Read Online The Sekhmet Bed by L. M. Ironside - Free Book Online

off Mutnofret’s hand and pushed forward. The voices of many women hummed like flies inside the pavilion. They were subdued, hushed, urgent. Ahmose scrambled around a myrrh trunk, tripped over a root, and nearly collided with another servant laden with linens as she ran from the pavilion's farthest side.
    "Move, move," the servant snapped, not even seeing in her haste that it was the Second Princess to whom she spoke. Ahmose did not stop to reprimand her. She righted herself, ducked around the pavilion’s corner.
    One panel of cloth was rolled halfway up and tied, creating a small door. Ahmose peered around the column. The scene inside was chaotic, and the terrible stench of blood and feces gusted from the room whenever a person passed the door. Several women moved back and forth with lamps and linens. She recognized women of the harem, including her stout cousin Renenet, whose plump cheeks were streaked by tears. Two servants kneeled around a wooden stool with a large hole in the seat. They were using sheets of linen to soak up a great puddle of dark wetness beneath the stool – a very large amount of blood. Her knees trembled. She stood aside for another servant to pass.
    Just as she made to look inside once more, a rough hand took her by the shoulder and pulled her back. Too startled to say a word, she glanced up at the face of Wahibra, the harem physician. He carried his rolled leather kit in his arms. She stood aside for him as she had for the servant, but Wahibra made no move to enter. He clapped his hands for permission.
    At once an old midwife approached, carrying a tiny brazier on a padding of thick cloth. Green smoke lifted from the bowl. The old woman waved one hand toward Wahibra, wafting the incense over his face and shoulders. "In the name of Tawaret," she said somberly, "be purified, and enter the place of birth."
    At once the crowd of women parted. Ahmose saw into the heart of the pavilion. Pale, golden Aiya lay on a bed of cushions soaked in red. Her face was as white as milk, eyes closed. Her arm lay limply across the floor of the pavilion, damming the pool of blood that darkened the bed and floor.
    The old midwife spoke. "It is too late for Aiya, I fear. Her hips are not wide enough. The door is too small. The baby cannot come on his own. She has lost too much blood, despite all we could do. She will not live."
    "Yes," Wahibra said. "I can see that."
    "We have called you here to cut the child out."
    Wahibra nodded and gestured toward the birthing stool. A servant leapt to obey him, positioning it near Aiya's limp body. Wahibra unrolled his leather kit and stretched it across the hole in the seat. Ahmose watched, horrified, as he selected a long copper blade from among the kit’s strange instruments. Her mind screamed at her to look away, to run away, but she was powerless to do anything but stand, numbly, detached, and watch Wahibra bend toward Aiya.
    The knife in Wahibra’s hand caught the light of a brazier, sending a red flash into Ahmose’s eyes. The spell of powerlessness was broken.
    “ Wait,” she called out.
    Wahibra looked around at her. His hesitation gave her just enough time. She was at Aiya’s side in two heartbeats, kneeling at her shoulder. She took the girl’s face in her hands.
    Aiya opened her eyes. “Ahmose.” Her voice was thick and low with pain, rasped from hours of crying.
    “ Aiya, I’m sorry. If I could change this, if I could stop it….”
    “ Take care of my son. Make him a good man. Tell him of Aiya, his mother who loved him best. He is best of all the great men.”
    “ Hatshepsu,” Ahmose said, grieving, regretting. “I will, Aiya, my sweet one, the best of my friends.” She bent to kiss Aiya’s forehead, pressed her lips to the girl’s sweat-beaded brow and held them there, tasting the salt of her skin, as Wahibra raised his knife.
    The pain of the blade roused the last strength in Aiya's body. She jerked, her pale limbs convulsing, her eyes opening wide in