A knock came at her door, and it opened. Her father entered, closing the door behind him. “Nefertiti? My lotus blossom? Is all well? I hear your screams.”
“Yes, Father. Please leave me,” she muttered.
Ay’s heart lit at her calling him “Father” again. He took a few steps forward.
“I said leave!” She wheeled to look at him, on the ground like a wild animal. The candlelight was lost in the smudged kohl around her eyes.
Ay came near and knelt beside her. He put his hand on her back, which soon rocked from her sobs. “Come, come, my daughter,” he whispered, and pulled her into his chest, wrapping her in his arms.
“I hate this, Father,” she whimpered. “I have done it all to myself.”
“No, my Nefertiti—”
“Yes—I pushed Akhenaten further in his obsession with the Aten, I brought him his poisoned wine, I let Pawah kill Smenkare and condemned Meritaten to death in the process, I executed Sitamun for revenge and further incited the people, I did not teach my children about Amun, I refuse to marry Tut, I asked for a Hittite prince, and I fell in lo—”
She cut herself off and took a breath while Ay pondered the rest of her sentence; he guessed she had fallen in love with someone she couldn’t marry; but at her next words, he dismissed it.
“. . . and I let myself fall.”
“We learn from our mistakes, my daughter, just as I learned from my mistakes with you. I thought your marriage would be as mine and your mother’s or mine and Tey’s, but it was not. I told you Akhenaten would return to you if you just gave him all of your love, and look what it has done.”
“No, Father, I cannot blame you anymore. I have done this—I have done all of it. It is why Amun still punishes me. How can you still love me? How can anyone still love me?” She buried her head into his chest.
“Look at me, Nefertiti.” He raised her chin, gently but firmly. “All I see is my innocent baby girl, my lotus blossom, whose laugh and smile stole my heart when I thought I could never love again.” Ay stroked his daughter’s face. “My lotus blossom, I love you. Nothing you can do will ever take away my love for you.”
She smiled and kissed his cheek, her lips slick with her own tears. “Thank you, Father.” Her voice trembled. “I love you. I’m sorry I have pushed you away and blamed you for the last three years.”
“No, no. All is in the past. We cannot change it. We can only push onward with what we have and make the best of it.”
She found his eyes. “Should I abdicate?”
“No. It would lessen Pharaoh in the people’s eyes—more so than just marrying Tut,” Ay said as he traced her face. “Please, my lotus blossom . . . marry Tut.”
“I cannot.” She brought a hand to her belly and closed her eyes, thinking of a life without Horemheb; she wasn’t ready to stop fighting. “For many reasons, I cannot marry Tut.”
“Whatever you do, do not abdicate and do not marry the Hittite.”
“But I must be married before the Hittite comes—”
“Nefertiti, your army is growing again. It fell slack under Akhenaten, but we have made soldiers of the boys who came to us for food when the economy suffered. Should you refuse the Hittite and they declare war, your army will fight.”
“But Pharaoh is the defender of Egypt, and I will have brought war upon it,” Nefertiti said. “I cannot do that to Egypt. I must be married by the time he comes.”
“That is soon—most likely within the season. Who will you marry?”
Silence, then: “Must I marry Tut?”
“He is the rightful heir,” Ay said. “He is your only option for marriage.”
“If Tut and Pawah were gone, who then would I marry?”
“Maybe someone of the noble class? I would think it would be your choosing. But that is nonsense. Pawah, we are working on removing . . . but Tut, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Marry him, daughter.”
“And live my life alone? I will never share a bed with him.”
Ay’s face fell at the dismal future. “It is the only way.”
She turned from her father and crawled to her bed and into its embrace. She inhaled Horemheb’s scent from the linen sheets and wrapped her arms around herself.
Ay stood and drew near. “Perhaps Tut will not live much longer. He is a sickly child.”
“Tut was not supposed to live at all. They said he would die soon after birth. Sickly, but resilient,” Nefertiti said into her bed.
“Nefertiti.” Ay knelt by her bed and leaned with both elbows so he was beside her face. He kissed her forehead.
“Why can’t I just have love?” She rubbed her face into the pillow, as if scrubbing her father’s kiss away.
“You have my love,” Ay said, and caressed her shoulder.
Turning her face to him, she said, “I know,” but her eyes were dim.
He kissed her cheek and stood up. “Whatever you decide, my lotus blossom, General Paaten, Commander Horemheb, chief royal guard Jabari, and myself will stand with you.” He covered the candle. “Get some sleep, my daughter. I will stand guard at your door.”
Her heart longed to tell him about Horemheb and his child, but she chewed on her lip before releasing the words, “Thank you, Father.” It was all that would come.
As soon as the door closed, she turned her face back to the linen sheets, and the memory of Horemheb next to her flooded her senses. “A child. I bet it will be a male child.” She grimaced, even though her heart grew. “After all these years, I will finally have a male child, and for a man I love yet cannot marry.”
She cried at the irony. Her tears finally exhausted her to sleep.
Nefertiti ran down the corridor clutching her baby to her chest. Horemheb’s baby. The Hittites and the people rose up against her and they chased her with fire and spears at every turn. She felt herself surrounded as her heart raced and sweat poured from her brow. Her baby boy screamed at the clamor around his mother. The corner in which they had her pinned grew teeth above and below her and began to crunch down as the men’s spears jabbed at her, killing her baby, Horemheb’s baby, and at the last jab, struck her in her heart while Egypt burned around her. Then, as she breathed her last, her eyes made out against the smoke a towering form: Pawah, standing and smiling at her agony.
Nefertiti awoke with trembling hands and a palpitating heart. Her fingers frantically touched her chest and felt her belly—still smooth, still pregnant, no blood. She looked to her side: she was alone. She looked to her door. Four shadows came from underneath it, signaling both her father and Jabari still stood guard.
Tears welled in her eyes. She could feel the stab of the spear; she could hear her baby’s cries, even now as she was awake. The warmth of her child against her chest as she ran was still there, she swore it was. Drawing her knees close to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to catch her breath.
After some time she went to the door and asked her father to send for papyrus and ink.
She sat at the table, reed brush still in its ink well, papyrus blank in front of her, until the words came.
My dearest Horemheb,
I hope this letter finds you in peace. I am so happy you are in my life and for the moments we have shared, but I have had a dream where I have seen the end of Egypt should I not marry the Hittite and with no husband already. I must marry, and I must marry soon. My father said he would fight a war if I refused the Hittite with no husband, but my love, I carry your child.
She stopped writing. Her mind went blank. How to put all of this into a letter?
After some time, she resumed:
Thus, I have resolved to marry Tut, so the people may think it is his child, so our child may not be outcasted or his life endangered as a potential threat to the throne’s heir. If it is a daughter, perhaps Tut will allow you to take the child to Amenia. My one request is that Amenia allows me to know this child, that I may redeem myself as a mother. If it is a son,
She stopped again. What would s
he ask if it was a son? She had seen his death and her own. But she shook her head. It was only a dream . . . or was it a vision?
“Even Amun wants me to marry Tut,” she whispered.
Tut may want to claim him as his own, should he have no other sons. I am sorry this has happened, but please admire your son from afar while staying near, and should Tut have a son of his own, I don’t know what will happen.
All I know is this: I love you and wish our lives had been different so that we could have been together. Our time dwindles. I saw my death in a dream, and Pawah waiting for me to die. If this is a vision from Amun, my love, I make final requests:
Make sure Pawah will never get the crown. Once I’m gone, he would only have to get in close with Tut and then push the poor crippled child down the stairs. With no heir, Pawah ranks as the next male relative and takes the throne. Akhenaten might have put Egypt through torture, but Pawah as Pharaoh would be the end of Egypt altogether.
Please take care of Mut for me. She is a woman now. I ask you to request marriage to her and keep her safe in one of your houses. Be good to her, as you are to me. Please take care of Ankhesenpaaten and Nefe should the General fail in his promise to me. Keep them all safe from Pawah and Beketaten. Where I have failed them, teach them about Amun.
Counsel my mother and father in their sorrow. They have many children, but my father only has me from my mother, whom he loved greatly. Should I die, my death will be hardest for him.
I have so much guilt, my love. It weighs my heart. Pray for Ammit to not devour it when placed upon the balance in the afterlife. Eternal unrest is more than I can bear.
No matter the outcome, I will wait for you in the afterlife. You have given me joy and happiness in this time of darkness. I will always remember your caring touch, your patience, your taking of my burdens, your protection, your loyalty, and your love. I loved Thutmose, but it was a young love. I loved Akhenaten, but it was more because I needed to feel loved. However, the love I have for you, Horemheb, is mature and selfless—one I will never forget. Every night as I go to sleep as Tut’s wife, I will remember you and dream of life as yours and yours alone.
Love, Your Nefertiti
She read it over and realized how little words would ever be able to truly say. Closing her eyes, she blew the ink to dry it. Then she sealed it and wrote Commander on the front.
Early the next morning, Ankhesenpaaten came to her room.
“Mother . . .” Ankhesenpaaten’s voice shook a little. “Mother, may I come in?”
Nefertiti lifted her head at the sound of her daughter’s voice. She sat up straight in bed and cleared her throat. The pain from trying to silence her own tears in the night had strained her voice. “Come in, Ankhesenpaaten.”
The door opened enough for Ankhesenpaaten to slide inside. Nefertiti lit the candle next to her bedside, as the early morning light barely lit the room. Ankhesenpaaten walked to her mother and as they looked upon each other’s faces, they both let out a chuckle seeing the smeared kohl around the other’s eyes. Nefertiti opened up her arm and drew Ankhesenpaaten into an embrace, sitting her on her bed.
“What causes your tears, my sweet one?”
Ankhesenpaaten let out a breath and pressed her eyes closed, forcing the last remnant of tears from her eyes. “Why would Tut ask me to marry him if he thinks I want to kill him? He hates me, Mother.”
Nefertiti rubbed her daughter’s back. “Tut is a young boy. Boys his age are not married, and there is a reason for that. I am sorry, Ankhesenpaaten, that I forced you to marry so young. Life has not been fair to you.” Nefertiti thought back to what Akhenaten did to Ankhesenpaaten, as well: marrying her at seven years old—outrageous! “You were forced to grow up so quickly. Now, you are caught in the mess your father and I made. For that I am sorry.” Nefertiti bit her lip as her daughter’s eyes searched her for sincerity.
“But why, Mother? At my age, you already had two children! And Tut, he won’t even look at me.”
“He is eleven and his mind has been swayed by Pawah.” Shaking her head, Nefertiti drew her hand into a fist and placed it on her lips as she debated reiterating her father’s advice on marriage. “My father always told me, ‘Trust and truth are united marriage,’ my sweet one.”
Nefertiti hesitated but thought, She is sixteen years old, she needs to know.
“I thought I could save your father from his obsessions, but I was not enough. Trust and truth must go both ways. Tut does not trust you, so you continue to live your life in the most truthful way possible, and if he never comes to his senses, at the end of your life, at least your heart will not be heavy, and Ammit will not devour it when you journey to the afterlife.”
Nefertiti clutched her own heart, knowing her ways had not always been truthful even though the motivations behind them might have been justified. Would it be enough for the balance when her heart was weighed? She didn’t know the answer, and a cold chill of uncertainty passed through her body.
“You want to die, Ankhesenpaaten, knowing your heart is not heavy, that there is no question. Eternal restlessness is not something to take lightly. I know I never taught you about the other gods of Egypt, but learn them. The Aten is a lie, and has always been a lie, a deceiver of your father,” Nefertiti warned as she found her daughter’s eyes. “I will not lie to you.”
Ankhesenpaaten opened her eyes. “I know, Mother. I see now.” She placed her hand in Nefertiti’s and squeezed. “Why do you cry?”
“Oh, daughter, for so many reasons I cry,” Nefertiti whispered.
“Tell me.” Ankhesenpaaten squeezed Nefertiti’s hand again.
“I cry because I wanted to be a good mother but I was not. I cry because I lost your father and your sisters. I cry because I lost my friend, Kiya, my Mitanni sister-wife who never betrayed me. And now I cry because I love and cannot have what I love. All I have ever wanted was to be loved.”
“You have my love, Mother.” Ankhesenpaaten leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. Nefertiti drew her into a side embrace, as Ankhesenpaaten continued: “I’m sorry I do not know what you have gone through . . . and part of me does not want to know.”
“Part of me does not want you to know either.” Nefertiti closed her eyes, chuckling bitterly. “But I think you should.” She tipped her daughter’s chin so her face was to hers. “I will start from the beginning.”
Nefertiti told her daughter all that had come to pass since Queen Tiye asked for her hand in marriage to Thutmose. “I loved him. He was my friend.” She remembered her childhood. “Illness took him, so the crown fell to his brother—your father. He loved our uncle Anen’s daughter, Kasmut. Anen was the Second Prophet of Amun, and given the state of power between the priesthood and Pharaoh, Pharaoh Amenhotep III and Queen Tiye would not allow him to marry her . . . so he married me instead. He did not love me at first, but we grew to love each other. He took care of me, and despite his father’s loveless attempts to mold him into the man he wanted him to be, he became something better in his own eyes. We had Meritaten, Meketaten, and you, and then . . . he decided to denounce Amun—which was part of the plan—but he also planned to move the capital of our empire to here, Aketaten. The people rebelled, almost killing me and you and your sisters in the process, but we were able to subdue them. Your aunt Nebetah—you know her as Beketaten—and her husband Pawah led the rebellion. Your grandmother and father wanted to kill them for their conspiracies against the throne, but I urged them not to, to choose exile instead. I saw then in Nebetah’s eyes, as she was exiled, that she was furious. She still holds that against me, always will. I took it all from her: the crown, the palace, the luxury . . . well, she took it from herself.” She shook her head. “She should have just married her brother instead of Pawah.”
Nefertiti looked out the window, wondering how different life would have been; but she found her daughter needing more of the past, and so she continued.
“Your father fell more and more into his obsessions with the Aten disc
and forbade all worship of any other god, which was not planned. Once we had regained power over the priesthood of Amun, he should have reinstated Amun’s priesthood and taken control of it. Yet he did not. He forced the people into poverty, as much of their work was dependent on the worship of other gods. We began amassing everyone into the army and we found we couldn’t pay them what they should have been paid. He forced the people into loyalty for Pawah. He and Beketaten led a movement called the People’s Restoration of Egypt. Your aunt came out of exile, changed her name to Beketaten, asked for pardon, and because I was on the throne due to your father’s negligence, I granted it. Your father exiled me from Aketaten, and when I found that I was with his child, he allowed me to come back, but it was after some time. Come to find out, Beketaten had made him drunk so that he lay with his sister, Henuttaneb—Tut’s mother. We had our children around the same time: I, another girl, and she a son. Royal wife, Kiya—”
Secrets in the Sand Page 26
