The She-King: The Complete Saga

  THE SHE-KING

  The Complete Saga

  of the Thutmosides of Egypt

  Four Novels

  By L. M. Ironside

  CONTENTS

  The Sekhmet Bed

  Book One

  The Crook and Flail

  Book Two

  Sovereign of Stars

  Book Three

  The Bull of Min

  Book Four

  Notes on the Language Used

  Glossary

  Historical Note: The Sekhmet Bed

  Historical Note: The Crook and Flail

  Historical Note: Sovereign of Stars

  Historical Note: The Bull of Min

  More Books by This Author

  Excerpt: Tidewater

  About the Author

  Is Ahmose's divine gift a blessing or a curse?

  The second daughter of the Pharaoh, Ahmose has always dreamed of a quiet life as a priestess, serving Egypt's gods, ministering to the people of the Two Lands. But when the Pharaoh dies without an heir, she is given instead as Great Royal Wife to the new king – a soldier of common birth. For Ahmose is god-chosen, gifted with the ability to read dreams, and it is her connection to the gods which ensures the new Pharaoh his right to rule.

  Ahmose's elder sister Mutnofret has been raised to expect the privileged station of Great Royal Wife; her rage at being displaced cannot be soothed. As Ahmose fights the currents of Egypt's politics and Mutnofret's vengeful anger, her youth and inexperience carry her beyond her depth and into the realm of sacrilege.

  To right her wrongs and save Egypt from the gods' wrath, Ahmose must face her most visceral fear: bearing an heir. But the gods of Egypt are exacting, and even her sacrifice may not be enough to restore the Two Lands to safety.

  The Sekhmet Bed is the first volume of L. M. Ironside's series The She-King, a family saga of the Thutmosides, one of ancient Egypt's most fascinating royal families.

  THE SEKHMET BED

  The She-King: Book One

  So said Amun-Re, Lord of Waset, presider over the Holy House:

  He made his form like the majesty of her husband, the King Thutmose. He found her as she slept in the beauty of her palace. She awakened at the fragrance of the god, which she smelled in the presence of his majesty. He went to her immediately. He imposed his desire upon her; he caused that she should see him in the form of a god.

  When he came before her, she rejoiced at the sight of his beauty. His love passed into her limbs, which the fragrance of the god flooded; his fragrance was of the land of Punt.

  -Inscription from Djeser-Djeseru, mortuary temple of Hatshepsut, Fifth King of the Eighteenth Dynasty.

  PART ONE

  GOD-CHOSEN

  1506 B.C.E.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AHMOSE WOKE TO A TERRIBLE, high-pitched wailing. She fought against sleep, kicked and scratched at it until it released her. She lay in her bed for a long time, eyes staring wide but seeing nothing in the dark, transfixed by the distant rise and fall of the cries. In the moments just after waking she could not place the sound. A cat? Some strange bird? Her mind cleared, and with a chill she recognized the sound of weeping women.

  She found her way through the chamber in the dark, still naked, her feet cold against the mosaic floor. Before she reached the door, she knew. The presence of the gods was heavy about her, thick as honey in the air, pressing, warning. For Ahmose, the gods were always explicit.

  She pulled the door open with numb hands. The hall of the House of Women was alive with moving shadows. In the darkness, the painted forms on the mural walls stretched and distorted, reaching arms toward Ahmose where she stood, shivering. The close air was dense with the odors of perfume and flowers, too sweet to be appealing. From far up the corridor the wailing drew closer. Women’s shapes formed out of the darkness, leaning on each other, hands clawing at faces, gowns ripped in mourning where any were dressed at all. Ahmose watched them come. Then she watched them pass her door, heedless of her presence. Renenet, Hentaneb, Khamaat, Baketamun – all the faces of the harem she knew and loved, reddened with sorrow, mouths distorted with crying. They moved past her as a single body with many weeping eyes, many clawing hands, one being with many grief-stricken kas.

  Behind them, Mutnofret walked.

  The First King's Daughter was dressed and wigged, though evidently she had had no time to paint her face. Her gown was not torn. Her body was straight, shoulders square, face a controlled mask that nevertheless could not hide her eagerness. Not from Ahmose. She looked half a Great Royal Wife already, there in the darkness of the House of Women.

  Mutnofret stopped at Ahmose’s door. “Our father is dead.”

  Ahmose nodded, mute. She knew.

  Mutnofret’s eyes were like fires in the night. “Get dressed. We must go to our mother.”

  “No.” Ahmose didn’t know why she said it, only that she must. As she stood staring at her elder sister’s calm, expectant face, a tight, cold snake coiled up in her belly. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I must…I should go to the Holy House. And pray.” A good excuse for her refusal, and once she’d said it, it became true.

  Mutnofret grunted, impatient. “Always praying. Go, then. But don’t go naked as you are. And be back by dawn; it’s only a few hours away. Our mother will be expecting us.” Will be expecting me, Mutnofret’s eyes said.

  Ahmose shrugged into her red tunic-dress, a thin, faded old thing from her childhood. Hardly appropriate for the Pharaoh’s daughter, but she wanted comfort now, not beauty. She would walk to the great temple complex at Ipet-Isut. No time to arrange for a chariot and escort. An hour there, an hour back – she would have just enough time to offer at the shrine of Waser. And the walk would help her sort through the clutter in her head. She pulled a wig on – not her best, but who would see her in the hours before dawn? – and slipped through her door as silent as river mist.

  The Pharaoh’s harem was a lush and sweet place, sprawling gardens thick with herbs and flowers and shade trees, row on row of pillared porches, cool rooms full of music and laughter. Ahmose loved to while away her days there, talking with her friends, trying on their prettiest gowns, playing senet beneath the olive trees. But tonight the House of Women crouched, mourning, beneath a weighty canopy of stars. All its beauties were dimmed and dulled by night and sorrow.

  Eager to leave the weeping behind, Ahmose tied her long shawl tightly about her shoulders and all but ran through the courtyard and out onto the road. “I am only going to take the air,” she said to the guards at the gate, and when they saw the the worry on her young face they let her pass without complaint.

  Though the hot season of Shemu had long since set in, the night was unusually cold. Once well away from the harem, the night’s peace comforted her a little, and the chill piqued her senses. It was not the Pharaoh’s death that worried at her heart. It was the sharp, desperate certainty that this night, this moment, this scroll in the gods’ hands was about her, tipped on her. She was the fulcrum of the coming day’s balance. This moment was crafted just for Ahmose, and she wanted nothing of it. Outside the tall sandstone walls of the harem, with no sounds but the singing of night insects and the deep, dark, distant voice of the Iteru, she could order at least that much of her thoughts.

  Tell me, she begged the gods as she walked, what is to come. As I am your true servant, show me mercy, and tell me. But the gods remained silent.

  Behind her on the road, she heard the hoof-beats and breath of trotting horses. What a stupid idea, walking to the Holy House! Alone, in the night! Ahmose looked around wildly for a place to hide. The hard
-packed dirt road stretched north to the temples and south to Waset, a long, wide, uncaring line. The shoulders of the road were bare, save for the season’s usual tangle of dry, knee-high weeds. She did not have so much as a dagger in her belt – nothing. She glanced back the way she had come. The House of Women was there, lamps lit, glowing golden in the chill night, bright as a scarab. But it was too far to run; and anyway, the chariot was between Ahmose and the safety of the House. She might cross the road, dash out into the stubble of the harvested wheat field, and make it to the river – but no. It was many spans from road to river bank, and once she reached it, there would be nothing but mud, reeds, and a few skinny palms holding to the bank. Nowhere to hide. The guards on the gate would never hear her shout from this distance.

  She stood still, fists clenched, and prayed as she watched the chariot come on: “Khonsu, who protects night travelers, see me! Cast evil from my path!”

  The chariot was close enough now that she could see moonlight sparking in the horses’ eyes. “Slow, slow,” the driver said, and drew his reins. The horses stopped, blowing, beside Ahmose.

  “Well,” said the driver, leaning a forearm on the rail of his chariot. “The king's daughter.”

  Ahmose blushed.

  “Not dressed like a king's daughter tonight.”

  “What business is it of yours how I choose to dress?” She stared at the impudent man, hoping her look was regal and intimidating, painfully aware that she was thirteen years old and barely a woman, for all her royal blood.

  The driver smirked at her like a boy, though he was at least twice her age. The corners of his eyes creased, and his kohl was smeared where he’d carelessly rubbed at his face. Nose and chin were both sharply pointed; his cheeks were lean and flat. His face was all long angles. He brought the image of Anupu instantly to Ahmose’s mind. Anupu, jackal-god of the underworld, who could condemn or reward. Would this man be her friend or her enemy? She did not know, and not knowing intrigued her.

  “I am more concerned with the safety of Amunhotep’s daughter than with her clothing, to be sure,” the man said. “What are you doing out here, alone in the darkness?”

  “You are not to question the Pharaoh’s daughter – or to use the king’s name so lightly.”

  The driver laughed. Not just a chuckle; he laughed hard, a string of loud, high barks like the call of a lapwing. His amusement revealed a prominent jut of upper teeth. Ahmose frowned at him. Was he mad, to laugh at a daughter of the king? Then a prickle of fear ran up her spine. If he was mad, she was alone with him, and no one to see or hear what he might do to her. She took a step back.

  “Oh, I am sorry, King's Daughter,” he said at once. “I’ve frightened you. Fear is the last thing you need tonight, poor girl.”

  What did he know of tonight’s sad news? The harem had only just found out. The Pharaoh’s women and children should have been the first to know of his departure for the Field of Reeds, save for his stewards and closest advisors. And girl? She wore a wig, even if it was a rather shabby one, not a child’s braid. It should be obvious to even the simplest rekhet, the most ignorant peasant, that she was a woman now.

  “I am not afraid of you or anyone else,” she said. “You have an appalling lack of respect, that’s all.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Nowhere. I am taking the air.”

  The driver snorted. “King's daughters do not wander about aimlessly on the road. You have palace courtyards for taking the air, yes? Would you like a ride to wherever you’re going, Great Lady?”

  “I would have to be simple to get into a chariot with a strange man who laughs at the Pharaoh’s own blood. And who can’t even keep his kohl around his eyes.”

  Incredibly, he laughed again. He stretched a hand down from the back of his chariot as if to help her up. She looked at it, then at his face, and did not move.

  “I am General Thutmose,” he said, “your father’s best soldier and his closest friend. I have reason to be out taking the air tonight, too. The same reason as you, Great Lady. The Pharaoh is dead. I have heard.”

  “Already?”

  He nodded, his face solemn but his eyes still bright. “It wasn’t a joke, that I am your father’s closest friend. Was his closest friend. I am…grieved.” Thutmose looked away, out through the cold night toward the river. “And confused,” he said, quietly, to Ahmose or to the night; she was not sure.

  “Then you lost a friend, and I am sorry for you.” Ahmose had never experienced the death of a loved one. Even her father’s death did not truly grieve her. She knew Amunhotep only as a king, the figure on the throne, the hands that held the crook and flail. She wondered – what would it be like to lose her closest friend, the pretty Northern girl Aiya with her unshaven, golden hair? Or Mutnofret, who was haughty, but always kind to Ahmose? She should be happy for the dead, she knew. They were the privileged ones who lived in glory forever with the gods, who hunted eternally in the Field of Reeds in boats made of sun-fire. But to never again see the ones she loved with her eyes…. Sympathy for Thutmose welled up inside her. A familiar voice spoke in her heart. Trust this man. Trust him. There could be no mistake: it was Mut speaking, the mother of the gods. Her voice was soothing and direct, a calming contrast to the uncertainty she felt just moments before, begging the gods for clarity.

  Ahmose had never defied Mut before. She would not begin now. She stepped to the edge of the chariot’s platform and reached up a hand.

  Thutmose smiled at her – a gentle, pleasant smile – and took her hand in his own. She felt its calluses and hard strength, allowed him to pull her up to stand beside him. Before she let his hand go she heard the gods murmur their approval, a whisper in her heart like water among reeds.

  Thutmose clucked to his horses. “So where were you headed, Great Lady?”

  “To Ipet-Isut.” She hesitated. “I am not sure I want to go there now, though.” She still felt the gods leaning their weight on her, watching her. The feeling made her skin itch. Perhaps, after all, the Holy House was the last place Ahmose should go tonight. “Do you have a destination in mind, General?”

  “I was going nowhere in particular. I just do my best thinking while standing in a chariot.”

  “And has it helped you? Tonight?” Ahmose looked behind her as she spoke, at the House of Women receding into the night, growing smaller, darker, and colder.

  Thutmose’s breath made a sharp sound. She wondered if her words pained him somehow, but when she glanced at his face he was smiling, showing his big front teeth. “I’m not sure there’s any help for me, tonight or any night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The General shook his head. “It’s nothing for a pretty girl to worry over. Tell me, have you ridden in a chariot before?”

  “A time or two. Never very fast, though,” she admitted.

  “Ha! Then we’ll ride in the fields as fast as you like.” He hissed, and the horses lashed their tails, jounced into a trot so abruptly that Ahmose had to clutch for the rail. The cold air stung her skin, vibrant and sharp with the dun-colored smell of barley.

  She smiled. “It’s good! The wind feels good.”

  The general laughed like a barking jackal. “Do you like adventure?” He flipped the reins. The horses trotted faster. Pale shapes formed on the road ahead of them, brightened into linen-white. Two men in the short kilts of commoners stood whispering together by the side of the road. Ahmose watched them as the chariot passed. If she’d walked to the Holy House, she would have met these men. Alone.

  “You should have brought more men with you, General. What if we’re robbed?”

  “Bah. Robbers. This is for robbers.” Quick as a cat, he pulled a dagger from his belt, flipped it without so much as glancing down. It spun blade over handle; the hilt smacked back into his thick hand. He laughed at the startled look on Ahmose’s face. Then, as fast as he’d drawn his knife, his laughter died. “Are you the one who reads the women’s dreams?”

  S
he hesitated. “Yes. I am god-chosen. I’m surprised a general in my father’s army would know of anything that goes on in the House of Women.”

  Thutmose ignored the implied question. He watched the road, his face still and serious. The light of stars and moon muted the colors of his skin. His profile leaped bright and stark against the black of the night sky. Even smudged, the kohl around his eye made it seem as dark and fierce as the eye of Horus. Suddenly, despite the awful cold, despite the urgency of the night and the unformed threat of the morning, Ahmose was caught up in wild excitement. Whatever her future held, whatever the gods would give her with the rising sun, here she was in a ragged tunic, flying through the night, free as a leaping fish. This was her first time alone with a man, and nobody knew but Ahmose. A reckless surge rose up in her middle. She felt deliciously bad, like a hero-princess from one of her nurse’s stories; she felt secretive and powerful.

  She laid a hand lightly atop Thutmose’s. The general looked down at her, his dark eyes wide. “Faster,” she said.

  He hissed the horses into a canter, then a gallop. The wind tried to rip the wig from Ahmose’s head. She steadied it, and steadied herself with the other hand, gripping the rail near where Thutmose held the reins.

  “My name is Ahmose,” she shouted into the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THEY STOPPED ON A LITTLE hill, not nearly as high as the great bluffs across the river on the western bank, but elevated enough that they could look down on the valley. Late fields of wheat shook their pale leaves in the moonlight. To the south, weak lights burned in the miniature House of Women, and beyond it, pale distant points of torches flickered on the roof of the great palace above Waset. The palace raised broad shoulders over streets and dwellings, a stern brow frowning at the river. Its lit windows were many eyes, unblinking, staring across miles of field and road to see Ahmose in the chariot. Her skin prickled. In that palace, stretching so great and tense along the flank of the land, the Pharaoh had died. In that palace, beautiful and rich and stifling, the gods tended her fate. They could not have her yet, though. Not until the morning.