Nefertiti

Chapter Twenty-Seven

AMARNA

ninth of Pachons

DESPITE OUR FATHER’S triumph over Panahesi, by the Season of Harvest Kiya was pregnant. Even after the disaster in the Audience Chamber, Panahesi swept through the halls barking orders as if he could already feel the heavy crown of Egypt in his hands.

One son might be ignored, but a nation could not ignore two princes, two heirs to the throne. If Kiya could do it, the ascension would be final.

Akhenaten found Merit in the Great Hall and instructed her to give Nefertiti the news. He was too much of a coward to do it himself. “Be sure to tell her that no child will ever take Meritaten’s place in my affection. She is our golden child, our child of Aten.”

I watched him as he led his girls away. His adoring princesses. The daughters he believed would never turn on him the way a son might, the way he had turned on his brother and father. He doesn’t understand girls if he thinks they can’t be cunning, I thought.

Merit looked at me with rising desperation. “How should I tell her?”

We reached the doors of the Audience Chamber. “Just tell her. She predicted it herself; it shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Inside, Nakhtmin was playing Senet with my mother. On the dais, my father’s head was bent close to Nefertiti’s; for once, my sister wasn’t surrounded by ladies. They had all gone to see Akhenaten ride.

“You’re not outside?” I asked her.

“I don’t have time for the Arena,” she snapped. “He can go riding around whenever he chooses, but I have to oversee plans for the walls. If there is an invasion, we’ll have no defense against the Hittites, but Akhenaten isn’t interested—” She interrupted herself, staring sharply between me and Merit. “What do you want?”

I nodded to Merit, and my father lowered the architectural plans to his lap.

“Your Highness,” Merit began, “I have news that is not going to make you happy.” She added as quickly as possible to get it over with, “There is word that Kiya is pregnant.”

Nefertiti remained very still. When the silence stretched on, Merit continued uncertainly. “It is only Kiya’s second child, Your Highness. You have six princesses, and Akhenaten wished me to tell you—”

Nefertiti sent scrolls rolling across the tiles as she stood. “My husband sent you to tell me?” she shrieked.

My father rose quickly to be at her side. “We must move now,” he suggested. “Make him show all of Egypt that Meritaten is the one he intends to have reign over Nebnefer.”

Something unspoken passed between them and I asked, “But how?” No one answered my question. “How can you do that?”

There was a strange glint in Nefertiti’s eyes. “In the only way that’s never been done,” she said.

Akhenaten declared a Durbar in Nefertiti’s honor. It was a festival to celebrate their reign together, and the change from jealous wife to victorious queen was immediate. Nefertiti said nothing more about Kiya, and Nakhtmin wondered how deep Amarna’s coffers would be drained to create the largest Durbar in history.

“Mutny, come,” my sister called brightly to me. I entered her Robing Room with its dozens of chests packed with bright linen. There were bronze-handled razors strewn about, and pots of kohl carelessly tipped over. “Which wig should I wear?” She was surrounded by hairpieces.

“The one that cost least,” I said immediately.

She continued to wait for an answer that pleased her.

“The short one,” I replied.

She swept the other wigs into a pile for Merit to clean up later. “Father has sent invitations to every king in the East,” she boasted. “When the princes of the greatest nations in the world are assembled here, an announcement will be made that will write our family’s name in eternity.”

I glanced sideways at her. “What do you mean?”

Nefertiti looked out over her city. “It’s a surprise.”