The Sekhmet Bed by L. M. Ironside

throne, high-backed and adorned with a shining sun disc, Ahmose had one brief, soaring moment to look down on her approving subjects. I am their queen. They know it. Her proud bearing had been all she needed to win their love. She had won their hearts.
    But she had hardly settled into her chair when the steward announced Mutnofret. Her sister swept into the hall like the Nile’s flood, undeniable, essential, rich. Far from being understated, Mutnofret was a glimmering vision. She wore unbleached linen of the loosest weave; every part of her body shone through the earthy fabric, more revealed than covered. Her breasts beamed like goddess’ faces, her nipples were dark jewels, her navel a pool to quench any man’s thirst. About her hips was a belt of golden links, hung with bright-beaded fringe. As she swayed toward Thutmose the fringe danced and parted, revealing the triangle at her groin, a brazen invitation. Her arms were bound in countless cuffs and bracelets, sparkling like the river; gems clustered all about her, glowing, enthralling. Ahmose gasped, torn between admiration for Mutnofret’s beauty and shock. She had expected deception. She hadn’t expected Mutnofret to look like perfection made flesh – like Iset, like the queen of the gods herself.
    Ahmose only realized how loudly the crowd had cheered Mutnofret when at last they quieted. She was unable to meet any eye, suddenly and shamefully aware of how poor and child-like she truly looked.
    Thutmose’s full attention was on his second wife; he helped Mutnofret fix her perfumed wax cone to her lovely gleaming wig, touched her soft hand, told her she was beautiful, so beautiful.
    Ahmose’s belly soured.
    The night dragged on forever. Mutnofret was a perfect woman, graceful and winsome, smiling her approval at all the performers, brushing her arm now and then against Thutmose’s, her cheek against his shoulder. Thutmose was not unmindful of Ahmose, to be sure; he offered every dish to her first, asked her opinion of each performance. But all his attentions had the flavor of duty, not the adoration she craved.
    Is this to be my marriage, then? A dutiful husband who cannot take his eyes off my sister, even for a moment? Then she recalled Meritamun, sacrificing everything for Egypt, and stilled her heart. The gods had given the throne to Ahmose, for reasons only they knew. She had never failed the gods before, and she would not now. If her divine task was to be a dutiful queen, then so she would be. The harem women may read their love stories and dream of romance, but for Ahmose her heart and body could only be given to Egypt. This was the fate of a princess – the obligation of a princess.
    She would do her work, and Thutmose would do his. If she was lucky, their mutual work would grow into – something. Friendship, she may hope. But love? She leaned her elbows on the table to look past her husband at Mutnofret. The second queen was laughing musically at something Thutmose had said.
    Mutnofret would have his love, it seemed, while Ahmose must be content as his partner in duty.

 
     
     
    EIGHT
     
     
    The feast dragged on mercilessly. When it finally ended, thank all the gods, Ahmose escaped to her new quarters. The Great Royal Wife had an entire arm of the palace, a great pillared hall separated from the larger body of the complex by a courtyard, dappled now in moonlight. She nodded to the pair of guards on her chamber door, allowed them to open the ornate doors for her.
    Happily, a brazier had been lit earlier in the evening. The oil was low, burned nearly away while the feast went on and on. The flame was weak. A fire box was on the floor, full of twigs, striking stones, and a jug of oil. She dismissed the guards back to their post and lifted the jug herself, trickled new oil carefully into the charred bowl, watched as the flame resurrected. The growing light revealed another brazier further along the wall. She filled it, then carried a burning twig to it,