Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  Moreover, she had not yet caught a glimpse of her new master, or of Sheftu, either; therefore nothing whatever was required of her, save luxurious lounging. Life was so perfect it was in danger of becoming monotonous.

  On the eleventh morning after their arrival she was awakened, as usual, by Inanni’s frightened call. Smiling through her yawn, Mara slipped from her couch and hurried into the adjoining room.

  “Come now, my princess!” she soothed. “It is only the maidservant, to bring thy fruit and greet the day with thee. Cease thy cowering, or she will laugh about thee in the servants’ hall!”

  Inanni reluctantly loosed her grasp on the bedclothes and sat up, still eyeing the maid with distrust. “She looks sidewise at me, down her nose, as if she were the queen herself!” she complained.

  “Nonsense! Her father was likely a stonecutter, or at best a groom in the royal stables. What would thy brothers say?” Mara turned to the servant, who had set down her bowl of fruit and waited now for dismissal. It was true that her painted eyes held an insolent gleam—any Egyptian felt superior to a barbarian.

  “Why are your hands at your sides?” inquired Mara coldly.

  The servant’s eyes met hers and lost their mockery. Hastily her right hand went to her left shoulder.

  “Better! It is possible I will not mention your miserable name to Hatshepsut the Glorious—provided you show proper deference to your princess after this.”

  “Excellency, live forever!” gasped the girl, turning white. “You would not—I never meant—”

  “Dismissed,” Mara cut her off. The servant prostrated herself and then fled.

  Mara was inwardly convulsed. Oh, marvelously done! she thought. Did ever a slave so beautifully subdue a free maid? How she would rage if she knew who it is that plays the great lady!

  She turned back to find Inanni regarding her with both gratitude and admiration. “Mara, what did you say to her?”

  “Only that you are the Princess Inanni, and must be treated so. Do not think of her, she is as a beetle under your sandal. Come, perfume your mouth with the figs and grapes she has brought you. It will soon be time for the bath.”

  Inanni’s face fell dismally at the prospect. But she climbed down from her high couch, being careful to stay well away from the gleaming teeth of the beasts who supported it. A few minutes later she was hungrily eating a fig, and mourning the skimpiness of Egyptian breakfasts.

  “Why, in my homeland we have bread, and good meat. Here, you do not even dignify it by the name of breakfast, but call it ‘the perfuming of the mouth’!”

  “We do not think of it as a meal,” said Mara, smiling. “Lift up your head, Rose of Canaan, perhaps your summons from pharaoh will come today.”

  “It should have come before! Have they forgotten they sent for me?”

  “Nay, of course not! No doubt Her Majesty is allowing you time to recover from your journey. Now do not brood about it, we will do something different this morning. My little slave tells me there are gardens we have not yet visited, also that there is a pavilion on the roof, from which—” She stopped. The tapestry curtaining the doorway into her own bedchamber had stirred noticeably—and there was no draft. “From which one can see the entire city,” she finished evenly. She put down a bunch of grapes, untasted. “Meanwhile, with your highness’ leave, I will retire to bathe and dress.”

  Summoning two of the Syrian women to divert the princess, she walked to the curtained doorway and with a sudden motion pushed aside the hangings. The room was as empty as when she had left it. She stepped inside, letting the tapestry fall behind her. The bedclothes were still in a snarl on the lion-legged couch, the chest and littered dressing table stood, undisturbed, against the wall bright with painted golden butterflies. The doors to both bath chamber and hall were closed and blank.

  Yet those hangings had moved.

  She flung off her night robe, wondering why it had not occurred to her before that a spy might have been set to keep a watch on her. Sheftu had openly admitted that he trusted her no farther than tomorrow, and as for that stony-eyed master of hers . . .

  She frowned, realized she had been rapidly putting on her own clothes. Ast! Was she trying to reveal herself for what she was? Just as rapidly, she stripped the garments off, put on her night robe again, and clapped her hands for her slave.

  The little brown maiden flung open the hall door so promptly that Mara gave her a sharp look. Was she the spy, then? No, surely not. The child was no more than twelve years old, with a face as innocent as a flower. Mara pitied her suddenly, remembering how it felt, at twelve, to stand motionless for hours in some corridor, waiting for the clap of hands.

  “Hast been impatient, little Nesi? Go, then, make ready my bath. We’ll soon be done here.”

  When the girl had disappeared into the bath chamber, Mara glanced around once more, uneasily searching for some clue to her uninvited visitor. On a sudden thought she went to the little carved chest and raised its lid. At first she saw nothing amiss. Then she dropped to her knees, lifting with cautious fingers a fold of the topmost garment. Under it lay a common honey cake—the sort sold in the streets of Menfe by the bakers’ boys.

  She picked it up, frowning. It had not been there before, of that she was certain. She turned it over, scanned it top and bottom, and finally broke it open. There in its flaky middle was a scrap of papyrus. In a trice she was reading the tiny hieroglyphs.

  “A princess enjoys the lotus garden in the cool of the evening.”

  That was all it said. Thoughtfully Mara tore it into a dozen pieces, and after some hesitation, dropped the scraps into a tall alabaster vase that stood in one corner. Even if they were pieced together, they would seem but a fragment from some scribe’s copybook. She ate the honey cake, dusted the crumbs from her fingers, and went to take her bath.

  Very cleverly done, she thought as she lay on the rubbing-table enjoying the ministrations of the capable little Nesi. So there was no spy, only a summons to walk this evening with the princess Inanni in one of the palace gardens—one with a lotus pool. Perhaps she could locate it from that roof pavilion Nesi had mentioned. But which master had sent the summons? It would be like Sheftu to identify himself with the honey cake—he had seen her stealing cakes that day in Menfe. Still, so had the Stone-Faced One. She remembered his acid remark: “Remember, I am no stupid baker’s apprentice. Should the chain—and you—disappear somehow between here and the wharfs, it would be . . . regrettable.”

  Well, she had not made off with his golden chain, nor had she deceived him in any way. On the contrary, he would have good reason to be pleased with her when they met again. There was no need to be afraid of him. None at all. She had the information he wanted, more than he’d ever hoped to get. . . .

  Mara found she was no longer enjoying her massage. Rising abruptly, she led the way back to the bedroom. Should it be not Sheftu but her master awaiting her in the lotus garden tonight, her stay at the palace would be over almost before it began. And that would be regrettable too—especially for Sheftu.

  * * *

  • • •

  One mention of the cooling north breeze to be found on the roof was enough to arouse Inanni’s enthusiasm for a visit there. At midmorning she and Mara, accompanied only by little Nesi, made their way through a maze of halls, up an outside stairway, and out onto the terraced loggia. It was cool and windy, strewn with soft couches and shaded by a great canopy set on beribboned columns. Here and there rose wide-mouthed air scoops which sent the breeze down into the sleeping chambers below. Mara walked to the balustrade and leaned forward upon her elbows. From here, two stories up, one had a wide view of the sunlit labyrinth of courtyards, passages, groves, and gardens enclosed by the palace walls. Her strolls with Inanni had showed her only a fraction of them.

  “Look, my princess!” she exclaimed. “Your new home.”

  Inanni looke
d, trembled, and moved uneasily away. Mara watched her for a moment, half-pitying, half-contemptuous, then turned back to the balustrade. Which garden? There were so many! She made a slow circuit of the roof, almost dismayed at the expanse of the palace grounds and their complexity. Save for the huge guardroom, the entire ground floor of the Golden House was devoted to workshops, kitchens, and storerooms. Among and beyond these were walled gardens in bewildering profusion—and every one of them had its lotus pool.

  But as she rounded the corner to the north side, she saw what she wanted. It was the largest garden of all, with a pool the very shape of a lotus bud almost overflowing with the blue lilies, and more of them painted along its rim.

  Satisfied, she was about to turn away when she chanced to raise her eyes beyond the walls. “Ai, blessed Osiris!” she breathed. “Highness, come to this side if you would see Thebes! There it lies. . . .”

  Inanni joined her at the balustrade and together they looked out over the vast spread of the city. The palace stood near the Nile’s west bank, within view of the queen’s magnificent temple, which stood, low, colonnaded, and gleaming white in the dazzling sunlight, far back against the golden cliffs. Mara could see the green incense terraces Nekonkh had helped bring into being; from them the desert descended in two broad benches to the level of the valley, then the Necropolis—a belt of low, dust-colored buildings housing the embalmers, coffin makers, stonecutters, glass blowers, weavers, and all other craftsmen whose work was devoted to the tombs—stretched on to join the emerald fields of the flower growers, which in turn extended to the river.

  The river divided the city like a silver blade, and was dotted with every size and shape of vessel. Behind the slow-moving sails rose the high east bank and Thebes proper—a maze of white buildings flooded with sun, from whose flagstaffs and massive temple pylons red and white banners waved like beckoning fingers. Every surface sparkled with color and the glint of gold; roofs stretched eastward under the brilliant blue sky as far as the eye could reach.

  Mara propped her chin on her hands, drinking it all in. A marvelous city! Grander than Menfe, gayer than Abydos—and even wickeder, it was said, than Bubastis on the lower Nile. It filled her with excitement.

  Around the palace itself a small town had grown up, composed largely of the white-walled villas of Egypt’s great nobles, and a few of the finest craftsmen’s and goldsmiths’ studios. Mara stared at the chariots flashing along the stone-paved streets, at the palms thrusting up like plumes from invisible pleasure gardens, and wondered if one of those grand houses belonged to Lord Sheftu.

  “Ai, what a life they lead, those great ones! Think, my princess, you are one of them now, and live in the Center of the World. Is it not a glorious city you have come to after all your journeying?”

  “I hate it,” whispered Inanni.

  Startled, Mara swung around. Inanni was gripping the balustrade, her plump face white with misery. Her eyes swerved away from Mara’s astonished ones, as though she were frightened to have spoken her mind for once. But she went on recklessly. “It is too big, and too full of buildings! In my homeland there are plains and green pastures, and the tents of the shepherds shine in the sun, and the flocks graze all about. . . . It is not like this in any way! All speak my language there, but here all are strangers to me and know not my ways, and I know not theirs. . . .”

  “What does that matter? Think, you are to be the bride of royalty! Of a prince of Egypt!”

  “The king has not sent for me.”

  “But he will!” Mara could not help laughing a little. “Meanwhile, have you not all you could desire? Slaves, and comforts, and a home in the Golden House itself? Take heart! It is not possible you could be homesick!”

  “Is it not?” Inanni turned, gathering the folds of her heavy shawl, and made an effort to smile. She had never looked gawkier, or more defenseless, but suddenly she was not funny at all. “I suppose it is not. You have been good to me, Mara, and speak to me in my own tongue and explain things, and try to teach me to be Egyptian. But I fear I am no credit to you. I cannot help longing for the plains of Syria, and the voices of my brothers.”

  She broke off, tears welling into her eyes, then moved abruptly to the other side of the pavilion. Mara turned away too, no longer amused at a ridiculous barbarian but sorry for a homesick maid, with all her heart.

  Suddenly, above the voices of the doves in the palace eaves and the faint, melodious creaking of waterwheels in the fields, there came a new sound—far, high, piercing. Mara looked up. There above her in the radiant vault of the sky a great bird soared—Horus, the falcon, the god, the symbol of royalty. As she watched, it closed its powerful wings and dropped like a plummet upon a desert lark just spiraling upward from the meadows. The lark’s melody was choked off in mid-trill; again the great wings beat and the falcon wheeled off toward Libya. Its triumphant scream, seven notes on a descending scale, trailed after it like a banner. Mara was still breathless from the beauty and cruelty of its attack when an exclamation from Inanni made her whirl around.

  A chamberlain had emerged from the door to the stairway. He advanced to Inanni with measured tread and bowed stiffly.

  “Princess, rejoice. The Glorious One, Daughter of Ra Most High, Horus of Gold and Great God of the Land of the Double Kingdom, commands your presence.”

  “Mara?” quavered the princess, taking an uncertain step backward.

  But Mara was already hurrying to her side. “Quick, Highness! Send little Nesi to summon your women. We must go down at once—it is the audience with the queen!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Her Majesty, the Pharaoh

  A sudden hush fell upon the crowd in the huge, colonnaded guardroom, and all heads turned in one direction. Courtiers, priests, glittering ladies, and grouchy ambassadors fell back silently to make room for the procession which had entered from the courtyard at the far end of the hall.

  The chamberlain, tapping his long beribboned wand, paced first. Inanni followed him, with Mara close by her side and the twelve Syrians at her heels. Slowly they moved down the long aisle of watching faces, past all the supercilious, painted eyes and quirking lips, past the arched brows, the murmurs behind hands, the disdainful shrugs—down the whole shining length of the room.

  It was the worst ordeal Inanni had had to face, and this one she met like a princess. Mara, close beside her, could feel the plump arm quaking under its gaudy, thick draperies. But Inanni held her chin high and kept her eyes unwaveringly on the back of the chamberlain’s neck. Perhaps she was thinking of her brothers.

  There was an antechamber to pass through before they stood in front of the tall, bronze doors. Here the chamberlain faced them and rattled off a list of instructions concerning court etiquette of which Mara translated only the least confusing. Then, at last, the doors swung open; the chamberlain stepped forward and flung himself on his face, intoning: “Behold, the majesty of the Black Land! Horus of Gold, Enduring of Kingship, Splendid of Diadems, Ruler of Lower and Upper Egypt, Enduring-of-form-is-Ra, Makere Hatshepsut! May the god live forever!”

  Mara, suddenly trembling from head to foot, advanced beside Inanni until they stood inside the room. There, across a stretch of gleaming pavement, stood a raised dais framed by two exquisitely painted columns. Upon the dais rested a great throne fashioned entirely of shimmering electrum—and on the throne sat a woman so coldly beautiful that it took away the breath to gaze on her.

  She sat stiffly, her glittering dark eyes fixed, her hands holding emblems shining with gold and enamel. Fluted linen, fine as a cobweb, enveloped her like mist; she was weighted with jewels. Upon her flawlessly modeled chin was tied the narrow ceremonial beard denoting kingship, and upon her head rested the heavy red and white double crown of the Two Kingdoms, with the golden cobra curving out over her brow.

  Woman or not, there sat the awesome majesty of Egypt, the sun god incarnate. The entire procession fell to i
ts knees; fourteen foreheads, Mara’s among them, touched the cold tiles of the floor.

  “Lift up your head, Princess of Syria,” said Hatshepsut. “You may approach my majesty.”

  Her voice was high and metallic. Mara felt the glittering eyes upon her even before she raised her own, with an effort, to meet them. Pharaoh had not relaxed her godlike rigidity, but she had turned her head, and her scrutiny was so thorough, so impersonal, that it made Mara feel like a bird on a spit.

  “You may speak, Interpreter,” added the queen impatiently.

  Mara tried, and failed. In a panic she swallowed, tried again, and this time managed to inform Inanni that she was to rise and walk forward.

  “What shall I say, Mara?” came the princess’ frightened whisper as she reluctantly obeyed. “Say it for me, please—”

  “May Hatshepsut the Glorious—endure forever,” stammered Mara. “The princess Inanni presents her respects to your Radiance.”

  The queen permitted herself a coldly gracious smile. Then to Mara’s infinite relief, the probing eyes were withdrawn from her, and Hatshepsut turned her entire attention to Inanni. There followed conventional questions as to her comfort, congratulations on the successful voyage, assurances that she need only speak to have anything she desired.

  Mara was breathing more easily now; the nervous sweat had dried on the palms of her hands, and she had regained the use of her tongue. As she translated the stilted phrases she began to be aware of other people in the room. They were standing all about the walls, motionless as shadows, but here and there the twinkle of gold as a head turned, or the flash of jewels from a lifted hand, gave proof that they were people and not painted images.