There was a pause. Then Sheftu said gravely, “You do not understand, Haut Khofra.”
“Understand?” The old man frowned in surprise. “Certainly I understand. You wish me to come to Thebes as head of Hatshepsut’s troops, especially the two thousand of the bodyguard, who are sadly in need of training. You wish me to train them, inspire them, discipline them to blind obedience to me personally, so that at my word of command they will rise against the queen herself. I understand all this perfectly. What you do not understand, my boy, is that I have finished with pharaohs.”
“But I do not ask it for pharaoh. I ask it for Egypt.”
Khofra’s fingers stopped drumming upon the table. “Egypt?” he echoed.
“Aye, my general! Have you never known that it was Egypt you served?” Sheftu left his chair to stand over the old man. “That empire you conquered—was that pharaoh’s? No, pharaoh is dead. It is Egypt’s! But by all the gods, how long can we keep it, with this pampered woman on the throne? All Syria is growing restive. The Kadesh, the Keftyew, they have not felt the point of an Egyptian spear since their graybeards were young, and they need to be taught respect. You think Hatshepsut will do it? Pah! She cares for nothing except building more temples—at whatever cost!”
Sheftu broke off, breathing hard. Khofra’s still profile told him nothing, and he had a sudden terrible vision of returning to Thutmose empty handed. He leaned closer, gripping Khofra’s chair. “But Egypt cares! Egypt groans under taxes, while the empire slips away, bit by bit! With you in control of the Army, Hatshepsut can be overthrown, and Thutmose, who is a man and a warrior, can set things to rights. Hai, think, Khofra! Pharaohs come and go—what matter if one used you and tossed you aside and loved you not? Egypt loved you, and she needs you worse than ever before. She is sick! Will you let her die?”
Still the old man sat motionless. Sheftu had done all he could, and he knew it. He straightened slowly, in a silence only intensified by the humming of bees in the acacia blossoms outside, and the shrill, far-off scream of an eagle. Khofra was looking at his hands, where they lay palm-down on the polished table. They were powerful hands still—blunt fingered and scarred and sinewy—and once they had gripped the mightiest sword in all Egypt.
The general rose suddenly and walked to the open door, where he stood looking out at the sunny courtyard.
“You are a remarkable young man, Lord Sheftu,” he murmured at last. “Remarkable and wise, for you have shown me a thing I never knew. So Egypt loved me!” He paused, and for a moment longer remained motionless, leaning against the doorframe. Then he turned back into the room. “Egypt needs me? So be it. I will come.”
“Blessed of Amon!” breathed Sheftu. He crossed the room and bowed low. “In pharaoh’s name, in Egypt’s name, I thank you, Haut meryt.”
“I want no thanks. Up, my lord. It is I who thank you. You’ve cured an ache of twenty years’ standing—and at last made my life seem a reasonable thing.”
“Reasonable? By all the gods, it’s glorious! Now, more than ever. This news—” Sheftu stopped, then suddenly laughed. “This news will cheer my prince so that he may even smile upon the Canaanite princess!”
“Thutmose has sent for a Canaanite princess?” exclaimed Khofra.
“Can you think so, my general? Nay, it is Hatshepsut who has sent for her. Thutmose wants no barbarian for a wife! He rages like the leopard of Upper Egypt at the very idea. It is just one more arrogant insult from that most arrogant of women, his sister. She holds him fast in a snare of politics and spies, and when he struggles, offers him this princess as one offers a toy to a fretful child. Ai, Khofra! She underestimates him!”
Khofra gave his soundless laugh. “A pretty scene it will be, the arrival of this unfortunate Canaanite! When does she come?”
“Soon. Her barge is at Abydos now. I may reach Thebes before her—unless my good river captain has set sail already, fearing me dead. I must take leave.” Sheftu turned, placing his hand on his shoulder as he bowed once again. “Live forever, Haut Khofra! Till we meet again in Thebes.”
Five minutes later he was hurrying through the side streets toward the wharf and the Silver Beetle. Thanks be to all the gods, his mission to Khofra had been successful. But there was one great obstacle in his path before it was finished. Word must be sent to the king as soon as possible. Since Sheftu’s own carefully maintained position at court was that of a trusted favorite of the queen, it was unthinkable that he give Thutmose the message himself. And the old palace servant who used to act as go-between had been murdered in his bed two weeks before.
Sheftu’s jaw set. It was dangerous business, to have anything to do with the king. So dangerous that it was highly uncertain where he would find another trustworthy messenger who was daring enough to serve him well. Yet find one he must, and soon.
He was still pondering the problem as he came out onto the wharves a few moments later, perceiving to his relief that the Silver Beetle was still waiting for him. It was the only southbound ship in the harbor; he would have been in a sorry plight had it sailed without him. A figure on its deck straightened suddenly and flung up an arm in greeting; Sheftu grinned as he waved back. Nekonkh must have been having a bad time of it the past hour. Well, so had he—but now all was done and they could be on their way. He moved swiftly toward the ship.
* * *
• • •
At the other end of the wharf, the slave girl Mara was picking her way through a tangle of fishing nets and upended reed boats. She shaded her eyes to scan the line of vessels which bobbed along the quay, their masts swaying and weaving with the motion of the water. Far down toward the southern end of the wharf she saw what she was looking for—a stout-timbered Theban craft with an embroidered sail.
For a moment she stood motionless, grinning triumphantly. Then she started to run.
A few minutes later she was on the deck of the Silver Beetle, looking coolly into the face of the fierce-jawed riverman who was its captain.
“Passage to Abydos?” he roared. “We’re a cargo ship, Mistress High-and-Mighty! We’ve hides and sheep’s wool on board, so many there’s scarce room enough for the oarsmen to dip their paddles! Think you we can set up some dainty pavilion in the middle of—”
He stopped abruptly. From her outstretched fingers dangled a massive gold chain.
The captain grunted. “Hmmmm. Hai, what a trinket that is, to be sure. Is it not too heavy for you, little one? Pray let me bear the burden.” He took the chain into his own square-fingered hand, flashed an appraising look into her face, then jerked his head toward a stack of hides at that end of the deck farthest from the spot where Sheftu had climbed aboard three minutes before. “You can sleep there,” he muttered. “We weigh anchor in five minutes.”
PART 2
THE RIVER
CHAPTER 4
Young Man with an Amulet
Menfe’s three great pyramids dwindled into sharp triangles of sun and shadow as the Silver Beetle left the harbor behind her. She pushed south against the current, her embroidered sail bellying in the north wind like a winged thing freed at last from ropes and trappings. Mara, curled upon her pile of hides near the stern of the ship, was luxuriating in a freedom far more glorious.
To be rid of Zasha was bliss enough! But to be rid of all masters for a time, to walk where she would, say what she chose, above all to plunge straight into a new life full of exhilarating danger—Blessed Osiris! Could it all be true?
She felt in her sash for the little scarab, and its hard reality sent a tingling along her spine. It was true, right enough. Now what came next? Sail to Abydos, find a man called Saankh-Wen, give him the scarab, and leave the rest to him. Meanwhile she had only to delight in the cool breeze on her face, the gentle, leaping motion of the ship—seven sparkling, lazy, soothing days of it. She snuggled deeper into the pile of skins and drifted blissfully to sleep.
It wa
s some time later that she opened her eyes to find a tall young man staring down at her. At once she was wide awake. Who was this? She gathered her feet under her, every muscle tensed for quick movement.
For a moment they remained thus, gripped by mutual surprise. Sheftu was so amazed at seeing the same slave girl for the fourth time that day—and here on this ship, of all unlikely places—that at first he could say nothing at all. Then he noticed her strong, deep breathing, her narrowed eyes, and her quivering readiness for flight, and realized that he had startled her badly. What a wild thing she was! Her whole attitude spoke more clearly than words of the life she must have led.
“Do not fear me,” he said gently.
She did not relax. “I fear no one. Who are you? Why do you gape at me?”
“I am a passenger on this boat, like yourself. My name is Sheftu. I was gaping because I am surprised to see you here.”
“Why shouldn’t I be here, if I choose?”
“Nay, wait a bit! I’m not questioning your rights. But it’s very strange—” He hesitated. It had suddenly occurred to him that her repeated appearances in his life that day might be something more than coincidence. Had the queen set spies upon him? His own attitude became guarded; but with him, suspicion took the outward appearance of guileless charm. He flashed her his disarming smile and gestured smoothly.
“Please. It was very rude of me to gape. I crave pardon. Suppose we begin our acquaintance all over again.”
She would not have been human had she not reacted to that smile. “If you like,” she murmured. To herself she thought, I must get over my slave’s ways! I have every right to be on this ship and I need fear no one on it.
Sheftu sat down beside her and at once began to talk about a great stone image they were passing, telling the legends of the ancient king who had built it there on the shore. His manner was perfect; it contained just the mixture of friendliness and reserve best calculated to reassure her. Meanwhile, he was thinking fast, checking back on his movements of the day and examining the few facts he knew about her. He concluded finally that she could have no possible connection with the queen’s followers, and thus was not dangerous to him. But what was she doing here? The answer leaped suddenly to his relieved mind. She had fled from that man who had dragged her along the street. She was a runaway!
He smiled now more engagingly than before, realizing that he had a powerful weapon to hold over her if need be. He finished his story softly: “And they say that the ba of the old king himself flutters about the statue at night in the form of a bat, looking at the face and the inscriptions, making sure his image and his name have not been forgotten in the land of Kemt.”
She shaded her eyes for a last glimpse of the great, craggy, granite face disappearing downriver. “A strange tale that is,” she said. “And well told. I’ve never heard better, even from the old yarn spinners who sun themselves in the temple courtyard.”
He sketched a little bow of acknowledgment. “Perhaps I have followed the wrong trade,” he remarked with a grin.
“And what is your trade?”
“I am apprentice to a scribe in Thebes,” he lied glibly. “One Huaa. A fine old man, but with a tendency to overeat—a tendency his apprentices would gladly imitate, had they the chance.”
She smiled. “You scarce look underfed.”
“Nor am I. But no credit to Huaa.”
This time she laughed outright. “I see we have experience in common. Are you hungry now? Here.”
She reached into her sash and produced the last two honey cakes she had filched from the baker’s boy earlier that day. She offered one to Sheftu, who took it with thanks, hiding his mirth. “So you are a scribe,” she went on, biting into her own flaky morsel. “I once had a—I once knew a man who followed that trade.”
“So?” murmured Sheftu. Her quick retreat from the word “master” had not escaped him.
“He was in the service of a district chief, on the northern border of Egypt. There were many foreigners there.”
“Foreigners flock to Egypt as birds to a marsh,” observed Sheftu. That is how she learned Babylonian, he thought.
She pointed suddenly. “Look. There on the sandbank.”
He turned. The sandbar was nearly hidden by long, brownish-green, sinister forms. His flesh crawled a little in spite of himself. Crocodiles! They lay sluggish and motionless, all facing north, with their great pale mouths wide open to the prevailing wind. He thought of the crocodile-headed god, Sebek, and felt for the amulet at his wrist.
Then he turned back to the girl. “That is why I have no fear of death,” he remarked.
“The crocodiles? What have they to do with it?”
“Everything. I was born on the 23rd day of the third month of the Season of Growing.”
Swift comprehension crossed her face. Everyone knew that the fate of those born on that day was to be eaten by crocodiles. They both looked back at the sandbank, but it was she who shuddered.
“They will have me in the end,” murmured Sheftu. “But meanwhile I need fear nothing else.” He turned to her with a shrug. “I shall cheat them as long as possible, until I am an old, old man. See!”
He extended the wrist from which his amulet dangled. It was a twist of flax thread strung with seven green glazed beads, and knotted seven times. One large flat bead, of carnelian, was inscribed on both sides. Her lips moved as she read the hieroglyphs.
“Oh, thou, who art in the water, behold! It is Osiris who is in the water, and the eye of Horus and the great scarab protect him. . . . Get ye back, beasts of the waters! Do not show your face, for Osiris is floating toward you. . . . Beasts of the waters, your mouth is closed by Ra, your throat is closed by Sechmet, your teeth are broken by Thoth, your eyes are blinded by the great magician. Those four gods protect Osiris and all those who are in the water.”
So she can read, and perhaps write, too! thought Sheftu, again surprised. “You see, I am well protected,” he said aloud.
“Perhaps.” She raised her vivid eyes to his face. They were skeptical.
“You have no faith in magic?”
“I have little faith in anything,” she said carelessly. “But I am glad I do not know how, or when, I am to die.”
“What was the day of your birth?”
“I know not, nor does anyone else. Perhaps I was not born at all, but am a kheft-maiden, as Zasha used to say!”
“Zasha?”
She laughed. “A man I knew once. A stupid fellow. He was convinced I had the Evil Eye.”
“Hai! Stupid he was, indeed! How could evil come from anything so beautiful? Blue is the color of the sky, the lotus, the turquoise. These things are all good.”
She flushed a little; evidently compliments were new in her experience. “You are very trusting on short acquaintance,” she said drily.
“In your case I have good reason,” he assured her, smiling to cover any hidden meaning the remark might have. “But you seem not to trust me. You’ve not even told me your name.”
“My name is Mara.”
“Mara! ‘Truth of Ra.’ You see? Who could distrust one with such a name?”
She laughed, tilting her head to squint up at Ra, the sun god, whose golden bark sailed far westward now toward Libya and the Land of Darkness. Sheftu made use of the moment to study her profile intently. A gamin’s face, he had thought as he watched her in the marketplace. Yes, it was that. Her cheeks were sloping and shadowed, thin with years of hunger; her chin was obstinate and her mouth had a sardonic curve, as though it had learned well to lie. It was a skeptical face, a clever and unscrupulous one. But there was an elusive quality of wistfulness about it that fascinated Sheftu.
He found himself wishing that this Mara, this waif, this runaway, did not have to pass so soon out of his life. Next instant he turned away from her impatiently, wondering if he had lost his mind. T
he life he had chosen as the king’s henchman had no room in it for bright-eyed maidens. Nor did the life he was born to—that of Lord Sheftu, son of the late wealthy noble Menkau—have any place in it for a common slave girl, save to iron his pure-white shentis.
And despite the amulet on his wrist, he doubted whether either life would permit him to cheat for long the crocodiles who were his destiny. He walked these days with death at his elbow.
Frowning, he studied once more the unsolved problem of finding a messenger to send to the king. It was a knotty one. Since the discovery and swift murder of the old palace servant he had used before, the queen’s innumerable spies would be wary of everyone who came within hailing distance of Thutmose. No one would be above suspicion.
Except, he mused, someone from the outside, unknown to king and queen alike and therefore apparently a partisan of neither. . . .
He chewed his lip, playing with the notion. A foreigner? It was an unlikely idea, but he was desperate. What foreigner, then? He thought suddenly of the Canaanite princess. It was possible—but only just. He knew nothing of her, except that her welcome from Thutmose, who would never dream of marrying her, would be chilly indeed. Such a snub would hardly arouse in her undying loyalty toward the king! She might even turn vindictive and bring all his followers’ careful plans tumbling down about their ears. No, thought Sheftu, not the Canaanite princess.
“Your thoughts are not pleasing to you, friend Sheftu?”
He turned quickly. Mara had been watching him, and he was certain at once that no slightest change in his expression had escaped her. She was no fool, this girl.
He smiled and began talking easily of the voyage, of where they would tie up for the night, of the wonders yet to be seen tomorrow. But at the back of his mind an idea was beginning to take form—an idea so startling that he did not even stop to examine it at present. Time enough for that when he was alone to think it out clearly, to test and try it, to make quite sure it was not mad.
Mara, Daughter of the Nile Page 4