The decree was made and executed without provoking the storms I had expected. It was God's power, and the power of the throne. We became more confident. In the evenings we visited the different quarters of Akhetaten in our royal carriage. The people received us with adulation. We descended from our carriage and walked among them under the palm trees, defying the long tradition that separated the royalty and the common people. We became so familiar with them that we knew their names and faces and professions. Love replaced the old fear in the people's hearts. The hymns of the One and Only were heard all over Akhetaten.
“I am afraid you are diminishing the traditional status of the king,” my father told me once.
“Father,” I replied laughing, “we only dwell in the truth.”
Then we went on our journey through the empire, calling the people to worship the Sole Creator. Our enemies were in awe of our success. Maho, the chief of police, told us about the priests' attempts to win the people over to their side by slandering the king and the throne. But we took little notice. People grew accustomed to Akhenaten's peculiar ways of worship, his solitariness, and his complete devotion. I suppose it was I who became a mystery in their eyes. How could I be so immersed in worship, when I had to manage all the administrative and financial affairs of the country? Perhaps they even questioned the sincerity of my faith. The truth is that I believed every word Akhenaten uttered. I shared his faith and his life. “When all the spirits have become pure and free of any evil,” he used to say, “everyone will hear the voice of God and we shall all dwell in the truth.” That was his real purpose, that everyone should dwell in the truth. When we returned from our journey we found Meketaten sick and bedridden. Her face was so pale that we hardly recognized the daughter we had created. Akhenaten remained by her side, praying. I asked Bento, the physician, to save her.
“Bento,” I said, calling him to the corner of Meketaten's room, “my daughter is dying.”
“I did all that I could,” he said mournfully.
“The priests have cast a spell to deprive Akhenaten of his most beloved daughter,” I cried in horror.
“Do not burn my heart with the grief of mourning her, dear God,” I heard Akhenaten whisper. “I love her and cannot live without her in my life. She is far wiser than her age, O God. If you spare her life she will spend it in your service.”
But Meketaten's soul faded until she left our world and ascended to the stars in God's Kingdom. We threw ourselves upon her, wailing, abandoned to grief.
“Why, O God?” Akhenaten cried. “Why do you try my faith so very severely? Must you be so cruel in showing me that I still do not know your mighty power? Why do you treat me so harshly when you are full of compassion, so coldly when you are love, so angrily when I am your obedient servant? Why do you insist on being a mystery when you are the light? Why did you make her so beautiful, and give her such sound reason? Why did you make us love her, and prepare her for your service? O Mighty God, why?”
We remained in mourning until the sorrows of the country pulled us out of our grief to face a tragedy. We conferred with Nakht and he told us the details of the strife and the rebellion that had swept the empire. I must admit that my determination was no longer as firm as it had been before Meketaten died. But Akhenaten endured the most severe storms, as if he were the Great Pyramid, imperishable.
“God will persevere,” he said. “I will not compromise.”
I was encouraged by his strength of spirit, and my strength returned afresh. My misgivings subsided, and I felt remorse for my momentary weakness. Then the queen mother, Tiye, visited us in Akhetaten. First she met with our men in her palace in southern Akhetaten. Then she summoned me and my husband.
“The skies are filled with dark clouds,” she began. “Your men have given me their word of honor that they will remain loyal to you under any circumstances.”
“Do you trust them?” I asked curiously.
“In times like this, I am compelled to lend them my trust,” she replied reproachfully.
“My God will be victorious,” Akhenaten said.
“Soon the country will be consumed by civil wars.” She was incensed.
“God will never forsake me,” he repeated.
“I cannot speak for the gods, but I can speak for what transpires in the world of people.”
“Mother,” he said sadly, “you do not believe.”
“Do not speak to me of the unknown. Speak to me as the king that you are and heed me as a queen. You must act before it is too late. Use the armed forces to protect your borders from the enemies. Use the guards and the police to stop the corruption inside the empire. Hurry, before your throne is lost to the enemies.”
“I shall not have one drop of blood shed.”
“Do not make me regret that I entrusted you with the throne.”
“I only believe in the throne as a means to serve God.”
Tiye looked at me and said, “Speak, Nefertiti-perhaps the gods meant you to marry him so that you can save him this very moment.”
“Our God will not forsake us, Mother,” I replied.
“Madness has won.” She was desperate.
Tiye left the palace sad and ill. She returned to Thebes, where she lived only a few days more, then died with her worries. A few days later, Haremhab, Nakht, and my father Ay asked to speak with us.
“Your faces betray bad news,” Akhenaten said.
“We have come because of our love for Egypt and the empire,” my father began.
“What about your faith in the Sole Creator?”
“We still believe in him. But we are responsible for our lives, too, not only our faith.”
“This responsibility you speak of is worthless if it is not inspired by faith,” Akhenaten added.
“The enemies of the empire have crossed our borders,” Nakht said. “The provinces are in open rebellion. We are trapped in Akhetaten.”
“God will not forsake me, and I will not forsake his teachings,” he insisted.
“We are facing a civil war!” Haremhab said.
“There shall be no wars.”
“Are we to wait until we are slain like sheep?” Haremhab asked.
“I myself will confront the army that attacks us, alone and unarmed,” the king said.
“They will kill you and then come after us. If you insist on upholding your message, then relinquish the throne and devote yourself to religion.”
“I will not forsake the throne of my God. It would be treachery. I release you from your vow of loyalty to me.”
“We will leave you some time to decide,” Haremhab said.
They delivered their last warning and left us. I never imagined a pharaoh could be so humiliated. I wondered why God was so harsh on us, but Akhenaten's faith was not shaken. I admired his determination.
Then Haremhab asked to meet me privately. “Act now,” he said. “Do whatever is in your power. If he insists on his position, he will be killed. He may be slain by his own men! You must act promptly.”
I was bewildered. I saw the ghastly shadows of death and defeat. My faith was shaken. I felt the torment of helplessness. How could I save my beloved? It occurred to me that if I left him he might falter and take the advice of his men. He would be convinced that I had betrayed him, but at least his life would be saved. Thus I left my beloved king and husband, my heart seared with grief. I went to the palace in northern Akhetaten. My sister, Mutnedjmet, visited me and told me that the king had not wavered from his position. She told me that the men had decided that in order to save him, they must abandon him and pledge their allegiance to the new pharaoh, Tutankhamun.
“When will you move to Thebes?” she asked.
“A part of the old prophecy has come true,” I said, reading the meaning between her words. “Now it is time for the other part. So you go to Thebes in peace, Mutnedjmet. I will stay here beside my husband and my God.”
Sadness set its roots deep in my heart, as though I had never once been happy in my life. I was haunted by guilt as I watched from my window the people leaving the city of light before the curse claimed them. I heard their voices, the cries of their children, and the howling of their dogs. I saw them come in waves, carrying whatever they could salvage of happier days. They hurried toward the Nile, the north, and the south. I watched until I saw the last of them leave the city. Akhetaten was deserted. Gloom hung over the magnificent houses, the gardens, and the streets. “Akhetaten,” I cried, “O city of light, where are the hymns and melodies, where is the victory,
