Horemheb nodded, and the two men went in search of Nefertiti.
Ankhesenpaaten sat in her throne and watched them from afar. Tut sat next to her as he twirled his thumbs and let out a big sigh. She peered over at him and then returned to watching her grandfather and Commander Horemheb leave, most likely to go look for her mother. Not once did she ever ask how we were coping with our father’s death, Ankhesenpaaten thought to herself. She grabbed her elbows and sunk down in her lap.
“What’s wrong?” Tut asked, and poked her arm.
“I don’t feel right,” Ankhesenpaaten said, not looking at him.
“Well, our father has just been entombed,” Tut said, and accidentally kicked his cane to the ground. Maia, his nurse, picked it up for him and resumed her dutiful position a respectable distance behind him. “Nothing feels right.”
“I guess you’re right.” Ankhesenpaaten tried to find Tey and Mut in the crowd. They had disappeared too easily. She finally spotted Mut with Nefe. “I’m going to talk with Nefe and Mut.”
Tut grabbed her arm. “No, don’t leave me, Ankhesenpaaten!”
“But I want to talk to my sister.” Ankhesenpaaten tried to pull her arm away, but Tut scowled and dug his fingernails into her skin.
“No!” he yelled.
Ankhesenpaaten winced, but instead of angering the young prince further, she grabbed his cane and offered it to him. “Come with me, then.”
Tut released his grip on her arm. “Fine.” He yanked the cane from her hand and scooted off of his seat.
They made their way over to the other girls. Ankhesenpaaten was the only one among them to wear a woman’s wig. It had actually been not that long ago when her mother acknowledged her twelfth birthday and gave her the beautiful beaded wig. She loved it, but now, looking at the other three children with their sidelocks, she felt somewhat out of place.
“My sympathies, royal wife and King’s daughter, Ankhesenpaaten,” Mut said with a bow of her head.
Ankhesenpaaten forced a breath out through her nostrils and lifted her chin. “Thank you, Mut.” Her heart seemed sad now that her father was gone, but she wondered if there was something wrong with her that she wasn’t as sad as she thought she should be. The death of her sister Meketaten five years ago still carried more burden than that of her father. She had wept for days when her sister died, and even longer when they entombed her; but for her father, she only shed tears initially, and at his funeral procession she had felt nothing but flutterings in her stomach.
She saw Ay behind the hall’s pillars, surveying the room, looking for her mother. I doubt I will be as sad as a daughter should be when my mother passes too. I may even have no tears. A grimace accompanied her thoughts. She didn’t want it to be that way, but her mother never actually lived in the royal harem like most queens did—or so her tutors told her—and so she never really knew her. Most of the interactions she’d had with her mother were rushed, or else something more important took precedence over her spending any time with her. She knew the late royal wife Kiya better than she knew her own mother.
“What are you thinking about, Ankhesenpaaten?” Tut asked, and poked her leg with the end of his cane.
“Tut, a prince shouldn’t do that,” Ankhesenpaaten chided, and shook her head.
He looked at her and shook his head in mimicry. “Well, you didn’t answer me the first time I asked you.”
“Nothing. I’m thinking about nothing.”
The three of them stared at her with suspicion perched on their lips.
“I am your sister, and I know you are lying,” Nefe said, and pushed her elbow teasingly.
“I’m thinking of Father and Mother, and what is it with you two touching me?” Ankhesenpaaten said, and swatted her sister’s hand away. “The only one here who is giving the respect and solemnity appropriate for this time is Mut.” She nodded in Mut’s direction. “And she’s not even royalty.”
Mut’s chin drooped.
“She’s Mother’s sister!” Nefe pointed out. “She’s royalty enough!”
Ankhesenpaaten sighed and shook her head again. “No, Nefe.” She debated whether it was worth explaining to her why Mut was not considered royalty, but ultimately decided she would soon learn those nuances in the Kap.
“Yeah, she’s royalty enough!” Tut said, and grabbed Mut’s arm and shook it. Mut slowly emerged from her self-imposed cocoon and smiled, feeling supported by Nefe and Tut.
Sighing and shrugging her shoulders, Ankhesenpaaten let it go. There is a reason why Mut does not stand next to my father’s stone image and we do, she thought.
They all stood there in silence for a moment. Mut’s foot hid behind her other as she wrapped her hands behind her back. Ankhesenpaaten remembered she used to do the same, and passed her tutor’s words on to Mut.
“Mut, my tutor always told me: Stand straight, hold your head up—you are a daughter of the King, and you must stand like so!” She reached out to Mut’s chin and lifted it up. “Even though you aren’t a daughter of the King, it would help you in finding a husband.”
“Gross,” Tut said, sticking out his tongue. “Marriage. You have to kiss.”
Ankhesenpaaten laughed. “She is nine years old, and the age of marriage is almost upon her . . . like it is for me now.” She brushed her new wig proudly, as if she’d won it.
“You were married a long time ago,” Nefe pointed out, and flipped her sidelock.
But at this mention, a weight set on the conversation as they all remembered that they were at a funerary feast honoring their father, to whom Ankhesenpaaten was married.
Nefe huffed and continued speaking. “Mother gives you that wig and all of the sudden you know so much more than all of us—and I’m only a year younger than Mut, so marriage is almost upon me too.” It was easier to talk of marriage and tease her sister than to dwell on the fact that they would never see their father again.
Tut pulled his lips back to show his distaste of what happens with marriage. “I’m just glad I don’t have to think about that for a long time!”
“Oh, Tut,” Ankhesenpaaten said, and patted his shoulder. “It will be here before you know it.”
Chapter 7
The Time of Wounds
The soft torchlight lit up her white-and-gold royal dress like a star in the night as she strolled along the stone pathway situated between the small lakes filled with lotus blossoms. He watched her for a second as she strolled the empty gardens.
Her slender frame would have lured any man in this light, he thought, except for the mad Akhenaten.
He shook his head at Akhenaten’s dismissal of such a woman. He rubbed his bronze armor signifying his military rank as he admitted to himself he had admired her from afar for a long time. He drew in a deep breath; he knew he should go tell Ay where he had found her and let him approach her, but he had never really spoken to her before and felt the sudden desire to comfort her, this woman who held so much burden. He let an anxious breath escape as he looked around, making sure she was not in harm’s way, then made his decision and approached her.
Nefertiti breathed in the fresh night air and looked to the stars. Her head dropped as tears fell.
I am a murderer.
The beat of her heart died as her chest grew numb.
I mourn my own innocence and not my husband. I must be heartless as well.
“Coregent, I spoke with your father,” Commander Horemheb said, his voice unwavering professionalism.
A sudden cold hit her core like a blast of wind at the sound of his voice in her solitude. Her shoulders rose and she lifted her head, trying to blink back her tears. She didn’t turn, so as to conceal her tears.
“He looks for you.”
Nefertiti hummed in acknowledgment. She smiled slightly at the sound of Horemheb’s voice. He had found her. She wanted to be alone . . . but also did not want to be alone.
“I told him he had a fine family,” Horemheb said as he walked up behind Nefertiti. She detected a hint
of anxiety to his voice; clearly, he was hoping she wouldn’t dismiss him.
She snorted. “A fine family indeed.” She clenched her jaw and knelt to a nearby pond, drawing her hand through the water. Her back still faced him. She snuck her other hand to her face to wipe her cheeks. Peering over her shoulder, she saw him study her and scratch his chin as if debating what to say. Her gaze fell back to the water as she swirled her finger around a closing lotus blossom. She wished him to stay, but she wished him to leave—just as the lotus both opened in the day and closed at night.
He cleared his throat and she heard him shuffle his feet.
What is he wanting to say to me?
She slumped, thinking he would never break his rank to speak with her the way she needed to speak to someone who understood why she did what she did, even if he was one of her council who convinced her to kill her husband. With a slight shake of her head, she let out a breath, realizing she was utterly alone.
But then Horemheb walked to her front.
He is breaking his rank, she thought as she peered up at him. Why? What more can he convince me to do?
“Speaking of family, I think your sister might be taken with the uniform.” He motioned to his leather tunic and bronze breastplate. He held a small smile on his lips.
A moment of silence, and then Nefertiti let out a chuckle, mostly at his awkward smile and the randomness of his remark. Just the release she needed.
Horemheb’s small smile turned to a large grin.
“If you tell her I laughed, I will deny it.” She beamed and pointed a finger at him, but immediately regained her composure. She had never seen this side of Horemheb before; his smile seemed almost playful. It made her forget her burdens, if only for a while. “I told her you are already married to a wonderful chantress.”
His smile dropped. “Who is currently out of work. The god for whom she chanted is no longer welcome in Egypt.”
“She will be in work soon enough,” Nefertiti said, and huffed at the entrapment back into the present. “Well, if—” Her gaze fell back to the water as she drew her hand through the sparkling liquid. She shook her head, hating herself even more.
From her peripheral vision, she saw his weight shift and his jaw clench.
At least he is trying to help me—or is he trying to soothe his own conscience for turning me into a murderer?
“You know, I’ve always wanted children,” Horemheb’s voice cut through her thoughts, “especially if they are as sweet as Mut.”
“And if your wife only gave you daughters, would you marry another to get a son?” Nefertiti peered up at him. She knew the answer. All men would answer yes.
Horemheb bit his tongue as he bent forward, as though she had hurt his pride.
Good, she thought. He can feel a small amount of the pain women feel when their husbands break their promises to them.
“Well, Amenia is infertile. She cannot have children . . . and yet I have not married another.”
“Oh,” Nefertiti said as she dropped her head, wondering if he spoke the whole truth.
A man with no children—even with an infertile wife—could adopt orphans. Why has he never tried to build such a life with Amenia? Why wouldn’t he try to marry another? He is a rich man. He can afford two estates. Even more so, why is he here, speaking with me in this manner? I am Coregent. He is the commander. What is he doing?
But despite her racing mind, etiquette won in her speech. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Horemheb shook his head. “Pharaoh Coregent does not apologize. I’m sorry Pharaoh Akhenaten did that . . .”
He trailed off, seeing her brow furrow, and once again he wished he could learn when to not say anything. He had sat at negotiations between warriors, sat at Pharaoh’s council for many years; and now, alone with a woman—albeit a powerful woman—he found himself saying the wrong things in trying to help her. He let out a breath and knelt down next to her. She didn’t flinch or ask him what he was doing, so he decided to try again, against his better judgment.
You fool! Keep your rank! he yelled at himself, but his heart knew she needed someone to be with her at this time. Just as a friend, he finally came to an agreement with himself. He wouldn’t let his admiration of her become something else.
“I should probably explain my marriage a little more.” He nodded, as if to give himself courage to continue. “Our marriage was arranged by our fathers, and even though we both could have chosen another spouse, we agreed to the arrangement—it was easier than protesting. Our fathers could be . . .” He chewed his lip as he searched for the right word. “. . . dogmatic.”
Nefertiti nodded, letting him continue, thinking, At least he is trying. The thought repeated in her mind. At least he is trying. And I can better see if he is lying or not.
“She lives in Men-nefer, presiding over my household.” He tapped his finger on his arm as quickly as his toe tapped the ground.
He is nervous, Nefertiti thought, and a half-smile crossed her face, appreciating the risk he was taking by speaking to her in this way to get her mind off of Akhenaten.
“We rarely see each other, but I cannot imagine life without her. She takes care of my entire estate without wanting anything in return.”
“Do you love her?”
Nefertiti felt the words come out of her mouth as though with a will of their own. Of course he does. Why would you ask such a thing?
But he paused.
“I will be truthful with you, Coregent. I do love her in a sense. I took the blame when we failed to produce children because I knew my father would start a grievance against her family and force us into a public divorce, which would be hard on the both of us, more so her. It would tarnish her name and make known her infertility. Most likely, it would abandon her to a life of solitude in her father’s house—or as a concubine, because she is very skilled in music and has a beautiful voice.”
“A chantress would have a beautiful voice,” Nefertiti remarked, wishing her own deeper voice could be higher, more like other women’s voices.
“Her singing is very pleasing to hear,” Horemheb said, nodding. “But I don’t want that life for her. I’m grateful she doesn’t divorce me. I’m never there. I’m never home. I would think we would both agree it is just easier to stay married and live apart.”
“I see.” Nefertiti took a deep breath. “Thank you for your honesty.”
He may have put her off, but at least he protects her from a life of solitude or that of a concubine. Did Akhenaten ever protect me?
She shook her head and turned away from Horemheb.
He followed her gaze into the water.
“Do you like the lotus blossom? I hear your father call you that sometimes.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “My mother tended a lotus garden. It was her favorite. He calls me ‘lotus blossom’ as a term of endearment,” Nefertiti said as she cupped water in her hand and drizzled it over one of them.
“Oh! Then I’ll have to bring Tey a lotus next time I’m in Waset,” Horemheb offered, clearly trying to further her mind’s distance from Akhenaten.
“My mother has gone to Re. Tey is my step-mother.” Nefertiti paused to take a breath, remembering the disappointment in Tey’s eyes. “My mother died in childbirth. They thought her infertile too, but I was the miracle baby that took her life away.” Nefertiti hit the water with the palm of her hand, dashing her reflection. “How can you miss someone you’ve never known?”
Horemheb shut his mouth, as he had no response.
Nefertiti continued talking. “Tey is a wonderful mother, but I’ve done a major wrong in this . . .”—a lump formed in her throat as she tried to describe the murder she had committed—“in this crime.” She whispered so low that Horemheb leaned closer to hear her. “Tey can’t comfort me. I feel like my mother would know what to say.”
Horemheb clenched his jaw. “Sometimes it is best not to say anything.”
She found his eyes. He smiled a warm smile. He r
eached out his hand to pat hers, but instead he pushed up to standing. He had almost forgotten she was still Pharaoh Coregent—and he the commander.
“If you need to talk to someone . . .” he began.
“I don’t,” Nefertiti said as she stood up as well. She realized their personal space dwindled as the earthy musk of his leather tunic filled her nostrils. “I don’t need to talk to anyone,” she repeated, and took a step backward to regain her status. “I have nothing to talk about. Not with you, not my father, not Tey.”
“I admire you for your strength, Pharaoh Coregent,” Horemheb whispered as he looked around, as if hoping they were still alone. “The three of us—as with General Paaten, when he returns from Nubia—we all care for you and would do anything for you.”
“Yes, that is why you and my father abandoned me to Pawah and Beketaten!”
Horemheb took a deep breath. “Pharaoh Coregent, deep down, you know why we did such a thing. We cared about the safety of you and your family.”
“No, if you cared, you would have kept us safe,” Nefertiti retorted, and she stepped forward again and hit him in the chest. Her hand throbbed as it hit the tiny ridges in his bronze breastplate, but she didn’t let it faze her. She knew he spoke the truth. She figured there wasn’t another way, but she needed to blame someone to keep from collapsing there on the stone walkway in her grief.
“Your hand, it’s bleeding.” When she did not respond, he pulled his shoulders back and looked her in the eye. “You’re right. I should have kept you safe.” He licked his lips in the dry evening air, and his jaw twitched, before he continued. “I talked your father into the wine as well.”
Nefertiti’s jaw dropped, but then she closed her mouth as she studied his face and noticed his ticking eyebrow. “You are a horrible liar. My father did so on his own accord.”
He dropped his head. “Pharaoh Coregent, I am the Commander of Pharaoh’s Armies. I should have kept you safe. Hate me, not your father. You need him, and he needs you.”
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