Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  They will only beat me again, she thought, keeping her eyes shut. I’ll pretend . . .

  But even as she planned it she gasped and cringed as the hand touched her raw shoulders.

  “She’s but feigning now,” said Nahereh. “Up on your knees, you!”

  But it was not his voice which forced her eyes wide open suddenly, jarred her whole mind alert. It was another voice, outside in the anteroom, and a stir among the soldiers who stood nearest the doors.

  “Up on your knees, I said!” repeated Nahereh. Then, impatiently, “What is that? Who’s outside there?”

  “A noble who demands admittance, Excellence,” mumbled one of the soldiers. “He seems most—”

  “Let him in,” commanded Hatshepsut.

  Mara raised herself to her knees, disregarding the pain the movement caused her. It couldn’t be—it mustn’t! But it was. The tall doors swung open and an arrogant, gold-decked figure she had never thought to see again strolled through them and bowed with debonair grace toward the throne.

  “Good evening, Radiant One! Excellencies, rejoice!” remarked Lord Sheftu.

  He did not glance at Mara, nor did she at him, after her first agonized recognition. Her attention froze on Sahure, whose sudden intent frown showed that it was only a matter of moments until the jeweled collar and golden headcloth would no longer confuse him. Had Sheftu noticed him? He must have, and he must be all but reeling from the shock of it. Ai, why did he come! thought Mara. Whatever plan he’d had in mind, it was defeated before it began.

  “You might rather say good morning,” the queen was remarking irritably. “Have we turned night into day, or is it your habit, Lord Sheftu, to visit the palace at this hour? I supposed this audience was secret.”

  “Your Radiance, it is difficult to keep anything secret in the city of Thebes, when both servants and rivermen gossip like magpies—often with each other. I felt my place was by Your Majesty’s side. However”—the smooth voice took on a note of amusement—“I seem to have overestimated the emergency. Where are the criminals, Daughter of the Sun? Surely my lord Nahereh’s adroit and fearless coup netted more than one wretched slave girl!”

  “A poor catch indeed, but all we have,” returned the queen, frowning at Nahereh, who had gone red with anger. “And the stubborn wench has told us naught!”

  “Perhaps she knows naught,” suggested Sheftu carelessly. “But whether she be innocent or guilty, Your Majesty has been ill-advised in the manner of questioning her,” he added, with a glance at Senmut. “The maid looks half-dead.”

  “Should she defy pharaoh and go unpunished?” snarled Senmut.

  “Nay. But on the other hand, of what value is her corpse?”

  Mara listened breathlessly. By Amon! Already he had contrived to make the whole matter seem vaguely ridiculous, and the count and Lord Nahereh a pair of fools. Could it be possible that— Then she glanced at the juggler and her heart sank. His narrowed eyes were gleaming. He had realized the truth. But would he dare accuse so great a lord? He could prove nothing. . . .

  “If Your Majesty will allow me,” Sheftu was saying easily, “I might soothe the maid a little, tempt her with some small reward—”

  “Nay, we’ve tried that. My majesty offered her both gold and freedom. She scorned them.”

  “She scorned them?” Sheftu was not acting now, and there was a note in his voice that stirred Mara to a deep, unreasonable joy. As if he could not believe what he had heard, he repeated, “She refused a bribe?”

  “Aye, she did, the wretch!”

  There was a little silence, and when Sheftu spoke again his voice shook almost imperceptibly. “In that case, naught on earth can unseal her lips. Perhaps, after all, she knows nothing. . . .”

  “And perhaps she knows much!” It was a new voice—Sahure’s. It rang loud and derisive through the room. “But you know more—Sashai!”

  Every head jerked toward the juggler, still crouched on his knees but now pointing a long, accusing finger at Lord Sheftu.

  “How dare you speak without permission?” gasped the queen.

  Sheftu went on at once, as if good breeding alone forbade him to notice an outrageous interruption. “And if she knows naught, Your Majesty—”

  “Wait!” cried Count Senmut. “Let the juggler speak! Did he say ‘Sashai’?”

  “I did, Lion of Courage and Wisdom! That is Sashai—he who stands before you in fine raiment and gold! He is the scribe of the Falcon—the same, the same!”

  The queen rose to her feet. “What is this babble! Do you know of whom you speak, insolent fool? That is Lord Sheftu, son of Menkau the Friend of Kings, and my trusted courtier!”

  “He is also Sashai, Your Magnificence! He is the same, I swear it!”

  Sheftu’s amused voice broke in. “Who is this madman? He intrigues me.”

  “Of course he’s mad!” cried the queen. “He offends my majesty! Take him away, Nahereh.”

  “Your Radiance, wait!” Count Senmut stepped forward, and the harsh furrows of his smile deepened slowly in his face as he studied Sheftu. “Surely my lord would be even more intrigued if this juggler could prove his claims. That would be amusing, would it not? Speak, juggler! Have you proof?”

  “I have, Lion of Wisdom!”

  The queen stiffened. Nahereh pulled the juggler toward him, and Mara caught her breath in sharp and sudden fear.

  “You can prove this accusation?” burst out Nahereh. “Speak, then, quickly!”

  “Let his Highest Excellence the Architect look upon the left wrist of the great Lord Sheftu—”

  Oh Amon, it’s over, it’s all over, he’s lost! thought Mara, and the fragile bubble of hope that had been growing in her burst, all in an instant.

  “What will I find there?” asked Count Senmut, moving toward Sheftu stealthily, like a great cat.

  “An amulet of strange design, Highest Excellence. I have not seen it this night, for his wrist is hidden from me, here where I kneel. Nevertheless I will describe it to you, for I know it well, aye, well, from the wrist of Sashai. . . .”

  “Describe it, then!” Senmut seized Sheftu’s wrist, and hiding it from the juggler with his own body stared down at it.

  “It is a twist of flax thread strung with seven green beads, and knotted seven times. There is a flat bead of carnelian in the midst of the seven, inscribed on both sides. Is it not as I say, Excellence?”

  Slowly the Architect’s eyes climbed up to rest on Sheftu’s immobile face. “It is as you say.” He flung Sheftu’s wrist down. “Here is your traitor, Radiant One—the incorruptible Sheftu!”

  “Osiris!” whispered the queen, dropping back upon her throne. “It cannot be! It cannot be!”

  For Mara, time itself seemed to halt. Then Sheftu sighed, shrugged, and turned to Count Senmut.

  “So it is over, comrade,” he said. “We had best admit everything, had we not? But it is sad, that in spite of all our precautions—”

  “We!” Senmut was staring at him, suddenly ashen.

  “Great Amon, what are you saying?” Hatshepsut fairly screamed. “Do you tell me that Count Senmut, too—”

  The Architect whirled to her. “Majesty, it is a lie! He but seeks to drag me down with him! Radiant One—you do not believe—”

  “Oh come,” put in Sheftu coolly. “The game’s over. We’ve been comrades, let us die like men.”

  “Curse you! You’ll die like a rat, here and now—” Senmut sprang upon him savagely, a knife flashed upward, only to clash upon another that seemed to leap of itself into Sheftu’s fist. In an instant the room was pandemonium; Nahereh’s cloak fanned Mara as he rushed forward, Hatshepsut was on her feet, shrieking orders that brought soldiers flying from every corner of the room. Mara, torn between terror and wild elation, found herself standing erect, hurling defiance at all of them at the top of her voice. Then th
e knot of soldiers around the two men burst apart, Nahereh staggered back, and there was Sheftu, held fast by two soldiers, with his fine robe torn but his eyes flashing. On the floor at his feet sprawled the body of Count Senmut.

  “So!” breathed Hatshepsut. “One is gone—and the other shall follow!” Her voice rose with fury. “You stand condemned of treason and murder, my lord Sheftu! At sunrise you die.”

  “And my secrets with me,” taunted Sheftu.

  The queen’s features seemed to freeze; for the first time Mara saw a glint of real fear in her eyes. “What mean you? There are others?”

  Sheftu laughed softly, and pharaoh rose as if the sound itself drew her to her feet. “Cease this mockery! What secrets?”

  “Aye, what? And when is it to happen? And who will do it? Count your hours, Hatshepsut, for there are few left, and you will not enjoy them. Who can you point to now and say with confidence, ‘He is my friend’? Your court is full of traitors, and you know them not! But I know them.”

  He is gambling for time, thought Mara. On what frail hope she could not imagine, he was taking one last chance, playing on the queen’s one weakness—her fear for her throne. And he was doing it as skillfully as a harpist plucks his strings. Hatshepsut was standing rigid, with panic in her eyes.

  “What traitors?” she cried.

  “Their names die with me.”

  “And their plans as well! Son of the Devourer, what can they do without their leader?”

  “My death will be as nothing to them. It will be as a stone thrown into the Nile in the time of inundation! Do the waters stop for a stone? The plans are made, Hatshepsut, and the hour is near. You will know your enemies when they strike.”

  For an instant Hatshepsut’s face was sickening to gaze upon. Then slowly she straightened, and something of her cold beauty returned as she forced herself under control. She sat down slowly, stiffly, and grasped the arms of her throne.

  “Lord Sheftu,” she said, “let us approach this in a different manner. Why go to your death when you might serve me in Count Senmut’s place—when you might own the choice lands that were his, tax free—when you might be the most powerful man in Egypt? All this I could give you, or more—whatever you asked! Surely there is some treasure you crave?”

  Sheftu hesitated and a gleam of triumph appeared in Hatshepsut’s eyes. At last he said, “Aye, there is, Majesty.”

  The queen let out her breath slowly and relaxed, leaning back with a faint smile twisting her lips. “Soldiers! Release his lordship,” she commanded.

  The men loosed their hands and stepped back. Sheftu stood free. At once he turned, strode quickly to Mara, and took her in his arms. Mara, in a rapturous confusion at the unexpectedness of it, barely heard the queen’s outraged exclamation. But she felt with all her heart the gentleness with which Sheftu held her, taking care not to touch her blood-stained shoulders, and she heard his murmur in her ear.

  “Oh, Mara, my beloved Mara, I would I could save thee, but they come not, and it will soon be too late. . . .”

  “Who comes?” she whispered.

  But the queen’s mocking laughter cut in. “This is your treasure, Lord Sheftu?”

  “Aye. The greatest treasure in Egypt—a maid whose loyalty cannot be bought. Whatever bargain we make, Daughter of the Sun, must include her freedom.”

  Mara did not see what signal the queen made to the soldiers; but suddenly she and Sheftu were jerked apart and held fast, and Hatshepsut was on her feet, her voice lashing at them.

  “We will make no bargain! Nahereh! Bring forth your Libyan and instruct him to beat this maid to death before his lordship’s eyes. Unless—did you wish to speak, Lord Sheftu?”

  Mara flashed him a terrified glance and saw that Hatshepsut had found her weapon at last. All Sheftu’s cool poise had shattered in an instant; he was fighting his captors like a madman—though his lips were shut tight.

  “Begin, Libyan,” ordered Hatshepsut.

  The lash curled through Chadzar’s fingers like a lazy black serpent, then struck. The pain was nauseating; through it Mara heard Sheftu’s furious voice, and though she could not understand what he said, she screamed out, “Don’t speak! Don’t speak! It will not last long—”

  It would not last long at all, she thought dimly as the lash came down again. Already the blackness was closing in. She had had too much. After the next blow she would feel nothing. . . .

  But the next blow never fell. For an instant she could not distinguish the strange new sound she was hearing from the roaring in her own ears. Then she realized this new roar came from outside; men were running, shouting. And suddenly Hatshepsut was crying out orders in a strange, hoarse voice, and Mara felt herself dumped like a discarded burden as the soldiers leaped over her and ran. . . . The big doors burst open.

  Mara struggled painfully to rise, staring about her at the wildest confusion. Soldiers were everywhere, pouring into the room in endless streams, clashing in hand-to-hand combat with those ranged around Hatshepsut, who stood screaming orders before her throne. Nahereh fell as Mara watched, and the gnarled old general who had struck him down whirled as the juggler crept past toward the inner door, seized him, flung him bodily into the arms of two archers—

  A shadow fell across her. “Mara! Oh, Amon, no hand but mine shall slay that misbegotten Libyan!” Sheftu scooped her up, cursing incoherently, carried her to the far side of the room, and thrust her into a pair of strong and sheltering arms she recognized with wonder as Nekonkh’s. As Sheftu whirled away again, she heard the captain’s comforting growl in her ear. “Now, little one, all’s well at last, everything’s out of our hands, our task is done. Rest, little Blue Eyes.” He flung his cloak about her, and with a deep sigh of gratitude Mara buried her face in the rough folds of his tunic, and shut her ears to the noise of conflict, and shut her eyes. . . .

  When she opened them, she knew not how much later, all was strangely quiet. She twisted about in Nekonkh’s arms, which instantly loosened, and for a moment had the peculiar sensation that she was back with Inanni, in Hatshepsut’s formal court. Once more the big room glittered with the jeweled collars of courtiers. But now the walls behind them were lined thick with soldiers—those wearing the scarlet helmets of pharaoh’s bodyguard. The courtiers, headed by Sheftu, stood in two ranks down the length of the room. At one end of the open aisle thus formed was the dais, the great throne, and Hatshepsut standing motionless and stiffly erect, with her black hair falling in a cloud about her cold and beautiful face, and the cobra on her brow.

  At the other end, approaching her with the stride of a conqueror, came the long-fettered king.

  Thutmose stopped before the throne and spoke. “Come down.”

  There was a pause, during which not a head moved, not a finger stirred. Then slowly, haughtily, Hatshepsut descended the steps of the dais and stood before him. He reached out and jerked the coronet of Egypt from her head. Then, still without turning his eyes from hers, he beckoned someone in the crowd. A servant stepped forward, bearing a tray on which rested a golden cup full of some dark liquid.

  For just a moment Hatshepsut’s gaze wavered, as she looked at the cup. Then it returned unflinchingly to Thutmose.

  “You show little mercy, half brother,” she said bitterly.

  “I show much! I grant you leave to die by your own hand, rather than another’s. Take the cup and drink.”

  Hatshepsut was silent, and the mask of youth fell suddenly from her face. “So be it! I will drink, and forget. But you will not forget, nor will these others, though you chisel my cartouche from every monument in the Double Kingdom! My works stand, Son of the Lesser Wife, and they will eclipse yours, and your sons’, and those of all pharaohs after me, so long as the land of Egypt is watered by the Nile! You cannot kill the name of Hatshepsut the Glorious! Now, give me the cup. But I am pharaoh and I will not drink it here, in the presence of
my enemies! Stand aside, that I may pass.”

  With a sweep of her fragile, flowing robes Hatshepsut turned and bore the golden cup to her private chambers. Thutmose followed her. The door closed quietly behind them.

  A sound like a sigh passed through the crowd in the throne room, but no one stirred from his place, though Sheftu turned to seek Mara’s eyes across the space that separated them. It seemed a long time before the inner door opened again, and Thutmose stepped forth—alone. At sight of the royal cobra on his brow, the entire company fell to their knees.

  But the king walked straight to Sheftu, raised him, and grasped his shoulders in both hands. There was a low conversation unheard by any save themselves, then both turned toward Mara, and Sheftu quickly crossed the space of blood-stained floor and took her hand.

  “Beloved—come with me, unless your hurt is too great. . . .”

  Conscious of a hundred eyes upon her, Mara followed him painfully but with pounding heart down the double line of kneeling courtiers to the king.

  “So,” said Thutmose in the gentlest tone she had ever heard him use. “It is the little interpreter who has saved Egypt and me this night.” He was silent a moment, then lifted his hand to touch his lips and forehead in the salute of respect. “Blue-Eyed One, never again shall you cover your shoulders. I declare your scars to be medals of gallantry greater than any I could bestow, and it is my will that all the Black Land look upon them, and learn the nature of courage.” Gravely he lifted a massive gold chain from his own neck and placed it around Mara’s. “Count Sheftu,” he added, raising his voice so that it carried to all parts of the room, “I advance your status to Nearest Friend and Advisor of Pharaoh. Your place is at my right hand as long as I rule Egypt. But I charge you now, leave me and find the most skilled physician in Thebes to treat this maid’s wounds. Farewell, and the gods go with you.”

  He turned away from them, and as they moved once more down the long room, they heard his confident and vigorous step advancing toward the throne. A moment later his voice rang out.