“You should have brought more men with you, General. What if we’re robbed?”
“Bah. Robbers. This is for robbers.” Quick as a cat, he pulled a dagger from his belt, flipped it without so much as glancing down. It spun blade over handle; the hilt smacked back into his thick hand. He laughed at the startled look on Ahmose’s face. Then, as fast as he’d drawn his knife, his laughter died. “Are you the one who reads the women’s dreams?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I am god-chosen. I’m surprised a general in my father’s army would know of anything that goes on in the House of Women.”
Thutmose ignored the implied question. He watched the road, his face still and serious. The light of stars and moon muted the colors of his skin. His profile leaped bright and stark against the black of the night sky. Even smudged, the kohl around his eye made it seem as dark and fierce as the eye of Horus. Suddenly, despite the awful cold, despite the urgency of the night and the unformed threat of the morning, Ahmose was caught up in wild excitement. Whatever her future held, whatever the gods would give her with the rising sun, here she was in a ragged tunic, flying through the night, free as a leaping fish. This was her first time alone with a man, and nobody knew but Ahmose. A reckless surge rose up in her middle. She felt deliciously bad, like a hero-princess from one of her nurse’s stories; she felt secretive and powerful.
She laid a hand lightly atop Thutmose’s. The general looked down at her, his dark eyes wide. “Faster,” she said.
He hissed the horses into a canter, then a gallop. The wind tried to rip the wig from Ahmose’s head. She steadied it, and steadied herself with the other hand, gripping the rail near where Thutmose held the reins.
“My name is Ahmose,” she shouted into the night.
TWO
They stopped on a little hill; not nearly as high as the great bluffs across the river, on the western bank, but elevated enough that they could look down on the valley. Late fields of wheat shook their pale leaves in the moonlight. To the south, weak lights burned in the miniature House of Women, and beyond it, pale distant points of torches flickered in the great palace above Waset. The palace raised broad shoulders over streets and dwellings, a stern brow frowning at the river. Its lit windows were many eyes, unblinking, staring across miles of field and road to see Ahmose in the chariot. Her skin prickled. In that palace, stretching so great and tense along the flank of the land, the Pharaoh had died. In that palace, beautiful and rich and stifling, the gods tended her fate. They couldn’t have her yet, though. Not until the morning.
She looked away from Waset deliberately, turning her cheek against the gods’ eyes. She would enjoy tonight while it was here. The day would come soon enough. But for now, Ahmose was free, and the sky was mirror-bright with stars. This moment was all that mattered. Tonight was all she cared for.
Smiling, she jumped down from the chariot’s platform, kicked her feet in the spicy-sweet summer grasses. The dark shapes of a few olive trees huddled not far away, leaning together to whisper their secrets. “It’s beautiful here.” The exhilaration of the ride was still in her, and as long as she didn’t look at the palace, her anxiety was gone.
Thutmose hobbled the horses, his face serious. “A good ride, but perhaps I should pray after all. I have a weight on my heart tonight. Will you excuse me, Great Lady?”
“Of course.” Ahmose watched him move along the crest of the hill to stand looking down at sleeping Waset. He faced the setting moon, a gold half-disc sinking among a scatter of stars, and raised his palms in prayer. She kept her eyes on the general’s silhouette for a long time, allowing her own tangled thoughts to lie untouched.
She sat, watched the river in the moonlight, lay on the ground staring upward so her eyes were full of stars. The earth was cool and hard against her back. Click-beetles popped in the grass. The horses stamped; she felt their weight and life shiver through the ground beneath her. Ahmose closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of horse and hill and night air, and thought of nothing, nothing, nothing at all but Thutmose, praying to the moon. If she held onto this moment with all her strength, perhaps the gods’ strange morning would never come.
***
“Dawn,” the general said.
She opened her heavy eyes, blinked up at him.
He was standing above her, grinning. “You fell asleep.”
“How long?”
“Oh, an hour maybe. I thought it best to let you lie.”
Ahmose sat up. Her wig had slipped off. She shook it, flicked at its braids, plucked stray leaves away. When it was in its proper place again, she stood stiffly. Thutmose was standing apart, gazing down again at Waset. Ahmose leaned against the chariot and eased a pebble from her sandal, watching him. He was strong as a bull, though short for a man. He stood with his legs apart, a stance of natural confidence. There was a deep shadow in the cleft of his bare back like a furrow in a field. Beyond him, the western sky was lightening, the stars shutting their eyes one by one. And still Waset’s palace waited for her, huge and immovable, paler in the morning light but not subdued. Ahmose blinked at the eastern horizon; a pink swell was building there. Soon, the sun would be up. She had to get back to the House of Women, to Mutnofret.
“General.”
He did not move. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. She slipped to his side, touched his wrist.
Thutmose looked down at her. His eyes moved over every part of her features, as if he searched for something in the shape and color of her face. “Ahmose,” he said, barely more than a whisper, as if her name were the answer to a question.
Her face heated. She stepped back. The general tossed his head, a small shake. His smile returned. “Shall we get back to Waset, then?”
“I – I promised my sister I’d be home by dawn.”
“You’ll be a bit late, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t be in trouble.”
“Nobody needs to know but Mutnofret, and I can probably keep her quiet.” Probably not. Mutnofret was difficult to control at the best of times, but perhaps with her ascension to the throne so near her mood would be light.
Ahmose climbed back into the chariot. “Do you think your prayers tonight will be successful?” she asked when the general joined her, tucking the horses’ hobbles into his belt.
“Successful?” His brows drew together. “It depends on how you define the word.”
They drove back to the House of Women at a brisk trot. Thutmose kept his eyes on the road, and Ahmose, feeling once more the weight of the morning, didn’t try to engage him in conversation. When the chariot swung into the harem courtyard, she took his hand.
“Thank you for being so kind to me. I hope I will see you again soon.”
Thutmose gave a single, shoulder-shaking, mirthless laugh. “Ahmose, Great Lady, you will see me again sooner than you’d like. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other.”
“What do you mean?”
But a voice was calling from the walls of the House, shrill against the peaceful morning sky. “Ahmose! You’re late! Get in here and get dressed!”
“Mutnofret,” Ahmose said. “My sister. She’s only two years older than I, but she’s just like a queen already.”
Thutmose pressed his lips together, hiding his big teeth. “Better not keep that one waiting any longer. She sounds ferocious.”
Ahmose jumped down into the dust of the courtyard. She turned to offer the general her thanks once more, but he hissed to the horses, and, snorting, they burst into a run. He was gone, flashing down to the road in a rattle of wheels. Ahmose stared after him for one, two heartbeats, then hurried inside to dress. She and Mutnforet would be expected at court today. Today of all days. The king was dead.
***
The throne room was full of nobles and priests, all talking at once, some of them shouting and shoving. Ahmose and Mutnofret stood together at the great double doorway, clutching one another. The room was a mess of color: red and blue linen, bright gold glinting from every neck and arm, beads in every wig, the wh
ole crowd moving and pushing against itself. The smell of so many men, even washed and perfumed with myrrh, overwhelmed Ahmose. She was used to order and restraint at court. There was more commotion here than at a drunken festival. Even the huge painted pillars along the walls seemed to lean away from the crowd in offense. Stewards moved through the crush of men, restoring order, hauling away those who refused to be restored.
“What do we do, Mutnofret?”
The First Princess’s eyes narrowed. Then she grabbed Ahmose by the elbow, and dragged her roughly into the room. “Make way for the Royal Princesses,” Mutnofret shouted. No one made way, or even paid them mind. Mutnofret growled in rage.
“There you are!” An unfamiliar steward pushed between two fat men in long, pleated kilts. He bowed to Ahmose and Mutnofret, palms out. “I beg a thousand pardons, Great Ladies. I was told to look for you and escort you to your chairs, but the queen has just announced…”
Mutnforet cut him short. “Then take us to our places.”
“Yes, Great Lady. As you wish.”
The steward had a short, thick staff in his hand, carved like a papyrus frond. He used it to tap-tap on shoulders, to wedge between bodies, slowly opening a path across the long hall to the dais where the thrones sat. Ahmose and Mutnofret followed him closely, and in their wake the crowd closed again, all talking and stinking and shoving together.
“Steward, if you please, what is going on here? Why is the crowd so unruly?”
The young man, soft-faced with kind eyes, paused to answer Ahmose. “You arrived at the worst possible moment, Great Lady. Your mother just announced that none of the Pharaoh’s sons are royal. There is no clear heir to the throne. The people are angry. Some are frightened.” He turned again to his business of clearing their way. Ahmose peered at the faces of the men they passed. There was a glimmer in each dark eye, but she was never certain whether she saw fear, or anger, or cool deliberation.
As they drew nearer to the throne, the crowd became denser and more frantic. Here the shouting was angrier, and directed not from one man to another, but toward the Horus Throne on its dais. Their steward had to raise his voice, too, commanding the crowd to make way, and the taps of his papyrus stick sometimes turned to blows. Then, so suddenly Ahmose staggered, they broke through the crowd, and were standing in the empty space at the foot of the dais.
Queen Meritamun sat on the Horus Throne, the gilded chair, carved and inlaid with a hundred lapis scarabs, the rightful place of the Pharaoh. Ahmose’s skin prickled to see a woman sitting in the place of the king. It was a kind of wickedness, but one that filled her with nervous excitement. Her mother’s severe face was framed by an enormous wig, sweeping from crown to shoulders like a pair of great black wings. Meritamun’s eyes were swollen, red, but her gaze was steady and unflinching. Ahmose knew little of the queen; she saw Meritamun as infrequently as she had seen her father, at court or festival, where everything was proper and stately. She had never known Meritamun’s eyes to be anything but steady, assessing. The evidence of tears, dry though they may be, surprised Ahmose, and did nothing to still the fear in her heart.
Nefertari, Ahmose’s grandmother, stood beside the king’s throne, one hand on her daughter’s shoulder. She was the God’s Wife of Amun, the highest priest in the empire, and possessed of nearly as much power as the Pharaoh himself had been. The old woman seemed carved of ebony: hard, dark, and permanent. Nefertari stared at Ahmose with a directness that chilled her ka. Then the dark, gnarled sticks of her hand tightened on the queen’s shoulder, and decisively, confidently, as if the queen and the God’s Wife shared a single heart, Meritamun rose, plucked the Pharaoh’s crook and flail from their stand beside the throne, and crossed them over her chest.
The crowd hushed in one abrupt instant. In the silence, Ahmose’s pounding heart filled her ears like a shout. The holy scepters of the crook and flail were for the king alone to weild. She held her breath, unable to tear her eyes from the shocking impiety, though sense told her she should look away from the queen’s shame. Then the roar of voices crashed back to life, so loud that Ahmose fought the urge to press her hands over her ears.
Old Nefertari’s eyes smiled, if her mouth did not. Lightly, she nodded toward the two smaller seats behind and to the left of the Horus Throne, granting permission or issuing a command. Ahmose climbed the steps on shaking legs and lowered herself numbly into her chair.
Meritamun raised the flail above her head. Its heavy beaded lashes swung beside her face. Silence returned to the hall reluctantly.
“As I am the body of the goddess, hear me. I have told you the Pharaoh named no heir before his death. And the gods did not see fit to grant Amunhotep a royal-born son.”
As the clamor rose again, this time with a note of panic, a cold wind blew through Ahmose’s ka. No heir. Egypt could be in real danger. She knew her history well. It was times like these, when the Horus Throne was weak, when Egypt’s enemies attacked. The scale was tipping over Ahmose, bearing its terrible weight upon her. The moment the gods had promised – had threatened – was on her at last.
Someone in the crowd called, “But still, the Pharaoh has sons!”
“Indeed. A few infant boys born to lesser women of the harem. But none old enough to rule. None of the blood of Horus. And I tell you true, my own ka cries out to be free. I, too, will soon join my husband in the afterworld. I cannot rule Egypt as the regent of a child. Not for long.”
If one of their young brothers could sit the throne, Meritamun might well rule Egypt in his name until he came of age. But the queen on the verge of death? Why? She was not a young woman, but not so old that jackal-headed Anupu knew her name. It could not be. Voices murmured their fears, and Ahmose was unsure whether they came from the great hall or from her own heart. What of the inundation? Without a Pharaoh the river will fail! The Hyksos will take Egypt back! Without a king, we’ll be invaded again!
“I tell you that until the new Pharaoh takes this throne, I speak with the ka of Amunhotep, who was my brother and my husband. Who doubts me?” Meritamun’s voice was a fired arrow. No one spoke against her. Still holding the crook and flail, she continued, “In the voice of Amunhotep I tell you that the God’s Wife, Nefertari, has chosen an heir. In her holy wisdom, in communion with the gods, she has already found the one who shall rule and protect Egypt.” Ahmose gripped the armrests of her chair, rigid with anxiety. The crowd seemed to draw one pained breath, waiting. “By the will of all the gods, the heir to the throne is General Thutmose, may he live!”
The crowd surged, voice and body. The stewards were shouting as loudly as the nobles and priests now. Meritamun raised the crook and flail and shook them, crossed, in the air. A wary silence returned, broken here and there by mutters.
Someone was fighting his way through the crowd. Ahmose saw the pate of his shaven head first, then glimpsed between bodies the familiar angular profile, the big teeth.
Thutmose bowed low before the queen. “Great Lady and voice of the Pharaoh, if the gods will it, I shall take the Horus Throne, though I am only a common man.”
Meritamun’s eyes tensed, the only sign of her amusement. “Not so common, I think. Many times Amunhotep told me of your greatness in battle, General. Many times he awarded you the Golden Flies for your bravery on the field.”
A hot spear struck Ahmose’s heart. Thutmose was not surprised. He had already known. Last night, he’d known. This – this must be what had troubled him, what had caused him to pray on the hill above Waset while Ahmose had slept in the grass. It wasn’t just the death of the Pharaoh, his friend. It was this.
Thutmose was nodding in embarrassed acceptance of the queen’s praise. “This is true, and you honor me by saying it. Yet still, I am a man of low birth. How can the gods choose me for the Horus Throne?”
His words had the sound of practice. He and the queen had planned this speech. And Nefertari – the God’s Wife was an implacable force. If she appointed a common general as Pharaoh no man in the empire cou
ld stop her, or even speak against her. What else was she capable of? How else might she flout convention? What could queen, God’s Wife, and heir accomplish together? Ahmose felt the scales tip, tip above her, wavering, pushing down until she knew she would shatter like a dropped pot. She was helpless before the court, helpless before the power of her family. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away.
From behind the throne, Nefertari smiled down at Thutmose. Her voice was dry with age, but strong enough to fill the hall. “You will be royal by marriage.”
On her small throne beside Ahmose’s, Mutnofret stiffened. Her back straightened. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair until they turned white.
“Your Great Royal Wife will be the King’s Daughter, Ahmose, may she live!”
In a heartbeat, the moisture left Ahmose’s mouth. All her bones turned to hot honey, weak and melted. Mutnofret lurched to her feet, staring at their mother and grandmother. Ahmose would not look at her sister’s face, but she knew how Mutnofret’s eyes must burn, how her jaw must clench as she struggled to gain mastery over shock.
The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King) Page 2