Nefertiti

Chapter Twenty-Four

1345 BCE

seventh of Thoth

FOR EIGHT LONG months after the birth of Nefertiti’s fourth daughter, Egypt knew only drought. A hot wind blew over the arid land, parching the crops and sucking the life from the River Nile. It began in the season of Peret. At first it was only a warm breeze at night when the desert chill should have arrived. Then the heat invaded the shadows, stealing into places that should have been cool, and old men began to go down to the river to stand in the water, splashing their faces in the withering sun.

At the wells, women began to gossip, and outside the city temples men whispered that Pharaoh had turned his back on Amun-Re, and now the great god of life had unleashed his anger, a drought that killed off half our neighbors’ cattle and sent fishermen’s children begging in the streets. Only Djedi seemed immune to the famine, telling Ipu that now was the time to sail, and that they could go upriver to Punt and bring back treasures far more valuable than any fish: ebony, cinnamon, and green gold.

“But Ipu’s not a sailor,” I cried. “She will die in Punt!”

Nakhtmin laughed at me. “Djedi is a talented man. He will hire sailors, and merchants will invest in his expedition.”

“But Ipu wants children,” I complained.

Nakhtmin shrugged. “Then she will have them in Punt.”

The horror of the notion left me speechless.

“It’s what she has chosen,” he reminded, “and I would bid my farewell to her before morning.”

I went to Ipu’s home with a heavy heart; I was losing my closest friend. Ipu had been with me since I had first passed the threshold of Malkata Palace, and now she was sailing for a foreign land from which she might never return. I was quiet, watching my body servant who was more than a body servant stuff linen into baskets and wrap cosmetics in papyrus.

“I’m not leaving for the ends of the earth,” Ipu remonstrated.

“Do you even know how they treat women in Punt? How do you know it’s not like Babylon?”

“Because Egyptians have been there before.”

“Egyptian women?”

“Yes. In Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s time, Punt was ruled by a woman.”

“But that was Hatshepsut’s time. And besides, you’ve never really sailed. How do you know that you won’t get sick?”

“I’ll take ginger.” She took my hand. “And I’ll be careful. When I return, I will bring you herbs that no one in Thebes has ever seen. I will search the markets for you when I am there.”

I nodded, trying to reconcile myself to what I couldn’t change. “Be safe,” I made her promise again. “And don’t you dare bear a child on foreign bricks without me!”

Ipu laughed. “I will tell my child it must wait for its godmother.”

She and Djedi, with their ship full of sailors and merchants, departed the next morning for a land we Egyptians imagined as far away as the sun.

“It’s not so far as you believe,” my husband told me, sharpening his arrows in the courtyard the following morning. “She’ll be back before next Akhet,” he predicted.

“In a renpet?” I cried. “But what will I do without her?” I sat down on the stump of a fallen palm, feeling sorry for myself.

Nakhtmin looked over and a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, I can think of some things we can do while Ipu is away.” I had the feeling he would be glad to be relieved of Ipu’s incessant chatter for a time.

But every month, my moon blood came.

I grew mandrakes, I added honey to my tea, I visited the shrine of Tawaret in the city every morning, laying down the choicest herbs from my garden. I began to accept that I would never give Nakhtmin the children we wanted. I would never be fertile again. And instead of turning me aside the way many husbands might have, Nakhtmin only said, “Then the gods meant for you to make the earth fertile instead.” He caressed my cheek. “I would love you the same with five children or none.” But there was a fire in his eyes, and I was afraid. It was only for me, for my family, that he refused to rid Egypt of a man who should never have been Pharaoh. Yet he never said a word about the letters that arrived from soldiers in Akhenaten’s army. He only took me in his arms and held me close and asked me if I wanted to walk along the river. “Before it disappears,” he joked darkly.

“I hear the priestesses in the shrine talking among themselves,” I told him. “They think this drought is the result of something that Pharaoh has done.”

Nakhtmin didn’t disagree. He opened the gate to the garden so we could pass through and walk the short distance to the water. “He has neglected Amun and every other god.”

We both looked at the river. On the exposed banks, naked children were playing, tossing a ball and laughing while their parents watched them, covered by sunshades. Three women nodded deferentially to us as we passed, and Nakhtmin said, “It’s amazing how much Egyptians will tolerate before they rise and rebel.” He turned to me in the setting sun. “I am telling you this because I love you, Mutnodjmet, and because your father is a great man forced to serve a false Pharaoh. The people won’t always bow, and I want to know that you won’t be crushed. You will be ready.”

His words were making me afraid.

“Promise me you won’t make foolish decisions,” he pressed. “When the time comes, promise me you’ll make decisions for the both of us, not just for your family.”

“Nakhtmin, I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“But you will. And when you do, I want you to remember this moment.”

I looked beyond him to the River Nile, the sun reflecting on its shrinking surface. I looked at Nakhtmin, who was waiting for my response. I replied, “I promise.”