Mara, Daughter of the Nile (14 page)

Perhaps, after all, it is just as well, she thought. I could never have learned to be Egyptian, and wear those thin dresses, and look down my nose at humble folk. The king would always have been ashamed of me. Still, if he had let me, I could have been a good wife to him, and comforted him when his head ached. But he does not want that, it was never to be. I wonder why I was brought here, to live in loneliness, to no purpose? I suppose I shall never know. Someday, perhaps, when all their planning and struggling has spent itself, they will forget about me, and then I shall be allowed to go home again, down the long river to Canaan. No one will care, then; they will not even remember.

“You are very quiet, my princess,” came Mara’s worried voice. “I trust I have not overwearied you.”

Inanni smiled at her, shaking her head. Poor Mara, it was she who was weary, with all her scheming and struggling. I will let her think I know nothing of this, thought the princess, and help her with her pretending, that her secrets be not such a burden to her. Doubtless she, too, is caught in a web she cannot escape.

But for Inanni the struggle was over, and the fact brought a queer sense of relief which grew in her as they walked
slowly through the dusk toward the gate in the hedge. Even the sidelong, curious glances from painted eyes had lost some of their power to hurt her, she discovered. It did not matter, now, what Egyptians thought of her. She did not have to win a place among them.

Tomorrow, she thought, I will go alone to see the woman carding wool in the Court of the Weavers. It will be good to talk of home.

NOW I HAVE WORN her out, Mara was thinking irritably. Dragging her here and there, denying her even the small comfort of talking to that weaver. But how else could I have done it? I had to reach the garden, I had to …

And now, great Amon, she must wait still another while before she might give Sheftu the king’s message. If only she could have got it off her mind at once! But of course he was right, there were too many ears to listen in that place …

She opened the gate and stepped back to let Inanni go through, checking off in her mind the instructions Sheftu had given her. This meeting had been merely to arrange for future meetings, since he dared not be seen with her often on the palace grounds. Tomorrow, he had said, she must contrive some method of slipping out secretly into the town
by night, a means of coming and going whenever she chose through the palace walls. Tomorrow evening a guide would await her at the shop of Nefer the goldsmith, just outside the walls, to conduct her to a place where she and Sheftu could talk in safety.

She drew a long breath, following Inanni and her women through the garden gate and between the stone rams that bordered the wide paved drive. One day was a short time in which to make such difficult arrangements. She had no idea how to begin.

As she stepped into the drive she noticed Inanni pulling her shawl over her face, hurrying past the sentry with averted head. She is afraid I will stare the fellow down again, thought Mara with a flicker of amusement. Glancing at the guard, she found him once more obviously admiring her. Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be useful—very useful indeed. She sized him up, reflecting. He was young, well favored enough to be easily flattered (already his pacing had turned to a swagger under her gaze) and he guarded a gate which was apparently little-used by the general traffic to and from the palace. Yes, it was worth a try. Mara gave him a melting glance, allowed a smile to play uncertainly about the corners of her mouth, then strolled after Inanni. Tomorrow evening, when he came on duty again, she would make his acquaintance.

The incident restored her confidence. As they passed rapidly through the deserted Court of the Weavers and the string of little gardens and courts that led back to the stairway, she found her worries fading before a mischievous anticipation of tomorrow and her next encounter with the sentry. It would be amusing to wind him about her finger, exciting to venture for the first time into the streets of Thebes. As for the king’s message, that concerned only Sheftu. Play your own game, my girl.

But she had not finished her encounters for today. She
had scarcely bid Inanni good night and retired to her own room when a soft scratching sounded on the door leading to the corridor. Frowning, Mara went to open it. At once a Libyan in a slave’s
shenti
pushed into the room and closed the door silently and swiftly behind him.

“You’re to come with me,” he muttered. “Get a cloak.”

Mara’s jaw set angrily. She had never seen the man before, but her dislike of him was instantaneous. Everything about him repelled her—his pale foreign skin and colorless hair, the one blind eye which showed milky-blue in his callous face, above all, the insolence with which he ordered her around.

“Which devil’s brother are you?” she spat at him.

For answer he reached into his sash and produced something which he held out indifferently on a hand like a chunk of beef. It was a scarab identical to the one Mara’s master had given her in Menfe.

Sullenly she turned to fetch a cloak. The Libyan pulled a fold of it half over her face before he motioned her into the hall. A few minutes later they were passing down an outer stair and through a series of unfamiliar starlit courtyards toward what Mara’s nose told her were the palace stables. They pushed through a row of acacia bushes and emerged into a stone drive.

“Wait,” grunted the Libyan.

It was very quiet after the pad of his sandals died away up the drive. Mara could hear only the light breeze stirring in the acacia leaves, and farther away, the gutturals of the stableboys and the occasional thump of a hoof. The sharp, clean smell of horses came strong to her nostrils, almost obliterating the fainter but ever-present fragrance of lotus that rose on the night air from a hundred palace gardens. It would be nice—it would be lovely, thought Mara, just to stretch out yonder on the grass, with the stars thick up above and the breeze cool, and nothing on my mind …

Suddenly she felt tired all through. Why did he have to send for me tonight? she thought. Tomorrow would have done as well.

The silence was shattered as a chariot clattered into view around a bend in the drive. The horses came to a prancing halt just opposite Mara, and the Libyan motioned her in with an impatient jerk of his head. Reluctantly she stepped up beside him, and took a firm grip on the chariot’s curving side.

“Pull the cloak over your face,” he ordered.

With a crack of his whip they lurched forward. For the next few minutes Mara had all she could do to keep her footing as they rattled along at a furious pace, swerving presently into a wider drive lined with torches and alive with traffic. Other chariots hurtled past them, the drivers shouting and popping the whips as was the Libyan. Half blinded by her muffling cloak, and jarred to the bone, Mara had little chance to examine her surroundings, but she guessed the chariot was speeding down the great East Avenue toward the main gate.

A moment later they pulled up briefly under a glaring torch, and the Libyan muttered something to a man who stood there—a sentry, Mara imagined, though she caught no more than a glimpse of him. She had barely time to plant her feet and renew her grip on the chariot side when they were off again, whirling out of the palace grounds and through the dark streets of western Thebes.

It was obvious the Libyan was accustomed to driving for great nobles, for he kept the horses at a full gallop, with arrogant disregard of comfort, caution, or the safety of occasional pedestrians, who scattered like birds frightened from their marsh. Mara clung to the rail with aching fingers, banging her ribs against the side at every corner and wishing her master and his surly Libyan at the bottom of the Nile. She was bruised and sore when at last the horses turned through a tall gateway into a dimly lit courtyard.
Snorting and tossing their plumed heads, the beasts halted before a door that appeared to lead into the side wing of a large and impressive house. A groom appeared out of nowhere to take the reins, and the Libyan stepped down, pushing Mara before him.

“This way,” he said.

She followed, too weary and confused to notice or care where he was leading her. Inside, the halls smelled faintly of wine and expensive ointments; she caught a whiff of baking pastry as they crossed a passageway. Far off, in another part of the house, there were sounds of music and merriment, as if a party were in progress.

“In there,” muttered the Libyan, stopping with a jerk of his head before an open door. She stepped into a small tapestry-hung room, and a tall, spare figure rose from a corner to confront her. Involuntarily she fell back a step. Her master’s countenance had grown no more winsome in the hours since morning.

“Insolent, show more respect to your betters!” growled the Libyan, nudging her forward again.

She glared at him, but grudgingly moved her right hand to her left shoulder. The thin smile she remembered all too well from Menfe twisted her master’s lips as he strolled toward her.

“Docile as ever,” he commented. “I see you have struck up a warm friendship with my servant Chadzar. Did you enjoy the ride?”

“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 finger tips 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!