Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  “Enjoy?” muttered Mara resentfully. “He drives as if the Devourer were after him.”

  Again the acid smile. “He has other talents too, especially with that whip he carries. It is well you came with him without argument.”

  Mara preserved a sullen silence, mentally cursing him and his Chadzar and all their relatives, in two languages. She felt wearier than ever. Perhaps he would let her sit down.

  Instead he sat down himself, waving an abrupt dismissal to the Libyan. When the door had closed, he stated, “You have had audience with the Pretender.”

  “Aye.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “Naught of interest.”

  “And why not?” His voice turned icy.

  Take care, my girl, thought Mara. You’d best bestir yourself and dance to his tune. You can be tired later.

  “It was no fault of mine, master,” she explained in a more conciliatory tone. “Not even the cleverest spy can learn aught from an empty room. His Highness sent everyone away at once, save the princess and me.”

  “Sent them away! If that is to be his habit, you’ll be of small use to me!”

  “Nay, wait, it will not always be so—” Really frightened now, Mara groped for an idea. No use to him? If he thought that, he might sell her tomorrow! Her mind full of unpleasantly vivid images—baskets of unironed shentis, shelves of forbidden food, the bite of a lash—she put all her persuasiveness into her voice. “Give me a little longer! It will not be thus always, the king cleared the room only because the barbarian was ill at ease. Next time, I promise, no such thing will happen, I’ll see to it myself. I can lead that maiden where I will. . . .”

  “So you say,” he remarked. He was appraising her coldly, and with doubt.

  “I swear it. Only let me show you.”

  He was silent a moment, drumming his fingertips on the arms of his chair. “So they all left the room. Even the scribe?”

  “Aye, the scribe too.”

  “The khefts take their souls,” he said with a quiet malevolence that chilled Mara’s blood. “Hand-picked, every one of them, yet the fools are afraid of him! And someone’s bearing messages.”

  They’re all spies, then, Mara thought. The guards, the scribe—especially the scribe. I must be careful of him.

  Warily she watched her master’s granite face. The harsh line of his brow and nose waked a flicker of recognition in her, but she could not place what it reminded her of. Possibly some statue of a devil-god in the temple at Menfe, she thought sardonically. Surely no other human had such a countenance. Who was he, anyhow? Someone who ranked high with the queen, for he had stood close to the throne this morning. Not so close as Sheftu, however. Only Count Senmut himself stood closer than Sheftu. . . .

  Her master stirred in his chair. “Perhaps I will give you one more chance. You think you can prevent Thutmose from clearing the room?”

  “I will do my best, master. Only try me, I’ll—”

  “I see little else to do. I will try you.” He shot a venomous glance at her. “And I will know if you fail. Now listen. I realize you cannot discover the leaders of this accursed plot. But with any wit you can find their messenger, or some news of where they meet. I’m in haste, as I think I’ve made clear.” Thoughtfully, he added, “And keep me a watch on the scribe.”

  “With pleasure, master.” He will also, she reflected, instruct the scribe to keep a watch on me.

  “Very well, then we are done. You have your chance; I trust you will make good use of it. It would be unfortunate if you should disappoint me again.”

  He clapped his hands, and the Libyan appeared at the door. Muffling herself in her cloak, Mara hastened to follow him into the hall and out once more to the waiting chariot. Even the surly Chadzar was better company than that crocodile in there.

  On the ride back to the palace the pace was as headlong as before, but Mara had learned better how to brace herself for it. And on this trip something happened that furnished her considerable enlightenment. At the Main Gate of the palace grounds the sentries had been changed, and the new one was apparently skeptical about Chadzar’s credentials. There was a muttered argument growing rapidly angrier on both sides; finally Chadzar leaned half out of the chariot, brandishing his whip.

  “Fool and idiot! If you do not know the scarab, I’ll wager you’ll stand aside at my master’s name! Nahereh the brother of Senmut! Now hold your tongue about it, but let me pass!”

  It was the end of the argument, but Mara scarcely noticed the lurch as they plunged forward once again. So Lord Nahereh was her master! Own brother to Senmut the Architect, he of the deep-etched smile and avaricious eyes who stood nearest Hatshepsut and her throne.

  It was easy, now, to place that fleeting resemblance to someone she had noticed in her master’s face. It was no stone devil-god but Count Senmut whose nose and brow traced the same harsh angle. In Amon’s name, what hornet’s nest had she walked into, that day in Menfe? Sheftu, the queen, the king, and now two devils instead of one to scheme with and lie to and walk in fear of—it would have been less complicated to stay a slave and iron shentis all her days. At the moment her future did not seem half so pleasant and certain as it had this morning. And tomorrow night was beginning to loom in her mind again. Might it please Amon to make that sentry susceptible to blue eyes!

  At least, reflected Mara as at last she climbed the stairs to the welcome solitude of her own room, life was no longer in any danger of becoming monotonous.

  PART 4

  THE INN

  CHAPTER 12

  The Sentry at the Gate

  It was the next night. The sun had dropped into the hills behind Hatshepsut’s temple three hours since, and the late moon had not yet risen. The palace driveway known as the Road of the Rams was shrouded in darkness. Near the tall bronze doors at the end of the drive a torch sputtered and smoked in its bracket, shedding its orange light down upon the sentry who lounged, yawning, below it.

  Mara, concealed in the shadowy gateway leading to the Court of the Weavers, had been watching him for some moments. He was the same who had grinned at her last night, when she passed through with Inanni. So far, so good. But had his mood changed? Perhaps tonight he would be surly, if he had lost at his gaming with the stableboys, or been reprimanded by his captain for some mistake or other.

  Well, it was a chance she had to take. Glancing behind her once more to make sure the Court of the Weavers was as empty as the drive, she wrapped the folds of her cloak half over her face and began to sob softly.

  After a moment the guard became aware of the sound; she could hear the faint clatter of his sword as he straightened, and prayed Amon he was not the type to shout out a challenge. No, over the cloak’s edge she saw him frown this way and that into the gloom, then pick up a hand torch and thrust it into the flame of the larger one. As he started down the drive, holding his light aloft, she increased her sobs, leaning against the gateway as if oblivious to all the world. An instant later the torch shone full in her face.

  She gasped and opened her eyes wide, letting the cloak fall as if by accident. To her satisfaction, the glowering visage on the other side of the torch relaxed into a grin of surprise.

  “Well, by the ka of my mother, it’s little Blue Eyes! Why do you weep? You were smiling last night. Eh? Weren’t you?”

  “I—I don’t know—Captain.”

  “Aye, you were, and at me! Now what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s—nothing.”

  “Then dry your tears!” He picked up the edge of her cloak, and with a man’s amused tolerance, dabbed at her eyes with it. She permitted herself a brave little smile. “There, that’s better!” he told her. “You’re too pretty to be sad.”

  “You’re very kind, Captain,” she murmured, trying her best to blush shyly.

  The sentry really did blush a little. “Come, maid,
I’m no captain. Only second sentry at a gate pharaoh never uses.”

  “They keep one such as you only second sentry?”

  “Aye, they do. Too young for a good duty, they keep telling me! The devil! I’ll wager I can thrust a sword as smartly as those mummies at the Main Gate!”

  Perfect, thought Mara. Young, naive, bored with his duty and vain of his muscles.

  “I’ll vow you could, indeed!” she said admiringly. “Why, they are treating you unjustly. Youth only enhances a strong arm and a handsome appearance. No doubt they are jealous, Capt—er . . .”

  “Reshed. Son of Setek the stonecutter.”

  “Reshed,” said Mara softly. She gazed up, wide eyed, into his face, then allowed her lashes to sweep down against her cheek.

  He swallowed audibly, moving a little closer to her. “Amon! Do you live in the Golden House, Blue Eyes? I never saw you before yesterday. By my ka, you’re a pretty thing!”

  “You speak with a tongue of honey, sentry. Ai, but what use to be pretty when I am sore at heart! Oh, Gebu, my poor Gebu!”

  She turned aside, sobbing again, one hand palm-down on the top of her head in the attitude of mourning. As she had hoped, he extinguished the glaring torch out of respect for her grief, then stepped even closer.

  “Come, what ails thee, little one? Who is this Gebu?”

  “Alas, he is my brother, alone and sick unto death in the city out yonder, while I must stay here within these walls. He is all I have in the world, and I cannot even go to nurse him!”

  “Ai, poor little maid! Who keeps thee prisoner?”

  “I serve the Syrian princess, and must stay beside her. But she sleeps like one dead, there is no need for me at all in the night. I could go each night to Gebu if only—if only—”

  Her sobs broke out afresh. “If only what?” murmured Reshed. He patted her shoulder; his arm went about her tentatively, casually. Still weeping, she just as casually slipped free.

  “If only I could pass through that gate—in secret—no one knowing or being responsible save myself, even the sentry’s back would be turned . . .” Now it was she who moved close to him, one hand on his forearm. “It was you I thought of, I confess it. When you smiled at me last night you seemed so—so kind . . .” Her voice added much to the word. “But of course I was wrong, I hoped for too much. You could never let me through the gate, even with your back turned, your captain would be angry and perhaps would punish you. . . .”

  She turned away, but he drew her back, his arm no longer tentative. “Who fears the captain? Not I, pretty one!”

  “You mean you would—that it is possible—”

  “I mean we might bargain a little. What would you give me if I turned my back?”

  “Give you? But I have no gold.”

  He gave a low laugh, tightening his arms. “I don’t want gold, little Blue Eyes.”

  “Then, indeed, I know not— Nay, let me go!”

  She dodged his kiss expertly, wriggling away to shrink against the gate as if in fright. “You are too bold! Nay, come no nearer—please, Reshed—”

  He stopped, laughing again. “What’s the harm in a kiss?”

  “None, perhaps. But such haste is not seemly! Why, I only this evening learned your name!”

  “Oh, that’s it! Then let us get better acquainted!” His voice held bravado, but was a little uncertain all the same. He reached for her hand and drew her—gently, she noticed—out of the shadows. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he said awkwardly.

  Mother of heaven, how innocent he is! thought Mara. Standing beside him in the roadway, she smiled forgiveness. “I’m not afraid of you now. Perhaps—” She hesitated, then as if overcome by shyness started along the road toward the big bronze doors. He fell in eagerly beside her.

  “Perhaps what?”

  “Perhaps I was only afraid of—my own feelings.”

  “Ah, were you? But when we’re better acquainted?”

  Already he wore the expression of one diving, headlong, into an acre of feathers. She waited until they stood under the torchlight, then faced him, slanting a look at him from under her painted eyelids. “Why, then I might be more afraid than ever. I believe I had better bid you good-bye right now.”

  “Good-bye! But you—I thought you—”

  “No matter what you thought! I’ve changed my mind. You’re an overbold young man, coaxing a maid with your honeyed words, trying to kiss her the first moment! Nay, touch me not, you wouldn’t dare! I’m going back to the palace. . . .”

  She whirled to run, but he caught her angrily about the waist. “And what of our bargain? I’ll teach you to play with me, my little—”

  Mara suddenly stopped struggling and relaxed against him. “Ai, I was only teasing—please, loosen your arm a bit. I’ll bargain with you if you promise not to frighten me again, I swear I will. Don’t scowl at me, please. . . .”

  He stared down at her, tilting her chin up with his knuckle so that the torchlight shone full on her face. “By all the gods, I never met a maid like you!” he muttered in bewilderment. “You make a man’s head swim.”

  “Reshed—sweet Reshed—are you really going to let me through the gate?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “But you will?”

  “Not so fast! I have my price. I must see you again.”

  “But to be sure! When I go again to visit my brother—”

  “I want more than that, you minx. Look you. I’m off duty three evenings each month. Will you meet me . . . ?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Aye? On my next holiday, seven nights from now?”

  “Perhaps . . .” breathed Mara.

  He bent suddenly to her lips, but she dodged him by an inch, lifted the great latch on the doors, and slipped through into the street beyond. Leaning in again, she lifted one hand and stroked it lingeringly down his cheek.

  “My thanks, dear Reshed,” she whispered. “I’ll rap three times when I come home again.”

  Leaving him gazing after her, bemused, she hurried away into the darkness.

  He was gone from her mind before the doors closed. How black it was, after the glare of the torch! She could barely make out the thin, tall trunks of the palms which lined the avenue, though when she looked straight up, she could see their plumy heads outlined against the stars. She must go east along the palace wall, Sheftu had said, and when the wall curved south, cross the avenue to the shop of Nefer the goldsmith. Someone would be waiting.

  Who? she wondered as she sped east on silent sandals. Would she have to identify herself again? And if so, how? The gods be thanked the granite-faced one had no suspicions of her. He could bait a deadly trap for her tonight if only he knew. . . .

  Here was the curve of the wall. Mara peered ahead, wrapping a fold of her cloak over her head and the lower part of her face before she slipped across the deserted avenue. Gaining the shelter of a clump of trees, she saw before her the dim front of a building, cut by one black rectangle—a deeply recessed doorway. Just above it she could barely make out the hieroglyph for “Nefer,” traced upon the earthen bricks. Cautiously she moved toward it. There was no sign of anyone, no sound, only that waiting black square. And if it were a trap? Anyone, anything, might be concealed yonder.

  She hesitated a long, reluctant moment before deciding that there was no way to try the snare save by walking into it. She cast one glance behind her, then darted into the doorway. Darkness closed over her. She stood a moment with beating heart, then began to move forward, gingerly exploring with one outstretched hand the cool rough bricks that formed the wall. There was no sound at all, save her own uneven breathing. Was she alone, then? Expecting at any second to touch the smooth wood of a door, her hand suddenly met air instead, and after a few more paces she realized the passage had opened out into some different place.

  She hal
ted uneasily, trying to make out where she was. A breath of night air touched her cheek, accompanied by a whispered rustling overhead. She was perhaps in a courtyard, canopied by a thatch of dried palm leaves; she saw the outlines of the walls now, and here and there around them large rounded objects, almost indistinguishable in the gloom. She was peering warily toward one when a pebble rolled behind her. She whirled.

  Someone—something—was standing beside the wall yonder, a shape of denser black among the shadows. In panic, she shrank back toward the passage from which she had come. Then the figure moved too. There was something familiar about that bulky outline, the set of the shoulders. . . .

  “Is it you, little one?” came a low rumble.

  “Nekonkh!” Almost stumbling with relief, she darted toward him.

  “Hist! Not a sound, maid.” He materialized beside her, comfortingly solid, and she felt her arm grasped. “This way. We’ll talk later.”

  She had never been so glad to see anyone. She clung to him with a rush of affection that surprised even herself, feeling him an old friend—her only friend in a chancy, friendless world. This was a weary life, for all its splendor, playing with fire day after day, trusting no one, deceiving all, staking everything on the nimbleness of one’s wits! For a moment Mara longed to be back in the marketplace at Menfe, with no more on her mind than snatching a honey cake.

  But only for a moment. She hurried after Nekonkh. “What was that place?” she whispered as they emerged into a street. “Those great humped things about the walls . . . ?”

  “Humped? Oh, those were the furnaces, where the gold is melted. We were in Nefer’s outer workshop. Here, into this alley now.”

  He led her across the street and into a narrow lane between dark warehouses. Stumbling over invisible rubbish, Mara spat out her annoyance, then laughed under her breath. “Ai! it’s good to speak my mind when I feel like it! I’ve behaved so priggish of late I’m like to smother of my own mincing and mouthing! Captain, where are we going?”