All at once, partway through yet another hymn extolling Ma’at’s beauty and virtue, a muffled clamor went up from the platform where the royal family sat. I heard Sitamun’s voice cry out, “Oh! He’s fainted!” and then confusion fell over the entire courtyard. Singers and musicians stumbled through a few more notes before stopping their song. Priests barked commands to slaves and servants, sending them scurrying in every direction. It was impossible to see what was happening on top of the royal platform, though plenty of people stood on tiptoe, straining for a glimpse of the goings-on in the shadow of Pharaoh’s canopy. One elegantly bejeweled nobleman tried climbing onto the shoulders of one of his servants, only to have the two of them tumble to the ground. Guards formed such a tight fence around the royal platform and maintained the barrier so zealously that the high priest of Ma’at had to bluster at them for a long time before they’d let him through. The spectators jabbered and babbled and made useless demands to be told what was going on. Two of the ladies present fainted, too (probably just to be part of the fuss).
At last we saw the high priest descend, followed by two muscular servants. They were very well dressed, unlike the humbler garb of the temple servants, so they were probably part of the royal entourage. With their hands linked to form a human chair, they carried the limp body of Amenophis between them. A third man walked behind, supporting the prince’s lolling head.
“Hmph. Well, I’m not surprised,” someone in the crowd remarked just loudly enough for me to hear. “He’s been a bit of a weakling since he was a child.”
A weakling? I thought with scorn. If you only knew! I’d like to see how you’d fare on a journey like the one he and I shared. But, oh, Amenophis, where’s your strength now? Was it the thought of what awaits me that stole it from you and struck you down? My right foot stirred and took a step forward, unbidden. I was about to run after the servants who were carrying him away. I could feel desperate words rising to my lips: “Wake up! Come back! Don’t leave me! I can’t face this without y—!”
My panic-stricken thoughts died abruptly, as though one of the huge granite blocks of Hatshepsut’s stolen monuments had dropped on top of them. I forced myself to breathe calmly.
That’s not true, I thought. I can face this on my own. I am Nefertiti. I must. And I remained standing as though carved from stone while the hubbub surrounding Amenophis’s collapse died away and the priests resumed their service to the goddess.
At last the singing and the music stopped, the prayers ended. The priest who’d brought me into the circle of feathers came forward and announced for all to hear that, with Pharaoh’s royal consent, the lady Nefertiti would speak. I heard Pharaoh Amenhotep’s familiar voice respond, “So let it be done.” He sounded so sad.
I licked my lips, which had gone terribly dry, cleared my throat, and spoke: “O Ma’at the Beautiful, the Changeless, Lady of the Hall of Judgment, I am Nefertiti, and I come into your house to ask for your eternal gift of justice. Your law holds the world in balance. You sustain the sun. You are the Perfect Measure of the heart after death. Measure my heart now, O Ma’at! Place it in the scales against the words that have been said against me and declare which one contains your sacred truth!”
My words were done. I’d said all that I could say. Silence settled over the courtyard like a layer of dust. No sound broke it, not even the creak of a leather sandal as its wearer shifted his weight, not even a cough or a sigh. Every eye, every ear was focused on the gateway to the goddess.
“O Nefertiti, daughter of Ay!”
The voice that boomed from the heart of Ma’at’s shrine was resonant and powerful, but pitched strangely high. A man trying to imitate a woman’s voice, I thought, and resigned myself to hear the hidden priest’s verdict. I heard gasps and murmurs from the crowd to my left and right, and a low, indistinct rumble from the royal platform.
“Silence for the Lady of the Twofold Truth!” Ma’at’s chief priest swept away every sound like a housewife chasing crumbs from her table. “Hear the goddess!”
“Nefertiti, I have seen your deeds and heard the words spoken against you.” The magic of deception was strong—the voice from the temple made the short hairs at the back of my neck rise up even though I knew it came from someone as human as myself. “I have set my Feather of Truth in the balance against the charges of sacrilege and blasphemy brought against you. See, I have weighed your heart! Let no one deny my enduring truth.” The voice paused for a moment, or for what might have been a hundred years, then said, “You are wrongfully accused. You are guiltless. You are free!”
I gasped and my legs crumpled under me. I fell to my knees in the circle of white feathers, while all around me the people cheered.
“Treachery!” A shriek from beneath the royal canopy tore through the sounds of rejoicing. Thutmose stood at the edge of the platform, his face dark with demonic rage. “Filth! Traitor! You declare her innocent?” He leaped from the platform and for a moment was a black shape against the sun. He landed in the courtyard with a cat’s grace, but with a serpent’s death-cold eyes. A dagger flashed from his belt to his hand. “I’ll teach you what happens to those who betray me!” he shouted into the shadows of the shrine, and plunged in.
The crowd burst into cries of dismay and horror, appalled by the prince’s impious act. To their eyes and ears, he had committed acts of sacrilege worse than any of the charges laid against me. He had smeared Ma’at’s holy name with atrocious insults. He had drawn a weapon in the house of the goddess!
“Stop him!” Pharaoh Amenhotep barked commands to every guardsman present. “Seize him, bring him out of Ma’at’s house now!” His men raced to obey.
I was on my feet when they dragged Prince Thutmose back into the courtyard. Two of them held him by the arms, but he still had the dagger clutched in his hand. Some of the other men bore the marks of it—shallow cuts and slashes—and were keeping their distance. He was still their prince, and they hadn’t found the nerve to disarm him. He thrashed in his captors’ grip, spewing threats and curses. He poured abuse on the heads of all the men who’d hauled him out of the temple, swearing he’d remember every one of their faces, and on the day that he was crowned pharaoh, he’d call for their deaths. He raved so fiercely that the guards holding him turned pale and exchanged uneasy looks. The crowd fell back as the guards hesitantly steered him toward the platform where his father stood waiting, his whole body trembling with rage.