The Sekhmet Bed (27 page)

“
Exactly. And I imagine it will make Mutnofret very happy, too.”

It was more than a year since Ahmose had given up Ineni’s companionship, and since then she had devoted herself wholly to her duties. She still kept Mutnofret from the throne hall, telling the court the second queen was busy with the princes’ tutors, or entertaining foreign dignitaries. It would impress no one to know the truth: Mutnofret was banned from court by the God’s Wife, and stewed helplessly each day in her apartments.

When Thutmose returned from his campaign, he would be cross to see such discord in the royal family. Ahmose knew she needed to reach out to Mutnofret, to make an offering of goodwill to her distant, cold sister. She held no false hope that they would be close again. Those days were gone forever, washed downstream like a fragile leaf midriver. But some semblance of unity, some togetherness, would please their husband when he came home. Perhaps she could at least make Mutnofret smile. A smile was worth riches, in these lean and frightening times.

***

“
It’s good to see most of Egypt’s greatest houses still know how to show respect.” Twosre gave a wry smile.

Ahmose and her woman were well concealed behind the line of myrrh trees that grew between the pylons outside the Temple of Amun. They peeked through the branches at the crowd, which swelled by the minute. There were representatives from every important family in Waset, as far as Ahmose could tell, and many faces she didn’t recognize. Visitors from Iunet and Abedjwet, Edfu and Swenet, come to pay their respects to the first prince. And to be seen doing it. Even during lean times, even with Thutmose off at war, there was strong support for the throne. Ahmose remarked on it, wondering that so many would make the journey during times like these.

“
The Pharaoh has done well by the people, Lady. That’s the plain truth.” Twosre tugged at her elbow, pulling her back toward the Temple of Mut. Ahmose took one last, long look at the crowd milling in the twilight, then turned to follow Twosre.
Tut has done well, but what have I done? Will he still need me beside him when he returns?

Back in Ahmose’s small temple chamber, tonight’s clothing and jewels were already laid out. Faithful Twosre had been to the Waset palace early in the day, fetching this dress and that shawl, this wig and that collar from the queen’s chambers. Ahmose had become so used to the simple garments of a priestess, even wearing her simple white shift and ribbon crown to court, that she hardly knew anymore how to dress herself for affairs of state. Twosre was a treasure beyond price.

Ahmose was unhappy to see, though, that Twosre has chosen the red dress – the Mut dress. The one she’d worn when she took the temple. It was a hard thing to look on. The dress carried too many painful memories. How she’d plotted with her sweet Ineni, how he’d swallowed hard when he saw her in it. How they’d conspired to take Nefertari’s title – for the sake of Tut’s throne, of course! – and how her grandmother had spurned her, and cursed her. Nefertari’s curse had been a true one. Ahmose couldn’t recall a single moment of real happiness since the day Horus poured down his punishment on her, that far-off day in the hills when Ineni had lifted her up to stand on the rock, when he had…

“
Why that dress? Are you sure it’s appropriate?”

“
Never a better one. You look just like a goddess in it. And here, I’ve brought your nicest wig from the palace. Gold beads. Very pretty! Now undress. We need to get you ready for the ceremony.”

Just like a goddess
. Ahmose sighed and undid her knots. It took some fidgeting and tugging to get the red gown on. Ahmose was sixteen now, and her body had filled.

“
I don’t remember being able to walk so well in this dress,” Ahmose said, taking five or six steps across her chamber, then back again, testing the gown’s give.

“
I had it altered a bit to fit your new body. You’re not the skinny little thing you once were.”

“
Thank the gods for that.”

“
Sit. I need to paint your face. I think your husband will be pleased when he comes home and sees how you’ve matured.”

Ahmose’s stomach pinched tight at the thought. Would she go to him at the palace, or would he come here to her temple chamber at night, after her prayers were done? Making love on a ride, under the open sky, as she had with Ineni was out of the question. Even dressed as a commoner, Tut would be recognized. Two rekhet fooling about nude in the hills wouldn’t be worth noticing by passing hunters or soldiers, but the Pharaoh and the God’s Wife…. Ahmose blushed at the thought. No, it wouldn’t be right. And anyway, to be secret lovers under the open sky – this was for her and Ineni only. And it was gone forever.
I’ll sort it out after Tut comes home
, she told herself, and resolved to stay focused on Wadjmose’s ceremony.

Twosre had chosen golden torques for her arms and bright hoops for her ears. Tiny golden bells hung on chains around her ankles, so that every step chimed. There was a glittering ring for each finger. But for her brow, just the slim circlet of the cobra crown. Twosre held up a hand mirror and tilted it slowly so that Ahmose could see each part of her by turns. She looked powerful and righteous, exactly as the God’s Wife ought – and nothing like she felt.

They took a private route to the forecourt where Wadjmose’s guests waited. Ahmose led Twosre through a maze of narrow lanes that snaked among the priests’ living quarters and a few ancient sanctuaries. They passed beneath great painted pillars that gave way to pylons, then to walls, blacker than the sky in the warm night. The roof of the Temple of Amun choked out the starlight. With the ceremony about to begin, the interior of the temple was quiet. To their right, a powdery orange glow scattered across the floor, deepened, strengthened. Ahmose blinked at the gathering light.

A temple servant hurried toward them, a torch of rushes held high. It gave off a strong smell: sap, earth, the smoke of offerings. “Holy Lady,” the young man said. “Allow me to lead you to the forecourt.”

She nodded at him, quiet and poised. There was a job ahead of her, a duty of state. She was the Great Royal Wife again, not only the God’s Wife. Her ka was a cool vibration within her, a steady and confident beating like the sound of a dancer’s drummer heard at a great distance. She’d gathered herself in. She was ready.

Menketra, the High Priest, was waiting for her just inside the front entrance to the temple. She nodded a greeting. There was a strange spark in his eye when the temple-boy’s torch caught it. The High Priest’s lips trembled and paled when he looked at Ahmose. It made her wary, though not afraid. Not exactly. She was like the bird that sees the approaching cat and tenses, holding itself ready for flight should the cat spring.

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd outside. Mutnofret must have arrived. Only Mutnofret’s frank beauty could stir a crowd in that way. Ahmose nodded at Menketra; together they stepped around the pylon and into the forecourt. Priests raised ankhs on poles, directing the crowd back. A large half-moon cleared before Ahmose and the High Priest. The gathered nobles subsided into reverent quiet.

“
Make way for the queen,” a steward called. The crowd parted at the apex of the moon’s curve to let Mutnofret through. She was dressed beautifully, as always: jeweled, scented, robed in blue. A wide collar of gold and turquoise caught up the light of the stars. Mutnofret was a stunning woman, if ever the gods had made one.

She carried Wadjmose on one hip. The boy’s face was pale with fright, but he did not cry. His solemn black eyes stared at Ahmose, unblinking. His head was shaven for the first time, the sidelock of youth tied above one ear. It was tufted, sticking out like a duck’s tail. He studied Ahmose as Mutnofret carried him closer, then, as if deciding she was safe, smiled at her, showing dimples in his cheeks. His face was so like his mother’s, with long eyes and a fine nose.

When Ahmose glanced at her sister, Mutnofret, too, smiled. It was tight, tremulous, and had something of an apology in it. They were standing face to face now. Mutnofret whispered, “Thank you.” It meant much to her, Ahmose knew, that Wadjmose was not forgotten during Egypt’s tenuous time, that Ahmose was on Mutnofret’s side in the matter of heirship, if in nothing else.

Menketra raised his arms. The priests lowered their poles. The only sound in the forecourt was the buzzing of night insects. At last the High Priest spoke in a voice that filled Ipet-Isut like struck bronze.

“
Men and women of Egypt. We bring you here tonight to witness the weaning of Wadjmose, son of Aakheper-ka-ra, the Good Lord, Thutmose, our king. The prince has reached his second year, by the grace of the gods, and grows stronger by the day.”

Mutnofret set the boy on his feet. He clung at first to his mother’s leg, staring out at the crowd, but when Mutnofret patted the back of his head in comfort he stepped away from her, facing the many eyes of the nobles like a tiny warrior, his bold little fists twisting in the hem of his kilt. Ahmose bit her cheek to ward off a laugh of delight. He was a strong boy indeed, with all of his father’s bravery. He would make a fine king some day.

“
Bring forth the bread,” Ahmose said. A priestess carried a gilt tray out of the darkness of the temple. Ahmose took the loaf, broke off a small piece, and dipped it in a cup of thin, honeyed milk. She bent to Wadjmose and held it to his lips. He took it, chewed, swallowed, his somber eyes never leaving her own.

The crowd sighed with approval.

Menketra blessed Wadjmose with ankh, oil, and salt. Then he faced the crowd again. His voice had changed subtly. “And now I tell you true, O my brothers and sisters of Egypt. I have been sent a vision by the gods.” The strange spark that had been in his eyes was in his throat now. There was a dark, compelling zeal in Menketra’s words. “It has been given to me to know, and to tell you: the Pharaoh’s son is more than any mortal prince.”

Ahmose paled. What was he doing? They’d discussed the ceremony in great detail. This was not what they’d planned. She breathed deeply, pushing down her fear.

Menketra’s hypnotic voice poured out over the listeners. “The child is the offspring not only of the king and queen, but of Amun and the God’s Wife. This is a holy prince, a prince that will please the gods with his every word and deed. He will restore prosperity to Egypt. He will be the embodiment of maat, righteousness made flesh!”

No
! Ahmose looked at Mutnofret, afraid her face would betray her confusion and shock to the crowd, afraid it would not show enough of her horror, her disbelief, to her sister. Mutnofret stared back at her, and her eyes were lances, her beautiful face tense and sharp with hatred.

Ahmose shook her head slightly. Her lips parted. She breathed, “No!”
No, Mutnofret
, she said with her eyes, she screamed with her heart.
I didn’t do this. I didn’t know about this. I didn’t know! Believe me!

Mutnofret snatched her son up and held him close. Menketra talked on; the crowd murmured; Ahmose understood none of it. All she could see, all she could feel was the force of rage in Mutnofret’s heart. Both women stood still, quaking, rooted uncertainly like trees on an eroded bank. Mutnofret was poised to flee, Ahmose to fall to her knees and beg her sister’s forgiveness. Neither could so much as twitch, though, with the eyes of the nobles on them. They could speak only with their own eyes, and while Ahmose’s said,
Forgive me, sister, I didn’t know
, Mutnofret’s shouted,
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

When the High Priest at last brought the ceremony to a close, Mutnofret carried her son from the temple without a word. The crowd parted for her, then closed around her. She was gone. Ahmose stared at Menketra. His eyes were dewed.

“
What was that?” she hissed.

“
Holy Lady.” There was real worship in his voice, as on that day when she had appeared before him dressed as Mut.

“
Come into the temple with me,” she said, her voice shaking. He followed her like a dog.

Ahmose pulled the High Priest into the nearest empty room. Her stomach roiled. The side of Menketra’s face was lit by the faintest sliver of moonlight through the open chamber door. “The child of the God’s Wife?”

“
Remarkable, Holy Lady. I was granted the most incredible vision this very morning, with the rising sun. Your son, with rivers of wealth pouring from his hands. Years upon years of perfect floods. Food enough for every child in Egypt. Monuments – oh! Your son will build a great and holy temple, my queen! It was like nothing I’ve ever seen!”

“
Wadjmose is not my son, Menketra.”