl as she relinquished Ahmose-onkh’s hand. “Ankhmahor, let us go!”
At once he shouted an order. The litters were lifted, the guard fell in behind and before, and the cavalcade started towards the river road. As they went, Aahmes-nefertari took her son’s small hand in her own and began to explain to him why he had been painted and carefully dressed, why he must keep his sandals on, the significance of what was about to happen in the temple. He listened soberly, his bright, intelligent eyes fixed on her face, and when she had finished he wriggled thoughtfully on his cushion, looking down at his red-hennaed palms. “Father is King over all of Egypt now that my uncle Kamose is dead?” he queried.
“Yes,” she replied. “He is going to tell everyone today, and they will promise to do everything he says, and not rebel against him like some of the nobles and soldiers did to your uncle.”
“They killed him, didn’t they?” he said with more relish than regret. “They shot him dead.”
“Yes, they did.”
“And you and Grandmother punished them.” He slapped his brown knees cheerfully. “And when Father dies I will be King?”
“Yes.”
“Good. When I am King and everyone must do as I say, I shall put all the soldiers and nobles in prison once a year, just to be sure.”
“It is not that easy to be King, Ahmose-onkh,” she said with a sigh. “Even Kings must be obedient to the laws of the gods, and Ma’at decrees that no one may be imprisoned without a cause. Egyptian kings are not like the savages of other countries who rule without Ra.” But he was no longer paying attention. He was peering through a crack in the curtains.
“Mother, look at all the people!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Let me open the curtains!” He was tugging at them and she reached past him and slid them wide.
Beyond the sheltering phalanx of guards pacing to right and left, both edges of the river road were thick with shouting, jostling citizens. As the litter curtains were drawn back and Aahmes-nefertari and her son appeared, the clamour grew. Weset knew what she and Aahotep had done and they were grateful. The link, always strong between the Taos and their people, was now well-nigh unbreakable. Ahmose-onkh was laughing and waving back at them but Aahmes-nefertari, though she smiled and inclined her head, was seized with a fleeting melancholy. The Setiu still hold the Delta, she thought. Ahmose can declare himself King of Upper and Lower Egypt, but the truth is that the country is still divided.
The litter bearers were forced to slow as they turned left along the short canal leading to Amun’s pylons, for here the throng was thick, and when the family alighted just within the outer court they found it also packed, though with a more dignified gathering of prominent Weset dwellers who bowed to them gravely. Aahmes-nefertari was reminded of a field of grain bending to the wind as she relinquished Ahmose-onkh to the nurse and proceeded towards the inner court, her mother and grandmother beside her. The atmosphere around them changed as Aahotep’s sheath became visible and a ripple of whispers followed them until they vanished into the inner court.
The air here was hazed with fragrant incense. Aahmesnefertari, who loved the smell, inhaled appreciatively as she peered through it to the open doors of the sanctuary beyond. Amun smiled enigmatically back at her, his hands on his knees, his feet hidden in flowers, a wreath of blossoms resting against his smooth chest. It was a rare privilege to see him. Hidden from impious eyes in the dim security of his sanctuary for most of the year, ruling through his priests and oracles, he was a benignly invisible presence to most of his subjects.
Aahmes-nefertari knelt, and together with Tetisheri and Aahotep, prostrated herself before him. As they rose, Aahotep stumbled and fell, a small, quiet movement that went virtually unnoticed under the tinkle of the finger cymbals and the rattle of the systra held by the temple singers. By the time Aahmes-nefertari had noticed her mother’s distress, a young man had darted out from the ranks of priests ranged just outside the sanctuary and had dropped to his own knees beside her. “Pretend that you are making a second reverence, Majesty,” Aahmes-nefertari heard him say. “That way you will transform a blunder into a mark of deep respect and the god will bless you for it.” Aahotep was obviously too shaken to disobey. He joined her in her obeisance and unobtrusively helped her to rise with a hand under her elbow. Aahmes-nefertari expected her to shake him off with a quiet reprimand but she did no more than nod once without looking at him and he resumed his place with his fellows.
Two chairs with a stool between them had been set before the sanctuary, facing the men and women filling the inner court. Behind the chairs were the priests and to either side the holy singers and dancers were ranged. Aahmesnefertari would have liked to turn around and scan the crowd, but she did not dare and indeed she would scarcely have had time, for Amunmose was approaching from one of the anterooms lining the court, accompanied by his incense-laden acolytes. He was wearing the leopard skin denoting his exalted position draped over one shoulder and his staff of holy office was in one hand. Following him was Ahmose in a plain white kilt, his feet bare, his h
ead covered by a square of knotted white linen. Then came three priests, each solemnly bearing a box. The singers burst into harmony. Regally the High Priest led Ahmose to one of the chairs and bowed.
Ahmose did not sit. For a moment his gaze travelled across the assembly, met his wife’s eyes, and acknowledged her with a grin that flashed out and was gone so quickly that Aahmes-nefertari wondered if she had imagined it. He held up a hand and immediately the singing stopped. There was a breathless hush. “Favoured ones of Egypt,” Ahmose called, his voice echoing to the stone ceiling. “Today I succeed my brother as Lord of the Two Lands and Beloved of Amun. From henceforth, the first day of summer will mark the Anniversary of my Appearing as the god’s Divine Incarnation here on earth. I pledge to uphold the laws of Ma’at, reward those who serve me well, and punish justly those who do not. I take to myself the kingship of Egypt as the legitimate inheritor of my ancestors’ right to rule. Aahotep, come here.” His mother stepped forward, and gently taking her arm he swung her to face the gathering. “This is the price of treachery,” he said, pointing at her sheath, “and it was exacted ruthlessly by this woman, herself the wife of a King without a crown. Can any deny the claims of the house of Tao in the presence of such courage and nobility? Mark this well, and ponder what you see.” Aahmes-nefertari felt a tug on her own sheath and glanced down to see Ahmose-onkh.
“Why is Grandmother wearing a dirty sheath?” he whispered fiercely. “Is Father giving her a reprimand?” Aahmesnefertari pressed a finger to his hot little mouth.
“Not now,” she whispered back. “I will explain later.”
“I too am a King without a crown,” Ahmose was saying. “The sacred Regalia—the hedjet, the deshret, the atef, the heka and the nekhakha—lie in blasphemous foreign hands. Even the Lady of Flame and the Lady of Dread are in the north. But I will rescue the White Nefer and the Red, the atef and the sceptre and the flail, and when I do there will be a fitting coronation here, before Amun, in the midst of his city.” He had released Aahotep but she had not moved. She continued to stand, straight and pale, the brown splashes on her foul linen sending out both a warning and a testimony. “Today I will only take the nemes, a symbol of concord with my people,” Ahmose went on. “And I will accept new sandals in order to walk the new path the god has decreed for me. But let there be no mistake. Power does not reside in the Double Crown but in the person of the god who wears it. Let us continue. Bring stools for my mother and grandmother.”
The Horus Road Page 5
