I look at Nefertiti closely. Is he suggesting that she is the assassin? Could she be the one? Her skin is like alabaster, her eyes lapis lazuli. I cannot read her face. It is too beautiful, too composed. I know she supported and encouraged her husband in everything he did up to the death of their daughter, Maketaten. But at Maketaten’s death a change had come over her; over them both. There is no denying that they had their differences, but I had not thought Nefertiti had veered so far from their original goal, that she would even contemplate such a deed.
Nefertiti looks steadily into the eyes of Horemheb. He meets hers as steadily at first, and then shifts uneasily, lowering his eyes. She turns to me. There is no murderous shadow in my eyes. I can see she is soon satisfied of that. Are w
