Nefertiti

Heqet’s eyes grew wide. “Or my son,” she whispered. “If we die, we will all die nameless in here.”

Nakhtmin shook his head furiously. “I won’t let it happen. I won’t let it happen to you. To either of you.”

I looked down at our son. “We should pray to Amun.”

Heqet gasped. “In Pharaoh’s palace?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes. In Pharaoh’s palace.”

When the sun rose the next morning, there were no new signs of plague, no fresh Eyes of Horus. We waited another day, then two, and slowly, when seven days had passed and all we had left to eat was stale bread, courtiers began to emerge from their chambers.

I saw the servant who had risked her life for gold.

She had survived the Black Death. She would send her son to school to become a scribe. But so many others were not so lucky. Broken mothers came stumbling out of their chambers, and fathers who’d lost their only sons. I saw Maya, bent and frailer than he’d ever looked. The light had gone out of his eyes. As we emerged, there were whispers that the Pharaoh of Egypt was ill.

“With plague?”

“No, my lady,” the woman who’d placed rue over my sister’s door said quietly. “With an illness of the mind.”

Bells tolled in the palace, calling viziers and courtiers and all the servants that were left back into the Audience Chamber. Now, in the room where hundreds had once stood, only a handful remained. Immediately, I searched the chamber for my parents.

“Mawat!” I rushed into my mother’s arms and she wept over Baraka, pressing him to her chest until he let out a cry. Nefertiti looked down from her throne at us. I could not read the expression on her face, but she held Akhenaten’s hand in hers. Below them sat Meritaten and Ankhesenpaaten. Their family of eight had been reduced to four, and even young Ankhesenpaaten sat still and silent, muted by what she must have seen in the nursery while her sisters lay dying.

“We should leave Amarna,” my mother whispered. “We should leave this palace for the palace in Thebes. Terrible things have happened here.” I thought she meant the curse of the plague, but when my father clenched his jaw, I realized that they were referring to something more.

I looked between them. “What do you mean?”

We moved away from the dais so we wouldn’t be overheard. “On the seventh day of quarantine, Pharaoh insulted the king of Assyria.”

“The king?” Nakhtmin repeated.

“Yes. The king of Assyria sent a messenger with a request for three ebony thrones. When the messenger came, he saw that there was plague and hesitated. But he had orders from his king and he came into the city, traveling all the way to the palace.”

“Then guards called on Pharaoh instead of your father and Akhenaten sent him away,” my mother blurted. “With a gift.”

Nakhtmin heard the ominous timbre of my mother’s voice and glanced at my father. “What kind of gift?”

My father closed his eyes. “A child’s arm riddled with plague. From the nursery.”

I stepped back; Nakhtmin’s face became grave. “The Assyrians have thousands of troops,” he warned darkly.

My father nodded. His tone was certain. “They will move against Egypt.”

“It’s too dangerous to be here,” Nakhtmin stated, and I knew that it was no longer my decision to stay. We had lived through Black Death. Amun would not be so generous when the Assyrians fell upon Egypt. He looked at me. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

“Wait for the funeral. Please,” Nefertiti begged.

“We are going tonight. The Assyrians will be on Egypt’s doorstep and your army is not prepared to stop them.”

“But there will be a funeral tonight,” she said desperately. “Stay with me,” she whispered. “They are my children. Your nieces.”

I hesitated at the look in her eyes. I asked quietly, “What have they done with the bodies?”

Nefertiti trembled. “Prepared them for burning.”

I covered my mouth. “No burial?”

“They were victims of plague,” she said savagely, but her rage was not directed at me. I thought of Meketaten and little Neferuaten, the flames rising around them as they burned on a pyre. Princesses of Egypt.

“But we will leave for Thebes immediately after,” I said sternly. “And if our parents are wise, they will take Tiye and come with us.” Our aunt was still sick, but not with the plague. It was a sickening of the heart. She’d watched over the nursery where Anubis had struck. She’d seen her grandchildren sicken and die. Meketaten, Neferuaten, Nebnefer. And there’d been others: the sons and daughters of wealthy merchantmen and scribes. When I went to see her, my eyes burned with tears. “Stay with us,” I’d begged her. “Don’t you want to stay to plant in your garden?” She’d shaken her head and grasped my hand. “Soon, I will plant in the gardens of eternity.”

Nefertiti was shaking her head at me now. “Father’s not going anywhere,” she said. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“The people are angry,” I warned. “They are dying of plague, and they blame it on their Pharaohs. They believe Aten has turned his back on them.”

“I can’t hear this. I can’t hear it now,” she swore.

“Then you will hear it when it is too late!”

“I can fix it!”

“How? When the king of Assyria unwraps his gift, what will you do? Do you think the kingdoms of the East haven’t heard of Akhenaten’s rashness? Why do you think they write to Father and not to him?”

“He has visions…Visions of greatness, Mutnodjmet. He wants to be loved…so much.”

“The way you do.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, because he will do anything for it. And you are rational. You are our father’s daughter, which is why he likes you best.” She started to speak, but I carried on. “Which is why he will stay here with you, even if the city falls down around him. Even if all of us were to die. But is it worth it?” I demanded. “Is immortality worth this price?”

She didn’t answer. I shook my head sadly and walked away. I found Nakhtmin with Baraka in the hall leading to our chamber.

“Heqet will come with us,” he said. “There are no barges going in or out of Amarna. We can go by horse, then find a barge outside the city. We will go nowhere near the workers’ houses. We’ll ride straight for the gates and the men will let us through,” he said confidently.

“But we can’t go until night,” I told him. “There will be a funeral. I know what you are about to say, but she can’t face it alone. She can’t.”

“It will be a funeral pyre, then?” he asked.

I nodded. “Little Neferuaten…” My lips trembled, looking at Baraka in his father’s strong arms. “I don’t know how she stands it.”

“She stands it because she is strong and there is nothing else to do. Your sister is no fool, for all that she supports Akhenaten. And she is no weakling.”

“I could not bear it,” I said, and he put his hand under my chin, raising my eyes to his.

“You will never have to. I am taking you away from here, whether you want it or no.”

“After the funeral.”