Mara, Daughter of the Nile

  “Mara, come! That sentry is—is ogling you!” whispered Inanni, tugging at Mara’s sleeve in embarrassment.

  Mara’s eyes shifted to the sentry, measuring him so coolly that the princess hurried on, scandalized, across the pavement. Mara shrugged and followed. “Ai, he is not so handsome as he thinks he is,” she commented. “Come, through this wicket now. I think this is the hedge which borders our lotus garden.”

  Inanni was glad to dodge in anywhere away from the sentry’s bold grin. But as they pushed through the last gate he vanished from her mind. Her first impression of the lotus garden was of vast sweeping lawns and the sparkle of water; her second, of a throng of people. She shrank back in dismay, but Mara had already started down a path strewn with powdered lapis lazuli, and there was nothing to do but follow. The place was almost a park, spacious and well watered, dotted with clumps of palms and acacias under which nobles and their ladies lounged. Beside them were low tables laden with beribboned wine jugs and bowls of fruit; behind them slaves waved great plumy fans. Dominating all was the long lotus-shaped sunken pool in the center of the garden, blue as heaven with countless lilies. Their perfume filled the air.

  “Is it not beautiful, Highness? Is it not all I said, and more?”

  Inanni mumbled assent, hoping she did not appear as gawky and countrified as she felt. The whole court of pharaoh must be gathered here to take the air! Two gossamer-clad ladies sauntered by, their fashionable, blue-wigged heads like heavy flowers on their fragile necks, cones of slowly melting perfume ointment resting atop their curls. The fragrance of myrrh drifted by with them. A Nubian in a slave’s shenti crossed the path, carrying a wine jug and a bouquet of golden cups.

  “Lift up thy head, Rose of Canaan!” came Mara’s low voice. “Do not mind a few stares. Remember, it is not every day these lesser folk may gape at one destined to be the bride of royalty.”

  Mara’s words were reassuring, as always, but her manner was preoccupied. She was scanning every part of the garden, a faint frown between her slanted eyebrows, the very lily on her forehead quivering with tenseness. Again, and stronger, the notion returned to Inanni that her interpreter had business of her own in this place. Was she meeting someone? Perhaps a sweetheart? Why, she could have told me, thought the princess. I would have understood, with all my heart!

  Mara turned just then, touching Inanni’s arm to guide her into a branching path. Her hand was like ice. Perhaps not a sweetheart! worried the princess. Perhaps someone she fears. . . .

  They were making their way to a stone bench under a big acacia tree near the pool’s edge. It was in plain sight of the rest of the garden, but some distance from the nearest group of courtiers, to Inanni’s relief. She sank down gratefully upon the bench and allowed Jezra to pour her a cup of wine from the flower-wreathed jug nearby. It had been no short walk, and when one possessed a fine, statuesque figure with plenty of curves, one got out of breath easily. It was good to rest.

  “Shall I pluck you a lily, my princess?” Mara murmured. Without waiting for permission she moved down the grassy slope and stooped to the froth of blue flowers in the water. Rising, a blossom in her hand, she stood a moment to sweep the garden with yet another searching glance. Inanni found even herself peering this way and that, frowning into clumps of trees, though what or whom she sought she did not know.

  At that moment a light step sounded on the path behind her. She turned quickly. A tall figure was approaching through the shadows under a clump of palms. On the slope, Mara stopped short, then with a visible effort continued her unhurried walk back to the bench. She was breathing quickly as she bent over Inanni and offered the lily’s fragrance to her nose.

  “Here is thy lotus, Princess. Drink of its perfume and forget tomorrow, our sages tell us . . .”

  A smooth voice, speaking Egyptian, interrupted her. She straightened, then stepped aside. Inanni found herself looking into the long, impenetrable eyes of a richly dressed young nobleman.

  Is this he, then, whom Mara expected? she thought. But he is speaking to me. “Who is he, Mara? What does he say?”

  “Highness, may I present His Excellency, Lord Sheftu. He wishes to know if Your Highness finds our country pleasing.”

  He must be the one, nevertheless, thought Inanni, else Mara would not clasp her hands so tightly. “Tell him it is very beautiful, though far different from my homeland.”

  Mara spoke, and the young lord listened courteously. He was the same, Inanni realized all at once, who had stepped up to the queen’s throne this morning to receive some order. How attractive he was, to be sure—except for his beardless jaw, shaved clean as a baby’s after the strange Egyptian custom. Inanni narrowed her eyes, trying to picture him with a luxuriant Syrian beard. The results were exhilarating. Ah, if this were Mara’s young man she had reason to breathe quickly! But of course he could not be, after all, since he was a great lord and Mara only a hired interpreter. . . . It was very confusing.

  “My lord wishes to inquire if you enjoyed your audience with the king,” Mara was saying.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. His Highness was very kind.”

  As Mara turned back to the young Egyptian, Inanni noticed that her tenseness was now pronounced, almost as if she were bracing herself for something she dreaded. Was she in love with this Sheftu, or in mortal fear of him? Inanni could not decide. Evidently what she was trying to tell him was of the gravest consequence, but he would not let her finish, and his voice was stern in spite of his mask of casual interest. Can they really think I believe she is only translating my one little remark? thought Inanni, almost amused.

  Of course she might not have suspected, had she not guessed Mara was coming here to meet someone. It did take more time to say a thing in Egyptian, as Mara had explained this afternoon. Think how many words the king had used to make statements that were quite short and simple in Babylonian. A strange man, the king, scowling through his courtesies. . . . But that had been quite different. Mara and this Lord Sheftu were actually talking of their own affairs.

  The young Egyptian made a remark, turning graciously to Inanni as he did so. She had opened her mouth to say that she had no objection to their conversing privately, that they need not pretend, when another thought struck her like a blow.

  Suppose it had not been different, this afternoon? Suppose there were not such dissimilarities in the language? Suppose—suppose Mara and the king had been pretending too?

  “Lord Sheftu inquires,” repeated Mara, “if you find the wine to your taste. Will you not answer, Highness?”

  “It is very good,” said Inanni mechanically. Impossible! she was thinking. There could be no reason . . . But she felt almost numb. This Sheftu was not interested in the wine, he was watching Mara out of the corner of his eye. Just so had it been at the audience—the king’s manner bespeaking one thing and his words another. Before Baal, it was so! They were all deceiving her, thinking her too stupid to understand. Aye, and she had been stupid! She had believed, because Mara told her to believe, because she wanted to believe!

  “My lord inquires whether you enjoyed your journey, Highness.”

  “What? Yes—no—”

  It doesn’t matter what I say, she thought. They’re not listening to me, only to each other. I am of no importance. And the king—ah, Mara, why did you deceive me?

  That was the part she could scarcely credit yet, that Mara would lie to her so callously. But she must have. It explained everything strange about that audience—the king’s scowls and his honeyed words, even his restless pacing. Aye, it was true. Therefore all she had been told was untrue. Thutmose was not kind, he was scornful and arrogant, as his first terrible scrutiny had indicated. He was not pleased with his intended, he despised her.

  I want to go home, thought Inanni, closing her eyes. Oh, gentle Ishtar, let me go home to my own land!

  Somehow she got through her part of the brief conversatio
n, never knowing what she said. Before long the young man bowed and went away. For some time Inanni sat in silence, slowly, very slowly, accepting the truth.

  Mara, in the act of offering a platter of sweetmeats, bent over her in concern. “My princess! Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  “But you are tired. Come, we will go back to the palace. It has been a long day.”

  Could she be pretending still? thought Inanni as she gathered her shawl about her. No, her voice is warm and sweet. Then why did she do this to me? Perhaps only to be kind, that I might not know my bridegroom scorns me. Bridegroom. Alas, he will never marry me.

  They walked slowly up the rise to the main path. The light had faded; a few pale stars showed overhead and the courtiers were drifting out of the garden. The fragrance of lotus came to Inanni’s nostrils and the peace of the evening touched her with a gentle hand.

  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 an odd 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.

  CHAPTER 11

  Night Ride

  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?”