THE GOD'S WIFE (3 page)

Nebhotep, the highest priest in the land, stood at the gates, a leopard skin draped around his slumped shoulders and hanging down one side of his glittering, pleated robe. He had shaved his head, as had all of the priests. They had bathed daily in the temple’s sacred pool to purify themselves and remove all hair as it was considered impure. Neferet herself had bathed in the darkness with her childhood nurse Anhay. But the woman spared her hair. They did not shave the God’s Wife’s head for reasons that were unclear to her. Instead, she wore a heavy and elegant braided wig that only a royal could afford. Layers of complicated plaits were wound with gold thread. They moved like a curtain of silk when she turned her head. If only the weight of the wig didn’t make her head throb so.

Nebhotep moved forward and presented a jewel-encrusted bowl to her. It contained the amber-green
didi,
a sacred drink that would open her eyes to the realms of the divine. She drank the bitter liquid and handed the bowl back to the priest with a nod. The initiation could start.

Frightened but maintaining regal composure, she watched the sun’s rising rays reach to the lock of the temple door. A lesser priest took up a walking stick and pounded three times upon the entryway. As if by magic, the mighty wood panels swung back, revealing the colored antechamber with its paintings and statues of battles won by the past pharaohs who had petitioned for Amun’s aid. Neferet peeked side to side and saw several files of celebrants lining either edge of the vast hall, all waving palm fronds and singing a soft hymn to Amun. The litter bearers propelled her forward until she reached the end of the cavernous space. Her nose tingled at the intrusion of frankincense and other burning sweet oils.

The temple was transformed. All about her were lamplights that flickered and danced in alabaster holders, looking like starlight. The choir voices, full-throated and tuned to intricate chords, sang out from the deep gloom. Neferet felt her bones vibrate in resonance. To be a part of this was the holiest experience she’d ever had.

As the music reached a crescendo, dancers popped in front of the procession. She started in surprise, but the priests nodded assent. The entertainers lifted their arms in reverence to Neferet and her mighty office.

A small, lithe boy of about ten years old spun about as if he were on fire, twirling in the air, propelling himself ever higher. Three maidens stood in back of him. When he had danced out every bit of energy his young body contained, the girls took their turn, arching and stretching in acrobatic forms.

When the performers finished their silken movement, the sun glittered through the temple’s windows. The lamplights began to gutter out as sunbeams overpowered their weak illumination. The frenzy of colors on the painted walls and ceiling woke up, and the vast temple was awash in reds, greens, blues, yellows and purples. The pillars, decorated like the revered blue lotus, shone an enchanted form of turquoise blue — an effect of the
didi
she had imbibed earlier.

The priests moved the litter forward, and Neferet felt tingles in her stomach, as her moment of glory arrived. She hoped she could behave as a royal spouse and not as a befuddled teenage girl.

Progress to the Holy of Holies involved moving on through smaller chapels, tiny houses, each darker than the next, columns getting closer together and the space more intimate. When the holy march paced only halfway through, her nerves stood on edge. She sat facing the next set of doors leading to a dense chamber occupied by priests. As she had been tutored, she called out several words of power, and the doors swung to. Inside, torches lit the intimate space. It reminded her of an ancient swamp with its papyrus-shaped columns and pictures of woodland scenes painted on the walls. The sun could not penetrate here, but the hymns and music echoed.

“From the primeval nothingness, proceded Amun,” was the chant. Fewer people waved them on this time, but she sat still, with her back erect on the unforgiving wood sedan chair, balancing the wig with expert grace. In her confusion, she hung on to what the priests had taught her over her weeks of training.

Door after door gave way to the procession until they faced a hut-sized entrance with a red door allowing passage for only one or two people at a time. She and Nebhotep had permission to touch it. She descended from the litter, aided by the priests, and stood, legs quivering under her linen gown, before the portal. She pounded once upon the wood, and the priests all bent forward prostrate on the floor. The way opened. She drew herself up, steadied her breath and faced the blue icon of the god Amun. He sat, life-sized, on a granite pedestal. His eyes, of the most uncanny stones, followed her every movement, even the shift of her eyes.

As instructed, she placed an armful of flowers at the god’s feet. Priests, bent over and mumbling apologies to the great Amun, handed her food to lay at the icon’s pedestal. Then, at the door, they covered Neferet with a great, gold-flecked robe and crowned her wig with a diadem. They sang a song of matrimony, and Nebhotep joined her hand to that of the great statue. It was as cold as the night waters. The priest read a long statement, detailing the lands and properties the temple afforded to her, now that she was the bride of Amun. Her mind swam. All through these declarations, the heady incense threatened to knock her out. The sacred drug
didi
had her head swimming, because now the room was full of blue — the same color as the faience beads on her full collar necklace. She relaxed and couldn’t take her eyes off the Amun effigy.

Like fleet-footed beings of the night, the priests left. Closing the door behind them, they abandoned her with this husband of rock. In the moment his jewel eyes fastened onto hers, she knew her life was no longer her own.

She began the ritual dance.

#

Jump, two, three,
pas de bourée,
lunge, leap. Jump, two, three, preparation, pirouette. Forward, five, six, seven, side lay-out. Jump.

Rebecca kept track of the intricate movement, promising herself she wouldn’t forget a step. Her breathing kept time to the music. One, two, three, leap, breathe, five, six, seven, lunge, breathe. With the music blaring away – the triumphal chorus from Verdi’s opera — the rhythm soothed in a natural way, flowing and sensuous, exactly as she imagined Egyptian dance would be.

Hips turn right, swivel left, full circle, fall to knees.

With an abrupt clap of the hands, the jazz teacher, Conrad Waldron, called all the dancers to a halt and turned off the music.

“That’s great, fantastic. I urge every one of you to read up on ‘Aïda’ because you’ll all be dancing the parts of the courtiers, the priests and the crowd. This is a colorful scene of immense pageantry. It’s most important that you understand your part in the event.” His eyes flickered over the class, and he lowered his voice a notch. “Except, of course, for Rebecca.” He sent her a beneficent smile, and she felt the curious eyes of the entire class boring through her slight, sweating body. Not used to attention, she wished she were a speck of dirt on the floor.

“That’s because Rebecca is our princess.”

More looks, only this time filled with wonder, others with varying shades of envious hostility. Lenore Stillman, never her friend, shot the most vicious glare of all, eyes squinting, big, pouting lips sticking out like balloons.

Rebecca continued to catch her breath, leaning forward with her hands on her knees. The fabric of her leotard was spongy from the sweat of her body, leaving her clammy and oddly cold in this hot room. She straightened and smiled at the group, her thigh muscles starting to quiver from over-use.

Waldron continued, unaware of the uneasy reception Rebecca faced. He had no idea Randy hadn’t released the cast list yet.

“She will be our Aïda and will be performing different dances. In this number, she will actually enter the stage in chains.” He stopped to chuckle at the imagined vision. “But it’s essential, Rebecca, for you to understand the style Emmylou Sailor has choreographed for us. Most dancers will be meeting with her to make sure we get her method down.” Then Conrad winked, turned his head and snapped his fingers.

“Back to work. From the knee crouch, you will wait three beats and then spring up on six, arms wide in second position …”

As he rattled off the varying positions, Rebecca tried to mimic his demonstrations but kept falling behind. Conrad had gone gray at his temples, but few of the younger dancers could match his signature verve. He barreled through a complex set of steps and gave it all polish, even on the first go. Rebecca knew he learned this complex dance yesterday when the famous Ms. Sailor glided into town. What a memory he demonstrated.

“Ready?”

The class groaned as one, complaining that the rundown moved by too fast. They begged Conrad for another demonstration.

“Okay, I’ll do it. But understand that we intend you pick this up right away. Ms. Sailor isn’t going to give you second and third chances.”

He dropped down into kneeling position and ran through the steps again. “Try to feel elation as you dance. You are the Egyptian citizens celebrating a great military victory. This is a dance of exultation. Imagine your linen robes, your best jewelry. You haven’t partied like this in years.”

An assistant turned the music back on, and the class sprang back to life, but this time, smiles replaced the frowns of concentration. All except for Lenore, who still turned to shoot angry looks at Rebecca.

Jump, swivel right, swivel left, step, five, six, pirouette. Rebecca’s muscles performed on their own. She knew that if she thought too hard, the entire dance would break down into myriad isolated movements: twists of the neck, turns of the torso, feet moving forward and back, arms straightening and then folding. Think too much and the smooth, powerful dance would become nothing but a set of meaningless gyrations.

However, concentration remained difficult. Rebecca’s muscles screamed with each jump, each lunge, each pelvic thrust. And she knew her solo numbers would be much more intricate if the vaunted Ms. Sailor had anything to do with it.

Waldron ended class, and the dancers piled into the dressing room, some ripping off their leotards before the doors were shut. Rebecca found a seat but was distracted by the force of a fierce stare.

“So how did you pull that off ?”

The voice was unforgettable. A Midwestern twang with the added touch of a stuffed-up nose. Lenore.

Rebecca turned from her seat on the dressing room bench and glimpsed her nemesis. Only five-feet tall and sprouting spiky blonde hair with violet streaks, Lenore stood with her hands folded, little brown porcine eyes fixed on Rebecca’s face.

“I found out yesterday,” Rebecca said, slipping off her leotard and reaching for a towel. Standing there in her bra and tights, she fought off feelings of vulnerability. She was open to attack in the dressing room, and Lenore knew it.
Damn that little brat.
Yet Rebecca, without hesitation, toweled off and reached for her t-shirt. The woman had never liked her, but this attack charged the air with negativity.

“But I bet you had to put out some major favors for Randy to choose you.” Lenore stood with her eyebrows pinched into a unibrow. She simply refused to let go. Jealousy shot out of every pore. No one had the guts to tell her she never would have the talent to be chosen for a featured role, anyway.

“Randy just picked me. I’m as surprised as anyone else.”

“Yeah, sure. After that stunt you pulled in ballet class when you were wiggling your hips…” Lenore illustrated by grinding like a burlesque cutie. Titters of laughter filled the close quarters. Tights flew in the air landing in lockers. The smell of soggy perspiration assailed Rebecca’s nose. A major-league baseball locker room would smell as bad. “I’m sure you had some idea of what was coming. Just trying to rub it in. Make us all feel bad.”

“That’s not true,” Rebecca slipped off her tights and hid her nakedness with a towel. “I’d never try to show off.”

“But you did.”

“I didn’t. I was…” Rebecca blinked. “I…”

“What? Say it, Pet Princess.”

Rebecca stared at the floor.

“Blacked out.” She snatched some panties from her locker and then slid into a pair of shorts. She grabbed her dance bag and whirled toward the door. Lenore planted herself in the way.

“Sure.” Her little pug nose wrinkled in distaste. Rebecca wasn’t sure how she was going to pass by this miniature blockade without starting a fight, but she had just twenty minutes to eat and then be ready for the first “Aîda” rehearsal with the demanding Ms. Sailor.

A hand clamped down on Lenore’s shoulder.

“Let’s all ease down and get to our next classes.” Raven to the rescue. Tall Raven Ring looked down at Lenore, all sincerity and smiles. Raven gazed with black eyes gleaming and her wide mouth uttering soothing phrases in a deep, earthy voice. Not a person anyone bothered, not even a mosquito like Lenore.

Lenore gave way by backing up. Rebecca swept past her.

“See you in rehearsal,” Rebecca called to Raven, who nodded with solemnity. Randy awarded her the part of Amemnis, Aïda’s rival. Best friends at each other’s throats — a test of their loyalty.

“Where did you learn to do
that
?” Emmylou Sailor stood at the front of the class, hands on her hips, casting a look of astonishment at Rebecca.

“What?” Rebecca replied before she could think. What had she been doing? First came the dance of Aïda’s imprisonment and sorrow, then the twisty, spiraling solo in which her character expressed her longing for her Nubian home.
Somewhere I had a blackout.

“You did this thing with your hips.” Sailor answered, demonstrating with an odd little shimmy, “And then you spread your arms as if you were holding an instrument.” Sailor’s arms flew wide open and the fingers moved as if strumming or shaking a delicate object.

Rebecca knew she must answer this famous and often imperious New York choreographer. The woman didn’t like to be kept waiting. But Rebecca just stood, rooted to her spot on the floor, slack-jawed like the class moron. A few students in the back began to giggle, silenced by a stinging look from Sailor. She turned to Rebecca again, every feature on her long-nosed, haughty face asking, “Well?”

“I, uh, dreamed it.” As she said the words, Rebecca knew they were true. This movement, this odd, exotic dance had been in her dreams for many nights now. Something else existed — the sensation of a presence standing behind her, driving her on.

“Dreamed it.” Sailor snapped her mouth closed and turned up the corners of her thin lips in a pretense of a smile.

“Yeah, I’ve been researching the Egyptians, and it must have entered my subconscious …” Rebecca said, mumbling as she studied the floor, drawing imaginary circles on the ground with her bare feet.

Sailor clapped her hands, and Rebecca looked up to see a smug toss of Sailor’s head.

“Well, I love it. It’s absolutely perfect. There’s no better way a woman from that time, that place, that complex mix of cultures could move. Of course. The hips, yes, very Mideastern, but the hands, open and African.” Sailor was talking to herself now, going through Rebecca’s turns and tying them together with her own dance craft.

“This thing with the fingers,” Sailor said, brows inching together. “She’s playing some instrument. Cymbals?”

“No, I think it’s a sistrum.” Rebecca had seen a picture of the ancient percussion instrument just the other day.

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Sailor ran out of the room, leaving Rebecca alone with the dumbfounded class. She shrugged, but no one else moved a muscle. No one dared to breathe. They just stared at her.

Sailor scurried back in seconds, holding a huge, well-thumbed book on Egyptology with a picture of King Tut’s death mask on the cover. She paged through it with authority, while leaning on the mirrored wall.

“There,” she cried. She held up the page so everyone in the room could see the strange little instrument, made of metal and set with jangling discs on wires. It looked like a small harp with tiny cymbals attached.

“It is for calling the goddess,” the choreographer continued. “The Egyptians used it, but archaeologists discovered it was also found all throughout the upper regions of Africa. It was supposed to summon the goddess Hathor in particular. She was also called Hat-her in the Egyptian language.”

She whirled on Rebecca. “Yes, perfect. We’ll leave it in. Okay, class, from the top.” She put down the book and cued an assistant who ran the CD player. And from the top they went, with Rebecca sweating and swirling her way through her dance of capture and lament. The class acted as a chorus, moving in silent, undulating shifts, all straining to see the captured princess Aïda.

Then the solo. Sailor turned to Rebecca, whose insides became rubber. She knew she couldn’t make one muscle move to her command. She was going to fall flat on her first day of rehearsal. Fear seized her lungs.

Then she found herself running through the solo, sweeping up and down in Sailor’s signature pirouettes. At Sailor’s sudden snap of the fingers, Rebecca threw in her own hip movement and opened her hands to play the imaginary sistrums. All turned to bliss now, even in her captivity scenes, because this Aïda danced her soul’s desire straight to her goddess. Rebecca internalized the perfection –– the movement, the sensation of almost taking off into the sky, the imagined chime of the sistrums. She transformed into Aïda, and she would be free some day.

Just as Sailor had devised, Rebecca collapsed. She lay bent-kneed on the floor and rolled over in agony. The class advanced step by step to peer at the princess in pain. The final notes sang out, and Rebecca held up her fist in defiance.

“Beautiful!” Sailor shouted, clapping in staccato beats. “Much better than I ever would have dreamed for a first rehearsal.” She shot from the front of the class to Rebecca, who now sat in a pool of sweat, picking at her sodden garments that stuck to her skin like seaweed.

“And I will have a very special partnership with you. That’s for certain.”

#

A servant girl parted the sheer curtains and leaned forward, chattering the gossip. Nadeema arranged to visit when the sundial cast its shadow over the first peg on the obelisk, when the sunlight touched the top of the temple’s highest window. This marked the hour when Ra was in his glory, the fitting time for the appearance of a best friend.

Neferet stared out the window and began to hum a favorite tune, for now she would be able to amuse herself with someone other than the dull temple priests, her jealous and sullen former classmates and her icy mother. She had grown up in the children’s quarters with black-eyed Nadeema. They shared all the secrets of childhood — from how to sneak past the palace walls after midnight to the mystifying rituals of the first blood. She and Nadeema bled together the same month and thus became women together. Nadeema’s ear would be sympathetic, something Neferet missed every day in her apartments near the temple.

Neferet held much land now and owned a great many treasures, which meant she had to retain security men around her domain and farms at all times. No one understood the burden this put on a teenage girl whose only bit of former property had been a few pieces of lapis lazuli and some gold jewelry.

With a long breath, she slid into her vanity chair, carved with the scene of a hunting party on its back. It dated perhaps two centuries ago. The wood itself, a rarity in the kingdom, could command a small fortune on the black market. Just one of reasons she needed guards. All around her were masterpieces, some priceless. She beckoned for a servant to come over and braid her hair.

“Wouldn’t mistress prefer the jeweled wig?” the servant asked, averting her eyes as she spoke. She indicated a wig entwined with gold and carnelian beads.

“No, I just want my own hair braided.”

“As you wish, but your station benefits from a fashionable headdress.”

“Are you just too lazy to do the work?” Neferet said, turning to narrow her eyes at the impertinent girl. Such cheek. Had Maya let her servant boss around a God’s Wife? The maid trembled a little as she gathered up a comb and pins. Neferet wondered when she’d ever get this servant/ mistress relationship straight. Things had been so easy in the familiar women’s lodgings and in the temple schools. Now she had personal attendants, but no one gave her instructions on how to manage them.

“No, your loveliness, whatever the Divine Adoratrice desires is what I shall do,” the handmaiden said.

Neferet sat forward and checked the maid’s progress with her polished brass mirror. The woman worked, fingers flying, treating each plait with a fragrant wax that would keep the style fresh for days. The last braid was finished, and the servant placed a small diadem across Neferet’s brow. The mirror showed a woman of simple elegance, and her blue, porcelain, faience-beaded necklace and bracelets added grace to the clean lines.

Before she could thank her hairdresser, there was a swish of the outer, heavier curtains. A male voice called out Nadeema’s name.

“Oh, please, send her in and leave us alone,” Neferet cried.

She turned to the doorway to see Nadeema, in a linen sheath and elaborate pectoral necklace of the Wedjat — Hor-heb’s eye. She ran to hug her childhood friend, but the girl pulled back at the last moment.

“My lady …” Nadeema started to say.

“Go ahead and touch me. I’m not made of glass,” Neferet said as she wrapped her friend in an embrace. “And don’t be so formal. I’m still your friend, not ‘your lady.’ Don’t you remember the day of Maya’s day of remembrance? How we’d always be friends, no matter what happened?”

They both began to laugh, and Nadeema favored her friend with a proper hug. They glided into the living area, trading stories until the servants brought lunch. They dined on duck and figs, with dates for dessert, and chattered about the latest romances in the kingdom. Then the girls quibbled about which of the Pharaoh’s jewelers did the finest work. They rated the king’s soldiers on their good looks but ended up giggling in agreement that Kamose, the Pharaoh’s son, shone as the handsomest.

Neferet spoke little about the duties of her new office. Every time the subject came up, she’d bite on a date and stare into the middle distance. As if she could contain herself no more, Nadeema asked a single question.

“What do you do in there, in the Holy of Holies?”

Both sat open-mouthed, staring at each other. Few more sacrilegious things could be said, but Neferet was not about to punish her friend for simple curiosity. She felt blood rise to her face, and she blinked her kohl-blackened eyes several times before attempting to answer.

“Oh, Nadeema, they never prepared me for it.” She glanced away in distaste.

“What could be so vile that you won’t tell me? I’m your best friend. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Neferet dropped her head and refused to speak.

“Oh, I know it is not allowed,” Nadeema said, voice quavering. She pulled fitfully at her braids. “I am out of line and must be punished by the god Amun himself.”

Neferet smiled to herself. She knew well enough that the gods were all images and manifestation of the One. Amun himself would never act out of rage. Anyone who learned the mysteries of the temple would know that. She grabbed Nadeema’s arm and stroked the soft, tan skin.

“It’s really not forbidden — although no one ever asks. What happens is not vile. It’s simply beyond belief.”

“Well, what goes on then?”

“You know that statue, the icon of the god…”

“Well, I’ve heard of it. Skin of blue and eyes of the purest jasper. I’ve never been able to see it when they bring it out for holidays.”

“Well, when I’m left alone with it, I dance.’

“To please him, of course. You always were a fantastic dancer.”

“The priests have put me in a trance with the
didi
, so I don’t know if I’m imagining things or not, but after I dance my heart out, when I can draw no more breath, the statue is not a statue anymore. At least it happened once.”

Nadeem blinked.

“He became soft and similar to a human. Maybe he
is
a human … and I had to pleasure him. As, spare me, his lover …”

“His wife.”

“It doesn’t matter. I felt like a cheap whore when I was done.”

“Let me get this right. He can become flesh and blood? No! That’s impossible. When did he turn back to stone and gold?”

“When I was done. It’s as if he always had been stone,” Neferet said. She fingering her necklace, not meeting Nadeema’s eyes, feeling a fool.

“That’s not possible. There must have been a man in the chapel. Can anyone else get into the chamber?”

“It’s supposed to be unassailable. Fool-proof.”

“But Maya, the last wife.”

“I know. The same man who killed her could be sneaking in and ... taking advantage of me. I can hardly bear to think of it.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blank out the shame. “How long before I’m next — the next one dead?” She looked up at Nadeema.

Both friends stared into each other’s eyes. Nadeem shook her head, as if to ward off thoughts of evil. Neferet found herself lost in gruesome memories. The cold hands on her skin. Her dress torn away. A man’s rough hands forcing her legs apart. The pain, the dreadful pain and blood. Shame rushed over her like sudden fever. She bowed her head to hide her emotions.

“Maybe the statue
is
the living god, just as the priests tell us,” Nadeema said, tearing Neferet from her anguished thoughts.

“I never believed that for a minute.”

“Neither did I.”

#

The phone sat like a poisonous toad on the living room table. Two weeks had gone by since Rebecca last used it to reach her family in Iowa. She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated sigh and leaned over to touch it. It didn’t bite. She lifted the receiver and punched in the familiar numbers, digits she had memorized since her childhood in Cedar Rapids.

The voice that came on the other line was low, masculine and a touch harried.

“Ash, it’s ‘Bec.”

“Haven’t heard a word from you in a while. We’re over here having Sunday dinner with Mom and Dad,” Ash said, losing the grumpiness in his tone. “We could save a place for you.”

Rebecca laughed and did some quick thinking. Was it better to hang up and say she’d call later or press ahead and bid Mom to the phone? With Mom, you’d never know how she’d react. Instead, her brother Ashford, the older, more responsible sibling, made the decision for her.

“I’ll go get Ma. She’s always the last one to sit down anyway.”

Rebecca waited a nervous few seconds until her mother’s nasal voice sang through the wires between farmland and the big city.

“’Bec, darling, we were so worried when you didn’t call last Sunday.” The voice was smooth, but an accusatory tone still lurked beneath the words.

“It’s the only Sunday I’ve missed in a long time. Anyway, Mom, I have something wonderful to tell you.”

“You got a real job?”

“Oh, Mom, stop it. I’ve been named the lead dancer in the troupe’s production of ‘Aïda.’ And we’re taking it on tour — all over, even to Paris.”

“Paris,” Her mother let out an audible gulp. “Well, that’s a long ways away.”

“Yes, but what an opportunity. I was rehearsing last Sunday with one of the most famous choreographers from New York. I was so excited I could have popped. I was just too worn out to call after that workout.”