Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  “And have you had audience with His Highness, your bridegroom?” inquired Hatshepsut.

  Scarcely waiting for Inanni’s almost inaudible reply, she spoke with a malicious smile to someone standing to her right and slightly behind her, on the dais itself. “What think you, Count Senmut? Is she not all we expected, and even more?”

  So that is Count Senmut! thought Mara. Curiously and with awe she studied the most powerful figure in Egypt—a spare, big-shouldered man wearing a twist of amulets about his throat. The queen seemed ageless, but Senmut’s darkly handsome face mirrored all the struggle and scheming of her eighteen years upon the throne. His smile, faint though it was, carved harsh furrows from his flaring nostrils to the corners of his mouth; his eyes were rapacious.

  He bent to murmur something to the queen, and she laughed. “Aye, it will be a sight. A pity she will not enjoy it. Interpreter, inform the princess that she may expect to meet her bridegroom very soon.”

  As Mara obeyed, Hatshepsut lifted a slim hand loaded with rings, and beckoned lazily to someone who stood half hidden in the shadows beside the throne. Next instant every word of Babylonian she knew fled from Mara’s mind. It was Sheftu who stepped forward, with his leopard’s grace—but a far, far different Sheftu from the man who had lounged beside her while the sails slapped and the sun sparkled on the river. This one wore royal linen as casually as the other had worn his simple shenti; his dark features were arrogant against a headcloth of woven gold. There was gold on his ankles, his arms, and his long, sinewy fingers, and a blaze of emeralds at his throat. Here was the great noble she had tried, and failed, to picture—a lord of creation, as remote from her as pharaoh herself. Only the amulet on his left wrist was unchanged, and its curiously knotted flax threads and familiar beads gave her a feeling akin to homesickness, for he who wore it seemed a stranger.

  Then, for just an instant, his eyes met hers, and a delicious warmth stole over her. I was wrong, she thought. This is the same who once held me in his arms, though he would not kiss me . . . the very same, by the beard of Ptah, whose grand rich life I hold in the palm of my guttersnipe’s hand this minute!

  “Send word to Thutmose today,” Hatshepsut was murmuring, “that he must receive this Syrian at once. You yourself, Lord Sheftu, arrange for the marriage as soon as may be, and we will have done with her. How stupid and vulgar she is in her tasteless wrappings! A fit consort for my surly half brother, think you not? Hai! How I would like to see that meeting—he will grow red in the face, and hurl vases and ornaments to the floor, and pace up and down in his endless pacings, as he always does.” Hatshepsut smiled. “Nevertheless, he will obey me—as he always does.”

  If her venom enraged Sheftu, he gave no hint of it. His expression was as smoothly controlled as his bow. No more than an inclination of the head was required for his exalted rank, and he bent not a hair lower.

  “Pharaoh’s name is glorious,” he remarked amiably—without specifying, Mara noticed, whether it was Hatshepsut or Thutmose to whom he gave the title. “All shall be as pharaoh desires.”

  “You are ever trustworthy, Lord Sheftu.” Hatshepsut smiled on him, and he smiled winsomely back. “And now, my lord, if you will provide our fat princess with refreshment . . .”

  He made a careless gesture; at once lackeys bearing sweetmeats and garlanded jars of wine converged on Inanni, then passed through the ranks of the courtiers, who obediently came to life, clinking their wine cups with the rigidly correct, stilted movements which made court etiquette a sort of elegant ballet. Sheftu turned away and walked—almost sauntered—back to his place, arrogant and assured. Not for him the puppetlike movements of these lesser beings.

  Mara, still on her knees behind the princess, watched him and admired his daring. Suddenly her eyes riveted on a half-shadowed figure just beyond him. For the second time she felt the shock of a familiar face, but this time the sensation was distinctly unpleasant. For there, grim-faced as the Devourer himself, stood her mysterious new master.

  For a moment the man’s cold visage held her fascinated. Did he ever change expression? Just so he had looked when he offered her riches and danger back in Menfe. Just so he would still look while he watched the slow death of that gold-decked young renegade beside him. How would they kill Sheftu, once they knew? He could not hope for the mercy of the strangler—not while Hatshepsut and her wily Architect ruled the Black Land. He would more likely meet the torturer’s stake. Or perhaps—Mara had a feeling this would please Count Senmut—perhaps they would bow to Sheftu’s ultimate destiny and feed him to the crocodiles; those long, sinister brown-green shapes with their pale mouths wide open, waiting. Just one word from her . . .

  I cannot do it! was her first thought. But her second was, Aye, you can do it—since you must.

  But was there any need for haste?

  The thought calmed her. It would be pleasant to stay at the Golden House a little longer, she told herself. I will not speak quite yet. Later, aye, so be it, but not yet!

  At that a new fear struck her. If she delayed, who knew how the cat might jump? It was possible Hatshepsut had met her match in this clever Sheftu. Given a little time, he might bring his plans to maturity and snatch that gleaming throne and give it to his king. Ai! Then what would happen to the queen’s favorites and their gold—and the dreams of the princess Inanni’s interpreter?

  Mara knew only too well. Her only sure safety lay in serving her master. But as she looked from him to the indolently lounging Lord Sheftu, it was hard to choose. . . .

  The solution that sprang into her mind next instant was so simple, so obvious, that she all but laughed aloud. She would not choose! Why make a choice between these two when each thought her his ally, his bonded slave? Why not play both ends against the middle—serve both, meanwhile serving only herself? Then, when the cat jumped, she would jump with it! Ah, the opportunities that opened for one who knew how to use her wits!

  She started at the sound of the queen’s voice. “Dismiss the lackeys, Count Senmut. I think this Syrian does not like our wine.” The servants withdrew, and Hatshepsut spoke again, this time to Mara. “Bid the princess farewell. May the gods of Egypt and Syria go with her. And offer her my majesty’s felicitations on her coming marriage—which will surely be a joyous one.”

  The voice dripped mockery, and the beautiful lips twisted in a smile remarkably like the one carving furrows on the dark countenance of Count Senmut, behind her. Mara felt her optimism drain away in spite of all she could do, and the sight of the white mask which was Inanni’s face lowered her spirits still further. Friendless, homesick, unfortunate princess! Small wonder she had been unable to swallow the wine.

  Inanni managed to stammer out her thanks and farewells, and Mara translated with an effort. Hatshepsut nodded, and her smile grew broader; she began to laugh deep in her throat. The sound grew in volume until the chamber was filled with it. Mara found herself remembering the scream of Horus, the royal falcon, as he plummeted down from the sky that morning to seize the lark. Her flesh was creeping as she rose from her knees at last to back slowly toward the door beside the pallid Inanni.

  For the queen, still laughing, had raised her gold-and-enameled scepter. The audience was over.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lion in a Snare

  Inanni’s summons from her intended bridegroom came within the hour. By that time the effect of the queen’s laughter had worn off, leaving Mara free of forebodings and once more impudently confident of herself and her wits. And anticipation of the ironic encounter just ahead, in which she herself would become the messenger she had been ordered to discover and betray, fairly intoxicated her. What delicious mischief! It was really too bad there was no one to enjoy it but herself.

  But then, she reflected, neither Sheftu nor her granite-jawed master would be likely to see the humor of the situation.

  Poor Inanni, having no secret deviltries to buoy her up, wa
s in low spirits indeed. It was all Mara could do to convince her that she must submit to more unreasonable washing and hair combing, and be ready after the noon meal to present herself to the king.

  But Mara had a firm way with her, and the food did much to restore the princess’ quailing spirits. So when enough water had trickled into the water clock to raise the level to the proper mark, Inanni rose, and accompanied by Mara and two of the Syrian women, followed another chamberlain through gleaming halls wainscoted in gold leaf, through gardens and passages and rooms of state to the apartments of the king.

  It was easy to see the position to which Thutmose had been reduced in this stronghold of his sister’s. His rooms were lavish and his slaves numerous, but the atmosphere of his apartments was that of a luxurious prison. The guards, one felt, were less to keep intruders out than to keep Thutmose in.

  As for the interview itself, it was quite lacking in the ceremonious pomp that had characterized the queen’s audience. Thutmose inspired not awe, but sound respect, as Mara found when he strode into the room, attended by only a couple of slaves and a scribe. He was a short, powerfully built man with the nose of a conqueror, vigorous and restless in all his movements. As soon as she saw him Mara began to understand Sheftu’s fanatic loyalty, for the fire in those direct brown eyes caught the imagination and held it.

  “So this is the barbarian!” he growled, stopping before Inanni and letting his scornful gaze travel over her. “Monstrous! Exactly the bride I would expect my insufferable sister to choose for me—as though I would heed any choice of hers! Pah! Send the wretched creature away!”

  He turned and started back toward the room he had just quitted, then changed his mind and swung around to Mara. “Who may you be?” he demanded.

  “Mara, the interpreter,” breathed the girl in relief. For a moment she had thought the interview already ended, and her chance lost.

  “Interpreter? What need of that? I know Babylonian, though I care not for it overmuch. A mumbling language!”

  Mara thought fast. Already he was poised to leave again, and he must not!

  She bent her head deferentially. “Even Her Most Glorious Majesty must have realized that His Highness would not deign to speak to this lowly Syrian in her own tongue.”

  The words pleased him. He wrung few enough concessions from his iron-willed sister; even this indirect acknowledgment of his royal status was a victory of sorts. He looked at Mara with more interest.

  “Hatshepsut is right, for once,” he remarked. “However, even with an interpreter at hand, I have naught to say to this—this goatherd’s daughter. You might tell her that I have no intention of marrying her, now or ever.”

  Mara turned reluctantly to Inanni, who was staring miserably at the floor. She had not needed to understand his words to know that Thutmose despised her. His first scornful scrutiny had told her that.

  “My princess,” began Mara, then found she could not speak the crushing phrases. “His Highness presents his warmest regards,” she finished.

  She had the satisfaction of seeing Inanni’s face come back to life; the great dark eyes lost their look of suffering, and turned hopefully toward the king. Mara turned to him too, well-pleased with her merciful little lie. But one look at his startled face froze the blood in her veins. What a fool she was! Of course, he had understood every word she had said.

  “Son of Pharaoh, live forever!” she gasped. “I crave pardon—I could not believe you meant to wound this princess, however lowly—”

  “You mean you forgot I could understand,” retorted Thutmose.

  “By the Feather of Truth, Highness, I meant only to spare this unfortunate maiden, who is homesick and frightened, and who has met only contempt in the land of Egypt. I pity her, and could not tell her that all her journey was in vain—not here, where Your Highness and these others are all watching her. Pray give me leave to do it later, in private.”

  She broke off, breathing hard. She had been unthinkably bold, she knew that from the horrified expression on the little scribe’s face. He stepped up to the king, bristling. “Your Highness! This impertinence is intolerable! With your leave, I shall have this person removed at once, and shall myself see to it that—”

  “Be silent,” said Thutmose. Without taking his eyes off Mara, he swept the scribe into the background with one powerful arm. “Leave me. Take these others with you.”

  The room was soon empty of all save the three Syrians, the king, and Mara. Thutmose took a step nearer, his eyes still boring into hers. “Now, little one,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you will tell me who you really are.”

  Inanni spoke up. “What does he say, Mara? Why do you not translate?”

  Mara managed to control her delight long enough to answer rapidly. “He wishes to know if you are more comfortable with all those others out of the room.”

  “Why—why—yes, Mara, tell him I am much more comfortable!”

  Thutmose ignored her. “Hasten, girl! They will not stay away forever. Who are you?”

  “The princess’ interpreter, Highness. But also—yours to command.”

  “At last! I thought as much the instant—” Thutmose broke off, his face tightening. “How do I know this?”

  For a moment Mara was at a loss. She had no talisman, no sign, no proof save Sheftu’s name itself. “By him who sent me, son of pharaoh,” she answered. “By—”

  “Name me no names! The very walls are spies. Describe him, if you can.”

  Inanni was tugging at her sleeve. Mara turned hastily, trying to assemble her thoughts. “My princess, your bridegroom inquires if you have—er—slept well, if your rooms are to your liking.”

  “Oh, indeed they are. I—it is only the beasts on the couch which . . . No, wait, Mara. Perhaps we should not mention the beasts. I—merely say that the rooms please me very much.”

  Describe Sheftu? Mara was thinking. As well describe the shape of the wind. Would she describe the gold-hung noble, or the scribe’s apprentice she had first seen bending over her on the deck of the Silver Beetle? She began hesitantly, “He is young and tall, Highness, and well favored, with eyes like the night—” But that told nothing of him, true though it was. She pictured again the river lights playing over his face, felt his dangerous charm, remembered with a chill the porter’s grasp of his shapely hand. “He is one to beware. There is a laziness about the way he moves— Ai, I cannot say it as I would! In a crowd he looks the same as other men, but he is not. By the Feather, he is different from any I ever knew! When he smiles—I know not how to tell you of his smile. It is like a magician’s potion. . . .”

  She stopped in confusion at the amusement on the king’s face. “He was not described quite thus by the last messenger—who was elderly and male,” said Thutmose drily. “However, I recognize my artful one. Well favored, is he? In truth, he is almost ugly—but no woman ever knows it! Tell me, is he safe?”

  “Aye, he is safe,” mumbled Mara. So far, she thought vindictively. Why had she made such a fool of herself?

  “And well?”

  “Translate, Mara!” pleaded Inanni.

  “Er—my princess, the son of pharaoh inquires after the health of thy brothers.”

  Inanni looked wonderingly from her to the king. “Tell him they flourish like the palm. But how long he talked, to say such a simple thing! In truth, Mara, this conversation is exceeding strange! His words speak one thing, and his face another. Look how he scowls! Is it always so with Egyptians?”

  “Frequently, Highness. Our language is—is more complex than thine.” Mara groped after her scattered wits, wishing the princess at the bottom of the Nile. Between Inanni’s questions and the king’s irony, she felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air. Now, somehow, she must explain away Thutmose’s ill-concealed impatience. Look at him glowering there—in truth, he was small help to her! She invented hastily. “In addition, my
princess, His Highness complained of a slight headache, which I forgot to mention. He begs you not to judge his gallantry by his scowl.”

  “A headache?” Inanni was instantly concerned. “Why, what a pity! No wonder he— Mara, ask him if he has tried a remedy made of the crushed pods of the poppy.”

  Mara faced the king, wrenching her mind back to the last question he had asked—if Sheftu was well. In Egyptian, she answered it. “Aye, he who sent me is in the bloom of health.”

  “Hai! The gods be praised. Tell me, Blue-Eyed One, where did he find you?”

  “On a Nile boat called the Silver Beetle. We—we happened to travel together up the river, and met quite by chance.”

  “By chance, eh? I’ll wager nothing was left to chance from then on. He’s thorough, that one. I wonder what ax he’s found to hold over your pretty head? Perhaps naught but those night-black eyes . . .” Thutmose chuckled, but waved back her retort. “Never mind, I’m sure of him, therefore of you. You may give—” He stopped, jerking his head irritably at Inanni, who was showing signs of impatience. “Proceed with your sweet Babylonian nothings on my behalf, then give me his message.”

  “What did he say, Mara? Has he tried the poppy pods?”

  “No, my princess. He has never heard of such a remedy. He says he will consult the royal physician about it, and is touched by your interest in his welfare.”

  “Are you sure, Mara? He does not look touched, only angry!”

  “Aye, but that is his headache! Indeed, he is not only touched but smitten with Your Highness. He expressed great astonishment that one so comely should also have a warm heart.”

  Inanni began to glow. “Comely? Did he call me so? Indeed! Then he cannot be angry, after all! I believe he is lonely, Mara. He needs a woman to care for him, that’s what it is. None of these cold Egyptian beauties but someone to love and soothe him. . . . Tell him I will prepare the poppy draught with my own hands, and no other shall touch it. How I misjudged him! He is kindness itself, and so handsome—is he not handsome, Mara?”