Nefertiti (39 page)

I laughed meanly.

“I didn’t take your child!” she cried.

“But you know who did.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You know who poisoned me. You know who was too afraid that I should give birth to a son, a child of a general…”

She covered her ears. “I won’t hear any more!”

I stood silent, watching her.

“Mutny,” she pleaded. She looked up at me with her dark plaintive eyes, as black and wide as pools, thinking her charm would get her what she wanted. “Be with me when I have this child.”

“Why? You look happy enough.”

“Should I go around with the fear of death on my face, frightening Akhenaten so he won’t give me more children? So that the ladies of my court can run back to Panahesi and tell him that the Queen of Egypt has grown weak? What better time for Kiya to rise up than when I’m down? What else am I supposed to look but happy?”

I marveled that she could think of these things even when she was about to give birth.

“Stay with me, Mutny. You’re the only one I trust. You can be sure of what the midwives are giving me.”

I stared. “You don’t think they would poison you?”

She looked up at me with a wearied expression.

“The physicians would discover that you were poisoned,” I pointed out.

“After I am dead! What good is it then?”

“Panahesi would be risking his own life to do such a thing.”

“And who would be there to prove it? Who do you think Akhenaten would believe? A tattling midwife or the High Priest of Aten? And then there are the Amun priests,” she said fearfully, “who would give their lives to see that Akhenaten never produces an heir.”

I thought of someone poisoning her the way I had been poisoned. I imagined her contorted in pain, crying out as Anubis crept closer because I had refused to be with her during her child’s birth. “I will stay. But only for the birth.” She smiled, and I sat down grudgingly. “So, what will you name it?”

“Smenkhare,” she said.

“And if it’s a girl?”

She looked sharply at me from under her long lashes. “It will not be a girl.”

“But if it is?”

She shrugged. “Then Meketaten.”

Though Nefertiti was impossibly small, Nekhbet must have blessed her womb, because all of her children seemed to come without difficulty. The midwife caught the tiny bundle in her arms, bloodied and crying, and the other midwives in the room pressed forward to peer at the sex. Nefertiti sat forward.

“What is it?” she gasped.

The midwife looked down. My mother clapped her hands with joy, but as the servants helped Nefertiti back to her bed, I saw that the color had drained from her face. Her eyes met mine from across the room.
Another princess
. I let out my breath and thought spitefully,
I’m glad it’s not a son
. I gathered my basket and moved toward the door.

My mother grabbed my arm. “You must stay for the blessing!”

The room grew more crowded. A herald arrived, followed by Thutmose, as servants flitted around Nefertiti to wash her body and fit her crown. My mother took my elbow and led me toward the window. Bells were ringing, announcing the new princess’s birth. Three tolls for a Princess of Egypt, same as a prince. “At least wait until she is named,” my mother begged.

Nefertiti looked over and saw the two of us together. “Isn’t my own sister going to come to wish me long life and good health?”

The entire room turned. I could feel my mother’s hand on the small of my back, pushing me forward. If my father had been allowed in the birthing chamber, he would have set his jaw sternly against my disrespect. I hesitated, and then moved forward. “May Aten smile upon you.”

Everyone backed away as Nefertiti opened her arms to embrace me. The milk nurse was in the corner of the cheery pavilion, already giving suck to the little princess. “Come, be happy for me, Mutny.” Everyone was smiling. Everyone was exultant. It wasn’t a boy, but it was a healthy child, and she had delivered successfully. I held up my basket.

“For you,” I said.

She peered into it eagerly and her eyes grew bright. She looked from the basket to me, then back again. “Mandrakes?”

“Only a few grew well this season. Next season should be better.”

Nefertiti glanced up.
“Next
season? What do you mean? You’re coming back.”

I didn’t answer her.

“You
have
to come back to the palace. Your family is here!”

“No, Nefertiti. My family was murdered. One in my womb and the other in Kadesh.” I turned away before she could rebuke me.

“You will be there for the blessing,” she shouted. It was not a request.

“If that is what you want.” I left the birthing chamber, letting the doors swing shut behind me.

Outside the palace, villagers throughout Amarna were feasting. The birth of a royal heir meant a day of rest, even for the tomb builders high above the valley. I walked to the outer courtyard, where royal charioteers stood waiting to take dignitaries in and out of the city. “Take me to the Temple of Hathor,” I said, and before the charioteer could say he did not know of any such forbidden temple, I placed a deben ring of copper in his hand. He nodded quickly. Once we were there, we both stared at the columned courtyard carved into the side of the hill.

“Are you sure you want to be left here, my lady? It’s abandoned.”

“A few women still tend Hathor’s shrine. I will be fine,” I said.

But the royal charioteer was young and concerned. “I can wait,” he offered.

“No.” I gathered my basket and descended. “There’s no point. I can walk home if I need.”

“But you are the Sister of the King’s Chief Wife!”

“And like many other people, I possess two legs.”

He chuckled and was gone.

On the hill amidst the outcroppings of rock and carved stone, there was silence. The few women who kept Hathor’s hidden shrine would be feasting in the villages below, pouring out libations to the new god of Egypt in thanks for the delivery of a new princess. “But not all of us have forgotten you.” I knelt before a tiny statue of Hathor on the hill, placing an offering of thyme beneath her feet. Although shrines to Amun were forbidden in Amarna, on the outskirts of the city women had secretly commissioned small temples like this. And in homes like mine, her statues were often hidden in secret niches where oil and bread could be placed so the goddess would remember our ancestors and children that never were.

I bowed in obeisance. “I thank you for delivering Nefertiti safely. Though she offers you up no wine or incense, I do so in her name. Protect her always from the hands of death. She is thankful for the gift of new life you bring her, and for a healthy recovery in childbed.” I arranged the herbs next to a jug of oil another woman had brought and heard the crunch of gravel behind me. Someone spoke.

“Do you ever pray for yourself?”

I didn’t turn. “No,” I replied. “The goddess knows what I want.”

“You can’t do this forever,” my aunt said. A hot wind blew the edges of her skirt behind her. “At some point, you must let the child’s
ka
rest. He’s not coming back.”

“Like Nakhtmin.”

My aunt’s eyes were solemn. She took my hand in hers, and we stood on the topmost tier of the temple, looking out over the desert to the reeds of River Nile. White-kilted farmers threshed in the fields and oxen pulled the heavy carts of grain behind them. A hawk wheeled overhead, the incarnation of the soul, and the Dowager Queen sighed. “Let them both rest.”

Chapter Eighteen

1348 BCE

Shemu, Season of Harvest

DAY AFTER DAY, village women sent for my herbs, and sometimes I delivered them personally. In the city that sprawled beneath the white pillars of the palace, I would wind my way through the narrow streets, and often I would find myself in houses where women had just given birth and there was no hope that the mother would survive. I would bend over her sickbed to inspect her womb and make a special tea with the oil of nettle. And the women would rub their forbidden amulets to Hathor and whisper prayers to the goddess of motherhood. The first time I saw these forbidden amulets I was surprised, and a servant in the house explained quickly to me, “She has protected Egypt for a thousand years.”

“And Aten?” I asked curiously.

The servant tensed. “Aten is the sun. You cannot touch the sun. But Hathor can be held and made obeisance to.”

So, at seventeen years of age, they called me Sekem-Miw, and I came to know all the villages in Amarna better than Pharaoh himself.

“Where are we going today, my lady?”

It was the charioteer from the palace. He was not on duty, and I had reached the end of the long road from my villa. He smiled down at me, and I tried to stop myself from thinking of Nakhtmin.

“To collect seeds,” I replied, walking faster, ignoring the rapid beat of my heart.

“Your basket looks heavy. Wouldn’t you rather ride?” He slowed, and I debated. I had no guards. I had insisted on having none when I’d left Nefertiti and her palace. But without guards, I had no charioteer, and it was a long way to the quay. The charioteer saw my hesitation. “Come.” He held out his hand and I took it, stepping up into his chariot. “I’m Djedefhor.” He bowed.

Djedefhor began to appear every morning.

“Do you wait out here for me each day?” I demanded.

Djedefhor grinned. “No, not each day.”

“You shouldn’t,” I said earnestly.

“Why not?” He lent me his arm and we rolled toward the quay, where I searched out new herbs from among the foreign sellers every few days.

“Because I am the Sister of the King’s Chief Wife. It is dangerous for you to be seen with me. I’m not a favorite of Pharaoh.”

“But you’re a favorite of the queen’s.”

When she wants something
, I thought, and my lips thinned into a line. “If you value your place in Pharaoh’s house,” I said sternly, “you will not be seen with me. I can be of no use to you.”

“Very well, then, because I am not looking to use you. Just escort you to the market and back again.”

I flushed. “You should know the man I love is in Kadesh.”

It was the first time I had spoken of Nakhtmin to anyone outside of my family.

Djedefhor bowed his head. “As I said, I want nothing from you. Just the pleasure of escorting you back and forth again.”

The first time Ipu saw me with Djedefhor, her eyes grew wide. She followed me around the house, as bad as Bastet, and tried to get me to speak about him. “Where did you meet him? Does he drive you every day? Is he married?”

“Ipu, he isn’t Nakhtmin.”

Ipu’s smile faded. “But he’s handsome.”

“Yes. He’s a handsome, kind soldier. That’s all.”

Ipu hung her head. “You’re too young to be alone,” she whispered.

“But it’s how my sister wants it,” I replied.