have been immersed in inescapable loneliness.
Nefertiti
I was allowed to enter Akhetaten only with special permission from General Haremhab. There were security checks at short intervals all along the bank of the Nile. A soldier escorted me across the northern quarter of the city from the harbor to the palace of the imprisoned queen. I was barraged by a host of emotions that left me stranded between sadness and wonder. The once glorious streets of Akhetaten had disappeared beneath heaps of dust and the dried leaves of withered trees. The grand doors of the palaces were closed like eyelids on tearful eyes. The palaces were collapsed, the fences fallen. The gardens had lost their colors and were left with the remains of trees shriveled like mummies. A heavy silence covered the city. In the center were the ruins of the temple of the One and Only God, where once the sweetest and holiest hymns were sung.
It was early afternoon when I reached the far end of the northern quarter. The queen's palace towered in the distance, set in a lush and colorful garden. My heart pounded when I glimpsed the only open window in the palace. It was the middle of autumn and the Nile was still in flood. Its mud-red water had filled the palace lake. My heart beat faster as I approached the end of my journey, as though the entire purpose of my quest was to meet this woman in her solitude.
I was ushered into a small, elegant room. The walls were inscribed with holy texts. In the center of the room there was an ebony chair with golden arms and legs, each sculpted in the form of a lion.
Finally I saw her, a vision, coming toward me gracefully in a white, flowing dress. She was elegant and beautiful. Her back was unbowed by forty years of grief and misfortune. I waited until she was settled in her chair, then she gestured to me and I sat before her. The beauty of her serene eyes was overcast by a shadow of weariness. She praised my father, then asked me bitterly, “And how do you find the city of light?”
I realized that I had been staring at her, captivated by her beauty. Abashed, I lowered my gaze, and remained silent.
“You must have heard a lot of tales about Akhenaten and me,” she said. “Now you can hear the whole truth.”
I grew up with a passion for true knowledge that was nurtured by the learnedness of my father, Ay. I lost my real mother when I was only one year old. But I did not feel that loss, for in Tey I found a compassionate, loving mother, and not merely a stepmother. She gave me a splendid, happy childhood. Even after she had my sister Mutnedjmet, her feelings toward me did not change. She was a wise woman. At first, Mutnedjmet and I were loving sisters. Because I was better at most things than Mutnedjmet, she became jealous and built up a fair share of resentment. But that only became evident much later. Tey, however, remained impartial, at least on the surface. I was quite grateful, and when the time came for me to reward her I appointed her the queen's matron and gave her the status of princess. One day, my father returned home with a holy man, one of those who are endowed with the gift of foretelling the future. He read both our fortunes, my sister's and mine.
“These girls shall sit on the throne of Egypt,” he said.
“Both of them?” said my father, astounded.
“The two of them,” the man assured him.
For some time we faltered between our faith in the holy man and the peculiarity of his prophecy.
“Perhaps one of us will be first and the other will be her successor,” I laughed.
For some mysterious reason Tey was not pleased with what I said. “Shall we forget about this prophecy and leave the future to the gods?” she said sharply.
We tried to forget. But every so often the prophecy seemed to cast its shadow upon us, until things began to take an unexpected course and it was fulfilled before our very eyes. The first time I heard of Akhenaten was through my father, when he was appointed tutor to the crown prince. Father used to speak of Akhenaten's wisdom and maturity during our family gatherings.
“Akhenaten is an unusual person,” he once said. “He criticizes the priests and the deities and no longer believes in any god but Aten.”
Unlike my mother and sister, I was rather intrigued and drawn to what I heard. For I, too, loved Aten and was awed by his domain that comprised both heaven and earth, while other deities abided only in the darkness of the temples.
“The prince is right, Father,” I replied innocently.
My mother and sister were not pleased with my remark. Father said with a smile, “We are preparing you to be a wife, Nefertiti, not a priestess.”
I cannot deny my love for motherhood and other earthly pleasures, but the truth is, I was also born to be a priestess. Eventually my father told us the news of the new god, the Sole Creator. There was an uproar and the prince was the subject of stinging talk.
“What do the king and queen think?” my mother asked.
“There is so much turmoil in the palace. I am not sure what anyone thinks or believes,” my father said gloomily.
“I fear that they will blame you, as his teacher.”
“He is their son. They know that he will never follow anyone, no matter how grand they are.”
“He is insane,” Mutnedjmet said. “He will lose his throne. Is there another heir?”
“He has only one sickly older sister.”
As they talked I felt such emotion that I was afraid I would faint. To me, the crown prince represented an irresistibly attractive, fabulous story. But I did not come to any particular conviction then. One evening I overheard my father secretly reciting one of the hymns of the new god:
The words became imprinted in my heart forever, and I was elated with joy. I repeated the hymn and let its sweet nectar infuse my soul. Its words attracted me as a butterfly is drawn to light. And like the butterfly, I was burned by that light. I was filled with faith. What a beautiful and peaceful feeling it was! “My Only God,” I whispered, “I believe in you eternally.”
I presented myself to my father and sang the hymn.
“You were listening,” he said with a frown.
I ignored his gentle reproach. “Father, what do you think of the voice he heard?”
“I do not know,” he replied cautiously.
“Can he be lying?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “He never lies.”
“Then it must be true.”
“Perhaps what he heard was a dream,” he said reluctantly.
“Father,” I confessed, “I believe in the One God, the Sole Creator.”
Suddenly he became pale. “Beware, Nefertiti!” he cried. “Keep your secret in your heart, until I can rid your heart of it.”
