Nefertiti drew in a shaky breath and pushed her lips together. She shook her head and closed her eyes, leaning forward in her throne. How to respond? She opened her eyes and straightened her back. “No,” Nefertiti answered, but felt her heart drop into her stomach at the half-truth. She watched her daughter’s unmoving arms and her quivering jaw signifying her struggle to accept the answer. “And to think—if my own daughter assumes as much, it makes me wonder what the rest of the people think.” Nefertiti leaned back in her throne and propped her head up with one elbow. “Ankhesenpaaten, the people rejoice in the streets because they are gone. Your father, too. They are happy to worship Amun-Re again, as it should be. As it has always been.”
“I saw the mourners! The people were sad they were gone—all of them!” Ankhesenpaaten yelled, her arms still crossed.
“Ankhesenpaaten. The mourners are paid to be mourners.” Nefertiti took in a deep breath. “I know it pains you to hear—”
“You are a liar. No one is happy they are gone.” Ankhesenpaaten’s hands dropped as her face fell and a swift coldness seeped into her bones. “The Aten is the true god.”
Nefertiti blinked, not anticipating this response from her daughter. “When you become a royal wife, you will learn you mustn’t say things like that or else end up like your father and sister.”
“Why? If you aren’t around to kill me—”
“The people will,” Nefertiti cut her off as her breathing grew labored. How to get her daughter to understand? “And they will send those who can to do their bidding.”
“But Pharaoh is all powerful. One who kills the Aten’s divinely appointed is forever lost and will not be able to journey to the afterlife.”
“Amun’s divinely appointed.” Nefertiti threw her hand toward the door. “Go to Malkata. Go to Waset, child. Learn for yourself the truth.”
“I am not a child,” Ankhesenpaaten retorted, bringing her hands to her hips in a pose that, to Nefertiti, was nothing but childish.
“You wanted to know the truth? You claim to be mature enough to understand? Then quit believing like a child!” Nefertiti yelled at her. “There are consequences if you don’t worship the true god, Amun-Re. If you be like your father and sister, Egypt will cease to exist!” She stood up from her chair and began to pace. “Do you know how close we have come to bankruptcy? Do you know how close we have come to rebellion? We have lost our allies. The economy was failing; the royal treasury and grain houses was the only thing to keep the nation afloat for these past ten years—all because your father chased after his own selfish desires and took the whole of Egypt with him into his despairing pit of madness!”
“Don’t talk about Father that way,” Ankhesenpaaten muttered as she clenched her hands by her sides, her cheeks flushed from the scolding her mother gave her.
Nefertiti marched up to Ankhesenpaaten, who cowered in her presence. “Open your eyes, Ankhesenpaaten!”
“If I do believe you, then why the Hittites?” Ankhesenpaaten drew in a hot breath as she waited for her mother to respond.
Nefertiti gritted her teeth, narrowing her eyes; her mind flashed to the morning as she watched Horemheb leave her room. “The people want a male Pharaoh,” Nefertiti said at last. “To be as it has always been. Thanks to your father, once again, the people are paranoid of change.”
“But, Mother, why the Hittites?” she asked again.
“I must marry royalty.” Nefertiti straightened her back and walked toward her throne.
“Tut is royalty! And Pawah is royalty by marriage.” Ankhesenpaaten presented the facts to her mother with a swing of her hand. “Can’t you marry them?”
“Ha. Pawah. Never trust that man.” Nefertiti peered over her shoulder. “Keep him close so you can see what he is up to, but never trust him, even if your life depends on it.” She reached her throne and sat down. “And I would never marry Tut.”
“Why not? Tut is sweet and kind.” Ankhesenpaaten smiled at the thought of his daily fighting class, at his yelling he would protect her.
Nefertiti noticed her smile and bit her tongue, shaking her head in disgust. She rubbed her forehead. “Why am I still being punished?” she whispered to herself.
“What?” Ankhesenpaaten leaned forward, trying to hear what her mother said.
Nefertiti looked up. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Just tell me. I might. I am old enough to understand these things.”
Ankhesenpaaten’s whiny, shrill voice sent Nefertiti’s blood boiling. “You wouldn’t understand—I tried telling you about your father and you reject the truth!”
Ankhesenpaaten’s nostrils flared. “Tell me, Mother! Tell me!”
Nefertiti yanked herself from her seat again and shot a finger in the air. “You will not yell at Pharaoh!”
Ankhesenpaaten’s barrage of unsaid words hit her closed lips. Swallowing them down, they fueled the fire in her eyes.
Nefertiti’s hand dropped, as did her chin. “You wouldn’t understand, my sweet one.” Nefertiti’s quiet voice contrasted with the last remnant of echo from her outburst.
Seeing her mother’s sadness extinguished Ankhesenpaaten’s anger as she came near to her mother’s side. Hesitant fingers wrapped around Nefertiti’s arm.
Nefertiti took a sharp inhale as her body stiffened. “I will not marry your father’s son and give up the crown to a boy who should never have been born.”
Ankhesenpaaten’s eyes pleaded, Why?, but the question lingered in her throat. Maybe there was more to the woman she called mother than what she gave her credit for. “Something happened with Father, didn’t it?”
“I hope you never have to understand,” Nefertiti whispered. She caressed Ankhesenpaaten’s cheek and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry I was never there for you. I am sorry I put my responsibilities over you and your sisters.”
Ankhesenpaaten’s heart skipped a beat. Out of sheer impulse, she threw her hands around Nefertiti’s shoulders and squeezed. She had only wanted some acknowledgment from her mother about her absence all these years; even if she did still feel she wasn’t being completely truthful, in this moment, she felt something for her mother that she hadn’t felt before.
Nefertiti wrapped her arms around her daughter as they shared an unspoken connection. It was the first real embrace Ankhesenpaaten had given her in a long time.
Chapter 18
The Time of Demands
Pawah and Beketaten requested a council with Nefertiti. She invited Ay, Horemheb, and Paaten to join her in the council room with the leaders of the People’s Restoration of Egypt. Beketaten sat before Nefertiti reached her throne, but the others remained standing, as was custom, until Nefertiti sat down.
“The people demand Tut now more than ever,” Pawah began. “Especially after the execution of Sitamun, who was innocent in their eyes.”
“I am Egypt,” Nefertiti countered. “She was not innocent.”
“Just like you and me,” Beketaten said. “The only innocent one in here is General Paaten. Perhaps he should arrest us all and force us to drink—”
“Silence, Beketaten,” Pawah said; he moved his hand in front of her mouth when he observed the faces around them grow grim.
“The sins of the hypocrite come to fruition,” Beketaten jabbed one last time.
“Egypt wants a male Pharaoh,” Pawah said, raising an annoyed eyebrow at his wife. “Tut is your only option . . . other than me.”
Beketaten’s head swung toward her husband; she crossed her arms as she leaned back in the chair. He did speak the truth.
“I will not marry. There are none greater than Pharaoh,” Nefertiti said. “The people may demand a male Pharaoh, but I will wear the Pharaoh’s beard and wear the Pharaoh’s crown. If they want a man, I will dress like a man.”
“Daughter,” Ay whispered. “Just marry the boy.”
“Master of Pharaoh’s Horses, you have done enough to convince me of a great many things in my life, all of which I am not proud,” Nef
ertiti shot back. “It is time to do what you do best and let me fend for myself.”
The dagger in the air drew blood as Ay felt his heart bleed.
“There will be no marriage,” Nefertiti continued to the room. “Let them come. They will be put to death as well, and”—she looked to Beketaten—“there will be no exception to the law this time.”
“My brother Akhenaten put to death the rebellion that came upon Malkata and sent us to exile,” Beketaten gently reminded her. “And you see what happened to him.”
“The people’s bellies are full again and their hands do not lay idle,” Nefertiti retorted, “their faith reestablished, their lives not in danger for uttering Amun-Re’s name. I have corrected all that your brothers have done.”
“We shall see.” Beketaten pressed her lips into a wicked smile. “I hope you sleep well tonight, Pharaoh, for it may be the last.”
Nefertiti raised an eyebrow. “Are you threatening Pharaoh? We all know what happens to those who threaten the throne.”
“Nonsense. I am merely warning Pharaoh.” Beketaten’s shoulders emphasized her intent with an innocent shrug, but her eyes glowered at Nefertiti.
Nefertiti narrowed her eyes in response. “I should have asked your brother and mother to kill you when you rebelled against Pharaoh. I saved you from execution.”
“You sent us to exile!”
Nefertiti sat up straight, ready to defend herself. “I didn’t send you to exile. Akhenaten did. We have already had this discussion, and I will not have it again.”
Beketaten sent a fist into the table. “Because of you, half of my siblings are dead. You—”
General Paaten jerked out of his chair and threw his dagger into the table between the two women. “What is done is done.” He looked to Beketaten. “We can either live in the past, continually righting every wrong done to us in our own minds, or . . .” He picked up his dagger and sheathed it in his belt. “. . . we can move forward, accepting that each side has lost, and work together to rebuild Egypt.” He smoothed the splinters from the wood that his dagger had created, brushing them back into the table until the mark was hardly noticeable. “What say you?”
He fixated on Beketaten, as did Horemheb and Ay.
“One does not simply walk away from murder,” Beketaten muttered through her clenched teeth.
“Words for you to remember as well.” Horemheb’s gaze bore into Beketaten and Pawah. Horemheb stood. “We stand with Pharaoh. She has spoken—there will be no marriage to Prince Tutankhaten, nor to you, Pawah.”
Horemheb puffed his chest, which drew a slight peer from Nefertiti. She looked to her father. Why couldn’t he have defended her like General Paaten and Commander Horemheb? Coward, she thought.
“Now leave.” Horemheb’s voice boomed off the stone walls.
Beketaten opened her mouth to speak, but Pawah stood and grabbed her arm, yanking her out of the chair. “Remember, the four of you, we will follow your wishes . . . for now. I cannot ensure the people will comply.” He pushed Beketaten in front of him, urging her to the door. She shot daggers back at him as she turned to leave. “Power is fleeting when you are a woman,” Pawah said as he followed Beketaten and slammed the door behind them.
“Well, I think we got to Pawah,” Ay said, looking at his clasped hands on the table.
“We?” Nefertiti asked, and her eyes danced in annoyance. “Thank you, General and Commander, for defending your Pharaoh.”
They each bowed their head in reverence.
“Daughter,” Ay started, but Nefertiti spoke over him.
“General and Commander, please let me speak to Master of Pharaoh’s Horses in private.”
“Thus Pharaoh says,” General Paaten said, and the two men left Nefertiti and Ay alone.
Nefertiti knew the General thought less of her now that she had taken her revenge with Sitamun, and she had not spoken to Horemheb alone since he stayed with her that night. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She would not marry; or, if the Hittites responded to her impulsive request, she would have to marry a nasty Hittite, or risk breaching their alliance. Both of those thoughts made her sick, for her heart belonged to Horemheb, even though he refused it.
“My lotus blossom,” Ay said, looking deep into her eyes. “Don’t wager your life with this nonsense. Please, my love. You tie my hands.”
Nefertiti shrugged away her father’s stare. “You convinced me I would thrive when Thutmose died and I was to marry Amenhotep instead. You convinced me Amenhotep would love me when he turned me away after our marriage. ‘Trust and truth are united in marriage, my daughter’—those were your words. You convinced me I could help Akhenaten come back from his madness. You convinced me to stay true to him, that he would relent with his obsessions with the Aten. You convinced me to murder him! Now you want to convince me to marry his son? To what end? To see me in more pain? More anger? More sadness?” Her words flew out faster than she could take in the breath to say them.
Ay sat mute for a moment and closed his eyes. He let out a slow breath. “I did convince you of a great many things. A father is never perfect. We never claim to be. All we want is what’s best for our daughters and our sons. I convinced you of those things because—”
“You were afraid to stand up for me, to protect me,” Nefertiti said.
“No . . .” He pleaded with his eyes. “I thought I was protecting you.” He buried his head in his hands and then he looked at her again. “I thought I was doing the right thing: protecting you from the greater, more pressing threat. Even now, as I urge you to marry Tut, I do so hoping the ceremonial marriage will be enough to appease the people’s concern, and that they do not try to kill you like Akhenaten and Smenkare. I love you, Nefertiti.” His shoulders fell as his heart poured out against the wall she had barricaded herself behind.
Nefertiti’s cheeks flushed hot with rage. “I would rather die than see that boy Tut as Pharaoh!”
“Please, Nefertiti,” Ay said. “Don’t say such things. He is just a boy. You will still be the ruler behind him.”
“It’s not that,” Nefertiti said; although the weight of the crown upon her head did feel good, the motive drew its source much deeper.
“Then why, Nefertiti?”
“Father! He promised me! He promised me!” Nefertiti yelled as her tears smudged the kohl under her eyes. “I was to bear his son! I was to be the mother of the next Pharaoh! He betrayed me because I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t bear a son! His stupid visions! I hate him! I hate him, Father! I hate his son!”
Ay only sat with his shoulders slumped as he watched his daughter, his beloved, his lotus blossom, still suffering from the actions of the man he should have done away with years before.
“The boy has done nothing wrong,” Ay tried to calm her.
“Can’t you see? I hate that boy! I hate hearing his name—I hate even looking at him!” Nefertiti slammed her fist into the table. “He will never be Pharaoh so long as I live!”
“My Nefertiti.” Ay stood and came near to his daughter. “Please, I am sorry.” He put a hand to her cheek and guided her to him. “I am so sorry.” He pulled her head into his chest. “Please forgive me. I have failed you.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I have failed you. Please forgive me.”
She wasn’t listening to her father anymore, only absentmindedly reaffirming that she could not marry Tut. “I can’t . . . not right now . . .” Horemheb’s impassioned kiss filled her mind as her eyes glistened from the memory, knowing she could never be with him. Her mind shifted to her fist kiss with Amenhotep under the moonlight—before he became Akhenaten. The sweetness of his kiss filled her with one last longing for her late husband; but then, thinking of his son, her blood boiled—his son, who embodied the sum of his betrayal of everything she had done for him. The heat from her anger caused her tears to dissipate.
“Please,” Ay begged. “These past years have been worse than when I lost your mother, knowing that I have lost you t
oo even as you still live.” He rubbed her back. “Please, my lotus blossom. I have stayed away, trying to let you come to your own acceptance, but I see that was wrong of me.”
“Father, I still love Akhenaten, despite all that he did . . . but with the same breath, I hate him,” Nefertiti gurgled from her chest, ignoring Ay and focusing on the proposed marriage to Tut. “I cannot marry Tut. I will not marry Tut.”
She pushed away from his chest. “I won’t.”
“Nefertiti, please. I cannot protect you. I will die trying to protect you, but if you don’t marry Tut and make him Pharaoh, Pawah will make sure the people act.” Ay dipped his chin, pleading with his daughter to make the wise choice.
She drew her eyebrows together and scowled. “Then distance yourself from me, Father, so that when the people do rise up, you are not caught in the crossfire!”
She stormed out of her own council room.
Unbeknownst to Nefertiti and Ay, Pawah stood behind the wall of the open-roofed council room, listening to their conversation, and smiled, knowing all he had to do was bide his time.
Nefertiti saw Horemheb upon leaving the council room. He had stayed behind to see Nefertiti, but feigned some official reason to General Paaten. His time with her as an unmarried woman was swiftly dwindling, and if they were to have another moment of weakness, at least they would not be punished—or rather, she would not be punished; he may still have his rank stripped.
She looked to him with a slack face, and instead of walking toward him she walked away. He attempted to follow her, but she turned and shook her head.
“I can’t,” she whispered, rubbing her palm over her chest as if to protect her heart from him.
He watched her walk away, silent and forlorn.
Ay, who had been watching him from the council room, came out to him and then looked down the hallway at Nefertiti, who eventually turned a corner.
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