“Great royal wi—”
“Yes, it is I, Sitamun, great royal wife and King’s daughter,” she said.
Her bloodshot eyes stared them down, daring them to sound the alarm that she had escaped from prison; but instead they held their silence.
“What brings you to us?” Hori asked.
“It does not concern you. You will move aside, and you will not enter until morning light,” Sitamun said to them, and let her hand fall to her side—her hand that held a knife in the folds of her dress.
Hori peered down at the knife in her hand, tilted his head in her direction, and sidestepped the door, giving his approval. “As you command.”
Khabek opened the door for her, breathing a sigh of relief, and they resumed their position.
“About time,” Hori whispered before the door closed.
Sitamun stood at the door for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the small amount of moonlight coming in through the window. She noticed the two figures on the bed beyond the open hallway. She pressed the dagger to her chest with the point down as she clutched its handle with both hands. She crept around to where her son slept. Her knuckles went white as she looked up and closed her eyes.
“Forgive me. I failed you.”
She raised the dagger high and thrust it deep into his chest. No sound came from him, and as she pulled the dagger out, blood only seeped from the wound. She felt his cheek, and he was cool to the touch. She realized he was already dead.
I’ve done something I didn’t need to do!
She yanked her hand away from her son’s face and shuffled back a step.
He’s dead. I didn’t have to kill him. Praise Amun! Thank you!
But all of a sudden, her relief turned to a broken heart.
Ah, my son! My only son!
Her face twisted into a grimace as the death of her son caused her world to stop.
Then Meritaten stirred in her sleep.
I’ve got to get out of here, she thought—
But it was too late. Meritaten awoke with a start, seeing the dark figure looming over her husband. Sitamun’s body froze in her retreat.
“Go back to sleep, Meritaten,” Sitamun said, her voice trembling. “Everything will be fine in the morning.”
“What? Who are you?” Meritaten said in a loud voice. “Smenkare, wake up.” She hit his shoulder but did not feel his usual warmth. “Smenkare!” she yelled, her voice growing frantic.
“Quiet, child,” Sitamun said as she walked around to where Meritaten lay, still pushing Smenkare and touching his face. Sitamun’s stomach fluttered, and her body tingled from adrenaline, as she waited for Meritaten to uncover Smenkare’s fate.
“Is he dead? He’s dead . . .” She was speaking to herself, but now she glared up and thrust a finger in Sitamun’s face. “You did this!” The rise in Meritaten’s voice sent the hairs on Sitamun’s body on edge.
“I said quiet, child!” Sitamun grabbed one of Meritaten’s wrists and heard her racing heart pounding in her ears.
“Let go of me!” Meritaten’s voice was louder now, and she was about to call for the guards when Sitamun pressed her other hand over the top of Meritaten’s mouth, dropping the dagger on the bed. After a few moments, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, Meritaten whispered, “Sitamun?”
“Yes,” she replied, hovering her hand over Meritaten’s mouth to let her speak.
“How did you escape from prison? How are you here? What is that awful smell?” Meritaten said. “Did you kill Smen—”
“Go back to sleep, Meritaten.” An idea struck her. “You are dreaming. Sitamun is not here. How could she be? She is in prison awaiting her execution in the morning.”
Meritaten yanked herself back and fell onto Smenkare’s lifeless body.
“No!”
An immense breathlessness overcame her as she tried to piece together the events of the night.
“I am awake,” she finally expelled. “And you . . . you killed him. You killed my husband—your son! Your son! You killed Pharaoh!” Her hands rushed to her mouth and chest, clutching her nightdress.
Sitamun remembered her words to the jail guards. She had hoped to be able to rid Egypt of this Pharaoh who took innocent lives with no consequence, but with Meritaten as an eyewitness, she would face consequences. That thought sank like a rock to the pit of her stomach. Without thinking, Sitamun grabbed Meritaten by her head with both hands and shoved it into the mattress.
“I told you to be quiet!”
Meritaten’s muffled yell of “Help!” could barely be heard as Sitamun pushed her head further into the bed.
“Quiet! Child! Quiet!”
Meritaten flung her arms about, barely able to scratch her attacker. Sitamun stood and blocked her arms’ movement from behind. Meritaten’s legs were tangled up in the linen bedsheet and proved worthless as she found her mother-in-law to be quite strong.
Sitamun didn’t register the moment when Meritaten’s hands stopped flailing. She continued to stand above her, pushing her son’s wife’s head into the bed, telling her to be quiet, child, quiet, until almost morning light.
Finally, she lifted her hands and put them to her mouth, as her lungs had forgotten how to breathe, and inhaled a long, deep breath. She surveyed the room; nothing stirred.
“With Smenkare gone, the Coregent will have my head for taking her daughter’s life,” Sitamun whispered.
She paced a while until her nerves settled and her hands stopped shaking. Her mind came up with a possible way out of this. She rolled Meritaten over onto her back and put the dagger in her lifeless hand. Then she rolled her only son, Smenkare, to his belly, pulling his arms so his hands lay at Meritaten’s neck.
“A lover’s quarrel gone wrong,” she whispered to herself, and took a shaky breath. Blinking back her tears, she stumbled backward and repeated to them and her god Amun, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me . . .”
—until her heel touched their chamber door. She opened it and slid out as Khabek peered over his shoulder and nodded to her. She forced a smile in return—a smile of pity, not a smile of happiness—and ran to wake her stewards before the morning light to take her back to her father’s palace in Waset.
Chapter 14
The Time of the Woman King
The morning rang out with news that Pharaoh and his Queen died in their sleep; but those in the palace knew better; and even more so, Nefertiti knew Pawah must have had a hand in it. She had left Smenkare’s death in Pawah’s malicious hands, and he had found a way to take Meritaten’s life as well.
This was no “lover’s quarrel.” Whomever Pawah recruited to do his bidding will pay with their life, and when the time comes when I can arrest Pawah, he will pay mercilessly, she thought as she was crowned as Pharaoh Neferneferuaten.
Nefertiti watched the nobles at her crowning ceremony. She had named Pawah as her Vizier of both the Upper and the Lower, so to keep him close and under surveillance.
The nobles were happy but kept their emotions reserved, because the last pharaoh they had celebrated still made them tremble, even now in his tomb.
It had only been a year since she had taken her husband’s life. Now she was where she was supposed to be—the wrong corrected—but Nefertiti sat on the throne, peering out over the nobles and officers, expressionless. Her cheeks sagged. The corners of her mouth fell down, and her icy stare penetrated straight through the crowd and fixated on the wall behind them. She looked over to where Meritaten would have sat as a great royal wife. The heat from her ears gave her a headache, and the pain from her grinding teeth gave her the determination to find Meritaten’s true killer.
She saw Mut and Tey there looking at the spot where Meritaten would have been sitting. Tey’s eyes looked to her, and she felt her mother’s blame cut through the crowd and slice into her.
She alone sat on the throne’s platform. She had removed Ankhesenpaaten and Tut—to distance them from her, to keep them safe—but those in the great hall only saw a power-obsessed female Ph
araoh.
Ankhesenpaaten peered up and over her shoulder at her mother. She still sat in a great royal wife’s throne, but merely on the same level as everyone else. She looked to Tut by her side.
Shouldn’t Tut be Pharaoh? He is the rightful heir, Ankhesenpaaten thought.
She peered up again at her mother and examined her aged face. She thought, for a woman who had lived only half her life, Nefertiti already carried a lifetime of woe in the creases on her brow and around her eyes. She wondered about all of the burdens she carried. Although her cheeks still rose as high as the great pyramids, her eyes as dark as the night sky, her dull skin and the loss of sparkle in her eyes drowned out her beauty.
Something weighs on her shoulders. She is hiding something. She didn’t even cry when they told her Meritaten had died. . . . She knew it was going to happen—that’s why she told me “when” she becomes Pharaoh, not “if”!
Her mind tried to recall that night her mother had come to her, but Tut broke her thoughts.
“I miss Smenkare and Meritaten. They let us be up there, beside them.” He tapped his cane on the stone floor; the sound drowned out his mumblings. The corners of his mouth turned down as he crossed his arms. “I can’t even see anything from down here.”
“I wonder what the real reason was that made Mother move us from the platform,” Ankhesenpaaten wondered aloud.
The horrible thought crossed her mind: Does she think we would get in the way of her rule of Egypt?
“No,” she whispered to herself, but her thought shifted to Meritaten.
Mother wouldn’t kill her own daughter . . . would she?
Ankhesenpaaten felt her muscles tense as she peered back up to her mother.
“What?” Tut asked.
“It’s nothing. Mother . . . wouldn’t do that.”
Ankhesenpaaten’s gaze shot to Tut as she struggled to get those last few words out, and she thought, Wouldn’t she? If I were in Meritaten’s place, would I be dead too? She peered over her shoulder again to the throne. Did she have Meritaten and Smenkare killed so she could take the crown from Tut?
“Do what? Oops!”
Tut had dropped his leg of lamb to the ground before he was able to sink his teeth into the juicy meat. He laughed, scooted from the throne, and picked it up. Maia, his nurse, helped him back into his seat and took the leg from him before he could take a bite, a servant just as quickly replacing it with another.
Ankhesenpaaten looked to the young child. He would be much too young to run a powerful nation such as Egypt. She shook her head, missing her sidelock but glad to be wearing a woman’s wig. It’s a silly thought, anyway.
Ankhesenpaaten jolted from the suddenness with which Nefertiti stood and walked to the edge of the platform. The great hall silenced their whisperings to see what this Pharaoh would say. Was it to be doom for any who spoke Amun’s name? Or liberation from their religious suffering? They leaned forward in anticipation, and she smiled, as if in knowledge of their fears and just what to say to allay them.
“As first order of this new crowning,” she said, “Pharaoh of the Upper and Lower removes the decree made by the Pharaohs before. The divinely appointed of Amun says this: No more blood shall be spilt for those who utter Amun’s name. The temples shall be spared. The worship of our great empire’s gods and goddesses of the past millennia shall continue. The people of Egypt may worship Ma’at, Anubis, Ptah, and all the others as they need, and, most importantly, Amun-Re shall be named the premiere god of Egypt once again.”
The great hall’s celebratory cheers echoed off the stone walls and into the streets outside the palace, causing rumors to be spread like wildfire about the elated nobility in attendance at the crowning.
“Furthermore!” Nefertiti bellowed to quiet the crowd. “As Pharaoh, the solely divine of Amun to lead Egypt, the greatest of all, shall reinstate the priesthood of Amun and rebuild his temples. Being the true highest prophet of Amun, Pharaoh Neferneferuaten shows the people that Pharaoh alone has the power and authority to do this. A portion of all offerings to Amun will come to Pharaoh, as there are none greater.”
The nobility applauded and began to chant:
“None are greater than Pharaoh! None are greater than Pharaoh!”
Under Nefertiti’s smile was a sad thought: Amenhotep . . . my love . . . this one decree was all that was required of you years before. Why didn’t you just make it? Now, we have not only lost our people’s respect for the throne but also the life of our daughter, Meritaten. Her death is on your head.
Watching from across the room, Pawah’s mouth curved into a wicked smile.
“She is perfect,” he murmured under his breath, thinking this was his chance to marry into the Pharaoh position.
Beketaten heard him as she glanced between her husband and Nefertiti, and her heart hardened even more against this new Pharaoh.
She had helped arrange the murder of the last two Pharaohs . . . what was one more?
When the crowning ceremony was completed again in Men-nefer and then Waset, Smenkare and Meritaten were hurriedly buried and without much regard. Nefertiti had made the same declaration at each coronation, so the people loved her for her dedication to Amun-Re yet doubted her ability as a woman Pharaoh.
But Nefertiti’s mission wasn’t only to restore the priesthood of Amun; it was also to restore Egypt’s prior glory and keep power in Pharaoh’s court. With the reinstatement, however, Pawah received back his former title, Fifth Prophet of Amun, thus elevating him even higher in the eyes of the people than from his marriage to Beketaten and his leadership of the People’s Restoration of Egypt. To counter, Nefertiti made sure the First Prophet could not self-appoint himself like Meryptah had under Pharaoh Amenhotep III. She acted quickly as the prophets squabbled over who would be First Prophet and took the traditional responsibility of Pharaoh, appointing Simut as the First Prophet of Amun to show none was greater than Pharaoh.
Pawah curled his top lip at her appointment and shook his head. “Well done, Pharaoh. Now it is my turn,” he whispered under his breath. He left the appointment hearing and went to find Beketaten.
Nefertiti watched him leave as knots grew in her belly. The more she interacted with him, the more she realized one truth: he would do anything to get what he wanted. What scared her about this truth was the fact that he had caused her to push her own morality off the cliff as well—twice. The second time had caused her to lose another daughter caught in the crossfire of political gain, and that thought caused a swarm of sickness to overtake her stomach as she dismissed all in her company.
As she stared distantly at the giant stone columns holding up the open roof of the throne room, debating the status of her guilt and dignity, a messenger came. Commander Horemheb and General Paaten had come to Aketaten with news of the border disputes. Her heart tried to spark a moment of happiness at the thought of seeing the Commander and the General again, but her mouth fell slack. Her daughter had died because of her cowardice and delay. Happiness was not deserved.
Commander Horemheb and General Paaten entered the throne room, bowing when they reached the lowest step of the platform. The sun-cast shadows deepened her sallow cheeks and circles under her eyes. She gazed at her old friend General Paaten, and at Horemheb, the man she thought could save her from herself. A heavy breath escaped her lips as her voice lay limp in the air.
“What news do you bring Pharaoh?”
Commander Horemheb swallowed the lump in the back of his throat. When he had heard the news of Pharaoh Smenkare and his Queen Meritaten while in Libya, he wanted to scream out in heartache for Nefertiti. He had told her she was no fool for putting Meritaten’s life in their hands for the betterment of the position of Pharaoh; and yet, Meritaten was no doubt murdered along with her husband. Now, as he looked upon her, he witnessed the true depths of the pain he had only imagined.
“The Libyan dispute has been resolved, to the glory of Egypt.”
The softness of his voice comforted Nefertit
i’s ears, causing her to find his eyes. His steady gaze gave her an unspoken comfort that nearly brought forth tears.
She quickly turned to General Paaten. “And Nubia?”
“The Nubian threat has also been disabled.” General Paaten also possessed a soft tone. He shifted his weight, as if trying to take some of her burden.
“Egypt is now at peace . . .”—Nefertiti closed her eyes to keep them from glistening—“worshiping Amun and with secured borders . . .” She opened her eyes. “But at what cost?”
She thought, Amun still punishes me.
Both the Commander and the General stood still, knowing it mattered not what they said; it could not compare to the loss of Pharaoh’s daughter.
“A great cost,” General Paaten finally murmured.
Nefertiti stood up. Stepping down to their level, she walked between and past them, and they fell in step behind her. Horemheb watched her shoulders roll forward and her head lower.
“Pharaoh, if I may speak?” he asked.
Nefertiti stopped walking. Placing her hands behind her back, she turned to face them.
Horemheb drew in a deep breath. He didn’t know what to say to her.
“I’m sorry.”
He was sorry for not taking more action, for telling her to not take more action, for not preventing this death . . . but he left it at that—I’m sorry—fully aware that General Paaten did not know about the past two murder conspiracies.
Nefertiti clenched her jaw. She understood his apology, but she also understood that this was the second time that both he and her father had stood by, letting her take the brunt of the fall.
General Paaten cleared his throat. “We are all sorry for your loss, Pharaoh.”
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her gaze on Horemheb, “General.”
Surprised by his sudden, irrepressible desire to console her in her pain, Horemheb instinctively took a small step toward her—he wanted to pull her close; he wanted to forget his place. A hard stare from both General Paaten and Nefertiti found him and pinned him where he stood, and he stepped back in line.
Secrets in the Sand Page 14
