The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King)

by Lavender Ironside

  He went back right away to lead Mutnofret aboard. Ahmose watched as Mutnofret and Tut walked hand-in-hand down the great steps to the mooring. Though she was at odds with Mutnofret, she still felt keenly her sister’s disappointment at being second wife. She believed it was possible to find some stabile ground with Mutnofret, in spite of their rivalry for Tut’s affections.

  As for Tut, he kept his word to Ahmose. He did not try to return to her bed, but he came to her during the day, and often. It was well known around the palace that Ahmose and the Pharaoh often rode together in the evenings, taking their chariot out into the fields, past ancient temples and tiny villages, sometimes so far they could see the desert lying red and hot on the eastern horizon. And most days they shared the morning meal, too, in Ahmose’s garden or in Tut’s lush courtyard. She had heard no rumors that the Pharaoh invited Mutnofret into his leisure. Perhaps Ahmose was to be the Pharaoh’s companion, and Mutnofret was to be his brood mare. I can live with such an arrangement, she thought, smiling.

  Ahmose found Nefertari and Meritamun beneath a shaded canopy. She sat upon a bench with them and sipped wine while the lines were cast off. The barge shoved away from the city’s shore. It lumbered out into the water, wavering; then the current took it and it shuddered a deep rumble against the rising Nile. The oarsmen shouted to each other as they churned the current, steering the craft deftly so its nose pointed upstream. Fabric snapped hard in the wind; the sails raised, bellying out into the brisk southward breeze. The barge steadied, pulled, cut through the chopping waves with increasing speed. Waset receded. Several yards downstream, another barge carrying the hired mourners cast off. They were on their way to the western shore.

  “You’re doing well as queen, I hear,” Meritamun said.

  “I’m doing my best. I suppose that’s all I can do.”

  “And how is Mutnofret taking it?”

  “Better. She fights with me less, but I see her less, too. I think she just avoids me.”

  “I hear she is trying for a son.”

  The unasked question hung stagnant in the air between them. Ahmose said nothing, turning her eyes to a small troupe of dancers performing in the center of the barge.

  “And you?” Meritamun, apparently, would not be put off.

  “We have…we have tried,” Ahmose said carefully. It wasn’t a lie. She had tried.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Sons are important for any queen.”

  “You never had sons, Mother.”

  “If I had, none of us would have to face this mess now. Think on that, Ahmose.”

  “I’m doing all I can do,” she said, a bit sharply. “I’m still new to womanhood. Perhaps I need time to…”

  “I know you love your sister, Ahmose, but recall what she is like. Mutnofret is powerful, in her way. And we put you behind the throne for a reason. You must remain the Great Royal Wife. Give your husband no reason to set you aside. If he does, there is no telling how the people may react to him.

  “You allow him to dote on Mutnofret in public. Yes, I know he’s affectionate toward you around the palace. I’ve heard. But only the servants see what goes on in the palace. What do the people see today on this barge? The Pharaoh walking hand in hand with his second wife, and now he sits on the other side of the boat with her while you have tucked yourself away with a couple of old women. What must they all think, Ahmose? And more importantly, what must Mutnofret be thinking? I won’t have you risking Egypt’s security by failing to…”

  Nefertari laid a dry, bony hand on Meritamun’s leg. Just that, and the former queen fell silent.

  “Ahmose was a good choice,” the God’s Wife said, her voice like worn leather. “Be still, Meritamun.”

  The crew furled the sails in the middle of the river. They were well upstream of the water steps on the western shore. Now they would coast, under guidance of the oars alone, to their mooring. Ahmose loved to ride the river downstream during the Inundation. It was exhilarating: the rush of wind, the dizzying expanse of the river, the shouting, white-tipped waves. She let Meritamun’s tirade slide off her shoulders, and smiled as the oarsmen turned the barge nose-north. They flew down the river, angling always to the west. Gulls followed the boat, screaming over the music, squabbling over bits of food, dropping their treasures into the water. When the boat neared the moorings, the oarsmen backed water and the barge shuddered, jolted, boomed, slowing ponderously, until it coasted to the water steps. Men leapt ashore, carrying ropes, tying to stone pillars as thick as a circle of gossiping women.

  Refreshed and cheered by the ride, Ahmose jumped to her feet. Nefertari grabbed her hand, motioned for her to bend her head close.

  “You were a good choice, Ahmose, but Meritamun is not wrong. You have a battle ahead of you, as surely as your husband has his own war.”

  Nefertari bobbed her dark old head toward Mutnofret. She was across the barge from Ahmose, her hand lying lightly on Tut’s arm. He said something to her as the dancers finished their performance, and she laughed, her long, slanted eyes sparkling in the sun.

  “The woman who bears the Pharaoh’s sons has his heart,” Nefertari said. “And the woman who has the Pharaoh’s heart has at least as much power as the God’s Wife of Amun.”

  ***

  They made the journey to Amunhotep’s waiting tomb on foot. The mourners made a sorrowful music down the length of the ravine, thick and green with flourishing growth. Tut walked with Ahmose. She was glad to be in his company, wary all over again of Mutnofret’s smiles. Nefertari’s words worried at her ka.

  Tut had never seen a royal funeral before, and Ahmose quietly rehearsed the Opening of the Mouth with him as they walked. In truth, she had never seen a royal funeral either, but as the daughter of a Pharaoh the ancient ceremony had been required learning. Tut must not place a single foot wrong. Her reputation as a god-chosen woman would only gain her husband a measure of credence among the priests and nobles. Today, he had to be the very embodiment of Horus, conquering death, resurrecting the father. If he could give a convincing show as Horus, it would be harder for them to doubt his right to the throne.

  “…And then the bull is butchered,” Ahmose said, “and you are given…?”

  “The foreleg. I point it at his body.”

  “To convey its strength,” she confirmed. “And after that?”

  “The iron.”

  “Do you remember the words you must say?”

  They went over the entire ceremony three times as they walked, their rehearsal well hidden by the wailing of the mourners. Behind the mourners the priests and nobles came, their fine clothing caked with dust from the dozens of feet that went before.

  A few of the higher priests were already gathered outside Amunhotep’s tomb, preparing for the day’s work. They raised their hands when they saw Thutmose. He returned the greeting, a gesture of confidence, strength.

  You will do well, my love. You must do well. She looked up at Tut’s face, stoic and bold in the sun. A shadow passed over him from above, darkening his features, sliding up over the tall, white spire of his crown. She followed the shadow’s path. A bird circled above them with pointed wings and long, straight tail. She grabbed Tut’s hand.

  “Look, Tut!”

  He followed her eyes, his free hand going up to steady the crown. “A falcon.”

  “Horus blesses us.” Ahmose smiled, opening herself to the gods’ glow.

  The High Priest raised his arms to the sun as the last of the procession drew up around the tomb. “Let the setem priest be awakened!”

  Thutmose stepped forward. Ahmose’s eyes were on his back, broad and strong and straight beneath a wide jeweled collar covering his shoulders. He made the ritual response in a voice that rang off the red walls of the ravine. “The setem priest has risen.”

  The High Priest draped a leopard skin around Tut’s shoulders. He did not move, but stared straight ahead as the priest adjusted the skin. He was as untouchable, as unmovable as a god.

  The bearers
of the coffin emerged from the crowd. They laid it on the ground, then with great care lifted the lid and raised Amunhotep’s body. It did not look like a man at all; it was a man-shaped bundle, an unfinished statue wrapped in white linen, crowned with a smiling golden mask. They laid it on a platform of sand. The priests crowded around, fanning incense over the body and singing.

  Awake!

  Be alert as a living one,

  Rise fresh every morning,

  Awake!

  Healthy forever more,

  A thousand thousand thousand times will you awake.

  Awake!

  The gods protect you.

  Protection surrounds you every day.

  Awake!

  Your son Horus has come to raise you

  You will fly forever as a falcon flies.

  Awake!

  Awake, Ahmose whispered in her heart. Father I never knew, awake and live forever. She felt a pang of regret. She had never known Amunhotep as Thutmose had. Surely any man who was so loved by her husband had been worth knowing. She imagined her father striding through the sky, laughing with pleasure as his funerary rites were carried out by the mortals below. I hope I will please you as queen, Father. I hope I will be a good wife to your friend, and make you proud.

  The singing done, the body blessed, Amunhotep was returned to his simple coffin. Men emerged from the darkness of the open tomb bearing a beautiful outer sarcophagus, carved and adorned with lapis, carnelian, and gold. They lifted its lid and nestled Amunhotep’s coffin inside; the wails of the mourners surged. The priests stood the brilliant sarcophagus upright against the tomb’s outer wall. It was splendid. The artisan had done well, capturing Amunhotep’s features perfectly in gold and enamel. The way the morning sun caught the gilding made Ahmose’s heart swell. To be immortal, to live forever in happiness like a god. To be golden like Ra.

  When they butchered the bull, Ahmose looked away. She pitied the poor creature, but its strength would go into her father’s ka. It must be done. Eyes closed, she heard the axe fall and looked in time to see Tut receive the bull’s foreleg. He stepped up without hesitating, laid the leg at Amunhotep’s feet. “Strength will be yours as you live forever.” He turned back and took the bull’s hot heart from the priest’s hands. Blood ran down his arms, trickled off his elbows to stain his white kilt. He hoisted the heart so all could see it, then offered it, too, to Amunhotep. “Strength will be yours forever.”

  The high priest shouted in a voice like a snapping sail, “Who is the son who loves Amunhotep, he who has gone to live forever with the gods?”

  “I am the son who loves Amunhotep,” Thutmose replied.

  “Then take the netjerwy in your hand, and raise him back to life.”

  The priest held a carved tray of white stone. Ahmose craned her neck to see past Tut’s shoulder as he took hold of the sacred metal rod. It was a bit longer than a man’s foot, split into two hooks at one end. It was made from a fallen star, so Ahmose had heard. Miraculous, astounding, that a star could be made of metal, that mortals could forge it into this sacred rod in her husband’s hand. A whisper of envy was in her ear. To touch a piece of the heavens was a wondrous thing.

  “Horus comes,” the priests chanted in one voice. “Horus comes to split the mouth of Osiris with his little finger!”

  Tut stepped to the sarcophagus, the netjerwy held out before him like a divine offering. He hesitated, and Ahmose’s heart burned cold. She was sure he’d forgotten the words. Then he turned his head slightly, and she could see the barest hint of his face. Sorrow was written plain there. This was not just his king who Tut sent to the afterlife, but his dearest friend. She wanted to run to her husband, to comfort him. Instead, she squeezed her hands into fists and prayed.

  Tut’s voice rose with a power that made her suck in her breath. “With gods’ iron of Upper Egypt, with gods’ iron of Lower Egypt, I, Horus, split open your mouth for you, O Osiris the King. Breathe in the ankh, the breath of life. Awake, and live forever!” He touched the netjerwy to Amunhotep’s golden lips.

  The crowd in the valley shouted its acclaim. Ahmose stared around her. Nobles’ wives jumped and sang. The mourners clapped, danced, raised their voices in an ululating cry. Priests wept. Thutmose had come through the ceremony as boldly as any man born to rule. She longed to run to his side, so he could sweep her into his arms and spin her in a circle. But she remembered Meritamun’s words on the barge. She walked to her husband slowly, like a queen, before Mutnofret could reach him first. She allowed herself only a small smile.

  “You did very well.”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  “You’re Pharaoh now in truth, Tut. Look at them. They all love you!”

  “The ceremony was only my first test. My real trial will come on the battle fields.”

  Ahmose shivered.

  “Don’t worry,” Tut said. “I’ll keep the fighting as far from our borders as I can.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow night, my love.” He stopped short. There was expectation in his voice.

  Ahmose wanted to ask him to come to her bed that night. She remembered the way his hands had made her feel, the way he’d laid her onto the bed so gently. But she remembered Aiya, too, and could not make herself speak the words. Instead, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll pray to all the gods for your safety.”

  “So will I.”

  ELEVEN

  Thutmose was gone for Buhen only two days when Mutnofret paid a visit to the rooftop pavilion. She arrived unannounced, brushing past Ineni, ignoring his protests. She sank down on Ahmose’s cushions, fanning herself. “Spinning on the rooftop just like a rekhet woman. How quaint,” she said sweetly. “How does the season find you, dear sister?”

  “Well enough.”

  “You’re not planning on weaving your own cloth and sewing your own dresses, are you?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be silly. Spinning helps me concentrate, that’s all. I do my best thinking when I’m spinning.” Ahmose finished her twist and laid aside spindle and distaff. She brushed her hands together to rid them of clinging flax fibers. “Would you like something cool to drink? You look very sweaty.”

  “That would be most kind. And have your woman bring me some salted fish to eat. I crave salt so. It’s unbearable.”

  “Cravings? So you did conceive before our husband left.”

  For an answer, Mutnofret smiled. She looked truly; this was not just a sly cat’s grin. Ahmose couldn’t help but give a small smile in return. Mutnofret had been so miserable and angry since their marriage was announced. If a child would bring her sister real happiness, then Ahmose couldn’t be entirely dismayed. Motherhood might mellow the Second Queen, the way whelping a litter mellowed a fierce bitch. Besides, the baby might be a girl.

  “I only just found out a few days ago. I wanted to wait to tell you until I could be sure. Oh! But I can see you are still not pregnant.”

  Ahmose followed Mutnofret’s glance. The knot of her menstrual belt was visible, rumpling the fabric of her dress. She tugged at the garment as if to conceal her failure.

  “It’s no matter,” Mutnofret went on. “You’re still young. I came to ask whether you would like my help at court while our husband is away.”

  All of Ahmose’s instincts shrieked at her to reject the offer. Mutnofret would seize the opportunity to make her look like a fool in front of the court. But she saw again Mutnofret leaping to her feet in the throne room the day Amunhotep died, shivering with shock. Could she deny her sister a share in the life she’d always wanted? Yes, yes! Her heart shouted. Deny her, send her away!

  But the eyes inside her, the eyes of her ka, saw Mutnofret’s eyes red from crying, and she felt guilty. Dimly, she heard herself say, “If you wish. I’ll be glad of your company.” She shook her head to still her heart’s anger. It was howling at her. She masked the gesture by brushing at the air as if warding off gnats, though none were near. Stupid, stupid, stupid, h
er heart said, beating fast.

  Ahmose said, “I heard a rumor from the House of Women. Did you? Baketamun is also with child.”

  Mutnofret pursed her lips. “No, I did not hear. That’s good news.” She didn’t sound as if she thought the news good.

  What did she have to fear, though? Baketamun was not a wife, nor even a princess; her child would not be royal, and therefore not an heir to compete with Mutnofret’s baby. Unless, of course, Thutmose decided to be as unorthodox as his predecessor in matters of inheritance. That was a troubling thought, even for Ahmose. Would her Tut choose a friend or a soldier to succeed him on the throne, rather than a child of his own blood? He’d have more right, more precedent, than any Pharaoh who had come before. The nobles might accept such a thing once, but twice? No, not Tut. He wouldn’t do it, Ahmose thought. Then, Would he?