The She-King: The Complete Saga

by L. M. Ironside

  Amunmose pulled back from her shoulder. His face was serious, as it had been all these seventy long days. She missed his laughter, his little jests. His smile will come back with time. He said, “I don’t want to go live with Waser, even if it is nice. I like it here.”

  Ahmose’s ka felt sick. She glanced up at the rock bluff where the vulture had perched. “I don’t want you to go live with Waser, either. Not until you are a very old man.”

  Thutmose came to her that night. They made a desperate, mournful kind of love in the dimly striped light of her bed chamber. They were a soft confusion of flesh and seed, hot living breath and hot living skin, a double proclamation of vitality against the cold, open mouth of the tomb. When it was over, Ahmose lay still and listened to Tut’s breathing. He was awake but silent. She remained silent, too, content to let the warmth of their passion burn off her cold fog of sorrow.

  Finally Tut spoke. “Why did the gods take him?” His voice was curious, not wounded. He had more than two months to heal that wound, as much as it could ever be healed.

  Ahmose said nothing. She did not want to speak.

  He rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow, peering into her face to see if she slept.

  Finally she said, “I don’t know.”

  Tut was quiet again for a long time. Out in Ahmose’s private garden an owl fluted its hollow, repetitive call. The sound caught his attention. He turned toward the pillared wall, and starlight limned the planes of his face, the hard edges, the soft curve of his scalp above his temples, the lines in his forehead, the sharp arc of his nose. She loved him. She would give anything to spare him, if she only could.

  “You do know,” he said quietly. “Please tell me.”

  “Tut, don’t make me do this.”

  “Was it something I did?”

  “How could it be?” she asked dully.

  He lay back again, his fingers laced together over his chest. She loved his thick, strong hands, the strength of his body. She did not know whether his ka inside was as strong as the outside of him. She did not want to see him shake.

  “Is it Hatshepsut?” He whispered the question.

  Ahmose sat up, rubbed her eyes. She glanced at the jar of water beside the bed, thought of taking a drink to stall answering. Then he touched her arm, insistent.

  “Yes,” she said.

  There was silence again, an uncomfortable, attenuated thing that clung between them like a spider’s thread. This time Ahmose broke it.

  “The gods are not pleased that you haven’t named their heir, Tut.”

  He laughed softly, a self-deprecating huff. “You are always on me about naming an heir. You always have been.”

  “It is important.”

  “I know it is. I know.”

  The spider’s thread stretched and quivered.

  “I fear for the other boys,” she said. “Of all the ways a three-year-old child can die – a vulture’s bite? If ever I saw an omen, Tut...”

  “What if I had named Wadjmose heir years ago, when you pestered me about him? What would the gods have done?”

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I cannot tell what they’ll do now. Maybe Ramose was enough for them. Maybe….” She could not finish the thought.

  “It’s just that…I cannot…I fear doing this thing, Ahmose.” Admitting the fear took something out of him. He sighed, trembled.

  She reached out in the darkness and stroked him, brushing his shoulder and arm as if he were a flighty horse. “Do not fear what the gods set before you,” she told him, although she feared it, too. She feared all the things the gods had ever set before her: the throne of the chief wife, and the temple, and Aiya, and Mutnofret. Ineni. Thutmose. Hatshepsut.

  “If they take me from the throne, what will become of me? I can never go back to being a general. Not now that I have been a king.”

  It was true. If Tut were pulled from the Horus Throne it would not be a gentle thing. He would be lucky to be banished to another land. More likely, he would end up dead. And Ahmose…she would die, too. She was not the God’s Wife anymore, with power over the priests. She had no power – no power, except as the mother of a secret half-god. Precious little to stop an uprising.

  “I love Hatshepsut dearly, but she cannot be my heir.”

  Ahmose’s hand froze on Tut’s shoulder. “You taunt the gods by doing this,” she said, afraid. “You put us all in danger.”

  “Maybe. But perhaps you have read the signs wrong, my love.” He rolled over and put a hand on her belly. “Perhaps tonight – or some night yet to come – a son.”

  “No, Tut. I will never bear a son.” Her voice was half whisper, half wail. If she could give birth to a child with a body that reflected his ka, she would. A thousand times over, she wished that she could. Not just for Tut, and not for herself. For Hatshepsut. Was it Ahmose’s fault, that the King's Daughter was such a jumble inside? Had she done something wrong during the pregnancy? Had she not said the right prayers, not made the correct offerings, or not made enough? Or was this warrior-girl who housed eight male kas and one female soul a punishment for Ahmose’s sins?

  No. Never – Hatshepsut was never a punishment. She was a blessing and a gift, a delight, though her very presence caused turmoil in the royal family. Ahmose wanted no other child, could imagine herself as mother of no other child. Her life had begun when her daughter was born. Her daughter was her life now.

  “I am sorry Hatshepsut is female,” she said, “on the outside. If her body was like her kas, we would not argue so much.”

  “It’s not your fault, nor hers,” he said, taking Ahmose in his arms.

  She laid her head on his chest. She listened to his heart beating, gratefully. At length Ahmose said, “What will you do?”

  He stroked the smoothness of her scalp. “For now, nothing. I still need time to think. I don’t know what to do yet. So I will do what I have been doing: listen to petitions, send soldiers off to dredge canals and build fortresses. And I will pray. I hope the gods will take pity on me and send me a clear answer to my questions.”

  Hope for anything but that, she wanted to say. But she allowed him to go on stroking her head, and she kept her ear to his heart. How she loved him. How she would hate to see him shake.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  FOR MONTHS AFTER RAMOSE’S FUNERAL, Ahmose prayed daily, burning offerings in her bronze bowl before the statue-filled niches in her bedchamber wall. She was tense all the time, especially around her daughter and husband, expecting some terrible, divine blow to fall on her family. Yet none ever did. As the seasons went on in their accustomed march and Mutnofret’s two boys grew taller, stronger, more confident, the prayers and offerings did not come so frequently. She allowed herself to hope the boys would be spared. And when Hatshepsut marked her fourth birthday, Ahmose felt sure the gods had been appeased.

  Hatshepsut was not like the other four-year-old girls. She shunned dolls, unless it was to rip them apart. When she was made to wear a pretty dress, she rolled it over and over at the waist and tied it with a sash so the skirt hung short like a boy’s kilt. When Ahmose encouraged her to let her hair grow, she screamed and kicked until Sitre-In gave in and shaved her scalp bare, just like a boy’s. She was not growing long and lean like the daughters of the harem women, either. She was broad, strong, and tanned from playing in the sun at Wadjmose’s war games. The only hint of her femininity was a soft half-ruggedness about her face, and matted black lashes so thick she always looked like she was wearing kohl.

  Sitre-In worked constantly to teach the wild girl proper behavior. The whole family sat now at a long table for supper, and the young nurse slapped at Hatshepsut’s wrists, for she had reached for the bread before the king.

  Hatshepsut hissed like a cat. Lately it amused the girl to make animal noises. Sitre-In shoved the platter of bread out of Hatshepsut’s reach, and Hatshepsut scowled at the nurse, rocking her bottom side-to-side in the bowl seat of her stool.

  �
�All right now,” Tut said. “We must recall our manners, Hatet.”

  “You recall your manners,” she shouted. “I’m hungry!”

  Tut’s eyes crinkled. Ahmose shot him a heavy look. Don’t laugh. It will only encourage her. The Pharaoh straightened in his chair, frowned at his daughter. Hatshepsut squeaked, and sat very still, her hands resting in her lap, eyes very wide and staring straight ahead – pretending to be a temple statue, Ahmose assumed.

  “That’s better,” Tut said. “Now, Wadjmose, since it is your special day, you shall have the first serving of every dish.”

  Ahmose beamed at her nephew. The boy eagerly picked up the platter, selected the best piece of bread for himself, and passed it to his mother. It was indeed a special day for him. Wadjmose had completed his first day of real military training. Not just horse care and running with the other boys, but true soldier’s work. He had entered training almost three years earlier than most boys. The fact that Wadjmose was First Son of Egypt surely had something to do with it, but all the credit could not go to his blood and birth. Wadjmose was exceptionally bright and serious in his studies. He applied himself wholly to everything he did. The Instructor of Boys had recommended Wadjmose for advanced training without any prompting from Tut’s stewards. The boy had his father’s ability with bow and horses. He, too, would be a strong arm for Egypt.

  “How was your first day? Tell me all about it!” Ahmose leaned her elbows on the table and watched Wadjmose eat. He dipped his bread in honey and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing quickly. They must have worked him hard. She had never seen the boy with such an appetite before.

  “It was wonderful,” he said, his mouth still full.

  “Recall your manners,” Hatshepsut yelled.

  “Quiet, Hatet. It is your brother’s turn to speak.”

  Hatshepsut knew better than to try scowling at Ahmose. The girl went back into her wide-eyed temple-statue pose. Ahmose held the platter of bread out, but Hatshepsut did not move, staring ahead with her huge, unblinking eyes. Ahmose dropped a piece of bread into the princess’s bowl, then passed the platter along to Sitre-In.

  “I got to drive a chariot,” Wadjmose said. “Two horses! And then we ran laps, and then I had to carry a shield.”

  “It sounds like fun.”

  “It’s hard work. The shield was heavy. I am very sore, and hungry.” He took another huge bite of his bread.

  “The Instructor of Boys tells me you were especially good with the chariot,” Tut said from the head of the table. “I am proud of you.”

  Wadjmose blushed.

  Hatshepsut shifted on her seat. She looked for a long time at Tut, then at Wadjmose. “When do I start soldier school?”

  Mutnofret, seated across the table from Ahmose, raised her eyebrows, then turned to smack Amunmose’s wrist; the boy had let out a donkey-bray laugh.

  “What?” Hatshepsut stared hard at Amunmose.

  “You’re a girl, stupid,” he said. “You can’t be a soldier.”

  “I am not!”

  “Yes you are! I’ve never seen you piss standing up!”

  “All right,” Tut shouted. “Enough! Amunmose, you are old enough to know better.”

  “So is she,” Amunmose muttered. “When is she going to learn she’s a girl?”

  “She knows she’s a girl,” Tut said.

  Hatshepsut sucked in a breath, ready to shout a denial at her father, but Ahmose and Sitre-In each seized one of her arms.

  “Enough out of you,” Sitre-In said. “Sit and eat quietly or go to bed hungry.”

  Desperate to change the subject, Ahmose turned to her other nephew. “And what are you learning in school, Amunmose?”

  “Numbers,” the boy said, sulking. “I hate numbers.”

  “Numbers are important. You will be a great man some day, and you must know how to keep track of numbers.”

  “Amunmose is excellent with numbers,” Mutnofret said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “He is very clever.”

  “I’m clever,” Hatshepsut said.

  Amunmose rolled his eyes.

  “I am,” she insisted. “I’m cleverer than you!”

  “What did I tell you, Hatshepsut?” Sitre-In stood and took the girl’s hand. “No supper for you!”

  “No!” Hatshepsut screeched, grabbing her bread and stuffing it in her mouth. Sitre-In, with the patience of a goddess, pulled the bread out again. The nurse dragged Hatshepsut out of the great hall.

  Ahmose took her time finishing supper. She was in no hurry to rush to Hatshepsut’s room to comfort the girl. The King's Daughter had been a trial lately; it seemed every day she craved more and more of her father’s approval. Any favor Tut showed to either of the boys was met by Hatshepsut with sulking at best, and outright disruption at worst. Hatshepsut was cultivating a jealous streak as wide as the river. Ahmose was not sure how to curb it.

  After supper, she found Sitre-In sewing in the far end of Ahmose’s private garden. She asked whether she might sit, too. The evening air was refreshingly brisk, and the garden was especially peaceful tonight.

  “Of course you may sit, Great Lady,” Sitre-In said, shifting her neat pile of linen on the bench to make room.

  “Did you get anything to eat, Sitre-In?”

  “Ah, Great Lady. I had a friend from the kitchens bring me my supper.”

  “And Hatshepsut?”

  “None for her, just as I promised.”

  Ahmose sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I suppose that’s for the best.”

  Sitre-In gave Ahmose a level, matronly look. Were nurses born with that look, Ahmose wondered, or did they have to practice it? “Hatshepsut needs rules, and consequences for breaking the rules. I know she is a King's Daughter, but if she is to grow into a gracious and fair ruler, like you, Great Lady, then she must understand why we have rules.”

  King, Ahmose did not say. She is to be king. Even the girl’s nurse would not understand. “She wants to become a soldier.”

  “No doubt. And she’d be a good one, I would wager,” Sitre-In said, laughing.

  “I wonder.”

  The nurse laid her sewing in her lap and looked at Ahmose, not with the nurse’s stare this time, but with genuine surprise. “Great Lady? Forgive me, but you cannot be serious.”

  “I don’t know. Would you believe me if I told you…” She trailed off, uncertain. Sitre-In would think her a fool. But the nurse was waiting with her brows still arced over her green eyes. Ahmose took a deep breath. “Would you believe me if I told you Hatshepsut has a male ka?” Or eight of them?

  Sitre-In did not seem at all surprised. “Yes, I would believe you,” she said, and picked up her needle again.

  “You aren’t startled at all.”

  “I cannot think why I should be. Just look at how she behaves, Great Lady. Have you ever known a girl to be so fierce?”

  And suddenly it seemed so easy and natural to share all her thoughts and fears with this sensible woman. She told Sitre-In everything. Ahmose’s knowing, from a young age, as if by divine prophecy that she would never have a son; Tut’s dream; the vision on the night Hatshepsut was conceived. The rest, too: how the king would not name Hatshepsut heir because of her sex; how Nekhbet took Ramose away as punishment. By the end of it, Sitre-In had laid her sewing down again, and was watching Ahmose’s face with rapt attention.

  “What do you think, then?” Ahmose said. “What should we do with the girl?”

  Sitre-In considered the question for a long time. At last she said, “I do not think the people would understand, Great Lady. You and I know Hatet, but we are her mawats, her mother and her nurse. The court and the commoners and the priests – they will never see her ka. All they can see is her body. And it is a girl’s body.”

  Ahmose nodded. “You are right, of course. It’s been a year since…since Ramose. A year, and the Pharaoh still has not said a thing about an heir. Nothing else has happened, thanks be to all the gods. We have lost no one else. Maybe he is ri
ght, after all. Maybe I am to have a son one day – an actual son, in body and in ka. I have thought for years I would never have a boy, but…”

  Sitre-In’s needle sparkled in the moonlight. She drew her thread in, out, in, before she answered. “Even a very great priestess might be wrong now and again, Great Lady. You could still bear the king a son.”

  “Yes. I suppose you are right.” But Ramose. Why was that price paid? Why punish the royal family in such a cruel way, if the son who would be heir had not even been conceived? It made no sense. But Ahmose didn’t have the energy to fight it anymore. “We should start educating her. She needs to learn to be a proper girl, and some day, a proper woman.”

  “No soldier-school for her, then?” Sitre-In sounded amused, and a bit disappointed. Ahmose understood. It was a hard thing to deny Hatshepsut, even for a sensible disciplinarian like Sitre-In. There was a power in the girl’s eyes when she got what she wanted, when she was pleased. She had a way of making others want to please her.

  “I suppose not. We should see about finding her a music teacher. And she should take dance lessons with the girls in the harem. It is time for the Royal Son to become a King's Daughter.”

  Ahmose nodded, but in her heart she was uneasy. The words of Mut that terrible night in the temple – the finger touching the water, the ripples spreading. Still, a year later, these things unnerved her.

  There was a rustle among the flower beds. Ahmose looked up, startled. Hatshepsut, dressed now in her boy’s kilt, stomped over the black shoulder of earth carrying a little white jar in her hands. It was a chamber pot. She set it on the path in front of the bench and stood over it.

  “Watch,” she said. “I can, too.”

  And, lifting her kilt slightly, she urinated into the jar, standing upright. Hardly a drop splashed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ALL IN ALL, HATSHEPSUT ADJUSTED well to life as a girl. Once she realized the Pharaoh was pleased when she wore dresses, practiced temple dances with the other harem children, and plunked clumsily at her harp, she applied herself to her lessons with a focus Ahmose had never seen in any four-year-old. The girl even allowed her hair to grow out. Sitre-In wetted it daily, combing it toward Hatshepsut’s sidelock so it would lay in place until it grew long enough to work into the braid. In just a few weeks’ time she had learned some basic melodies on her harp, though she often threw it across the room in frustration. It was hard for her to sit still and be ladylike, Ahmose knew, especially when Amunmose and his friends ran about the gardens in their kilts, making war.