We both stared across the garden to where two boys were crawling beneath the shade of an old acacia. Heqet was there, watching over them. “Kiya’s son,” he said, then added, “a possible Prince of Egypt.”
“Never,” I replied. “He’ll be raised here, away from court. Meritaten will be Pharaoh next, then Ankhesenamun.”
I knew what he wanted to say. That there had to be a prince for Egypt, that there had always been and there always would be. But instead he said simply, “I assume you’ve heard of the deal that’s been struck with the Aten priests?”
“That they were given a fortnight to shed their robes for the vestments of Amun?”
“Yes. And some refused.”
I glanced at him in shock. “But they can’t refuse. They’ll have nowhere to go.”
“They will have the homes of Aten believers. There are many, my lady. Children who never knew Amun and followers who only left Amarna when their houses were burned. There could be trouble from them.”
That evening, I entered the Hall of Books in the palace and a young scribe led me to my father. His back was turned to me. In his hand was a sheaf of papyrus bound by leather. “Father?”
“Mutnodjmet.” He turned around. “I thought I heard you.”
“What are you doing?”
He put down the sheaf of papers and sighed. “Studying maps of Assyria.”
“Then seven thrones were not enough?”
“No. They have allied themselves with the Hittites,” he replied.
I sighed. “Akhenaten did great damage. Why did Nefertiti allow it?”
“Your sister did more than you realize. She kept him occupied while your aunt and I dealt with Egypt’s affairs. She took gold from the Temple of Aten so that we could keep the army fed and pay foreign kings to remain our allies. Loyalty does not come cheap.”
“Akhenaten never paid the army?”
“No.” My father passed me a significant glance. “Nefertiti did.”
We stood in silence. “How did she hide the gold?” I asked him.
“She disguised it as projects for Aten. And it was not just a handful of copper deben. It was chests full of gold.”
“And what of the Aten priests now? A soldier tells me they will be trouble for Nefertiti.”
“If she continues to meet with them.”
“And against my advice.” But my father didn’t ask me to try and change her mind. She was twenty-seven years old. A woman and a king.
“But why would she meet with them?”
“Why?” He heaved a heavy sigh of his own. “Why? I don’t know. A sense that she owes them something, perhaps.”
“But what could she owe them? They are killing Amun priests. Perhaps she is hoping to bring it to an end,” I suggested.
“The fighting? That will never end. They believe that Aten is the god of Egypt, and the people believe in the power of Amun.”
I settled back against the wall. “So there will always be war.”
“Always. So be thankful you have the peace of your garden. Perhaps your mother and I will take refuge there when the cares of Thebes become too heavy.”
“As they are now?”
He smiled grimly. “As they are now.”
1335 BCE
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
“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.
