Warrior King, page 11
The voice of her maidservant, Nena, broke her thoughts. “The sun ails you, God’s Mother. Should we proceed to the throne room to receive King Kamose from The Wild Bull?”
“Yes,” she stuttered. She forced herself not to breathe to reset her chest and mind. Hold it together. The silent command forced a rigidity along her spine. I am a royal woman; I must be like my mother.
“Yes,” she said again with a clearer voice. “We shall receive King Kamose in the throne room.” Only Nena and Meret could have heard the slight tremor in her voice. Ahhotep’s nod of reassurance did little to the aching instinct only a mother could have.
The doors to the throne room opened, and she walked in as if on a cloud, on another plane in the living world, unwilling to face the possibility her son was no longer alive.
But Tetisheri saw through her. “Your knees are weak. You have stayed too much under the Aten’s rays.” She gestured to a nearby servant. “Bring some tea for God’s Mother.”
Tep and Ahmose-Nefertari stepped from the dais to help her to her place, but Ahhotep waved them off.
“The Wild Bull has returned,” she said with a monotone voice.
Tep’s face lit up, and Ahmose-Nefertari smiled. But as Tep began to chatter about seeing Kamose again, Ahmose-Nefertari studied her mother’s face, and her smile faded.
“What is it, Mother?” Ahmose-Nefertari whispered when Ahhotep was upon the dais.
“The Wild Bull comes alone,” she whispered back, and Tep’s chatter died as soon as it had arisen.
Tetisheri drew a sharp intake of breath through her wide nostrils. The clink of her tea cup against its saucer reverberated in the silent throne room.
“Well, what does that mean, Mother?” Tep asked, gripping Ahhotep’s arm.
Ahhotep glanced at the empty throne. “Summon your brother, Ahmose. He is Coregent and should be on the throne this day regardless of what it means.” Her eyes searched the floor of the dais as if the washed stone held an answer.
Tep released her arm and sent a servant to bring Ahmose forth. She came back to her side. “He is in the Kap. I said he should be there.”
“He is Coregent and should be on the throne.” The curtness made her daughter take a step backward.
“Yes, Mother,” she said with a dip in her chin. “I have sent for him.”
Tetisheri tilted her head; her long, plaited false hair jangled with golden beads. She was judging her. She lost her son, and she remained calm. She did not shed a tear. She had to remain as a strong image in front of war-torn people.
Ahhotep turned to her daughters. “No matter the word from The Wild Bull, we must appear powerful.” Her words were as weak as her mother’s instinct was strong. “We must master our emotions,” she said in a hurried whisper and pointedly stared at Tep. “No matter what comes.”
Both daughters nodded with pensive countenances as a servant brought her tea. She took a sip and then a gulp of the cool liquid before shoving it back toward the servant.
The throne room doors were thrown open, and time stopped until God’s Mouth came in and announced, “Ahmose, Given Life, to enter his throne room.” The boy king came in with proud shoulders and a lifted chin as instructed, but Ahhotep saw through the facade—a scared little boy was underneath that hedjet crown. He walked up to the throne and climbed in while the doors shut. His feet dangled in the air, not able to touch the floor.
She took a deep breath, hearing more feet in the corridor outside the throne room. Stooping to whisper in Ahmose’s ear, she paused. She told herself they simply sailed too fast as one last bout of assurance.
“My son,” she whispered. “No matter what we hear or see in the coming moments, you are our King Coregent. You must remain calm.” Her voice shook. “You must remain silent unless I ask you to speak. Do you understand?”
The hedjet bobbed on his head as he nodded. “Mother, why are you frightened?” His big eyes turned toward her.
“I am not frightened,” she lied and stood up as the doors opened once more. God’s Mouth entered. “The Wild Bull has returned with King Kamose.”
She expected after that to see Kamose striding into the throne room, but the priests of Anubis came first. Her eyes drifted to what they held: the ends of round poles carrying a litter with a body. The first image she saw was the shining blue crown with the gold uraeus poised to strike the sun disc above.
In the heat of the day, chill set into her arms and seeped into her core as the priests neared her. The morning meal came to the top of her throat as they pivoted the litter parallel to the dais.
The cries of agony hurdled through her belly as she watched the priests lay her eldest son’s body before her. Yet she restrained the commoner’s grief with a tight jaw and stood tall.
Her heart cried out, “Isis! Hathor! Horus! Anut! Re! Amun! Why?” yet her lips remained sealed. The hot sear of restrained tears burned the back of her eyes and scalded her throat, preventing air from flowing. Her gaze lifted to Baba, whose knee was bent and head was bowed before her son’s body. Her thoughts lashed out at him: You! You come back twice alive, yet my husband and son come back slain? Where were you? Where were you?!
Tep fell to her knees, releasing what Ahhotep wished to release. A single stream of audible pain coursed from her daughter’s open mouth. Tep’s arms wrapped around her stomach. Ahmose-Nefertari’s head bowed with a stream of tears down her cheeks while her knuckles turned white. Ahmose sat in the chair, wide-eyed and jaw ajar, his small hands gripping the chair arms as if the great immortal snake of the sky, Apep, was only moments from devouring him.
The chant of the priests commenced as they waited for Ahhotep’s command to begin the burial preparations officially, but Ahhotep stood silent, staring at Kamose.
The soft tap-tap-tap of Tetisheri’s footsteps drew closer as she approached until she stood next to Ahhotep and spoke for her to those in the room: “The Hekka Khasut slayed my son, and the Kushites, my grandson.” She shook her head. “Ammit will have their hearts, but my kin will be one with Re. Anut has kept her protection over the Horus king and brought back his body to journey to Re.”
Tetisheri patted Ahhotep on the shoulder and whispered, “At least, know this, God’s Mother,” she whispered and wiped a fallen tear from her daughter’s eye. Ahhotep blinked, not realizing tears ran down her cheeks. Her mother’s lips moved, but the words were as in a well, and they lagged more each moment.
“It will help with the pain of loss,” Tetisheri whispered.
Tetisheri glanced at her granddaughters, Tep and Ahmose-Nefertari. “I mourned my son under Nut’s night sky, but,” she titled her head toward Tep, who continued to wail, “we cannot be seen as vulnerable. Not now. Tend to your daughter.”
“Tend?” Ahhotep’s gaze was upon her son. Seeing Tao’s mangled corpse sent her heart to her stomach, but upon seeing her son’s body, her heartbeat ceased. Words were only words in the moment. Ahhotep stooped and reached out a hand to caress his flaccid cheek, ignoring his sunken eyes and the cleaned and dressed spear wound to his chest. His cool skin became nothing. The sharp cedar scent in the air faded to nothing. Her once racing mind thought nothing. The remnants of the bittersweet karkade tea on her tongue dulled to nothing. Her mother’s words dwindled to nothing. Her vision blurred to nothing.
Time again stopped as she stared at the discolored body before her. The dark splotches in his dry, sun-parched skin took her back to Tao. This body was her son’s, but it bore no resemblance to the man who had greeted her at the port two years earlier. That would be the vision she kept of him: his dazzling smile upon seeing her and his immediate embrace.
That is my son.
Tep’s wail broke her from her haze, causing Ahhotep to cry out, “Silence.”
The break in her voice caused those in attendance in the throne room to avert their eyes and bow their heads even more so that their chins rested on their chests.
She closed her eyes and calmed the burn in her throat. “Silence,” she said again. Her daughter’s cries became whimpers.
Ahhotep lifted her head, stood up, and raised her gaze toward those in the throne room. The last time a body had been brought before her, she had nearly collapsed upon the floor. The gruesome sight of her brother-husband flashed in her memory as she thought.
My husband and my son are now both killed in this goal. But each was committed to better this land, our land of Kemet. To take back what is rightfully ours. She closed her eyes as a new breath surged through her nostrils.
“Prepare the King’s body; he shall join his father in becoming one with Re.” Her words were bold; her face, fearless, yet the trails of tears smudged kohl in lines down her face.
The priests of Anubis gathered up Kamose in the litter while chanting the rites. They carried him out to a room in the palace where they would begin the body’s preparations for the afterlife.
Ahhotep glanced at her second eldest son, who sat beside her. His ten-year-old frame of a boy looked back at her with horror in his eyes. She placed a hand over his to soothe him, but all it prompted was a quiver in his lip. The warmth in his touch soothed the chill from touching Kamose’s cheek.
“The Coregent is now the sole King.”
Ahmose held his gaze with his mother; fear wrapped around his irises, bleeding the light from his eyes.
I know, my son. I know this pain, she thought.
The crown loosely fit upon his boy-sized head, and her mind flashed to her two younger sons, Sapair and Binpu. Must she lose them all to retake Kemet? she asked Amun in silence.
“No,” she whispered. “I shall not lose them all.”
Ahmose’s short, skinny figure was still far from manhood. How would Ahmose command? He was but a boy, and Sapair and Binpu were even younger. Kush was at their door to the south, and the Hekka Khasut still hid in Hut-Waret like the cowards they were. Would they lose all that they had gained with her husband and son? Would their slayings be in vain? Would they be overrun and wiped out? Shall the great Kemet end with Ahmose?
Her shoulders pulled back, and she swallowed her sorrow to the pits of her ka.
No.
Her eyes lifted to the grand double doors of the throne room at Sedjefatawy.
No, it would not end; Kemet would begin again with Ahmose.
Heat surged in her cheeks at the injustice shown to the crown. We will not be weak. We will persist. Their slayings will not be in vain!
At the thought, she took her stand. “Royal Scribe. Send this decree to the princes.” Her voice carried across the mud brick floor and reverberated through the pillared hall.
“King Kamose gave his life to gain victory in Buhen while they sat fat in their nomes with plenty to eat and drink and with men and resources to spare. Will they choose to let the nome of Waset take this burden alone? Will they let the nome of Waset, the royal family to whom they have pledged loyalty, suffer alone?”
Her voice grew with vigor.
“I say it is not so, for if it is, their oaths be lies, and their hearts will weigh heavy on the scales of Ma’at and be devoured by Ammit when their journey west begins.”
She stood straight and focused on the doors through which her husband and son had both been carried. Her chin lifted. Fear no longer held her tongue.
“I now call their oaths to be satisfied—there shall no longer be the request of men and resource, but a divine command from God’s Mother. Amun will be our patron god for the Lower as we retake the Upper with his chosen one, Ahmose, Given Life, The Lord of Strength is Re, Living Horus. The nomes will send tribute to Amun’s temple and their King, and Amun will lead us to victory!”
14
A TIME FOR MEMORY | AHHOTEP
SEDJEFATAWY, 1570 BC
Ahhotep slipped along the corridor to the palace temple, past the apartments of the sleeping princes, until she came to the doorway, which danced with shadows from the inner torchlight. Kohl lined her cheeks as she peered around the doorpost.
The priests of Anubis wore the jackal heads, the snout long over their eyes, as they prepared Kamose’s body for the afterlife. The canopic jars had already been sealed. The former king’s dark skin peeked out from underneath the remaining white natron spread over his body. The priests slowly and carefully brushed the last of natron off Kamose’s cheeks. It would be the last time she saw his face, but she turned away when the natron was removed. His face was dry, sunken, and false eyes were put in place. The sharp cedar oil filled the room as they rubbed it into his skin. She turned back when the haunting sound of a rip of linen pierced the morning silence. They intricately wrapped Kamose’s face, laying diagonal strips of cloth with tender care.
Ahhotep took a deep breath and continued past, unable to see her son in such a condition. The sun tipped over the eastern horizon as she made her way to The Rising. Her sister-wives, Inhapi and Sitdjehuti, were waiting for her to go to the temple of Isis.
They boarded with their servants in silence and let the fleetsmen take them to the temple in Waset. They could not approach the goddess unclean. Her freshly bathed skin radiating with kyphi perfume rivaled that of her sisters. Its sweet and spicy aroma repelled the stifling Nile water’s scent.
Even though her mind should have been on the prayers she was to speak, her mind drifted to Kamose. She had scraped together what she could to provide her son with a burial. He had only five years on the throne, most of it spent at war, with nothing to build a pyramid or supply any tomb meant for a king.
Such injustice for him, she thought.
The Rising pulled into port at Waset, and the three royal women departed the boat and walked into the temple of Isis, leaving their servants and fleetsman guards behind, for only priests and royalty could approach the divine. They laid an offering of grain before the goddess’ image and awakened Isis’ spirit with the incense of myrrh. The three royal women, trained as priestesses of Isis, kneeled before the goddess and gave time for her to partake of the grain after she awoke.
Ahhotep pressed her hand against the amulets of Isis, Hathor, and Bastet, swinging from her neck to still them and rub them between her fingers to evoke the divine.
“Mourn with me, my sisters,” Ahhotep whispered to Inhapi and Sitdjehuti. “Plead with me, my sisters.”
The three women raised their hands with bowed heads. Ahhotep was the first to speak: “Mother of the Gods, Isis, Mistress of Magic—inspire comfort within my heart and chase the fears from my mind. Give a plea to your sister Nephthys that she may rebirth the heart of my son and allow him to live again. In your light and her darkness, may the son of Seqenenre Tao, the King of Kemet, the divinely appointed of Amun and Re, live forever. Bastet and Hathor,” she said with a hitch in her voice as she began her prayer to the two goddesses. She clutched the amulets tighter in her raised hand, “Lady of the Home, Children, and Women’s Secrets—Protector of Women—comfort my heart, keep my secrets, defend against the evil that threatens my children . . ."
A tear choked out her words, and Inhapi continued for her. “Give us strength that we may endure. Be with our sister’s son Ahmose as he becomes the sole regent. Be with our sister’s son Kamose as he becomes one with Re.”
Sitdjehuti finished the prayer: “Gentle Hathor, transform yet again to Sekhmet—grant our sister the vision to see what needs to be done to unite our land and expel the Hekka Khasut and reclaim that which was taken from your brothers and sisters.”
Ahhotep drew in the sweet, smoky myrrh with a deep breath through her nostrils. Its spice burned the back of her throat, but she resisted expelling it. Instead, she thanked the goddess for hearing her and rose along with her sisters.
The morning sun attacked her eyes when they stepped from the temple.
Ahhotep stared at the Aten, full-face. “Today, we will travel to the West of Waset and entomb King Kamose, but after this day, I will lose no more sons,” she vowed.
15
A TIME OF FAREWELL | AHMOSE
WEST OF WASET, 1570 BC
Ahmose stood with thick kohl around his eyes and the tall Hedjet crown on his head. The sun poured over him, warming the chill underneath his skin. It had been seventy days since his brother’s body had lain at his feet. The dark hole in the ground was like a giant mouth waiting to swallow him.
Donning the panther skin cloak of the Sem-Priest over his shoulder, Ahmose, as the King, the High Priest, performed the Opening of the Mouth and Eyes ceremony. It was the first time the Sem-Priest had not conducted such a ceremony, and all eyes were upon him, the ten-year-old boy king, as he descended the stone-hewn steps to the burial chamber.
Once there, his voice shook as he repeated the rites in the torchlight: “Pure, pure, pure. You are as pure as Horus, and Horus is as pure as you.” He touched the stone on each of Kamose’s hands and then his heart and nose to awaken the spirit within the preserved body.
“Pure, pure, pure. You are as pure as Osiris, and Osiris is as pure as you,” Ahmose said and repeated with each divine name.
He waved the fish-tail-shaped stone over Kamose’s mouth and touched the linen-wrapped lips to open them. “I have opened your mouth with the Meskha of Anubis.” The First Prophet and Sem-Priest wiped the former King’s eyes with kohl to open them, and Ahmose touched them with the stone. “I have opened your eyes.”
The priests placed Kamose in the wooden coffin. Ahmose reached out and touched the smooth edge before the top was laid. Because Kamose had not had enough time to build a proper burial place like their father, the tomb had hurriedly been hewn to completion. The inscriptions for the afterlife had been painted with haste with smeared lines, and the thick edges of the paint, still wet, glistened in the torchlight. Servants and stewards surrounded the coffin with food, drink, and what little riches his mother had been able to secure for him. Only a few pieces of gold and silver. Ahmose’s shoulders drooped as he stared at the painted face atop the ungilded coffin.
