“Great Goddess and Majesty,” he said, eyes averted, “I must remind you that according to Pharaoh’s latest pronouncement, all must go to him on their knees.”
“The Empress of Egypt can hardly be included among ‘all,’” she pointed out dryly. “Herald, announce me.” The Overseer of Protocol retired, crimson-faced, and Tiye swept past him into the hall before the herald’s last words had ceased to echo. Her son was on his throne, stiff with paint and jewels, regalia held across his chest, the Double Crown on his head. In spite of the formality of the audience hour, a time he usually regarded with bored distaste, he was wearing only a diaphanous red gown tied beneath his yellow-painted nipples. Tiye came to a halt and bowed as she always had.
He immediately turned his attention to her, beaming. “Speak, Mother,” he said.
She did not return his smile. “Amunhotep,” she said coolly. “It is time to cease the game of strange reverence you have been playing. It slows the performance of the court, and it is becoming painful for those who are in and out of your presence continually.”
He shifted on the throne with a trace of his former insecurity, and an expression of doubt flitted across his face. “It is not a game, Empress, and you might make me angry if you call it so. How else should mere humans approach their creator?”
She opened her mouth to laugh until she saw his expression. “But, my son, surely you do not believe…” She flung up her hands. “Even if you do, let the edict be lifted from those in attendance on Nefertiti. She is becoming insufferable.”
Again he had the grace to look fleetingly ashamed. “You have my permission to order those around you to do the same if you wish,” he offered eagerly.
Tiye snorted in disgust, her dignity rapidly deserting her. “When will you learn that power does not reside in an outward show!” she said loudly. “If my ministers began crawling toward me like beasts, I would be tempted to kick them, not consult with them!”
“Do not speak to your pharaoh in that manner!” he shouted immediately, and apprehension rose in Tiye as she saw that he had begun to shake. “You are my mother, but…” His last words had tumbled out, breathless, and his voice ended on a shrill note.
“But what?” She kept her voice soothingly even. “Did the god tell you that you could make men crawl about the palace floors on all fours?” He did not deign, or did not trust himself, to answer. “Maya has been trying to obtain an audience with you for days,” she went on. “He wishes to make his report on matters at Karnak. Will you not see him?”
Amunhotep began to breathe deeply. He met her eye, looked down, struggled with himself, and then, raising his head, burst out, “Maya now belongs to Amun! I will never receive the priests of Amun again. I have sworn.”
“I have sworn,” Tiye mimicked him, furious. “You are dividing Egypt in two, do you realize that? I gave you the throne, and I can take it away from you. I have made you what you are!”
“You are angry because I no longer summon you to my bed,” he retorted shortly, gripping the crook and flail until his knuckles gleamed white. “Be thankful that you are my mother, and that the Aten is indulgent toward you. And you did not make me,” he ended, his petulance destroying the impression of force he had given. “I am the Aten. I made myself.”
Tiye swung on her heel, aware now of the silent, kneeling men who had been listening to every word. The scratching of the scribe’s stylus could be heard against the curling papyrus. Although she walked calmly to the door and the soldiers sprang to open it for her, she felt bowed with humiliation. I handled that like a foolish junior minister, she thought. It will not happen again.
She did her best to calm anxieties at Karnak, forcing herself to meet Maya’s bewildered gaze as she told him that the god who had elevated him to the most powerful priestly position in Egypt would not receive him. But she could do little to stem the turbulence brewing in Malkatta. Thousands of courtiers were forgetting their indifference and were flocking to take sides as they perceived that she was beginning to fall from favor. Many continued to voice their allegiance to her as empress, believing that the power that had kept Egypt in her hands for so many years would prevail over her son’s capriciousness, but Tiye, pondering coldly, knew that they were the older generation, those of her own age who remembered her husband and the easy days of a more straightforward administration. The young bloods at court, spoiled and eager for change, for argument, even for the titillation of an outright breach between mother and son, swaggered their support of Pharaoh. Tiye had by now come to see Amunhotep’s cursed vision as a river upon whose banks her people were standing, and soon the water would flow too swiftly and too deeply to cross.
Warily she began to focus her attention on Smenkhara and saw behind the potential power of the little five-year-old the dreary necessity of yet another royal death. But not yet. She was still too full of the anguish of love for Amunhotep.
A month later Tiye realized the full magnitude of her blunder, for Nefertiti, basking in Pharaoh’s good graces, had persuaded him to withdraw the edict. He had made it in haste, in the first flush of spiritual exultation, and was happy to rescind it when his young wife gave him a suitable excuse. According to Tiye’s steward Huya, Nefertiti had suggested to Pharaoh that the courtiers, having learned true humility, might now be allowed to leave their knees. Tiye was relieved, for the sight of so many wealthy and dignified people walking the halls with bruised knees had finally prompted the humor she had feared, and after the humor would have come contempt for a pharaoh who had already allowed too much familiarity with his sacred person. If I had only kept my head, Tiye mused, and remained silent, the edict’s repeal would have come to be seen as victory for me over both of them.
But the rescinding of Amunhotep’s command did not bring the expected return to the former code of reverence. Knees, backs, and heads remained bowed if Pharaoh so much as passed by. Tiye, who believed implicitly in the unalterable hierarchy that was a part of Ma’at and demanded due worship, felt the obeisance of the people turn gradually to an obsequiousness she despised. Amunhotep had designated Meryra First Prophet of Neferkheperura Wa-en-Ra, Amunhotep’s throne name, and his sole duty was to worship Pharaoh continually, following him and carrying his sandals, sandal box, and white staff. Tiye bit her lip and kept silent. She and Osiris Amunhotep had also appointed priests to worship their divine images at Soleb, but she could imagine her first husband’s caustic comments if she had suggested that they be trailed by a chanting priest every hour of the day.
Sometimes, watching her son and Nefertiti progress to the water steps for the short trip across the river to Karnak, accompanied by a retinue that had suddenly burgeoned to include incense-bearing acolytes, four cosmeticians to ensure that the god’s and goddess’s kohl did not run, a circle of soldiers to see that the royal couple were not accidentally contaminated by contact with a lesser mortal, and, of course, the fanbearers and body servants that were necessary, together with animals, trainers, and feeders, she was tempted to laugh at the silly, self-conscious spectacle of the overpainted, half-naked, misshapen king. But in spite of his flaunted physical grotesqueness, her son was developing an inward dignity that kept Tiye from coming to any conclusion about the truth of his vision. Such things were beyond the scope of her capacity to understand, and she knew it. She could only tell herself, in the long, humid nights, that the empire was still intact, there was still a pharaoh on the Stepped Throne, and she was still empress, a position Nefertiti could never wrench from her. Yet the feeling that empire, pharaoh, and her own fate lay quivering in the balance came back to haunt her, and on many nights she dreamed of the Judgment Hall and the Feather of Ma’at slowly descending onto the scales.
On a thick, hot day when a pleasant wind was blowing from the swollen river, Amunhotep, Nefertiti, and Tadukhipa stood in the shade of the first pylon leading into Pharaoh’s Aten temple, their bright linens pressed against their legs by the breeze and the blue and white flags rippling on the flagstaffs high above.
To right and left the fanbearers stood, quivering ostrich fans in their hands, their heads averted. Amunhotep’s First Prophet was bent low, his eyes on the book of chants held before him by an acolyte, his voice snatched away by the wind. Amunhotep waved into the now paved forecourt.
“It is good to see it finished, but the workmen have been so slow,” he complained. “My palace is not ready, nor the gardens and small shrines that will surround this temple. I am not satisfied.” He glanced to where the temple of Mut cast a short noon shadow. At a respectful distance, a crowd of Amun priests and temple dancers had gathered, heads between outstretched arms, knees bent. “How can I worship if every day I must be carried to the sanctuary past those charlatans?” he muttered. “I will order them out of sight when I come.” His last words were drowned in a sudden burst of strident horns that erupted from every temple. Tadukhipa covered her ears, and Nefertiti grimaced.
“It is noon,” Nefertiti said. “In my own temple, even before my own altars, I hear the singing and shaking of the systra wafting from Amun’s precincts, not to mention the dancing that goes on endlessly in the temple of Khonsu. How can my prayers be heard?”
He smiled and, bending, kissed her on the lips. “Your prayers are heard, I assure you, Majesty.”
“You are not happy with this beautiful building, Great God?” Tadukhipa glanced up at him shyly, and he drew her to him, putting an expansive arm around Nefertiti also and hugging them both to his hollow chest.
“I am happy with it, little Kia, but I wonder now whether it should have been erected at all. I commissioned this temple in the days of my imperfection. My judgment, though well-meaning, was impaired. I should have chosen a site far from Karnak, where the Aten could be worshipped in peace, but I was eager to give the god a place within the sacred confines. I no longer believe that he wants it. The closeness of Amun is an affront to him.”
“You will abandon the work here?” Nefertiti asked, surprised. “Will you stop work on your palace also?”
Amunhotep gave her a speculative look. “Perhaps. I had not considered such a thing before, but it would be good to live and worship far from unfriendly eyes,” he replied. “Let us make our prayers. Prophet!”
The quietly talking crowd fell silent and straightened. The litters were lowered to allow the royal trio to mount. The prophet fell to his knees and reverently removed the golden sandals from Pharaoh’s feet, placing them in their box. The acolytes charged the incense holders, and while the soldiers fanned out, the litters were carried across the forecourt and into the inner sanctuary, where Amunhotep mounted the steps to the sanctuary and stood solemnly to receive the homage of the two women.
In the days that followed, the idea of a new site for an Aten temple took hold in Pharaoh’s mind, and he spoke of it often in his private moments with Nefertiti.
“The Ra oracle would have to be consulted to determine a suitable site,” he told her one afternoon as they walked hand in hand around the lake, “but I am sure he could find one sufficiently holy. We must plan in secret, though. I do not wish to affront the empress.”
Nefertiti glanced across at his worried face. “Tiye will not be affronted by the erection of yet another temple,” she pointed out. “Building projects are going on all the time. But if a site is chosen a long way from Thebes, and you decide to live as well as worship there, she will indeed be angry.” Nefertiti pulled him to a halt and stepped to face him. “But it will not matter, dear Amunhotep. What will she be able to do? You are pharaoh and cannot be gainsaid. I will support you, together with all your ministers and worshipers!”
He cupped her cheeks. “My loyal Nefertiti,” he said softly. “The Aten is touched by such devotion. Many courtiers are not yet ready to see in him their only god, but there are no doubts in you, are there? Can you imagine how it would be to spend our time always like this, away from the babble of Thebes, the hostility of Karnak, the judgment of our inferiors?”
“I desire it above all things,” she responded, stepping into his embrace, “but if such happiness is to be, you must ask the oracle to approve a place far re moved from Malkatta or you will have no reason to build a new palace at all.”
They swam together, flung bread to the birds, and laughed at the antics of the monkeys, but under his good humor Nefertiti could sense her husband’s preoccupation, and he soon returned to the theme of their earlier conversation. They had come to the nursery and were playing with Meketaten and Beketaten while Smenkhara sat in a corner helping Meritaten string beads. “Supposing I do set this change in motion,” he said to Nefertiti under the squeals of excitement from the two princesses, to whom he was offering sticky sweetmeats. “It will mean great inconvenience for every foreign embassy quartered at Malkatta, not to mention the ministers, who will have to travel a long way to see me. It would be better…” He hesitated, gathering both little girls onto his knee.
“It would be better to move the whole capital of Egypt,” Nefertiti finished for him. She glanced to where Smenkhara and Meritaten were absorbed in their task. “I agree.”
Amunhotep gently pulled his gold necklace away from Meketaten’s mouth. “I could not do it,” he whispered to Nefertiti over the heads of his daughters. “My mother would refuse to speak to me.”
Nefertiti beckoned to the nursery attendants who waited just out of earshot, and the princesses were lifted from their father’s lap and carried, protesting, away. “You have been in awe of the empress for too long, Amunhotep,” Nefertiti urged in a low voice. “She wants Egypt to stay forever under her hand. But you are the Aten, the Beautiful God. She cannot stand against you.”
Amunhotep smiled wanly. “I feel so strong when I am with you, Nefertiti. Will you accompany me to the oracle?”
Nefertiti rose. “I should be honored. Now come and speak to Meritaten, who has been waiting to receive your attention.”
Nefertiti shared a few pleasantries with her daughter and then stood watching as Pharaoh exclaimed politely over the necklace she and Smenkhara had made and chatted with her. The oracle must be consulted soon, before Amunhotep’s nerve begins to fail him, Nefertiti thought, and I must tell him that I am pregnant again. The news will bind us even closer together. It is a magnificent gamble that we are taking, but if all goes well, I will finally be able to remove him from the empress’s influence. Then we shall see who rules Egypt.
The announcement was made in the middle of the cool, color-splashed month of Phamenat, when the humming of bees in wet flowers, the armies of fresh crops rippling in the breezes, and the skittishness of newborn animals made even the most jaded courtier into an optimist. Tiye and Amunhotep sat under the gold canopy of the great baldachin at the hour of audience. Nefertiti was on a small silver throne at Pharaoh’s left foot, pink quartz lotuses sewn into her waist-length wig and a vine with tiny silver leaves twining around the cobra hooded on her small forehead. There had been an unusual number of speeches to be heard and delegations to be presented, but the proceedings finally came to a close.
After a glance at Amunhotep that he did not return, Tiye had raised a hand to signal the close of the formalities when her son suddenly came to his feet. A hush fell.
“I have made two decisions that will affect you all,” he said quickly, the crook and flail clutched tight and crossed on his sagging belly. “I speak as Aten the Glorious. The spirit of Ra has instructed me to choose a new name. The old one incorporates the name of a false god, and I repudiate it. From henceforth I am Neferkheperura Wa-en-Ra Akhenaten, the Spirit of the Aten. On my queen I bestow the appellation Nefer-neferu-Aten, Great Is the Beauty of the Aten, as a mark of my love for her and her devotion to our god. Heralds, scribes, and foreigners, take note.” No one moved. A profound stillness had fallen on the princes and nobles assembled, and all eyes were on Pharaoh. Tiye noticed the sidelong glance he stole at her before his gaze returned to the crowd. “My second decision is likewise irrevocable. I am moving the capital of Egypt and the seat of government from Malkatta to a site the go
d has chosen, four days away downriver. Thebes, Karnak, Malkatta are places full of the odors of deception and false religion. The Aten desires a home that will be his alone. I leave for there tomorrow to lay the sacred cords for the boundaries.” A long sigh of disbelief soughed through the hall, followed by a breathless silence until one of the sun priests began to clap. His fellows took up the gesture, laughing and singing their approval, and soon the courtiers realized the expediency of joining in. Amunhotep stood smiling. He raised the crook and flail. “Those who live in truth are welcome in my new city,” he announced. “It is the dawn of a new and glorious age for Egypt. The night of lies is past.” Hurriedly he stepped from the throne, and taking Nefertiti’s arm, he processed through the supinely worshipping bodies and out the doors.
Tiye kept her composure until Pharaoh had gone, and then she slipped out the rear door. Grasping her herald’s arm, she punctuated her words to him with vicious shakes. “Get me Ay immediately. I want him in my quarters within the hour. Send to Horemheb at Memphis. He is to leave his duties to his second-in-command and wait upon me in haste. Tell Pharaoh’s ministers that on pain of death—of death, do you hear?—they are to be in their offices tomorrow morning to speak to me. Why are you standing there?”
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