Nefertiti

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she announced, sounding ten years older than her age. “Mawat.” She went to Nefertiti’s bedside. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Nefertiti gazed at the ivory writing palette Nakhtmin had carved with help from a stonecutter working on our tomb. The princesses’ names were engraved in hieroglyphs and both palettes held brushes and a shallow bowl for ink. My sister fingered the smooth edges and slender brushes, and there was a different look on her face as she raised her eyes to thank Nakhtmin.

“They are beautiful. We have nothing like this in the palace,” she admitted. “Where are they from?”

“I want to see them,” Akhenaten commanded. The girls brought their writing palettes over to their father. He inspected them casually. “Our workers can do better.”

Nakhtmin lowered his head respectfully. “I worked on them with a stonecutter from Thebes.”

“They are exquisite,” Nefertiti complimented.

Akhenaten stood up and his face was flushed. “Meritaten, Meketaten! We are riding in the Arena.”

“Will the general be coming, too?” Meritaten asked.

Akhenaten paused at the door and the rest of us froze. He turned, then looked down at Meritaten. “Who said this man was a general?”

“No one.” Meritaten must have heard the danger in his voice because she knew better than to answer him with the truth, which must have been that the Vizier Ay still called him “general.” “I saw his muscles and knew he must work outside.”

Akhenaten narrowed his eyes. “Why couldn’t he have been a fisherman or a painter?”

I’ll never forget the answer Meritaten gave, for it showed her cunning even at five. “Because our aunt would never have married a fisherman.”

There was a moment of tension, then Akhenaten laughed, sweeping Meritaten into his arms. “Let’s go to the Arena and I will show you how a warrior rides. With a shield!”

“What about me?” Ankhesenpaaten cried.

“You’re only two,” Meritaten said sharply.

“You shall come, too,” Akhenaten proclaimed.

When the four of them left, my father asked Nakhtmin, “Shall I show you to your chamber?”

“I think that would be best,” my husband replied.

“And we should arrange for several body servants while you are here.” My mother stood to go with them and Nefertiti called desperately, “But you’ll be back for dinner?”

“Of course,” my father said, as if it wouldn’t be any other way.

I pulled up a stool to Nefertiti’s bedside.

“Your husband is a handsome man,” my sister admitted. “No wonder you’d rather be with him than me.”

“Nefertiti—” I protested, but she raised her hand.

“Sisters can’t be close forever. Merit and I have become friends; I made her father vizier this year. He was wasting his talents as scribe.”

I glanced around the chamber.

“She’s fetching me juice. She makes perfect jujube. And she doesn’t want to marry,” she added pointedly.

I sighed. “So how are you feeling?”

My sister shrugged. “As well as possible. They say it’s heavy enough to be a son.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “But others say it could be twins. Have you ever heard of a woman living through twins?”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t have to lie.

“Never?” she whispered fearfully.

“Twins are rare. There must be women who have lived through it.”

She looked down at her stomach. “Four princesses, Mutnodjmet. I think Nekhbet has abandoned me.” Her voice was heavy, and I wondered if this was the first time she’d confided her true fears since I’d last been in Amarna. Who else could she trust? My mother, who would assure her that everything would be fine? Our father, who would tell her to think of the kingdom? Merit, who knew nothing of childbirth and its pain? She took my hand, and suddenly I felt the terrible loss of living in Thebes, the terrible guilt of leaving her alone to her fears and ambition, though it was she who’d banished me. “Mutnodjmet, if I die in this birth, promise you will make Meritaten queen. Promise me that Kiya won’t be made Chief Wife.”

“Nefertiti, don’t speak like this—”

Her grip tightened on my hand. “I have to survive this birth.” She trembled. “I have to survive to see my son rule.” She looked hopefully into my face and I didn’t promise her that she would. Only Nekhbet knew. Only Tawaret could say.

Instead I asked her, “How many months are there left?”

She looked down at her swollen belly, small and shapely like all of the other times, but this time rounder, heavier somehow. “Three. Three months until it’s over.” She had never been this way with the others, so eager to have it done. “But you will help me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

She nodded slowly, reassuring herself. “Because I thought”—her eyes welled with tears—“I thought you had abandoned me.” She had completely forgotten my banishment, locking the memory away in a place where it couldn’t haunt her, where she could be the one who’d been wounded.

“I have not forsaken you, Nefertiti. You can love two people at once, the way you love Meritaten and our father.”

The look she gave me was one of deep mistrust.

“I will stay here until you have delivered your sons,” I promised.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Peret, Season of Growing

A FEW MONTHS later, the pains came at dawn. It was the longest my sister had ever known labor, and in a corner the midwives passed worried glances among themselves, discussing rhubarb and rue.

“What are they saying?” Nefertiti cried.

“That you have never had so much pain before,” I said truthfully.

“You would tell me if there was something wrong,” she gasped. “If they knew something—”

“There’s nothing,” I cut her off, placing a soothing hand on her forehead, and she gripped the arms of her birthing chair.

“Mawat,” she screamed. “Where is Father? I’m in so much pain!”

“Push!” the midwives cried together, and Nefertiti strained against the padded seat, shrieking to wake Anubis, and then they arrived.

Not one child but two.

The midwives shouted, “Twins!” and Nefertiti demanded, “What are they?” She strained to see. “What are they?”

The midwives passed worried glances among each other. Then one of them stepped forward and replied, “Daughters, Your Highness.”

The lusty wails of newborn children pierced the air. Nefertiti collapsed in the birthing seat. Five times she’d tried. Five times for six girls. There was crying and shouts of joy in the pavilion. My mother held one of the princesses aloft.

“Take me back to my bed,” Nefertiti whispered, and no sooner was she dressed and put into bed than Akhenaten burst into the birthing chamber.

“Nefertiti!” He searched for his wife, and seeing that she lived, he searched for his children.

“Twins!” The midwives feigned joy, and the look on Akhenaten’s face was triumphant. Then his peace grew disturbed.

“Sons?” he asked swiftly.

“No. Two beautiful daughters,” the eldest midwife said, and it was strange, for no man could have looked