Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  “They need it! So do I, by Amon! Yet she’s even taking what I have.”

  Sheftu stopped. “She’s doing what?”

  “Reducing my forces. Cutting down allotments. Refusing to fill my orders for supplies. You didn’t know this?”

  “By the Devourer, no!”

  He listened with growing fury as Khofra explained. The bodyguard, normally two thousand troops, had been reduced by a third even before Khofra had assumed command. In the past two weeks a hundred more had been dismissed, and the pay for those remaining was already five days late.

  “Then about the helmets,” Khofra growled. “A week ago I sent in a requisition for two hundred archer’s helmets, of scarlet leather, well padded and quilted, with a good gold fringe. I needed three hundred, but some of the old ones will serve, though they be shabby enough! This morning the requisition came back—refused. Perhaps she means to send the archers into battle bareheaded? Something must be done.”

  “Something will be done!” snapped Sheftu. “Now. At once. What of the regular Army, those not of the bodyguard? How badly have they dwindled?”

  “By more than half. And as for chariots and horses—” Khofra threw up his hands.

  “That will be the task of our prince,” said Sheftu. “He’ll build the regulars up soon enough, once we’ve set him on his throne. But to set him there we need the bodyguard, full strength and well equipped. And by Amon, we’ll have it! Who rules on these requisitions?”

  “My Lord Nahereh, Master of Armories and of the White Storehouse for Linen. He of the face like a chip of granite. He doles out the pay, too—when there is any.”

  “Nahereh,” said Sheftu thoughtfully. Brother of the Architect himself—a man to be reckoned with. Sheftu knew him only too well. It was not the first time that stony face had stood between him and his goal. He dropped into a chair. “He’s Senmut’s right hand, Haut Khofra—and Senmut’s the queen’s. Obviously she needs the gold elsewhere—for some new extravagance.”

  “Was not her last one folly enough?” snorted Khofra. “I mean the two obelisks. Gods of Egypt! How does the woman conceive these things? Single blocks, unmarred by joints or even chisel marks—”

  “That was merely the beginning,” remarked Sheftu drily. He mimicked: “‘The obelisks are mere dull stone and so unworthy of the Daughter of the Sun. I desire that they reflect—’ By my ka!” he burst out suddenly. “There’s her need for gold! Did you know, Haut Khofra, that she is casing the shafts in electrum?”

  Khofra’s shaggy eyebrows soared. “Those man-made mountains? Impossible!”

  “Aye. Our queen is fond of the impossible. Gold and silver over every inch of those monster slabs—I saw them at work on it myself, only a few days ago. By this time, I’ll wager, they’re working up near the roof and Egypt’s treasury’s nigh empty.”

  “Small wonder she needs funds!”

  Sheftu was on his feet, stalking about the bare little room. “She’ll not steal them from the bodyguard. Look you, my general. It’s clear how this came about. The queen fretting for more gold—the Architect as usual scheming out a solution. ‘Most Glorious Majesty, why feed and clothe two thousand idle soldiers in time of peace? Riffraff, eating their bellies full at Your Radiance’s expense! And it is my brother Nahereh who holds the purse strings. . . .’ Aiii! He’ll wish he’d held his peace!”

  Sheftu paused beside his chair, fingers drumming upon its back. A smile was beginning to curve the corners of his mouth.

  “But what can you do?” put in Khofra.

  “I can see the queen. I can inform her, with the gravest concern, of the bodyguard’s condition. I can thank Amon repeatedly, and loudly, that I discovered the situation before it was too late—”

  “You mean she doesn’t know of it?”

  “Of course she knows! But my general, if I behave like one saving her from disaster, she will not admit she knows. She will first try to find out what is so wrong with Senmut’s little scheme.”

  “And what will you tell her?”

  Sheftu smiled. “Haut Khofra, Her Radiance the Daughter of the Sun fears one thing only—the loss of her throne. Suppose it were suggested to her that Senmut’s motives might not be pure—that he might have reasons to wish her bodyguard depleted, her protection undermined. . . .”

  “She would never believe it! Not of her precious Architect!”

  “No? Do you remember Nehse, who commanded her great expedition to Punt a few years back? Do you remember Thuti, once Lord High Treasurer—and Neb-iry, only recently Grand Overseer of her temple? Whatever happened to those great favorites of hers, Haut Khofra? Strange how they have dropped out of sight—forever.”

  Khofra shot a sidelong glance at him. “I know nothing of such matters, my lord. But I do know these men commanded projects close to her heart. She has never taken a moment’s interest in her bodyguard!”

  “She is about to begin,” retorted Sheftu. “I’ll wager you a gold chain, my general, that an hour from now the palace bodyguard will have become the consuming interest of Hatshepsut’s life—and Senmut an unhappy man.”

  Khofra’s skeptical old eyes met Sheftu’s across the room, and gradually the doubt cleared away from them. He chuckled, and as the shrill blast of a bugle pierced the silence, he rose, buckled on his quilted cuirass, and exchanged his square-cut wig for a leather helmet. “I wish you luck with it, my friend,” he said. “I’m no magician, as you seem to be. But get me men and I’ll give you soldiers—that I can promise.”

  With a nod of farewell he stepped out the door which opened onto the parade ground, and joined the two aides who awaited him there. For a moment Sheftu stood watching the ranks of copper-skinned foot soldiers file by the old general in the brilliant sunlight. They were few indeed. As the chariots bearing the archers followed, he could spot horses gone lame, damaged wheels, bareheaded men.

  Smiling grimly, he strode out of the building, across the barracks yard, and into the palace gardens by the nearest gate.

  When he emerged, an hour later, it was with the jaunty step of a man whose time has not been wasted. He signaled a groom to fetch his chariot and stood savoring the fresh breeze and the thought of the interview just past, feeling more invigorated than he had for weeks. It was even possible he might enjoy Lord Merab’s party on the morrow. . . .

  A baldpated little man in the garb of a priest appeared suddenly from nowhere, cast an idle look about him, then stopping a pace or two from Sheftu, stooped to adjust his sandal.

  Sheftu’s heart gave a leap, and the party fled from his mind. He turned his back to the little man, but edged closer. He was rewarded by a whisper.

  “Tomorrow. The hour of the fifth mark.”

  Baldpate vanished, leaving Sheftu staring casually into the middle distance with everything in him in an uproar. When his chariot arrived he failed to notice it. Turning on his heel, he hurried into the labyrinth of palace gardens, in search of Mara.

  * * *

  • • •

  “There,” murmured Inanni. “That lamb is finished now. Only one more and the shawl will be done. What think you of it, Mara?”

  At the other end of the garden bench, Mara interrupted her fascinated study of the ring on her finger to inspect the square of embroidery Inanni held up. She smiled. Inanni had worked a careful picture in colored threads—a green hillside dotted with lambs and a sleeping shepherd, with the square tower of a Syrian temple showing beyond.

  “It is beautiful, my princess.”

  “But not so beautiful as the hill in my memory. . . .” Inanni sighed and plucked another skein of white wool from the workbasket.

  After a moment Mara rose and strolled down to the pool in the center of the tiny garden, dropped down on the soft grass beside its rim, and once more fell to studying the ring. It was the heavy electrum band with the jeweled lotuses, the ring Sheftu had given her on th
e ship. She knew well it was dangerous folly to wear it, since it was supposed to have left her possession long ago, as a bribe for that “friend” in Abydos. One glimpse of it and Sheftu would merely wait his moment to cut her throat.

  But how the eyes of those high-and-mighty palace servants had popped when they noticed it this morning! Mara grinned at the memory. It was worth a little danger to lord it over them occasionally—especially the supercilious butler who looked down his nose at her whenever he caught her slipping her sandals off. He would think twice next time about whom he snubbed!

  She turned the ring thoughtfully on her finger, wishing she had given in earlier to the temptation to put that butler in his place. For already she was convinced that the ring bore some potent charm. All morning good luck had followed her, smoothed her way, made easy the most difficult situations. Think of this morning’s audience with the king! If that was not luck—

  “Mara,” said Inanni suddenly. “Someone is coming. It is the young nobleman of the lotus garden! Ah, would he not be handsome with a beard?”

  Mara had swung around, spied Sheftu striding up the red graveled path, snatched the ring from her finger, and stuffed it into her sash before Inanni had finished speaking. Now she rose, brushed off her skirt with trembling hands, and sauntered forward as nonchalantly as she could.

  “A beard?” she murmured. “I—I had never thought of it, Highness.”

  It was all right, he couldn’t have noticed that quick motion, and the folds of her sash concealed the hard little lump underneath it. She faced Sheftu composedly as he stopped before them, smiling.

  “Princess, rejoice.” His long hand moved from his lips to his forehead in a gesture of careless grace. “I bear pharaoh’s greetings. Her Radiance inquires after the welfare of the Princess of Canaan.”

  For the first time in four days his eyes had come alive. Something had happened. Mara translated hastily.

  “Tell him I am content,” Inanni murmured.

  “She is content. What is it, Sheftu? Tell me, for the love of Amon!”

  “The signal has come. I have instructions for you. Say something to the princess.”

  “Highness, his excellency wishes to know if—”

  “Mara.” Inanni was facing her, an odd, nervous determination in her manner. “I do not want to talk to this young man, nor does he want to talk to me. Please, will you not—relieve me of the burden? I have an errand elsewhere.”

  “But Highness!”

  “Please, Mara.” Inanni put a hand on Mara’s arm and looked her full in the eyes. “The summerhouse yonder is empty, and no one comes here. You will be quite alone.”

  She snatched her workbasket from the bench and hurried across the garden and through the gate, leaving Mara staring after her.

  “What is this?” demanded Sheftu in a low voice.

  “I don’t know. Quite often lately she makes some excuse to slip away from me—I think she goes to see a Syrian woman in the Court of the Weavers. But it is strange that she would do that now. . . .” Mara whirled back to him, suddenly excited. “No matter! Should we question when Amon smiles on us? We’re free to talk, if you want to risk it. She spoke truth—no one comes here.”

  Sheftu flashed a quick glance around the garden, then took Mara’s arm and hurried her toward the little summerhouse which stood at the far end of the pool in a clump of acacia trees. It was a light wooden structure, little more than a stone platform and a roof, but vines clambered thick over its three latticed walls, and its open front faced a little away from the gate, so that once inside it, they could see without being seen. Mara sat down on a cushioned stool, looking about her with delight. All was cool green here, speckled with moving sunlight—little flakes and pellets of gold which sifted through the vines to dance agitatedly over Sheftu’s white robes and her own and the painted floor, whenever the breeze stirred the leaves.

  “Amon smiles indeed!” murmured Sheftu, placing another stool where he could watch the gate. “Something is bringing us good fortune.”

  Mara, aware of the hard little lump of the ring pressing against her waist, was quite sure she knew what that something was. But she said only, “It’s been a day of good fortune for me!”

  “What else has happened?”

  “I’ve been longing to tell you. Bless Inanni for giving me the chance! We saw the king this morning—at last. As you know, I’ve been trying for three days.”

  “Did he not say you could arrange for an audience whenever—”

  “Aye, but it isn’t as easy as it sounds! One has to find the proper chamberlain, tell him one lie, and Inanni another—”

  Sheftu cut her off impatiently, glancing toward the gate. “No matter. Say on, maid—the rest of it.”

  “The rest was no easy task either! I had to give him your message somehow, with the room full of people. . . . Aye, I know he sent them all away last time, but I suppose he didn’t dare to do that twice, for fear of making them suspicious. They’re all spies, Sheftu.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “From the way he glares at them.” Mara shrugged, skipped nimbly over why the room had not been cleared, a feat which she had herself accomplished with no small difficulty, and hurried on. “Be that as it may, they were all there, and I had to think fast, I promise you! It was Inanni who saved me—she and the sketches.”

  “Sketches?”

  Mara grinned, pausing a moment to enjoy his bewilderment. She was relishing the whole situation—the secluded little arbor, the danger, their lowered voices, and most of all her secret amusement at how different this tale would sound when she told it to her master. “Aye, the sketches. They were all over the table when we came in the room—sheets and scraps of papyrus and a clutter of pens and ink, and they were all drawings of vases.”

  Sheftu’s face cleared. “Ast! The vases. They are a pastime of the king’s. His hand is skilled with the artist’s pen.”

  “So Inanni was saying when he walked into the room. ‘If His Highness has drawn these, Mara, then he is an artist of great talent. They are the most beautiful things I have seen in Egypt.’ And behold, there he stood, hearing every word. I know not which was the more surprised. Inanni’s cheeks rivaled the hues of her shawls.”

  Sheftu was grinning. “And was he flattered?”

  “By my ka, I believe he was. At least it caused him to think of her as a human being, instead of a Syrian cow. For a moment I thought he was going to forget and speak to her in Babylonian, and then alas for Mara! But he stopped in time and bade me ask her which sketch she liked best.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “Aye, and she picked one, though she was frightened out of her senses, and all her embroideries trembling.” Mara pantomimed Inanni’s gesture, extending a timidly pointing finger and then jerking it away as if something had bitten it.

  “And then?” chuckled Sheftu.

  “He laughed, as you might guess, and folded his arms, after his manner.” Mara sat very erect, folded her own arms, and momentarily became the king. “‘Overornate,’ he said, ‘and a little vulgar. Ai, well, being Syrian she cannot help her taste. Tell her I will have it made up in yellow alabaster and delivered to her, with my compliments.’”

  “By Amon! It is well no one but myself sees you mimic him thus!” exclaimed Sheftu a little grimly. “You might forfeit that impudent tongue of yours.”

  “Nay, I mean no impudence. I but tell you how it happened. Indeed, I’d not mock him, Sheftu. I was naught but pleased by what he had done for my poor princess. Her face shone as if someone had lit a torch inside her. It has made her heart light all day, I think.”

  “You seem fond of this barbarian,” observed Sheftu, leaning backward to peer cautiously toward the gate.

  “It may be I am. I pity her, she is so lonely and homesick, and so far from home.”

  Sheftu turned, a mixture
of amusement and impatience on his face. “Do we risk our necks here to talk about the Canaanite? I would hear more of this lucky morning of yours.”

  “Aye, you shall. But I crave a promise of you, Sheftu. When all this is finished, and the king wears his crown—will you send Inanni again to Canaan? Say you will. Her fate can mean naught to you, whether in Egypt or Syria—”

  “She shall sail to the end of the world if you like, but proceed with your story! What have the sketches to do with you?”

  “I passed your message by means of them.” His promise gained, Mara was willing and eager to go on. “Ai, that was a fine bit of sleight of hand, though I praise my own wits! Remember the message? ‘He of the fan and he of the feather have come into our house.’ Of course I know not what it signifies,” added Mara innocently, though she had figured out long since that it meant the queen’s fanbearer and some other great noble—possibly a judge, whose symbol was the Feather of Truth—had been persuaded to swear allegiance to the king. “But I wagered His Highness would know well enough. I juggled the conversation with a skill that would have shamed Sahure, until we spoke again of the sketches, then I stepped forward, ai, so impulsively, and snatched a pen and drew a little design as a suggestion for some future vase—and lo, it was a fan and a feather, beside a house bearing the king’s cartouche!”

  “Very good indeed,” said Sheftu, who had been grinning as he listened. “A fine tale, and told by one who does not believe in ruining things with false modesty. I congratulate you, little one, on your cleverness, your sagacity, your—”

  “Oh, hold your tongue! Could you have done better?”

  He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nay, perhaps not as well. I doubt if—” Suddenly his face went stiff with attention as the sound of voices drifted to them from somewhere just beyond the garden wall. He twisted for a quick glance toward the gate, then sprang up silently and pulled Mara with him to the dimmest corner of the summerhouse. As they stood there, flattened against the latticed wall, the voices grew more distinct, and footsteps crunched on the graveled path.