Nefertiti

Chapter Thirty-One

1335 BCE

Akhet, Season of Overflow

BARAKA’S MUSCLES GREW taut as he drew back a feathered arrow, sending it swiftly to its target at the edge of the courtyard in a flash of red and gold.

“Well done,” Nakhtmin praised.

Baraka gave a satisfied nod from the grass. He looked like his father, with the same wide shoulders and crop of dark hair brushing the nape of his neck. It was impossible to tell that he was only nine. He could have been a boy of eleven or twelve.

“It’s your turn now,” Baraka said, moving back so Ankhesenamun could step up to the target.

“I bet I can hit closer than Tut,” she bragged. “While you’ve been studying, I’ve been out here practicing with Nakhtmin,” she taunted Tutankhamun. She drew her small arm back and the bow tautened.

“Steady,” Baraka advised.

The arrow flew, slicing very near the center of the target, and Ankhesenamun let out a squeal of delight. Baraka covered his ears.

“Very good,” Nakhtmin said approvingly. “You’re becoming a fine soldier, Ankhesenamun. Soon your mother is going to have to let you practice with my students.”

“I’d like to be a soldier someday!”

Nakhtmin looked across the bower at me. No child could have been more different from her father.

“Come,” she crowed. “Let’s row back to the palace and show my mother what I can do.”

“Do you think the queen will like that?” Baraka asked practically.

Ankhesenamun pushed back her forelock of youth. In two years, she would shave it and become a woman. “Who cares what Meritaten thinks? All she does is read scrolls and recite poetry. She’s like Tutankhamun,” she accused, and Tut took offense.

“I’m nothing like the queen!” he protested. “I hunt every day.”

“You also recite poetry,” she goaded.

“So what? Our father wrote poetry.”

Baraka froze, and Ankhesenamun covered her mouth with her hands.

“It’s fine,” Nakhtmin cut in swiftly.

“But Tut said…” Ankhesenamun didn’t finish.

“It doesn’t matter what Tut said. Why don’t we visit your mother now and show her what you can do? She’ll be waiting for us anyway.”

The sun had nearly set. We would be expected soon in the Great Hall of Malkata. While a pair of servants rowed across the river, Ankhesenamun leaned over in the bark.

“You shouldn’t have said that about Father.”

“Leave him alone,” Baraka said, defending Tut. “He was your father, too.”

She set her jaw. “I bet Mutnodjmet wouldn’t approve of it.”

“Approve of what?” I smiled innocently, and all three children looked up at me.

Ankhesenamun did her best to look morally superior. “Speaking about the Heretic King. I know you wouldn’t approve of it,” she said. “My mother says he shouldn’t be spoken about, especially in public, and that he’s the reason there’s rebellion in Lower Egypt. If he hadn’t abandoned the gods and created the Aten priests, they wouldn’t be fighting in the north, and our priests in Thebes would be safe at night because there’d be no one attacking them or leading revolts.”

“Your mother said all that?” Nakhtmin asked curiously.

“Yes.” But Ankhesenamun was still staring at me, waiting for my answer, and eventually everyone in the bark turned to see what I would say.

“Perhaps it is better not to speak of the Pharaoh Akhenaten in public,” I admitted and Ankhesenamun gave Tutankhamun a wise look. “However, there is nothing wrong with remembering the good a person did.”

Ankhesenamun stared at me. Nakhtmin raised his brows.

“He wrote poetry.” I hesitated. “And he was skilled with the bow and arrow. That is where the two of you might have inherited it from.”

“My mother was good with the bow,” Ankhesenamun contradicted.

“That’s true, but Akhenaten was especially swift.” And at once, I thought of the woman in the Audience Chamber trying to save her child by fleeing from the plague. I drew my cloak closer to my chest, and Ankhesenamun leaned over in the bark as if there was an important question she needed answered.

“Was my father really a heretic?” she asked.

I shifted uncomfortably on my cushion, avoiding Nakhtmin’s gaze. “He was a great believer in Aten,” I said carefully.

“Is that why mother meets with the Aten priests, even though Vizier Ay says that it’s dangerous? Is it because our father believed in Aten and she feels sorry?”

I met Nakhtmin’s glance. “I don’t know,” I replied. “I don’t know why she meets with them when everyone’s told her it’s a dangerous thing. Maybe she still feels sad.”

“About what?”

“About being deceived by Aten when Amun is the great god of Egypt,” Baraka declared.

Nefertiti met with the Aten priests despite her viziers’ protests, against all common sense and my father’s warnings.

“I will fix this,” she swore, walking the battlements of the new wall around Thebes. With age, her delicate beauty had hardened into something knifelike and more defining. She was thirty-one now.

“But what if there’s no fixing it?” I asked. “They’re criminals. They want power, and they’re willing to kill to have it again.”

She shook her head firmly. “I won’t allow there to be discord in Egypt.”

“But there will always be discord. There will always be disagreement.”

“Not in my Egypt! I will talk with them.” She gripped the crenellations and stared out beyond the Nile. The sun beat down on the freshly cut stones, baking them in the heat of Mesore. From here we could see the entire city: my villa across the River Nile, the towering images of Amunhotep the Elder, the Temple of Amun, and hundreds of royal statuary.

“What can talking do? These men have killed Amun priests,” I said. “They should be sent to the quarries.”

“I’m the People’s Queen. There shall be peace in this land while I’m its ruler.”

“And how will meeting with them achieve it?”

“Perhaps I can convince them to turn to Amun. To stop fighting.” Nefertiti glanced sideways at me to see that I was listening. “I have so many visions, Mutnodjmet. Of an Egypt that stretches again from the Euphrates in the east to Kush in the south. Of a land where Amun and Aten can both reside. Tomorrow, I’m meeting with two Aten priests. They have petitioned to have a temple—”

“Nefertiti,” I said firmly.

“I can’t grant them the use of Amun’s temples. But their own temple…Why not?”

“Because they will still want more!”

She grew quiet, looking out over Thebes. “I will make peace with them,” she vowed.

The next evening I rushed into the Per Medjat and my father looked up, startled. “Have you seen Nefertiti?” I asked.

“She’s in the Audience Chamber. With Meritaten.”

“No. Thutmose saw her with two Aten priests. She swore she would meet us in the Great Hall, but she isn’t there!”

His eyes met mine, and then we were running. The hour for petitioners was already done. We burst through the doors of the Great Hall and the palace guards tensed. “Find Pharaoh!” my father shouted, and the fear in his voice sent a dozen men springing into action, opening doors, shouting Nefertiti’s name. From down the hall, we could hear the men calling, “Your Majesty!” as we opened doors, finding nobody.

A sick feeling bore into my stomach, a feeling I’d never had before.

Nakhtmin found us in the Great Hall. “What’s happened?”

“Nefertiti! No one can find her. Thutmose says he saw her talking with two Aten priests.” He saw the fear in my eyes, and at once he was moving down the hall and commanding his men to lock every door in the palace. “Let no one out!” he shouted.

Ankhesenamun came with Tutankhamun by her side. “What’s happening? Who’s missing?”

“Nefertiti and Meritaten. Go into the Audience Chamber and don’t come out.” I thought of the Window of Appearances, where Nefertiti sometimes took messengers to show them the city. The children hesitated. “Go!” I demanded.

I ran through the palace, sweat from beneath my wig trickling into my eyes. I threw off the hairpiece, not caring where it landed or who picked it up. “Nefertiti!” I shouted. “Meritaten!” How could they both be gone? Where could they be? I rounded the corner to the Window of Appearances, then opened the door.

The blood had already spread across the tiles.

“Nefertiti!” I screamed, and my voice echoed through the palace. “NEFERTITI! This can’t be happening!” I rocked her against me. “It can’t be happening!” I held my sister’s body against my chest, but she was already cold. Then my father and Nakhtmin were standing beside me.

“Search the palace!” Nakhtmin shouted. “I want every chamber searched! Every cabinet, every chest, every door into the cellars!” He could see the knife on the floor, he could see how deep the cut to Meritaten’s side was.

I collapsed in a heap over my niece. “Akhenaten!” I screamed so that Anubis could hear me. They had been his priests, his religion. My father tried to part me from Nefertiti, but I wouldn’t be parted. He bent down next to me and we both held our queen, my sister, his daughter, the woman who had ruled our lives for thirty-one years.

My mother came running with Ankhesenamun and Tutankhamun behind her, despite my orders.

“In the name of Amun…,” my mother whispered. It was too late to tell the children to leave. They had seen what the Aten priests had done.

“Be careful!” I cried. But what was there to be careful of?

Ankhesenamun bent down and touched her sister. Fifteen years old and her life cut short. She looked over at me, and Tutankhamun closed Meritaten’s eyes.

I held Nefertiti’s body closer to mine, trying to press her spirit into me, to bring it back.

But the reign of Nefertiti was finished. She was gone from Egypt.

“Shh,” I heard Nakhtmin whisper to my son. “Your mother’s not well.”

“Should I bring her chamomile?” Baraka asked.

“Yes.” Nakhtmin nodded. My husband moved to my bedside, looking down at me, then he unstrapped his sword and sat by my side. “Mutnodjmet,” he said gently. “Miw-sher.” He caressed my cheek. “I’m sorry, but I have come with bad news. I wanted to give it to you before you heard it from someone else.”

I swallowed my fear. Gods, don’t let it be my mother or father.

“Your sister’s body has been desecrated. Aten priests stormed the mortuary and tried to destroy her.”

I threw off my linen covers. “I must see her!” I cried.

“Don’t.” He held my arm. “The damage is…” He hesitated. “Extensive.”

I covered my mouth. “To her face?” I whispered.

He lowered his gaze. “And chest.”

The places where the ka resided. They had tried to obliterate her soul. They had tried to kill her in death as well as life! “But why?” I screamed, stumbling from my bed. “Why?”

“The embalmers will fix her,” he swore.

But I was wild with rage. “How can they fix her? She was beautiful!” I crumpled in his arms. “So beautiful.”

“The embalmers know how, and then they will entomb her secretly tonight. Already a new sarcophagus has been made. Tut can use hers someday. He will be Pharaoh next.”

Our Tut? Only nine years old? “But how will Osiris know her face?” I sobbed.

“They have her statues from Amarna. They’ll carve her name on every wall of the new tomb. Osiris will find her.”

But my tears came harder. I couldn’t stop them. I looked up at Nakhtmin through my pain, realizing for the first time what he had said. “And the funeral?”

“Tonight. No one will go but your father and the High Priest of Amun. It’s too dangerous. They could find her and destroy her a second time.” He gathered me in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Mutnodjmet.”

They wept for her in the streets. She was their queen, their Pharaoh of Egypt. She had restored Thebes to them and had rebuilt the shining temples of Amun. I stood at the window of the Audience Chamber, watching the masses that crushed against the gates, covering them with amulets and flowers. Some were hysterical, others came silently, and I felt as if my heart had turned to stone, it was so heavy inside of me.

Nefertiti was gone.

She had sent our army to victories in Rhodes and Lakisa, but never again would she wear the headdress of Nekhbet and raise her arms to greet the people. I would never hear her laughter or see her sharp eyes narrow with displeasure. I heard my father’s footsteps in the hall. He’s come to look for me. The door to the empty Audience Chamber creaked open and the sharp slap of his sandals disturbed the silence.

“Mutnodjmet.”

I didn’t turn.

“Mutnodjmet, we are meeting in the Per Medjat. You should come now. It is about Tutankhamun.”

I didn’t reply, and he came to stand at my shoulder.

“She was buried with care,” he informed me. “With all the statues of Amarna and the riches of Thebes.” His voice gave away his deep sadness and I turned. The love he’d had for her was wrought in the lines on his face. He looked so much older, but there was still Egypt to rule. There would always be Egypt, with or without Nefertiti.

“It’s not fair.” I choked back a sob. “Why would the Aten priests kill her? Why?”

“Because she created passionate believers,” he said. “Believers willing to do anything to silence someone who was attacking them.”

“But she was Pharaoh!” I cried. “What does killing her achieve? What does it get them?”

“Fear. They are hoping the next Pharaoh will fear them so much that he will let their temples stand. They don’t see that unless the next Pharaoh returns Aten’s temples to Amun, he is dead anyway.”

“Because the people will rise,” I realized.

My father nodded.

“So it’s either the people or Aten’s priests as enemies.”

“And no Pharaoh would stand against his own people.”

I blinked away my tears. “Time should stand still,” I whispered. “It shouldn’t go on.”

My father watched me silently.

“All of Egypt should have crumbled before she died! And Meritaten…only fifteen years old.” The terror and loneliness of living in a world without Nefertiti overwhelmed me. “What will we all do?” I panicked. “What will our family do?”

“We will prepare for a new reign in Egypt,” my father said. “And we will meet in the Per Medjat when you are ready.”