‘I have to go back to the beginning,’ Nefertiti said. ‘Most stories start with birth, and childhood, don’t they? I was born in such and such a place, and at this time and this season; these were the propitious or the unlucky stars that witnessed the moment of my birth and held the secret of my destiny. But such things are far away now, so far I do not know them. I was lucky, I suppose, to be raised in a family that possessed power and influence and wealth and pride. So much abundance! We forgot the fragility of all fortune.’
I listened. She was seeking the thread of her tale.
‘Apart from fragments which might as well be dreams-running through a green garden between the sunlight and the shadow; the sounds of the Great River on a boat in the evening; travelling home one night in a carrying chair, my head on my mother’s lap as I gazed up at the stars-my first real memory is of being taken by my father during the Opet Festival to walk the new processional colonnade at Luxor. I held his hand for I was frightened by the avenue of sphinxes: they seemed like monsters with sunny faces. I couldn’t understand why there were so many of them! As we walked my father told me fables: of Thutmosis, who answered a dream and removed the encroaching desert sands from the Great Sphinx in return for the throne of the Great Estate; and of the dashing Amenhotep, who loved horses above all things, who distributed and displayed the corpses of his conquered enemies on the walls of the city, and who was buried with his favourite longbow; and of his grandson, Amenhotep our King, the Handsome, now grieving the sudden death of his first son. I remember he told me the dead prince was buried with his favourite cat, whom he called Puss. Puss went with him into the Otherworld. I liked the thought of Puss sitting in the prow of the Great Barque of the Sun, his green eyes looking upon the mysteries of the Otherworld, and on the green face of Osiris himself.
‘When I asked my father, as children do who are delighted by stories of men and women of greatness and power, what happened next, he said, “You will see.” And one day, I did. One day my father called for me and said, “I want you to be very brave. Will you do that for me?” His face was always so serious. I looked at him and said, “Can I grow my hair now?” And he smiled, and said, “Now would be a good time.” I clapped my hands. I thought: now I am about to become a woman! So he sent me to the women of the family, and I was initiated into their secrets: their bowls and spoons and combs, their little laughs and lies and gossip. But I also remember my mother looking at me, as if from further away, something unspoken passing between us. As if she wanted to tell me something but could not find the way to say it.’
She poured the cat from her lap, rose, and walked a little way along the room, remembering and pacing, the two things working together.
‘The next morning, the women returned together, with many robes and jewellery. They were silent. Something was happening. They dressed me in layers of gold and white clothing. I was wrapped up like a gift. A High Priest came with my father, the women left the room, and he gave me instructions. What to say, what not to say, when to speak and when to remain silent. I looked at my father, who said, “This is a great day for you, and for all our family. I am very proud.” Then he picked me up, my mother kissed me goodbye, and he carried me out of my home.
‘I remember the sun and the noise along the crowded ways. All the litters and chairs had been cleared so there was just me and my father on the avenue, riding in a chariot. I could hear the birds singing in the air above the noise of the crowds, who all seemed to be paying their respects to me. To me! I held my father’s hand tightly. We were driven to the palace. But the further we left my home behind, the more I began to feel like a piece of furniture on a cart and less like a princess in a fable.
‘We arrived at the palace and I was carried through court after court, chamber after chamber, all crowded with dignitaries and officials who bowed as we passed. My world retreated and disappeared behind me. I remember I was set down beside a curtain. My father said to me, “Here you stand on the threshold of a great future. I am passing you forward, now, to your new life.” I think I tried to wrap my arms around his neck, to cling on to him, but he prised my fingers gently away, held my hands and said, “Remember your promise. Be brave. And never forget I love you.” I believe there were tears on his face. I had never seen my father weep.’
Nefertiti stopped speaking for a moment. The memory seemed to overwhelm her.
‘I would have cried out then, but I saw something strange: passing along the corridor, as over-burdened with clothing as I was, the slight figure of a young man. He raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were thoughtful. What happened in that moment? Understanding, recognition, complicity? I knew we knew each other and that our lives were entwined in some profound way. Then a ribbon was tied over my eyes, and the world vanished.
‘The noise in the chamber on the far side of the curtain suddenly hushed. I heard a chime and chant of words, the rattle of sistra, an announcement, then my father’s hands gently pushing me forward through the curtains and into the chamber. I looked beneath the ribbon at the ground and saw lotus flowers and fish, and I walked across this painted water. Hands received me at the end of this long walk, and they turned me around. My head was raised, the ribbon untied, and I saw a blur of people, hundreds of them all staring at me, their eyes moving over every detail of my being. I was so heavily clothed I could not have raised my own hand to my eyes, yet I felt naked, stripped down to my last skin. I dared to look quickly to my side. The boy’s face, a long, serious face, glanced quickly at me, a partner in all this strangeness. I felt a small gladdening in my heart, which was tight with fear. Some of my spirit returned to me.’
She stopped her pacing. Her sad smile was charged with all the loss and strangeness which that girl, alive now inside this woman as she spoke, had suffered. I wanted to make it all right. I wanted to console her.
‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t require your pity or your sorrow.’
She continued to pace again, as if each careful step returned her to the story.
‘I remember little else. I suppose the ceremony was concluded satisfactorily; I suppose the audience dispersed to their dinners and their gossip and their criticisms. I followed my new husband down a different hallway, not the one through which I had been brought in but into a different part of the palace. I remember looking at him a few steps ahead of me, hobbling on his crutch. I liked it-the way he had turned the difficulty and effort into a kind of grace. I imagined I could see him smiling, secretly, for my benefit. I remember I thought of him, kindly, as weak; as the one sheep the hunting lion would pick out from the flock and kill. So you see, I was the more deceived.’
I did not press her on that point. Not yet.
‘Ahead of him his father, the Great Amenhotep, led the procession. I had imagined him as a great hero, the builder of monuments, and a close friend of the gods. But who was this old man huffing and sighing under the troublesome burden of his heavy body, and complaining of the terrible pain in his teeth, and cursing the heat of the day?
‘We arrived in a private chamber, and I found myself surrounded by my new family. Amenhotep turned to me, took me by the chin and turned my face to examine it like a vase. “Do you know, child, how much talk and contest and disagreement have preceded your arrival among us?” I kept my gaze on him. In my mind all these impressions and thoughts blew about me as in a storm. I felt I was a leaf dragged into the course of a mighty river, the river of history. “You will soon understand how things are. Did you hear the poets calling out your praises?” Again I shook my head. “Be worthy of those praises.” He was stern; his breath was bad. I remember even now his sad face, his bald head, the ruins of his teeth. But I liked him. His wife, Tiy, my new mother, said nothing. Her face was like a stone.’
She came and sat down again, and drank a little from the goblet of water I offered her. Then she continued her story.
‘Once the sun was low on the horizon on that changing day, I was led into a chapel of a kind I had never seen before. Unlike the dark temples, this was a sun court illuminated by the rich light of the setting sun. At a certain moment a gold disc set into the wall caught the exact angle of the late light, and blazed. Led by Amenhotep, we all raised our hands to this sudden fire until, as the moments passed, it diminished and died, and the sky turned dark red, dark blue, then black. The old man said to me: “Now you too have received the great gift of the one god.” And he hobbled away. To me it was the last of the many incomprehensible revelations that came to me on that one day.
‘That night, I was taken to my husband’s chamber. I did not know what to expect and I think neither did he. We both looked at each other, uncertain and afraid, and for a time after the last adviser and diplomat and lady of the chamber had left, neither of us spoke. Then I noticed a papyrus scroll upon a table, he noticed my interest, and we fell to a discussion. The first night of my new life we talked. And my new husband told me another story. Different from any I had ever heard before. He told me the story of the Amun Priests and their great possessions, their gardens and fields, their huge estates employing thousands of officers, armies of serfs, legions of servants. I imagined a great green fable of a pleasant land, but he said I was wrong. That the land might be rich, thanks to the gods, but that men and Priests, despite their fine words of praise and worship, were interested always and only in power and treasure. And in stealing it. He said, “My father has not allowed this to happen. He told me it was our sacred duty to preserve the order of the Great Estate from this dangerous unbalancing by the power of the Priests of Amun.” ’
She smiled. ‘I was very young. I thought everything was a question of right and wrong. Now, of course, I have little choice but to think of the world as a game of checks and balances, between the Priesthoods and the people, the army and the Treasury, of negotiations and compromises backed up with the threat of force and death. But then, I thought it was simply a question of right and wrong.’
I allowed myself to speak. ‘I remember. Amenhotep forced the reconciliation of the two greatly opposed Priesthoods under a new agreement. It was an astute manoeuvre. And with that new balance of power achieved he began to build the great new works of Thebes. This was our childhood.’
‘Yes. Our childhood.’
‘So why did things change? Why the Great Changes?’
She looked at me. ‘Why do you think?’
‘I know what I heard. That the Amun Priests grew richer still, that their granaries held more grain than those of the King. That the poor harvests and the arrival of new immigration were starting to create problems.’
‘And something else. Something was missing. And the thought, when it came, leaped far beyond this previous reconciliation to something even bolder, even more radical. What is the one thing all peoples, no matter where in the Empire they are born, have in common? The supreme experience present every day to the eyes of all living beings?’
The Aten. Light. In whose blaze all other gods had now been overshadowed. This was a turning point for us both. I waited to hear what she would have to say.
‘You are wondering: how is it we arrived here? Why did we choose to build the city here, away from Thebes and from Memphis? Why did we choose to make ourselves gods? Why did we risk everything in the world to bring forth these changes?’
I nodded. ‘I am.’
Nefertiti said nothing for a little while, and I realized that a faint light had crept into the chamber, countering the many lamps that were now guttering down to extinction.
‘We are back with the question of stories,’ she said. ‘Which one shall I tell you? Shall I tell you about the dream of a better and truer world? Shall I tell you about the day we first commanded the companions, the great ones of the palaces, the commanders of the guards, the officers of the works, the officials, the minor officials, their sons, to come before us and kneel in the dust and worship us as we worshipped the light? Shall I tell you about the looks on their faces? Shall I tell you about the happy births of our daughters, and the general sorrow at the lack of a son? Shall I tell you about the enemies among friends moving against us, men of the past to whom we opposed the loyal younger men? And shall I tell you what it was like to feel, to relish our new freedom from old constraints, old lies, old gods? To know the beautiful force of the present moment, the glorious possibilities of the future? We built this dream out of mud, stone, wood and labour, but we also built it out of our minds, our imaginations, like a Book of Light, not a Book of Shadows, to be read, if you have the knowledge, like a map of a new eternity.’
I stared at her.
‘Do you think me mad?’
She asked the question intently, seriously. I could answer honestly.
‘No, not mad,’ I said.
‘Most did, secretly. We knew what was passing for conversation in the streets, at tables in people’s homes, in the offices. But our ambition was nothing less than ankhemmaat. Living in Truth. Remember the poem?
You create the infinite possibilities out of yourself:
Cities, towns, fields, the journey of the great river;
Every eye sees you in relation to all things
For you are Aten of the light over the world,
And when you depart none exist…’
I remembered my intuitions on seeing the Great Temple for the first time. All those loyal and conforming citizens raising their hands and their babies to the light of the sun; those old men, sweating in their dignity during the ceremony for Meryra; and the poor dead girl whose face had been beaten off. What did all that have to do with living in truth?
She turned away from me and walked along the edge of the last shadows that still lay across the floor.
‘But I now know that to exalt human nature, especially one’s own, beyond reasonable limits is a terrible mistake,’ she continued. ‘Passionate commitment to the idea of a better world can disguise passionate hatreds. Beliefs that claim to transform men end up debasing, degrading and enslaving them. So I think. I pray it is not too late.’
She hugged her arms about herself. The spell of the lamps had given way to blue dawn light descending the stairs. In that light she seemed less magnificent, less exceptional, more ordinary, more human. There were lines of tension and tiredness etched into her face. She wound a fine shawl around her shoulders for warmth and came and sat down close to me.
‘I see now the horror we have unleashed. It is a monster of destruction. The streets are filling with soldiers, homes are being broken open, fear is occupying the cities like an invading army. I heard that a band of Medjay set fire to a village, mutilated the temple icons, killed, cooked and dined upon the sacred animals in the sanctuaries, and then forced the men out naked into the wilderness. Is this the future of which I dreamed? No. This is barbarism and darkness, not justice and enlightenment. Even the little things, even jars of unguent and incense, are to be made illegal if they carry the symbols of the old gods. It is madness.’
I said nothing. I agreed with everything she said. But I was really waiting for what came next.
‘But Akhenaten does not think so. My husband, the Lord of the Two Lands, is blind to what is happening. He is obsessed with his vision. And by deluding himself that all is well he plays into the hands of his many enemies. He demands greater responses, stronger enforcements, an ever harsher light shining into every part of people’s lives. And of course the people start to hate him. He has persecuted the Amun Priests beyond what was necessary and tolerable, and he has ordered the names and images of their gods to be hacked from temple walls and local shrines, even tombs. He has cast them out upon the streets where they cry havoc and revenge. And he ignores the growing turbulence elsewhere in the Empire; he ignores the pleas for help from his northern allies. The territories become unstable, caravans are attacked, and the work of generations to extend and confirm our power over the vassal states is lost in a year. The local wars become more severe, the populations lose the security they need to produce goods, supply routes become too dangerous, fields lie derelict and produce only weeds, taxation is not collected, and those loyal to us lose their towns and their lives to bandits whose only interest is immediate profit and whose only kindness is slaughter. Above all, he ignores the fact that there are men of great power who wish to manipulate this nightmare, this chaos, to their own ends. Monsters at our borders and nightmares at our gates work well for them. Do you begin, now, to understand why I had to leave?’
She looked at me with a desperate plea for understanding in her eyes. Again I had the sensation of vertigo, of finding myself on the precipice of a terrible abyss, and no bridge but words to cross it.
‘This is the talk of the city,’ I said. ‘I have heard it whispered wherever I have gone. But it has not entirely come to pass yet.’
‘No, not yet. And that is the story we must enact. Everything is at stake. Not just my life, or the lives of my daughters and the continuance of our family, or of you and your own children. Not just the fate of this city, and its Great Truth. But the future of the Two Lands. Everything that Time has created out of nothing, all this gold and green glory, will be lost to chaos and suffering, returned to the wilderness of the Red Land, if someone does not stop it now.’
I built the only bridge I could to her. ‘I will do anything you ask of me. Not only for these reasons, but also because I want my old life back. My home and my family. I cannot return to them unless I go forward.’
She touched my hand gently. ‘You are living in great fear for their well-being. I am sorry to have brought you to this. But perhaps now you understand why.’
We sat there, quietly, as the light evolved through deepest indigo into long, low streaks of red and then to a pale gold that brightened the room, the signs and symbols in the stones, and her face, the new day like a scarab of power and promise.
‘There are many forces working against me,’ she said eventually. ‘Too many threats. Some within the family, some in the Medjay, some in the military, and of course the Priesthood, who would overthrow the new god and return the Two Lands immediately to the old and more profitable ways. Many of the new men in power would have opposed me without a second thought, for their lives and fortunes are dedicated to the new regime. Do you know what it is like to trust no-one, not even your own children? That is why I had to choose flight over fight. Why I had to leave behind my life and myself, why I had to cover my tracks and find a way to save us all. And I could not bear to be seen to condone the Great Changes now, by appearing beside my husband at the Festival.’
‘And the girl? Seshat?’
‘I heard the news.’
‘Her face was beaten off.’
She turned away in a gesture of sorrow. ‘I know.’
I stared at her. When she looked back at me her eyes were lit with pain and anger.
‘You think I ordered her death to cover my disappearance?’
‘The thought had occurred to me.’
‘You think I would kill an innocent girl? To save myself?’
She walked away, the anger suddenly seething inside her. I had to admit that the possibility of such guilt no longer fitted the woman I had found. I almost wished I had not spoken. I had hurt her. Still, I could not help but add, ‘And you know about the deaths also of the young Medjay officer Tjenry, and of Meryra the High Priest?’
She nodded, returned to the couch and sat down, shaking her head. Neither of us spoke, but I could see she was thinking, like me: who could have committed such brutal atrocities, and why?
‘Why me?’ I said, suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, of all the people you could have called upon, why me?’
She shook her head, smiled sadly, then looked me straight in the eye. ‘I had heard a lot about you. You are a rather well-known young man. I read the classified papers on your accomplishments. I was intrigued by your new methods, which seemed clever and, in some strange way, beautiful. I knew there were men of the old order within the Medjay who did not like you. And as I read more, I felt that you would not care. That you might be afraid but you would not act out of fear. There was something in all this that I trusted. Why do we trust anyone?’
The question hovered between us, unanswerable. But I had something else I needed to say now.
‘Sometimes telling people that we trust them confers on them the responsibility to live up to that expectation.’
Her expression of amusement acknowledged the burden she was placing on me.
‘Yes. Of course. And will you?’
‘What choice do I have?’
She looked disappointed by my answer; her face suddenly lost its animation and its curiosity. It was as if I had dropped a level of play in a complex game of senet.
‘You always have a choice,’ she countered. ‘But that is not what I am asking. You know that.’
Now it was my turn to tell a little story. I set everything out so that there could be no misunderstanding.
‘Akhenaten has threatened to execute my family, including my three girls, if I do not find you in time for the Festival. There have already been several attempts on my life. Mahu, the head of the Medjay, has told me he will have me tortured and garrotted, after he personally destroys my family, if I trouble him or this delightful and disastrous city of yours. I have been made to stand in the sun in the middle of the day. I have been led by a black cat through a crazy tunnel, and made to believe I had scared myself to death in order to test my loyalty to a woman whose disappearance has brought all this about. Is it surprising that the thought of catching the next boat up the river and going home is perhaps a little appealing? It has been a busy five days, and I have to say, my Lady, I still think there is something you’re not telling me.’
For a moment she looked amazed to be addressed in this way. And then she laughed, deeply and happily, and as she did so her face seemed to release itself from its tensions. I must admit, I had to work hard to keep the smile from my own face. Gradually her amusement subsided.
‘I have waited a long time for someone to talk to me like that,’ she said. ‘Now I know you are the man I believe you to be.’
I sensed now a welcome sparkle of candour between us.
‘Perhaps there are a few things I have not told you,’ she continued. ‘I will tell you everything I can.’ Her face hardened. Suddenly she was made of stone. ‘I have a plan. It requires your assistance. I can promise you only that I will return in time to save your family from the sentence of death.’
‘When?’ I asked.
‘By the time of the Festival.’
I nodded. Suddenly we were agreeing a deal. The politician in her was now paramount.
‘I need to know now whether you will accept. If not, of course, you are free to do as you wish-to go home to your family. But I will say this: if you do, the future will turn out only one way, and I promise you it will be a time of darkness. If you decide to stay, you can help me save us all, and take part in a great story. You will have something exceptional and true to write in that little journal of yours. What is your choice?’
I was taken aback by her sudden coldness. I tried to calculate the options in my head. I still had the best part of a week’s grace before Akhenaten’s sentence of death on my family could be confirmed, but Mahu could still move against me while I was missing. Perhaps I could get a message home to warn Tanefert; perhaps he would not make so open a move before he had proof of my failure. And what of Ay, whose name I had invoked so recklessly? It seemed clear to me that the only way truly to protect the lives of my family would be to see this through to the end. Otherwise we would always be walking in fear, every shadow seeming dangerous.
‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.
She looked truly relieved, as if I could have answered differently.
‘I need you to protect me when I return,’ she said. ‘In order to do that I need you to find out who is plotting against my life.’
‘Can I ask you some questions?’
She sighed. ‘Always questions.’
‘Let’s start with Mahu.’
‘I do not think it wise to prejudice you with my own opinions about individuals.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘He is as loyal as his dog. He has served us well. I would trust him with my life.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. Surely she was wrong.
‘He tried to kill me. He loathes me. He wants me dead.’
‘That is because his pride, which is great, has been insulted by your presence. But that does not mean he does not want me found for the right reasons.’
‘I don’t trust him.’
She said nothing.
‘Who else?’ I asked. ‘Ramose? Parennefer?’
‘These are key players. They all have their motivations. Ramose is a wise counsellor. I have never seen him act out of meanness, revenge or personal ambition. This is rare. He seems like a castle-strong, harsh, defended. But he loves beauty and appearance. You have noticed how well he dresses? He was once Master of the Wardrobe.’ She smiled at my look of surprise.
‘And Parennefer?’
‘Parennefer likes order. He has a horror of messiness. His desire for precision goes very deep in his personality, and is very powerful.’
I tried my trump card. ‘And Ay?’
She could not dissimulate the fear that flitted across her face like a hunted animal. What had I touched upon? A name to conjure with. The name I had used against Mahu.
‘Can you tell me about him?’
‘He is the uncle of my husband.’
‘And?’
‘He will attend the Festival.’
She looked cornered.
‘Are you afraid of him?’
‘Your simple questions, again.’ She shook her head anxiously, then continued. ‘He will be arriving in the city shortly. Along with all the players in this drama, and with the heads of the army; and with them all the tribal chiefs from north and south, all the city dignitaries from across the lands, all those who pay tribute, whose children are retained in the royal nurseries, whose daughters are married into the Harem. In short, every man and woman of power and family will arrive in the city in the next few days. I have to act decisively against my enemies, and with my friends, in the certain knowledge of who they are, and what they plan against and for me.’
‘And when and how will you return?’
‘I will tell you when the time is nearer.’
This made me angry. How dare she keep me in the dark like this?
‘I have spent the last few days trying to track you in the words of the people in power,’ I said. ‘Now you wish me to return, openly, risking everything, and walk further into this nest of snakes? And you will not tell me what you plan?’
She did not flinch from my anger. ‘Think. What if you are caught? Akhenaten would do anything to have me back. I am all that stands between him and disaster. What if Mahu tortures you, or hurts your family? Could you hold back from saving them? I doubt it. What you do not know you cannot tell.’
‘They would torture me and my family anyway.’
She took this in. ‘I know. What else can I do? Trust me in this. I can give you guidance and information. I can offer you the assistance of one or two loyal supporters. And a promise that I will tell you everything, when I can.’
Here I was again, having to choose between the only attractive decision-walking out of there-and the inevitable one-following this through to the end.
‘The only loyal supporter I have been granted so far is a man who cannot tell the difference between a fine wine and well water. And even his loyalty is not beyond question.’
‘I see.’
She went to a door, which I had not even noticed before, and knocked quietly. It opened, and into the chamber stepped a familiar figure, on his face an expression of profound amusement struggling to masquerade as respect.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Khety!’
He bowed to the Queen.
‘Khety has been under my command since you arrived. I would trust him with my life. I trusted him with yours, although you did not know it. He will escort you to a safe house in the city and inform you of the things you need to know. ’
I didn’t know whether I wanted to punch him or hug him. He had certainly sustained the illusion of a young fool very convincingly. I turned to the Queen and bowed.
‘We will talk further,’ she said, ‘but now you must rest, before we move forward together.’
We followed the dawning light up the staircase and emerged into an enclosed courtyard, full of plants. At the centre, water pulsed into a stone basin. Birds experimented with short calls and trills.
We separated to rest.
So I sit and write this down, in sunlight, in the warmth of the new day. I know what I have to do, and why. I know Nefertiti is alive, and why she has cast me in a role whose purpose is greater than I had imagined. My feeling of foolishness is dissolving slowly, leaving me with a new sense of purpose, and, I must confess, a wish above almost all other things to earn again the smile that had graced her face. Would it be possible to accomplish the task? She, Khety and I are almost alone against the great forces at work against us, with all their advantages of knowledge, security, wealth and power. But we have one advantage: we are invisible. No-one knows where we are, whether in the next world or in the shadows of this one.