Nefertiti rr-1

by Nick Drake

  She gestured to the table and poured me a goblet of water. I drank it down, not realizing how parched and dull my mouth was, how warm the room had become. Perhaps that was why I was talking such rubbish. She refilled the jug from a small fountain set into the wall, and placed it before me. Every gesture and movement was perfect. A woman in complete possession of herself. Even the water pouring into the jug had seemed to command her full attention and pleasure. She was alive to everything.

  ‘You have sweet water here?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a spring beneath the building. That is partly why I chose this site.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For my sanctuary.’

  ‘Sanctuary from what?’

  She paused. ‘I must not forget you are the man who finds the answers to the great mysteries by asking simple questions.’ She poured me more water, then walked slowly away, up the chamber. ‘Is that how you found me? By asking questions?’ Her eyes glittered. Amusement. Curiosity. Interest. ‘How do you know what you know?’

  At this moment I had no answer. I felt as if my life’s work, my actions and thoughts, my dreams and ideals, had dissolved into a handful of dust being cast by her hand, glittering in the lamplight as it fell. And I liked that feeling.

  ‘Our Lord-’

  ‘Call him by his name. Names are powerful. Call him Akhenaten.’

  The way she spoke his name was as complex as a phrase of music. There was some melody of affection in it, but also dissonances and sharper conflicting emotions. She moved further into the darkness of the chamber.

  ‘Akhenaten called for me, rather than for the chiefs of the city Medjay, to try to find you.’

  ‘He did not call for you. I did. And I have been watching you since you arrived.’

  I felt as if a door had opened where no door had been. She turned back to me, her magnificent face revealed again by the light. She waited calmly for my reaction, her cool eyes appraising mine. For a moment I floundered, trying to incorporate her words into the information I had collected so far-trying, in truth, to see the whole mystery anew from the perspective demanded by those few simple words. I suddenly felt a terrible vertigo. Seshat, the dead girl? What about Tjenry, and Meryra? And why this magnificent and horrible charade?

  The cat sidled up to me, rubbing her long flank against my leg, sending a silvery cascade through both of us. I stroked her. Nefertiti smiled, and this time the smile was more open.

  ‘She likes you.’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘But you are a man who does not like cats.’

  ‘Things change. How could you know she would find me, and lead me to you?’

  The cat moved over to her mistress, jumped onto her lap and looked back at me, bowing her head a little, her tail curled neatly beneath her.

  ‘I didn’t know. I believed.’

  I felt lost again in uncharted territory where things are not what they seem. Where truth is many things. Where belief can make things happen. Where I did not know what I knew.

  ‘I knew she would come back to me. And I believed you might follow.’

  I said, ‘I have the strangest feeling that I’m a character and you’re writing my destiny.’

  ‘We are in a story that includes us all. I had to call you to me because I do not know the ending. You have set the birds to flight. But now we are in the difficult middle of it, and can only find the end by living through what is to come. I know what I wish for my ending, but it is not sure. It cannot be, until it is enacted, accomplished, made real. The Book of the Living, if you like. And for that I need your help.’

  Her cleverness was exciting; I relished the nuances of her expression as she talked-the ebb and flow of emotions, of intelligence, of wit. The thought occurred to me, fleetingly, that I was watching a great actress, deeply involved with every word yet superbly in control of herself. I also began to perceive something else: an absolute dark well of need in her. She was desperate to reveal herself, her story, her reasons and perhaps even her fears. She needed someone to talk to. I suddenly realized she was alone, in a small boat, adrift on a sea of troubles. And she was asking for my help.

  I am a sceptic where words are concerned. I have learned to mistrust them for often they lead us astray or tell us apparently simple things that disguise or deny darker, less appealing paradoxes and truths. There is a slipperiness, an unreliability, in words. But there is also something in their power that sometimes has its own inevitable beauty. And is it not true that part of the story of words is that they metamorphose into other things-into stories we tell about the world or ourselves or each other, or into dreams we half recall, or into the silence beyond words? I had to hear her story. After all, I was a part of it now.

  ‘Tell me what you need me to do,’ I said. ‘And please tell me why.’

  She sat down again, opposite me. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Am I in it?’

  ‘You are.’

  29

  ‘I have to go back to the beginning,’ Nefertiti said. ‘Most stories start with birth, and childhood, don’t they? I was born in such and such a place, and at this time and this season; these were the propitious or the unlucky stars that witnessed the moment of my birth and held the secret of my destiny. But such things are far away now, so far I do not know them. I was lucky, I suppose, to be raised in a family that possessed power and influence and wealth and pride. So much abundance! We forgot the fragility of all fortune.’

  I listened. She was seeking the thread of her tale.

  ‘Apart from fragments which might as well be dreams-running through a green garden between the sunlight and the shadow; the sounds of the Great River on a boat in the evening; travelling home one night in a carrying chair, my head on my mother’s lap as I gazed up at the stars-my first real memory is of being taken by my father during the Opet Festival to walk the new processional colonnade at Luxor. I held his hand for I was frightened by the avenue of sphinxes: they seemed like monsters with sunny faces. I couldn’t understand why there were so many of them! As we walked my father told me fables: of Thutmosis, who answered a dream and removed the encroaching desert sands from the Great Sphinx in return for the throne of the Great Estate; and of the dashing Amenhotep, who loved horses above all things, who distributed and displayed the corpses of his conquered enemies on the walls of the city, and who was buried with his favourite longbow; and of his grandson, Amenhotep our King, the Handsome, now grieving the sudden death of his first son. I remember he told me the dead prince was buried with his favourite cat, whom he called Puss. Puss went with him into the Otherworld. I liked the thought of Puss sitting in the prow of the Great Barque of the Sun, his green eyes looking upon the mysteries of the Otherworld, and on the green face of Osiris himself.

  ‘When I asked my father, as children do who are delighted by stories of men and women of greatness and power, what happened next, he said, “You will see.” And one day, I did. One day my father called for me and said, “I want you to be very brave. Will you do that for me?” His face was always so serious. I looked at him and said, “Can I grow my hair now?” And he smiled, and said, “Now would be a good time.” I clapped my hands. I thought: now I am about to become a woman! So he sent me to the women of the family, and I was initiated into their secrets: their bowls and spoons and combs, their little laughs and lies and gossip. But I also remember my mother looking at me, as if from further away, something unspoken passing between us. As if she wanted to tell me something but could not find the way to say it.’

  She poured the cat from her lap, rose, and walked a little way along the room, remembering and pacing, the two things working together.

  ‘The next morning, the women returned together, with many robes and jewellery. They were silent. Something was happening. They dressed me in layers of gold and white clothing. I was wrapped up like a gift. A High Priest came with my father, the women left the room, and he gave me instructions. What to say, what not to say, when to speak and when to rem
ain silent. I looked at my father, who said, “This is a great day for you, and for all our family. I am very proud.” Then he picked me up, my mother kissed me goodbye, and he carried me out of my home.

  ‘I remember the sun and the noise along the crowded ways. All the litters and chairs had been cleared so there was just me and my father on the avenue, riding in a chariot. I could hear the birds singing in the air above the noise of the crowds, who all seemed to be paying their respects to me. To me! I held my father’s hand tightly. We were driven to the palace. But the further we left my home behind, the more I began to feel like a piece of furniture on a cart and less like a princess in a fable.

  ‘We arrived at the palace and I was carried through court after court, chamber after chamber, all crowded with dignitaries and officials who bowed as we passed. My world retreated and disappeared behind me. I remember I was set down beside a curtain. My father said to me, “Here you stand on the threshold of a great future. I am passing you forward, now, to your new life.” I think I tried to wrap my arms around his neck, to cling on to him, but he prised my fingers gently away, held my hands and said, “Remember your promise. Be brave. And never forget I love you.” I believe there were tears on his face. I had never seen my father weep.’

  Nefertiti stopped speaking for a moment. The memory seemed to overwhelm her.

  ‘I would have cried out then, but I saw something strange: passing along the corridor, as over-burdened with clothing as I was, the slight figure of a young man. He raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were thoughtful. What happened in that moment? Understanding, recognition, complicity? I knew we knew each other and that our lives were entwined in some profound way. Then a ribbon was tied over my eyes, and the world vanished.

  ‘The noise in the chamber on the far side of the curtain suddenly hushed. I heard a chime and chant of words, the rattle of sistra, an announcement, then my father’s hands gently pushing me forward through the curtains and into the chamber. I looked beneath the ribbon at the ground and saw lotus flowers and fish, and I walked across this painted water. Hands received me at the end of this long walk, and they turned me around. My head was raised, the ribbon untied, and I saw a blur of people, hundreds of them all staring at me, their eyes moving over every detail of my being. I was so heavily clothed I could not have raised my own hand to my eyes, yet I felt naked, stripped down to my last skin. I dared to look quickly to my side. The boy’s face, a long, serious face, glanced quickly at me, a partner in all this strangeness. I felt a small gladdening in my heart, which was tight with fear. Some of my spirit returned to me.’

  She stopped her pacing. Her sad smile was charged with all the loss and strangeness which that girl, alive now inside this woman as she spoke, had suffered. I wanted to make it all right. I wanted to console her.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t require your pity or your sorrow.’

  She continued to pace again, as if each careful step returned her to the story.

  ‘I remember little else. I suppose the ceremony was concluded satisfactorily; I suppose the audience dispersed to their dinners and their gossip and their criticisms. I followed my new husband down a different hallway, not the one through which I had been brought in but into a different part of the palace. I remember looking at him a few steps ahead of me, hobbling on his crutch. I liked it-the way he had turned the difficulty and effort into a kind of grace. I imagined I could see him smiling, secretly, for my benefit. I remember I thought of him, kindly, as weak; as the one sheep the hunting lion would pick out from the flock and kill. So you see, I was the more deceived.’

  I did not press her on that point. Not yet.

  ‘Ahead of him his father, the Great Amenhotep, led the procession. I had imagined him as a great hero, the builder of monuments, and a close friend of the gods. But who was this old man huffing and sighing under the troublesome burden of his heavy body, and complaining of the terrible pain in his teeth, and cursing the heat of the day?

  ‘We arrived in a private chamber, and I found myself surrounded by my new family. Amenhotep turned to me, took me by the chin and turned my face to examine it like a vase. “Do you know, child, how much talk and contest and disagreement have preceded your arrival among us?” I kept my gaze on him. In my mind all these impressions and thoughts blew about me as in a storm. I felt I was a leaf dragged into the course of a mighty river, the river of history. “You will soon understand how things are. Did you hear the poets calling out your praises?” Again I shook my head. “Be worthy of those praises.” He was stern; his breath was bad. I remember even now his sad face, his bald head, the ruins of his teeth. But I liked him. His wife, Tiy, my new mother, said nothing. Her face was like a stone.’

  She came and sat down again, and drank a little from the goblet of water I offered her. Then she continued her story.

  ‘Once the sun was low on the horizon on that changing day, I was led into a chapel of a kind I had never seen before. Unlike the dark temples, this was a sun court illuminated by the rich light of the setting sun. At a certain moment a gold disc set into the wall caught the exact angle of the late light, and blazed. Led by Amenhotep, we all raised our hands to this sudden fire until, as the moments passed, it diminished and died, and the sky turned dark red, dark blue, then black. The old man said to me: “Now you too have received the great gift of the one god.” And he hobbled away. To me it was the last of the many incomprehensible revelations that came to me on that one day.

  ‘That night, I was taken to my husband’s chamber. I did not know what to expect and I think neither did he. We both looked at each other, uncertain and afraid, and for a time after the last adviser and diplomat and lady of the chamber had left, neither of us spoke. Then I noticed a papyrus scroll upon a table, he noticed my interest, and we fell to a discussion. The first night of my new life we talked. And my new husband told me another story. Different from any I had ever heard before. He told me the story of the Amun Priests and their great possessions, their gardens and fields, their huge estates employing thousands of officers, armies of serfs, legions of servants. I imagined a great green fable of a pleasant land, but he said I was wrong. That the land might be rich, thanks to the gods, but that men and Priests, despite their fine words of praise and worship, were interested always and only in power and treasure. And in stealing it. He said, “My father has not allowed this to happen. He told me it was our sacred duty to preserve the order of the Great Estate from this dangerous unbalancing by the power of the Priests of Amun.” ’

  She smiled. ‘I was very young. I thought everything was a question of right and wrong. Now, of course, I have little choice but to think of the world as a game of checks and balances, between the Priesthoods and the people, the army and the Treasury, of negotiations and compromises backed up with the threat of force and death. But then, I thought it was simply a question of right and wrong.’

  I allowed myself to speak. ‘I remember. Amenhotep forced the reconciliation of the two greatly opposed Priesthoods under a new agreement. It was an astute manoeuvre. And with that new balance of power achieved he began to build the great new works of Thebes. This was our childhood.’

  ‘Yes. Our childhood.’

  ‘So why did things change? Why the Great Changes?’

  She looked at me. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘I know what I heard. That the Amun Priests grew richer still, that their granaries held more grain than those of the King. That the poor harvests and the arrival of new immigration were starting to create problems.’

  ‘And something else. Something was missing. And the thought, when it came, leaped far beyond this previous reconciliation to something even bolder, even more radical. What is the one thing all peoples, no matter where in the Empire they are born, have in common? The supreme experience present every day to the eyes of all living beings?’

  The Aten. Light. In whose blaze all other gods had now been overshadowed. This was a turning point for u
s both. I waited to hear what she would have to say.

  ‘You are wondering: how is it we arrived here? Why did we choose to build the city here, away from Thebes and from Memphis? Why did we choose to make ourselves gods? Why did we risk everything in the world to bring forth these changes?’

  I nodded. ‘I am.’

  Nefertiti said nothing for a little while, and I realized that a faint light had crept into the chamber, countering the many lamps that were now guttering down to extinction.

  ‘We are back with the question of stories,’ she said. ‘Which one shall I tell you? Shall I tell you about the dream of a better and truer world? Shall I tell you about the day we first commanded the companions, the great ones of the palaces, the commanders of the guards, the officers of the works, the officials, the minor officials, their sons, to come before us and kneel in the dust and worship us as we worshipped the light? Shall I tell you about the looks on their faces? Shall I tell you about the happy births of our daughters, and the general sorrow at the lack of a son? Shall I tell you about the enemies among friends moving against us, men of the past to whom we opposed the loyal younger men? And shall I tell you what it was like to feel, to relish our new freedom from old constraints, old lies, old gods? To know the beautiful force of the present moment, the glorious possibilities of the future? We built this dream out of mud, stone, wood and labour, but we also built it out of our minds, our imaginations, like a Book of Light, not a Book of Shadows, to be read, if you have the knowledge, like a map of a new eternity.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Do you think me mad?’

  She asked the question intently, seriously. I could answer honestly.

  ‘No, not mad,’ I said.

  ‘Most did, secretly. We knew what was passing for conversation in the streets, at tables in people’s homes, in the offices. But our ambition was nothing less than ankhemmaat. Living in Truth. Remember the poem?