Nefertiti

‘Yes.’

‘As you know, that woman died under violent circumstances the same night.’

‘You told me.’

‘Please tell me which woman was to follow the Queen’s instructions.’

She looked uncertain. ‘I did not read the instructions. They were sealed, in any case.’

‘I see.’

We both waited for something.

‘I may as well tell you the name of the woman who died,’ I said.

‘I do not need to know it.’

‘It was a girl called Seshat.’

She stared at me, her mouth open. It was as if she were glass and I had shattered her. She made to go back into the chamber, but I held her arm.

‘Did you know her?’

‘I’m afraid I never knew this unfortunate woman,’ she said evenly. But her eyes, brimming with tears, gave her away. Then she wrenched her arm free and swiftly slipped inside.

A short while later the doors opened and there stood a figure of gold. Nefertiti looked like a statue, like a ka-figure in a tomb. She was framed by the wide doorway; the light coming from the windows inside her chamber lent her outline a lambent glow. No-one spoke. Her sandals were pointed with precious stones; her linen gown was gold; the sash around her trim waist was the red of Kings; around her neck a gold ankh necklace; on her shoulders a strange and wonderful cape which wove together countless small Aten discs to form a shimmering constellation; under that, a shawl that looked like the gold feathers of Horus; and on her head the double crown with its high back and rearing cobra. Even her nails and lip paint were gold. Only the kohl, the colour of fertile earth and promise of rebirth, and the elongated black lines around her eyes contrasted with the golden glamour.

I thought of Tanefert, and how she would ask my opinion of her appearance before we set off in the evenings. Sometimes she would adjust a new outfit with a slightly discomfited air, as if she were unsure of her own beauty; the girls have exactly the same habit before a mirror. I always liked her best when she used least art in her appearance; she seemed most herself then. Some sign of casual disarray pleased me more than all the sophisticated artifices of our time. I’d rather see a loose-hanging curl that begged to be coiled back behind the ear than the untouchable strain and tension of perfection.

But the woman I had talked to last night in the small hours, and who had now transformed herself into something more than human, had become who she needed to be: a goddess; the Perfect One. There was a new distance between us all. I felt I should bow my head, or prostrate myself, but almost immediately dismissed them as foolish urges. There was still the lovely glitter of amusement in her eyes. But it was complicated now, by other things. Necessity. Power. And for all the uncertainty about the outcome, I could see excitement in her eyes.

The Festival would be commencing about now with worship and offerings at the Great Aten Temple. Akhenaten and his daughters would be riding at speed in their chariots, their red sashes trailing in the breeze, down the Royal Road, past the packed crowds seeking a glimpse of this moment of history; past the prostrate kings, viziers, lords, commanders, diplomats, tribal chiefs, governors of provinces, nomes and city states…but the Queen would be absent, as they would all immediately see. I could imagine Akhenaten now, determined, resolute, furious not to have had restored to him what he most needed. And I could imagine, too, the quick understanding and intensive commentary among the gathering of the most powerful people in the world: she was missing, and Akhenaten was flawed. She is dead. Who killed her? Why?

‘It is time,’ she said, and from that moment I knew she would not speak again until all had been accomplished, or all had failed.

Ra, in his dazzling ship of day, had sailed higher in the blue sky. We, too, on our own shining ship of gold, a craft built for ancient ceremony with twenty attending women also dressed in gold and the tall, solitary Nubian who had played Anubis standing guard, sailed slowly upon the equally blue and glittering waters of the Great River. Nefertiti sat high and still on the deck of a small ceremonial divine barque of the Two Lands that was carried on a bier. She was holding the crook and flail crossed in her hands, and wearing now the false gold beard of kingship. The fierce illumination of the midday sun was amplified by the gold of the ship and her costume. It was almost impossible to look at her.

As we rowed slowly on, people gathered on the banks; at first just a few, but soon there was a multitude, shading their eyes, pointing, standing along the shoreline and in the trees. Most of them quickly prostrated themselves before the entirely unexpected Perfect One. From my position at the east side of the ship I could hear the constant slapping of the crested waves against the gold-leafed hull of the ship, and the high breeze, still from the south, shaking and rattling in the red and green sails, as we made our way against the current.

We must have made an astounding sight. Yet I could see the truth of the ship: how the ropes were a little frayed with age; how the blindfolded rowers sweated and exerted themselves to the beats of the two drummers, and the calls and instructions of the captain; how the immaculate gold-leaf of the outer shell gave way to unvarnished wood on the inside.

As we approached the harbour, the crowd massed and swelled, and the noise grew to a continuous turbulent roar-of awe or anger or approval it was impossible to say. The ship docked, and instantly a team of men dressed in gold emerged from the hold and lifted the ceremonial barque, with the Queen, high onto their broad shoulders. She briefly gripped the rails of her little ship-a moment of human nerves-as it sought to rediscover its balance.

We were no longer on the calm isolation of the river, but among the hot chaos of the land. A pathway opened up in the monstrous crowd and we processed carefully and in state up to the Royal Road, inexorably, step by step, towards the Great Aten Temple. More people shouting prayers and jubilations flooded into the swelling crowd, which was now jostling and rising like the waters of the inundation against the walls of the buildings, and overflowing from the tributary passageways. The twenty attending women processed ahead of us, throwing yellow and white flowers in the path of the Queen; still she appeared to see and hear nothing, remaining high and as still as a shrine statue above the chaos. I could see the temple ahead in the near distance, the freshly white-washed walls already dusty, the banners thrashing occasionally in response to the gusts of wind that carried with them the grit and sand of the Red Land. I was worried now as much by the strangeness of the weather as by the danger we all faced at this moment of exposure to the unknown forces ranged against us.

All along the way, the crowds prostrated themselves on their bellies in the dirt, but the Medjay troops kept their weapons poised. The air was thick with smells: baking bread and roasting meat, incense and flowers; and already many of the younger men in the crowd were drunk. A kind of collective frenzy was taking hold, an atmosphere of danger and excitement and instability, as if now anything could happen. The future was taking shape in these very moments, and we were a part of it.

As we approached the temple we slowed, paused to acknowledge the crowd, then turned into the gate. Momentarily the sentries seemed about to bar our path, arguing among themselves; but in awe of the living statue of the Queen they backed off, lowering their heads, and opened wide the gates of the first pylon.

The Queen’s ship passed through the great blocks of shadow and entered the temple’s vast interior space. Nefertiti stared directly ahead. From enormous bronze incense burners rose clouds of perfumed smoke, over- sweetening the already thick, shimmering air. The altars were piled high with every good thing of the earth: huge bouquets of lotus and lilies, safflowers and poppies; red pyramids of pomegranates; stacked yellow heads of corn; and vases of oil and unguent. And here were hundreds of delegations from across the world arranged in ranks, awaiting their turn to be presented to the most powerful man in the world. They had brought tribute to lay at Akhenaten’s divine feet: shields and bows, animal skins and collections of gorgeous plumage, spices and perfumes, piles of gold rings and other nonsense made from gold-little trees, little animals, little gods-as well as living creatures: monkeys, terrified gazelles, snarling leopards, even an anxious and timid lion, his ears flat on his head.

Far away, over the prostrated figures and heads of the crowd, I could see Akhenaten and his daughters, little gold figures enthroned on top of the Ramp of Offerings under a great canopy decorated with a multitude of ribbons. The crowd was turned correctly towards them. But when the Queen entered it was as if the polarity of the whole world changed in a moment. Everyone turned their heads.

A hush fell then, punctuated by cries of wonder and amazement. Many people prostrated themselves immediately; others raised their arms; others looked from King to Queen and back again, utterly uncertain how to