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 us 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?
You create the infinite possibilities out of yourself:
Cities, towns, fields, the journey of the great river;
Every eye sees you in relation to all things
For you are Aten of the light over the world,
And when you depart none exist…’
I remembered my intuitions on seeing the Great Temple for the first time. All those loyal and conforming citizens raising their hands and their babies to the light of the sun; those old men, sweating in their dignity during the ceremony for Meryra; and the poor dead girl whose face had been beaten off. What did all that have to do with living in truth?
She turned away from me and walked along the edge of the last shadows that still lay across the floor.
‘But I now know that to exalt human nature, especially one’s own, beyond reasonable limits is a terrible mistake,’ she continued. ‘Passionate commitment to the idea of a better world can disguise passionate hatreds. Beliefs that claim to transform men end up debasing, degrading and enslaving them. So I think. I pray it is not too late.’
She hugged her arms about herself. The spell of the lamps had given way to blue dawn light descending the stairs. In that light she seemed less magnificent, less exceptional, more ordinary, more human. There were lines of tension and tiredness etched into her face. She wound a fine shawl around her shoulders for warmth and came and sat down close to me.