The Priestess the Queen and the Burial

There’s no escape from the priestess’ scheming — Part three of three

A chilling, exotic collaboration between Posy Churchgate & JK Mill

When Queen Sefideh could not provide an heir for King Hepsekar, a young priestess Ntuk became the vessel in a secret breeding ceremony. The lies around the child’s true parentage soon fuelled the priestess’ resentment and gave rise to a bitter plot wherein Ntuk and the queen consorted with the king then mortally wounded him …read on.

When the moment came, Sefideh was surprised by the tears that appeared.

Hepsekar groaned in his sleep as she sat nearby, memories of their life together intermingling with fantasies of thrones and conquest, of the tryst with Ntuk earlier that night, of a grown Rahmun, her son, a victorious general. Together they would bring glory to Egypt and its people.

Was that not a worthy desire? A vision worth struggling for? A future worth killing for? And yet…the man moaning in his fitful sleep was her husband, her lover…and the father of her child.

No. Sefideh knew she could rule better, and Rahmun better still after her. And the deed had been done; Hepsekar would die no matter what she did, nor how she felt about it.

She was drawn from her reverie when Hepsekar groaned and woke.

“Sefideh…” he said weakly. “Fetch the healers and the priests. Some malady has befallen me…My head is light, and I feel as though I may retch.”

She rose quickly and placed her hand on his belly, which was swollen and stiff, as Ntuk had told her it would be. She did the king’s bidding one last time by calling servants to his aid.

Nothing could be done to save King Hepsekar, court physicians were mystified by his bodily weakness and the rash they observed. Slaves fanned him, used cloths they steeped in mint water to bathe his torso, but the young king expired within the hour.

Queen Sefideh seemed bleak but dignified in her distress, and the people of Egypt went into mourning. Only when she retired to her royal quarters could Sefideh let herself feel; alone she dared to lower her shield of poise and shake from the audacity of what she and the priestess Ntuk had pulled off.

Preparations for the King’s funeral were made immediately, such was the custom. While his body was taken for ceremonial embalming the ministers of the court planned a grandiose parade suitably representative of his status, to honour their king. It would provide an opportunity for the people he ruled to pay witness to his transition from the land of the living to the land of the dead.

Sefideh consoled herself that she had played the part of his grieving widow well, giving no cause to question her devotion to her husband and master. But as virtuous as she envisaged herself, her agitation would not settle. Her stomach roiled while disconnected thoughts fluttered in her mind like fireflies.

She lay back on her bed and was suffused with recollections of the tryst between herself and Hepsekar in the last few hours. How his eyes had sparkled when she had playfully touched him. She felt internal flutters of warmth on remembering how his sceptre had swelled in appreciation when she had shed her robe and stood naked before him. She licked her lips, then ran a finger over her tongue until she had it wet, then she traced her slit, up and down a few times until her passion was stirred into wakefulness.

But why should she play alone? With a toss of her head, Sefideh rose from her mattress, determined to seek out the woman who would soon become High Priestess. Ntuk had as much to gain from Hepsekar’s death as Sefideh, so why not warm each other’s beds while keeping each other’s secrets?

Sefideh left her room and, by the flickering torches that jutted from the wall sconces, picked her way to the remote part of the temple which housed Ntuk’s secluded quarters.

More recollections came to her as she walked. Before the breeding ceremony, when Sefideh had demanded to inspect the woman who would carry her child, Ntuk had been brazen; making no effort to hide her nakedness. In fact, the priestess had made a display of herself, washing her breasts immodestly. Sefideh had been astonished by her own rising lust, how she had concocted an excuse to touch her, to thrust her fingers into the priestess’s heat.

As if conjured from her memories, the sounds of lovemaking carried down the corridor that led to the priestess’s room: yearning moans, excited gasps, unmistakable soft squelched, and passionate kisses. The queen stopped in the corridor, overcome again with the noxious, heady blend of jealousy and lust she had felt the last time she had visited the priestess’s chamber.

Truth be told, there was another feeling in that brew of emotions, every bit as toxic as the poison that had dripped from Ntuk’s needle: rage.

Who did this temptress think she was, that she could take a lover when the queen herself had offered her all manner of pleasures, not least with her husband and king? Sefideh started to stride forcefully toward the chamber, intent on berating Ntuk. She would have the royal guard apprehend whoever was foolish enough to entangle themselves with that scheming cobra.

But she halted when the sounds within picked up in volume and intensity; and the fire of her rage was doused by the torrid wetness already building in her core. She had grown to love the sound of Ntuk’s sighs and whimpers of pleasure as she caressed her tenderly, or roughly invaded the priestess’s honey pot with fingers or her tongue! The very thought of it ceased further deliberation; she would put off a confrontation. She had to see Ntuk in the throes of lust.

The queen snuck like a thief in the market towards the entrance to the chamber. The single length of linen that served as a curtain had not been drawn completely; she could see a narrow part of the room within.

The gap showed her two figures within, their naked bodies intertwined on a bed of reeds, the candlelight flickered off the sheen on their skin. A powerfully-built man lay with his back and strong buttocks facing away from Sefideh. Ntuk’s face was obscured by the shaved head of her lover. The priestess’s leg was wrapped over his, their genitals no doubt in close proximity as they kissed. The thought of the staff of this muscular man, pressing against Ntuk’s swollen folds made the queen reach between her legs, to trace a finger along her slit as she watched.

Suddenly, Ntuk pushed the man away and down, so that he was lying on his back. Sefideh was struck by his handsome face and brawny chest, and his large, erect rod, rock hard and straining upward.

Ntuk placed herself between his sinewy thighs and leaned down to kiss him, but only briefly. She scattered more kisses on his chin, his throat, his chest, his navel, and finally his member, gentle touches of her lips up the length of him. Sefideh was incensed but unable to pull her attention away. Ntuk took the male into her mouth, gentle as a Nile breeze, looking up with an expression Sefideh had never previously seen on her face; it was more than desire, more than lust.

It was love.

The same eyes, bright in their kohl sockets, that Sefideh had seen flash with haughtiness, with lust, with murderous intent, now shone with devotion and affection. The queen was stunned, she didn’t know what shocked her more: that this murderous, treasonous wench was capable of love, or the realisation that her queen was not the object of that affection.

The memory of worshipping Hepsekar’s straining flesh was so fresh for Sefideh that she could feel him in her mouth as she watched the priestess encompass the male’s girth and choke herself on his length. But witnessing this, the queen felt doomed as if her own chasm of emptiness would never be filled, and she turned and stumbled, half-blind with tears, back to her chambers.

Sefideh shut the door and leaned against it. Her whole body juddered with sobs. Her husband was dead, and she was responsible. The priestess was a fraud, who had never loved her, had probably used her like a lynchpin to gain status and influence; the queen was alone and lonely.

For a few minutes, she wallowed in the darkest place in her soul and cried out, railing against the futility of every plan she had ever made, until she remembered that she was still the queen of Egypt and Rahmun, her beautiful boy, was destined to be king. Those thoughts stiffened her resolve; her tears dried and her shoulders set. She could do this.

Queen Sefideh was watching Rahmun play, lost in admiration for her son’s self-possession and dogged determination when the king’s officials and advisers arrived to collect her for the funeral procession. They were grim and silent, so she took her cue from their solemnity and followed where they led, keeping her chin raised and her gaze directed forwards.

Sefideh’s slaves had dressed her in the finest robes, a formal, gilded headdress plus a linked gold collar and multiple bracelets and rings to demonstrate her status. They helped her onto the carriage which would be drawn through the thronging crowds; she arranged her skirts and then her face in a haughty, regal expression.

This was her moment, her opportunity to stamp the concept of her authority and competence as a just and powerful ruler. Queen Sefideh, the strong hand guiding Egypt’s plough, sowing the seeds of progress and triumph for the wider world to envy and for her people to harvest.

Ahead of Sefideh in the procession waited the low platform which would convey King Hepsekar’s body, in an ornately beautiful sarcophagus, to his final resting place, in the Valley of the Kings. In front of that stood a float populated with musicians, who would accompany the troupe of dancing girls tasked with feting the king’s progress through the streets.

She noticed that the officials, Hepsekar’s royal advisors, did not join the funeral parade, but behind her, there were further decorated carts that would follow. These were loaded with food and drink, provisions for the afterlife, and flamboyant representations of the king’s wealth and prosperity.

With a grand sense of occasion and anticipation, the musicians struck up a tune and the dancers commenced swaying in readiness to parade through the streets, following their deceased ruler to the tomb in which he would be buried. Everything had been arranged to ensure that, in the afterlife, Hepsekar’s status remained as lofty as it had been when he lived. The opulence which surrounded his tomb ensured that in the afterlife he would want for nothing in terms of riches, food, and a caring entourage.

These customs were unfamiliar to Sefideh, who had been born into a powerful but nomadic tribe, but she let no surprise or awe show on her face. The common people around her wept and beat their chests, expressing grief for the loss of their king, but she remained impassive, silently making plans for the future of Egypt under her rule.

From the shadows of the temple, two narrow and bright eyes followed the procession until it passed. Then Ntuk turned to the group assembled in the main chamber. The priests and priestesses she knew, though the High Priestess, Khepri, was not present. The elder had taken ill the night before, complaining of pain in her chest. The royal advisors were unfamiliar to Ntuk, but that would change soon enough.

“So then, you are satisfied?” she asked the advisors, most of whom were wizened old men, the stories of long-past and glorious battles tattooed in scar tissue on their faces, arms, chests, and legs. The priests were less robust, their lighter skin and absent scars a testament to time spent sequestered in the temple. Only one among them was near Ntuk in age, and unlike his elders, he was powerfully built. Ntuk knew his muscularity and firmness were uniform throughout his body, even beneath his kilt.

“We are,” said the chief advisor. “We accept the testimony of your brothers and sisters in the temple.”

“Very well,” Ntuk said and directed her toothy smile at the young priest. “I should like the rituals and ceremonies to begin in one week’s time.”

The advisors and the priests bowed and took their leave. They were already expected elsewhere.

Sefideh thought it odd that Ntuk was not one of the two priestesses acting as the goddesses Isis and Nephthys during the funeral procession, but relief was the uppermost emotion. She knew enough to understand that the priestesses served in that role, but not that it was reserved for the youngest females in the temple. She presumed that Ntuk would oversee the ceremony at the tomb.

But Ntuk was not in sight as the procession reached the entrance, the pyramid looming far above them. Sefideh was unprepared for the next custom, as an elder priest pretended to faint, and the others revived him.

“I have witnessed my father in all his forms,” proclaimed a young priest, who resembled the vertiginous older man so closely that he must be his son.

Baffled and annoyed at the grandiose (and time-consuming) role-play, Sefideh followed her husband’s sarcophagus down into the mortuary, where more priests awaited their regent for the Opening of the Mouth ceremony. This would restore the senses to the deceased, so that he might continue to perform his duties in the afterlife.

Sefideh watched as the priests went about their work with gravity, removing the lid of the sarcophagus, and touching the king’s wrapped eyes, mouth, and chest with the sacred adze. As they prayed and chanted, they were careful to avoid looking at the queen. Sefideh assumed this was part of the protocol of the ritual, and if it was not, that they were showing proper deference to their new ruler. As they should, Sefideh thought to herself. And they should remain deferential all through the next year of coronation.

She was their queen, their superior, and they would be privileged to serve her as they served her husband.

When the chanting stopped, the king’s advisors made offerings of milk, honey, lamb, dates, figs, and other foods at the foot of the coffin, these men too avoided the queen’s haughty gaze. She had still not seen Ntuk and still did not lament it. They had an agreement that the priestess should succeed Khepri, but as she watched the food offerings accumulate in front of her, she decided Ntuk might be found guilty of blasphemy not far into her reign as queen.

After the flow of food offerings stopped, slaves entered the chamber, carrying Hepsekar’s most prized possessions along with the canopic jars: his sword, his shield, his bow, amulets, rings, and more. Sefideh’s eyes narrowed at the jewels and artifacts arranged reverently in the tomb; they would be wasted here, glittering unseen under the sand, their beauty and elegance forsaken.

When the last artifact had been placed, the slaves departed, and behind them hurried the priests, their eyes downcast, their faces sombre.

Sefideh assumed they were leaving her alone a final time with her husband, to say her own prayers, to wish him strength and courageous conduct in the afterlife. It was unnecessary, she had made her peace with his death and knew in her heart she was justified. She had no reason to stay; she had a coronation to attend, a kingdom to rule.

With a straight back and a clear vision of her glorious future, Sefideh turned to climb the ramp down which the king’s body had been transported, but N’tuk, in all the splendour of a high priestess’ robes, barred her way.

“Iy my queen, I hope you enjoyed your final moments of glory.”

Her words twisted with an expression of bitter triumph, and with creeping dread, Sefideh fumbled for the step she had missed.

“I was given my due respect, as wife of the King,” she countered.

“Indeed your majesty, and as the king’s wife, you have one more duty to perform.”

Despite Ntuk’s poisonous tone, a smile crept across Sefideh’s countenance, a certainty that she understood what the young priestess proposed, and a triumph to deduce that it was something her muscled lover of a few hours ago had failed to provide. Ntuk was truly an insatiable she-dog, but she awoke a tickle of desire in the queen.

“Gladly, but my husband’s funeral tomb is hardly the place,” she simpered.

“It is exactly the place,” Ntuk, thundered; a storm brewing behind her eyes. “As the wife of the king you are his possession, part of his chattels, and as such you will remain here to escort him into the afterlife.”

It took a beat for the enormity of this statement to penetrate Sefideh’s understanding.

“But I am the queen –”

“Yes majesty.”

“And I will rule Egypt.”

“No, Rahmun will rule Egypt. While he is young he’ll need counsel on matters of government and prosperity, which I will provide. The High Priestess Khepri’s health is fading, she will not last til the new moon. I shall step into her shoes to stand on the right hand of Rahmun, my son.”

Sefideh was speechless; like taking a scythe to a bail of wheat, Ntuk would cut her down in her prime. She had been outwitted and outmaneuvered and she was out of ideas.

Into the silence a soft hissing sound insinuated, barely audible in the gloom.

“What is that noise?” Sefideh asked, fear spider-walking up the vertebrae of her back.

“It is the sound of your slow death, my queen. The architects designed many plug holes through which sand is now trickling. Eventually, this whole pyramid will be filled with it, but by then you will have suffocated.”

“But I –”

“You have done your duty, and for that the people of Egypt are grateful. We will remember Hepsekar’s young, beautiful wife.”

Ntuk’s voice was cold, and in the face of this crushing reality, Sefideh had not the heart to bask in either the compliment or the concept of an immortal reputation.

“You planned this all along, you bitch.” Sefideh spat, her fury all consuming. “Did you ever love me?”

“It is expected of an acolyte to revere her queen,” Ntuk’s voice was colourless, like the desert sand. “But I cannot recall feeling love.”

Sefideh’s lips drew back in a snarl and she curled her fingers like claws, preparing to attack the venal woman who had made a mockery of her affection and tricked her into this death sentence.

But Ntuk quickly stepped back and pushed between them a lidded basket she’d concealed.

“Perhaps this is love, that I offer you something to speed your demise,” she fixed Sefideh with the intensity of her dark eyes. “In this basket is an asp, one bite and you will die quickly. May Kabechet guide you, my queen.”

Then Ntuk set the basket down on the ramp and with long strides, she was gone.

Sefideh heard the ominous grate of stones sliding in place, as engineered by the architects, to seal the entrance to the tomb, walling her inside and cutting off the light of day.

She could not cry as she sank to her knees, utterly felled by futility and frustration. No amount of scheming would save her this time.

This story was a joint collaboration with JK Mill writer of original erotica and owner/editor of the magazine The Smut Mill.

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