The Sekhmet Bed (11 page)

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.