Sphinx's Princess

“Ikeni, that’s not why I won’t marry you,” I said. Then I bit my tongue. What if he asked for the real reason why I’d never marry him? I didn’t want to tell him such a cruel truth, that his attractive face and his father’s powerful position as high priest of Isis were his only good points in the marriage market. Plenty of other girls would jump at the chance to have him for their husband, but if I ever married, I wanted a man with whom I could talk, plan, share dreams, and even enjoy a friendly argument now and then.

 

I changed the subject as quickly as I could: “Who’s your little friend? I don’t know her name, but I remember her music.” I crouched to be on eye level with the child and offered her a smile. “Hello, dear. Have you come to play the harp for me, as a farewell gift from Ikeni?”

 

“She’s the gift!” Ikeni blurted. “And my father’s very sorry about what he did—I mean, what happened to her sister, but it was the will of the gods, and we can’t do anything about it, and her name is—um—I forget.”

 

I stood up and stared at Ikeni as if frogs had just streamed from his mouth. “She’s Mahala’s sister?”

 

He nodded, cheerful as a well-fed dog. “Father thought that since he can’t bring back that one and give her to you, the way you asked, this one will be all right instead.”

 

I told myself that he wasn’t being deliberately heartless; he simply didn’t know any better. “This is … generous.”

 

“I’ll tell Father you said so!” Ikeni was beaming. “Oh, he’ll be so happy! He was worried you’d complain about him to Queen Tiye, but you won’t do that now … will you?” he added, still not entirely sure of me.

 

“By Ma’at’s truth, I hope I never have to speak his name again,” I replied. Ikeni gave a joyful yelp, bowed to me once more, and ran out of the house like a boy half his age. I turned to the high priest’s “gift.” The child gazed at me with large green eyes, her thin body trembling. “Why don’t you tell me your name, little one?” I asked in a soothing voice. I got no reply. She’s scared and shy, I thought. The high priest’s house was probably the only home she ever knew. I’ll give her time to get used to this house, and to me. I offered her my hand. “Are you hungry? Come with me and I’ll get you some food.”

 

The little girl continued to stare at me with owl’s eyes, but after a little hesitation she took my hand. I led her out of the hall to the kitchen. The other slaves and servants regarded her curiously. She cowered under their stares and pressed herself against my side as if she were trying to vanish. I explained who she was and how she’d come to live here; they were unimpressed.

 

“Scrawny thing,” old Anat muttered with a disdainful snort.

 

Our cook was no slave, and a valued servant, so he wasn’t at all bashful about demanding, “What can she do?”

 

“She plays the harp,” I replied.

 

“What harp?”

 

As if in answer to his sharp question, at that instant Ikeni came barging into the kitchen, led there by the same servant who’d first announced his visit. The high priest’s son cradled the girl’s small harp awkwardly in his arms.

 

“I almost forgot!” he said, setting down the instrument. “I ran all the way home and all the way here so I could give you this, too. I think she can still play for you, even if she can’t sing anymore.”

 

“Why can’t she?” I asked. A dark uneasiness fell over me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. It couldn’t be anything good.

 

Ikeni shrugged. “She can’t sing because she can’t speak. Not now. When they took her sister away, she cried and cried for her until the cook’s son said it wouldn’t do any good because that slave had been tied hand and foot, then tossed into the river, so the crocodiles probably got her and—”

 

The child began to gasp, soundless sobs racking her thin body. She dropped to the ground in a tight ball, hands clamped to her ears, and a ghostly wail of pure grief escaped her lips. I thought my heart would break from that woeful sound.

 

“Get out of my home,” I told Ikeni. “Never come back. Never.”

 

“What did I do?” he protested weakly. I took one step toward him, my hands curling into fists, and again I was Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess of war and destruction. Even though I was much smaller than he, Ikeni saw the ferocious rage in my face, turned white as linen, and ran.

 

I dropped to my knees beside the child and tried to put my arms around her, but she pushed me away and crawled under the table where the cook chopped vegetables. I sat cross-legged beside her until she slowly uncurled her body and looked at me.

 

“It’s all right,” I told her. “He’s gone. You live here now. No one’s ever going to hurt you again.” I held out both my hands. “I’m Nefertiti.” She nodded, as if to say she already knew who I was, but she never made a sound.

 

I brought the child to Mery, who was just finishing the preparations for our journey. Bit-Bit, always inquisitive and enthusiastic, rushed up to greet us, scaring the little one into hiding behind me. She clung so hard to my dress that I thought she was going to pull it off. It was all I could do to have my sister calm down, get the child to loosen her grip on me, and explain matters to Mery.

 

“A fine apology from that man,” Mery said tartly when I finished. “If ever there was proof that the gods don’t choose their servants—! I pray that the divine ones find a way to repay the high priest properly for all he’s done.” She smiled kindly at the girl. “I’ll also pray that this little one will recover her tongue someday and be able to tell us her name. In the meanwhile, we must find something to call her.”

 

Her words provoked Bit-Bit into an eager burst of suggestions, though before Mery and I could say yes or no, my sister rejected each one as quickly as she proposed it. At last she exclaimed, “Let’s call her Berett!” It was the name of the instrument she played, and as good an idea as any.

 

“Will that please you?” I asked the girl. “May we call you Berett?” She gave an almost imperceptible nod, and I added: “Only until you tell us your true name, of course.” As if to prove her consent, Berett picked up her harp and began to play. I knelt beside her, my feet wanting to dance to the slow, sweet, tentative melody. In my heart, I made a promise: Your sister gave me back my life, Berett. I will give you yours.