Secrets in the Sand

by Lauren Lee Merewether

  “I don’t need him! My father outranks you in both profession and relation to me. I could accept it coming from you, but from him? He is my father! He is supposed to protect me.” The heat of her anger evaporated her tears away, but more followed. “You wouldn’t understand.” She shook her head and threw her hands up as she turned to leave.

  “Pharaoh Coregent,” Horemheb called.

  Nefertiti stopped walking, but kept her back to him.

  “May I see your hand?”

  Nefertiti’s shoulders slumped. “I’m fine,” she whispered, clutching her hands at her chest.

  Horemheb walked around to face her; their personal space dwindling again.

  She shook her head and blinked back tears. At the sounds of the funerary feast in the distance, a heavy breath filled her lungs. “I have blood on my hands,” she whispered, and looked to Horemheb with utter despondence.

  “No—we have blood on our hands,” he whispered back.

  Nefertiti closed her eyes, thanking him in her head for taking some of her guilt away. He brushed her upper arm with his fingers—a gentle brush, just enough to send tingles down her back—and she tensed, but then her relief came out through her breath. She licked her lips in the dryness of the evening as the sparks from the torchlight fell and simmered in the ponds.

  He ran his fingers down her forearm to her hand. Examining the wound in the dying torchlight, he whispered, “It looks like only the surface skin is broken.” He clasped his other hand over hers and held her gaze. “It shall heal in time.”

  A flutter of trust and friendship passed over them as they shared a moment of understanding.

  The light was almost out, and she wished for this one moment she was not Pharaoh Coregent so she could be wrapped up in his strong arms and let her sobs fall on his shoulder. The past few decans—nay, years—were almost too much. But at the test of her strength, she kept her pain inside.

  They stood for a few moments with their hands clasped.

  Horemheb knew he had always admired the Coregent and knew he needed to keep her safe, as was his duty, but the more he saw Akhenaten fall, the more he admired Nefertiti for her wit and strength to step into Akhenaten’s place. He pitied her as well, knowing she was trapped inside an unfulfilling marriage—knowing what that could feel like. But now that Akhenaten was gone and as the shadows from the remaining torchlight fell upon her perfectly sculpted cheekbones and full, illustrious lips, his admiration sparked an attraction. The urge that came over him to pull her in close and possibly even kiss her startled him enough to break their connection.

  He drew in a deep breath and gestured for her to come with him back to the funerary feast. “Your father looks for you,” he whispered.

  Nefertiti and Horemheb found Ay pacing the corridors, looking for his daughter. He debated to call her daughter or Pharaoh Coregent, but in the end, to not anger her more, he decided on the latter.

  “Pharaoh Coregent,” he said with a nod of his head as he walked up to her and Horemheb. “Commander, thank you for finding her for me.”

  Horemheb nodded.

  Ay looked down and saw blood on her hand. “Daughter, are you hurt?” he said, and went to grab her hand.

  She yanked her fist behind her back. Words jumbled in her mouth, not wanting to admit to her father she had lost her temper and hit the commander.

  Horemheb eyed Nefertiti, sensing her hesitation to tell Ay what happened. He nodded again to Ay as he spoke. “We were in the lotus garden, and she cut her hand on the stone as she rose from one of the pond’s edges. I have already sent a message to a stone mason to fix it.” He tried very hard to keep his eyebrow from twitching, and, finally, he just had to look away, even though Ay seemed to accept his answer. “I will leave you to discuss matters with the Coregent.”

  Nefertiti pulled her lips into her mouth as she looked to the floor to keep her smile hidden from sight.

  “No, this involves you too, Commander,” Ay said. “General Paaten sends word from Nubia. We should speak somewhere more private.”

  He let Nefertiti lead them to the council room, then opened the door, and Nefertiti slowed down so that Horemheb was by her side. She sent a gentle jab of her elbow into Horemheb’s arm. They looked to each other and he smiled at the sight of her grateful beam, before she quickened her pace to the throne so her father would not see her token of appreciation to Horemheb.

  Once they were all seated, Nefertiti asked, “Should we send word to Smenkare?”

  “That boy doesn’t know anything.” Ay shook his head, rethinking his words. “We probably should, but . . .”

  “But what?” Nefertiti asked. “He is Pharaoh now that Akhenaten is gone.”

  Ay squared his shoulders and faced his daughter. “He is just another Akhenaten. I don’t trust him to defend Egypt. We need to act before the Appearance of the King ceremony, while you still have the title of Coregent.”

  As much as she hated to admit, he was right. Besides, it was her fault the crown would not fall to her tomorrow. She pursed her lips and said nothing, only motioning toward the table for them to sit.

  “What does General Paaten say?” Nefertiti eventually asked.

  “The Nubians have invaded our border. They are resisting them, but at great cost. They demand one hundred containers of grain to stop the attack,” Ay said. “We have never bartered for our borders before, but given the state of the military and the economy, we need to consider it. The Nubians are an honorable people and they usually keep their word—”

  “It is a risky venture,” Horemheb interrupted as he pressed his forefingers and thumbs together in front of his chest. “Did General Paaten describe the cost?”

  “He did not, but for General Paaten to say ‘at a great cost’ . . .” Ay shook his head. “It must be great.”

  “Send them the containers,” Nefertiti said, her voice firm. “Make sure General Paaten gets their weapons before they release the containers to them.” She waved away any more discussion regarding her decision and stood up. “Thus Coregent says.” She squared her shoulders to her father and then walked from the room.

  When she was gone, Ay took in a long inhale and let his chest fall with a deep exhale. “Commander, do you have children?” he asked as he pushed his palms into his eyes.

  “No, I do not.”

  Ay let his hands fall to the table then stood to leave.

  “In times like these, do not be envious.”

  Chapter 8

  The Time of the Aten

  At the last decree of Pharaoh Akhenaten, his half-brother, Smenkare, took the throne, and an Appearance of the King celebration was held first in the capital, Aketaten, and then in Men-nefer, in the North.

  The new Pharaoh Smenkare and company went to Waset for his third and last celebration, which General Paaten was able to attend, given that the threat of the Nubians’ advance on the Egyptian border had subsided thus far.

  Rumors and whisperings filled the streets, lining the people’s hearts with hopeful thinking, and they began to see an auspicious future ahead of them. Talk of unity and return to a national power in the region swept over Egypt’s people.

  The celebration was held in Malkata—the palace of her father-in-law, Amenhotep III, the father of Akhenaten and Smenkare. Nefertiti sat on her throne to the left of Smenkare and Meritaten as she looked to the crowd that had gathered, and remembered when she was first crowned Chief Royal Wife, on the same steps where her daughter was just crowned. She held her wine goblet in her hand, swirling her finger over the top of it as she watched the festivities. Her throat cried for drink, but fear silenced her thirst. She tipped the wine onto the floor.

  “Mother,” Ankhesenpaaten said as she moved her foot away from the splatter.

  “I’m sorry,” Nefertiti said. She saw a passing servant and gave him the goblet, then put her head in her hand.

  “Mother, are you feeling well?” Ankhesenpaaten asked as she rubbed Nefertiti’s shoulder.

  Nefertiti too
k a deep breath as she swiveled her chin to face her daughter.

  “Yes, my sweet one.”

  Tut leaned over to look at her from his throne next to Ankhesenpaaten. A child in the big throne chair was probably quite the sight, she thought, but even as a child he repulsed her. Nefertiti’s jaw tightened as she held her head up and straightened her shoulders.

  “I am fine. Enjoy the celebration.”

  Nobility had made their way into Waset to support their new King in their assumption he would bring a unified Egypt back to Amun-Re. Pawah and Beketaten were among Smenkare’s supporters. Now, Beketaten walked up the steps to Smenkare’s throne with her arms held open wide.

  “Brother,” Beketaten said. She stopped at the second to top step. Then she and Pawah, who stood off and behind her, bowed from the waist.

  Nefertiti cocked a half-grin at their ignorance of which god he gave his loyalty.

  Smenkare stood and walked to the top step with a smile gracing his face. “My sister!”

  As Smenkare embraced her, Beketaten exclaimed, “How you have grown since I have last seen you!”

  “Why did you leave my mother’s house so long ago? I have missed you so!” His eyes grew brighter as he recalled the memories of them when he was a boy.

  “Our brother, the Pharaoh before, Akhenaten, and his Queen”—Beketaten shot a look at Nefertiti over Pharaoh’s shoulder—“exiled us to Nubia for five long years.”

  “Why would they do such a thing? His own sister?” Smenkare looked to Nefertiti with eyes wide in disbelief.

  “We tried to return Egypt to Amun-Re,” Beketaten said, her voice loud. “But now, we are back and ready to follow your reign.”

  “Ah, I see,” Smenkare said, and his smile became polite. “Well, I am glad you came to your senses—even changed your name to honor the Aten.”

  A moment of confusion crossed Beketaten and Pawah’s faces.

  “It is good to have you back,” Smenkare said, and his smile grew with sincerity.

  Nefertiti bit her tongue to keep from laughing at the poor fools. They would find out soon enough—O, the new Pharoah was not for their god!—and then what would they do? Have her murder her own daughter and son-in-law as well?

  Why not just murder the whole royal line? she thought bitterly.

  “Yes, of course,” Beketaten said flatly.

  Pawah stepped forward. “My Lord of the Two Lands . . . may you reign forever and ever with your beautiful Queen always by your side.”

  At the mention of her title, Smenkare gestured for Meritaten to join them on the steps. Meritaten obeyed and glided to her husband. “Thank you, Pawah,” Pharaoh said, “Fifth Prophet of the Aten—”

  “Amun,” Pawah corrected.

  Smenkare and Meritaten looked to him with their lips thinned and their brows furrowed. “You were a prophet of Amun . . . now you are a prophet of the Aten?” Smenkare said, raising his chin and peering down at Pawah over the bridge of his nose.

  “Pharaoh?” Pawah asked as he looked past Smenkare to Nefertiti, who watched their interactions like a lion watches its prey.

  Meritaten looked to her mother and gestured for her to join them. Nefertiti stood and walked over to them. “Mother and Coregent,” her daughter said, “when you granted pardon to Princess Nebetah and her husband, Pawah, was it not because she had changed her name to Beketaten and they had decided to worship the one true god, the Aten?”

  “It was,” Nefertiti said. “That was the word I had received.”

  She tilted her head as she looked to them. She held their lives in her next words, and Beketaten narrowed her eyes in acknowledgment of this power. The People’s Restoration of Egypt could be ended. But in doing so, Nefertiti would make Beketaten and Pawah martyrs—and martyrs are hard to silence. She shook her head and dismissed the idea. If she did not protect them, they could then point the finger at her for getting rid of Akhenaten. She hoped Meritaten would believe her, not them. But it was too risky to try.

  “Yes, of course,” Pawah said in one breath, backpedaling. “My previous position was that of the Fifth Prophet of Amun, but after our exile, I became a prophet of the Aten, for whom I have spent much time in worship, my Pharaoh—as you have correctly stated.” Pawah stepped in front of Beketaten, closer to Smenkare, as he continued. “I hope that my presence with you as a child in your mother’s house, in sanctuary from your father’s order of exile against us, and my previous position with Amun does not spoil your opinion of me.”

  “Not at all,” Smenkare said, and placed his hands on Pawah’s shoulders. “I cannot harbor a sour opinion of the man I grew to call ‘Father’—in the absence of my real father, who hid me behind the palace and never claimed me as his own.”

  Pawah put his hands on Pharaoh’s shoulders as well, and a sly smile crossed his lips. “I am so proud . . . my son. You are wise beyond your years and will be greatly remembered for what you are to accomplish.”

  Smenkare smiled and nodded, the burden of doubt lifting from his expression. “You are the wise one. I only wish I had more time with you as a child.”

  “We have time now, and I have much to advise and teach,” Pawah said as he squeezed Smenkare’s shoulders.

  “How fortunate for you to mention advice! I need a second vizier,” Smenkare said. “Duties of both the Upper and the Lower appear to be too much for Vizier Nakht.”

  Nefertiti bit her tongue as she watched Smenkare play right into Pawah’s hands, both figuratively and literally. If Smenkare thought of Pawah as a father, then Meritaten’s word would most likely not be enough to go against Pawah’s if he told him Nefertiti had killed Akhenaten. Her smug smile disappeared as she realized she no longer held their lives in her hands. Beketaten peered at Nefertiti, and, as if reading her thoughts, the corners of Beketaten’s mouth upturned into a devious grin.

  “I need a second vizier. Duties of both the Upper and the Lower appear to be too much for Vizier Nakht.”

  “I would assume so. It is much to oversee,” Pawah said, and his heart swelled in victory—one step closer to the throne. Fate must want me on the throne—I thought the world had ended when Pharaoh Amenhotep III had restricted us to Sitamun’s wing in lieu of exile . . . but, as it turns out, my years there are paying their due.

  “I’m glad you feel the same way, my new Vizier of the Upper,” Smenkare replied. “My mother taught me about the ways of Amun, and she never told me my father was her father. She kept from me the truth that I was a son of Pharaoh Amenhotep III. She lied to me for all of my life. My father disowned me, so I shall disown him—and put you in his place.”

  Smenkare clapped his hands loudly, and as the room grew silent he declared from his platform, “In honor of my crowning as King of the Upper and the Lower, Pharaoh of Egypt, I give praise to the Aten and shall carry on my brother’s work! As I will need much advice to oversee my edicts and to ensure they are carried out, I have named Pawah, Fifth Prophet of the Aten, as Vizier of the Upper, and Nakht will remain as Vizier of the Lower as he served under my brother, Pharaoh Akhenaten.”

  He waited for some sort of applause from the audience, but was only greeted with wide eyes, until another prophet of the Aten began to clap slowly, and it was joined by reluctant hands.

  Nefertiti stood stiff as a statue, anxious about what the Pharaoh would say next.

  “For my first decree as Pharaoh, send military men to tear down all the temples dedicated to any false god. Only temples to the Aten are to remain.”

  Pawah, Beketaten, and Nefertiti swallowed the lumps in their throats. Beketaten shot a glance to Nefertiti that said, If you had only killed Akhenaten that night instead of waiting.

  Nefertiti’s nostrils flared—she didn’t know if her anger was toward Beketaten or because she too felt the same way.

  “Furthermore,” Smenkare continued, and all ears turned to his next words, “death will meet any who utter Amun’s name.”

  A simultaneous gasp was heard throughout the hall, but Smenkare contin
ued.

  “Thus Pharaoh says.” He waited for the people’s jaws to close and their incredulous stares to cease, but when they didn’t, he added, “We shall begin with the purge at the first morning light! Enjoy your food and beverage, for tomorrow we finish what Pharaoh Akhenaten began.”

  Chief Royal Guard Jabari stood off nearby, his nostrils flaring at the decree as the room broke out in murmured whispers. His subordinates Khabek, Ineni, and Hori’s knuckles went white as they squeezed their spears and rubbed their thumbs along the smooth wooden handles. They all exchanged glances and knew Smenkare would soon meet the same fate as his brother.

  As the scribe wrote Smenkare’s declaration, Pharaoh turned to Meritaten with a big smile on his face. Her eyebrows squeezed together as she pulled her lips into a grimace. He came near to her.

  “What pains you, my beautiful Meritaten: the one the Aten loves?”

  She took a hard swallow. “My Pharaoh . . . not even my father was so severe,” Meritaten murmured low enough for only his ears.

  “My love . . . my Queen . . . Egypt will never truly worship the Aten when there is temptation at every corner to worship a false god. I do this for Egypt, for the greater of its people,” Smenkare reasoned, and stroked her arm with the tips of his fingers.

  She took another moment to gather her words, then looked at him and said, “Many will die.”

  “Yes, my love, but my brother and I talked a long time about what we should do. Because he died and was unable to give the decree, I will do it for him. It will be my legacy—the Pharaoh who ultimately brought Egypt out of ignorance.”

  Commander Horemheb and General Paaten stood in the back corner of the great hall, each lost in their own thoughts at the new edict, until Horemheb spoke.

  “There will be much bloodshed,” he whispered.

  “Yes, there will be.” Paaten’s sturdy legs stood as pillars, but his voice revealed his sadness.