The Sekhmet Bed (The She-King)

by Lavender Ironside

  “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 princess, but if she is to grow into a gracious and fair queen, 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 wouldn’t 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 can’t 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’d believe you,” she said, and picked up her needle again.

  “You aren’t startled at all.”

  “I can’t 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 Tut wouldn’t 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 don’t think the people would understand, Great Lady. You and I know Hati, 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’re right, of course. It’s been a year since…since Ramose. A year, and the Pharaoh still hasn’t said a thing about an heir. And nothing else has happened, thanks be to all the gods. We have lost no one else. Maybe he is right, after all. Maybe I’m to have a son one day. An actual son, in body and in ka. I’ve thought for years I would never have a son, 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 have a son.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re 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 hadn’t even been conceived yet? It didn’t make 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’s time for the prince to become a princess.”

  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.

  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.

  Hatshepsut was playing her harp now for Mutnofret. The second queen had come to Ahmose’s garden for wine and fruit on a warm, bright afternoon. The sisters sat beneath a shade tree while the princess knelt on a cushion, her brow furrowed with the intensity of her concentration. Her deft brown fingers plucked out the notes one by one, and whenever she dropped rhythm or struck the wrong string, Hatshepsut frowned and bit her lip. Even Mutnofret had to smile at the girl’s diligence.

  When the song was over, Ahmose and Mutnofret applauded.

  “Well done,” Ahmose said. “You played beautifully.”

  “A very nice song, Hatshepsut,” Mutnofret said, resting her hands again on the roundness of her belly. Another child was growing there – to replace the one that was lost, Ahmose suspected, although she would never voice such a thought to her sister. No one ever spoke of Ramose.

  “Put your harp away, and then you can see if Sitre-In will take you to the House of Women to play with the other girls.”

  Hatshepsut tilted her head, as if considering Ahmose’s offer. I want to play with the boys. Ahmose could all but hear the words. But the princess had learned how to please. “Yes, mawat,” she said, and skipped away with her harp.

  “I must say, you’ve done wonders with her, Ahmose. You and that nurse. I never would have thought she could be turned into a little lady.”

  “We still have a long way to go. She acts up every day. She kicked Baketamun’s youngest girl a few days ago…bruised her leg quite badly.”

  Mutnofret gave a snort of laughter. “I don’t think you’ll ever train all the ferocity out of that one.”

  “And what about this one?” Ahmose put her hand, too, on the baby in Mutnofret’s womb. “Another boy, do you think?”

  “Probably. It seems I have a habit of making boys.”

  Ahmose shrugged away the words. Mutnofret didn’t mean them to sting, she was sure. Those days were gone for the second queen. “I can’t believe it’s been seven moons. You don’t look seven moons pregnant.”

  “I suppose I’m carrying him high,” Mutnofret said. “That, or it’s a small child.”

  “Mawat.” Hatshepsut was standing near the garden door, waving urgently.

  “What’s the matter, dear one?”

  “Sitre-In says to come here right now!”

  Ahmose and Mutnofret shared a glance. A nurse said for the Great Royal Wife to come right now? Either Hatshepsut had gotten the message wrong, or something was terribly amiss. “Wait here,” Ahmose said, and hurried toward her bed chamber.

  She knew the moment she saw Sitre-In that Hatshepsut had the message right. The nurse was pacing, wringing her hands
, and when her face turned to Ahmose, it was swollen with tears.

  “Sitre-In! What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Great Lady,” Sitre-In cried, running to her, throwing her arms around her. Ahmose was so startled she hugged the woman back, hard. After a few sobs, Sitre-In pulled away, covered her face with her hands. “It’s the prince, Great Lady.”

  “What? Which one?”

  “Am…Amunmose.” She choked out the name, her hands still pressed to her face.

  No. No, no, dear Hathor, no! Swiftly, Ahmose looked at Hatshepsut. The girl stood silent in her dress, tugging on her sidelock, watching her nurse cry. All because of this child, Ahmose thought. All this sorrow, for her.

  “What happened?”

  “A snake, Great Lady. He was playing in the tall grass with some boys from the harem. An asp bit him on the foot.”

  “An asp bit who on the foot?” Mutnofret had come in from the garden. Her face was pale. Ahmose looked at her sister, at her dark eyes, her wide mouth, the roundness of her belly, and could find no words. Mutnofret stared back. She held Ahmose’s eyes for a long, long time. Then her hands clutched at the child inside her. “Who? Tell me who!” Her voice rose to a scream.

  Ahmose went to her, took her hand. “Amunmose. I’m so sorry, sister.”

  Mutnofret’s entire body shook, hard, like a leaf in a gale. Then she turned her face to Hatshepsut, whose back was against a wall, whose eyes were solemn and knowing. “Another of my children? I must lose another of my children?”

  Hatshepsut opened her mouth, as if she was expected to answer, but could think of nothing to say.

  “Sitre-In, take Hatshepsut out of here,” Ahmose said quietly. She pulled at Mutnofret’s hand. “Come. Let’s go to your rooms. We’ll find out more from your women.”

  “No. Ramose died in my rooms.” The name was like a slap, it had gone so long in the palace unspoken. Ahmose felt it, and Hatshepsut, too. The girl’s shriek carried from the antechamber, and Sitre-In hushed her.

  “Then we’ll go to Tut’s rooms. Come.”

  And they were outside the Pharaoh’s apartments, abruptly, in a terrible nightmare jump. They must have walked, though Ahmose could remember not a single step of the way between her hall and Tut’s. All she knew was that she held Mutnofret’s hand, and that Mutnofret shook, and shook. Ahmose pushed open Thutmose’s door. The Pharaoh sat on his couch, surrounded by dropped scrolls. Two stewards bent over him, speaking quickly, quietly. And the look on the king’s face was terrible.

  He was shaking, too.

  ***

  “Why do you rebel against the gods?” Tears burned Ahmose’s eyes. Her face was sticky and hot. “Do you think you know better than they?”

  Tut’s fists rested still on the arms of his throne. He stared straight ahead, saying nothing. She had searched for him all night, and finally found him here in the great hall, sitting on his gilded chair, the double crown lying on the floor at his feet.

  “A vulture took Ramose, and now an asp takes Amunmose. Nekhbet and Apep. Two of your sons dead! How can you doubt?”

  Still he said nothing, his eyes hard.

  “Tell the people that Hatshepsut is your heir, Tut. Do it before you lose your eldest son.”

  Finally he turned to her. “No.”

  The quiet ferocity of the word staggered her. She stepped back, catching her breath. He had never spoken to her before with such anger, with such hatred. She had never seen this mask he wore now. It was not the face of the sweet, boyish man with whom she rode chariots and shared her supper. This was the face of Thutmose the general, Thutmose the conqueror, Thutmose who hung his enemy’s body from the prow of his ship.

  Tears stung her eyes afresh. “Then Wadjmose will die, too.”

  “He will not.”

  “Tut, please. Don’t challenge the gods this way.” She would have fallen on her knees to beg him, if she’d thought it could make a difference.

  He was on his feet now, moving toward her with the speed of a stooping falcon. She gasped and skittered backward, trying to stay clear of his fury. Her back hit a pillar, and he was upon her. His hand closed around her arm. He shook her roughly. “Bear me a son, and Wadjmose will be safe.” His other hand was at her breast. He squeezed it hard, so hard she screamed. He let go, and for one heartbeat relief flooded her. Then horror. He grabbed at her thigh. Not her thigh – the fabric of her gown. And his hand clutched hard, jerked it up, so her legs were exposed. He forced his knee between her own, pushed her legs apart. Shrieking, Ahmose twisted, kicked out at him, but he stepped quickly and her foot connected with nothing. Her dress fell back into place.

  Now his teeth were against her neck. He bit, and she cried out again. Why were no guards coming to aid her? “You talk of rebelling against the gods? You? God’s Wife? You were supposed to give me a son, Ahmose. That was the duty the gods gave you. A son!”

  He pushed away from her, shoving himself back, reeling like a drunkard back up the steps of the dais. He leaned against one arm of his throne, trembling, coughing, and Ahmose leaned against the cool pillar, her breast and neck throbbing, grateful for the space that separated them.

  He’s mad with grief, she told herself. It was small comfort.

  “Gods forgive me,” Tut said, softly; and now tears ran down his face. “What have I done to you?”

  “I know…I know you’re grieving,” she said, in a small, broken voice. “I will forgive you.”

  He shook his head.

  “I will,” she insisted.

  “I don’t know what to do, Ahmoset.”

  “The gods want their prince. They will have her, whether you give her willingly or not.”

  He looked up, his eyes so hurt, so angry, so sad. “My dream. You must give me a son.”

  Two of her nephews were dead. Her sister was shattered. Ahmose wanted to scream her words at him, but she could only summon up a pale whisper. “I already did,” she said, and crept out of the great hall.

  FORTY-THREE

  The tomb was unchanged. Denser growth on the bluff above the opening, perhaps, but otherwise it was still cool, still green, still pleasant. Ahmose held Mutnofret’s hand through the ceremony, and when Tut came forward with the other men to carry Amunmose into the cold black ground, both sisters turned away.

  Mutnofret was silent almost all the time now. She always had her hands on her belly, and when she did speak it was usually to the growing child. Seeing her this way, withdrawn, gentle, Ahmose had to struggle to recall a time when Mutnofret was ever anything else. When had the second queen been a scheming viper? When had she been full of hate? That was a thousand-thousand years ago, before the world was formed. The world was loss, grief, a pillar against Ahmose’s back, Hatshepsut throwing her harp, Mutnofret whispering to the baby she carried. No other world had ever existed for the daughters of Amunhotep. A sapling in Ahmose’s hand…no. That other world had never been. That was a story the nurses told their children.

  When pleading for Hatshepsut’s heirdom failed, Ahmose begged Tut to choose Wadjmose instead. She thought perhaps any heir would suffice now, that so long as the succession was secure, even Amun would overlook his own daughter being set aside. Sometimes she even convinced herself that if Wadjmose were proclaimed heir, he would be safeguarded, as though the gods couldn’t touch a Pharaoh’s proclaimed successor.

  It was useless, though. Tut still clung to his long-past dream, the baby in Ahmose’s arms, a son to rule after he was gone. She begged for him to be sensible, and he pleaded to come to her bed. But ever since that miserable night when he’d shaken her and bitten her Ahmose had shunned him. As soon let a leopard into her bed. He was no longer the Thutmose she had loved. He was a beast that could not be trusted, terrifying and powerful in his rage and grief.

  She walked with silent Mutnofret at the head of the procession, all the way out of the green valley and to their litter. She and Mutnofret rode together, hands clasped, heads leaning. Now and again the baby kicked. Ahmose watched it gl
ide beneath Mutnofret’s robe. Would this one, too, be taken?

  And Wadjmose…when would the gods come for him? For she had no doubt now they would. The precious boy still studied and trained, all the seventy days while Amunmose’s body was prepared for burial. Wadjmose was committed to becoming a general like his father, focused on his target like an arrow fired from a bow. Ahmose was glad. She didn’t want her nephew to worry over his death.

  They were carried all the miles back to the Waset palace. The mourners marching behind their litter keened and cried. And Mutnofret, her head tucked against Ahmose’s shoulder, keened with them, a high, piercing, sustained call, grief and loss given form. It flew up into the white sky, up and up, never stopping, a flock of black birds over Egypt.