His stare at the stone floor intensified.
“I know you hurt, Amenhotep. I will go find your wife . . . perhaps she will ease your pain,” Kiya said, rubbing his back. She stood up and walked away, stopping at the end of the hallway to look back at his still unmoving form.
He had hurt her, too. When his brother was still alive, they had spent many an hour together. He loved Kasmut, but Kiya loved him. He never saw her in that light, and she accepted it just as she had accepted her father’s rejection of her. It hurt more that he chose such a beautiful woman as Nefertiti to be his chief wife, one whom she could not compare.
Looking to the floor, she made her way to find Nefertiti and found her in the dining hall.
“Queen Nefertiti, Pharaoh Coregent sits in the courtyard of the northwest wing,” Kiya said.
“Thank you, Kiya, royal wife of Pharaoh,” Nefertiti said. She had been looking all over the palace for him; she should have known he would be in the courtyard, where the Aten’s rays fell.
“Queen Nefertiti, he says nothing. His pain is great,” Kiya warned. “But perhaps he will speak to his chief wife?”
Nefertiti nodded in thankfulness, and to her surprise, Kiya continued in a less formal speech: “I want to give you my best wishes at this time. Although I was married to Pharaoh, he never talked to me, and he went so far as to seclude me. He made sure I was taken care of, and I had anything I wanted, but I did not know him very well. From what I could see, however, he was a great man . . . one who loved his family very much.”
Nefertiti let out her breath, relieved at Kiya’s familiarity. “Thank you, Kiya. He meant a great deal to me. There has always been . . . something . . . between Pharaoh and Amenhotep. I never knew what it was, but I believe that is what is keeping Amenhotep from speaking to anyone.”
“He will speak to you. He loves you, and you live up to what everyone calls you.” Kiya’s smile wavered as she pulled at her ear. He used to speak to me, she thought.
“I am more than a pretty face,” Nefertiti said.
“I assume so, just as I am more than a plain face,” Kiya said.
Her response shocked Nefertiti. She had never considered the possibility that Kiya would be treated a certain way for her looks, just as Nefertiti was. “I would think so,” Nefertiti said.
It was Kiya’s turn to be shocked. Who would think the most beautiful woman of all women would think I am more than my face? she thought, slightly pleased with this new Queen.
A moment lingered between the two women: one thinking she was finally going to make a new friend in her new Egyptian home; one thinking the other was out to take over her marriage.
The latter, Nefertiti, broke the silence. “I will do everything in my power to stay chief wife—”
Kiya took a half step backward, and one eyebrow went up in confusion.
“—when you marry Amenhotep,” Nefertiti finished.
“I don’t want to be chief wife,” Kiya confessed. “I’ve seen the toll it took on Queen Tiye. As long as I have my stewards and food, I will be fine. No one here has befriended me, though, and it is friendship that I need now.”
“Well, don’t look for it in Amenhotep,” Nefertiti said and turned to go to the courtyard.
“He has made it clear he does not wish to talk to me anymore,” Kiya called back. “I was hoping to be your friend.”
This stopped Nefertiti in her tracks.
“Nefertiti, look at me.”
Nefertiti turned to face Kiya once more.
“I have no grace of my face like you, Nefertiti. Even if I tried, do you really think Amenhotep would love me more than you? I don’t want to be chief wife. I know I will have to marry him to keep Egypt in good relations with the Mitanni, and I have been writing to my father, the King of Mittani, of my happiness and how Pharaoh takes good care of me. I assume Amenhotep will do the same as his father, and my letters of happiness will continue. But I am lonely, just as anyone would be if they were far from their homeland, stuck in a world of strangers confined to a palace. If it means your friendship, I will turn him down even if he tries.”
Nefertiti looked her over. “If you are lying to get close—”
“I am not lying!” Kiya’s face contorted and her heart welled up within her chest.
Her outburst visibly shook Nefertiti—but what would she have done if someone had just accused her of lying? Probably the same thing. “Kiya, I believe you,” she said. “Please eat with us in the throne room when the time of mourning has passed.”
“Thank you, Nefertiti,” Kiya said. “May Amen-Ro bless you.”
“Amun-Re,” Nefertiti corrected with a slight smile.
Kiya smiled back.
And the two young women went their separate ways: Kiya back to her chambers to paint, and Nefertiti to find her grief-stricken husband.
Nefertiti came to Amenhotep’s side. Still standing, she placed a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Amenhotep, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“What are you sorry about?” he asked, not looking to her. He rolled his shoulder to shake off her hand.
She pulled her hand away, not sure what to say. She could only imagine how she would feel if she lost her own father. “I’m sorry about the Pharaoh’s death,” she said.
“He died. We all die,” he said, staring rigidly into the stone courtyard.
“Yes, we all die.” Nefertiti clasped her hands to her chest, gazing down at him. No words volunteered themselves. She sat down next to him, instead, saying nothing.
The silence was eerie: no winds, no bustling from beyond the palace walls, no insects calling . . . nothing. As if all of Egypt, even the winds and the insects, mourned the greatest Pharaoh of Egyptian history thus far in utter silence.
Not even her husband’s breathing could be heard, as if he had joined his father in death.
Finally, as the sun began to lower in the sky, Amenhotep spoke: “The Aten feels the day must come to an end, and so do I.”
He went to stand, but Nefertiti grabbed his wrist. “Please stay, Amenhotep.”
He willingly sat back down. She waited for him to speak again; his trembling lip and heavy shoulder gave away his desire to tell her something.
“Nefertiti, why . . . ?”
He drifted off, not knowing how to word the question he wished to ask. He wanted to ask why he had always been a failure in his father’s eyes, but he didn’t want to ask it in a way that would damage his wife’s view of him.
She rubbed his back, as if coaxing out the question.
“Why . . . Nefertiti . . . why was I never included in games, in family outings, in anything to do with my father or brother?” he asked. “Why didn’t my father love me?”
“I’m sure he did, Amenhotep.”
Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes in disgust and covered his nose and mouth with his hand. “No, he did not.”
“I love you,” she said softly.
His back slumped. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her to his side. “I know,” he whispered.
“Your two daughters love you,” Nefertiti said.
He pulled his hand away from his face and looked at his wife. “I know,” he said. He looked back to the courtyard and placed his chin on his fist. It should be enough, but it isn’t.
“What could I have done differently to gain my father’s love?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He snapped back to her. “Why do you say that?”
“You can’t gain someone’s love.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not everyone has the capability to give love, Amenhotep. In a good situation, the love you give will come back to you, such as that of you and me. But sometimes, the love you give does not come back, and the person receiving the love will take and take until there is nothing else to give or until you learn to only give what you can before losing yourself entirely.”
Amenhotep kissed her forehead and then her lips. “How am I so
lucky to have found not only the most beautiful wife, but also the most kind and wise?”
She kissed him again and laid her head on his shoulder. “You should thank your mother,” she teased, and gently poked him in the ribs.
He chuckled. “I should.” His mind briefly pictured Kasmut, but not with the love he felt for Nefertiti, only as a kindred memory. Then his thoughts shifted to his brother, for whom Nefertiti had originally been picked. My brother . . . even in death, our father still loved him more.
“What is it, Amenhotep?” Nefertiti asked, feeling him tense up.
He unclenched his jaw and said calmly, “You were meant for my brother. Perhaps I should thank him for dying.”
“Amenhotep, what is really bothering you?”
“The last words my father gave me concerned my dead brother,” Amenhotep said. He’d begun to notice how much his stone seat hurt, so he pulled from Nefertiti and stood up, pretending his lower back wasn’t screaming.
Nefertiti stood as well. “Would you feel better if you told me about it?”
“Yes,” Amenhotep whispered, and he began to recount the last moments of his father’s life.
“I love you, Father,” Amenhotep had whispered.
His father looked at him but said nothing.
Thinking he had not heard him, Amenhotep said it again a little louder.
No response came.
He began to say it a third time, but Pharaoh interrupted him. “I heard you, son.” He looked at the ceiling, and there would his gaze be until he died. “As Pharaoh, you should never repeat yourself. You still have much to learn. Use your mother to help you and guide you. Remember, the Pharaoh rules by divine appointment. He is the embodiment of Amun himself.”
“Then why, if Thutmose was to be Pharaoh, didn’t Amun save him?”
“Because . . . well, I don’t know. If I were Amun, I would have taken another child besides Thutmose,” he said, his eyes rolling toward Amenhotep. “Thutmose would have kept the position of Pharaoh from falling into commonality while I was sick.” Pharaoh gave a small cough.
“You wish me dead,” Amenhotep said stonily. “Then why can’t Smenkare be Pharaoh? He is Sitamun’s son. Why do you never speak of him? Have you even seen him? She is your royal wife—is he not your son?”
His voice had slowly filled with a vengeance. His father now weak in his bed, Amenhotep found it easier to summon his years of abuse onto the old man.
“Yes, he is my son,” Pharaoh said with a bitter cough.
Amenhotep nearly fell over at the confirmation of the rumors which had disgraced the throne room so long ago.
Pharaoh wanted to chastise Amenhotep for his newfound confidence in his accusations, but his chest heaved up and down. Laying his head down, still rattling from the jarring movement, he asked, “Do I want all of Egypt to know I took my daughter, your sister, to bed?”
He slightly shook his head, loathing his mistakes of taking his daughter and now confessing to his son. “There was already an heir to the throne, and so no need to take your sister—an action looked down upon by all unless an heir was needed.”
His hand went up to tenderly touch his jaw. The pain shot through every tooth that remained and into his jaw and neck and temple. He was sure his cursed mouth was the cause of his failing health. To speak meant excruciating pain, but he had to let the next Pharaoh know.
“Marriage to Sitamun was ceremonial, nothing more. When I found out she was with child and she started to show, I put her in Malkata, not to be seen or heard until the child was born. Once he was born, she was not to tell anyone who the father was . . . but I suppose rumor has defeated me.”
“Why did you do it?” Amenhotep asked. He longed to know his father’s seemingly only weakness.
“I had taken to the wine all day and all night when the messenger came to me with the news Thutmose had died,” he said as he leaned his head farther down into the bed. A tear slid from his right eye. “I was full of so much wine. Your mother had already gone to Men-nefer, but Sitamun remained to comfort me. I took her then.”
Amenhotep sat back in his chair. His great father, the unbreakable one, the one who could do no wrong, the highest of high, the greatest of praises, the Pharaoh of all Egypt, the Great Amenhotep the Magnificent—he who had rejected his secondborn son because he was not as great as his brother—had forced himself onto his own flesh and blood. Sitamun, Amenhotep’s oldest sister, had disappeared soon after Thutmose’s burial because, Pharaoh had said, she was so heartbroken at the loss of her brother. But then the rumors came, most of which were denied or brushed aside. But they were true.
“He is only five years old, Amenhotep,” Pharaoh said.
“Pharaohs have taken the throne at a young age in the past. He could still do it. You never thought highly of me, Father—especially not enough to be Pharaoh,” Amenhotep said. “You never loved me,” he said again, hoping his father would deny his statement. Even after hearing about his father’s shameful act with his sister, he still needed this man’s love.
“All of Egypt believes he is my grandson, and therefore, you are the next in line and are old enough to know what to do to restore Pharaoh to his rightful authority.”
“Father, do you love me?” he asked, every aching fiber of his heart wishing and hoping for the answer he so desired to hear.
But no such answer came.
“As Pharaoh, you will need to make sure the matters of Egypt are properly cared for and the allies of Egypt remain allies. We are a great, if not the greatest, nation. It is now your responsibility to make it greater,” Pharaoh said, his voice now almost a whisper.
“Father, have you ever loved me?” Amenhotep asked, one hand holding his father’s hand and the other gripping his elbow.
“Amenhotep, listen to me,” Pharaoh said, his breath hitching at every syllable.
Amenhotep sat on the edge of the chair, hoping, needing the answer to be Yes, my son, I have always loved you.
Instead, the old Pharaoh sputtered out, “Egypt needs her Pharaoh. Remember to bring her back to Amun-Re, or else the people will reject you.” He closed his eyes.
Amenhotep’s shoulders slumped as he watched his father’s eyeballs roll underneath their lids. Pharaoh opened his eyes one last time. Hope crept inside his stomach. Perhaps . . . he thought.
“Amenhotep, be the Pharaoh I knew Thutmose could be,” the old man said as his eyes closed for the final time. He took one more breath and then no more.
Amenhotep stared. His father’s hand lay limp in his own. His head rolled slightly to its side.
All of a sudden, his father’s last words crept into Amenhotep’s mind, and his body became like a ton of stones stacked upon one other: his muscles rigid, coldness hitting him in his core. The tightness in his chest struck him still and mute.
“Father?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from screeching.
His father’s jaw hung slightly ajar and his chest remained still.
“No!” Amenhotep yelled and stood up. “How dare you, Father! Your last words to me are to be like my dead brother!”
He hit his father’s corpse in the face, brought his hand up to slap him again . . . then bent over him, fell to his knees and cried into his chest.
“Father, I love you! Please, do not leave me with those words as your last.”
Banging on his chest, he yelled into his face. “Father, do you hear me?! Hear me, Father! Don’t leave me with those words! Curse you! Curse you now and forever. Curse you!”
Still more tears came. He shuddered and whispered, crying over and over again, “Please, Father, tell me you love me. Please . . . please, Father!”
Chapter 10
The Time of Relinquishment
The sun blistered on the day they finally laid the great Pharaoh Amenhotep III to rest in the Valley of the Kings. As the new Pharaoh was carried in front of the procession, the former Pharaoh’s viziers of the North and the South, Huy and Ramose, led the people to the West Bank of
Waset, while the oxen pulled the sled with the body behind them. The High Priests of Amun-Re, with their shaved heads, walked solemnly beside the dead Pharaoh as the incense they held swirled about their waists. The Mourners, crying and wailing women who beat their chests and smeared dirt on their skin, followed them as lower priests mingled amongst the procession, and two women skilled in playing their brass sistrums danced between the Mourners. The skill of the musicians reached perfection as they shook the sistrums’ wooden handles in their hands with ever so much force to slightly swing the thin metal rings around the moveable brass crossbars, producing the sounds of a breeze flowing through the papyrus reeds of the Nile.
Pharaoh Amenhotep IV, now twenty years old, stood with his shoulders squared as they reached the tomb’s entrance. The priests stood the coffin upright and performed the ritualistic opening of the mouth ceremony. Queen Nefertiti looked to her husband as he began walking with the priests and workers into the tomb to lay the Pharaoh to rest. She followed him, as did Queen Tiye.
Amenhotep had said nothing but a few words in the past seventy days since Nefertiti had learned of his last encounter with his father. Instead, he had turned his back to her almost every night since. Still, Nefertiti had followed her father’s advice and placed her hand on his shoulder, whispering, “I love you.” She’d tried to be comforting, holding his head against her bosom, yet he still showed no feeling, no sadness nor sorrow that his father was gone. In the absence of emotion, though, she knew, his father’s death was more than he had ever borne before.
When it was time for the royal family to leave and attend the funerary meal, Pharaoh Amenhotep stayed. “Leave. When Pharaoh is ready for you to lay the stone and seal the tomb, he will emerge from this place,” he commanded.
The workers and priests bowed and left, followed by the royal family—except Queen Nefertiti, who stayed in the shadows.
Thinking he was alone, Amenhotep placed his hand on his father’s golden mask.
Salvation in the Sun (The Lost Pharaoh Chronicles Book 1) Page 9