The Sekhmet Bed by L. M. Ironside Page A

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.
     
    Tut encouraged her to resume her dream-reading.