“Scribes are men, that’s why.”
“But why is that?” I persisted.
“Because women have no use for such learning.” He looked very sure of himself, very satisfied with that answer, as if he were repeating the word of the gods themselves. “You’re going to grow up, get married, have children, and run a household. Why would you need to know how to write letters or keep records or make other important documents? Why would you want to take the time to learn something as difficult as writing when you could use your days better learning to do women’s work?”
“What about magic?” I asked.
My question startled him. “What?”
“Well, isn’t that women’s work? Isis used it to win the sun-god’s power by learning his secret name. She’s a woman.” It all made perfect sense to me, even if it left Henenu looking more and more like a goggle-eyed frog.
“Isis—Isis is a goddess,” he stammered. “You can’t compare her to ordinary women. You mustn’t! She might become angry with you.”
“No, she likes me,” I replied confidently, thinking of my dream-lions. Even though it was the Great Sphinx who’d saved me from them, I still recalled Father’s prayer to Isis and the sweet face of her image in our garden. Isis was brave but kindhearted, a loving wife and a devoted mother. She would understand and forgive sooner than punish. All I felt for her and from her was love.
Then I remembered something: “Once when Bit-Bit was a baby, she got very sick and Father had a healer priest come to the house, but Mery went to the sau, the woman who makes amulets to ward off demons. She took me along and I watched the sau make the amulet on a piece of baked clay. I thought she was only drawing pictures, but now I think she was writing, just like you. She’s no goddess, so writing is women’s work, too!” My triumphant voice dared him to contradict me.
He didn’t. Instead, he laughed. “Ah well, who am I to stand against someone so fiercely determined to learn? I can almost see the divine Thoth smiling down upon you, giving his blessing.”
I knit my brows. Thoth, god of wisdom, was a man with the head of an ibis, a bird with a long, thin, down-curving beak. “How can an ibis smile?”
Henenu chuckled and slapped his knees. “He’s a god. He manages. Now let’s see if you can manage to learn.” He handed me the waxed tablet, showed me how to hold the sharpened reed, and our lessons began.
He must have been expecting me to lose interest quickly, either because I’d grow bored or discouraged trying to master all of the different symbols, their meanings, and their uses. But if he thought that writing was just another game to me, one that I’d soon tire of and abandon, I showed him otherwise. It was hard work, yet even if I sometimes wept with frustration, the satisfaction of conquering each new challenge lifted my spirit so high that I wouldn’t have traded that feeling of exaltation for all the easy victories in the world.
Whenever Henenu was in Akhmin, he came to our house frequently to give me lessons and check on my progress. When he left to rejoin Pharaoh’s court, he gave me plenty of work to do to fill the time until our next meeting, along with words of approval, of criticism, and … of warning: “Remember, Nefertiti, these lessons are our secret. Your parents don’t need to hear about them.”
“But why not?” I asked. I was proud of my achievement and, to be honest, I was also greedy for praise. I wanted Father and Mery to know how well I was mastering our complicated system of language. I wanted Henenu to tell them what he often told me, that he wished the boys he taught were even half as good at reading and writing as I was.
“Because I say so and I am your teacher,” Henenu snapped. I was shocked. I wasn’t used to getting such curt treatment from my friend. Usually he welcomed my questions during our lessons. He said that they kept his mind from sinking into complacency, like a fat hippo settling to the bottom of a river. But this was different. “Now you can choose: Either you honor my decision and we say no more about it, or you keep pecking at me like a plover at the crocodile’s teeth and we end our lessons forever. Well?” He crossed his arms.
My choice was no choice. I wanted to learn. If the price of learning was silence, so be it. I gave in.
Henenu did his part to keep our lessons hidden. The two of us shared a remarkable sense of timing: I was always within earshot of our home’s entryway whenever he came by and he always seemed to show up when Father was occupied with official business, either at home or out in the city, and Mery had her hands full taking care of the household. No matter how busy they were, there was never any question of asking him to come back later. That would have been a great offense to an honored guest, to say nothing of an insult to a dear friend of the family.
Every time, the little scribe resolved the problem with the same solution: “Well, if you really don’t mind, why don’t I just go into your beautiful garden for a while? It’s such a tranquil refuge. As much as I love my own family, our home can be a little rowdy. I won’t be bored: I’ve got a number of official documents that I must review before amending for the royal court.” He patted the always-full case at his belt that held a bunch of rolled-up papyrus scrolls.