The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “Now their hearts are turned against you, and against the king. If you thought like a person instead of like a crocodile, you would have seen that.”

  “Thutmose doesn’t want their hearts. He wants their taxes.”

  “Tut wants their loyalty. That is what he needs. Have you already forgotten that our husband is not of royal blood? If he does not have the nobles and priests united behind him, the throne will not remain his for long. And that means it will not be yours for long, either.”

  “Tut. How cute.”

  Ahmose was brought up short. She made her hands into fists and pressed her nails deep into her palms to keep a triumphant smile from her face. So Mutnofret had never called him Tut. He had never given his second wife this secret name to use. The knowledge that she shared something with her husband that even Mutnofret could never touch filled her with a wash of power. She felt like Sekhmet the goddess-lioness, crouching to spring, to take down her prey. She stepped close to Mutnofret, so close that her sister drew back and crossed her hands over the bulge of her belly. “I will cane you myself, Mutnofret. Believe it. I have a duty to Egypt. My work is to rule while Thutmose is gone. If you continue to interfere, by all the gods I swear I will stripe you like a runaway slave. Stay out of my way and let me do my work.”

  She turned to leave. She wanted to walk away, to push Mutnofret’s rage and bitterness behind her forever and never look upon it again. But the desperation in Mutnofret’s voice stopped her before she could pass through the bed-chamber door. “And what is my work, now that you have taken all I lived for?”

  Ahmose looked back at her sister. Mutnofret’s arms and legs trembled faintly – whether from the excitement of the confrontation or from fear of Ahmose's threats, she could not tell. But still, her sister stood straight and proud, a Great Lady by birth, and to her very center.

  “Give the Pharaoh an heir,” Ahmose said. “That is the only work you need concern yourself with.”

  “A brood mare,” Mutnofret said. Her lips pressed together, twisted. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Ahmose remembered the sight of Mutnofret alone on the throne of the Great Royal Wife, hand raised to an empty, dark hall. “I was raised to be the king's chief wife, and you have reduced me to a brood mare.”

  Ahmose left her standing there with Tut’s baby in her belly.

  “Does Tut know you’re in bed with your steward, Ahmose?” Mutnofret’s screech carried through her anteroom. Ahmose kept walking, never once looking round. “Have a care your precious nobles and priests do not discover it. I wonder where their hearts would lie then?”

  Ahmose made herself walk slowly across the courtyard. Obviously Sitamun had told what she had seen in the garden before the Men-Nefer festival. And what else had that vile gossip seen? How often had she been sent to spy upon Ahmose? Ineni had been her only comfort, her only joy in the dark days since Tut sailed north. Any gesture, any word between them could be interpreted as romantic. A dagger of guilt twisted in her belly.

  Ahmose remembered how she and Mutnofret had vowed to be sisters first, sisters forever, and remembering made her chest tighten. How quickly they had forgotten their promise; how quickly hate had taken hold of their hearts. There was a rent between them now that a thousand-thousand stitches could never mend. And would it open further? Would the gods drive this wedge between Ahmose and Tut, too? Unthinkable – impossible – unbearable. She would give it all up – her privacy, the palace itself – to ensure Tut was still hers. She would move against Mutnofret’s schemes. Decisively; today.

  Back in her apartments, she sent Twosre to find Ineni. She dragged a flat box out of one of the great standing chests that held her gowns. Inside was a swath of linen dyed the perfect crimson of beaded blood. She tied it tightly, and though her hands shook, they did not fail.

  The garment was stifling, and so snug it was difficult to walk. But it accentuated every curve of her young body; it turned her into the very image of ripening. The red cloth was knotted beneath her breasts, exposing them, and she painted her nipples with oil and coated them with gold dust so that they shone like sun-discs. Her finest wig went onto her head, and her brilliant alabaster vulture crown settled atop it, with the goddess's finely carved white wings, worked in stone so smooth they glowed like a full moon rising, falling to either side of her face. She did not need her mirror to know she looked like a vision. She felt it. She felt Mut singing deep within her heart.

  Ineni was not long in coming. Twosre helped him bear in a long box, longer than a man’s height and more than wide enough for a stout man to lie inside. When Ineni straightened from his burden and looked at Ahmose, his eyes lit with a hungry fire. She looked like womanhood itself, she knew – like a goddess made flesh. Perfect.

  “What is all this?” Twosre frowned.

  “I am striking a blow against evil today,” Ahmose said. She came toward Ineni and the box, her hips swaying like a bed of reeds in the confines of the red dress. Ineni swallowed hard.

  “Great Lady, where are you going?” Twosre’s voice was pitched high with worry.

  “To Ipet-Isut, to pay a little visit to the High Priest of Amun. Ineni, do you have the letter?”

  He pulled a scroll of papyrus from his belt. “It is ready. A litter is coming. The bearers will meet us in the courtyard.”

  “Make sure Mutnofret is distracted so she does not see me leave. I won’t have her pulling some trick to ruin my plan.”

  There was a note of fear in Twosre’s voice. “I don’t understand.” Ahmose turned to her, reached out in reassurance.

  “Don’t be afraid. The gods are with me – they always have been. They have a job for me to do, today and always. Egypt is mine, whatever Mutnofret thinks. The gods gave the land to me, and I will be its steward.”

  Ineni lifted away the lid. He held them up, one in each hand: two perfect wings, white as stars on water. There were dozens of feathers on each, long, strong, lightweight. She stretched out her arms.

  He showed her how they worked, how her upper and lower arms fitted into the braided-linen loops. His fingers were deft and soft against her skin. She could not bend her elbows with the wings on, of course, but that hardly mattered. When she turned about and held the wings wide for Twosre to see, her servant gasped. The white feathers swept out, impossibly light, impossibly beautiful. She was winged in her ka, winged in truth. She felt she could spring up like a bird and fly over the Black Land.

  Twosre half-sank into a bow, as if she stood before the goddess in truth. “You are Mut,” she said.

  “And today, I go to wed Amun.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IT WAS EASIER TO RIDE in the litter with the wings off. They were laid carefully beside her on the cushions, a barrier between herself and Ineni.

  “Mutnofret thinks we are lovers.” The sun, sliding down the sky, illuminated the litter’s blue curtains and cast Ineni’s face in cool planes. The steward said nothing. “Ineni, as dear as you are to me, we can never be lovers.”

  “I know.”

  “But you would have it be so, if you could.”

  “You would not?” He sounded defeated.

  Ahmose swallowed hard. She made herself say, “In truth, I have never considered it. Not because you aren’t a wonderful man. You are. But I love my husband.”

  He nodded. “And you are the Great Royal Wife.”

  “Soon to be God’s Wife, too, if all goes well. Oh, what if it doesn’t?”

  “It will. It is a wicked thing we do, though, Ahmose.”

  “Is it really? With Thutmose gone, there is no one to check Mutnofret. She will drive me from the throne.”

  “I know all that. It’s this.” He tapped the scroll against his knee. “It is a lie. The gods do not favor liars.”

  This was the first misgiving Ineni had expressed. It took Ahmose aback. It was a lie, and a cruel one. Gods willing, Nefertari would never find out about the letter. Ineni – clever, bright Ineni – had done a masterful forgery of the old woman’s shaky h
and. He had studied all the notes she’d sent to Ahmose and practiced for weeks. No one would question the letter, which signed away the title, though not the wealth. Ahmose would leave her grandmother the wealth.

  It was wicked, truly, to take what was not hers. But the gods intended the throne for Ahmose. They gave the throne to Ahmose. If this was the only way to keep Mutnofret at bay so Ahmose could do the gods’ work, then she would be forgiven. Ineni, too; Ahmose felt sure of that. But oh, if only luck would be with her. If only Nefertari would go to the next life without ever knowing. She sent up a prayer to Iset to make it so.

  Ineni reached across the wings and took Ahmose’s hand. She allowed the touch. The gods alone knew when they might be together again. It would be a lonely life in the temple, with only Twosre for company. “I will miss you, Ineni.”

  He made no reply. They rode to Ipet-Isut in silence.

  Ahmose stayed curtained in her litter as the sentries questioned her soldiers. Her heart was like a trapped bird, all flutter and beat. She could not look at Ineni, nor at the wings; she closed her eyes lightly and prayed through the avenues of the temple complex. At last she felt the sensation of lowering, at last the bump of the platform against the ground.

  Ineni motioned for her to wait. He got out himself, spoke a few quiet words to someone outside. Then louder: “Inside, I say, and prepare the sanctuaries. I bring Ahmose, the god-chosen. Do as I say, or the Pharaoh will hear your name!” His face peeked back inside, hands clutching the curtain tight about him so no one in the courtyard could see into the litter. “It is time.”

  With difficulty, she pushed herself to her knees and shuffled about until her feet were outside the litter. Then it was a matter of levering her body, constrained by the snug gown, upright. She braced her hands against the canopy’s supports and shoved hard. She teetered on her feet, nearly overbalancing; Ineni’s thin arm was around her waist in a flash, righting her. She smiled at him, laughed nervously. “This dress.”

  “It’s enough to make anyone fall over.”

  “Get the wings for me, will you?” Whoever had been in the forecourt of the Temple of Amun was gone now. Ineni had sent them packing quick enough. Even the litter-bearers had their backs turned. Ipet-Isut was still and private in the cool blue of early evening.

  He slid the fine white wings onto her arms. Ahmose held them out; the faintest breeze moved from the west, tugging at her feathers, pulling her arms insistently. Now she would fly. Above Mutnofret, above the court – she would set herself loose upon this breeze and sweep her will across the land. She was a sacred woman, beloved of the gods, and what she did was right; she could do no wrong. She moved toward the temple door with her bright goddess wings outstretched.

  The temple’s huge anteroom was empty, though faintly, she could hear the voices of men – servants or priests. The voices were urgent and forced. Whatever Ineni said to clear the forecourt, it had worked well. She faltered in the emptiness of the anteroom. Ineni ducked under her right wing and strode out into the room.

  “Hear me, High Priest of Amun! The consort of your god comes! The God’s Wife approaches!” Ineni’s voice rang like sword on shield. Before the echo of his words faded, the High Priest swept into the room, draped in his leopard skin, a press of lesser men and women at his back. When he saw her standing there, winged, gilded, crowned, he fell to his knees, sank forward until he lay flat upon the floor. The priests behind him did the same. A murmur went up, a sound tight with wonder.

  She needed do nothing but stand before them, poised and manifestly female, manifestly divine. She caught sight of herself in a great plated mirror on the temple wall: the setting sun streamed in from the doorway behind, casting her form in a halo of light, dust dancing in the air around her wings, each mote a faceted jewel. She glowed – she shone – she was as vivid as the goddess from her dream, walking on a river of light.

  “Mut,” the High Priest whispered, choked and awed. He stared up at her from the floor, tears standing in his eyes.

  In the end, they had hardly needed the forged letter. Ahmose’s appearance, white-winged, backlit by Re’s holy light, young and vital, had convinced the High Priest. When she fell limp and babbling into Ineni’s arms, the words she spoke brought the regiment of lesser temple servants to her as well.

  My consort comes! My partner on the earth, come to heal the river! Maat, maat, maat!

  It had not been a part of their plan. When she came to, Ineni was staring into her eyes, shocked and trembling.

  “I am all right, Ineni.” He pulled her upright again, steadied her, took the wings from her. Oh, what a bitter thing, to lose them!

  “What was that?” he murmured. “What were you talking about?”

  “She is the mouthpiece of the gods.” The High Priest bowed to her, holding forth his palms in supplication. “Those were Amun’s own words you heard. Not since her grandmother has Egypt seen such a favored woman. The gods are all around her; I can feel them.”

  Ineni paled. He looked from Ahmose to the High Priest, uncertain.

  Ahmose nodded weakly. “I have never had it come upon me so strongly before. It was Amun. I can still feel his presence. But I am well right now.”

  The High Priest sent for cold wine and bread. “So you come to bring maat, then? It is well that you do. For days now when I have prayed I have seen nothing but chaos in the smoke of my offerings. The gods demand a restoration of the righteous order. The scales are close to tipping. I fear for the army in the north.”

  Tut. No. “This is why the gods have brought me here. I am the one to restore righteousness. The Pharaoh will strike the bodies of the Heqa-Khasewet, and I will strike their kas.” When she said it, it felt so right that it had to be true. She still shook with the power of Amun’s touch. “I will spend my nights in the Temple of Mut, and I will lead all the priesthood in prayer. I need only a modest room. I must be near the gods, if I am to do their work.”

  “Of course, Great Lady.” The High Priest bowed.

  “I cannot give up my service to the throne, though. In the daytime, I will be at the palace supervising the court. The gods want a strong, young, righteous ruler on the throne, with the Pharaoh away at war.”

  She turned to Ineni. Sweet, clever Ineni, her dearest friend. She had just committed herself to daily and nightly work. Holy work, to be sure, but it would leave her little time for anything but court and prayer. Would she and Ineni see each other again? Of all the things she was giving up for Egypt’s sake, she would miss him the most. “Bring Twosre to me, and a trunk of my clothing. She will know what to pack. I shall begin leading prayers this very night, and I won’t be back at the palace until morning.”

  Ineni’s shoulders slumped. “As you will, Great Lady.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  AHMOSE RETURNED TO THE PALACE early in the morning, weak from lack of sleep. Alive with her newfound might, Ahmose had spent the entire night dancing and singing, and smoking semsemet at the shrines, crying aloud from the force of the divine fire that burned inside her. She had whirled and clapped with the sesheshet – the gods' sacred iron rattles – until her arms and legs were as weak as grass. She had prayed on her knees, bending her back, howling to the gods, and the priestesses howled with her. Such a music they had made! The gods’ eyes were surely upon the Pharaoh now, far to the north, and Ahmose was feverish with power.

  She arrived in the throne room before anyone else. Dressed in the white smock of a priestess with a simple wig and the golden cobra circlet – the simplest crown of the Great Royal Wife – she was as understated as she had been at her wedding feast, but now at last she was radiant with confidence. No second wife's treasure could outshine her.

  She ascended the steps to her throne and sat as gracefully as if all the eyes of Egypt were upon her. The great hall stretched out before her, its pillars alive with the stories of kings of the past. The windcatchers along the eastern wall admitted shafts of golden-pink light. These, too, were like pillars, brilliant
bright pillars sparkling with the early motes of morning. Soon enough, this hall would fill with her subjects, the people of her land, looking to Ahmose for guidance, looking to the God’s Wife for judgment. Now, though, she let the silence reach into her bones, fill her up with peace and pleasure. She felt like the king's chief wife at last, a true Great Lady, strong and beautiful on her throne. Nothing could shake her.

  First one, then three, then a dozen stewards and servants moved into the hall. They were like a trickle of water from a jar, hesitant and thin, speaking low so as not to disturb Ahmose’s peace. She watched them go about their business, set up their tables and benches to mind the petitioners, sweep the floors free of sand and pebbles. One servant approached her and asked if there was anything she might wish from the kitchens. Ahmose waved the man away. She was full of the gods’ power. She needed no other sustenance.

  Ahmose could hear the voice of the gathered people like a wind in an orchard. The second wife came in through the rear door behind the dais. Ahmose heard Mutnofret's, too, rising above the rustle of the petitioners and stewards. Ahmose did not deign to look around. Mutnofret was ordering refreshment from the serving man, and calling for her body servant to fetch a lighter wig. Mutnofret was of no consequence. Ahmose had pulled the power and the peace of the morning deep into her bones.

  Mutnofret climbed the dais, her round belly swaying, leaning on the arm of one of her women. She settled onto her throne, sighed, and turned to Ahmose.

  “What is that you are wearing? You look like an apprentice from the temples.”