“Oh. Oh, yes!” The first maid bobbed her head like a bird banging a snail on a rock. They both had the most ridiculous smiles on their faces.
Either they’re madly in love with the idea of doing laundry or they’ve got plans, I thought, trying not to smile back. Half the day making a mess of those dresses, the other half—and part of the night, I’m sure—seeing those boys they like from the kitchens. I felt the ache of envy. Even maidservants are luckier than Amenophis and me. They’re free to see their sweethearts.
Later that same morning, after the maids were gone, I received word from the Palace of Ma’at that my trial before the goddess would take place the following day. I felt my stomach sink while I listened to the royal messenger who brought the news. I knew I was innocent, but I had spent enough time in Aunt Tiye’s world to know that much too often, innocence was not enough. Her son Thutmose had been raised in that unhealthy atmosphere of intrigue, and he’d learned all its wicked lessons. With the skill of a master potter at his wheel, he’d transformed the raw clay of my words and the evidence that should have cleared my name into the twisted shape of fresh accusations.
Nava sensed my unease. The little girl became especially attentive since the messenger’s announcement, always at my elbow, always trying to cheer me or distract me. She filled the day with lively chatter, fetched me special treats from the kitchen, braided and rebraided my hair, and got me involved in a storytelling contest, all to keep me from thinking about what awaited me.
Now that we were back in the palace, she’d been able to lay her hands on the harp she’d left behind. When the day began to fade into the starry glory of night, it was a comfort to sit beside her in the courtyard outside my rooms and listen to her sweet, clear voice raised in song while her fingers drew melody from the strings. Music holds its own magic. Soon its spell laid hold of me, and I was able to put all thought of the next day’s trial out of my mind. While Nava sang and played, I stood up, left my worries in my wake, and began to dance.
Oh, how long had it been since the last time I’d enjoyed the rapture of dancing? Too long, much too long. I’d forgotten how good it felt. This must be what it’s like to fly, I thought, my bare feet scarcely touching the ground. I spread my arms like a hawk’s wings, turned my face to the stars, closed my eyes, and let my imagination send me soaring over green fields and towering golden cliffs, white cities, and the eternal blue miracle of the sacred river. I wished that Nava would play her harp and sing her songs forever. I prayed to Isis and Hathor to let me dance forever.
A foolish, beautiful prayer, a prayer I knew would have to go unanswered. It was better that way: My feet moved swiftly in the dance, but was I dancing or trying to run away?
I stopped. Nava noticed and dropped her hands from the harp strings. “Don’t you like this song? I know others I could play for you instead.”
“It’s all right, Nava,” I told her. “You’re a wonderful musician, but I’m done with dancing for today. Another time.”
“Are you sure?” She looked worried. “I want you to be happy!”
I knelt beside her on the floor and put my arms around her as comfortably as her harp would allow. “I am happy, Nava. I’m just a bit concerned about tomorrow, but that’s natural. It doesn’t touch my happiness.”
The child began to cry. “I wish I could be happy,” she said. “But all I can do is think about what might happen to you tomorrow and then I—” She sobbed.
“Shhh, hush, little one, cast away those thoughts. Doesn’t your god defend truth, too? If we pray together, then the One and Ma’at will both be on my side.”
Nava sniffled and shook her head. “There can’t be both of them together. The One … is the One. Please don’t hit me, Nefertiti; it’s true.”
I was taken aback. “Why would I hit you for saying something like that, Nava?”
“He used to,” she replied, looking at her knees. “My old master, the priest of Isis. He did it every time he heard Mahala and me singing praise songs for the One. He got so mad! He’d turn red all over his bald head and call us ugly names and he’d beat us. He said he didn’t care what kind of useless gods his slaves prayed to, but we should do it quietly, where real people wouldn’t have to overhear such nonsense. He was angry because some of our prayers and songs say that the One created everything and watches over everything and that we don’t need any other gods.”
“I see. Not the sort of thing a priest of Isis wants to hear in his goddess’s own house. Maybe he was afraid that if enough people overheard you, they’d start thinking that they should worship the One as well. Instead of going to the temple of Hathor to pray for health and the temple of Thoth to pray for wisdom and the temple of Bast to pray for love, they’d only have to go to one place and make one offering. It would certainly be more efficient.” I was joking, trying to distract the child from unhappy memories, but she took me seriously.
“That’s not why we worship the One. Nefertiti, you shouldn’t talk about your gods that way.”
“Don’t worry, little one. I don’t think they’ll punish me for saying such things. If the gods were as petty and vengeful as some of their priests, they’d have wiped us from the earth long ago. I fear the gods—I mean that I revere them—but I’m not afraid of them.”