“It’s all right. It takes some practice, that’s all. Like anything else.” Thutmose laughed lightly. He sat down on the lake’s stone wall. Ahmose sat, too.
“I heard you’re going to Buhen soon,” she said, disguising the bitterness in her voice by scuffing up half-buried pebbles with the toe of her sandal. Puffs of yellow dust rose around her feet to glitter in the sunlight.
“I’m leaving just after the Opening of the Mouth. Whenever a new Pharaoh comes to the throne, Egypt’s enemies like to test her borders. I pray that word of Amunhotep’s death won’t reach them until after I arrive in Buhen.”
Ahmose nodded, unwilling to say the words that gnawed at her heart.
“I’ll leave good stewards in charge here,” he went on. “You likely won’t have to do anything but sit on your throne during court and try not to fall asleep while the nobles bicker. I’ll instruct the stewards to filter out all but the most extreme cases so you aren’t taxed by holding court.”
“I can do it fine,” Ahmose said. She cringed inside at how young she sounded, like a child protesting that she could climb any tree the bigger children could climb.
“I have no doubt of it. You’re a strong girl, and very clever.”
“I’m a woman.”
Thutmose cleared his throat. “Mutnofret can help you, I suppose, if you need help with court.”
“I have no need of her help.” Ahmose filled her voice with as much scorn as she could muster.
It was perhaps too much scorn; Thutmose’s eyebrows rose and he looked at her sideways. “Trouble?”
The sorrow inside Ahmose rose to the surface. She could keep it bridled no longer. “You spent all night with her. You didn’t come to me once.”
“Oh,” he breathed, looking down, then away; anywhere but at his first wife. “Ahmose, you must believe me. I meant no offense. It’s just that you’re so young, and I thought….”
“I’ve had my blood. Many times!”
Thutmose pulled off his wig and scratched at his scalp with both hands, as if it might buy him some time in answering.
“Do you have lice?” Ahmose said.
“Of course not.”
“Then don’t take your wig off where servants can see! What will they think of you? You’re supposed to be acting like a king.”
Thutmose grinned, laughed. His wig went back onto his head. “This is why I like you so, Ahmoset. You keep me in line. What a fine queen. The gods truly blessed me.”
“Then why didn’t you come to my bed?”
Thutmose lowered his voice, as if he wished to spare her some kind of embarrassment, though no one was close enough to hear. “Ahmoset, do you even know what men do with women in their beds?”
“Of course I do! I’m the queen of Egypt, not an ignorant child. I know what men and women do together. I know what you were doing with Mutnofret last night.”
Thutmose nodded. “Forgive me. I misjudged you.”
He’d misjudged her because of her childlike body. And how could he judge her womanly, when compared to Mutnofret’s ripe femininity? It is not his fault. He’s only a man, after all, she told herself firmly, to stop the sting of tears in her eyes.
He laid a rough hand on her knee. “Do you want me to come to your bed, Ahmose? Tonight?”
Ahmose’s breath caught. She heard Mutnofret’s words about pain and blood; she saw Aiya’s belly cut open. She shoved these things away, hard. She was the First Queen. It was not right that her husband should desire Mutnofret alone.
“Yes,” she said, with finality.
NINE
The day crept by. Ahmose had excused herself from the lakeshore, begging some errand or other. When she was out of Tut’s sight she ran through the corridors because her ka was too light, too fiery, to do anything else. Her body thrummed with a brew of tension: triumph, longing, fear. Her feet had wings, and she didn’t care if the servants saw her running and gossiped about it later. When she approached the courtyard she shared with Mutnofret, she slowed and caught her breath in the shadow of a lotus column. Mutnofret was nowhere to be seen. Ahmose crossed the yard without haste, head up, steps steady.
Once in her apartments, though, she had no idea what to do. She pushed her new furniture here and there, rearranging it. Boxes of her belongings from the House of Women were stacked against one wall. Her servants had not yet unpacked everything. She found her collection of god statues, though, and set them on one dressing table, arranging them in a little shrine. At the center of the grouping, she placed Tut’s gift, the carving of Mut.
She grew restless. She stripped and bathed, called a servant to shave the stubble off her scalp, then bathed again, just for something to do. Anxiety warred with victory inside her. She paced around her garden, kicking stones, swatting insects, plucking petals off yellow flowers until at length her new body servant, a tall, thin woman, arrived with supper and a musician.
The musician was a good idea. a soothing distraction. She complimented the servant on her forethought, then, feeling generous and expansive, gave her two jeweled wig ornaments as a reward and begged her to gossip. The woman – Twosre was her name – was not as good with rumors as the women in the harem, but she would do. Ahmose liked her earthy voice and the scent of figs that rose from Twosre’s garments. They laughed over their shared supper, flaxseed cakes with cold white fish wrapped in musky lettuce leaves. Twosre thumped the table with a hard hand every time she laughed.
“Tuyu is such a she-cat, she is after that poor steward Ineni all day and night! She fancies him, and she’ll get him into her bed if it’s her final act in the living world. Whenever she has a chance she tries to grab him under his kilt. He looks like he’s about to die each time! I tell you, you’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Why, though?”
“Why what? Why Ineni? I suppose he’s handsome, in an innocent sort of way. And he’s the Pharaoh’s steward, and an architect besides. Maybe he’ll make a good husband some day.”
“No, why does Tuyu want him in her bed?”
“For the pleasure, of course! Why does any woman want a man in her bed? To make her belly big?” Twosre, apparently realizing that producing an heir was indeed why Ahmose wanted her husband in her bed, bit her lip and glanced away.
“But it’s not pleasure, really.”
“Who told you that, Great Lady?”
“Mutnofret.”
Twosre raised her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose your sister didn’t know anything of pleasure before last night. She was inexperienced before her marriage, of course. She might be forgiven for thinking it’s not a pleasure, if she didn’t know.”
Ahmose held Twosre’s eye with a direct look. “Tell me truly. Does it hurt?”
The woman shrugged. “Yes, sometimes. The first time, usually.”
“And is there blood?”
“Well…yes. But….”
Ahmose nodded. “I thank you for the truth, Twosre. Mutnofret did not lie. Not this time, anyway.”
“Great Lady, you look so pale! Are you afraid?”
Ahmose stood and wandered to one of her jewelry chests, lifted a necklace, a broad net of red and blue beads, and draped it around her shoulders. She turned back to Twosre. “What do you think? Does this look good on me?”
Twosre seemed confused. Her face became even thinner as she puckered her lips. “Of course. Great Lady, if there is anything I can do for you – any question I can answer….”
“You’ve already answered the only questions I needed to ask.” Ahmose turned back to the chest, replaced the necklace with great care to hide the steadying breaths she drew. She would be brave. She would be dutiful through the pain. She would ignore the blood. She would make Thutmose love her. She would. Mutnofret could not have all of him. And anything Mutnofret did, Ahmose would make herself do, too. Even this.
“Very well, then.” Twosre stood and began stacking the remains of dinner onto her wooden tray. “I’ll just clear this away. Shall I dismiss the musician?”
/>
“No. Leave her here. I would like more music while I…while I prepare.”
Twosre smiled. It was half pity, half affection. “Good luck tonight, Great Lady.”
***
Ahmose wore the blue and red necklace. She adorned her arms with cuffs of gold and electrum, bracelets of ivory and faience; she found the box of oils in her bathing room and scented her scalp, her neck, her breasts, the place between her legs. She dressed herself in the finest gown she owned. It was not Mutnofret’s enchanting open weave, but the finest bleached linen, white as the moon. She knotted it tightly; so tightly she could only take small steps, so tightly she could barely bend to do up the knots. But when she looked at herself in her big electrum mirror, the fine, tight linen clung to her body, rounded her hips, pushed her small breasts up and out.
Then, there was nothing to do but wait.
She sat uneasily on her bed, squeezed by the gown, and concentrated on the harper’s soothing music. The evening glow in her room deepened, reddened; quickly it faded altogether and her chamber was transformed into a temple of dim dusk-purple. She thanked the musician and dismissed her. The calls of roosting birds replaced the plucking of strings; when the birds had gone to sleep and the floor glowed with stripes of moonlight, the hum of night insects began.
She waited, still, silent, apprehensive. The shadows slanted by degrees. At last Twosre’s muffled clap sounded outside her bed chamber door.
“Come.”
The door creaked open. Twosre’s thin face peeked around its edge. “The Pharaoh is here to see you, Great Lady.”
“Send him in.” She was proud that her voice did not shake.
Thutmose entered, but his hand stayed hesitantly on the door. Ahmose rose from the bed. His eyes traveled her body. They were lit from without by the moon, lit from within by the same hunger she’d seen when he had gazed at Mutnofret’s body on the lake barge. Her heart quickened.
“Come in,” she said.
He did.
Thutmose reached her in a few steps; it seemed to Ahmose as if he floated, flew across the distance that separated them. His hands reached for her, stopped in doubt. She swallowed and stepped to meet his hands, fit her shoulders between them so he could feel the warmth of her arms, the shape of her.
His touch was light, careful. “Are you sure, Ahmoset?”
She nodded, pulled the wig from her head without stepping out of his touch.
Thutmose’s hand was at the knot of her gown. In a heartbeat it was undone; the fabric fell away with a sound like a bird’s wings. Her body, freed from the gown’s pressure, felt more exposed than she was prepared for. She gasped.
Thutmose seemed to take it for excitement, or approval. Before she knew what he was doing, his hands were everywhere, light and sure. They ran down her arms, removed her bracelets, dropped each one to the floor atop the gown. They crossed the span of her shoulder blades, traced down her spine, grazed against her buttocks. A curious heat spread through her; her skin was alive, insistent; her palms throbbed with the beat of her heart.
He scooped her up, easy as lifting a bow, and laid her on the bed. She stretched along her linen sheets, hot with excitement; she arched to look at him. His hands were at his kilt, undoing it, pulling it away. Naked, he climbed onto the bed beside her.
Something bumped against her leg. It was hard like a knife’s handle, but silky-smooth. She looked down at it. Thutmose’s member, his bloody spear. She had seen a few before, on her naked half-brothers and when rowing slaves urinated over the sides of barges. But never before had one seemed so threatening; never had she seen one like this, all awake and expectant. She sat up, shrinking.
“What’s the matter?” Thutmose’s voice was thick with impatience.
He would put a seed in her. She’d grow a baby like Aiya’s; she’d die in a hot, stinking pavilion as Aiya had died, too small, too young.
“Ahmoset.” He took her hand gently, guided it toward the thing. She stiffened, refusing to touch it.
Thutmose sighed. He lay back on his elbows. His spear fell, defeated.
“I’m afraid,” she said. The admission made her feel unspeakably stupid. She pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them tight, and rocked from side to side.
“You don’t need to be afraid.”
“It will hurt. The blood.”
“Only for a moment. Only a spot of blood.”
She shook her head. Not that; that would hurt, yes. Mutnofret had said so and Twosre had confirmed it. It was Aiya’s hurt she feared. Aiya’s sweating forehead against Ahmose’s lips, Aiya’s body jerking as the knife came down. Aiya’s baby, blue and dead, lying on a bloody breast.
She could not do it. She would not do it.
Mutnofret had won.
Ahmose was certain Tut would be angry with her. Instead, he sat up and hugged her gently. His hands were comforting now, not hungry. She allowed him to pull her close. He rocked her, murmuring, planting kisses on her bare scalp. “It’s all right. It’s all right. Sweet girl, sweet woman, it’s all right.”
“No it’s not. If I don’t give you a son…”
“Then Mutnofret will. I need you by my side to keep the gods with me, Ahmoset, not to give me a son. You have no duty in a bed. Unless you want that duty. Until you want that duty. A day will come when you do want it. You’ll see.”
Ahmose said nothing. She would never want such a death.
“Ahmoset, I promise you, I will not force you. I will not come to you again until you ask me. But you must mean it, really mean it, the next time you bring me to your bed. Promise me that.”
She held her breath for a long time. Then she let it go, and said, “What if I never bring you to my bed?”
He didn’t hesitate. “You will still be my first wife. I won’t set you aside. I will get my sons from Mutnofret. But that won’t happen, Ahmoset. You will send for me; I know you will, someday. I will be patient until then.”
Ahmose made no reply.
TEN
The season of Shemu drew to a close. The Nile crept higher, day by day filling the hot earth with the promise of renewal. The river’s water rose from deep within the valley to darken parched earth, then soak it, then saturate it until everywhere were layers of thick brown mud and the shimmer of new insect life on morning air. At last the canals of Waset began to fill. Puddles stood in the new canal beds, reflecting a brilliant sky, throwing light into the eyes from below so that any worker in the fields must paint his eyes heavily with cheap kohl or squint through his day’s labors. The puddles grew, stretched arms toward each other until Waset’s canals filled with the gurgle and hush of moving water. The Black Land was carpeted in a mantle of wildflowers; weeds burst into life, striving to attract their share of insects and shed their seeds before Egypt’s farmers plucked them out of the ground. Akhet – the Inundation – had begun.
Ahmose loved this time of year better than any other. She ordered that a small pavilion should be set up on the roof of her hall. She spent most of her time there, from the earliest hours of the morning until well after sunset. Whenever court did not call, she took her meals in her breezy rooftop sanctuary or spun flax there with Twosre and Renenet, breathing in the bright green scent of wet earth and reawakened life.
Tut encouraged her to resume her dream-reading. The pavilion provided a natural place to do so; it was neither as public as the court hall nor as private as her apartments. Twosre saw to her needs as she listened to the dreams of noble women and palace servants. Word spread quickly through the city, and by the time the Inundation was well underway Ahmose was being petitioned by Waset’s rekhet. Soon she could not manage the demand for dream-reading on her own. Tut devoted Ineni to the queen’s service, and under his careful eye Ahmose’s days were well planned.
Akhet was a good time for a funeral. The very land sang hymns of rebirth as the river raised its fertile hands above the valley. The royal family set out from the palace an hour after sunrise, carried in their litters down throug
h the streets of Waset where the air was still and thick with the smell of fish and refuse. Tut and Ahmose rode together on a great throned platform carried by sixteen men, Mutnofret on a smaller litter immediately behind them. Even this early in the morning, even during the Inundation when there was no race to plant or harvest and sleep could be had more freely, the rekhet crowded the route from palace to river. They cheered and waved as Ahmose and Tut passed, holding children up for a view, jumping to see over the heads of the crowd.
Behind them, the wails of a throng of paid mourners rose into the sky. They channeled the grief of the family, lamenting and scooping dust onto their heads, tearing their garments, shaking fists at the sun. Amunhotep had been a great Pharaoh, long-reigning and strong. He had many mourners; their cries were like those of the great flocks of geese in early Shemu, each individual voice merging into one relentless cacophony. Ahmose smiled to hear it. It was right that Amunhotep should be loudly mourned. Her father had been a great man.
At the head of the procession Meritamun and Nefertari rode litters directly behind the king’s coffin. They had moved out of the Waset palace just before the wedding, taking up in an estate on the bluffs to the south of the city. Ahmose had not seen either woman since her wedding feast. She wondered how her mother and grandmother felt today. Did their hearts cry out as loudly as the mourners? Nefertari, at least, must be sorrowful. She had only one living child left – Meritamun – and the twist of her daughter’s spine was slowly taking her life away. She, too, would die before the old God’s Wife.
At length they reached the water steps where the royal barge was moored. It was broad and deep, fitted with two masts and bristling with oars. Its sides were painted red and white, the colors of Egypt’s two crowns. The litter lowered. Tut gave his hand to Ahmose to lead her down the steps and onto the barge.
The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King) Page 8