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, utterly 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.