The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  “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 are 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 have 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 would not be worth noticing by passing hunters or soldiers, but the Pharaoh and the God’s Wife…. Ahmose blushed at the thought. No, it would not be maat. And anyway, to be secret lovers under the open sky – that was for her and Ineni. And it was gone forever. I will 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 herself 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 lay 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 holding a torch of rushes 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 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 upon 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 chance to 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 Lady Mutnofret,” a steward called. The crowd parted at the apex of the moon’s curve to let the second wife 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 and sent a faint aura shimmering around her face. Mutnofret was a stunning woman, if ever the gods had made one.

  She carried Wadjmose on one hip. The boy looked 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 at a comical angle 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, that Ahmose's breath caught in her chest. A dim part of her ka yearned for her sister's love.

  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.

  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 First Royal Son 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.

  “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 had discussed the ceremony in great detail. This was not what they had 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 Great Royal Wife, but of Amun and the God’s Wife. This is a holy child, a Royal Son 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 did not do this. I did not know. I did not know! You must 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 great houses upon them. They could speak only with their own eyes, and while Ahmose’s said, Forgive me, sister, I did not 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 dewy with reverence.

  “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, a tiny alcove stocked with torches and sacks of myrrh resin. 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, Great Lady! The sight of it – like nothing I have 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 wife’s.”

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

  “Is not Wadjmose. Not yet, anyway.”

  The High Priest shook his head. “I do not 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 have 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 is nothing to be done about it now. We cannot make an announcement that the High Priest got his vision all wrong. We would look like fools – the entire priesthood!”

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

  “You have not yet begun to regret. We will need to appease Mutnofret now; she is humiliated. It won’t be easy to make her feel she’s been properly soothed, the gods help us.”

  “I shall 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 is not easy to calm once her anger has 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 cannot have been wrong. It was too clear, too powerful. 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 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 the letter to write in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 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 to find Twosre attempting to fend off the second wife, attempting to block the way to Ahmose’s door without actually laying her hands upon the Lady Mutnofret’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 am angry, too. It was Menketra’s doing…the High Priest’s. He was mistaken about his vision, that is all. He is apologetic. He…”

  “The High Priest’s doing! Shaming me in front of representatives of every great 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 had known he was going to say those things, I’d have…”

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

  “Mutnofret, I am the Great Royal Wife, 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. You have 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 wife, when I should be chief among women. 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 think 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 have never wanted to take your son, Mutnofret. He is yours. I have 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 will pay for this. When the Pharaoh returns, he will 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 royal wife.”

  “The second wife, 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SHEMU WAS ONE LONG BLACK blur of sorrow. Ahmose withdrew into her bed chamber whenever time permitted, spinning flax alone in the close air. She refused to read dreams. Dreams did not matter. Not anymore. All that mattered was her nightly ritual at the temple, dancing and chanting until she fell, spent and weeping, for the sake of keeping the gods’ eyes on Egypt. Until Thutmose was home safe, 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 the king’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 is 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 had 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.