She had begun with the truth; she may as well go on with it. Ineni stood at a deferential distance, chatting with Nefertari’s own steward, but he was within earshot. Ahmose lowered her voice. “I saw a girl – a friend – killed by birthing. Wahibra cut her open while she still lived, but the baby died, too.” So much time had passed since Aiya’s death, yet still talking of it, remembering it, brought the sting of tears.
“But Ahmose! That will not happen to you. The women of our line birth easily.”
“It was her smallness that killed her. Wahibra said so.”
“And you think you are too small to bear?”
She nodded.
“Nonsense,” Meritamun said. She sipped at her bowl of beer, staring hard at Ahmose over the rim.
“It is not. Aiya was no smaller than I. You did not see her. You do not know.”
“You sound like a goose.”
“I am the Great Royal Wife. You should remember that.”
“Oh-ho!” Nefertari chuckled. “So you have a little of Mutnofret in you, do you? That is good. You will need a touch of fire in the years to come.”
“I will not have to behave like Mutnofret if I have your title, Grandmother. The title would give me some control over her – over the nobles and priests, too.”
“Is that why you came today? And I thought you wanted to see my nice house.”
Ahmose smiled. “Of course I wanted to see it. In truth, I only thought of asking you about the title on the walk up from the river.”
“Well, you cannot have it.”
The bluntness of the rejection made Ahmose gasp. “Why not? I am god-chosen, after all.”
“It takes more than feeling the gods to wield this kind of power. And so much power is more curse than blessing. Everything you do, everything you say, must be guarded. It is no way to live a life. I would not pass the title on to you unless there was no other way for you to sort out your problems, Ahmose. I have lived under the eyes of the priests my whole life. It is only now, as a very old woman, that I get to enjoy a little peace. Even as Great Royal Wife, you have more freedom now than you realize. That will vanish if you become God’s Wife of Amun. You must be perfect all the time to keep the priests.”
To satisfy them, Ahmose shook her head lightly, laughed as if these ideas were only the fancy of a young girl, and spoke of other things. But the eyes of her heart saw a repeating vision of Nefertari standing behind the Horus Throne, her hand on Meritamun’s shoulder. Ahmose could not deny the subtlety and strength of the God's Wife's power, the assurance with which she controlled the one who sat upon the throne.
It was not a son she needed – of this she was now certain. She needed the title. And without Nefertari’s blessing, Ahmose would have to be as clever as a spider to make the Amun priests her own.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THUTMOSE HAD BEEN SIX WEEKS away when Ahmose received this letter:
Great battle at last. Ranks and ranks of Kushites threw themselves against the fortress. We held them off but ran out of arrows. Had to take to the field with all men using spears. Lost many horses and men. Captured three Kushite princes as hostages. Killed the rest of their army. Egypt is secure from the south.
I am wounded. Cut to the leg. Should heal well but my return is delayed. Will set sail for Egypt in two weeks’ time.
It had taken perhaps a week and a half for the letter to reach her. Tut would be home soon.
Ahmose set the palace into a frenzy. Every corner was swept of sand, every floor scrubbed until it shone. Scaffolds were brought into the throne room and the great feast hall, and servants hoisted pots of water high up on scaffolds to scrub years’ worth of soot from the ceilings and walls. Gardens were weeded and watered and replanted. The palace was invaded by an army of musicians, playing from sunrise to sunset to buoy the spirits of the workers. Well before the Pharaoh returned, the great palace of Waset looked as if it had just been willed into immaculate being by a goddess, as fresh and inviting as cool water.
Mutnofret, too, was busy preparing for the Pharaoh’s return. She had new gowns sewn, purchased new wigs and jewels. Her pregnancy was progressing well. She had visited the temples of Hathor and Khnum several times to make offerings for a boy child, and prayed nightly. Ahmose prayed, too, though in secrecy. There was nothing she wished for more fervently than that her sister should bear a daughter. After all, if their own mother had only girls, it was possible that Mutnofret, too, might be so afflicted. Perhaps it was even likely. Who could say? Mutnofret haunted Ahmose's dreams, leading a pack of nobles to tear Ahmose from the throne as jackals tear at their prey. She often woke shaking.
At last the day of the king's return came. Late in the warm evening glow, while Ahmose spun her flax on the rooftop, Ineni clapped at the head of the stairs. “Great Lady, the Pharaoh! He is returned!”
Ahmose dropped her distaff and bounced to her feet quick as a hare. She was out of the pavilion and pelting down the stairs, brushing past Ineni – all wide, dark eyes and gaping mouth – without a care in the world for a Great Royal Wife’s dignity. She caught herself up just before she reached the courtyard between her hall and Mutnofret’s rooms. The shade of the climbing plant was deep and dark here, cool green-blue like the skin of a melon. She hid herself behind its leaves. Smoothing her gown, she drew deep breaths, eyes squeezed shut, imagining the sight of him, how he would look striding into the palace, the way he would sit on his throne, his hands laid atop the arms of the great gilded chair like the paws of a lion. She could see his face, hear his laugh. She would ride with him again in the hills beyond the city tomorrow – tonight!
Composed now, but still with a belly full of tickling moths, Ahmose ventured into the courtyard. There was no sign of Mutnofret. She wondered whether her sister had heard the news. Should Ahmose tell her? No. Let Mutnofret’s servants inform the second wife. But then, Mutnofret did have every right to greet their husband; she had good news for Thutmose. Ahmose turned toward Nofret’s chambers, clapped outside the door.
Sitamun, Mutnofret’s big-eyed, thin-bodied servant, opened the door.
“Is Mutnofret receiving visitors?”
“Yes, Great Lady. Please come in.” The woman stood aside, bowing. Mutnofret’s antechamber was not nearly so large as Ahmose's own, but richly decorated in spite of its smallness. Certainly Ahmose’s servants had picked through the best of the wedding gifts for her own rooms. Still, what was left to Mutnofret lacked nothing in lush beauty. One corner of the chamber held an intimate seating area; the walls above the chairs and table were hung with fascinating paintings on red linen depicting stories of the goddesses, illustrated by a skilled hand. A tray with the leavings of a meal had yet to be cleared away. There were several bowls. Mutnofret must have entertained a group of friends only a short time ago. Ahmose waited in the center of the chamber, fists on her hips, while Sitamun gathered up the tray and straightened the furniture.
After a long time, Mutnofret drifted from her bed chamber. She wore a striking new yellow gown that clung to her, accentuating her swollen breasts, the slight rise of her belly. Her wig was heavily beaded in gold; it framed her face with an aura of light. “Sister,” she said, smiling.
“I came to tell you, Mutnofret. Our husband has returned.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Mutnofret did not sound surprised. Ahmose wondered how she had known so soon. “I suppose we ought go see him, then. But you look a proper mess – let us tidy you up before we go.”
Ahmose was a mess indeed. She had been on her feet all day, walking in her garden, plucking leaves absently, tossing bread crumbs to birds, while she mulled the thoughts in her heart – thoughts of power and sons, of thrones and priests. Her gown was wrinkled, her face dry with the afternoon’s dust. Mutnofret took her hand and led her into the bed chamber, sat her down at the dressing table.
“You must look the part, little sister,” Mutnofret said. There was no malice in her voice. Once more she spoke as if there had never been any rif
t between them. It is the child in her. It gives her assurance. She thinks I am no threat so long as I remain a virgin. But she is wrong.
Mutnforet laid out a broad silver bowl, filled it with water from a pitcher, and unstopped a jar of soap. Ahmose washed, scooping the myrrh-scented soap into her hands, scrubbing the day’s musings away.
“A royal wife is expected to be pretty and perfect all the time.” Mutnofret drizzled oil into a pot, stirred in the shimmering green dust of powdered malachite. She whipped it into a paste, dipped a small brush, and gently painted Ahmose’s eyelids. “Make yourself beautiful and your husband will always love you.”
“You know all about being beautiful,” Ahmose said. She could not keep a touch of jealousy from her voice.
Mutnofret reached for the kohl pot. She did not hesitate, but Ahmose saw a quick spark flare and die in Mutnofret’s eye. Then the kohl brush came toward her, wet and sharp; Ahmose closed her eyes and allowed Mutnofret to line them with the cool, sooty kohl.
“It is a thing you can learn, too, Ahmose. You really must take more care of your appearance if you are to be the Great Royal Wife.”
I am the Great Royal Wife, Ahmose thought. She said nothing.
Mutnofret applied the rouge to Ahmose's cheeks, then oiled her lips and dusted them with rouge as well. “Don’t lick it all off.”
“How do I look now?” Ahmose smiled timidly at her sister.
“You need another dress. Take me back to your rooms and I will help you choose one.”
It was the first time Mutnofret had been inside the apartments of the Great Royal Wife since they had passed to Ahmose. The second wife looked around at the opulence, the soaring ceilings and bright-painted walls that stood at least twice as wide and high as her own rooms. Mutnofret’s face remained blank but for a muscle that twitched once, twice, in her jaw.
To keep her sister’s mood light, Ahmose joked and gossiped as she led Mutnofret to the wardrobe. They sorted through Ahmose’s garments, Nofret casting some aside and placing others into a neat stack. Finally, she picked through the stack, considering each weave and drape in turn, and at last held up a bright blue dress of thin linen. It was nearly as thin as the one Mutnofret had worn to their wedding feast. Ahmose blushed. She only ever wore this gown about her apartments on excessively warm days. She would never consider going out into the palace dressed in it – it revealed entirely too much.
“It is awfully thin,” she said in a small voice.
“Of course it is! Your body is starting to develop, Ahmose.” Mutnofret sounded less than enthusiastic about the fact. “You would be wise to show it to Thutmose.”
“All right.”
Surely Mutnofret knew what she was doing. With Thutmose’s child inside her, the second wife believed she had no more need of tricks. And this help with dressing – Ahmose truly looked beautiful now, not like a child at all. It was almost as if Nofret sought to make amends for her deception at the wedding feast. Ahmose stood still while her sister tied the dress, adjusting it two or three times until it draped just so, both revealing and concealing the features of her body. Her breasts, her hips were like brown stones under flowing water, to be glimpsed and hidden again by the wash of blue. She took a few shaky breaths while Mutnofret stepped back to look her over.
“Some jewels, I think. Where are they?”
Ahmose pointed to her jewel boxes, stacked neatly against one wall. Mutnofret’s eyebrows rose; perhaps Ahmose had more than she. But all the same, Nofret kept her opinion to herself and rummaged through the boxes until she found the right pieces to complement the blue dress.
“Now you look a Great Royal Wife,” she said quietly, fastening a necklace of overlapping gold leaves.
“Thank you, Nofret.”
Mutnofret’s answering smile was not insincere, for all its sadness.
Ahmose could not force herself to sit still in the litter. The ride from the palace to the water steps was too long, too stifling in the confines of the loose-weave curtains. She craned her neck this way and that, watching the bustle of Waset distort and blur through the linen. There was a certain energy in the streets, a shouting, a hurrying. Ahmose longed to be outside the litter, skipping through the alleys and merchants’ stalls, calling out her joy with the rekhet. The king had returned. Kush was defeated. Egypt was victorious.
Mutnofret sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, watching straight ahead as if the curtains were not there at all. Ahmose eyed her sister’s face, but could think of nothing to say, and so she held her tongue. In a moment, though, Mutnofret’s chin lifted slightly; her lips curved with the smallest touch of a smile. Ahmose squinted through the litter at the road in front of them. It swept downhill to the moorings. There were fish-sellers’ booths here, boat-renters and children leading cattle to water. The pungent smell of the waterfront invaded the litter. Ships rocked against their restraints like horses impatient to run. One, painted white and blue with a massive upswept prow, was surely the Pharaoh's own war vessel, but through the linen Ahmose could see nothing more of it than a confusion of color and slashing shapes.
Mutnofret’s smile turned into a low, melodious laugh.
“What?” Ahmose said. “What do you see?”
“Look harder, little sister.”
Ahmose leaned forward, crooked a finger around the edge of the curtain. She drew it back just a bit, so a gap of unmuddled waterfront opened before her face. The great white-and-blue hulk must be Thutmose’s – it was the largest ship on the river. But something strange, long and dark, was affixed to the prow. Ahmose stared. It was a tree trunk with gnarled, brittle limbs. No – in the space of another heartbeat she saw the object truly. Not a tree, but a man’s body, dark and naked, desiccated, twisted. She gasped, let the curtain fall as she jolted back onto her cushion.
“Our husband is a true warrior,” Mutnofret said.
“Horrible!”
“This is war, Ahmose,” she said quietly. “People do horrible things when they are at war.”
Ahmose did not dare look at her sister’s face. She swallowed hard, and fought to still her hands in her lap while the litter crept toward the river.
Thutmose met them at the head of the water steps. Ahmose walked to him as calmly as she could, took his hand in both of hers and kissed his fingers again and again. Oh, how she had missed him, their chariot rides, their conversations over dinner. Steadfastly, she kept her eyes turned away from the prow of the ship. Her gentle, kind husband could never have hung a man’s body there. She would not look at it. She would not believe it.
Mutnofret approached down the steps; her ladies trailed behind her in a fan of color, reds and sky-blues, whites and greens. Their gowns seemed chosen to set off Mutnofret's brilliant golden-yellow ever more brightly. The second wife extended her hand to Thutmose. He took it gently. She stared boldly into his eyes, laid a hand upon her stomach.
“Well.” He took Mutnofret by the shoulders. “I suppose I should not be surprised.”
She blushed a pretty shade and covered her mouth, laughing lightly. “I have made so many offerings, we cannot fail to have a son.”
Tut shook his head, grinning, both hands stroking up and down Mutnofret’s arms as if she were his cherished pet cat. “What news, what news! Nothing better to follow a war victory than a son on the way. When will he arrive?”
“Just a bit more than five moons.”
“Come,” Tut said. The massive royal litter had arrived. Twelve soldiers, strong and tall, lowered it to the ground at the head of the water steps. Ahmose climbed inside gratefully. Her face flushed hot at the look in Tut’s eyes, the brightness of his eyes on Mutnofret’s body. Tut told them amusing stories from his expedition as they rode back to the palace, and the three of them laughed as one. But Ahmose was keenly aware of how the king leaned toward Mutnofret, how his left hand busily stroked at her neck while his right lay still on Ahmose’s own knee. She all but ran from the litter when they were safe within the palace’s walls once more, an
d ground her teeth together when Tut invited her – and Mutnofret, of course – to his chamber. She ground her teeth, but she forced a smile.
Inside the Pharaoh's lush chambers, freshly scrubbed and scented with the sweet smoke of myrrh and bundles of fresh herbs, they sat together on Thutmose's long, low couch, the Pharaoh between the sisters, and shared their news. Tut told them of the battles, the journey, the treacherous travel through the white-water cataracts of Upper Egypt, the strange customs of Buhen. Mutnofret shared her pregnancy symptoms: sickness in the morning, and strange cravings. She had her eye on several young court women with big bellies who might make suitable wet nurses for the Royal Son, and these she discussed with Thutmose at great length. For Ahmose’s part, she had nothing to share but a few unusual dreams she had read, and the disputes she had adjudicated in her husband’s absence. Her news seemed paltry and dull in comparison to Mutnofret's child.
There was one thing she could share with Tut alone, though. When Mutnofret excused herself to the privy, she leaned in close to the king's ear. “We must go riding soon. Or take the boat out on the lake. Just you and me.”
His eyes wandered down to her chest, and she shifted her shoulders, unsure whether she intended to show or hide her breasts from his view. He licked his lips.
“You have changed since I’ve been gone, Ahmoset.” There was the shadow of a question in his words.
“Just to ride,” she said quickly. “I meant, just to…”
He patted her hand. “Yes, all right. We will go riding as soon as I have the chance.”
“Tonight! I have missed you so.”
Tut barked his laugh, a sound that made her bite her lips to hide her foolish smile. “Eager! Well, I confess I could use a good, swift chariot ride after all the time I’ve spent on that blasted boat.” Mutnofret returned, golden, ripe; she remained standing, smiling at Thutmose, one coy hand playing with a braided strand of her wig. “I will see you later tonight, Ahmoset, and we will take that ride.”
The She-King: The Complete Saga Page 11