Nefertiti rr-1

by Nick Drake

  ‘I’m afraid I never knew this unfortunate woman,’ she said evenly. But her eyes, brimming with tears, gave her away. Then she wrenched her arm free and swiftly slipped inside.

  A short while later the doors opened and there stood a figure of gold. Nefertiti looked like a statue, like a ka-figure in a tomb. She was framed by the wide doorway; the light coming from the windows inside her chamber lent her outline a lambent glow. No-one spoke. Her sandals were pointed with precious stones; her linen gown was gold; the sash around her trim waist was the red of Kings; around her neck a gold ankh necklace; on her shoulders a strange and wonderful cape which wove together countless small Aten discs to form a shimmering constellation; under that, a shawl that looked like the gold feathers of Horus; and on her head the double crown with its high back and rearing cobra. Even her nails and lip paint were gold. Only the kohl, the colour of fertile earth and promise of rebirth, and the elongated black lines around her eyes contrasted with the golden glamour.

  I thought of Tanefert, and how she would ask my opinion of her appearance before we set off in the evenings. Sometimes she would adjust a new outfit with a slightly discomfited air, as if she were unsure of her own beauty; the girls have exactly the same habit before a mirror. I always liked her best when she used least art in her appearance; she seemed most herself then. Some sign of casual disarray pleased me more than all the sophisticated artifices of our time. I’d rather see a loose-hanging curl that begged to be coiled back behind the ear than the untouchable strain and tension of perfection.

  But the woman I had talked to last night in the small hours, and who had now transformed herself into something more than human, had become who she needed to be: a goddess; the Perfect One. There was a new distance between us all. I felt I should bow my head, or prostrate myself, but almost immediately dismissed them as foolish urges. There was still the lovely glitter of amusement in her eyes. But it was complicated now, by other things. Necessity. Power. And for all the uncertainty about the outcome, I could see excitement in her eyes.

  The Festival would be commencing about now with worship and offerings at the Great Aten Temple. Akhenaten and his daughters would be riding at speed in their chariots, their red sashes trailing in the breeze, down the Royal Road, past the packed crowds seeking a glimpse of this moment of history; past the prostrate kings, viziers, lords, commanders, diplomats, tribal chiefs, governors of provinces, nomes and city states…but the Queen would be absent, as they would all immediately see. I could imagine Akhenaten now, determined, resolute, furious not to have had restored to him what he most needed. And I could imagine, too, the quick understanding and intensive commentary among the gathering of the most powerful people in the world: she was missing, and Akhenaten was flawed. She is dead. Who killed her? Why?

  ‘It is time,’ she said, and from that moment I knew she would not speak again until all had been accomplished, or all had failed.

  Ra, in his dazzling ship of day, had sailed higher in the blue sky. We, too, on our own shining ship of gold, a craft built for ancient ceremony with twenty attending women also dressed in gold and the tall, solitary Nubian who had played Anubis standing guard, sailed slowly upon the equally blue and glittering waters of the Great River. Nefertiti sat high and still on the deck of a small ceremonial divine barque of the Two Lands that was carried on a bier. She was holding the crook and flail crossed in her hands, and wearing now the false gold beard of kingship. The fierce illumination of the midday sun was amplified by the gold of the ship and her costume. It was almost impossible to look at her.

  As we rowed slowly on, people gathered on the banks; at first just a few, but soon there was a multitude, shading their eyes, pointing, standing along the shoreline and in the trees. Most of them quickly prostrated themselves before the entirely unexpected Perfect One. From my position at the east side of the ship I could hear the constant slapping of the crested waves against the gold-leafed hull of the ship, and the high breeze, still from the south, shaking and rattling in the red and green sails, as we made our way against the current.

  We must have made an astounding sight. Yet I could see the truth of the ship: how the ropes were a little frayed with age; how the blindfolded rowers sweated and exerted themselves to the beats of the two drummers, and the calls and instructions of the captain; how the immaculate gold-leaf of the outer shell gave way to unvarnished wood on the inside.

  As we approached the harbour, the crowd massed and swelled, and the noise grew to a continuous turbulent roar-of awe or anger or approval it was impossible to say. The ship docked, and instantly a team of men dressed in gold emerged from the hold and lifted the ceremonial barque, with the Queen, high onto their broad shoulders. She briefly gripped the rails of her little ship-a moment of human nerves-as it sought to rediscover its balance.

  We were no longer on the calm isolation of the river, but among the hot chaos of the land. A pathway opened up in the monstrous crowd and we processed carefully and in state up to the Royal Road, inexorably, step by step, towards the Great Aten Temple. More people shouting prayers and jubilations flooded into the swelling crowd, which was now jostling and rising like the waters of the inundation against the walls of the buildings, and overflowing from the tributary passageways. The twenty attending women processed ahead of us, throwing yellow and white flowers in the path of the Queen; still she appeared to see and hear nothing, remaining high and as still as a shrine statue above the chaos. I could see the temple ahead in the near distance, the freshly white-washed walls already dusty, the banners thrashing occasionally in response to the gusts of wind that carried with them the grit and sand of the Red Land. I was worried now as much by the strangeness of the weather as by the danger we all faced at this moment of exposure to the unknown forces ranged against us.

  All along the way, the crowds prostrated themselves on their bellies in the dirt, but the Medjay troops kept their weapons poised. The air was thick with smells: baking bread and roasting meat, incense and flowers; and already many of the younger men in the crowd were drunk. A kind of collective frenzy was taking hold, an atmosphere of danger and excitement and instability, as if now anything could happen. The future was taking shape in these very moments, and we were a part of it.

  As we approached the temple we slowed, paused to acknowledge the crowd, then turned into the gate. Momentarily the sentries seemed about to bar our path, arguing among themselves; but in awe of the living statue of the Queen they backed off, lowering their heads, and opened wide the gates of the first pylon.

  The Queen’s ship passed through the great blocks of shadow and entered the temple’s vast interior space. Nefertiti stared directly ahead. From enormous bronze incense burners rose clouds of perfumed smoke, over-sweetening the already thick, shimmering air. The altars were piled high with every good thing of the earth: huge bouquets of lotus and lilies, safflowers and poppies; red pyramids of pomegranates; stacked yellow heads of corn; and vases of oil and unguent. And here were hundreds of delegations from across the world arranged in ranks, awaiting their turn to be presented to the most powerful man in the world. They had brought tribute to lay at Akhenaten’s divine feet: shields and bows, animal skins and collections of gorgeous plumage, spices and perfumes, piles of gold rings and other nonsense made from gold-little trees, little animals, little gods-as well as living creatures: monkeys, terrified gazelles, snarling leopards, even an anxious and timid lion, his ears flat on his head.

  Far away, over the prostrated figures and heads of the crowd, I could see Akhenaten and his daughters, little gold figures enthroned on top of the Ramp of Offerings under a great canopy decorated with a multitude of ribbons. The crowd was turned correctly towards them. But when the Queen entered it was as if the polarity of the whole world changed in a moment. Everyone turned their heads.

  A hush fell then, punctuated by cries of wonder and amazement. Many people prostrated themselves immediately; others raised their arms; others looked from King to Queen and back again, utter
ly uncertain how to respond. Was this a statue made of the matter of this world, or a living being returned from the next? Then Akhenaten himself turned from the rituals to see what was happening. The two gold figures looked at each other across the empty space. No-one moved. I looked around the perimeter wall and saw troops of archers poised for Akhenaten’s word.

  And then an even more extraordinary thing came to pass. Nefertiti, taking command of the moment, came to life. There was a rolling gasp of astonishment as she suddenly raised her hands, holding the crook and flail to command the attention of the gods. And then she began to sing, her voice ringing out pure and strong, the long, clear notes filling the great hushed auditorium. As if suddenly recognizing the song, and their place in the music, the temple trumpeters joined in, their instruments raised brightly to the sun. And this encouraged the temple singers, who began clapping and singing. Then the other musicians joined in, lyres, lutes, drums and great double harps adding their different tones and powerful rhythms. Soon Nefertiti’s voice was riding the swelling wave of an orchestra, and the music seemed to transform the people’s faces as if its harmonious spirit brought a new order and power into existence.

  As the music continued, the ceremonial barque was carried forward. It seemed as if Nefertiti, her arms raised to the Aten now, was sailing through a sea of people’s faces, and they divided to let her pass. The light of the sun’s rays was magnified by the gold of the boat and her dress, as if she were made not of flesh and bone but of some impossible immaterial incandescence. She who was dead was returning in glory as a living god, outwitting her clever husband and triumphing over her enemies-for who now would dare to challenge such a figure? Thousands of the most powerful people of the world stood in utter silence, witnesses to the miracle. But these were no fools. They knew this performance for what it was. And they waited to see what would happen next.

  The music concluded, and complete silence fell again. Instead of joining the King on the ramp, Nefertiti approached the sacred stone in the centre of the temple precinct, its high, round-topped column on a raised dais. She slowly reached forward and touched it with one hand. And then something unfolded as if from inside the woman: a whirr of feathers and bones which became a heron, the crested bird of resurrection. It flapped its long, elegant grey wings as if rising from the stone, lifted itself high above the Queen’s head, and flew off towards the eastern hills.

  A pure, sacred bird. Gold feathers. Rebirth. The goddess returning from the Dead. Sign of the rising sun. It was perfect.

  Nefertiti remained standing for a moment, surrounded by thousands of normally cynical, now awe-struck people, their mouths wide open like wondering children. I moved forward to the front of the bier. I saw familiar figures, now, among those closest to Akhenaten. Ay, his face inscrutable, not allowing the slightest flicker of surprise to register. Ramose, in magnificent costume, looking astonished by the appearance of the Queen and the bird. Calculating Horemheb, looking from the woman of light to Akhenaten and back again. Parennefer, in a secondary row, whose raised eyebrows said: you’ve done it now. And Nakht, the honest nobleman, who gave me a swift nod of acknowledgement. I expected to glimpse Mahu occupying some dark corner, but although I could feel him in a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, he was nowhere to be seen. The Society of Ashes. Who here held one of those seven gold feathers? And who here did not, yet greatly desired one?

  I looked along the roofline of the temple and saw hundreds of archers still poised, bows tensed. All around the interior perimeter walls were armed Medjay guards. Had we walked into a huge and powerful trap? I would not put it beyond Akhenaten, with one nod-or would it be Ay, or Horemheb? — to bring down a rain of deadly arrows upon all our heads. The whole project seemed to be in the balance.

  I looked back at Akhenaten and saw him staring directly at Nefertiti. They were on the same level now, above the crowd, but in every other way she had upstaged him. It seemed to me he trembled with conflicting rages and emotions while outwardly maintaining near-immaculate control. The princesses tried to stay still, but their eyes were filling up with tears, torn between duty to their father on this most important day and the urge to run to their lost mother.

  Nefertiti, however, gave no sign of maternal affection. She held the crucial gaze of her husband. I thought of two snakes poised, swaying slightly, unblinking and cold. Then suddenly he offered her his hand. She gave a command, and the barque moved forward. The crowd made a sound like a wave sighing after it has arrived on the shore and collapsed, retreating through the stones. She stepped onto the Ramp of Offerings and slowly took her place by the side of Akhenaten on the throne. And behold a picture for the world to witness: the royal family reunited before the audience of the Empire. But with this one difference: here was a Queen returned, as none had ever done before, from the Otherworld. She raised her arms as if they were the gold wings of Horus, and the sun’s light glittered off the many gold discs on her shawl and played across the walls of the temple and the roaring faces of the crowd. A triumph.

  I watched those faces closely. What would they do now? Then, almost as one, led ostentatiously by Ay, the thousands gathered in the temple precinct sank to their knees and prostrated themselves seven times in loyalty. Nefertiti and her daughters turned and raised their hands to the offerings of the rays of the sun. The multitudes followed suit. The musicians took up the song again, and the trumpets blasted their fanfares.

  I looked at her up there, the woman with whom I had talked, played senet, and argued, and she was now very far away, in a different world. She had restored maat, stability and order, to the world, while also assuming power. And I felt too that my task was complete, if accomplished in a way I could never have anticipated. I had, at the very least, returned the Queen to her family, and the Two Lands. I consoled myself that I could now turn away from this labyrinth of power, this city of shadows, and go home.

  But then the wind, which had been subdued like a charmed and invisible monster at the feet of the Queen, stirred, tugging at the ceremonial gowns and the fine embroidered linens of the dignitaries, and wafting the incense smoke angrily. Women reached to readjust their hair and clothes, men shaded their eyes, and everyone turned to look up at the sky whose perpetual blue was challenged now by a thick grey-red cloud as if a thunderous army were approaching blown up by Seth, god of storms and desert lands. Countless tiny specks of grit began to sting our faces and eyes. A sudden strong gust blew through the precinct and a huge pile of pomegranates collapsed from an offering table with a thundering sound and scattered across the floor. People shielded their faces with their robes and began uncertainly to back away, huddling together for protection as the wind grew fiercer, more volatile, casting its handfuls of scouring sand and overwhelming dust against the walls of the temple and the high facades of the pylons. The temple banners streamed out now, lashing and kicking at the crazed air, as if to fend it off. And the Glory of the Aten, to whom this city and its whole enterprise was dedicated, suddenly dimmed and diminished to a faint white-edged red disc, its power failing on the very day of the great Festival of Light, at the very moment of triumph, before the shadowy might of Chaos.

  I knew what was coming. I had seen sandstorms many times before and should have taken the early warning signs more seriously. We had little time if we were not to be overwhelmed. Nefertiti, the girls and Akhenaten were still standing on the ramp. He looked baffled, but her face was alert with anxiety. She understood the peril, grasped the girls’ hands and hurried down to meet me. All around us the crowd was breaking apart, stampeding towards the only exit through the narrow pylon gates. The fallen pomegranates were squashed to a red pulp; people slipped and fell in the sticky mess.

  But it was hopeless: the gates were far too narrow to allow such a vast crowd to pass, and quickly the terrible tide bunched up, everyone shoving and pushing, demented with panic and fear. Guards shouted and tried to hold back the crowd, but they failed to impose any kind of order, and soon they too were struggl
ing over everyone else to escape. Cries and calls for help mixed in with the whipping sound of the wind, and I saw frailer people vanishing under trampling feet.

  I looked around for another way out, or at least for protection. And then I saw Horemheb gesturing furiously to the soldiers stationed around the perimeter to advance towards the royal family-whether protectively or aggressively I could not tell. I did not want to stay to find out. I saw a look on his smooth face-the look of a man grasping an unexpected opportunity. I did not like it.

  ‘Is there another way out?’ I shouted to the Queen over the noise.

  She nodded, and we set off against the current of the crowd. The sand was thicker in the air now, and we tried to shelter the girls with our own bodies. I looked back to check on Horemheb and his soldiers and saw them gathered around him while he gestured at our receding figures. And then, to make things worse, among the rushing people driven by the tremendous gusts of wind I noticed a single figure standing as still as a statue, as if immune to the chaos which churned around him, observing us. Ay. Something like a smile played upon his face, as if to say: so this is what happens next. And then he disappeared from view.

  I had no time to concern myself with him now. My immediate duty was to take the family to some kind of shelter, away from Horemheb, and then consider the next move. I glanced at Senet, who was carrying the baby Setepenra. Her face was stricken. She was looking in the direction where Ay had been standing. What was he to her? Then Khety appeared at my side and picked up Nefernefrure, I grabbed Ankhesenpaaten and Nefernefruaten, and, pulling Senet along with us, we ran against the force of the wind and the grit towards the further pylon. Nefertiti followed with Meretaten and Meketaten, pulling Akhenaten by the hand. He was struggling to hold his crown on his head as he hobbled against the storm that had brought him and his new world low.

  We made it to the lee side of the eastern pylon. The storm had driven everyone else to the western end of the temple; the soldiers, too, had abandoned their positions and fled. But Khety and I could see shapes and silhouettes among the grey blur of the dust-armed figures advancing towards us, pushing aside the few aged or lost souls still stumbling about in utter confusion and despair, blinded by the violence of the dirty wind. I attempted to look around the corner, and saw that the worst was yet to come: the great wave of the storm was poised over the city. We were trapped.