Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  They met in a half-concealed alcove near one of the refreshment tables. The count was a large, shaggy-browed, handsome man of middle age, and he at once came gruffly to the point. “I have been thinking of what you told me, Lord Sheftu. Can you swear to its truth?”

  “Sacred Maat herself would swear to it, Excellency. The troops were in sorry plight, half the archers bareheaded and none of them paid. And the regular Army is worse yet. Should our enemies choose to attack us some fine morning, Egypt would be defenseless.”

  “Monstrous!” muttered the other. “I knew naught of it. . . .”

  “Her Radiance and Count Senmut keep these things a closely guarded secret.”

  “That scurvy Architect! Yet he is her favorite.”

  “I have reason to believe his situation is far from stable at the moment. I—took a hand—in this matter of the bodyguard.”

  “Good!” grunted the count. “If we could be rid of him—”

  “Excellency, think further. Would her next favorite be any different?” Sheftu brought his lips close to the other’s ear, dropped his voice to a mere breath. “Egypt must be rid of her, too.”

  Kha-Kheper’s heavy brows drew hard together. In a voice equally low, he muttered, “You speak treason, my lord.”

  “Is it treason to oust thieves, to rid Egypt of enemies? I am not alone, Excellence. Behind me stands an army—nobles, priests, common folk as well as armed soldiers—waiting only my signal. Your future lies with us—not with Hatshepsut. And the time is near.”

  Kha-Kheper moistened his lips, flashed a look at Sheftu.

  “Nobles?” he murmured.

  “Aye, nobles in plenty. Those who love Egypt—and know which barrel holds the fish.”

  The count was silent; he seemed scarcely to breathe. After a long pause, he murmured, “I am a wealthy man, Lord Sheftu.”

  “You could be wealthier.”

  Again Sheftu waited, knowing the crucial moment had come.

  “How much?” said Kha-Kheper softly.

  “By half again.”

  The heavy brows shot up, and Sheftu straightened, smiling to himself. Another great one had found his price. The count drew a long breath and met his eyes. “I, too, love Egypt. You have my full support against those who prey on her. When you need me, call—and may the gods smile on our cause.”

  Turning abruptly, he walked away across the room.

  Sheftu’s satisfaction was not unmixed with irony. It was surprisingly easy, he reflected, to promise a fortune one had not yet got one’s hands on. Getting it was going to be a different matter, yet get it he must; he had made half a dozen such promises on the strength of his plans for tonight. And this one had made him late. . . .

  A moment later he slipped out the courtyard door, unnoticed, and raced for his chariot.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was well past the mark of five, and dusk was gathering over the City of the Dead. From the low, palm-thatched buildings workers were emerging—stonecutters powdered with granite dust, embalmers bent with weariness and smelling of natron and spices, yawning glass makers, scroll copyists rubbing their eyes, gold artisans, weavers, potters, carpenters, jewelers. Singly and in groups they trickled out of the workshops to the streets, to form a homeward-bound stream which branched in every direction—east toward the Nile and its waiting ferries, north and south and west to scattered cottages among the fields.

  In the lee of a deserted carpenter’s shop one small group lingered, casting anxious glances now and then toward the distant palace and the clusters of trees and white walls which marked the villas surrounding it. Two of the men wore the garments of neocori, servants of the temple; the third was a burly priest, calm and imposing of mien, of obvious importance. Beside them stood a donkey laden with two huge baskets.

  “It is a bad omen that he is late,” muttered the smaller of the two neocori. “A bad omen.”

  “Think you he is late on purpose?” whispered the other indignantly. “I’ll hear no ill spoken of Sashai.”

  “I spoke none, friend Kaemuas. Perhaps he failed to receive the message.”

  “Nay, he had it,” the priest broke in.

  Once more they fell to scanning the crowd in anxious silence. Suddenly a figure in the long robe of a lesser priest moved along the shadow of the next building, and in a moment was beside them, breathing heavily.

  “I could not come sooner. Let us start at once. We have a long way to go.”

  Without further talk the four struck out westward through the crooked streets, past the mud dwellings and the fields and out across the broad stretch of desert that lay beyond. Their white garments turned pink with the sunset as they moved nearer and nearer the dark blue shadow of the western cliffs, and finally they were swallowed, one by one, by a defile in the face of the rock.

  The stones of the steep, narrow path pressed sharp through Sheftu’s palm-leaf sandals, and he sweated with nervousness under his priest’s heavy wig and tentlike cloak. Ahead trod Djedet, his broad back solid and his head erect. Sheftu thanked the gods for that stoic figure; his own composure had been sorely tried by the venture’s inauspicious start—his tardiness, the frantic rush to the meeting place, and the disturbing memory of a certain remark of Pesiur’s. He felt confused and harried. But he could rely on Djedet, and on the diggers too, he thought. Loyal Kaemuas, and Usur the weaver—both good men. He cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the donkey. Its great side baskets hung heavy, laden with stones under a top layer of innocent funerary offerings. It was well; they must hang heavy indeed now, if they were to appear almost empty when coming out.

  When coming out. Would they really be coming out, a few hours hence, with their mission accomplished and the baskets loaded with inestimable treasure? It was too far ahead to think of. Best wonder whether they could even get in! Sharp-eyed guards waited up ahead, at the entrance. The Valley of the Tombs was the most jealously watched area of land in all Egypt.

  Nay, do not wonder about any of it, Sheftu counseled himself. Keep cool, deal with each thing as it comes.

  But as he pushed the large worries to the back of his mind, Pesiur’s jibe about Mara came again to dance like a mocking kheft at the front of it. Was it so obvious, then, that Lord Sheftu was taking a peculiar interest in the Canaanite princess? It was too bad those few casual meetings had been noticed; worse, even dangerous, that Mara had been singled out as the real object of them. Worst of all, for Lord Sheftu’s pride, was the fact that his own powerful but secret attraction to those lotus-blue eyes was apparently no secret at all, but plain enough for even a fool like Pesiur to notice and comment on. Was he as transparent as a schoolboy in the first stages of puppy love? It was humiliating. However, if the court gossips thought him merely smitten with a pretty maid, perhaps they would inquire no further into his motives . . . perhaps.

  The path turned and twisted, winding upward through the cleft in the hills. At last the palm-thatched hut of the guard station showed ahead in the dusk.

  Djedet turned to smile at Sheftu. His moon-face was pale and set, but his voice steady. “The delay did not matter. It is the right hour, my friend. We planned well.”

  “Aye.” Sheftu returned the smile with stiff lips, then murmured to the diggers, “Speak no word, remember.”

  Gravely the little procession moved out onto the barren hilltop toward the hut. A guard appeared at the doorway, then stepped out, followed by another. But thanks to Djedet’s careful planning, they carried no torches, for it was not yet full dark. Sheftu was profoundly grateful for the semi-gloom when the guards came forward to peer into their faces.

  “You have permits to enter here?” one asked gruffly.

  Djedet advanced a step, his bulk imposing, his carriage haughty. “My good man, I am Djedet, priest of the sem rank and second official of the Necropolis. I need no permit. Now harken. Have you
seen or heard aught suspicious in the valley the past two days?”

  “Suspicious? No, er—Excellence.” The first guard’s tone had become more respectful. But the second was staring at Djedet closely, and did not add the “Excellence.” “You mean robbers?” he demanded.

  “I will ask the questions,” said Djedet coldly. “There has been a report that the tomb of His Majesty the First Thutmose has been disturbed. What do you know of it?”

  “Nothing, Your Holiness!” gasped the first guard. “I swear by the Feather of Maat the Truthful One, there has been not a—”

  “The report is false,” grunted the other.

  Djedet favored him with an icy stare. “I trust you are right. But naturally, I must find out for myself. Kindly stand aside.”

  He started forward, but the second guard stayed where he was, his gaze flicking to Sheftu, then to the two diggers, and finally to the laden donkey. “What have you in the baskets?” he demanded.

  Sheftu could only thank the gods for Djedet’s convincing air of mild exasperation. “Funerary offerings, of course,” said the priest. “Would we come empty-handed to the great one’s resting place?”

  The guard’s heavy face did not change expression as he moved out of Djedet’s path and sauntered back to the donkey. With a tremendous effort Sheftu refrained from watching him, affecting an attitude of stolid indifference. But his very spine tingled as he heard the creak of a basket lid being raised. It might be merely a routine check. But if the guard had even the glimmer of a real suspicion, he would push aside the offerings and see those stones beneath. . . .

  The lid of the basket dropped. Legs trembling with relief, Sheftu moved forward at Djedet’s nod, only half hearing the first guard’s apologies. They had filed past the hut and actually started down the path into the valley when, behind them, the second guard spoke again.

  “Stay!”

  Once more they halted, but this time Djedet’s burly back was quivering perceptibly. Sheftu, by contrast, felt a wave of anger sweep aside all the confusion that had been hampering him. Suddenly cool and bold, he grasped Djedet’s arm reassuringly under the concealing cloak, and faced the guard.

  “You show little respect to His Holiness, fellow! What is it this time? And mind you address him properly.”

  “I mean no disrespect—Excellence,” muttered the guard. “But I have my orders, and I’m to let no one pass without a permit. Since you have none, I will have to go with you.”

  There was an instant’s appalled silence. Then Djedet found his voice, jerkily. “Your devotion to duty is commendable. However there is no need for you to leave your post. We—”

  “My comrade can stay at the post,” interrupted the guard stubbornly. “It’s my duty to go with you.”

  Sheftu thought fast. Further argument would give them away completely; even the first guard was beginning to look doubtful now. With a warning pressure on the priest’s arm, Sheftu said carelessly, “As you wish.”

  He could feel Djedet go rigid, but an instant later the priest shrugged and started down the path again as if indifferent to the whole thing. The guard fell in beside him, somewhat sheepishly, to the accompaniment of his comrade’s relieved jeer. “Ai, Suspicious One, it’s a long tramp you’ll have for nothing. Until tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow?” remarked Sheftu as they wound downward through the rocks. “Will your friend not be waiting when we return?”

  “Nay, our duty is over in half an hour,” rumbled the guard, amiable enough now that he had got his way. “Other men watch through the night.”

  Sheftu allowed himself a moment’s grim admiration of the fellow in front of him, plodding along half-embarrassed but still doggedly doing his duty. If there were more like him, the valley would be well guarded. Unfortunately, there would be one less before the night was done. . . .

  The last glow of sunset was almost gone when the little procession reached the valley’s floor and started out across it. Nuit, the Starry One, had stretched her dark and spangled body across the heavens, shedding a faint glitter over a vast, rugged wasteland of craggy buttes and sand and rocks, completely bare of vegetation. Eroded, sharp-peaked hills and giant boulders loomed here and there, strange-shaped like sleeping monsters, still breathing heat from their sun-baked sides into the cool night air. There was profound, unnatural stillness. Sheftu trod warily, his eyes fixed on the glimmer of the guard’s cloak ahead, his ears straining for some sound other than the whisper of the donkey’s hoofs on the sand. But in all that desolation no bird called, no small creature scampered—nothing stirred, nothing lived, except themselves.

  In and out among the crags they moved, deeper and deeper into the valley’s heart. At last Djedet turned aside into a gully which sloped downward between tumbled piles of rock. He was picking his way slowly, waiting, in an agony of suspense, Sheftu knew, for some signal as to the guard. They were very near their destination now.

  Sheftu set his jaw, drawing both hands in through the slits in his cloak. When they emerged again they brought his long, stout-woven sash. Stealthily he closed the distance between himself and the guard; grasping an end of the sash in each hand, he crossed his wrists.

  Now, whispered a voice inside him.

  One swift movement and the sash fell about the guard’s neck. Sheftu snapped it tight, at the same time jamming his knee into the small of the man’s back. Next instant both had pitched forward to tumble over the rocky ground, Sheftu clinging to his writhing, thrashing victim and still tightening the garrote. There was a scramble of footsteps, grunted curses as the diggers flung themselves upon the guard’s flailing arms and legs. A moment later they had him pinioned, and Sheftu’s muscles knotted for the last strangling jerk—knotted, but never released their energy. Slowly Sheftu relaxed, and as the diggers glanced up in astonishment, he flipped the sash free and used it instead as a gag. Knotting it securely, he stood up.

  “You mean to spare him?” whispered Djedet.

  In the starlight the priest’s face showed pasty white and sweating. “Osiris! What will we do with him?”

  “Nothing, for the present,” muttered Sheftu. “Take his sash, you men, and tie him well.” He turned his back and walked over to Djedet. He knew he had been a fool to let the fellow live. But he had no stomach for murdering a man whose only crime was stubbornness. It was possible this other plan might work. . . . “He’ll be safe enough here, Djedet.”

  “But later, when we return to Thebes?” came the priest’s frantic whisper.

  “He will return with us. Nekonkh can spirit him away downriver with the others, and keep him hidden until it’s safe to free him.”

  “What are you saying, my lord? It’s the guards at the valley entrance I’m thinking of—the new ones who come on duty with the night. We shall have to explain our baskets all over again, Amon help us! Can we also carry their comrade past them, bound and gagged?”

  “He will not be bound. He will walk among us—but with my knife at his back. He will say only what I—”

  There was a sharp cry behind them. Sheftu whirled just in time to see Kaemuas double up, groaning, the guard’s tunic rip in Usur’s clutching hands, and the guard himself dart up the path, free, and tearing at his gag. With a curse Sheftu sprang after him. The guard was stumbling on the treacherous rocks, staggering a little, but he had the gag off now. Sheftu wrenched his dagger from its sheath.

  “Thieves! Thieves! Help in the valley! Thieves . . .”

  The cry rang out hideously, echoing off the sides of the cleft. But the guard had not strength enough left to both run and shout. With the last “Thieves!” he staggered into a boulder, saw Sheftu close behind him, and drew his short sword. It clashed once against Sheftu’s knife, was deflected by a desperate wrench, freed itself, swung up murderously—then fell clattering to the ground as Sheftu’s dagger drove home.

  “My friend, you die for Egypt,”
gasped Sheftu. He caught the crumpling body and eased it down beside the boulder. Usur was beside him, and an instant later, Djedet.

  “Master, I could not help it,” panted the digger. “I was trying to loose his sash, and he kicked Kaemuas as a mule kicks, as a horse kicks—”

  “Be silent.” Sheftu leaned against the boulder, struggling to catch his breath, straining his ears for any sign that the guard’s cries had been heard. All was silent, except for the crunching of pebbles as Kaemuas plodded up the path toward them. Wearily Sheftu leaned over the guard and retrieved his dagger. “Carry him back and put him across the donkey. Get a torch burning, one of you men.”

  A few minutes later they were making their way by flickering torchlight down the gully, the donkey with its grim burden following behind along the rocky path. On either side, the barren rock rose higher into darkness, the way wound more steeply down. How much farther? Already the Nile and Thebes seemed leagues away. . . .

  Sheftu nearly bumped into the priest, who had come to a sudden halt and was pointing. “Ast! We have arrived.”

  Slowly Sheftu extended the torch. There ahead against the side of the gully leaned a pile of red granite boulders—the same which had haunted him for four interminable days. With an effort he dragged his eyes away from it.

  “There is the place,” he told the diggers. “Beneath the rubble at the left is the door we seek. Dig until you find it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  By the Dark River

  It was an hour before the clang of shovels ceased. Sheftu, sitting on a rock some yards away, was aware of eerie silence and raised his head. The torch flared wild and lonely against the night, revealing a gap in the rubble and a stone stairway leading downward into obscurity. At the top stood Djedet and the sweating diggers, their eyes upon him.