Nefertiti

“Not one,” she whispered. “It’s why your father has come here, Mutnodjmet.”

I sat back. “It wasn’t to see me?”

“Of course to see you,” she said quickly. “But also to speak with Nakhtmin. He’s a hero to the people and valuable to us as an ally. You chose wisely in your husband.”

“Because now he can help us?” I asked bitterly. At once, I regretted my tone of voice. My mother, who was no more cunning or pretentious than I would ever be, sat back in shock.

“Egypt will need him if Akhenaten’s reign should ever crumble.”

“And by Egypt, you mean our family.”

She put down her cup and reached across the table, covering my hand with hers. “It is your destiny, Mutnodjmet. The path to the Horus throne was laid long before you were born, before Nefertiti was born. It was the destiny of your grandmother, and her mother, and her mother before that. You can accept it, or it can chase you down and wear you out with all the running.”

I thought of my father in the loggia, plotting with Nakhtmin, drawing him into the web that would ensnare us and bring us back to Amarna.

“Nefertiti will always be queen,” my mother continued. “But she needs a son. She needs an heir to make sure that Nebnefer never rules in Egypt.”

“But she’s had only princesses.”

“There’s still hope,” my mother said, and something about her tone made me lean forward.

“She isn’t—”

My mother nodded.

“Three months after Ankhesenpaaten?” My lip trembled. Then surely this one would be a boy, and Nebnefer would be forgotten and our family would be safe. So Nefertiti was pregnant with a fourth child. Four.

“Oh, Mutnodjmet. Don’t weep.” My mother embraced me.

“I’m not weeping,” I replied, but the tears came fast, and I rested my face against her breast. “But aren’t you disappointed, mawat? Aren’t you disappointed you will never have a grandchild?”

“Shh…” She stroked my hair. “I don’t care if you have one child or ten.”

“But I have none,” I cried. “And doesn’t Nakhtmin deserve a child?”

“It is up to the gods,” my mother said resolutely. “It is not about deserving.”

I wiped away the tears. Nakhtmin and my father came out into the garden, and both wore grave faces. “We’ll be meeting with former Amun priests tomorrow night,” my father said.

“In my house?” I exclaimed.

“Mitanni has been burned, Mutnodjmet,” Nakhtmin said.

I glanced at my father in horror. “Then shouldn’t you be in Amarna? The Mitanni king will ask for soldiers. Surely now—”

“No. It is better to be here, planning for a time when there might not be an Amarna.”

I flinched. “Does Nefertiti know what you are doing?”

“She knows what she wants to,” my father replied.

The next night, when the moon was a thin sliver cut into the sky, my parents’ servants moved the long table from the kitchen to the middle of the open loggia. Ipu dressed it with fine linen and laid out our best wine, lighting the brazier and throwing sticks of cinnamon onto the coals. I wore my best wig and earrings, and Nakhtmin left to stand watch at the bottom of our hill. Then men whose names I’d heard spoken with the deepest reverence as a child began to arrive in hooded cloaks and gilded sandals. Their bald heads shone in the light of the oil lamps. They were silent as they came to the door and addressed Ipu with respectful greetings from Amun.

“How many men are coming?” I asked.

My father replied, “Nearly fifty.”

“And women?”

“Eight or nine. Most of these guests tonight were once Amun priests. They are powerful men”—his voice was full of meaning—“and they still practice in secret shrines.”

There was no official welcome. When my father determined that everyone he’d summoned had arrived, he slipped off into the darkness to find Nakhtmin, then returned. Sitting cross-legged on a cushion, he announced, “Everyone here knows that I am the Vizier Ay. You know the former general Nakhtmin.” My husband inclined his head. “My wife.” My mother smiled softly. “And my daughter, the Lady Mutnodjmet.”

Sixty silent faces turned toward me, searching out my eyes in the flickering light. I inclined my head, which felt heavy and cumbersome in its wig, and I knew they were comparing me to Nefertiti: my dark skin to her light, my plain features to her chiseled ones.

“We are all aware that Mitanni has been invaded,” my father went on. “The Hittites have crossed the Euphrates and subdued Halab, Mukish, Niya, Arahati, Apina, and Qatna. No one here is under the assumption that Egypt will send soldiers to Mitanni’s King Tushratta. These cities are gone.” The men in the loggia shifted. “But Pharaoh Akhenaten finds comfort in the treaty he has signed with the Hittite king.”

There was the rise of voices in our loggia.

“You have talked of rebellion,” Nakhtmin addressed the men who looked to my father with alarm, “and the Vizier Ay is on our side. He wants to fight the Hittites, he wants to release General Horemheb from prison, he wants to turn back to the great god Amun—but now is not the time for rebellion.”

A chorus of disapproval went up and dozens of shaved heads rose angrily.

“I have no desire to be Pharaoh, and my wife has no desire to be queen.”

“Then raise the Vizier Ay!” one of the men said loudly.

My father stood. “My daughter is Queen of Egypt,” he replied. “The people of Amarna support her possession of the crook and flail. And I support her.”

“But who supports Pharaoh?” someone shouted.

“We all must. It is through him that Egypt will be given an heir. The queen,” he announced, “is with child again.”

“We must hope it is a son,” Nakhtmin added quietly.

“Hope has gotten us nowhere,” one of the men interjected. Two gold earrings pierced each of his ears. He stood up, and the cut of his linen was very fine. “In the Elder’s time, I was High Priest in Memphis. When the Elder embraced Osiris, I hoped to return to my temple. I hoped not to lend out my services as a scribe to put food on my table, but hope has done me little. I am lucky that I saved and was a frugal man. But not all of these men can say that.” He gestured with a bangled arm. “What Egyptian could have foreseen what would happen at the Elder’s death? A new religion, a new capital. Most men here have lost everything. And Vizier, we are not a group without means,” he warned. “We have sons in the army; we have daughters in Pharaoh’s neglected harem. We hoped your daughter would bring sense to Egypt, but we are tired of hoping. We are tired of waiting.” He sat down, and my father spoke directly to him.

“But wait you must,” he said simply. “To meet here is treason”—his voice grew low—“to suggest removing Pharaoh is more dangerous still. To remove a Pharaoh is to risk setting a terrible precedent. The Queen of Egypt watches over her people.”

“Yes, in Amarna. What about Thebes?” the former priest demanded.

“Thebes’s time will come,” my father promised.

“When?” An old woman stood up. “When I have embraced Osiris as well? By then it will be too late!” She steadied herself on her ebony cane and peered across the room. “Do you know who I am?”

My father nodded respectfully.

“I was Prince Tuthmosis’s nurse. I tended him even to his deathbed. And there is no one here who doesn’t know the story of what I saw that night.” There was an uneasy shuffling in the loggia. “A prince surrounded by tangled sheets,” she went on, “a pillow cut with teeth marks!” I shot a terrified look at my father, who allowed the old woman to continue with her fratricidal tale. “Akhenaten cast me out of Malkata Palace as soon as his brother