Nefertiti was not listening either. She had stopped listening when she realized her husband had been lying to her. His heart was not with her at all. Instead, she focused her thoughts on becoming a heretic . . . and, what would surely come next, the people rising up and killing them. The thought made her shudder, but the extra energy she expended to shudder suddenly reminded her of the immense heat in the air. Looking at the palm branch that had been left on the step below her, she longed for the burst of air on her face and hoped the Aten and his mighty sun rays of heat would be graceful to her as a child grew inside her womb.
Chapter 7
The Time of Growth
The day of administering their royal duties came to an end. Two nights came and went without distinction. Nefertiti and Amenhotep had not spoken to each other since they had heard the news of Anen’s death. Each night they slept in the same bed, and each night Nefertiti turned her back to him.
Her silence somehow made him love her more. It confirmed that he meant something to her; she wasn’t just a puppet from his mother. Each night he would try to find something to say to her but couldn’t find the words, and eventually he would give up and turn his back on her own.
On the third night, as they were getting into bed, Amenhotep broke the silence.
“Nefertiti . . . ?”
She stopped what she was doing and looked to him, not responding.
“Nefertiti, I was mad that day. I said things I wish I could take back.”
Nefertiti said nothing, so he continued.
“I am sorry I am also in love with . . .” He held her name back, following his father’s command.
Nefertiti, however, filled in the blank rather curtly. “Kasmut?”
“Yes,” he said, regretting his decision to break the silence.
She sat up. “I know, Amenhotep. I assumed as much when you did not touch more than my hand for the first four months of our marriage. It hurt when you confirmed those assumptions, but I knew it. What I didn’t know and what hurt even more was when, even after you told me you loved me, you fought for her and not for your wife. It hurt me the worst to know I have no place in your heart, and you have just used me in bed—whether to satisfy your own desire or to tame my anger at your rejection, I’m not sure.”
“Nefertiti, I have not simply used you!” he said. His heartbeat grew loud in his ears.
“It seemed so, the way you spoke of me and Kasmut!” she yelled back, her cheeks flushed with anger.
“And you think it’s not the same way when you see me and Thutmose?”
Amenhotep! he chided himself. What evil spirit possessed me to say such a thing?
Her slow headshake and menacing grimace said everything, her anger rendering her mute. After I accepted my situation and made the best of it, it seemed to say, you dare to say that to me?!
“My words came out wrong, Nefertiti,” he said, wishing he could stuff the words back into his mind.
She ignored him and finished getting into bed. With her back firmly turned to him, she closed her eyes.
“Nefertiti, please. At first, yes, I did not want to be with you because I loved only Kasmut. But how could I not? You’d always ignored me in the past, leaving me to believe you didn’t think of me as Kasmut did. You were forced to marry me just as I was forced to marry you. My mother told me I could never marry Kasmut, but I kept thinking one day I would. Then I realized General Paaten was keeping me from seeing her. She would get word to me to meet, but she would never show. I would come back with a heavy heart, but I grew to see that you were always there with your kind words and gentle voice. Every night you would share a secret with me, and I with you. Every night I gave a little piece of myself to you.”
He stopped. She remained still. She hadn’t even flinched a muscle during his entire confession.
“Nefertiti, I love you. Hearing what my mother and father said, that only brought up old memories of the deep love I had for Kasmut. I assume eventually Kasmut will be but a memory. My mother has made her to me like Thutmose is to you. She might as well be dead to me, for I will never see her again.”
“I’m glad I’m an acceptable replacement,” Nefertiti muttered. But his words had indeed struck something inside her. Some nights she thought of Thutmose but forced herself to think of Amenhotep instead.
He climbed into bed, touched her shoulder, gently pulled her over to face him. “Nefertiti, I never used you. I do love you. Please know I do.”
Nefertiti’s eyes went to the bruise on his cheek, reminding her of his outburst at having to marry her instead of Kasmut. Another potential love of his fluttered in her mind: Kiya. Unlike Kasmut, he would be forced to marry her—but she seemed to be content in her own chambers painting. Kiya’s face was dull and too brown to ever rival the bright and creamy tan of her own face, but she could tell in passing that Kiya’s smile lit up Amenhotep’s eyes . . . just as they were now lit up with the thought of Kasmut.
“Do you wish our children could be Kasmut’s?”
The question caught him off guard. He knew he couldn’t answer “Yes,” but he also knew “No” would betray his heart.
“Your silence is well enough an answer,” Nefertiti said.
She tried to roll back onto her side, but Amenhotep kept her pinned down on her back.
“Nefertiti . . .” he started, and then by the grace of Aten, words came to him. “A wise woman once said, ‘I knew your brother well, but I also know you. You and your brother are not the same person, and so why should I compare the life I would have had with him when I am beginning my life with you?’ ”
The sparkle returned to Nefertiti’s dark eyes, like the stars in the night sky. Slowly, ever so slowly, a budding grin appeared beneath those eyes, and she whispered, “So if I told you we were going to have a child, what would you say?”
“I would say the gods have blessed us,” Amenhotep said with a mighty voice, thrusting his hand upward toward the heavens.
Nefertiti chuckled at his silly dramatics. “Then I would like to tell you,” she said. “You are going to be a father.”
The silliness stopped suddenly, and Amenhotep’s hand slowly graced her belly. He studied her face in the moonlight—a face he truly had come to love. Gently, he bent down and kissed her belly and came back to kiss her rosy red lips.
“My Lady of Grace,” he said. “I am honored that you, my chief royal wife, Queen Nefertiti, will grant me my firstborn.”
Bright-eyed and smiling ear to ear, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for another kiss. Running his hand from her belly up across her chest and around to her back, he pulled her into his own chest as he kissed her deeper, both of them loving the electrifying sensation of their touching bodies.
He forgot about Kasmut.
Later that year, just as Nefertiti bore a daughter, Amenhotep’s father, Pharaoh fell ill, leaving all of Egypt in Amenhotep’s hands.
“Barely completing my first year as Coregent, and my beloved wife grants me a daughter!” Amenhotep exclaimed at the news as he stood up in his throne. “Take me to her at once!” he ordered a nearby servant.
The messenger, who had been reading aloud the day’s news, stood mid-sentence. “Pharaoh Coregent, will you not have me read the remaining—”
“Nonsense! My Queen gives me a child, how can I—” Amenhotep started, but his mother stood up suddenly.
“Pharaoh Coregent is still learning the customs of Pharaoh,” she said. Her voice was stern, but inside she was glowing. He gave up Kasmut. If he is this excited to go see a daughter from Nefertiti’s womb, I should let him go. “However, in such a joyous occasion as this . . . servant, take Pharaoh Coregent to see his child. The Queen, chief royal wife of Pharaoh Amenhotep III, will receive the remaining news.”
Amenhotep wanted to throw his arms around his mother, just as he had done as a child, but decided against it—she would expect him to show his capacity as Pharaoh Coregent in at least some respects.
The servant
paused for a second at the Queen’s unusual command, but immediately bowed and took the Pharaoh Coregent to see Nefertiti and their daughter.
The messenger continued the news from where he’d last left off reading aloud to Queen Tiye, who remained in the throne room: “Third Prophet Maya was chosen to take the position of the Second Prophet of Amun, and . . .”
As Amenhotep walked farther through the corridor, proudly marching behind the uneasy servant with a happy whistled tune on his lips, the messenger’s words faded from his attention.
I like this feeling of freedom from the absence of my father, he thought. I know I can be a great ruler without him telling me he doubts my ability. I feel empowered to make decisions. When Father passes, my first order of business will be to decrease the level of formality the royal family is currently forced to endure. There will be no restraint of emotion, so I do not have to be embarrassed if I say “me” instead of “Pharaoh.” If I feel like yelling, I will yell. If I feel like crying, I will cry.
The great wooden doors opened before him, and there was his wife—covered in sweat, breathing heavily, and smiling at him. The midwives were busy wiping the afterbirth from the baby’s body and cleaning Nefertiti and her delivery seat. The hot water’s trailing whisps of steam slowly vanished as the air was allowed to escape through the opened doors.
Nefertiti tried to stand for her husband, but the servant girls pushed her back to bed. Amenhotep instead knelt beside her and kissed her forehead. Taking the cool towel from the water pot, he dabbed her forehead. Together they smiled at the sounds of their baby crying.
“You have given me a child,” he whispered to her. “How do I repay your generosity?”
She smiled all the more. “The pain was great—almost more than I could bear—but I ask nothing from you in repayment. Our child brings me joy as well.”
He kissed her lips as the servant girls tried to stay busy ignoring such an uncommon display of affection from Pharaoh.
“Bring my child,” Amenhotep commanded.
Aitye, one of Nefertiti’s attendants, brought the baby girl to him. He immediately saw that she was smaller than usual, but this was to be expected, as she was three weeks early. But all was well; the doctors had said she was expected to live a normal life.
He took her in his arms as he sat next to Nefertiti. “She has your beauty, and, thankfully, none of my features,” he said to his wife.
“She has your cheeks,” she said, noting the babe’s long face.
“Poor girl.”
“No. She will know she comes from her father,” Nefertiti stammered, trying to slow her breathing.
Amenhotep laughed. “I assume she will.”
“What shall we name her?” she asked as she placed her hand on his forearm.
“The one Aten loves,” Amenhotep responded.
“She who is beloved of Amun?” Nefertiti asked. “Meritamen.”
“Meritaten,” Amenhotep said as the child wrapped her fingers around one of his own.
“Amenhotep, we should name her for Amun-Re,” Nefertiti whispered.
“She was born at midday, when Aten is full and round in the sky,” Amenhotep said. “We will name her for the Aten.”
The servants looked to him, confused.
“The Aten is a part of Amun-Re, and we shall name her for the Aten,” he said, staring adamantly around until the servants looked away, accepting the reasoning.
“As you wish,” Nefertiti said, and added in a whispered, “Meritaten.” The fear rose up in her stomach again of what the future would bring. She wasn’t quite sure how regaining the power of the priesthood would come about, but she guessed naming the firstborn of Pharaoh Coregent for the Aten was a good place to start. Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she focused on her new baby girl’s coos.
“Announce to all of Egypt that my beautiful Nefertiti, the Lady of all Women, She who is Great of Praises, the Great King’s Wife, His Beloved, has borne unto me, Pharaoh Coregent, a daughter. Let a temple be built in dedication to the Aten at the forefront of the Temple of Amun at Ipet-isut.”
A messenger ran to tell the Royal Scribe the Pharaoh Coregent’s command.
Amenhotep took Nefertiti’s hand and kissed it.
I am a father to the most beautiful child with the most beautiful woman to call his wife, he thought. I could dance on the clouds of the Aten’s rays.
He paused. It is a shame that I will not have the luxury as Pharaoh Coregent to show all of Egypt my happiness once Father regains his health.
“Word has come that Maya has taken Anen’s place,” Queen Tiye told her husband Pharaoh Amenhotep III as he lay in bed.
“Less prominence with Maya. All of Egypt knows he bought his place as Third Prophet. He is not fooling anyone into believing he has the tenure with Amun to intercede for the people,” Pharaoh Amenhotep huffed. “At least it means less power for the cult of Amun.”
“Anen should have taken Meryptah’s place as the First Prophet, but with Maya in his place there is less respect for his position and for whomever succeeds Meryptah,” Tiye said. “This could be good for Pharaoh.”
“Now we just need Meryptah to die,” Pharaoh said.
“He is ancient. We could start the transition, help Amenhotep and Nefertiti, if he would just pass from this life.” Tiye placed her wig on its stand. She disliked the word die; to her it meant an ending, not the chance for a new beginning. The talk of death brought back tiniest tinges of guilt for Anen and sadness for her son, but she quickly gathered her thoughts to her husband.
“Amun gives him long life as his first prophet,” Pharaoh murmured.
“Could we cut it short?” Tiye slipped in beside Pharaoh with a half laugh.
“We could . . . but if anyone found out, it would undermine the whole plan,” Pharaoh said, turning to look at her. The pain in his arms, legs, knees, shoulders, feet, back, fingers, and toes wrapped around his soul and squeezed it. The light in his eyes dimmed, but brightened ever so slightly at the sight of Tiye, the love of his life.
“I’m only jesting, Pharaoh,” Tiye said as she gently laid her head on his shoulder as to not cause more pain.
“If it were meant to be, the gods would take him as they did with Anen and Th—”
Pharaoh sucked in his breath, but it was too late. Tiye knew what he was going to say. She blinked several times and slowly pressed her lips together. “I miss him, Amenhotep. I miss our son. I miss the sound of his voice.”
She rubbed her head into the side of her husband’s chest. His hand swept in around her shoulder. Barely able to breathe now, she whispered, “I miss him so much.”
“I miss him too,” he said as he placed his other hand on her head, now shaking from her sobs.
“Why did I make you promise to never say his name again?” she asked.
“I am Pharaoh, my love. You cannot make me do anything,” he half chuckled, then lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes.
“Then why did you agree to it?” Tiye whimpered.
“Because I love you, Tiye. I would do anything for you. You were in pain, and saying his name only intensified your tears. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“I love you too, Amenhotep.” She kissed him. “I ask you not to agree to it anymore.”
“As you wish, my Queen,” he said, and kissed her again.
She placed her head on his chest and he brought his lips to her head, saying with a kiss, “Thutmose was blessed by the gods to have you as a mother.”
Tiye smiled brightly. She remembered watching Thutmose play on her barge with a frog that had jumped aboard. Her wet nurse held his brother, Amenhotep, in her arms as Thutmose played.
Thutmose was such a handsome, obedient child and Amenhotep was not. Amenhotep was born sickly, the doctor proclaiming him most likely to die, yet somehow he survived. She had often wondered why her husband treated Amenhotep so harshly while choosing to dote upon Thutmose. She’d once tried to talk to him about this, but he had th
reatened to pull her status of chief royal wife if she ever were to question him again or undermine his authority. Even though she was his chief royal wife and therefore considered Pharaoh’s equal, his one power over her was to strip away her title and thus her authority. With such a title, however, she could be of more help to her sons than if she went against the wishes of Pharaoh and was demoted to simply wife or, even worse, exiled with nothing.
Over the years, Tiye had tried to understand what caused such a rejection of his second son to the point of not including him in their family monuments, choosing not to have him remembered in Pharaoh’s familial stone image. Why had he hated Amenhotep so much?
She was afraid to ask, but she simply couldn’t accept the only reason she had gathered: Pharaoh’s vanity. Thutmose had taken his image upon birth, a mirror image of his father and his grandfather, athletic, strong, mighty, eloquent, a good leader; Amenhotep, although kind, was sickly, weak, and uncoordinated, the opposite of what Pharaoh thought of himself and therefore undeserving to bear his name. But custom ruled that the firstborn son was to be named after the Pharaoh before and the secondborn after the Pharaoh himself. Sadly, she wondered if he would have been treated differently had he been the third or fourth son with no namesake. Her husband refused to associate with someone who could bring question to him and his given title of The Magnificent King; and so her son, Amenhotep, endured his entire life thus far as an outcast.
Tears slid down her face, not for Thutmose, but for her living son, Amenhotep, whom she could only silently adore from afar.
“There, there, my Queen,” Pharaoh whispered, misinterpreting his wife’s melancholy. “Thutmose is on the journey to the afterlife. We will see him again one day.”
Salvation in the Sun (The Lost Pharaoh Chronicles Book 1) Page 7
