Nefertiti (54 page)

I put my finger to my lips as my father appeared.

“Mutnodjmet. Nakhtmin.” He embraced my husband warmly. When he came to me, he lowered his voice in earnest. “It has been too long.”

“Over two years since Thebes.”

He smiled. “Your mother is waiting in the birthing pavilion.”

“Nefertiti has already taken to her pavilion?”

“She is ill,” he said quietly. “The birth is weighing heavily with her this time.”

“At four months?”

“Some of the physicians say it could be six.”

We were shown into Riverside, which looked the same as when I’d left. White limestone columns reached toward the heavens, and in every courtyard the sunlit gardens were in bloom. Someone had planted myrtle and jasmine, and the jasmine was overtaking the water gardens, dipping their fragrant tendrils in the pools. We passed the Great Hall and my father said, “Your rooms will be here,” and he pointed to the guest rooms for foreign diplomats and messengers. I felt a sharp pang, but Nakhtmin nodded gratefully.

“Come,” my father said. “I’ll take you both to the pavilion.”

I glanced at Nakhtmin. “But what about—”

“This is Amarna,” my father said wryly. “Nefertiti allows everyone in. Men, women…”

We entered the birthing pavilion and a chorus of voices rose all at once. I glanced at the bed where Nefertiti lay and Akhenaten sat rigid, watching Nakhtmin with suspicious eyes. Then we were surrounded by jumping, laughing children who wanted to see their aunt Mutnodjmet and meet their uncle Nakhtmin. I counted back and realized that Meritaten was already five years old. Her precocious grin reminded me of Nefertiti. “Mother said you’d bring gifts,” she said and held out her hand.

I looked at Nakhtmin, who raised his eyebrows and opened his bag. Each gift was wrapped in papyrus; Ipu had labeled them before we left. “Where is Meritaten?” he called.

“That’s
me,”
said the eldest princess. When she had her gift tucked neatly under her arm, she gave Nakhtmin an introduction to her sisters. “That’s Meketaten.” She pointed to a plump girl with curling hair. “She’s only one year younger than me. And Ankhesenpaaten.” Meritaten indicated a beautiful child standing behind her sisters, waiting patiently for her gift. “She’s two. And that’s our baby sister, Neferuaten.”

The baby toddled over to us, then each of the girls received their gifts. There was a frenzy of unwrapping while my mother came over to embrace me, kissing both of my cheeks. Then Meritaten’s voice rang out.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she announced, sounding ten years older than her age.
“Mawat.”
She went to Nefertiti’s bedside. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Nefertiti gazed at the ivory writing palette Nakhtmin had carved with help from a stonecutter working on our tomb. The princesses’ names were engraved in hieroglyphs and both palettes held brushes and a shallow bowl for ink. My sister fingered the smooth edges and slender brushes, and there was a different look on her face as she raised her eyes to thank Nakhtmin.

“They are beautiful. We have nothing like this in the palace,” she admitted. “Where are they from?”

“I want to see them,” Akhenaten commanded. The girls brought their writing palettes over to their father. He inspected them casually. “Our workers can do better.”

Nakhtmin lowered his head respectfully. “I worked on them with a stonecutter from Thebes.”

“They are exquisite,” Nefertiti complimented.

Akhenaten stood up and his face was flushed. “Meritaten, Meketaten! We are riding in the Arena.”

“Will the general be coming, too?” Meritaten asked.

Akhenaten paused at the door and the rest of us froze. He turned, then looked down at Meritaten. “Who said this man was a general?”

“No one.” Meritaten must have heard the danger in his voice because she knew better than to answer him with the truth, which must have been that the Vizier Ay still called him “general.” “I saw his muscles and knew he must work outside.”

Akhenaten narrowed his eyes. “Why couldn’t he have been a fisherman or a painter?”

I’ll never forget the answer Meritaten gave, for it showed her cunning even at five. “Because our aunt would never have married a fisherman.”

There was a moment of tension, then Akhenaten laughed, sweeping Meritaten into his arms. “Let’s go to the Arena and I will show you how a
warrior
rides. With a shield!”

“What about me?” Ankhesenpaaten cried.

“You’re only two,” Meritaten said sharply.

“You shall come, too,” Akhenaten proclaimed.

When the four of them left, my father asked Nakhtmin, “Shall I show you to your chamber?”

“I think that would be best,” my husband replied.

“And we should arrange for several body servants while you are here.” My mother stood to go with them and Nefertiti called desperately, “But you’ll be back for dinner?”

“Of course,” my father said, as if it wouldn’t be any other way.

I pulled up a stool to Nefertiti’s bedside.

“Your husband is a handsome man,” my sister admitted. “No wonder you’d rather be with him than me.”

“Nefertiti—” I protested, but she raised her hand.

“Sisters can’t be close forever. Merit and I have become friends; I made her father vizier this year. He was wasting his talents as scribe.”

I glanced around the chamber.

“She’s fetching me juice. She makes perfect jujube. And she doesn’t want to marry,” she added pointedly.

I sighed. “So how are you feeling?”

My sister shrugged. “As well as possible. They say it’s heavy enough to be a son.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “But others say it could be twins. Have you ever heard of a woman living through twins?”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t have to lie.

“Never?” she whispered fearfully.

“Twins are rare. There must be women who have lived through it.”

She looked down at her stomach.
“Four
princesses, Mutnodjmet. I think Nekhbet has abandoned me.” Her voice was heavy, and I wondered if this was the first time she’d confided her true fears since I’d last been in Amarna. Who else could she trust? My mother, who would assure her that everything would be fine? Our father, who would tell her to think of the kingdom? Merit, who knew nothing of childbirth and its pain? She took my hand, and suddenly I felt the terrible loss of living in Thebes, the terrible guilt of leaving her alone to her fears and ambition, though it was she who’d banished me. “Mutnodjmet, if I die in this birth, promise you will make Meritaten queen. Promise me that Kiya won’t be made Chief Wife.”

“Nefertiti, don’t speak like this—”

Her grip tightened on my hand. “I
have
to survive this birth.” She trembled. “I have to survive to see my son rule.” She looked hopefully into my face and I didn’t promise her that she would. Only Nekhbet knew. Only Tawaret could say.

Instead I asked her, “How many months are there left?”

She looked down at her swollen belly, small and shapely like all of the other times, but this time rounder, heavier somehow. “Three. Three months until it’s over.” She had never been this way with the others, so eager to have it done. “But you will help me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

She nodded slowly, reassuring herself. “Because I thought”—her eyes welled with tears—“I thought you had abandoned me.” She had completely forgotten my banishment, locking the memory away in a place where it couldn’t haunt her, where she could be the one who’d been wounded.

“I have not forsaken you, Nefertiti. You can love two people at once, the way you love Meritaten and our father.”

The look she gave me was one of deep mistrust.

“I will stay here until you have delivered your sons,” I promised.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Peret, Season of Growing

A FEW MONTHS later, the pains came at dawn. It was the longest my sister had ever known labor, and in a corner the midwives passed worried glances among themselves, discussing rhubarb and rue.

“What are they saying?” Nefertiti cried.

“That you have never had so much pain before,” I said truthfully.

“You would tell me if there was something wrong,” she gasped. “If they knew something—”

“There’s nothing,” I cut her off, placing a soothing hand on her forehead, and she gripped the arms of her birthing chair.

“Mawat,”
she screamed. “Where is Father? I’m in so much pain!”

“Push!” the midwives cried together, and Nefertiti strained against the padded seat, shrieking to wake Anubis, and then they arrived.

Not one child but two.

The midwives shouted, “Twins!” and Nefertiti demanded, “What are they?” She strained to see.
“What are they?”

The midwives passed worried glances among each other. Then one of them stepped forward and replied, “Daughters, Your Highness.”

The lusty wails of newborn children pierced the air. Nefertiti collapsed in the birthing seat. Five times she’d tried. Five times for six girls. There was crying and shouts of joy in the pavilion. My mother held one of the princesses aloft.

“Take me back to my bed,” Nefertiti whispered, and no sooner was she dressed and put into bed than Akhenaten burst into the birthing chamber.

“Nefertiti!” He searched for his wife, and seeing that she lived, he searched for his children.

“Twins!” The midwives feigned joy, and the look on Akhenaten’s face was triumphant. Then his peace grew disturbed.

“Sons?” he asked swiftly.

“No. Two beautiful daughters,” the eldest midwife said, and it was strange, for no man could have looked more joyous.

Akhenaten was at Nefertiti’s side at once. “What shall we name them?”

She smiled for him, though I knew her disappointment was bitter. “Setepenre,” Nefertiti replied. “And—”

“Neferneferuaten.”

“No
. Neferneferure.”

I glanced at Nefertiti, and the hardness in her eyes told me that she would not name her daughters after a god who had given her six princesses. I wondered whether Amun might have given her a prince.

Akhenaten picked up my sister’s hand and pressed it to his chest. “Neferneferure,” he conceded, “after the most beautiful mother in the world.”

When my father heard the news, he sat down outside the birthing chamber and called for a drink. “Six girls,” he said hollowly; he couldn’t believe it. “He gives Kiya a son and your sister has
six girls.”

“But he loves them. He’s possessive of them.”

He stared up at me. “He may love them more than he loves Aten, but it’s what the
people
will think.”

As the news spread through Amarna, I went into the gardens to find my husband.

“Did you hear?” I asked him, wrapping my cloak around my shoulders.

“Twins.”

“Not just twins,” I said softly, and my breath made a puff of air in the garden. “Girls.”

“How did he take the news?” Nakhtmin asked.

I joined him on the bench near the lotus pond and wondered how the fish could swim when it became so cold like this. “Akhenaten or my father?”

“Your father. I can guess how Pharaoh feels. No son to be in competition with for Nefertiti’s affection. No prince to be wary of when he’s an old man. Panahesi may think he’s holding all seven pawns. He doesn’t realize how much Pharaoh fears Nebnefer.”

“But Nebnefer’s seven—”

“And when he’s fourteen or fifteen?” my husband asked.

I watched the fish come to the surface of the pond, their round mouths searching for food. “Would you be jealous of a son?”

“Jealous?” He laughed. “I couldn’t think of a greater blessing,” he said earnestly. “Of course,” he added, “if it never happens—”

I took his hand and squeezed softly. “But what if it did?”

He stared quizzically at me and I smiled. He leaped from the bench. “Are you—”

I nodded, my smile widening.

He pulled me off the bench and pressed me into his arms. “How long have you known? Are you sure? It isn’t—”

“I’m three months already.” I laughed deliriously. “I haven’t told anyone. Not even Ipu. I waited to be sure it wasn’t a false sign.”

The joy in his face was deep and overwhelming.
“Miw-sher.”
He pressed me to him and stroked my hair. “A
child, miw-sher.”