“Will you come to see us again?”
A hard beat of Nefertiti’s heart weighed on her nerves. She had not been to see them much at all since she acted in Pharaoh’s place, and now that Smenkare was on the throne, she felt torn. He was now murdering his own people to purge Egypt of its heresy, and yet her daughters needed her so they would not fall victim to the brainwashing of the Aten, as Meritaten had. Time eluded her. She kept telling herself, I must deal with this now, my children can wait. I will teach them later; and now, looking upon Ankhesenpaaten, with her woman’s wig, time was a dwindling asset.
“Of course, Ankhesenpaaten.” She wrapped her in her arms once more and squeezed. “I will come to see you again.”
Nefertiti bid farewell to her daughters and watched them enter the temple at the end of the path. She looked to the south again, toward Nubia, and wondered if the commander would be back soon. Her mind produced bouts of worry, but she would shake them away one by one, telling herself men died in battle all the time; the commander was no different. But the more she tried to convince herself she felt nothing for him, the more she did. She had been counting the days since he’d left, and his one and a half seasons were almost up.
The last message they had received stated that relations weren’t going as well as planned. To add to her burdens, Ay’s men in the north sent a message to Pharaoh that the Libyans had heard about the Nubians’ advance and had decided they would test the great Egypt. But the most disheartening message: almost three thousand executions had been ordered since Smenkare’s edict. The people’s screams filled the air of Waset and Men-nefer, even while, from the palace at Aketaten, all seemed serene.
Her hands were tied—unless she considered another murder . . . and she couldn’t bring herself to think on it. Memories of Akhenaten dying in her arms pushed that possibility from her reach.
Nefertiti looked out again to the north, and then to the south, not knowing who to talk to or what to do.
Ay emerged with Meritaten from the royal harem’s library headed to the main palace. He looked her way. They connected their gaze. She reasoned that her father would be a good person to talk to about the state of the nation—but at the thought, her jaw locked. She still had not forgiven him, and with an upturn of her nose, she ignored him. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him dip his chin.
It was still too soon.
As she watched Meritaten’s long linen dress flow with the slight breeze in her walk alongside Ay, dread encroached upon Nefertiti’s heart. She wondered how long before the People’s Restoration of Egypt would come asking for royal blood again.
This time, though, the Queen would not be empathetic to their cause.
Chapter 11
The Time of Protection
Almost nine months had passed since Smenkare’s coronation, and his military officers had dutifully carried out his edict. The people continued to cry out from the streets, but their cries went unheard—until Sitamun could no longer bear it.
Smenkare sat on his throne and peered down at the woman who had borne him life. As daughter and royal wife of Pharaoh Amenhotep III, Sitamun did not bow.
“My son,” Sitamun began.
“You will address me as Pharaoh,” Smenkare huffed.
“Pharaoh,” Sitamun said, lifting her chin, but her gaze intently focused upon her son.
Smenkare, she thought, you hurt me. I lived in isolation for you. Raised you in secrecy until our father passed. I taught you the truth, and yet you reject Amun-Re and order the blood of those who believe in Egypt’s gods and goddesses.
“Why have you done this? Egypt’s land calls out to you with the blood of its people, slain by your edict.” She tilted her head; her heart rate remained calm, although it wanted to beat as fast as the crocodile attacks. I did not raise a murderer. I did not raise a tyrant. “Do you not love Egypt?”
“I love Egypt, woman!” Smenkare shot up from his seated throne. “It is precisely that love which forces me to cleanse Egypt of its heretic ways! I am purging the false gods from the empire. My brother and Pharaoh past gave me that for my legacy.”
The calm cage she had placed around her heart began to fracture as she took a quick inhale to repair it and decided against chiding her son for not using her title. “Pharaoh Akhenaten was my brother and your half-brother,” Sitamun said; her voice flowed smooth like the Nile, yet her brow furrowed at her son’s disrespect.
Do you remember nothing, child?! You let my brother taint your faith with his mad ramblings and visions. After all I taught you, after all the sleepless nights worrying over you and your future, you disregard all that I have done for you because you let a false prophet into your mind and heart.
Her lip trembled, whether in sorrow or rage she couldn’t tell. “I am your mother,” she said, praying to Amun-Re he remembered their bond, “and your mother pleads for the lives of your people.”
“Your pleas are in vain,” Smenkare said, and he motioned for the guards, who came and flanked either side of Sitamun. “Through all my days with you, you lied to me. You never told me who my father was. You robbed me of my right to the throne. You made me worship the false god Amun, along with your other heretic ways, even under Pharaoh Akhenaten’s direct order to abandon those beliefs.”
Sitamun looked to each guard by her side before looking back to the throne. “Yes. Something you did gladly, Pharaoh!” Sitamun pointed to her son as if he were a child that needed scolding. If only you understood the full truth, the full pain, the full embarrassment of our father, you would know why I hid this from you. “I never told you my father was your father because he ordered me to silence. He already had an heir to the throne. You wished me to break the command of a Pharaoh?”
“You did with Pharaoh Akhenaten, why not with Pharaoh Amenhotep?” Smenkare said. “My brother showed me the true way. He revealed to me the truths of my past, and you tried to cover them up—picking and choosing which laws and commands to obey, which laws best suited your beliefs! You are neither obedient nor loyal, and so I disown you!”
Sitamun’s jaw clenched. You murder your own mother with your words. Her tongue felt dry in her mouth as her royal training began to fail her in the midst of his declaration. Her heart broke from its cage and raced toward the edge.
Mother and son each held their stare, seeing who would break first.
“You disown me?” Sitamun finally croaked out. “You disown me?!”
Her voice reverberated from the stone walls.
Smenkare held his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “Pharaoh does not repeat himself.”
She ground her teeth until she thought her jaw might crack, then she blurted out, “Do you not see that Pharaoh Akhenaten was mad? The people are tired of this! Whisperings of rebellion fill the streets of Waset, Men-nefer, and, yes, even Aketaten!”
Smenkare blinked but held his stare as she continued.
“The people lost respect for Pharaoh Akhenaten, as they will you. He told you many truths that I was not allowed to tell you, yes, but my father was a hundred times the Pharaoh my brother ever was. The stench of Egypt’s rot reaches our enemies, and now, because of you, they can even taste its people’s blood flowing from the Nile into the sea.”
Her breath became trapped under an angry weight resting on her chest as she stared at her son’s stone face.
His monotonous reply filled the room. “They only taste the purge. Soon we will rise up greater than ever before.”
“People only worship the Aten because they are afraid of an untimely death. Amun will always be the premiere god of Egypt, and Amun will always be on the hearts of the people, even if their lips praise the Aten. Why, O Pharaoh, are the temples of Aten all but empty? Yet praises and offerings filled the temples of Amun every—”
“Watch your tongue, woman,” Smenkare said. “We no longer speak of the false god.”
You spit in the face of Amun, son, and you will meet the same fate. I will warn you one last time. Your arrogance and
your false belief will be your downfall. You will have to kill me before I ever say Amun is a false god. If Egypt does not kill you first, you will end up reigning over a poor, small empire, and die at the hands of an invading enemy.
She narrowed her eyes and rolled her shoulders back to ready herself for one last attempt to plead for the people’s lives and, indirectly, that of her son. “Pharaoh Amenhotep worshiped Amun. He was Amun’s divinely appointed. My brother was supposed to go back to Amun after he regained the power and recouped the prestige from the priesthood of Amun, but he didn’t, and instead has bled Egypt dry. Work cannot be found. Egypt cannot pay for everyone to be a soldier when the economy dies! Trade routes are drying up. Everything our father built is almost dead. You and my brother turn your backs on Egypt. Please—”
“No more of this,” Smenkare said. His shoulders had risen to his chin as she spoke. His cheeks burned with every word. “Your father’s reign is over. His commands are no longer valid. I am Pharaoh, and my word is law. Any who disobey me shall be executed.”
“I would follow my father’s command to my last breath,” Sitamun said, giving herself as the last test of this Pharaoh’s sanity.
“Then so be it,” Smenkare said, and he snapped his fingers.
The guards on either side of Sitamun grabbed her arms.
She had wagered her life and lost.
“Imprison her and prepare for her execution. She shall be made an example for all of Egypt at the celebration marking my first year as Pharaoh. No one is above the law of Pharaoh . . . not even his mother.”
A few days later, Pawah and Beketaten met with Commander Horemheb, who had just returned from Nubia, Master of Pharaoh’s Horses, Ay, and Coregent Neferneferuaten-Nefertiti to discuss the growing problem on the throne.
“We must do something about Smenkare,” Beketaten began once they were all seated in the council room—before the sun rose, as to not draw suspicion from a passerby. “He has even imprisoned his own mother and sentenced her to death.” Beketaten’s eyes raged. “Though he decided to let her stay in prison for a while to give her some time to change her ways.” Beketaten’s gaze fell upon Nefertiti. “Even Akhenaten saved you, his wife, from the torment of sitting in a cold, damp, stone-walled prison pit. Why should my sister be any different? This is your doing.” She pointed a long finger at Nefertiti. “If only you had made Akhenaten drink his poison before he could name Smenkare as his successor, people would not be killed in the streets and a great royal wife would not be due for execution.”
“To the benefit of Nefertiti,” Pawah began as he placed a hand on Beketaten’s shoulders and lowered her pointed finger. “How could we have known he, of all people, who was raised by us and Sitamun, would be so Aten-istic? There was no way we could have known.”
“But he is on the throne now. Worse than Akhenaten, if I do say so,” Commander Horemheb said. His return had been recent, the relations in Nubia not going as expected. The General still fought in the Upper, but due to relations with the Libyans in the Lower, Pharaoh Smenkare had ordered Commander Horemheb to withdraw his third back to Aketaten and to be ready to go either north to the Libyans or back south to the Nubians, depending on where the need was the most. “We cannot change what happened. We can only plan for the future. All blame should be set aside.” He eyed Beketaten.
Nefertiti looked to the commander, glad he had made it back safely. She missed him. She hadn’t laughed since he’d left.
“You didn’t know, Coregent?” Beketaten asked. “You spent all this time in the palace and you didn’t know about your own daughter and her husband? You are a horrible mother! Why didn’t you teach your children?”
Commander Horemheb put his hand up to silence her as Ay sat in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, unmoving. Nefertiti silently thanked Amun that Commander Horemheb would stand up for her, even if her father wouldn’t.
“The past is the past,” Horemheb said.
Beketaten pointed her finger again. “This is her fault!”
“She was busy trying to patch your brother’s mistakes!” Horemheb said with a sharp tone.
Nefertiti let out a deep breath as she watched her father in the corner. She knew he agreed with Beketaten . . . so then where was he as she went to kill her husband? He was supposed to protect his lotus blossom, but he had failed—just like he was failing her now in this room.
Horemheb came to her aid. His deep voice reverberated about the room as Beketaten’s shrills overtook them—back and forth until Nefertiti stood up and looked at the two of them.
“I take responsibility for this,” Nefertiti said, and threw her hands up. “Any great leader accepts failures as well as victories.”
Her stab at Beketaten worked: the insinuation of her lack of leadership caused Beketaten’s eye to twitch.
“Then correct your mistake. Correct the throne,” Beketaten muttered.
Nefertiti brought her hands to her sides and released the tension in her neck by rubbing her thumb over the sides of her fingers. She could see Ay look to her, perhaps trying to read her reaction to this proposal.
“Correct it? Smenkare is young. He has many years left,” Nefertiti said, dodging the weight behind the suggestion. Yet again, she didn’t like where this was going.
“Coregent, Egypt won’t survive many years,” Horemheb said with pinched eyes and a half-grimace.
Nefertiti felt the stab of truth in her heart for his agreement with their common enemy. At least it appeared he didn’t like where this was headed either. Her brow furrowed as fear of having to murder again crossed her mind. Her soul smiled when Horemheb seemed to read her mind with his next comment:
“But Pawah was the father Smenkare never had.” Horemheb threw his head in Pawah’s direction. “Perhaps Pawah should correct his own mistake.”
Pawah narrowed his eyes at Horemheb and sneered, slowly crossing his arms over his chest.
“Well,” Ay said, shaking his head, “something has to be done. Corruption is prevalent throughout the Aten priesthood, the military, the people. Starvation and poverty sweep Egypt’s streets like the plague. The treasury reserve is almost gone . . . and then we will not be able to pay the troops, our last hope of survival.”
“You will have a rebellion before then. I guarantee it,” Pawah said. “If you want to not be counted as one of the targeted, I suggest you do something more immediate.” His eyebrows arched over his eyes.
“Why don’t you do it, ‘Vizier of the Upper’?” Nefertiti felt satisfaction when she saw that her comment caught him by surprise. “You will be targeted as well, Pawah.”
“No,” he said. “The people think I have only accepted this position to get close to Pharaoh. I will be safe from my own rebellion. But you see, I have not told them you are a true worshipper of Amun. They believe you are a follower of the Aten. And until I do, you will do what I say.” He popped his knuckles and leaned back, smug in his victory. “Get rid of Smenkare.”
“I do not have Smenkare’s trust as I did with Akhenaten,” Nefertiti said. “He trusts you more than he does me!” She pointed her finger at him, wanting to slap that grin from his face. She was Coregent; she had spent years building her name throughout Egypt and that of her allies. Nefertiti held much power, and yet this man held her life in his hands.
“Is your daughter for Amun or the Aten?” he asked pointedly. “Use Meritaten. He trusts her the most, as she is his only wife. We will even provide the hemlock, as we did with you.”
“You shall not turn my daughter into a murderer!” Nefertiti shot a glare at Ay, whose shoulders shrank back. “That was my burden, as it is also my burden of having a daughter who worships the Aten because I did not teach her well enough.”
“So you did know about Smenkare and Meritaten!” Beketaten thrust her finger toward Nefertiti a third time. “And yet you did nothing?! You liar! You enabler!”
“What was I to do? I didn’t know he would name Smenkare as his successor. I thought his son woul
d be the next Pharaoh. After all, he betrayed my bed to produce him—no thanks to you and Henuttaneb, you scheming demons! May Ammit devour your hearts!”
“Do not talk ill of the dead!” Beketaten’s hands balled into fists.
Nefertiti remembered Henuttaneb’s cold lifeless body on the floor after she birthed Tutankhaten. She knew Henuttaneb’s heart was pure, only having been manipulated by Beketaten, and would not be eaten by Ammit in the afterlife. About her own, however, she often wondered.
Nefertiti’s cheeks burned. “You were the one who got him drunk and enabled his obsessions by putting those visions in his head. You are the liar! You told me it was Kiya’s doing! You took away my only friend, you miserable wretch!” Nefertiti’s red cheeks burned up the tears she held back, remembering Kiya, at her last breath, telling her she was thankful Nefertiti was her friend, even though she had treated her so horribly after choosing to believe Beketaten’s lies of Kiya sneaking off with Akhenaten and orchestrating the plan to bring a drunk Akhenaten his wives to further his chance for an heir.
“You—” Beketaten started.
“You could have killed him then, after Tutankhaten was born, but you left Aketaten like a coward, leaving me to believe Kiya betrayed me! Why did you not kill him then, Beketaten? Did you not wish to dirty your hands?” Nefertiti’s pulse pounded in her ears and behind her eyes.
Ay’s mouth twisted into a frown at his daughter’s pain, and he closed his eyes, wishing her life had been with Thutmose instead. Commander Horemheb stood unflinching, facing Beketaten and Pawah, standing behind every word of Pharaoh Coregent.
Pawah spoke at his wife’s silence, his voice quiet. “She did not know how to kill Pharaoh Akhenaten,” he responded. “We apologize at the inconvenience it caused you, but at the time Akhenaten needed a male heir, and you only produced daughters.”
Nefertiti gritted her teeth. She hoped one day they would find hemlock in their wine. “She took joy in watching my agony.”
Secrets in the Sand Page 11
