respond. Was this a statue made of the matter of this world, or a living being returned from the next? Then Akhenaten himself turned from the rituals to see what was happening. The two gold figures looked at each other across the empty space. No-one moved. I looked around the perimeter wall and saw troops of archers poised for Akhenaten’s word.
And then an even more extraordinary thing came to pass. Nefertiti, taking command of the moment, came to life. There was a rolling gasp of astonishment as she suddenly raised her hands, holding the crook and flail to command the attention of the gods. And then she began to sing, her voice ringing out pure and strong, the long, clear notes filling the great hushed auditorium. As if suddenly recognizing the song, and their place in the music, the temple trumpeters joined in, their instruments raised brightly to the sun. And this encouraged the temple singers, who began clapping and singing. Then the other musicians joined in, lyres, lutes, drums and great double harps adding their different tones and powerful rhythms. Soon Nefertiti’s voice was riding the swelling wave of an orchestra, and the music seemed to transform the people’s faces as if its harmonious spirit brought a new order and power into existence.
As the music continued, the ceremonial barque was carried forward. It seemed as if Nefertiti, her arms raised to the Aten now, was sailing through a sea of people’s faces, and they divided to let her pass. The light of the sun’s rays was magnified by the gold of the boat and her dress, as if she were made not of flesh and bone but of some impossible immaterial incandescence. She who was dead was returning in glory as a living god, outwitting her clever husband and triumphing over her enemies-for who now would dare to challenge such a figure? Thousands of the most powerful people of the world stood in utter silence, witnesses to the miracle. But these were no fools. They knew this performance for what it was. And they waited to see what would happen next.
The music concluded, and complete silence fell again. Instead of joining the King on the ramp, Nefertiti approached the sacred stone in the centre of the temple precinct, its high, round-topped column on a raised dais. She slowly reached forward and touched it with one hand. And then something unfolded as if from inside the woman: a whirr of feathers and bones which became a heron, the crested bird of resurrection. It flapped its long, elegant grey wings as if rising from the stone, lifted itself high above the Queen’s head, and flew off towards the eastern hills.
A pure, sacred bird. Gold feathers. Rebirth. The goddess returning from the Dead. Sign of the rising sun. It was perfect.
Nefertiti remained standing for a moment, surrounded by thousands of normally cynical, now awe-struck people, their mouths wide open like wondering children. I moved forward to the front of the bier. I saw familiar figures, now, among those closest to Akhenaten. Ay, his face inscrutable, not allowing the slightest flicker of surprise to register. Ramose, in magnificent costume, looking astonished by the appearance of the Queen and the bird. Calculating Horemheb, looking from the woman of light to Akhenaten and back again. Parennefer, in a secondary row, whose raised eyebrows said: you’ve done it now. And Nakht, the honest nobleman, who gave me a swift nod of acknowledgement. I expected to glimpse Mahu occupying some dark corner, but although I could feel him in a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, he was nowhere to be seen. The Society of Ashes. Who here held one of those seven gold feathers? And who here did not, yet greatly desired one?
I looked along the roofline of the temple and saw hundreds of archers still poised, bows tensed. All around the interior perimeter walls were armed Medjay guards. Had we walked into a huge and powerful trap? I would not put it beyond Akhenaten, with one nod-or would it be Ay, or Horemheb? — to bring down a rain of deadly arrows upon all our heads. The whole project seemed to be in the balance.
I looked back at Akhenaten and saw him staring directly at Nefertiti. They were on the same level now, above the crowd, but in every other way she had upstaged him. It seemed to me he trembled with conflicting rages and emotions while outwardly maintaining near-immaculate control. The princesses tried to stay still, but their eyes were filling up with tears, torn between duty to their father on this most important day and the urge to run to their lost mother.
Nefertiti, however, gave no sign of maternal affection. She held the crucial gaze of her husband. I thought of two snakes poised, swaying slightly, unblinking and cold. Then suddenly he offered her his hand. She gave a command, and the barque moved forward. The crowd made a sound like a wave sighing after it has arrived on the shore and collapsed, retreating through the stones. She stepped onto the Ramp of Offerings and slowly took her place by the side of Akhenaten on the throne. And behold a picture for the world to witness: the royal family reunited before the audience of the Empire. But with this one difference: here was a Queen returned, as none had ever done before, from the Otherworld. She raised her arms as if they were the gold wings of Horus, and the sun’s light glittered off the many gold discs on her shawl and played across the walls of the temple and the roaring faces of the crowd. A triumph.
I watched those faces closely. What would they do now? Then, almost as one, led ostentatiously by Ay, the thousands gathered in the temple precinct sank to their knees and prostrated themselves seven times in loyalty. Nefertiti and her daughters turned and raised their hands to the offerings of the rays of the sun. The multitudes followed suit. The musicians took up the song again, and the trumpets blasted their fanfares.
I looked at her up there, the woman with whom I had talked, played
But then the wind, which had been subdued like a charmed and invisible monster at the feet of the Queen, stirred, tugging at the ceremonial gowns and the fine embroidered linens of the dignitaries, and wafting the incense smoke angrily. Women reached to readjust their hair and clothes, men shaded their eyes, and everyone turned to look up at the sky whose perpetual blue was challenged now by a thick grey-red cloud as if a thunderous army were approaching blown up by Seth, god of storms and desert lands. Countless tiny specks of grit began to sting our faces and eyes. A sudden strong gust blew through the precinct and a huge pile of pomegranates collapsed from an offering table with a thundering sound and scattered across the floor. People shielded their faces with their robes and began uncertainly to back away, huddling together for protection as the wind grew fiercer, more volatile, casting its handfuls of scouring sand and overwhelming dust against the walls of the temple and the high facades of the pylons. The temple banners streamed out now, lashing and kicking at the crazed air, as if to fend it off. And the Glory of the Aten, to whom this city and its whole enterprise was dedicated, suddenly dimmed and diminished to a faint white-edged red disc, its power failing on the very day of the great Festival of Light, at the very moment of triumph, before the shadowy might of Chaos.
I knew what was coming. I had seen sandstorms many times before and should have taken the early warning signs more seriously. We had little time if we were not to be overwhelmed. Nefertiti, the girls and Akhenaten were still standing on the ramp. He looked baffled, but her face was alert with anxiety. She understood the peril, grasped the girls’ hands and hurried down to meet me. All around us the crowd was breaking apart, stampeding towards the only exit through the narrow pylon gates. The fallen pomegranates were squashed to a red pulp; people slipped and fell in the sticky mess.
But it was hopeless: the gates were far too narrow to allow such a vast crowd to pass, and quickly the terrible tide bunched up, everyone shoving and pushing, demented with panic and fear. Guards shouted and tried to hold back the crowd, but they failed to impose any kind of order, and soon they too were struggling over everyone else to escape. Cries and calls for help mixed in with the whipping sound of the wind, and I saw frailer people vanishing under trampling feet.
I looked around for another way out, or at least for protection. And then I saw Horemheb gesturing furiously to the soldiers stationed around the perimeter to advance towards the royal family-whether protectively or aggressively I could not tell. I did not want to stay to find out. I saw a look on his smooth face-the look of a man grasping an unexpected opportunity. I did not like it.
‘Is there another way out?’ I shouted to the Queen over the noise.
She nodded, and we set off against the current of the crowd. The sand was thicker in the air now, and we tried to shelter the girls with our own bodies. I looked back to check on Horemheb and his soldiers and saw them gathered around him while he gestured at our receding figures. And then, to make things worse, among the rushing people driven by the tremendous gusts of wind I noticed a single figure standing as still as a statue, as if immune to the chaos which churned around him, observing us. Ay. Something like a smile played upon his face, as if to say: so
