Mara, Daughter of the Nile (18 page)

“Good. Now for my orders.” As she hesitated, he frowned impatiently. “Come, speak. We have not all night.”

“He says—you must find more gold.”

“I know that. I’ve promised bribes already I cannot pay. But where? Did he— What’s amiss, maid?” Sheftu bent closer, scanning her face, then he slowly straightened. “Is it bad, then?”

“Aye, it is bad! It is so dread a thing I dare not speak it! Ahh, I beg thee, Sheftu, disobey this time! Thy prince has no right to demand such a crime of thee, no matter—”

“Hush!” He clapped a hand over her mouth, darting an angry glance about the courtyard. “Would you have all Thebes hear? Now cease thy babbling and tell me.”

“Nay, I’ll not! Do not ask me, Sheftu, it is better thus, I vow it is better you should never—”

He swept her forcibly against him, doubling her wrist behind her in a grip that made her wince. “You forget yourself,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “You are not judge, but messenger. Tell me what pharaoh commands, be quick.”

“Wait, I will, but loose me! I—” A slight wrench on her wrist turned the plea into a gasp of pain. She tumbled the words out. “He asks if your magic be a shield and a buckler to you. Amon help you, you must rob the dead—”

“Go on.”

“He said—there is one alone in all of Egypt who will give gold gladly for his sake. You must find this one—by the Dark River—you must take what is his, even to the royal
cobra and the collar of amulets.
Aiii
, mother of the gods, loose me, Sheftu!”

“This is all?”

“Aye, all, I swear it!”

The pressure on her wrist eased. She leaned against him, trying to steady her breathing. After a time his arms dropped, and he moved a few steps away. But when he spoke at last, it was in his usual ironic voice. “Must I always drag my messages out of you by brute force? It promises to be wearing.”

She raised her head. In the dim moonlight his features were composed, if a trifle set. “You are not—disturbed—by this one?”

“It was not entirely unexpected.”

“I see,” she breathed. “Then you intend to obey?”

“Blue-Eyed One, that is none of your affair.”

But she knew the answer. “You’re a fool!” she whispered. “Ten thousand kinds of a fool, to risk your soul among the
khefts!
They’ll steal away your
ka
and leave naught but the shell of you! They’ll dwell in your shadow, they’ll bring you down to blindness and sickness, they’ll deliver you to the Forty Beasts—”

Her voice cracked, and she broke off.

“You tell me nothing I do not know,” said Sheftu softly. “Save one thing—why are you so troubled about my fate?”

“I—” She stopped and drew a long breath. “I am not troubled.”

“You are close to tears.”

Mara turned away from him, rubbing her sore wrist. “Not I! If you choose to be a reckless fool, it’s naught to me.” As he said nothing, she whirled back defensively. “I speak truth!”

“Do you?”

“Aye! I do!”

He pulled her back into his arms—quite differently this
time. “You never spoke truth in your life,” he muttered. “But speak it now. Why do you weep for me?”

Mara’s heart was beating fast. He was going to kiss her, it was inevitable this time. “Perhaps for the same reason you threatened to feed my poor Reshed to the crocodiles,” she whispered. She waited, scarcely breathing. “Sheftu—were you afraid I might keep that bargain?”

His arms loosened suddenly, and the old faintly mocking amusement returned to his voice. “Nay, I was afraid you might lose your entry in and out of the palace,” he said lightly. “
Ai, ai
, what a lovely hussy you are. This poor Reshed, I pity him! What will become of his illusions when he finds you out?”

Mara jerked away, furious. “Only what should become of them! He must learn sometime not to believe every maid who weeps on his shoulder.”

“Aye, so he must,” agreed Sheftu drily. “Go now. Nekonkh is waiting.”

Without further farewell he turned and strode rapidly toward the inn.

THERE WAS nothing of the simple scribe about Lord Sheftu as he sat at breakfast next morning on the roof loggia of his villa on the Street of Sycamores in western Thebes. He was clad in a dressing gown of royal linen girdled with scarlet leather, and beside his chair was a table of carved
Lebanon cedar bearing fruit, bread, cheese and a lily-twined flagon of milk. A Kushite slave hovered in the background. Beyond the balustrade stretched the ample groves, gardens and stables of Sheftu’s town estate. They were extensive, but not so extensive as his ancestral holdings downriver, where acre upon acre of farmland—vineyards, pastures, orchards, grainfields—poured their riches every year into his storerooms and purse. It was a monthly accounting of those riches that was being read to him now by the old man in an elaborate wig who stood beside the balustrade—Irenamon, major-domo of the entire domain since long before the death of Sheftu’s father, Menkau.

“From your lordship’s dairies near the village of Nekheb, thirty pounds of cheese, both white and yellow, and twenty beef for slaughter.” Irenamon’s voice was like the rustling of a dried palm frond. “In addition, a hundred skins of wine have been brought upriver on your lordship’s barge
Hour of Sunset
, to be stored in your lordship’s warehouses in the city of Thebes …”

But his lordship was not thinking of beef or wineskins, nor was he showing much appetite for the array of dainties on the golden platter beside him.

While his long fingers crumbled the bread and toyed absently with the fruit, his mind was far away, in the desolate wastes of the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings. In one of the barren gullies of that wilderness was a certain pile of red granite boulders. It looked the same as the other piles tumbled here and there through the valley as if at the whim of a destructive giant. But to Sheftu it was not the same. Far below it, in vast and silent chambers hollowed out of the living rock, slept the one whose peace he must destroy, whose wealth he must steal, whose
ka
he must impoverish.

The dread of it had lain like a stone on his mind since he had dragged that message out of a reluctant Mara. Though
he had not let her see it, he hated and feared his task with all his heart. But it was not the crime she thought it, nor was it certain the guardian
khefts
would rend his soul or even strike him blind. For there was one thing Mara had not known when she stormed and pled with him, and that was the identity of the royal slumberer. He was Thutmose I, father of the king—and of Hatshepsut. In life, his arrogant daughter had robbed him of his throne when he was ill and feeble. Would he not willingly be robbed once more, in death, if his gold could overthrow her? The prince had vowed he would, and Sheftu believed. He had to believe. Because otherwise …

Sheftu shook away that “otherwise,” along with the memory of Mara’s predictions as she clung to him in fear. Whatever the
khefts
might do, he had no choice but to descend into the tomb and come out laden. This was the last great gamble he and Thutmose had agreed on long ago, and the time had come to try it. Everything else that could be done was done …

“… therefore if the grain remained in the warehouses until such time as—I fear your lordship is not listening.”

Sheftu pulled his attention back to old Irenamon’s reproachful voice. “Aye, aye, tell me that last again, please.”

“According to the calculations of our river experts, who are never wrong,” repeated Irenamon patiently, “this year’s inundation will be a small one, resulting in poor crops and a scarcity of grain in the months to come before Mother Nile again sends her gift to Egypt. Therefore, if a portion of your lordship’s wheat still in the warehouses were to remain there, it would command a far greater price next summer in the time of hunger—”

“I understand. Save it by all means against the time of hunger, but do not raise the price, Irenamon. The people must eat, whether they can pay or not.”

“As your lordship wishes.” Irenamon cleared his throat
and rustled the papyrus. “However, we—er—sell much grain to the agents of Her Majesty for the palace kitchens …”

Sheftu shot a glance at the blandly innocent old face, and hid a smile. “Charge what the buyer can pay. I leave it to your discretion.”

The old servant bowed and went on with his lists without further comment, but Sheftu knew that a fresh stream of gold from Hatshepsut’s treasuries would soon be pouring into his coffers. Unless, indeed, the treasuries belonged to Thutmose by next summer.

He felt a tremor of emotion at the thought. After six long years it was hard to believe that the end of all this was approaching. Yet the plans he and Thutmose had made so long ago were almost complete, the work almost finished. Hatshepsut’s elaborate structure of power was now like a house set upon columns of sand. Enlisting Khofra to gain control of the Army had further weakened the foundations. There remained only a few lords still stubbornly loyal to the queen, out of fear for their own fortunes and futures. These must be won over, by persuasion—and by gold, the greatest persuader of them all.

Sheftu smiled grimly, tossing bread to the pigeons strutting along the balustrade. His regard for his fellow man was not what it had been six years ago. He no longer believed, even in his heart, that there lived man or woman gold could not buy. Only their prices differed. These last cautious ones would cost a pharaoh’s fortune, and a pharaoh must supply it—he who slept beneath that pile of boulders in the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings …

His thoughts had come full circle, for the twentieth time that morning. Sheftu left his chair abruptly, and the pigeons scattered with a drumming of wings. Irenamon stopped reading, then began to roll up his papyrus.

“My lord wearies of business,” he said tactfully. “Indeed, the morning is too fine for it.
Hai
, when I was your age …
Shall I have the boat and the throw-sticks readied to divert you?”

“Nay, old friend, I’ve no time for hunting. But I pray you, let us finish these accounts another time. I must drive to the temple within the hour. Go below and tell the barber to make ready for me.”

As the old man turned toward the stairs, Sheftu laid an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “Forgive my inattention, Faithful One. I have much on my mind.”

Irenamon’s face lighted hopefully. “Indeed! Can it be that— My lord has perhaps met some young lady?”

“Young lady?” With some difficulty Sheftu achieved a careless smile. “Patience, Irenamon. Someday, I promise thee, my mother’s long-empty place at table will be filled. But at present—
Ai
, get thee gone, now!”

Young lady!

Turning irritably as the major-domo hobbled down the stairs, Sheftu signaled the slave to pour him a cup of milk. But even the lotus twined about the flagon brought to mind two mocking eyes, blue as enamel under slanted brows. Why, in Amon’s name, must he think so continually of that waif! For a waif she was—remember the market place at Menfe, remember her waking on the boat, a smudge on her face and wild defiance in her pose. Yet a dozen times a day he found himself thinking of the fluid way she walked, dwelling, fascinated, on some elusive curve of her cheek or throat, becoming preoccupied with the shape of her mouth. Aye, and remembering—far too vividly—the yielding warmth of her in his arms … Osiris! He had all but made love to her last night in the tavern courtyard, all but forgotten she was an unprincipled little vagabond bound to him only by a threat and a bribe. He must not forget! The maid could worm secrets from the Sphinx himself!

His lordship set the cup down hard and descended the stairs. The devil! He had talked too much last night, why not admit it? He, Sheftu the Discreet. She knew far more than
he had ever intended her to know, yet he’d had to fight the urge to keep talking. Have you not learned, he asked himself caustically, not to trust every maid who weeps on your shoulder?

He walked down a corridor and through a richly furnished sitting room, as blind to their sunny, familiar comfort as he was deaf to the greetings of a couple of house slaves who wished him good morning as he passed. How easy it would have been, there in the moonlight, to throw away all caution, to hold her tight in his arms and whisper that she must not fear; no
khefts
would harm one who came only to carry the dead king’s gifts to his living son—to tell her even the name of the royal slumberer, and the place where he lay— Sheftu went cold at the thought. Had the maid bewitched him, that he would court destruction merely to dry her tears? He must come to his senses! He was acting as witless as that young—that
handsome
young sentry of hers.

“… but I fear I misunderstood. Does my lord wish me to return later?”

Sheftu swung around. He was standing in the middle of his own apartments, but had no more recollection of arriving there than he had of the presence of the barber, though the fellow must have spoken before. He collected his wits with some difficulty, cursing Mara and his own befuddled senses.

“Nay, I want you now, Thoth,” he muttered, stripping off his dressing gown. “Prepare your razors at once, I’m in haste.”

The feel of the cooling salves and the razor sliding over his chin restored a sense of normality to the day, and he was grateful for the barber’s silence, which enabled him to compose himself. As the fragrance of sandalwood from the last lotion rose on the air, Sheftu stood up, running a hand over his jaw.

“You are expert as ever, Thoth. Send my dresser in at once, and tell one of the grooms to harness Ebony and Wind-of-Swiftness to my lightest chariot.”

Ten minutes later Lord Sheftu spun out of the courtyard and down the Street of Sycamores toward the river. Plumes tossed above his horses’ sleek black heads, the sunlight flashed from his gold collar and from a thousand bits of colored glass set into the spokes of his chariot wheels. Driving off the ferry into the crowded streets of eastern Thebes, he flung a handful of coppers to the expectant throng of waterfront urchins, then turned into the Avenue of Sphinxes, which bisected the city and brought him straight through the tall bronze gates of the Temple of Amon.