“There, there, you stay,” Pharaoh reassured him. “My Great Royal Wife knows better than to insult the goddess who heard my prayers for renewed health. Isn’t that right, Lady Tiye?” My aunt closed her mouth and glowered at him.
He gave his attention back to Thutmose. “My son, when I left Thebes, I gave you the power to rule there in my place. I’ve always intended for you to follow me onto the throne of the Black Land. From the time you were small, you showed nothing but the brightest promise. Your teachers admired your cleverness. The men who taught you how to drive a chariot, to hunt, to use the sword and spear and bow, all were happy to tell me how strong and skilled you were. You were always a pretty child, and when you grew up, I could see for myself how handsome you were. No pharaoh could have asked for a more perfect heir.”
I looked over the top of Nava’s head to where Amenophis stood hearing all this. It must have been hard for him to listen to his father pouring so many praises onto his brother’s head. Pharaoh hadn’t spoken one word against his younger son, but Amenophis had spent most of his life in Thutmose’s shadow. Other people had let him know that he wasn’t as handsome or as strong or as destined for great things. If two different foods are set on the table before a guest and he only eats from one of the dishes, smacking his lips and loudly insisting it’s fit for the gods themselves, does he really need to say “This is tasteless, worthless, only fit for dogs” about the dish he ignores?
“Perfect …” Pharaoh repeated the word bitterly. “A perfect illusion. Thutmose, if you can see a crime where there is no victim, sorcery in this child, sacrilege in this young woman, treachery in your own brother, then all of your other gifts and talents are dust and sand. You cannot govern with justice if your vision is warped and your mind is ailing, and I cannot give the crown of the Black Land to a prince who sees monsters.”
Thutmose lowered his eyes. “Father, will you hear me out? Or would you rather judge me without all the evidence?”
“Go on.” Pharaoh’s voice was tense.
“There is one truth you haven’t been told: I was not the one who charged Nefertiti with sacrilege and blasphemy. When we return to Thebes, you can call for witnesses, including your own vizier, who will swear to this. Ha! Why wait? Amenophis himself was there. Well, brother? Can you deny what I’ve just said?”
Amenophis spoke reluctantly. “I didn’t know that she was being brought to trial until it was almost too late. When I arrived, I learned that the evidence against her was a ripped, bloodstained dress and the testimony of our half brother, Meketre.”
“Exactly!” Thutmose slapped his palm with his fist. “Meketre accused her, not I! And there was something odd about the boy’s testimony. It sounded too practiced to be real, as if he were reciting a lesson he didn’t fully understand.”
“That was your doing!” I exclaimed. “Your plot, helped by the priests of Amun. You told Meketre what to say; you sent your own doctor to give me a potion that clouded my mind and slowed my tongue so that I couldn’t defend myself, and when I tried to write an explanation—”
“If it was my plot, Nefertiti, why would I be plucking it to pieces now?” Thutmose asked lightly. Before I could respond, he added, “Father, look at this girl. Isn’t she the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen? Can anyone help falling in love with her? The one who wins her for his wife will think he’s the luckiest man alive. The weak man who wins her will spend the rest of his days living in fear that he’ll lose her again. He’ll pay any price to keep her, give her anything and everything she wants, even if what she wants is mastery of the Black Land itself!”
I tried to object, but Pharaoh raised his hand, bidding me and everyone else present to remain silent. “I don’t believe that you are a weak man, my son,” he said.
“Neither does Nefertiti,” Thutmose replied. “That’s the problem. She came to Thebes destined to be my bride, but she came with greater ambitions than that. I loved her at once, but she soon saw that I would never love her blindly, drunkenly enough to let her rule me.”
“And through you, to rule the Black Land,” Pharaoh mused. “I understand.” He glanced at his Great Royal Wife and nodded in a thoughtful way that made my aunt look nervous.
“But I never wanted—” I began.
“You will let my son speak.” All the warmth and kindness was gone from Pharaoh’s tone and face. I bit my lip and was still.
“I don’t know what I did or said to make her realize that I would be her husband but never her slave. I do know that she found someone she could command with her beauty, someone who had never imagined a girl who looks like this”—he pointed at me—“could love a boy who looks like that.” He couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice as his finger swung around to indicate Amenophis.
“Thutmose, you shouldn’t speak that way about your brother,” Pharaoh chided.
“I hear you, Father,” Thutmose said docilely. “Forgive me; I’m still wounded by how coolly Nefertiti abandoned me for Amenophis and by how easily he welcomed her attention without a second thought that she was his own brother’s promised bride.” He put on the mask of a heartbroken lover, but I remembered the truth behind the mask. He had never loved me. He had only wanted to marry me because his mother assured him it would get him the crown.