Nefertiti

The woman looked between herself and her child. Then she moved to bring the child back into the palace and an arrow twanged. There was a collective gasp, then silence in the Audience Chamber as the woman slumped forward and her child screamed. Akhenaten lowered his bow. “No one leaves the palace!” he shouted. Akhenaten drew back a second arrow and pointed into the midst of the suddenly silent crowd. Nefertiti came up beside him, lowering the weapon.

“No one else is leaving,” she promised.

The people watched her with wide, frightened eyes.

Akhenaten stopped in front of one of the priests, who fell to the floor in obeisance. “Anyone who opens a window or slips a message under a door to the outside will be sent to the kitchens to die. Guards!” he commanded. “Kill every cook and baker’s apprentice. Keep no one in the kitchens alive. Not even the cats.” He looked for the man who’d delivered the news of plague and pointed. “Begin with him.”

The guards were swift. The man was taken screaming through the doors of the Audience Chamber before he could even beg for his life. Our family looked as one to Nefertiti.

“Everyone return to their chamber,” she said. “Anyone with sign of the plague is instructed to take charcoal from their brazier and mark the Eye of Horus upon their door. Meals will come once a day.” She saw my father’s approving nod, and her voice grew louder and more confident. “The servants will take food from the cellars, not the kitchens. And no one is to venture beyond their chambers until the palace is free from plague for a fortnight.”

Panahesi stepped forward, eager to put himself in the center of things. “We should make a sacrifice,” he announced.

Akhenaten agreed. “A platter of meat and a bowl of Amarna’s best wine outside of every door,” he declared.

“No!” I moved quickly forward to the dais. “We should hang garlands of mint and rue outside of every door. But that is all.”

Akhenaten turned on me. “The Sister of Pharaoh thinks she knows more than the High Priest of Aten?”

Nefertiti’s look was fierce. “She is wise with herbs and she suggests rue, not rotting meat.”

Akhenaten’s voice grew suspicious. “And how do you know she isn’t trying to rid herself of a sister and brother-in-law? She could take the throne for herself and her son.”

“Every door will have a garland of mint and rue,” Nefertiti commanded.

“And the sacrifice?” Panahesi pressed the two Pharaohs of Egypt.

Akhenaten straightened. “For every chamber that wants protection from Aten,” he said loudly. “Those who wish the great god’s wrath”—his eyes found mine—“will go without.”

The exit from the Audience Chamber was subdued. As the crowd broke up, Nefertiti touched my hand. “What will you do?”

“Go back to Baraka, then seal the door and let no one inside.”

“Because we can’t all be together, can we?” she asked. “To put all of our family in one chamber would be to risk everything.” There was fear in her voice, and it occurred to me that this was the first time she would have only Akhenaten and no one else. Our parents would go to their chambers while Tiye watched over the children.

I reached out and touched her hand. “We may all survive this separately,” I said.

“But how do you know? You could be dead of plague and I wouldn’t discover it until a servant reported the Eye of Horus. And my daughters—” Her slight body seemed to grow even smaller. “I will be all alone.”

It was her greatest fear, and I took her hand and placed it on my heart. “We will all be well,” I promised, “and I shall see you in a fortnight.”

It was the only time I ever lied to her.

While Black Death swept through the palace, Panahesi placed offerings of salted meat at the doors of those who wished for Aten’s blessing. In his leopard robes and heaviest golden rings, he moved through the halls, followed by young priests singing praises in their high, sweet voices to Aten. And while the young boys sang, Anubis ravaged.

When Panahesi came to our door, Heqet ordered him away.

“Wait!” I flung the door open to confront him. Both Nakhtmin and the milk nurse cried out. “I will hold a sprig of rue before me,” I promised, then faced Panahesi. “Are you placing an offering at the nursery?” I asked.

He tossed aside his leopard cloak and moved to the next door.

“Are you placing an offering at the nursery?” I demanded.

He looked at me with condescension. “Of course I am.”

“Don’t do it. Don’t place an offering there. I will give you whatever you want,” I said desperately.

Panahesi looked me up and down. “And what would I want from the Sister of the King’s Chief Wife?”

“The sister of Pharaoh,” I replied.

His lips curled. “My own grandson sleeps in the nursery. Do you think I would poison Egypt’s hope for the throne to kill six meaningless girls? Then you are as foolish as I thought you were.”

“Close the door!” Heqet cried from behind me. “Close the door,” she begged, holding my son with hers. I watched Panahesi disappear down the hall with his bowls full of meat, then I closed us back inside, shoving springs of rue and mint beneath the door and sealing up the crack.

Two days passed, and there was no sign of the Black Death in the halls of the palace, no charcoal eyes of death on any door. Then, on the third night, just as we had begun to believe that the palace would be protected, Anubis paused to eat at every chamber that had an offering to Aten.

A servant girl’s screams pierced the silent halls at dawn. She ran by the royal chambers, shouting about the Eye of Horus. “A boy next to the kitchens,” she screamed, terrified. “And the Master of the Horse. Everyone who placed an offering to Aten! Two ambassadors from Abydos. And one from Rhodes. We can smell it from their chambers!”

“What now?” I whispered from behind our closed door.

Nakhtmin replied, “Now we wait and see, and hope death only visits those who placed offerings to Aten.”

But when the people of Amarna saw the death carts rolling toward the palace, fury swept through the city. If Pharaoh’s god wouldn’t protect Amarna’s palace, why would he protect its people? Despite the risk, Egyptians took to the streets, chanting to Amun and shattering Aten’s images. They pressed against the palace gates and demanded to know if the Heretic Pharaoh was still alive. I moved closer to our boarded-up windows and heard the cries. “Do you hear what they’re calling him?” I whispered.

Heqet’s eyes were wide with fear. She replied, “The Heretic King.”

“And do you hear what they are chanting?”

We listened to the sound of shattered stone and hammers. They were defacing Akhenaten’s statues and chanting for the destruction of Amarna itself. “BURN IT DOWN! BURN IT DOWN!”

I took Baraka and held him to my chest.

When food came at noon, Nakhtmin opened the door and stepped back in shock. A different servant was carrying our food, trembling and crying.

“What is it?” Nakhtmin demanded.

“The nursery,” the girl gasped.

I handed my son to Heqet and ran toward the door. “What about it?”

“They’ve all been touched,” she cried, holding a basket out for us. “All the children have been touched!”

“Who? Who has been touched?” I shouted.

“The children. The twin princesses are gone. The Princess Meketaten is taken. And Nebnefer, my lady…” She covered her mouth, as if the words that would fall out must be held back in.

Nakhtmin gripped the girl’s arm. “Died?”

The servant’s knees grew weak. “No. But sick with plague.”