Queen Hebat XXIIIa or b?
Willendorfer
Summary:
In ancient times, for political and religious reasons, a young prince is asked to marry his mother the Queen. He is not exactly adverse to the suggestion.

Notes:
Set in the city of Ephesus, in the Luwian-speaking realm of Arzawa, western Anatolia, 2577 BCE, the early Bronze Age. This is set in roughly the same part of the world as Homer's Iliad, featuring conflict between western Anatolians and Achaeans, though these events take place a thousand years before the Trojan War. I therefore felt I might situate this story in the Iliad fandom. The kind of sacred monarchy depicted herein follows the lines of Robert Graves' mythology of the White Goddess. But otherwise, everything in this story is my own invention. The encyclopaedia entry on King Attis IV of Luwia, at the end, is likewise pure invention.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:
It is mid-morning, a warm day of early summer. I am practising archery with my friend Tibe in the great courtyard, when a messenger approaches, summoning me to a meeting with my mother the Queen.

Stepping out of the bright sunlight, I hasten through the cool, dimly lit corridors of the palace, my mind filled with worries about this urgent summons: Is there bad news from abroad? Have I displeased my mother somehow? I pause briefly at one of the little shrine rooms, to offer up a prayer to our Great Mother Goddess, and to Her Son, the Bull-God. The sight of Her plump, naked image on the altar reassures me.

A hundred paces later, I am at the door of the council chamber. The guards usher me in.

My mother the Queen -- so similar in form to the Goddess I just was just praying to -- sits upon her throne, attended by her adviser and confidante, Lady Arinna, and by the priestess Lady Istustaya. In spite of my worries, I feel the little comforting thrill I always feel in the presence of my mother's beauty. She motions for me to sit near her, smiling at me in welcome; but I notice a certain tenseness in her eyes.

'Very well,' she says, 'prince Attis is now here. Guards, you may withdraw, and let no one else enter. Arrina, proceed.'

Arrina begins pacing the tiled floor. 'The matter before us, my prince, is the matter that has hung over our heads ever since the sad death of your father. I mean the matter of the succession.' She pauses, turning to me. 'Tell me my prince, does it not rankle you, even a little, that our laws are as they are? If we followed the practice of our neighbours the Achaeans, you would have succeeded your father as king, any woman you married would then be the Queen, and there would be no succession problem for us to contend with.'

'My lady Arinna,' I respond, 'I am Luwian born and bred. I would rather be a servant to my mother the Queen, with the Goddess' blessing, than be a jumped-up king of the Achaean sort, ruling through violence and fear.'

'Spoken like a true son of the Goddess,' she answers warmly. 'And yet, I could almost wish our laws were otherwise, for clearly you would make an excellent king: you are devoted to the Great Mother, and loyal to your mother the Queen; you are learned in our laws and religion, brave and level-headed. You are only eighteen years old, but already you have done able and important service to the realm. And you are well-loved by the people. But ... we Luwians, of course, follow the principle of Mother-right. In our lands of Arzawa, no man becomes king, except by marriage to the Queen.'

My mother now speaks: 'After the king your father ... gave his life, I had no desire to take another consort. In those dark days, it was you, my son, who consoled me: I wanted no other man intruding upon our grief. And I was not then concerned about the succession, for my niece Pepeya should have followed me upon the throne. But Pepeya died last winter in childbirth, as you know. Now my nearest kinswoman is my cousin Wurusemu, an empty-headed young woman. Her consort Anzapahhadu is a petulant and impulsive man. With those two on the throne of Arzawa, in these perilous times, disaster would soon befall our nation. I cannot allow Wurusemu to become Queen. I must marry again, and bear a daughter to succeed me.'

So this is it, I think grimly. She will take a new consort. He will be the light of her eyes now, and I will be pushed to the periphery of her life. How could I have ever thought it might be otherwise?

'But whom can your mother marry?' Arinna resumes. 'Our peaceful realm of Arzawa lies between the powerful Hattians to our east, and the warlike Achaeans to our west. Marriage with the royal house of one would be viewed as a provocation by the other, bringing invading armies down upon us, whether they come as conquerors or 'protectors'. She must marry a Luwian then. The Queen cannot marry a commoner, of course. He must therefore be an unmarried man of her own royal house. But who? Her cousin Adra is a lover of men: he cannot get her with child. Her uncle Lubarna is addicted to wine, and in failing health. Among her more distant kin, there is only her cousin Lord Mutallu who seems capable of being king. He is clever, a man of forceful personality, and he enjoys much support within the council of elders --'

My mother breaks in, 'If the good of the realm required it, I would marry Mutallu, notwithstanding my personal dislike for the man: for a Queen must always put her people first. But there is evidence that Mutallu poisoned his wife, the Lady Estan, to free himself to be able to pursue my hand. Alas, the evidence is not firm enough to bring him to trial, but it is sufficient to persuade me. I cannot allow such a man to become king. Mutallu makes no secret of his admiration for the customs of the Achaeans, and shows little reverence for our Goddess. A man who murdered his wife in order to marry me might just as easily murder me and usurp the throne outright, abolishing our ancient laws of Mother-right and the king's sacrifice, and adopting the Achaeans' vengeful sky-gods.'

Lady Istustaya now speaks: 'Yet the elders give no heed to these rumours about Lady Estan's death, and to Mutallu's impieties toward the Great Mother. They see only the danger of Lady Wurusemu's succession. This morning a deputation of elders delivered an ultimatum: if the Queen does not choose a consort -- and very soon -- the council of elders will unite in demanding her marriage to Lord Mutallu. This is why you have been summoned here, Prince Attis. This is why your mother needs your help.'

'My Ladies, of course I will endeavour to do what I might, but ... I do not see what assistance I can -- '

'On the contrary,' Arinna grins triumphantly, 'you present the ideal solution. Have we not said that you would make an excellent king?'

'But you also said that, according to the laws of our people, I cannot become king.'

Arrina shakes her head impatiently. 'Not as the Queen's successor, my prince. As her consort.'

* * *

My mouth goes dry. If I was not already sitting, my knees might buckle under me. A moment before, I was bracing myself for expulsion from my mother's life ... but now this! Could they know, could they have guessed, that in the most secret place of my heart -- so secret that I hardly dare acknowledge it even to myself -- I have longed for this very thing?

I speak slowly, to keep my voice from trembling. 'I take it, Lady Arinna, that you do not mean the ... mere outward form of a marriage ... You mean that my mother and I ... we must, in truth -- '

'Well, yes, you must perform the rites of the marriage bed, of course, and get her with child -- otherwise what would be the point?' Arinna never employs delicacy where bluntness will serve. 'But be of good cheer. You are a young man in good health, and the spirit of the Bull-God is strong within you. Your mother has at least another ten years of childbearing remaining to her. There is every reason to expect you will get her with several more children within that time, with the Goddess' blessing, and surely at least one of them will be a daughter.'

Istustaya now speaks: 'Prince Attis, you seem troubled by this proposal. Let me give you some reassurance. It is true that the Achaeans, with whom we must rub shoulders these days, hold mother-son marriages in horror for some reason. But it is not so among our people. Although such marriages are ... quite rare ... nowadays, in the annals of the Luwian royal house it is recorded that several ancient Queens of our people took their sons as consorts, and the Goddess blessed their unions. These Queens followed the example of the Great Mother Herself. For our most ancient hymns teach us that, in the beginning, the Goddess, alone in Her perfection, conceived of Herself, and bore a Son, whom She loved; and She named Him Attis -- the same name you bear, my Prince -- Who sometimes appears as a bull, but sometimes takes the form of a young man, just as the Goddess Herself sometimes takes the form of a cow, sometimes a woman. Behold,' she points to a brightly-coloured depiction of this creation story, among the numerous frescoes decorating the walls of the room. 'Now, as Attis grew to manhood, His Mother loved and desired Him, and He felt an answering love and desire for Her, and from Their union, the cosmos was born, and all the living things in it, as the artist shows here. Therefore we are all reckoned children of the Great Mother. Indeed, the same pattern is seen in nature itself. For the grain germinates in the womb of its mother the earth. It springs up, tall and erect, like a lusty son. And as it matures, it spills its seed back into that same mother, thus the land remains ever fruitful.

'As for the king's sacrifice,' she continues, 'I can reassure you on that count as well. Once every few generations, the king is called upon to give his life for the sake of his people, to restore balance and obtain the blessing of the spirits of the land. Twelve years ago, your father gave his life, to end the great drought. Be assured: it will not be asked of you, when you are king. No one doubts your courage and selflessness, of course, but the Goddess would not inflict such terrible grief on your mother a second time. I consulted the oracle three times on this point, the same answer each time. Moreover -- '

'Thank you, Istustaya, that will do,' my mother breaks in impatiently. She turns to me, her expression softening: 'My son, I must know your heart on this matter. Forgive me, I should not have sprung this proposal on you in this manner; I should have spoken to you privily first. But the truth is, without these Ladies' support, I did not have the courage to broach the matter with you -- I so feared that my offer might ... repulse you. I imagine it would please you more to marry a girl your own age, slender of form and smooth of skin ... rather than a ... an old blown rose such as me. And it is a great change -- perhaps too great -- to begin to regard your old mother as a lover.' She fights back a sob, pauses to compose herself. 'You have heard the political reasons why I make this offer of marriage to you. But if it displeases you, if your heart recoils from it, we can remain as we are, my son. I will not force it upon you. As for my own heart, the Goddess tells me that I could be very happy with you as my consort. And I believe I could make you happy too. I have loved you, my son, ever since the first moment I felt you stirring in my womb. And now you have grown into a beautiful young man: intelligent, considerate, dutiful, capable. I could ask for no better man to share my throne with. There is no man I could desire more to share my heart with, and my bed. But as I say, I would never force this marriage upon you. I will always love you, my son, no matter what you decide.'

I kneel before her, laying my head in her lap, hugging her knees. 'Your offer does not repulse me, mother!' I look up into her face: both of us teary-eyed. 'On the contrary, you do me the highest honour a man could receive. As you say, it is a great change, to become your lover. But ... yes, my Queen, I will be your consort, with a grateful heart.'

We gaze into each other's eyes for a long moment, neither of us quite daring to believe that this is really happening. 'Ahem,' the priestess interjects. 'My Queen, you wished me to underscore the urgency --'

'Yes,' my mother says. 'Attis, dearest one, your answer pleases me greatly, more than I ever dared hope for. But ... alas, as Lady Istustaya reminds me, we do not have time now for more heart-talk. We must be married immediately. Once you are king, your person will be sacrosanct: not even Mutallu would dare harm you then. But in the meantime, you will be the target of his malice. His spies have probably informed him already that you are meeting with me, and he might guess the reason. I do not want to give him the chance to strike back, to foil our plan. Let us go to the great shrine room at once! The priestesses await us there. Lady Arinna, bid the cooks begin preparing the wedding feast, let the bull-leapers make ready in the great courtyard, and send out messengers into the city to announce the news! Come, my love.' She stands, holding her hand out to me, and I take it.

* * *

The events of the next several hours whir past, dragging me along in their wake: the rite of the bull's blood; the ceremonial bathing, dressing and annointing; the marriage vows; the procession through the streets of the city; the enthronement at my mother's side; the celebratory bull-leaping games; and now the feast. The people of Ephesus seem to greet the news with joy, in spite of, or perhaps rather because of the unusual nature of this marriage. The common people do not draw fine distinctions between the fat Mother Goddess Whom they pray to and the fat Queen who reigns over them as Her earthly representative. How fitting, how auspicious, then, that their Queen, Hebat the twenty-third of that name, should take her son Attis as consort, just as the Great Mother Herself is said to to have done.

But throughout this rapid succession of rites and ceremonies, my mind is preoccupied with the fast-approaching hour when my mother and I will be alone together in her bed. Our bed. Can I actually lie with her -- this woman who gave birth to me, whose breasts suckled me, who played with me, taught me and disciplined me as a boy, who supported and counselled me as a young man? I love her deeply, of course. We have always been very close, and the tragic death of my father the king brought us even closer. And, yes, I think -- it is time for me to be honest with myself at last: my mother is indeed beautiful to me. Yes, I desire her.

The ambassador Upadarma once told me, very pompously, that the most desirable woman to lie with is a girl of sixteen years, with long, slender thighs and a narrow waist. But he is an Elamite, with bizarre, outlandish tastes. I was raised as a Luwian, in the fervent worship of our plump ancient Mother Goddess, Whom my mother so strikingly resembles. She has therefore always been my womanly ideal. My mother's face is round, with an adorable double chin. Her dark eyes sparkle with warmth and intelligence, her lips are full. Her hair, like mine, is a mass of long black ringlets, though hers are now shot through with grey, bound up attractively in her royal headdress. She is not tall of stature, but she is amply built, with immense hips and a soft, round belly which spills out over the waist of the Cretan-style flounced skirts that she favours. Like most Luwian women, she generally wears no upper garment, except in cold weather. Her heavy breasts are therefore often on display, hanging down to her navel, capped with large, dark nipples, like stunning jewels. I remember sucking on those nipples as a young boy, happily kissing, nuzzling and playing with them. But as I grew to manhood, the sight of her beautiful breasts began to stir much deeper feelings in me than mere childhood memories.

I tried to channel my feelings for my mother into making myself useful to her. I attended council meetings. I officiated with her at public rites and ceremonies. I supervised the construction of a new bridge over the Kaistros river. I oversaw repairs and improvements to our merchant fleet -- anything to find favour in her eyes, to merit her approval. Now it seems I have won her favour and approval beyond my wildest dreams. Truly, this strange and unexpected marriage seems to be the answer to my most fervent wishes.

But a flurry of fears and doubts whirl round and round in my mind; my heart is tied up in knots. What if, in the raw intimacy of the marriage bed, the Queen-my-lover proves to be a different woman to me than the Queen-my-mother? Will the mother I have known and loved all my life be lost to me forever? What if Attis-her-son cannot meet my mother's expectations for Attis-her-consort? What if I disappoint her? What if the rites of the marriage bed prove to be awkward and unfulfilling for us? I know, of course, the mechanics of how to pleasure a woman in bed: like all Luwian high-born youth, I was tutored in the arts of love by a priestess, an older woman. But will I be able to touch my mother's heart? Will I be able to give her deep sexual joy? And will our mother-and-son relationship remain intact?

* * *

The wedding feast is winding down now. My mother and her ladies have already retired to the bedchamber to prepare her for ... well, for ... for, yes, me. Meanwhile my old tutor Mursilis is giving a rambling, not-very-sober toast, pointing out -- yet again this evening -- the auspicious significance of my name, Attis, being the same as that of the Bull-God, who also married His Mother.

'Hail Attis, the Bull of His Mother!' the men drunkenly cheer, quoting the ancient religious formula.

'May He make Her fruitful!' the remaining women cheer in response.

I sip my wine sparingly: it will not do for me to arrive at my mother's bedchamber in a drunken stupor. I look across the room and lock eyes with Mutallu. He glares back for a moment, then sullenly turns away, grabbing a cup of wine from one of the serving boys and slumping back down on his bench.

My friend Tibe approaches and draws me aside. 'Congratulations, my king. I never thought, this morning when we were shooting together, that you would be king of Arzawa this evening.'

'Nor did I, believe me,' I laugh. 'But I thank you, Tibe.'

'You could order anyone to do anything, I suppose. It must be exhilarating, having that power.'

'It is not like that, Tibe. Now I am responsible for the whole realm. It is more like I am everybody's servant.'

'Oh. I thought it might be some consolation for, you know.'

'Consolation?' I ask, warily.

'Well, you ... you can't be very pleased I suppose about, well, the marriage part ... Well, I mean, your own mother. I know they say it will bring blessings upon the realm and all that. But I couldn't imagine my mother and me --'

'Tibe, I do not care to discuss the matter further.' With that I turn away from him. Tibe's words are like a draught of vinegar to me, where I had been expecting sweet wine. Nevertheless, I must not hold this against him, I resolve. He is merely saying out loud what I have been worrying about inwardly.

Presently, Lady Arinna returns to the hall, signalling that the Queen is ready. My groomsmen and I rise, bidding goodnight to the remaining revellers amid further cheers. A torchbearer leads the way as we proceed through the twisting corridors of the palace to my mother's bedchamber, where they leave me. I knock gently on the door.

'Come in,' she answers in a low voice.

* * *

She is sitting beside her bed. A moonbeam from the open sky-light shines down upon her, turning her skin to the loveliest alabaster. She has removed her headdress, letting her long black-and-silver ringlets fall free upon her shoulders and back.

'Attis, my king! I am so joyful to be able to call you that, at last.' She pours me a cup of wine and motions for me to sit beside her. I want to say something, anything, to set her and myself at ease, but I cannot get any speech out, so tightly am I knotted up inside. Tibe's unsettling words echo in my mind: my own mother!

'We have been together all afternoon and evening,' she continues, 'but we have not had a chance for any heart-talk. Not since this morning, when you agreed to ... to marry me, and you made me so happy. Oh Attis, you don't regret it, do you? You haven't changed your mind about all this?'

'Of course not.' I exhale. 'In truth ... oh mother, I have long dreamed of this -- this marriage with you!' There, I have said it out loud at last.

'Oh Attis, truly? I hoped it was so. And yet, you seem ... troubled.'

'It is said that young men are often nervous on their wedding nights,' I shrug, in a weak attempt at levity.

'Attis, my love, you need not be nervous with me. Listen: I can guess what troubles you. You fear that the rites of the marriage bed will change our relationship, that we will no longer be mother and son to each other.'

I nod.

'Listen, we have loved each other ever since I carried you in my womb. Nothing that happens between us tonight could possibly change that, nothing could diminish it. The rites of the marriage bed can only add to our relationship. I believe they will add something beautiful.'

There are early mornings here in Ephesus when the fog lies thick upon the ground, as though it had always been there and always would remain; but then the sun rises and the fog quickly burns away, and everything is suddenly in dazzling sunlight: not a wisp of fog remains. In just this way, my mother's loving words completely dispel the fog of anxiety that was upon my heart.

'Yes,' I say simply, overcome with awe, admiration, gratitude, love, and desire for this precious woman. 'Yes!' I repeat, grinning like a fool. What else is there to say?

She leans forward and kisses me, tentatively, her lips soft again mine. I take her in my arms, her warm, full, naked breasts pressing against my bare chest; I run my hands over the rolls of flesh on her back -- so wonderfully soft to hold. She smells faintly of sandalwood oil. Her mouth opens and our tongues meet: she tastes of sweet wine and I cannot get enough of her. But at length, she pulls back from me. Looking into my eyes, a mischievous smile plays over her lips.

'So now, I have just one question, my son: where is my wedding gift?'

My heart sinks. 'I ... I am so sorry, mother ... I did not realize ... I have brought nothing.'

She laughs. 'Ssh. Yes you do have something for me.' She reaches up under my kilt, cupping my engorged phallus through my loincloth. 'Here is my wedding gift,' she coos, rubbing me gently. 'And it is just what I have always wanted, so big and hard. Take those garments off, my son, and let me admire it.'

I spring to my feet, tearing off my belt, kilt and loincloth, kicking off my sandals. I stand naked before her now, my phallus fully erect, flat up against my belly, the tip wet with seed.

'You are beautiful, my son. Are you erect like that because of me, truly?' she marvels. She leans forward, suddenly taking my hard phallus in her hot mouth. It feels ... unbelievably wonderful. But with great effort of will, I pull back.

'If you do that a moment longer, mother, I will spill my seed in your mouth.'

'Would that be so bad?'

'Mother, I would not have you think I am some untutored boy, spilling my seed at a woman's first touch, without giving her pleasure first. Besides, my seed belongs in your womb. I want to ... to honour your womb with it.'

'Well,' she rises to her feet, 'it seems my consort observes the old-fashioned love-customs: I must thank the priestess who tutored you. Very well then. Give me pleasure, my son.'

With a coy smile on her lips, watching my reaction, she slowly unclasps her apron-girdle, letting her skirt fall to the floor with a soft swoosh.

Before me, bathed in silvery moonlight, stands the Great Mother Herself, in the full glory of Her nakedness. She walks slowly to the bed, her heavy breasts and belly bouncing as she moves, her enormous, dimpled buttocks rippling and juddering with each step. As she lies back in bed, my eyes are drawn to the luxuriant forest of thick dark hair between her thighs, cleft below with two puffy pinkish-brown lips, glistening with wetness, like a succulent mollusk peeking out from a bed of seaweed.

Eighteen years ago, I came from that place. Now, I urgently long to return to it.

Leaping into bed, I plunge my head down between her huge thighs, inhaling the delightful fragrance of her arousal, nuzzling into her pubic hair, wetting my face in her delicious mother-parts, kissing her, tasting her, sucking on her, burying my tongue in her silky wet folds of flesh, thrusting it deep into her mother-channel, worshipping there at the shrine of my own birth, as my hands grip and knead at her fleshy buttocks. Her hands are on my head now, pressing my face deeper into her wetness, as her pelvis rocks urgently against me. I reach between her buttocks, slipping a finger into her anus. My ears are muffled between her ample thighs, but even so I can hear her excited squeals and throaty grunts of pleasure, and then she suddenly gushes her mother-nectar into my open mouth: I eagerly drink it all down. I have given her pleasure! I have made my mother's womb rejoice!

'Oh Attis!' She eagerly pulls me up alongside her, kissing me, tasting herself upon my lips. 'What a lover I am blessed with!' she thrills.

I lie back, drawing her on top of me.

'But I will crush you!' she objects.

'I want to feel your weight on me. Please?'

And so she swings her mighty thigh over me, straddling me with her knees. I pull her down to me, pull her into the deep kiss that I need so urgently. Her hand reaches down between us, guiding my phallus to her entrance; then abruptly she sinks down upon me, taking me all the way into her, up to my testicles.

I am inside my own dear mother, at last. And it is WONDERFUL! I have to use every mental trick my priestess-tutor taught me to keep from spilling my seed at once.

'I love you, mother!' I gasp, and I begin thrusting up into her with all my might, gripping her magnificent buttocks. As I expected, her weight is not uncomfortable for me, not at all: I revel in the immense, warm softness of her flesh enveloping me, feeling her bulk pressing me down into the bed, containing me, like swaddling blankets round an infant, her massive body quaking and rippling with my every upward thrust. She is moaning and whimpering as we kiss. She then rises up, her face flushed with pleasure and triumph, and she begins gyrating her colossal hips and bouncing upon my loins. Her huge breasts flop into my face, and I take one of them hungrily into my mouth and suck upon it.

'Oh Attis!' she mewls, and I feel another gush of her mother-nectar, this time all over my loins: her womb is rejoicing again! And so I at last let go, let my own pleasure wash over me, like a powerful wave at high tide, and I joyfully release spurt after spurt of my seed into her womb. At last. At last!

She lies heavily upon me for a while, breathing hard, still trembling and sighing with aftershocks. Never have I felt so close to her. She smells wonderful. After some time, she kisses me deeply, then looks down upon me with an expression of gratitude and tenderness.

'That was .... marvelous, my son.' I feel the muscles of her mother-channel clench at my phallus a little, then again, and her eyes go wide. 'You are still erect? But ... you gave me your seed, did you not? I felt it.'

'Yes, but I am still hard for you.'

'Oh my!' she laughs joyously, 'this is quite different from your father. Wonderfully different. Istustaya warned me about the, um, resilience of young men, but this is extraordinary! Does that mean you can give me more, so soon? I would like more of you, my son.'

So, yes, I give her more, right gladly. Then more again after that.

Afterwards, we lie happily in each others' arms. Outside our window, in the upper courtyard, we hear the soft chanting of priests and priestesses, reciting The Song of Attis, as a blessing upon our union. When they reach the part where Attis declares his love to the Great Mother, I look into my mother's eyes and join in the words:

May my every word from my mouth be a hymn to Thee.

May every action of my hand be a caress of Thy skin.

May every pleasure I experience be an offering to You.

May everything I do be an act of love and worship, O Mother.

* * *

From the night of the wedding, and for many days thereafter, my mother and I rarely leave our bed. We couple, sleep, couple, eat and drink, couple, bathe, and couple some more. We are not neglecting our royal duty, for our primary task is to conceive a child, and to this task we apply ourselves with a will. For eighteen years, I was exiled from her delightful body. Now I want -- need -- to be back inside her as much as possible, and my mother wants this as well. Her womb develops a hunger for my phallus, a thirst for my seed. It becomes a sort of game between us, to see how many times in a row I can offer her the thick, white outpouring of my loins. When my testicles at last run dry, she claps her hands in triumph, and summons the servants to bring us a restorative bowl of shellfish soup and some wine. It is not clear which of us has won the game, nor does it matter a jot: we both have won, I suppose. We rest for a while, then resume coupling. I can often go three or four times in a row. Once, nine times. Her womb rejoices easily and often.

And to think, I had been worried that the rites of the marriage bed would be awkward between us! How could it possibly be awkward to pleasure and give my seed to this woman whom I have known and loved my entire life? Her beautiful, fat body is a vast garden of delights to me, and I revel in that maternal garden -- kissing, nuzzling, caressing, playing with every part of her, licking and sucking at her breasts, her toes, her mother-parts, even her anus. The scent of her intoxicates me.

As we lie together, as I am inside her, I feel not merely pleasure: I feel her body welcoming me home. We both feel it -- a thrill of mutual recognition, a physical memory of each other, from my time in her womb. Her body seems to say, 'Yes, darling, you are back with me, back where you belong now!'

In the months preceding the wedding, I had noticed a look of worry and tiredness creeping into my mother's otherwise lovely features, due to her anxiety over the succession. That look is gone now, replaced by deep, radiant joy. And I think proudly: it is I, Attis, who put that look on her face. Likewise, my mother takes pride in the fact that the young man who loves her so ardently is, in every sense of the word, hers -- hers in a way no other lover ever could be: the fruit of her own body. And indeed, she constantly asserts her ownership of one part of me in particular, reaching out for my phallus, taking it again and again into her mother-channel, or her mouth, or between her breasts, or holding it in her hand, even as she sleeps, loath to lose physical contact with it.

It seems my mother and I have stumbled upon one of the most precious gifts of the Goddess: the life-giving flame that blazes up when the oil of sexual passion is poured upon the glowing embers of deep mother-son love. Was it not this very flame of passion between the Great Mother and Her Son Attis that caused the entire cosmos to ignite into existence, to be born from Her sacred womb? Indeed, as we couple, we often feel a sacred presence descend upon us, as though the Great Mother and Her Son are loving and pleasuring each other through us.

But as much as I treasure our frequent coupling, I treasure even more holding her in my arms afterward, in blissful post-coital closeness. She smells so delicious, her body feels so comforting. In these moments, we talk of anything and everything -- palace gossip, silly jokes, favourite songs, memories of my childhood, of her childhood. She tells me that her feelings for me had been developing for years, long before the succession crisis brought the matter to a head. And I confess that it was the same with me. We owe Lord Mutallu a debt of thanks, we decide, for unwittingly bringing us together at last.

We speak too of her marriage to my father, and his death. He was a prince from the island of Cyprus. His Cypriot name was Ish-Hadad; he took the Luwian name Tarhunt when he came here. He was a brave and noble man, but somewhat cold. I remember him as a distant figure of great solemnity, never warm and playful like my mother. She tried to love him, though. Above all, she says, she loved him for giving her me. When I was two, he got her with child again, but she miscarried early in the pregnancy. After that, he absented himself from her bed: the miscarriage was a sign, he said, that he was not fated to father Arzawa's next Queen, and she could not persuade him otherwise, for Cypriots are often ruled by strange superstitions. Then the great drought fell upon the land, and the terrible pronouncement came from the oracle -- the king must die. My mother was half-awestruck by his selfless courage in accepting his fate, half-furious with him for not trying to wriggle out of it, to save his own life, as he could have done. As Queen, she had to cut his throat with her own hand. She nearly went mad afterwards. But the drought ended: the king's sacrifice was accepted by the spirits of the land. I was only five when he we lost him. I somewhat resemble him physically, she tells me, in my slender build and facial features. In loving me, she says, she is able to love him again, the good memories of him at least; to let go of the anger and guilt that long festered in her heart; to lay his ghost to rest.

Before, I had known her as my mother and my Queen. Now, I know her as a complete woman, and this new knowledge is precious to me. She is to me a combination of deeply comforting familiarity and fascinating novelty. I discover new facets, new layers to her each day, but she is always my own dear mother, the woman I have cherished my whole life. As she predicted, our new relationship in no way diminishes or eclipses our old mother-son relationship. Rather we now have two intertwined strands to our love -- both maternal and sexual -- where each component somehow reinforces the other, creating something greater, deeper, stronger, even more thrilling and satisfying, than the sum of its parts.

* * *

During these days of seclusion in our bedchamber, the administration of the palace and realm lies in Lady Arinna's capable hands. She visits us every few days to report on developments and seek direction from us. From both of us. My mother is scrupulous about making all important decisions jointly now, honouring me as her king and consort.

I am afraid Lady Arinna was initially slightly scandalized when calling upon us in our bedchamber. For my mother and I are far too intoxicated with each other to pay much heed to considerations of modesty. If, for example, whilst Arinna is reporting on the barley harvest, I happen to notice that my mother's beautiful nipples are erect, I cannot help it if my mouth finds its way down to them, to give them attention. And, I as I said, my mother's hand cannot stay away from my phallus for long. But once Lady Arrina sees how deeply happy my mother is with me, she quickly puts aside her inhibitions and begins coming into our chamber freely. For she truly loves the Queen, wants what is best for her, and serves her as loyally as I do. Soon the two women are chatting openly about how many times each day I make my mother's womb rejoice, how good my phallus feels inside her, and such intimate matters, whilst I lie there right beside her in bed, blushing to my eartips. Arinna remarks that we make her wish she had a son of her own. She says it half-jokingly; but by the ides of the month she tells us she has taken her young nephew Sharruma in marriage, and the rites of the marriage bed are wonderful for both of them.

Meanwhile, the constant oral attention I devote to my mother's breasts soon causes her milk to come in. And so she now begins regularly suckling me, feeding me again with her sweet breastmilk after all these years -- unweaning me. We come to treasure these frequent times of breastfeeding: somehow they forge a heart-bond between us that is even stronger and deeper than our coupling.

Our frequent coupling, however, creates something even more wonderfully tangible: a child. The new moon comes and goes without any appearance of my mother's womb-blood. The Great Mother has blessed our union! We are ecstatic, of course, and tell Arinna, Istustaya and a few other trusted advisers immediately. Istustaya consults the oracle: it will be a girl-child. I will have a sister-daughter, and the realm will have its future Queen! But we wait to announce the good news publicly, for fear of another early miscarriage.

Now that my mother is with child, and I have made my proper libations, as it were, to her womb, I relent and allow her, from time to time, to take my seed in her mouth, as she has wanted to do since our wedding night.

* * *

At last, nearly two months after the wedding, we begin to venture forth from our bedchamber and gradually resume our public duties. We attend a council meeting one day, we officiate at the blessing of the olive harvest the next day, we meet with an ambassador from Crete the day after that.

As the moon waxes and wanes again, my mother begins to need more rest. Thankfully her morning sickness is relatively light, and soon even that passes. Then she begins eating enough for three. The risk of miscarriage diminishes. I had heard it said that pregnant women may appear radiant, but I did not understand till I beheld these changes in my mother: she positively glows with the fecund power of the Great Goddess! How is it possible that nobody around her notices? But on the other hand, the generous layer of bellyfat that my mother carries tends to hide the early swelling of her womb, though I can feel it when I lay my head upon her abdomen.

Her pregnancy does not diminish our desire for frequent coupling. On the contrary, it seems to heighten her sexual hunger for me. And her Goddess-like radiance has me constantly aroused, whenever I look upon her, smell her, hear her voice, or feel her touch. Sometimes we are in the midst of a public ceremony when desire overwhelms us. We make our excuses, she grabs me by the hand and drags me off someplace, anyplace where we might find a little privacy, and throws herself down upon me (for she has come to enjoy having me underneath her as much as I enjoy feeling her weight on top of me). Afterwards, we hasten back to the ceremony, if it is not too late -- me smelling powerfully of her mother-nectar, she with my seed running down the insides of her legs. The people do not take offence: they know that when the Queen's womb rejoices in her consort, the Great Mother Herself is pleasured and made fruitful, and so She pours out Her blessings on the land.

* * *

We are enjoying an afternoon bath together in the palace tepidarium, which quickly turns into one of these urgent coupling sessions -- my mother bent over the side of the pool as I pound into her from behind, her enormous buttocks trembling like an earthquake with each thrust. At that moment, the captain of the palace guards bursts into the room.

'Lord Hepaistu, what is the meaning of this intrusion?' I snarl, reluctantly disengaging from her, grabbing for my kilt.

'Forgive me, my Queen, my king ... It is Lord Mutallu. He has brought warriors into the city.'

'Impossible!' she gasps. 'He dares to offer violence to his Queen and king?'

'My Queen, he is marching on the palace even as we speak. Over a hundred men, I hear, to our twenty guards. We can hold them for an hour or two at the palace doors, but no longer. Listen, a chariot stands ready to take you two out the south gate of the city. Whilst we fight with Mutallu, you can flee to Miletus. There you can raise an army and return to retake this city.'

A strange calm descends upon me, and with it, a sense of deep, sacred power.

'Hepaistu, stand down. Your men will not die fighting these warriors. I will go out and meet them myself.'

'WHAT?!' my mother shrieks. 'No! They will kill you. Attis, my son, my love, please ...'

'Mother, you have made me king. Let me be king then. It is for the king to protect his people.'

'I lost your father to that kind of talk,' she sobs angrily, 'I cannot lose you too. The Goddess promised me this would not happen.'

'She will not let me be harmed. You will see.'

She senses it now: the power of the Bull-God, the divine Attis, is upon me. And then I sense that the power of the Great Goddess is descending upon her, in response. She grows calm as well. Hepaistu stares at us both, his eyes wide with wonder.

'My king,' she kneels down before me. 'Do what you must do. And then come back to me, my love.'

* * *

A few moments later, I step out from the palace doors, unarmed, just as a company of warriors begins marching into the opposite end of the great courtyard. Achaeans, by the look of them, each in tough, boiled-leather armour, with gleaming bronze weapons and boar-tusk helmets, slowly advancing towards me.

But Hepaistu's report did not prepare me for what I see next. Following these warriors into the courtyard, surrounding them, hemming them in, are an angry mob of Ephesians, ordinary artisans and merchants of the marketplace, men and women, brandishing staves, knives, stones, whatever they could find, shouting curses at the invaders. The warriors halt. The mob grows larger by the moment.

At the front of the Achaeans' ranks, I spot Mutallu. He shouts in trade-Achaean, gesturing toward me: 'There he stands before us, the accursed incestuous boy. Press forward, cut him down, and victory will be ours!'

But the warriors, eyeing the surrounding mob, do not advance. It is a standoff. The Achaeans have sharp bronze swords: they could start a bloodbath, but they cannot hope to finish it. The crowd will eventually overwhelm them and kill them all. And these warriors know it.

'People of Ephesus!' I raise my hand to speak. 'I have good news.' The people fall silent, caught off-guard by my unexpectedly cheerful demeanour.

'My mother the Queen is with child by me! With the Goddess' blessing, she will bear us a daughter, your future Queen, before the winter rains arrive.'

There is stunned silence for a moment, then the crowd erupt in cheers. 'Hail Attis, bull of his Mother!' they shout. A woman, a palace laundress I believe, begins singing the Birth Hymn, and the rest of the crowd joins in. The warriors, not understanding what is going on, grow even more agitated.

Mutallu's face turns purple with rage. 'The boy lies! People of Ephesus, I come but to speak peaceably to the Queen. Let me enter the palace with my men and converse with her for a short time. She will see reason. Why should she have a mere boy as her king, when a grown man stands ready to do the job? I will quickly get the Queen with child, and set this realm to rights.'

At that moment, my mother stands forth on the parapet of the palace roof, high above us, her jewelled royal headdress and earrings catching the sunlight -- never have I seen her looking so dazzlingly beautiful, the power of the Great Goddess streaming off her like rays of the sun.

'The king does not lie! Behold.' She casts off her apron and skirt, standing naked before her people. 'See, my womb swells with my son's rich seed.' The crowd cheers again. The Achaeans tremble and whimper, thinking no doubt that she has pronounced an awful curse upon them.

'Warriors,' I shout in Achaean, 'why do you come to our city with violence? The Queen my mother is with child: this is a day for rejoicing, not killing. Put down your weapons. Feast with us tonight in celebration. Tomorrow, go to your ships and return home in peace.'

Quickly, the warriors drop their swords and spears and fall to their knees. Finally, Mutallu does so as well. One of the Achaeans, dressed more sumptuously than the others, calls out to my mother: 'Great goddess, whether you be called Rhea, or Demeter, or Astarte, or some name unknown to us: forgive us! Does the demi-god your son speak truly? May we truly leave here in peace? This man Mytallos told us that he was the rightful king of these lands, that your son had usurped the throne and taken you in an accursed marriage. He promised us gold and captives. He did not tell us that the queen of this place is a goddess. A goddess may do as she pleases; she may take her son in marriage if she wishes. It is hubris for mortals to interfere. Forgive us, O goddess, and withdraw your curse of nakedness from us. When we return home to our city of Argos, I, King Inachos, will sacrifice ten white bulls in honour of you and your son, and the divine child that grows in your womb.'

'King Inachos, noble Argives,' my mother answers, as an attendant helps her back into her garments, 'I confirm my son's words. I put no curse upon you. Feast with us tonight, and let Argos and the realm of Arzawa pledge lasting peace to each other.'

Inachos and another warrior grab Mutallu and drag him forward, throwing him down at my feet. 'And what shall we do with this evil man Mytallos? Shall we cut his throat?'

'That will be as my son the king decides,' she answers.

* * *

'Remove his armour.' I then say in Luwian, 'Mutallu, stand forth and hear my sentence upon you.'

He stands, cringing, his face bitter and abject with defeat.

'You intended to kill me, your king, and to force yourself upon your Queen, the Goddess' earthly representative. You offered violence to the people of Ephesus, to kill those who resisted and give others as slaves to a foreign king. All of these are grave sacrileges. But by the Goddess' grace, no one has been harmed. Except perhaps your late wife, Lady Estan. Today we celebrate the child growing in the Queen's womb. I would not pollute this feast by shedding your blood. But you are hereby removed from your place on the council of elders. Moreover, your wealth, that fueled your plans for usurpation, is hereby forfeit: it will be distributed by the priestesses to the people of this city. You own nothing but the kilt and sandals you now wear. With no wealth and no status, I do not think you can do us any more harm.'

His eyes go wide with amazement. 'You ... you are not going to kill me?'

'No.'

He drops to his knees. 'You ... you are merciful, my king. I had not expected it.' He begins weeping unreservedly. 'The Great Mother and Her Son are truly with you. I see that now. It is good that I failed. I did not kill my wife, but I wished her dead. My other evils are known to you. My king, if you mean to spare my life, what would you have me do?'

'Depart with your Argive friends if you wish. Or learn to live as a Luwian again, as a son of the Great Goddess.'

He hangs his head. 'If I could only find the love of the Great Mother again, as I once knew it, before these dreams of power got hold of me. But how can She cleanse me of all this evil I have done?'

I think for a moment. 'Go to Sardis, to the great shrine there, and tell the priestesses your story. Offer to do whatever they ask of you -- sweep the floor, clean the altar, anything -- in return for food and a place to sleep. The Queen and I will hear reports of how you are faring. When we next journey to Sardis, we will worship at the shrine and visit you there. I hope we will then meet as friends.'

'Yes. Yes!' he laughs. 'I will go at once. Thank you, my king! I ... I love you. You and your mother the Queen. Tell her that. I will pray daily for the Goddess' blessings upon you both.'

And he sets off for the south gate of the city, with a spring in his step. Mutallu has gone from abject wretchedness to a sense of redemption, of liberation -- his expression so light and free, I could almost envy him.

Almost. I have my mother, he does not.

And then the crowd in the courtyard surge forward and hoist me up on their shoulders, laughing, cheering and passing me round like a sacred image. The men in the crowd grasp my hands, the women reach up to touch my phallus, to receive the blessing of the Bull-God. My solemn father, I suppose, would not have taken kindly to this sort of treatment; but I know these good people are just showing their love for their king, rejoicing in the news of my mother's pregnancy, so I greet them and laugh along with them as they pass me round. At last I prevail on them to put me down, and I withdraw back into the palace.

* * *

The power of the Bull-God, that had descended upon me so strongly, is waning now. On unsteady legs, I make my way to the little shrine room, where, months before, I had said that brief heartfelt prayer which set in motion my wonderful marriage to my mother, and everything that has followed. I kneel by the altar, giving silent thanks to the Great Mother and Her Son, for the divine deliverance I just witnessed. Invaders came into our city, intending murder and mayhem. But no one has been harmed. Now they are feasting with us and pledging peace, whilst Mutallu is embarking on a new life as a servant of the Goddess. My dear mother is with child by me, and now the whole realm is celebrating the fact. How could I not be grateful?

As my thoughts turn to her, I catch the scent of her sandalwood perfume, and hear the swish of her skirt and jingle of her silver anklets beside me. I stand up, taking my mother in my arms, but not before she notices the tent-pole beneath my kilt. It seems the Bull-God has left behind a vestige of his presence, in the form of rampant desire for my mother: I am even harder for her than usual, if it be possible.

'I can guess what you have been praying for, my son,' she laughs.

'And now that you are here, mother, my prayers have been answered.'

'As have mine.'

We run together, hand in hand, back to our bedchamber, laughing and shedding our garments on the way. We have unfinished business from the tepidarium.

And afterward ... ah, what greater joy can a young man know, than to drift off to sleep, snuggled up to his mother's soft, naked body, his contented phallus still wet with her mother-nectar, cooling in the late afternoon breeze?

* * *

Attis IV (b. 2595 BCE). King of Arzawa (2577-2532 BCE), in western Anatolia. Son of Tarhunt II. During his reign, the cities of the Arzawan confederacy flourished, particularly the capital city, Ephesus. According to a cuneiform inscription in the Stele of Kattavia, King Attis was able to reassert control over Rhodes and the other Dodecanese Islands, through skillful diplomacy with the early Mycenaean city-states. Arzawan-produced pottery, textiles, metalwork, and ceramic religious figurines from this era have been found as far abroad as Elam to the east, and the Iberian peninsula to the west, indicating a thriving economy, with a population of skilled artisans and an elaborate trade network.

In particular, the ceramic figurines of this period show an unparallelled naturalism, predominantly depicting a naked, corpulent woman strongly reminiscent of the palaeolithic 'Venus' figures, with exaggerated breasts, buttocks and vulva, but iconographically identifiable as early representations of the Anatolian 'Great Mother' goddess Cybele. Remarkably, these figurines all show strikingly similar facial features, as though they were portraits of a particular woman.

According to the Hattusa cuneiform tablets, Attis IV married Hebat XXIII (2616-2533 BCE) . They further record that she and King Attis 'loved each other deeply', an uncharacteristically personal observation for these royal annals. This queen 'lived to a great age,' but when she died, 'the king was stricken with grief' and died a year thereafter. Sterling (1986) famously conjectured that the legendary lovers Attius and Ibade, briefly mentioned in The Iliad, book xvi, may be based on them.

However, the identity of this Queen Hebat XXIII has been a vexed question for historians. For these tablets give the same name and dates for the king's mother. Most historians have attributed this to a scribal error in the numbering and dating of the Arzawan queens; the modern convention is to refer to Attis' mother as Hebat XXIIIa, and his wife as Hebat XXIIIb. However, a minority of scholars (e.g. Perlmutter 2003) have taken these records at face value, assuming mother and wife to be the same woman, i.e. an incestuous royal marriage. Certainly, the recorded dates are consistent with a woman who was old enough to be Attis' mother, but who had a long life and died shortly before the king himself, as was the case with his wife. As further evidence of the unitary Hebat XXIII hypothesis, Perlmutter notes an epithet, 'bull of his mother,' associated with Attis IV in numerous inscriptions. Moreover, Perlmutter argues, the Hellenistic-era example of King Mausolus (377--353 BCE) and his sister-consort Queen Artemisia of Caria indicate that incestuous royal marriage was an accepted institution in this region of Anatolia. However, Aksoy (2007) refutes these claims, noting that the phrase 'bull of his mother' is a transparent calque of the Egyptian religious formula ka-mut-ef, usually applied to the god Min-Horus, presumably adopted by Arzawan or Hittite scribes merely as a term of prestige for their king. Furthermore, whilst brother-sister royal marriages are widely attested in the ancient world, mother-son marriage is unattested as an accepted institution outside of Parthian/Sassanid-era Persia. Aksoy further criticizes Perlmutter's scholarship as suffering from 'Graves' Disease', i.e. the romantic hypothesis of poet Robert Graves -- never seriously entertained by modern historians -- that all ancient civilizations regularly sacrificed their kings to a great 'White Goddess'.

Attis IV was succeeded by his daughter, Queen Hebat XXIV (b. 2578 BCE, r. 2533-2503 BCE), who married Duripi (dates unknown), believed to be a son of Queen Aranare (c. 2590-2540 BCE) of early Minoan Crete. Thereafter, Arzawa became increasingly allied with the growing Cretan sea-empire, until the realm fell under Hittite control circa 1500 BCE.

Setting a Good Example for the Egyptians
Willendorfer
Summary:
In Bronze Age Ephesus, a mother-son royal couple are visited by an Egyptian queen, who wants to follow their example.

Notes:
Sequel to Queen Hebat XXIIIa or b? Set in the city of Ephesus, in the Luwian-speaking realm of Arzawa, western Anatolia, 2570 BCE, the early Bronze Age. This is set in roughly the same part of the world as Homer's Iliad, though these events take place a thousand years before the Trojan War. I therefore felt I might situate this story in the Iliad fandom. The kind of sacred monarchy depicted herein follows the lines of Robert Graves' mythology of the White Goddess. But otherwise, everything in this story is my own invention. The encyclopaedia entry on Pharaoh Hor-dewen, at the end, uses some historical Egyptian royal names, but is otherwise pure invention.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:
This new Egyptian ambassador is getting on my nerves. I give a sideways glance at my mother the Queen. Her facial expression is a mask: perfect equanimity, perfect politeness. Only I, who know her face, her body, her soul intimately, can read the exasperation roiling under the surface.

“All Pharaoh requires of you,” he continues, “is the assistance of your ships, to transport his forces swiftly to the Amorite coast. The power of the Eblaites must be checked!” His face is getting redder, and the tendons of his neck stand out as he hectors us. With an effort he catches himself, and tries to assume a calmer demeanour. “Come, Ka-mut-ef, Ebla is a threat to you as much as to us. This is in the interest of your realm as well as the Two Lands. Pharaoh has decreed it.” He says this as though the matter is now settled.

“We have given you our answer, Lord Khafra,” I say. “We do not regard Ebla as a threat, and it is not the Luwian way to involve ourselves in the wars of other nations. We seek to live at peace with all our neighbours.”

“You do not listen!” he erupts again. “Pharaoh has decreed it. Pharaoh is a God. Do you not understand? Will you oppose the will of a God?!”

“Pharaoh,” my mother responds coolly, “is a king. My consort Attis, too, is a king. A king may be the earthly representative of a God to his people. He may at times be filled with the power of a God, to bring blessings unto his people.” Suddenly, fury flashes forth from her eyes. “But the nation that takes its king to be a God has made a grave error. And the king who believes he can dictate to other kings will soon find himself without friends, Lord Khafra.” She rises brusquely from her throne. “This audience is concluded.”

I rise as well, and we leave Khafra to cool his heels in the audience chamber, with no one left to bluster at but the interpreter. We make our way, hand-in-hand, wordlessly, to the council chamber, where Lady Arinna awaits us.

“Well, my Queen?” Arinna asks.

“You were correct. Lord Khafra seems not to understand the possibility that anyone might disagree with him.”

“They say he is Pharaoh’s favourite nephew,” I add, “I suppose it has never happened to him before.”

“It is a shame. We could have used that Egyptian wheat,” Arinna shrugs. “Well. I will go see that Lord Khrafra is escorted back to his ship forthwith.”

* * *

“Was I too harsh?” my mother asks.

“You were magnificent, mother,” I grin. “I think you rattled our Egyptian friend to his core; but we tried gentler words, and nothing else seemed to get through to him.”

“We cannot make an enemy of Pharaoh ...” she sighs. “I do not like to lose my temper.”

“You did not lose your temper. It was the Goddess speaking through you, was it not?”

“Could you sense that? Sometimes I am not sure.”

“I am quite sure,” I smirk. “There is a part of me that can always tell when the Goddess comes upon you, mother.”

“Ooh?” she smiles, looking down at the tentpole under my kilt. “How did I miss that? I was so wrapped up in this Egyptian business, I did not notice. Well, we must not let that gift go to waste!”

She immediately drops to her knees, unbuckling my belt and pulling off my kilt and loincloth. Her warm mouth takes my phallus in.

“Ahhh!” I gasp. “So good, mother!”

“Mmmmhh, mmmmhh,” she bobs her head up and down on my erection. “Do I please you, my son? I love having you in my mouth. Mmmmmhh, mmmmmhh, mmmmmhh ...” Her heavy breasts sway and bounce as she does this, her hardening nipples like two ripe berries that I long to take in my mouth.

“Aaaah, I am not going to last long, mother.”

But just then, the door opens and little Hebat bursts into the room. Reluctantly, I pull away from my mother’s mouth.

“Baba, you promised you would take me to the waterfall shrine today,” she whines, her dark eyes radiating reproach.

As I hastily wrap my kilt round my middle, the Queen rises to her feet. “It is not Attis’ fault, didi. Our audience with that Egyptian went longer than we expected.”

“We could go right now,” our daughter counters.

“It is a long walk to the waterfall, didi,” I say. “It would grow dark before we returned. But we could go tomorrow morning.”

“I could come too,” mother adds brightly, “and we would take our mid-day meal together there. We can bring your little sister as well. We will offer a fig-cake to the Goddess at Her shrine.”

“You would come too, mama? Really? Promise?” Little Hebat’s face lights up.

“Absolutely. Even if the Egyptians make war on us tomorrow,” she laughs, “I will take no notice of it and go with you to the waterfall instead.”

“Will the Egyptians make war on us?” Her eyes go wide.

“No, didi.” I pick her up in my arms to reassure her. “Our mother is exaggerating. But where is Lady Istustaya? I thought you had an astrology lesson with her, no?”

“The lesson is not till tonight, Baba,” she rolls her eyes. “We cannot see the stars during the day.”

For a seven-year-old girl, little Hebat is quite adept at making me feel stupid. Perhaps we should turn her loose on Lord Khafra. That might start a war indeed. She squirms and I set her back down on the ground.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“It looked like Baba was about to make pee-pee in your mouth.”

I cringe.

“No, didi,” our mother chuckles. “Your brother and I were enjoying the rites of the marriage bed. It is quite different from urinating.”

“But you are not even in your bed,” she objects, with another roll of her eyes.

“It is a figure of speech. The rites are how we give each other love and pleasure, whether we are in bed or not. You will learn about it when you are older. But perhaps you would run along now,” she kisses our daughter’s cheek, “and give us some privacy, so Mama and Baba can finish what we started.”

“You are going to make another baby?”

“With the Goddess’ blessing, didi,” I say. Of course, my mother and I engage in the rites of the marriage bed every night and most mornings, and whenever else the opportunity presents itself. But little Hebat is perhaps too young to understand our need for this frequent physical connection. If she supposes baby-making is something Mama and Baba only do once in a while, there is no need to correct her.

“I want a brother this time: sisters are too pushy. Can you make another brother for me to play with?”

“We will try, didi,” mother laughs. “But it is in the Goddess’ hands.”

“I will ask Her for a brother. If I offer Her a fig-cake tomorrow and pray extra-hard, She will not refuse me.”

As little Hebat leaves us, I take my mother’s hand. “She is right, we should continue this in our bedchamber. It will be more comfortable.”

* * *

A few minutes later, mother and I are naked in our bed. I am on my back and she is on top of me, her corpulent body pressing me into the mattress. Her fat, pendulous breast fills my mouth; my tongue plays over her succulent nipple, as I swallow her sweet milk.

With a grin on her face, she rises up on her knees, reaching down to guide my phallus between her dripping lips, into her mother-channel. Abruptly, she sinks down on me, her belly-cushion quaking.

“Aahhh!” we both groan.

Neither of us in the mood for drawn-out love-making: this is an urgent sprint to the finish. I begin rapidly thrusting upward with all my strength, as she enthusiastically impales herself on me, bouncing, gyrating, undulating up and down and around me, squealing with pleasure. I grip her hips tightly, digging my fingers into her pillowy buttocks, holding on for dear life. Her beautiful breasts hang down in my face, and I take one of them in my mouth again, sucking hard, gently biting on the nipple.

“I want your seed, my son,” she commands gruffly. “Do not hold back. Give it to me! Give little Hebat another brother.”

“Almost there, mother,” I grunt.

“AaHHHH! Yesss!” she wails, drenching my loins with her motherly nectar. I cannot resist an instant longer: a tightness suddenly grips my testicles as the pleasure spikes within me; I let go, releasing my seed deep inside her, into the womb that bore me. We descend from the climax together, breathing together as one. She smells so good; she feels so good, so perfect in my arms!

That was delightful, but my hunger for my mother’s body is not yet sated. After a few minutes of breastfeeding, I am hard again and we resume. Our pace is slower now, my thrusting more gentle. There are no demands upon us for the rest of the afternoon: we can take our time. In this manner, I make my mother’s womb rejoice eight or nine more times. I give her my seed three more times. In between our bouts of coupling, I rest my head on her belly, kissing and tracing my fingers over the beautiful Goddess stripes on her skin, vestiges of when she was pregnant with our two daughters, and before that, with me. I also kiss and run my fingers through the luxuriant nest of dark hair that covers her Goddess-mound.

Despite spending most of the afternoon in each other’s arms, we are eager for more of this by bedtime. As always.

* * *

The winter rains cease, the month of the barley harvest comes and goes. Little Hebat must have prayed hard indeed. My mother is with child again!

On the tenth day of the month of the rye harvest, Lord Hepaistu, captain of the palace guards, informs us that a small Egyptian ship has been sighted, approaching Ephesus’ harbour. Its sail is bedraggled, and its sailors are bailing water to keep the small vessel from sinking.

I send one of our ships to come alongside and help bring it safely into harbour.

We are expecting to find Lord Khafra on board, returning to us with some kind of ultimatum from Pharaoh. But instead, the harbour officials are met by Queen MerNeth, Pharaoh’s senior Royal Wife. This is quite extraordinary, for a Queen to be sent on a diplomatic mission. She and her small entourage are escorted to the palace, fed and bathed, and then allowed to rest for a few hours. Later that afternoon, we receive MerNeth in the audience chamber. A throne is brought for her, and we sit face-to-face, as equals. Her status in Egypt may not be equal to my mother’s in Arzawa, but she is a Queen and we will honour her as such, according to Luwian mother-right. The Egyptian interpreter is present, but it turns out that MerNeth is fluent in the Cretan tongue, similar enough to Luwian that we can understand each other.

“We hope your voyage here was not distressing, Daughter of Hat-hor,” I open.

She blushes. “I thank you for your gracious assistance in reaching the harbour safely, King Attis, and most excellent Queen Hebat. Alas, several storms beset us as we crossed, and as you can see, we came in a mere river-boat, not well suited to the open sea.”

She is a comely woman, somewhat under forty years of age I would guess, with honey-coloured skin and a stamp of keen intelligence upon her face. She is unusually plump – Egyptian women are quite scrawny as a rule -- though not as delightfully Goddess-shaped as my mother.

“Indeed, Lord Khafra came to us in a much larger craft,” my mother remarks. The question hangs there unstated: what in Goddess’ name were you thinking, going to sea in that little thing?!

“I took a small craft so as not to attract too much attention. It would not have been possible to take a big sea-going ship without the whole court knowing of it. But indeed, even the swiftest and sturdiest of our Egyptian reed ships are poor things compared to your Luwian ships. They are like falcons that move upon the water.”

This is a generous compliment, and a show of humility. How different from Lord Khafra’s haughty demeanour, though MerNeth is considerably higher in rank.

“You are most welcome here, great Queen of the Two Lands,” I say. “Please consider our palace yours. If anything can be done for your comfort, or that or your servants, you have only to ask.”

“You are most kind, Ka-mut-ef. And polite.” She laughs, relaxing into a more casual posture. “I am sure you have many questions, about why I have come here, and in this peculiar fashion. I have no wish to be mysterious. I will answer all the questions you are too polite to ask. And I will ask some questions of my own.” She takes a sip of wine, and begins.

* * *

“When Lord Khafra returned without the badly needed Arzawan olive oil, and without a market for our surplus Egyptian wheat, an explanation was required of him. He hemmed and hawed, but eventually confessed that he had demanded Arzawa’s naval assistance with an Egyptian war against Ebla. This was a pet project of his, to win glory for himself. Pharaoh may have expressed halfhearted approval of this in one of his more befuddled moments, but such a war is not to be undertaken without serious deliberation. Even Pharaoh recognizes this. Lord Khafra had betrayed his mission and disgraced himself, and he was accordingly sent away from the court. After that, I decided I could not trust any ambassador Pharaoh might chose: I needed to come in person and see for myself how Queen Hebat rules her people.

“Arzawa follows the old ways, the ways of mother-right,” MerNeth explains. “This is known. You are an example to all those who wish for a return to those ways. Too many lands are ruled nowadays by warlike kings, trying to amass wealth by plundering their neighbours or bleeding their own people dry, rather than letting their people enjoy the honest fruits of peace. They forget the Great Mother.”

“It is a pleasure to meet a sister-Queen who understands our ways so well,” my mother smiles warmly.

Queen MerNeth returns the smile, with a friendly nod, and takes another sip of wine.

“Pharaoh Hor-djet will not live forever,” MerNeth continues. “His health is poor. He regularly inhales incense that gives him exalted visions, so he says; but it leaves him weak, with his mind more and more cloudy. The day may come soon when his mind does not return at all. I trust I may speak frankly with you. He is my younger brother, you know, but he has not been a good ruler. In the Two Lands now, the priests teach not only that Pharaoh is a God, but that he is the Supreme God. It is an absurdity. I remember when he was a baby running about with a dirty bottom. I think on who will rule the Two Lands after his death. Will it be another vainglorious son or nephew or cousin, someone else like Khafra? There is no shortage of them at our court, alas. Or will it be my own son Khasty? He is a good boy, who listens to his mother. I wish to ensure that my son continues to listen to me, not to those of the court who would fill his head with nonsense.”

“And how can we help you, my sister?” my mother asks.

“Mostly by your example. You co-reign with your son. It is said that there is no strife between you and King Attis. I had to come and see for myself how this could be. It is said that King Attis is your consort; not merely in name. He has indeed begotten children upon you?”

“We have two daughters, and another child grows within me, with the Goddess’ blessing,” my mother beams proudly.

“Well, King Attis,” she turns to me, “Ka-mut-ef, you are known in the Two Lands by this title, the Bull of your Mother, as you say in your own language. This is very encouraging to hear.” She smiles warmly at us, and it is clear she is speaking from her heart. We smile warmly back at her.

“In the royal house of Horus,” she continues, “it is common for brother to wed sister, as Hor-Djet and I have done. When Pharaoh was healthier, he was able to get me with child, and so I bore him Khasty. He is my only child. It is said that in the old days, before the Two Lands were united, mothers sometimes took their sons in marriage. But this has not been done in recent memory. Perhaps it is time to revive the practice. Indeed, our sacred texts teach that the Goddess takes Her own son Horus as Her consort, who then becomes the new Osiris. If I took my son in marriage, as you have done, Queen Hebat, I would combine the positions of Queen-mother and Royal Wife. That would give me considerable power to clear the court of those who would give my son foolish bellicose ideas. I could suppress this nonsense about Pharaoh’s divinity, and restore the worship of the Great Mother. The Two Lands would enjoy peace with our neighbours, and the blessing of the Goddess once again.”

“If you are able to profit from our example, my sister, the only recompense we would ask is firm and lasting friendship between our realm of Arzawa and the Two Lands. You cannot safely return in that little bundle of reeds you came in: let us send you back home in one of our swift sea-going ships, loaded with amphoras of our olive oil, the first of forty such shiploads. ”

“If I return with Arzawan oil,” she grins, “where Lord Khafra’s embassy failed, that will go far to secure my power within the court. I am in your debt, sister. Your ships will not be sent back to you empty. We will load them up with our surplus wheat. It will be the first of many mutually beneficial trades, I hope.”

“That would be most satisfactory,” mother nods enthusiastically.

* * *

Our diplomacy would appear to be completed, but Queen MerNeth seems not yet ready to withdraw. She shifts uneasily upon her throne.

“With your indulgence, my sister ... I have more questions. Of a more personal nature.”

“Let there be no secrets between us, beloved sister,” my mother answers. “We will answer any questions you have, if we are able.”

“I know not quite how to ask,” she blushes. “I am deeply curious ... how is it for you, being married to your son? Reasons of state are one thing. But there are also the needs of the heart. And of the womb.”

My mother hesitates. “You ... you wish to know of heart matters, and sexual relations, between my son and me?”

“Forgive my boldness. I know I am asking about very private, intimate matters, not usually divulged to another person, let alone to a foreign Queen. I presume upon the friendship that has sprung up between us just now. I regard you now as my sister, not merely as a courteous term of address, but in truth; and I hope you so regard me. But if you do not wish to speak of such matters, I will understand.”

“No no, you are indeed now a beloved sister to me, and I will withhold nothing from you. I understand why you are asking. You love your son Prince Khasty -- that is clear -- and you worry that taking him as your consort might harm your relationship.”

“Exactly so, sister. Or that we will not ... we will not be able to ... to lie together happily. That he will see me only as his mother, and not be able to see me as a woman, and meet the needs of my womb ... ”

“I understand, sister. I do not know your son; I can only tell you how it is between my son and me. Attis and I share a double bond, the mother-son relationship, and the sexual one ... what you would call the communion of Isis and Horus. The latter has not harmed or replaced the former, but rather the two kinds of love powerfully enhance each other. I feel closely bound to my son, as close as a mother and son could possibly be. Would you agree, my King?”

“Well put, mother.” I try to maintain my composure, to avoid squirming. I suppose I am blushing crimson right now. But mother seems quite warmly disposed toward this Queen MerNeth – I might even say 'smitten' -- and so I let the two of them set the level of intimacy.

“We are not perfect,” mother goes on, “we disagree and bicker at times like any couple, though not very often. But that double bond holds us together, even when we have our brief conflicts. And those conflicts never keep us from enjoying the communion of Isis and Horus. When he enters me, and gives me his seed ... aahh!” she closes her eyes, “it is as though a dear part of myself has returned to me; I am made whole, as a mother and as a woman. And yet my son always remains his own distinct being, for me to love and cleave to.”

MerNeth is now breathing heavily, her eyelids half-closed. “Yessss,” she rasps, gazing into my mother’s eyes. My mother gazes back at her, her bare bosom heaving with emotion. I can smell my mother’s familiar scent of arousal, but I also detect the distinct aroma of Queen MerNeth’s moistening mother-parts. My phallus is uncomfortably hard.

Well, I have no choice I suppose. If I do not suggest it, it will not happen, and both Queens will go away disappointed.

“Mother, I think Queen MerNeth needs to see for herself what you speak of. Perhaps we could invite her to our bedchamber.”

MerNeth looks back and forth between mother and me. “Truly, you would be so generous? I do not wish to give offence, my sister, to intrude between you and your son ...”

Mother seductively giggles, rising from the throne, taking Queen MerNeth in her arms and kissing her, open-mouthed. MerNeth seems surprised at first, but then responds enthusiastically.

“Come to bed with us, beloved sister. My son and I will show you what you need to know.”

* * *

We make our way quickly to the bedchamber, and mother and I immediately disrobe. MerNeth gasps when she sees my erection.

“If you please, I will only watch,” she says shyly.

“As you wish, sister.” Mother lies back in bed, opening her massive thighs, and I begin kissing, licking feasting on her delectable mother-parts. She is quite aroused already, and I quench my thirst with her abundant nectar.

“Oh!” exclaims MerNeth, “I have heard women speak of this, but no man has ever done this with me.”

But neither of us is in a position to respond: my mouth is completely occupied, and mother is now in the throes of her first peaks of ecstasy, urgently rocking her pelvis into my face, grunting and whimpering.

“I need you inside me now, my son.”

I speedily obey, wiping my dripping face on the bed linens and crawling up to kiss my mother’s mouth, letting my erection nestle in her shaggy pubic rug. Impatiently, she reaches down between us and guides the tip inside her. With a gasp, I sink into her. No matter how many times we repeat the rites of the marriage bed, this initial moment when I enter her always takes me by surprise – it feels so suddenly impossibly wonderful, to be welcomed back into her warm, wet mother-channel, the very place I came from. I thrust into her repeatedly, enjoying the rippling waves of her belly-fat and the bouncing of her breasts. Her fingernails dig into my buttocks, trying to pull me deeper inside her.

“Aaaoouuuuiiinnggggghhhhffffmmmhhhh” she screams. The walls of her mother-channel grip my phallus as though milking it. Needless to say, I cannot hold back; I immediately make my offering of seed to her womb.

* * *

A few moments later, we turn to see MerNeth, naked now, standing by the foot of our bed, panting and gazing hungrily at us, legs apart, urgently rubbing and fingering her mother-parts.

“Let me do that for you, sister,” mother says. “Come join us in our bed.”

She climbs in next to my mother. “I ... I do not wish for King Attis to penetrate me,” she says apologetically. “He is a beautiful young man, and the way he couples with you excites me deeply. But ... my womb is for my son now, and for no other man.”

“Understood,” mother chuckles. “But I am no man.”

To my amazement, mother immediately plunges her face down between MerNeth’s thighs. I should not be so amazed by this, seeing that they have already passionately kissed, and the two 'sisters' seem totally intoxicated with each other. But still, mother has never showed any sign before of sexual attraction to a woman. I am always discovering surprising new layers to my dear mother, that keep me falling in love with her over and over again.

Mother now begins licking the other Queen with great enthusiasm, sucking on her little bud, even pressing her finger into MerNeth’s anus. The Egyptian woman begins shaking, wailing, clawing at the sheets as her womb rejoices. My mother continues with her licking and fingering.

Mother is on her knees, her face buried between MerNeth’s thighs, her colossal rump raised up in the air, almost in my face. Is mother deliberately presenting herself to me like this, as an invitation? In any case, I doubt she will object if I take advantage of the situation. I spread her wobbly cheeks apart and begin kissing and licking at her hair-fringed anus.

“Mmmmphh!” mother enthusiastically grunts, as she continues pleasuring MerNeth with her mouth. I take it that she approves. I continue, probing her sphincter with my eager tongue.

She pauses from her licking for a moment: “Give me your seed again, my son,” she commands.

I obey, burying myself in her, thrusting into her from behind, making her buttocks quake and judder, rhythmically driving her face into Queen MerNeth’s drooling mother parts, for quite some time. Mother’s womb rejoices seven more times. I know not how many times it is for MerNeth, but she wails quite frequently. I give mother more of my seed.

At last, the three of us lie back in the bed, with MerNeth and I both contentedly cuddled up to the soft warmth of mother’s fleshy body between us.

“I am very tempted to remain here with you indefinitely, my sister,” MerNeth says. “This has been, how shall I express it,” she chuckles, “a very illuminating experience, to say the least. And ... I love you my sister, truly. We have shared something beautiful and powerful just now. I love you too, King Attis, though we did not lie together. Not directly, anyway. My affection for you both now is deep and strong. It will sadden me immensely to part from you. But ...”

“But you have a son awaiting you in the Two Lands, whose life is about to change very much for the better,” mother smiles, stroking MerNeth’s cheek.

“Yes,” MerNeth smiles. “You understand me so well, beloved sister.” They kiss.

Our evening meal is brought in, and we dine in bed. We sleep together, the three of us. In truth, we wake again a few times in the early morning hours for a little more of the communion of Isis and Horus.

When they burst into our bedchamber the next morning, our daughters are surprised to find another woman in bed with their Mama and Baba. Introductions are duly made. We rise, wash, dress, and eat our morning meal.

With a heavy heart, I give orders for a stout Arzawan merchant ship to be made ready and loaded with olive oil. At mid-day, Queen MerNeth departs, with her entourage, towing the little reed riverboat behind them.

* * *

The following winter, just as the Queen's labour pangs begin, word arrives that the Pharaoh of Egypt has passed away.

Mother's labour is longer than with our first two children, but at last, after some fifteen hours, she is delivered of a healthy boy. We are all delighted, of course, but our two daughters cannot contain their excitement: they cannot wait to have someone they can both order about. We name him Tarhunt, in memory of my late father. Poor lad -- before he learns the laws of Luwian mother-right, he will suffer the tribulations of sister-right. Mother and I will have to keep an eye on them and make sure those tribulations are never too severe.

Another month passes, and a mysterious letter arrives, brought by one of our merchants from the Egyptian court, inscribed not on normal clay tablets, but on a flimsy thing called papyrus. The interpreter reads the message, but it makes no sense -- something about one of the late Pharaoh's "visions".

"Wait," Lady Arinna says, "I have heard of a trick ambassadors sometimes use with papyrus. Hold it gently over a flame." Sure enough, in a moment more faint brown symbols appear on the reverse side.

"Ah," the interpreter says, "this is in our own script. It says, 'Thank you, beloved sister. My son is now Pharaoh. The,' um," the interpreter blushes, "'the rites of the marriage bed are sweet. Send us a trusted ambassador soon, so that we may arrange more trade between our realms. I long for news of you. MerNeth, Royal Mother and Wife.'"

 

* * *

Hor-dewen or Hor-den (b. 2588 BCE), king of Egypt (2570-2528 BCE), birth name Khasty, fifth Pharaoh of the Second Dynasty (Old Kingdom). Son of Hor-djet (2593-2570 BCE) and Hor-djet's sister Merneith (dates unknown). Upon his father's death, Hor-dewen's mother Merneith assumed a form of long-lasting regency over the kingdom. Presumably to consolidate her power, Merneith appointed herself as Hor-dewen’s royal wife as well as queen-mother. The names of his other royal wives, if there were any, are unknown. Hor-dewen had several children, including Anedjib, who succeeded him. In ancient Egypt, particularly in the Old Kingdom, the tolerance, indeed preference, for consanguinary marriages within the royal family is undeniable, though usually of the brother-sister variety. Most scholars, however, believe this ostensible “marriage” between MerNeth and her son Hor-dewen was merely a political convenience to legitimize Merneith’s continued exercise of power.

A number of shrines to Hathor, the mother goddess, were built throughout the kingdom during Hor-dewen’s reign. Trade with other nations seems to have expanded, particularly imports from Asia Minor. But little else is known of events during this period: there were no military campaigns against other nations, a pattern which continued under Hor-dewen's son Pharaoh Anedjib.

Reunion in Crete
Willendorfer
Summary:
Queen Hebat and King Attis travel to Crete to arrange the betrothal of their daughter to the son of the High Priestess of Knossos. While there, they are reunited with Queen MerNeth of Egypt, who introduces them to her son Pharaoh HorDen.

Notes:
This is the third in the "Queen Hebat and Her Children" series. To understand the characters and setting, you really need to read the other two stories first. I wish to make clear that there is absolutely no sexual activity implied in this story between Princess Hebat and Duripi. A sweet "puppy love" develops between them, which will eventually grow into adult sexual love, but they are currently still just children on the verge of adolescence.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:
Part 1: King Attis speaks

I have not tasted this salt air upon my tongue in many years, or felt the rise and fall of a ship beneath me as it crashes through the waves, or heard the ruffling of the giant sail as it strives to capture the wind. Many land-dwellers are made nauseous by these sensations, but for my mother and me, the rolling motion of the ship only seems to invigorate us. My royal duties have hitherto kept me confined, more-or-less, to the palace in Ephesus, ever since my marriage to my mother the Queen, and my enthronement as King, nearly fourteen years ago. I do not complain; my life with my mother has been richly blessed. But this voyage to Crete offers us a refreshing change of scene, as well as opportunity for a royal alliance. It is unusual for rulers to leave their own land, even for diplomatic reasons – that is the work of ambassadors and other emissaries. But in this case, a personal visit is required. The administration of the realm, and the care of our younger children, can be entrusted during our absence to Lady Arinna, my mother’s confidante and majordomo.

The voyage is but a two-day journey, anchoring off the coast of Rhodes the first night. Mother and I divide our time between the foredeck, where we can take in the sights along the coastline, and the pavilion that has been rigged up for us in the stern, where we can enjoy a modicum of privacy. As I say, the Queen and I find the motion of the ship invigorating: it stimulates our appetites, for food ... and for each other. The pavilion curtains do little to muffle my mother’s cries of pleasure, or my grunts of satisfaction. But these sailors are all Luwians born and bred: they know that when their Queen’s womb rejoices in her consort, the Great Mother Herself is pleasured and made fertile, and so She is lavish with Her blessings. The second morning, the crew seem in unusually good spirits, with quite a few cheerful grins and knowing winks directed to me.

In contrast, our thirteen-year-old daughter, little Hebat, who accompanies us on this voyage, shows distaste, as usual, toward any evidence that my mother and I enjoy the rites of the marriage bed. She made her bed last night by the ship’s bow, as far away from her noisy mother and brother as she could get.

* * *

From Rhodes to the eastern tip of Crete is only half a day’s sailing, but Crete is a long island east-to-west: it is mid-afternoon by the time we catch sight of the harbour of Heraklion, with its white limestone beacon, said to be the tallest tower in the world.

We disembark at last, and are met by a small army of priestesses and other officials, who welcome us warmly in the name of the Great Mother. They then bundle us and our entourage into chariots which stand ready to whisk us off to the palace of Knossos. It is a somewhat bumpy ride. I could recommend that the Cretans consider laying down smooth paving stones, as we have done for the major streets of Ephesus.

But soon enough, we draw near to the magnificent palace, and all thoughts of me teaching the Cretans anything about city-building are abandoned. The palace is a dazzling jumble of connected multi-storeyed buildings and pillared courtyards, practically a city unto itself, built of many different kinds of stone of contrasting colour and texture. The effect is breathtaking. On every roof, every balcony, every parapet, there are the horns of consecration, the symbol of the Bull-God.

Another contingent of priestesses welcome us to Knossos, ushering us inside, offering us baths, refreshment, and beds to rest on. On every interior wall, brilliantly coloured frescoes are painted, with depictions of the Great Goddess, of Her birds, beasts and sea creatures, and the various sacred rites over which She presides. And everywhere, there are images of the Double Axe. The whole place feels more like a massive, sprawling shrine to the Great Mother than a palace.

* * *

None of this should be taking me by surprise. I have heard reports of this place from our ambassadors and other Luwians who have visited Knossos. And it is fitting that the palace should be like a shrine. This island is, after all, ruled by a college of priestesses of the Great Mother, with a presiding High Priestess, currently one Aranare by name. In many respects, the powers and duties of this High Priestess are much like those of a Queen – a distinction without much difference, perhaps. Like our Queen, the High Priestess of Knossos takes a consort who becomes the sacred king. As with the royal house of Arzawa, it is the High Priestess’ eldest daughter who is normally chosen to succeed her.

But I hesitate to use the word ‘king’ for the High Priestess’ consort. Though he officiates in many sacred rites, their ‘Minos’, as they call him, plays no role in affairs of government. The college of priestesses, under the High Priestess’ leadership, make all official decisions. More to the point, this Minos goes to his death at the summer solstice rites each year, and a new Minos is then chosen.

Our people too offer the king’s sacrifice, when the oracle demands it. My father gave his life in this way, to reestablish harmony between the people and the spirits of the land. I myself once prepared to lay down my life, to defend the Queen and our land from a party of Achaean raiders; but the Gods intervened and the matter was resolved peacefully: my death was not required.

But the Cretans do not believe in waiting for an oracle or exigent circumstances. Their Minos is but a year-god. While he reigns, he enjoys the sexual favours of the High Priestess and any other priestess he desires; nothing is withheld from him; he is treated like a living god. At death, his soul merges with the soul of the Bull-God Himself, and He spends eternity as the Great Mother’s beloved consort, enjoying Her divine favours as He did with the High Priestess. One might think that no Cretan man would accept the kingship on such fatal terms. But in fact the young men vie for it, competing in the bull-leaping games, hoping to be chosen by the High Priestess. Fortunately, it is now late summer, so we will not have to witness these bloody rites.

I am indeed fortunate to be a Luwian king. I enjoy the sexual favours of my mother the Queen year after year, sharing my life with her, co-reigning with her, seeing our children grow. If someday the oracle proclaims “the king must die”, I will go to my death, I hope, with a heart full of gratitude for the many blessed years I have had with my mother. Though perhaps it is easy for me to say that, assured as I am that such a pronouncement is quite unlikely, given the recency of my father’s sacrifice.

* * *

We have come to Crete to discuss the betrothal of little Hebat to the High Priestess Aranare’s son Duripi, a lad of twelve. Of course our daughter must meet the boy. They are both too young at this point to feel anything in the way of sexual attraction for each other. But at least they can each get some sense of the other’s personality and qualities, to see if, potentially, this is someone they might grow to be compatible with. The Queen and I are eager to meet the boy ourselves, to form our own judgement of this, and the High Priestess must do likewise regarding little Hebat.

Certainly such a marriage would do much to cement a closer alliance between Arzawa and Crete; and certainly such an alliance has much to recommend itself. We both worship the Great Mother and follow the laws of Mother-right. We speak essentially the same language. We are both nations of sea traders. It would be well if we could coordinate our trade networks between us, rather than compete against each other. Our cooperation could also help contain the threat of aggression from the Achaeans.

After a night of sleep on a supremely comfortable Cretan bed (we must learn how it is made and copy the design) and a delightful bout of early morning coupling, my mother and I awake refreshed. Soon we receive a message from the High Priestess Aranare. She suggests that the two young ones be allowed to wander together about the palace unsupervised, to get to know each other away from adult scrutiny and pressure. We see the wisdom of this arrangement, and immediately agree. We have coached our daughter on proper etiquette, but she is impulsive at times, and given to sarcasm. I hope she will behave respectfully toward the boy. But, I remind myself, the whole purpose of this exercise is for them to get to know each other, so it is just as well that he sees her flaws and rough edges as well as her charms. And vice-versa.

Shortly after our morning meal and bath, a young priestess arrives to escort us to the High Priestess’ audience chamber.

* * *

Aranare is about my mother’s age, a handsome woman, though slenderer than my Goddess-like mother. After the new Cretan fashion, she wears a tight bodice that prominently displays her bare breasts. Her lapis lazuli nipple jewels further focus one’s attention there. I prefer my mother’s simpler manner of dress, a colourful flounced skirt with no upper garment. Such a bodice would not suit my mother’s figure, hiding her lovely belly; and her breasts and nipples are already quite prominent, without any special clothing being wanted to set them off. But that is merely a man’s opinion. It is said that women dress to impress one another, not their menfolk.

“Welcome, most excellent Queen Hebat of Arzawa. It is an honour and a joy to receive you in this sacred island.”

“And it is an honour and joy for king Attis and I to visit you, illustrious sister, High Priestess Aranare.”

“We thank you for your gracious hospitality,” I add. “We have heard reports of the splendour of Knossos, but the reality far exceeds them.”

Aranare seems somewhat nonplussed by my comment.

She again addresses my mother: “I very much hope that my Duripi will find favour in your daughter’s eyes. Nothing could please me more than to see such a marriage, in a few years’ time. But a closer alliance between our two nations need not be contingent upon such a personal union. There are strong reasons for such alliance, no matter what happens between our children.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, sister,” my mother responds. “But ... it would go far to establish a warmer feeling between us if you would do me the courtesy of acknowledging my consort, King Attis.”

“Forgive me sister,” the High Priestess blushes. “No disrespect is intended. In this land, men are not usually invited to a serious discussion such as this; and if they are, they do not speak unless addressed. You Luwians share our language and many of our ways, and so I assumed you would observe this custom as well.”

I can understand how, if the High Priestess’ primary experience of men is as disposable things -- loved for a season, then sacrificed and replaced by another -- this might inhibit her ability to engage with a man as an equal in conversation. I can therefore make allowances. But my mother is having none of it.

“This man, my sister, is both my consort and my son, my very flesh, the fruit of my body. Any courtesy that you would show toward me, I must insist that you show toward him as well, or you do me a discourtesy.” Her manner of speech is calm and dignified, but with strong hints of indignation just below the surface.

Aranare takes a deep breath. “Forgive me please, both of you. I have got us off on the wrong foot. Please disregard my previous remarks, and let us start afresh. Queen Hebat and King Attis, I welcome you both to our sacred island.”

“You are most accommodating, High Priestess,” I reply. “No offence was taken.” I am actually quite impressed at this woman’s ability to shift course. It shows humility and mental flexibility. I hope my mother will do the same.

But we are now interrupted as a breathless little Hebat suddenly enters the room, followed by, I assume, Duripi.

“Mama, Duripi has a little pet goat and he let me feed it!” she announces excitedly.

“Oh Duripi,” Aranare shakes her head, “I hope you did not take the Princess to that smelly goat-pen.”

“She did not mind the smell, mother. She wanted to see the animals.”

“Baba, could I have a pet goat some day, please? Duripi’s is so adorable.”

“Well, didi,” I reply, “you would need someone to show you how to take proper care of one. Duripi here, for example. If he became your consort, I’m sure he could help you care for a goat.”

Little Hebat turns back to Duripi, and gives him a heart-melting, downright womanly look such as I have never seen from her before. “Oh please, Duripi, please say you will be my consort? We could have so much fun together! We could raise goats and other animals. And in time we would have babies of our own to take care of. Please say yes?”

“Yes, my Princess, if you find me worthy of such an honour, nothing would please me more,” he ardently vows in his charming Cretan accent. The boy seems to be in awe of her. “If my mother approves, that is.”

“My son,” Aranare says, trying to suppress a grin, “if you go to live among the Luwians, you will observe that the men there have a more prominent role than they do here. More will be expected of you. But I have seen for myself just now that Luwian men such as King Attis here can be both clever and gracious. I am sure that he will be an excellent teacher for you, as will the Princess herself.”

“I am glad,” says my mother, “that we have come to agreement on this, illustrious High Priestess. Forgive the vehemence of my response before.”

“Mother,” asks Duripi, “the Princess has mentioned that she loves waterfalls. I would like to show her the Falls of the Nymphs. May I?”

“You will need a charioteer to take you there,” Aranare answers.

“It is less than half a day’s walk. I have done it many times. We can be back by nightfall.”

“Duripi and I have many things to talk about on the way,” little Hebat smiles coyly.

“Well, please be careful, my son. No climbing over rough boulders. We would not want the Princess to suffer an injury.”

“I will take great care, and let no harm befall the noble Princess,” he again ardently vows. “Dear Princess Hebat, would you do me the honour?” He gallantly holds out his hand, and she happily takes it as they hurry out of the room, giggling together, to begin their expedition.

* * *

“Never before have I seen my son behaving so much like a ... a young man. Your daughter seems to have a wonderful maturing effect upon him.”

“I could say the same about Duripi’s influence on her,” I reply. “She is quite the little mother to her younger siblings, but she has never before spoken of wanting children of her own.”

“Well,” my mother says, “we will presume upon your hospitality until the new moon. Hebat and Duripi will have a few more days yet to enjoy each other’s company before we return home. If all continues to go well between them, I hope you will allow us to receive Duripi in Arzawa as our guest in, say, three months’ time. A flame has been kindled between these two – not yet the roaring blaze of adult passion, but its flickering precursor perhaps – and it would be well for us to help keep that flame alive, by allowing them regular meetings.”

“Certainly, my sister. And we must not keep little Hebat waiting too long for her goat lessons,” she smiles. “That suggestion, King Attis, was a stroke of genius. I am so pleased with your charming daughter. Duripi will have a good life with her, I am persuaded. And I am also genuinely delighted to make your acquaintance, King Attis, and my sister Queen Hebat. We Cretans can be quite hidebound at times ... as I have demonstrated,” she blushes, “but you are a breath of fresh air to me. I hope we shall become good personal friends as well as allies.”

“I believe we already are, my sister,” smiles my mother.

“But speaking of friends,” Aranare says, with a twinkle in her eye, “we have just this morning received news which we hope will persuade you to prolong your stay here. The Pharaoh of Egypt and his Queen, having learned of your visit to Knossos, propose to come here as well. It will be a royal conference of sorts, among the principal Goddess-worshipping nations, to discuss how we might enhance trade and avert various threats to peace. I understand that Queen MerNeth is a particular friend of yours. She expresses great eagerness to see you again, and to introduce you to her son, Pharaoh HorDen. It will also, in part, be a sort of conference, it seems, of Queens and their son-consorts.”

“Certainly we will stay for this, sister!” my mother squeals with excitement. “Truly, MerNeth will come here, with her son? How soon will they arrive?

“If I send the invitation back today, we can expect them ... four or five days hence, I should say.”

“And I must send word back to Ephesus that our return will be delayed.”

A priestess enters the room and whispers in the High Priestess’ ear, who nods, with a quiet giggle.

“Well, this has been an extraordinarily successful first meeting,” Aranare says, “despite my initial blunder. Our children are on the path to a happy betrothal; there is deepening friendship between our two realms, and their rulers. And now this Egyptian visit promises an even stronger alliance of the Goddess-worshipping nations. But you will excuse me now, I pray. I have received word that my beloved Minos wishes to lie with me, and I do not like to keep him waiting.”

“May he make your womb rejoice and bear fruit,” I offer.

“I thank you, King Attis. May you do the same for my sister-Queen here.”

“Oh, that he does, sister, that he does,” my mother smiles.

* * *

The next few days pass slowly, so eager are we to be reunited with Queen MerNeth, and to meet her son. I spend much of the time obeying the High Priestess’ delightful command, making my mother’s womb rejoice again and again.

Meanwhile, little Hebat is suddenly quite transformed. Whenever she is in our presence, she cannot stop talking about Duripi. When she is not in our presence, she is off on adventures with her young admirer. She even begins shyly asking my mother questions, when they are alone, about the rites of the marriage bed – this from a girl who previously seemed to regard such matters with a mixture of embarrassment and distaste. Well, the thought of such matters between her Mama and Baba are one thing; the thought of them between Duripi and herself are an entirely different and much more interesting matter. Our mother counsels her to be patient. Though her moon-bloods have begun, little Hebat is not yet fully a woman, nor is Duripi yet ready for the responsibilities of manhood. She may enjoy Duripi’s company in the meantime, and the physical and mental changes will come soon enough, without being rushed.

 

Part 2: Pharaoh HorDen speaks

I am HorDen, Pharaoh of the Two Lands, the Brightness of Ra, beloved of HatHor, et cetera. My father, I am told, put much store by these titles. He believed he was the Supreme God. His titles and his divinity did not save him from an early and ignominious death. The smell of his incontinent bowels, as he sickened and died, befouled the whole palace of Memphis.

In truth, I barely knew the man. Though I was the sole son of his Senior Royal Wife, he had other sons of more favoured wives and concubines, and I was rarely invited into his presence. His advisers always had more important things to occupy his attention -- when he was not ruining his health with the narcotic vapours that he so craved.

I was always much closer to my mother, Queen MerNeth. She confided in me, depended on me. As I grew to manhood, I strove to be worthy of her trust. The object of our discussions was always how to protect ourselves from hostile court intrigues, and how to move me closer to becoming Pharaoh’s successor. It was the two of us against the world. Mother was always affectionate toward me, frequently hugging or kissing me, or taking my hand in hers. As my voice deepened and hair grew on my loins, these gestures of affection began to thrill me in a new way. My phallus would grow hard under my kilt. I began to notice how beautiful my mother is.

Rumours reached our ears, that my father’s mind was becoming more and more befuddled. At times he seemed not to recognize anyone, or even to know who he was. Mother spoke to me of an urgent mission she must undertake, to seek help from the Queen of Arzawa. She would be gone but a few days, she promised. I begged to go with her, but she told me I must remain at court. If she were absent for a few days, it could be put down to illness. If we both disappeared, it might be taken as a evidence of a treasonous plot.

* * *

Mother returned from Arzawa a transformed woman. Where there had been anxiety and desperation, there was now hope. She took me aside and explained to me her plan: upon Pharaoh’s passing, which could come any day, she would use her position as the late Pharaoh’s sister and Senior Royal Wife to proclaim me, with the help of a few trusted courtiers, as the new Pharaoh. Immediately she would cement both our positions by marrying me, making herself Queen Mother as well as Senior Royal Wife to the new Pharaoh.

I will never forget the vulnerability in her eyes as she asked me, “Khasty my son, could you be content with me as your wife? Could you lie with me and give me more children, as the king of Arzawa does with his mother?”

I did not hesitate. “Of course, mother! I had never dared to hope for such a thing before, but now that you offer it to me ... this is what I have always wanted – to love you and please you in every way that I can. But ... could you be content with me as ...”

She answered my question with a kiss: not one of the chaste kisses she used to give me, but something much deeper, that reached into my soul, that set my heart adance, that made my male member harden like a bronze sceptre. We paused for a moment to catch our breath. I gazed enraptured at her smiling face, then I leaned in to kiss her some more. Her tongue slipped into my mouth, duelling with mine. Her plump, soft body felt so good in my arms.

“We must not consummate our union,” she cautioned me, “until your father passes away. I dare not jeopardize our plans by laying myself open to a charge of royal adultery. But I tell you this: my womb is yours now, my son, yours alone. We will not have to wait long before you can enjoy my body to the fullest, and I can enjoy yours.”

For a time, Pharaoh’s health seemed to improve a bit. But within a month, a new illness beset him, with inability to eat, and incontinence of the bowels. He sought relief in his incense, and that finished him off.

Mother’s plan proved surprisingly easy to carry out. The court was divided into many weak factions favouring this or that son or nephew of the late Pharaoh. None of them was able to mount any effective opposition when my mother and her allies proclaimed me, and I ascended to the throne of the Two Lands as Pharaoh HorDen. All opposition melted away entirely when I took her as my Senior Royal Wife (I prefer to call her my Queen).

No ceremony of marriage was required per se. According to our religious teachings, the new Pharaoh is in a sense merely a continuation of the previous Pharaoh. Horus the son becomes Osiris the father. Since MerNeth had been Senior Royal Wife to my father, I merely had to reaffirm her status as such to make her my wife as well. This “reaffirmation” consisted of the physical consummation of our union, which we were obliged to perform in view of ten senior priests and priestesses. But my ardour for my mother was such that I took no notice of the viewers, focusing entirely on the delights of my mother’s plump, curvaceous body, on the joy of returning to the womb of she who bore me. The viewing party soon withdrew, satisfied with what they had witnessed, allowing my mother and I to continue enjoying each other’s bodies and giving each other pleasure all night, until the first rays of the sun appeared in the sky.

We now repeat this consummation daily (albeit without witnesses), sometimes several times a day. I delight in planting my dibble deep in her fertile mound of earth – there is no joy on earth that can compare. I delight in licking and sucking on the nipples of her breasts, and that little nipple that pops up proudly just above the junction of her nether-lips. I delight in hearing her cries of pleasure as her womb rejoices. I delight in her, every aspect of her person. She is my best friend, my confidante, my partner, my lover, my Queen ... and still underneath it all she is my own dear mother. To the world, I am Pharaoh HorDen, but privately she still calls me by my birth-name, Khasty. Just the way she whispers this to me can make my phallus instantly harden.

Together we acted swiftly, removing from court the priests, ministers and other officials who had given the late Pharaoh that poisonous incense, who had encouraged campaigns of military aggression against neighbouring lands, who had proclaimed Pharaoh as the Supreme God and deprecated the worship of the Great Mother, HatHor.

We also moved to make peace with the Nubians to our south, the Libyans to our west, and the Canaanites to our east. They were suspicious of our intentions at first, but the generous reparations we offered for past aggression went far to establish trust. The reparations were a cheap price to pay for the greater prosperity and reduced military costs that peace has brought our people. It suddenly seems that mother and I are the most beloved rulers the Two Lands have ever seen. It has become fashionable for Egyptian women to put on weight, in imitation of their Queen.

In nine months’ time, our first son Anedjib was born. Well, my mother always thinks of him as my little brother, which is certainly true. For that matter, he is her grandson as well as her son, though she never calls him that. She insisted on breastfeeding him herself, just as she did for me when I was an infant: there shall be no hireling wet-nurses for her children. Two years later, we were blessed with a daughter (who is similarly my sister and her granddaughter), whom we named Nebetnehat.

 

In bits and pieces, my mother helped me to understand the pivotal role that the Queen of Arzawa played in her decision to marry me. Meeting another royal mother-son couple, hearing their story, even witnessing – and to some extent participating in -- their coupling, gave my mother sufficient confidence to propose this to me. At first, she was fearful that I would be jealous, that I would reprove her for sharing their bed. I merely laughed. “Dearest mother, if that experience helped you to find your way into my arms and my bed, I would be a royal fool indeed to complain about it. To the contrary, I am deeply grateful to King Attis and Queen Hebat.”

* * *

But now a merchant returning from Crete brings us word that this very royal couple are soon to visit Knossos! We have exchanged many friendly messages with them since I became Pharaoh. But that is no substitute for a face-to-face meeting, and this opportunity is too good to pass up: Crete is less than a day’s voyage from Memphis. We immediately compose a message to the High Priestess of Knossos, proposing that we visit as well. There are many topics the rulers of our three nations might discuss to our mutual benefit. In two more days, the High Priestess’ invitation arrives.

The senior priests express grave dismay at the prospect of Pharaoh leaving the Two Lands. It is, they say, like the head being severed from the body, fatal to both. It has never happened before, they say, except in times of war. But an innovative younger priest suggests that if the symbols of my royal authority, the flail and crook, remain upon the throne, then Pharaoh cannot be said to have actually left the Two Lands, even though my body journeys to Crete. The senior priests try to argue against this reasoning, but they are unable. They at last withdraw their objection.

We entrust Anedjib and Nebetnehat to their aunt Tawret, my mother’s sister. They are old enough to be without us for a few days. They love being with their aunt, who spoils them.

Our ship is made ready, loaded with gifts for our friends of Ephesus and Knossos. At dawn the next day, we embark and set sail.

* * *

We are out of sight of land now, nothing but sea on all sides. I have never been on anything but a river barge before. The roll of the deck takes some getting used to, but I am able to keep my breakfast down. Mother made the longer voyage to Ephesus and back in much rougher seas, on a flimsier ship, so this is nothing to her.

We look out over the sea, and I take her hand in mine. “Will you want to lie with them again?” I ask.

“I do not know, my son. It has been five, no six, years now. I feel deep affection for them, and I hope you will feel that too after you meet them. But I cannot predict what that affection will lead us to do, when we meet again. Perhaps the mutual attraction will no longer be there. Or perhaps it will be stronger than ever. Nothing will happen without your consent. And whatever happens, this I can promise you: King Attis will not penetrate me; my womb is yours alone, my son, now and forever. They understand this.”

I kiss her. “And my phallus is only for your womb, sweet mother.” I sigh. “I have to remind the high priest of this again and again. He keeps pressing me to take other royal wives. A Pharaoh needs a full stable of children, he says.”

“He is right, my son. If you took other wives and begat children on them, it would not endanger our love. I know your heart will always be mine, as mine is yours.”

“The only children I want are the little brothers and sisters that you bear me, mother. I could never lie with another woman. I would rather eat a bushel of hot sand. Please do not ask it of me.”

“Well then ... I suppose I have no choice but to bear you many more children,” she smiles. Then her smile widens further.

“What?” I ask her.

“Well, I wanted to wait a few more days to be quite sure, but ... since we are speaking of this, I cannot keep it to myself any longer. Unless it comes very late, my womb-blood has not appeared this month. I believe I am with child again, my son.”

A surge of joy goes through my body as I take her again in my arms. We kiss passionately. “The Queen is with child!” I shout out so the whole crew can hear.

“Hurrah, hurrah! Ka-mut-ef!” they all shout back repeatedly, for quite some time. My mother is now blushing deeply.

“I did not wish to make it public yet, my son.”

“I could not keep it to myself either, mother,” I shrug. I kiss her passionately again. “You can forgive your loud-mouthed son?”

She gives me a mischievous smile. “Hmm-yes. But I demand a reparation. Take me to bed now, my sweet Khasty. My womb so hungers for you, and we must while away the time till we reach Crete.”

 

Part 3: King Attis speaks

At mid-day, a mere three days after the invitation was sent, word reaches Knossos from Sitia, on the eastern tip of the island, that a large and sumptuously outfitted Egyptian ship is now making its way along the north coast. By late afternoon word comes from Heraklion that the ship is approaching the harbour. Mother and I are tempted to go there and greet them as they disembark. But it is more considerate to let travellers bathe, refresh themselves and rest before greeting them.

First thing in the morning, we are invited to break our fast in the Hall of the Dolphins. The High Priestess is present. A short time later, we are joined by Queen MerNeth and her son, Pharaoh HorDen. He cuts a dashing figure in his starched kilt and jewelled collar, a hand taller and perhaps ten years younger than me. He speaks with a strong Egyptian accent, somewhat less fluently than his mother. Queen MerNeth appears heavier than I remember: she has borne two children in the intervening years, and the extra girth becomes her well, but she is otherwise unchanged. The sheath-dress she wears is of sheer white linen, tightly encasing her plump body, but doing nothing to conceal her pinkish-brown nipples or the dark triangle of hair below her belly.

With joyful cries of “sister!” my mother and Queen MerNeth immediately embrace.

“Well,” Aranare says, “I wanted to be here to welcome you, Lord and Lady of the Two Lands, to this our sacred island. But our diplomatic discussions can wait till tomorrow. This is a personal reunion for you with Queen Hebat and King Attis. I will leave you mothers and sons now to get reacquainted.”

“Pharaoh HorDen ... ” my mother begins.

“Call me Khasty, please,” he interrupts. “I hope you will regard me as an intimate friend; there is no need for honorific names and titles.”

“Our mothers call each other ‘sister’,” I say. “I suppose that makes us cousins, but I feel ‘brother’ is a more fitting term.”

“Brother it is,” he laughs, clasping my hand and slapping me on the back. “Mother, shall we tell them our news?”

“Blessed be the Great Goddess: I am with child again!” Queen MerNeth squeals.

My mother also squeals with excitement, embracing her sister Queen again. I recognize that hungry look in my mother’s eyes – a look that MerNeth certainly returns. She turns to Khasty, and he nods. As they enthusiastically kiss, the Egyptian Queen reaches up to fondle and squeeze my mother’s heavy breasts, making them leak milk.

“Khasty my brother,” I speak up, “anticipating that our mothers would want to renew their intimacy, I took the liberty of ordering an extra bed for our chamber: the two beds are pushed up together side-by-side, to form one giant bed that two couples may comfortably lie in. Shall we all go there now?”

“Oh yes,” MerNeth cries, “let us see this wonderful bed at once!”

* * *

A priestess guides us back to our bedchamber. (We have experienced for ourselves how easy it is to get lost in the twisting corridors of the Knossos palace/shrine.)

“This is perfect!” MerNeth exclaims, surveying the bed. “Thank you, dear Attis. Khasty my love, would you please help me out of this shift?”

As MerNeth awkwardly wriggles out of her dress, my mother deftly unclasps her apron-girdle, causing her skirts to immediately fall to her ankles. I am as yet uncertain what my role will be here, but I go ahead and remove my my kilt and loincloth. Khasty follows suit. The two naked Queens fall into bed, embracing and kissing each other.

“Last time you did this for me,” says MerNeth, “and I never had the opportunity to return the favour. I want to taste you now, my sister.”

“Oh yes, please!” cries my mother, opening her thighs. Her sister Queen dives right in, lapping and slurping up the abundant wetness she finds there. I know well the delicious taste and sensation of my mother’s nether-lips upon my tongue, and I am not surprised that MerNeth finds it delightful as well. Soon my mother is keening and gasping with pleasure, wrapping her thighs tightly round MerNeth’s head, pressing MerNeth’s face into her loins. How odd it feels for me to be looking on, as my mother’s fat body shudders and ripples with pleasure. I am intimately familiar with all these signs of her womb rejoicing, yet this time it is not my lips and tongue causing it to happen. But no matter: there is no doubt that my mother is richly enjoying this, and I rejoice with her. And my phallus is now harder than a granite pillar. So it seems is Khasty’s.

At last, mother releases MerNeth’s head from between her thighs. The two Queens share a soulful kiss, my mother tasting herself on MerNeth’s lips. “For six years, I have been longing for that, sister,” Queen MerNeth purrs. “You taste even more delicious than I had imagined.”

“And I have longed to taste you again.”

“But we are neglecting our sons, I fear. What entertainment can we provide them?”

“The lovely sight of you two enjoying each other was ample entertainment,” says Khasty.

“Nonsense!” mother replies. “That is hardly adequate entertainment for two young men with such glorious erections. My sister, when we last were together, you asked to observe us enjoying the rites of the marriage bed. I believe this helped you and your son to find each other. It would gratify me if Attis and I could now witness this union that we helped bring about.”

“Khasty my love, if we could do this before a roomful of stuffy old priests, surely it is not too much for us to perform the communion of Isis and Horus for these intimate friends.”

“Of course, mother.”

MerNeth reclines, as Khasty climbs between her thighs. He guides his turgid phallus into her moist mother-channel.

“Aaah!” MerNeth gasps. “So good, my son!” She turns her head towards my mother, who is lying beside her. The two Queens clasp hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, as Khasty begins thrusting into her.

“Such a beautiful sight!” my mother happily sighs.

“But what entertainment are we offering your son, my sister?” MerNeth asks. “Attis too deserves a mound of fertile soil for his neglected dibble. Let us both enjoy our sons’ love, side by side.”

My mother opens her thighs, grinning at me. I follow Khasty’s example, burying my rock-hard phallus in my mother’s depths, returning home. One might think that the presence of another couple would make me self-conscious, distracting me from my mother’s body, inhibiting my passion. But on the contrary, the sight of Khasty – driving rhythmically into his mother’s womb, enjoying that same mother-son sexual bond that I enjoy – only amplifies my desire for my mother.

Both Queens are wailing and moaning now as their wombs rejoice. Khasty grunts, hunching up and burying himself in his mother. I cannot hold back any longer: the pleasure overtakes me, and I too spurt my seed into my mother’s womb.

* * *

A delicious languor overtakes us as we lie back in that huge bed, the two Queens in the middle, with Khasty and I on the outside. I snuggle up behind my mother, pressing my loins into the softness and warmth of her ample buttocks. My phallus begins to harden again.

But my mother’s breasts are engorged with milk now. She turns toward me, letting me nurse. MerNeth does likewise with Khasty.

At last, when both sides are emptied, Mother moves down to do her own nursing, drinking the nectar that flows from MerNeth’s mother-channel, until her womb once again rejoices.

“That was delicious, sister. I tasted both you and Khasty.”

“My sister,” MerNeth says, gazing again into my mother’s eyes, “I ask another boon of you. I have vowed that no man but my son shall enjoy my womb; and he has vowed that his phallus shall know no womb but mine. But I owe Attis a debt of love and gratitude that I long to repay. With your indulgence, sister, there is a way that I could show him my love, without breaking my vow. I mean, by taking his phallus in my mouth. And you might enjoy doing the same with my son. In this way, we might share our sons with each other, and this will bind me even closer to you. You have already tasted Khasty’s seed within my body; why not taste it direct from the source?”

“I love the way your mind works,” my mother smiles at her, tenderly stroking her cheek, before she leans in for another long kiss. “Attis my son, will you agree to this, if I beg it of you?”

“What a grievous thing it is that you ask of me, mother ... to let a beautiful, beloved woman pleasure me with her mouth,” I chuckle. “Of course I agree.”

“And Khasty,” mother asks, “will you let me enjoy you this way?”

“Of course, dear Lady.”

Khasty and I get up and switch positions, as the two mothers turn to face outward. MerNeth immediately kisses the head of my phallus, licking down the length of it. “I can taste you on him, sister,” she excitedly tells my mother.

“Mmm, and I taste you on Khasty. Delicious, as always.”

The two Queens set to work. MerNeth is enthusiastic and eager to please me. She is determined to draw my seed into her mouth, and after some time of licking and sucking, she gets her wish. I enjoy it, certainly. But she does not know how to pleasure me quite the way my mother does. There is no substitute for fourteen years of intimate knowledge, combined with the mother-son bond that we share.

Khasty seems to enjoy the novel arrangement more. He spurts into my mother’s mouth, but remains hard, and then, bellowing and grunting, he erupts once again. Perhaps my mother is simply better at this than Queen MerNeth.

The two Queens kiss, open-mouthed, sharing the taste of their two sons.

* * *

We rest for a while. MerNeth takes me in her arms, cuddling me, while my mother does the same with Khasty. But after a while I long for the familiar comfort of my mother’s body. Khasty and I return to our original positions.

As the afternoon wears on, I couple with my mother several more times, as MerNeth and Khasty do the same, lying right beside us. Again, the two Queens hold hands and kiss each other while their sons pound into them, making their pleasure a shared experience.

At last, we all drift off to sleep, the two sons’ heads pillowed on their mothers’ breasts.

We are awakened as little Hebat bursts into our bedchamber, followed of course by Duripi.

“Mama, when Duripi comes to visit us this autumn, can I ... Oh. Who are these people?”

Mother sits up, yawning. “Didi, this is Queen MerNeth of Egypt. You met her once before, when she visited us in Ephesus, some years back. And this is her son, Pharaoh HorDen.”

“Why do I always find her in bed with you?” she asks suspiciously. “Does this have something to do with the rites of the marriage bed – something you have not told me about?”

“Forgive our intrusion, your majesties,” says Duripi, “we interrupted your sleep.” He turns to little Hebat. “Dear Princess, we should withdraw now and give the adults privacy. I do not believe it is polite to ask adults why they decide to lie together. Come, let us go to the arena and watch the bull-leapers practise.”

“Oh Duripi, I have so much to learn from you. You are younger than I, yet you are so wise and sophisticated.” She follows him out of our chamber, worshipping, it seems, the ground he walks on.

* * *

The next morning, the four of us meet with Aranare, resolving various conflicts about our trading networks, and discussing various large-scale trade ventures, to the mutual benefit of our three realms. That leaves our afternoon and evening free. Aranare goes off to lie with her Minos, while the four of us return to our bedchamber, for more shared mother-son coupling, in a variety of configurations. Again, MerNeth and Khasty spend the night in our large bed, having relinquished their own bedchamber and moved in with us.

The following morning, we discuss the regional problem of Achaean aggression. A military response, we agree, would only inflame these warlike kingdoms. But we might use our control of trade as leverage on the Achaean kings, inducing them to call off the raids and the piracy.

Our diplomatic business is now concluded. But we remain one more day in Crete, allowing little Hebat to bond a little longer with Duripi, while her Mama and Baba bond, in more adult ways, with the rulers of the Two Lands. Plans are made for Duripi’s visit to Ephesus in three months’ time. The next morning, our tearful goodbyes are said on the docks of Heraklion harbour. We embark and row out of the harbour, then set sail. The two ships remain in sight of each other as we make our way eastward along the Cretan coast. But at Sitia, the Egyptian ship turns south, while we continue northeast, towards Rhodes and then back to Ephesus.

Our younger children have been without us for too long. It will be good to see them again. This thought offers us some consolation after the sadness of parting from MerNeth and Khasty, and little Hebat’s parting from Duripi. Well, she will see him again in a mere three months. Mother and I must find an occasion to visit Egypt soon. We cannot go another six years without seeing this other mother-son couple again, to whom we are so intimately bound.

 

* * *

Pax Minoa (c. 2500-2400 BCE), a term coined by Vladic (1994) to characterize the century of relative peace and prosperity among the kingdoms of the eastern Mediterranean in the early Bronze Age. Vladic himself assumed that this peace was militarily imposed on the region by the emerging Cretan empire. But the absence of archaeological evidence of Cretan military activity, arms manufacturing, etc., in Crete or elsewhere, makes this theory problematic. Childers (2003) in contrast, suggests that interruption in the supply of tin prevented the manufacture of bronze weapons, and as a result, the kingdoms simply abstained from large-scale military activity for a hundred years. But as Perlmutter (2012) points out, there were plenty of older bronze weapons in circulation, which could have been used for warfare. Rather, the archaeological record shows widespread use, or reuse, of bronze for cult objects. If anything, these kingdoms were melting down bronze weapons during this period to create religious artefacts, typically associated with the worship of goddesses of the “great mother” sort. But the reasons for this development remain shrouded in mystery.