Nefertiti

I gave her a long look. “And if I had a son, do you think he would be safe in Amarna?”

She sat straighter in her bed. “Of course he would be. If it’s a son.”

“I will stay for another two months,” I promised.

“Then what? You will leave and take Mother with you?”

“Don’t worry. Mother won’t leave you alone,” I snapped. “Not even to see me give birth to my first child.”

She laughed, embarrassed by the truth in front of so many women. “Mutny! That’s not what I’m saying.” She moved over on the cushions, which loomed large and heavy around her tiny frame. “Come. Sit.”

She wants to make up to me now, I thought.

“Did you know there will be a feast tomorrow?” she asked. “For three nights. And Thutmose will sculpt a new family portrait to go in the temple. To remind Panahesi.”

He would have to endure it every time he walked past the altar of Aten. Nefertiti wearing the asp and crown. Nefertiti and her six beautiful children.

She lowered her voice. “Panahesi thinks just because I’ve birthed two daughters that there will never be a son now. He thinks that Egypt’s crown will go to Nebnefer. But I’m going to change that,” she swore.

I looked behind me. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I will find a way.”

On the third day of celebration, Nefertiti slammed the door to her chamber, blinded with an uncontrollable rage. Before I could calm her, she threw her brush against the wall and the tiles shattered. “I deliver him two daughters and now he’s with Kiya?”

My father ordered a servant to pick up the pieces and added sharply, “Sweep it up, and then close the doors behind you.”

We waited for the girl to do as instructed while Nefertiti fumed. When the girl shut the doors, my father stood.

“Have some control,” he demanded.

“I have just birthed two children and that’s not enough?”

“You have given him six girls.”

“We must go to her again—”

“Absolutely not,” my father said. “It’s too dangerous now.”

“This time Mutny can do it!”

My father looked hard at her. “You will not bring your sister into this.”

I tried to convince myself that what they were saying had nothing to do with the loss of Kiya’s second child.

“We leave it to the gods,” my father said.

“But she will be pregnant within the month,” my sister whispered. “And what if it’s another heir to the crown?” Her panic rose. “One son might die, but two?”

“Then we will have to find another way to hold the throne. Six girls or no.”

Seven days later, on the first of Phamenoth, two priests arrived in the Audience Chamber and announced to the court, “Your Highness, our priests have had a great vision.”

My father and Nefertiti exchanged glances. This was not a remedy that they had brewed together.

Akhenaten sat forward. “A vision?” he asked. “What kind of vision?”

“A vision for the future of Egypt,” the old priest whispered mystically, and when Panahesi stood eagerly from his chair, we knew at once that this was his doing. He had been waiting for this moment from the time that Nefertiti had used the ruse of a dream to convince Akhenaten that Panahesi should become High Priest and not treasurer. Now he cried dramatically, “How come I haven’t been told of this vision?”

The old priest bowed with a flourish of his hand. “It has only come this morning, Your Holiness. Two priests were blessed by a vision from Aten.”

I looked over at Panahesi and the second priest, who had a round, kind face. Not one priest, but two. Panahesi had chosen his puppets beautifully.

“Beware of false prophets,” Nefertiti warned from her throne. The court filled with expectant chatter.

“What was the vision?” Akhenaten pressed.

The younger priest stepped forward. “Your Highness, in the Temple of Aten today, we were given a revelation—”

“Where exactly?” Nefertiti demanded, and Akhenaten frowned at the hardness in her voice.

“In the courtyard beneath the sun, Your Majesty.”

Better and better.

“We were honoring Aten with incense when a bright light came before us and we saw—”

The old priest cut in. “We saw a vision!”

Akhenaten was taken. “Of what?”

“Of Nebnefer, wearing the pschent crown.”

Panahesi stepped forward eagerly. “Nebnefer? You mean His Highness’s son?”

“Yes.” The old priest nodded.

The entire court tensed, waiting for Akhenaten’s reaction.

“A very interesting vision,” my father said. “Nebnefer”—he arched his brows meaningfully—“wearing the crown of Egypt.”

“Aten’s visions are never wrong,” Panahesi said sharply.

“No,” my father agreed, “Aten never lies. And, of course, there were two. Two priests who saw the vision.”

Panahesi shifted in his leopard-skin robes, disliking this new accord.

“A son to rule the throne of Egypt,” my father went on. “And wearing the crown that rested once on his father’s head. Didn’t the Elder receive such a vision?”

The court realized what he was doing and Akhenaten paled.

My father added quickly, “But Nebnefer is loyal. I am sure he is a son who will serve His Highness well.”

It was a twist Panahesi had not foreseen. “Of course Nebnefer is loyal,” he stammered. “Of course he is.”

Akhenaten looked down at my father, who shrugged cunningly.

“It is a danger that all Pharaohs risk with sons.”

And who knew that better than Akhenaten? I felt a victorious thrill, the triumphant feeling my father must experience whenever he outwitted an opponent.

Kiya turned red with rage. “No one can prove that the prince is disloyal!” she shrieked.

Akhenaten looked to the priests. “What was the rest of the vision?” he commanded.

“Yes!” Nefertiti stood, watering the seed our father had planted. “Was there bloodshed?”

The entire court looked to the priests and the younger one replied, “No, Your Highness. No bloodshed. No betrayal. Only great golden light.”

Akhenaten glanced at the older priest for confirmation.

“Yes.” The old man was swift to agree. “Nothing of violence.”

Panahesi bowed deeply. “Your Highness, I can bring Prince Nebnefer now. You can test his loyalty.”

“No!” Akhenaten looked at his princesses, arranged on their little thrones. “Come here, Meritaten.”

Meritaten stood and went to her father’s knee. The court watched with expectation.

“You will always be loyal to your father, won’t you?”

Meritaten nodded.

“And do you teach your sisters to be loyal to their father?” he demanded.