Egypt's Second Born: The Lost Pharaoh Chronicles Prequel Collection, #5

By Lauren Lee Merewether

Bullied by his brother and disregarded by his father, young Prince Amenhotep seeks to belong.

 

Not expected to live as a babe, Amenhotep beats the odds only to find a life always in his brother's shadow and cast out from his father's glory.

 

Does Amenhotep succumb to the shadows of his father's great palace, or does he rise above the ridicule to forge his own path?

 

 

 

"...an exceptional, fascinating, and distinctive historical novel...truly superb." - Jessica Barbosa for Readers' Favorite (★★★★★)

 

"...another highly compelling historical family drama that has plenty of highs, lows, and relatability to offer its readers...One of the things which never ceases to amaze me when I review Merewether's works is the innate sense of humanity that runs through her characters, drawing parallels with modern emotions so that we can relate to lives quite unlike our own." - K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite (★★★★★)

 

"Egypt's Second Born offers a compelling journey back into the first great civilization of humanity and shows us the structure and societal shape that made the Egyptians so dominant in that span of millennia but would also play a part in its ultimate downfall." - Grant Leishman for Readers' Favorite (★★★★★)

 

 

 

Egypt's Second Born is the fifth prequel of Lauren Lee Merewether's debut series, The Lost Pharaoh Chronicles, a resurrection of an erased time that follows the five kings of Egypt who were lost to history for over three millennia. The series begins with book one, Salvation in the Sun.

 

Don't miss The Lost Pharaoh Chronicles Complement Collection that accompanies the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LLMBooks Publishing
• Release date: Aug 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781961759114

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MALKATA, 1366 B.C.

The odd-looking child stared up at Queen Tiye, and, for once, he did not cry. The sun blistered overhead as she held her naked child in the sunlight. He lay mostly limp in her arms, staring back at her. His unusually long fingers wrapped over his thumbs, and his dark and almost-lifeless eyes sat wide on his elongated face, looking up at Tiye.

Even though she had given birth three decans ago, she sat up straight and tall in her gem-encrusted wooden chair. A long, pleated, silk dress—almost translucent—and a decorated belt wrapped her body in royal elegance. A shimmering gold and blue faience collar rested on her shoulders, matching the celestial nature of the cylindrical modius crown upon her head. The crown’s leather band pressed against her forehead, capturing the tiny beads of sweat in its fibers. A few elusive beads rolled down the back of her oiled cheek and neck, disappearing under her collar. Her chest sank as she expelled the unusually hot day’s air through a forceful breath from her parted lips.

Her eyes squinted in the haze the sun brought forth from the ground, and a desire to fully close them overcame her. The sleepless nights spent praying for her son had drawn on her strength. She turned to the servant girl who held an ostrich feather to shade her head but spoke to no one in particular.

Bring some wine. Her voice held firm and regal despite the ache coursing through her back and legs. This son would be her last child, for she knew her body would not carry another. Two sons and four daughters she had borne unto Pharaoh Amenhotep III: a feat worthy of her position as Pharaoh’s Chief Royal Wife.

The wet nurse and her head steward Huya stood next to her. Huya snapped at a servant to do as the Queen commanded and then bowed to Tiye. "Mistress of Upper and Lower Egypt, we have been outside for the greater part of the day. Will the Queen not go inside and rest? We shall take care of Prince Amenhotep—"

The Prince finally ceases to cry. Tiye’s gaze shifted to the baby in her arms. The Queen shall not leave him.

Although her face remained without expression, as was fitting for royalty, her heart leapt for joy at the calm demeanor on her child’s face. Yet a pit opened in her stomach as she remembered Pharaoh’s reaction upon seeing the second prince, his namesake.

I shall not leave him. I shall not leave my son, she said again, but this time in a soft whisper. The heads of all in the room bowed to ignore the Queen’s private moment with her baby.

Her shoulders began to slump, but she pulled them up straight. She could show no weakness. She was Queen of Egypt and different from all the other Queens who had come before her. Her realm of power extended beyond the Royal Harem and into the affairs of the state alongside her husband, whom she had neglected since the time she gave birth. Pharaoh sneered at her absence over the past month, especially when such a weak child was born. His words pressed against her memory. Her lips lay in a flat line across her face, and her dark eyes studied her child’s limp body and long fingers once again. Pharaoh had been happy, enamored even, with his firstborn son, Thutmose. The boy looked exactly like him, but not this child, not the one she held in her arms. Thutmose had been a strong baby, big, fat and healthy. . . .

Unshed tears burned her eyes at the unfairness bestowed upon her second son. Even though her husband dismissed him, Amenhotep had captured her heart. She had carried him and borne him. He was her son and would be her son as long as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

Huya nodded and remained by Tiye’s side, awaiting her master’s next command.

Tiye watched her son gradually move a little more while the sun’s rays fell upon him. A small smile escaped her lips, but she quickly snuffed it out. Prepare another offering to Hathor and Heka for the second prince.

Thus the Queen says. Huya bowed her head and snapped at two servants to make the arrangements.

Tiye lifted her chin in appreciation of Huya. She had been by her side since she had wed the then-prince Amenhotep III and had never failed her. Huya had dealt with the treasury’s and the scribes’ messengers while Tiye retreated to her bedchamber with her son after Pharaoh’s near rejection of the boy. For that, Tiye was especially grateful.

The heat from the Aten, the great sun disc in the sky, seemed to placate the child, because his lips curled up in a lazy grin.

Tiye’s eyes sparkled at the movement, and she thanked Re for hearing her prayers. Have peace now, Tiye cooed in another whisper.

Then he did something he had not done before; he reached up for Tiye’s face, unwrapping his long fingers from his tightly held fist.

The gasp of the servants around her broke the silence of the courtyard. But to uphold her status as Queen, supposedly removed from mere human emotion, she suppressed the excitement bubbling within her chest. Her cheek lowered into Amenhotep’s little hand as his eyes mimicked the sparkle in her own eyes.

Great is my love for you, and great will you become. You will be more than your father thought you would be, my son.

She held him out into the sunlight even more. Praise our god Amun-Re and the Aten, who give the second son of Pharaoh release from his cries and heal his idleness!

The servants around her repeated, Praise Amun-Re and the Aten!

Remove the shade! Tiye cried, and the servant girl lifted the ostrich feather fan that shaded the Queen from the sun’s rays. Tiye stood with an abruptness that caused her legs to shake, but, regardless, she stood tall and proud, lifting Amenhotep high above her head to be closer to the sun.

Our god, Amun-Re, you have shown grace to the son of your divinely appointed in this hour! The rays of the Aten disc shine brightly upon him!

After a few moments, Tiye lowered Amenhotep and pressed her forehead to his. My son, be healed, she whispered. Both of his balled fists came to her cheeks while Tiye forced her eyes to close before tears escaped them.

1

A LOST SPAR

Amenhotep stumbled backward and tripped on his leather sandal, sending him into the packed sand. His fighting stick bounced away from him. His brother’s training weapon halted a fingerbreadth from his nose as his back burned from the sun-drenched sand. The heat of the day boiling his cheeks hid the fury in Amenhotep’s face.

Thutmose pointed his fighting stick toward the ground and shook his head, chuckling, Tutor, when can the Crown Prince have a real opponent? How will he be a warrior-Pharaoh when he has to fight—Thutmose waved his hand toward Amenhotep—this?!

Amenhotep’s jaw clenched. He took hold of his brother’s fighting stick and jumped up to face him again, yanking the training weapon from Thutmose’s hand.

"I am a real opponent!"

He swung the stick toward Thutmose’s head, but Thutmose ducked the attack, grabbing the stick as it passed by. With one fluid motion, he pulled the training weapon out of Amenhotep’s grip and sent Amenhotep sailing back into the dirt again with a kick to Amenhotep’s rear end.

Amenhotep lifted his head and spit out the sand dust that had entered his mouth upon impact. Sand on his back, sand on his front: humiliating. Every muscle ached in Amenhotep’s body despite the sun’s healing rays. He wrenched an arm out from under his body and slammed a palm into the ground to act as leverage.

A few giggles made their way to Amenhotep’s ears as he remembered his sisters were watching, along with some of the children of the noble elite. The noble boys who were training for Pharaoh’s Army also watched, but they sat silently as instructed by Sebni, the Overseer of the Tutors.

No, you are not, Brother.

Thutmose smirked and looked up to his father watching from the entrance of the royal harem’s training yard. Pharaoh stood tall with his hands folded behind his back. His lips held a proud curl to them, but as his eyes drifted to his second-born son pushing himself up a fifth time, his lips flattened into a straight line.

The burn from Amenhotep’s cheeks spread to his ears as he rose to a knee, facing his brother. His long arms on either side of his body were readying for an attack.

Yes. I. Am!

Amenhotep pushed off the ground, his fingers digging into the sand to propel himself forward. His body slammed full-force into Thutmose’s waist and knocked Thutmose down into the dirt with him. Amenhotep wanted to punch Thutmose in his perfectly round face, but he had to get him on his back first. He struggled to remember his lessons as the gasps came from the audience. As he thought, he held on as tight as he could to prevent Thutmose from gaining the upper hand, knowing Thutmose would remember his lessons.

His gaze drifted to the Aten rising over the royal harem’s eastern wall.

Please, O Great Aten-disc! Give me strength! Let me win!

The ache in his fingers and the burn in his thighs and biceps were almost too much, but he pushed away the pain and focused on keeping his palms together and his legs tightly wound around his brother’s body.

I need to win. I have to win. I have to please Father.

Thutmose was strong and held much more endurance than he could ever hope to have. Even if he could keep him trapped, Thutmose would eventually wear him out.

But Sebni might call the spar and label me the victor if I can just keep him down, if I can just keep my grip on him.

His hands weakened and his palms popped apart, leaving the interlock of his fingers as the only means of keeping his brother under his control.

Just a bit longer.

His gaze shifted to the Aten. His father watched them, hands folded behind his back. The corners of his mouth lifted.

This is it!

He glanced to Sebni, who should have been walking toward them, but he stood on the side watching them. That was when Amenhotep realized Thutmose had snuck a leg free. His heart raced faster than it had before. It seemed as if the thump of his heart could punch Thutmose in the back of the head. Amenhotep tightened his thigh wrapped about Thutmose’s captive leg, hoping he could hold him just for a bit longer.

Call it! Sebni, please, call it.

Amenhotep’s two thumbs broke their connection—

No. No, no, no . . .

—followed by two little fingers and then his third fingers. He twisted his middle and pointer fingers over each other, hooking at the knuckles. The agonizing strain from his grip coursed down his forearms and into his elbows. Every breath his body took told him to let go, but his mind did not falter. His tongue mastered the desire to cry out in pain.

I would rather break my fingers than let Thutmose win yet again!

But just as Amenhotep’s resolve strengthened, Thutmose wrapped his free leg around Amenhotep and wriggled an arm free.

Amenhotep already could feel the elbow coming for his shoulder before it actually hit. Thutmose was twisting to face him. Amenhotep let out a yell, but, despite the sting, he managed to hold his brother in place by digging his fingers into Thutmose’s back. But after a swift side punch to Amenhotep’s thigh and two more blows from Thutmose’s elbows, one to the chest and the other to his stomach, his body failed him. Thutmose had outmaneuvered him yet again.

With his knees on Amenhotep’s shoulders, Thutmose sat atop his chest and laughed out loud. He let out a heavy sigh as the audience joined in on the laughter. With a purse of his lips and a cock of his head, he gave a disapproving head shake.

Amenhotep glowered at his brother, his face now illuminated by the Aten: perfect, not even a bead of sweat. His mouth breathed no heavy pants for air. It was as if he had just awoken from a good night’s slumber a moment before.

I hate you, Amenhotep thought as his chest heaved in a quick cadence under the weight of his brother’s body atop it. He wanted to punch him in the face, but Thutmose’s lower legs had pinned his arms, and his hands were trapped by Thutmose’s feet.

Thutmose raised a fist to strike Amenhotep in the face, but he halted his hand just above Amenhotep’s nose, signaling the end of the spar. The rush of air and sand from his quick jab flew into Amenhotep’s eyes.

Younger brother—Thutmose’s fist became flat as he patted his brother’s sandy face—I am only a year your senior, but in so many ways, you are still yet a child. Thutmose pulled Amenhotep’s sidelock, hard. As father says, ‘Egypt should be glad Thutmose is to be Pharaoh and not you.’

Amenhotep’s hands curled into fists as hot tears pricked his eyes. He was helpless to do anything.

His brother must have seen the glisten in his eyes, for a curt Weak dripped in disgust from the Crown Prince’s lips.

Thutmose put a hand on Amenhotep’s forehead to stand up and pushed unnecessarily, sending Amenhotep’s head into the dirt.

Thutmose faced the audience and put his hands up in victory, receiving the applause. Amenhotep got up and turned to leave, but, in doing so, tripped and fell . . . again.

Thutmose laughed the loudest among them all.

Amenhotep’s cheeks again hid their hue under the boil of the sun as he lurched forward and ran from the training yard.

Laughter chased him out of the nearest exit. Before he turned to go down a corridor, he peered over his shoulder to see if his father still stood at the entrance. He was not there, but a quick glance back to the yard revealed why.

Pharaoh now stood next to Thutmose, laying his hands upon his shoulders and speaking to the audience, . . . the future of Egypt is bright with the Crown Prince Thutmose . . .

Amenhotep did not need to hear any more from his father; it was always the same. He pulled his sagging shendyt tighter around his waist and wiped his nose with his forearm as he watched them from the shadows. He stepped into the corridor and left without his guards.

He went to his courtyard—the one he had claimed—that served as his retreat when Thutmose bested him or when he needed to be alone. He had a private courtyard attached to his bedchamber, but he liked this one better. The acacia tree provided just the right amount of shade and sunlight for him to lie under.

His body, tired and aching from the spar, sank back against the tree’s trunk. He lifted his hands in front of his face. He winced at the burn in his fingers. In an attempt to straighten them and curl them, the perceived flame only intensified. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and his hands drifted to his lap.

His arms shook with either fatigue or anger—he was not sure which. Leaning his head back, he read the words of the gods on the wall surrounding the courtyard. It seemed they always spoke of how great his father was and is and will be forever. Thutmose’s image had started to be included next to his father’s image. But at least in this courtyard, his arrogant brother had not disgraced its walls yet. When his arms stopped shaking and only held their usual ache, he ran his fingers in the dirt next to him and found some small pebbles lying around.

His fingers gripped one of them, and he curled it into the palm of his hand, ignoring the searing burn that raced through his extremity.

Always the same! he yelled under his breath as he sat up and sent the pebble sailing into the wall.

Just once—his back sank again into the acacia tree—just once, I want to beat my brother at something.

His face looked up to the sunlight falling through the leaves.

Amun-Re, Aten, heal my body so that it may fight well against Thutmose . . . I want father’s admiration too.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping the Aten would take away the aches from that morning’s spar. The sun’s rays felt good on his skin, and the healing warmth surged throughout his body. The slight breeze from under the tree’s shade cooled his brow.

2

A FUTURE PROMISE

After a while, a presence standing in the corridor of the courtyard encroached upon his temporary peace in the sunlight. Amenhotep popped one eye open and looked out of its corner. A long white dress and a soft glimmer . . . maybe one of his sisters or one of the noble girls stood there.

He shut his eye. Have you come to laugh at me some more?

No, a familiar soft voice responded.

He turned to confirm who stood there.

Oh . . . He turned back to the wall again. Rolling off the shame from the morning’s training