Mara, Daughter of the Nile

  Mara was on her feet. “Ai, praise and thanksgiving be to— Quick, Princess! Find me Syrian clothes, all the scarves and shawls and thick skirts you can gather— Stay! Do you think—she’ll do this for me?”

  “She will do it for me, Mara,” said Inanni softly. “We have comforted each other, and it is as if I were her daughter, and she my own kin.”

  Mara stood for one silent moment, searching the simple, tranquil face and glimpsing a world which she had never known—a world of friends and kin, who shared bread and trouble alike, and comforted one another. “And you would do it for me?” she whispered.

  “With all my heart. It is not much I do—” Inanni started for her bedchamber, then hesitated. Suddenly she rushed back to seize Mara’s hands, her plump face creased with anxiety. “But it is much, and more than much, that you do, Mara! Oh, think carefully! Once outside the walls you could go free. . . . They will kill you if you go to that inn, you said so yourself—”

  “I don’t care! I don’t care! Make haste, the clothes!”

  Inanni dropped her hands and flew to the door of her bedchamber.

  CHAPTER 23

  Capture

  Five minutes later two Syrians in gaudy draperies emerged from the Princess Inanni’s suite and started for the stair. Down the hall, the guard’s sword clattered as he straightened.

  “Stay! Who’s that?”

  Two shawled heads turned inquiringly toward him, and there was a vague, sibilant mumble of Babylonian, a shrugging of shoulders. He hesitated, but then settled back against the door. “Ai, never mind, go on, go on . . .”

  The Syrians padded to the stair and disappeared.

  A few minutes later one of them returned alone, let herself quietly into the room, and drew the bolt behind her. At the same moment Mara was walking beside Sherimi the weaver through the Main Gate of the palace grounds, carrying a basket of linen warp on her head and echoing the Syrian’s casual good night to the sentry.

  “By my ka, Sherimi,” he remarked in surprise. “You’re a little late, are you not? All Thebes is asleep long since. . . . Who’s that with you?”

  “Only a new apprentice,” answered Sherimi. “I must hasten, sentry, my son is ill and already my work has kept me too long from him.”

  “May the Starry One send him rest,” yawned the sentry absently. “Good night.”

  Out of sight around the curving wall, Mara pressed the woman’s hand in silent thanks, then flung off the heavy draperies and stuffed them into the basket. Sherimi took them and went her way, while Mara, feeling fleet as air in her own thin Egyptian sheath, sped toward the goldsmith’s shop, across the street to the dark entrance—and straight into the arms of Nekonkh.

  “Hai!” he growled, seizing her as if he never meant to let go. “So I’ve snared you at last, my bird on the wing, and this time I’ll wager you’ll not slip away from—”

  Mara clapped a hand over his mouth. “Nekonkh, you’re the very one I want. Oh, Amon, how glad I am to see you! Quick, quick, to the river, we must find a boat, they’re going to raid the tavern. Make haste, I tell you!”

  “They’re what? Who—”

  Nekonkh was moving beside her, even while he protested, but he kept a firm grip on her arm. As quickly as she could, Mara explained, meanwhile tugging him on through the dark streets. “I know not when they started, even if they’ve started, but there’s a chance we may get there first. They had soldiers to call together, orders to give—the Devourer take you, will you hurry? Cease your pulling back!”

  “I mean to stand still,” said Nekonkh bluntly, and did so. “Let me set my teeth into this. Nay, stop tugging at me, it’ll do you no good. Now tell me why I should believe a word of this wild tale when not an hour ago—”

  “Ast! I know I tricked you, Nekonkh, I had to, you’d not have listened if I’d tried to— In the name of Amon, would I be going to the tavern at all if it weren’t to warn them? You know well how they feel toward me by this time! Unless you hasten it’s you who’ll betray them, you who’ll murder them one by one!”

  “So be it, hush, hush! No need to shriek at me.” Nekonkh was moving now, raking the riverbank with his glance as they ran down the last slope. “Mind you, I don’t say I believe you, but I’ll take no chance on . . . None of your tricks, though, Miss Blue Eyes! You’ll not get out of my sight from now to Crete, do you understand? By Amon, I think I’ll tie a hawser to you, and make certain. . . . Here’s a boat. We’ll borrow it now and ask leave some other—”

  “Nekonkh! Listen!”

  Both of them froze, in the act of climbing into the boat. Somewhere back in the dark maze of streets there was a sound of rhythmic footsteps, a barked order, the clank of weapons.

  “They’re coming!” gasped Mara. “Make haste, make haste—now do you believe me?”

  For answer Nekonkh shoved her into the boat, tumbled in after her, and pushed off with a stroke of such violent energy that it seemed to take them halfway across the Nile. Grim and silent, he devoted all his attention to keeping the boat moving at a speed Mara would have marveled at any time but now. Now, no matter how fast they went, the boat seemed to crawl. Her gaze was fastened fearfully on the receding riverbank.

  “There they are!” she cried. “I can see them, Nekonkh. They’ll take that ferry barge, I’ll wager, it’s the only craft big enough to hold them all. Oh, hurry, hurry—”

  The barge was well past the middle of the river when the little boat bumped the wharf on the east bank. Nekonkh tied the painter in an instant, and scrambled up the water-soaked ladder, pulling Mara behind him. Together they plunged into the gloomy alleys of the waterfront district.

  “You must tell them, Nekonkh— I daren’t go in—” panted Mara as they ran. “They’ll believe you—”

  “And where will you be?” he snapped. “If I let you slip away again—”

  “Oh, what do I matter now? Put your wits to work, Captain! If I live to reach Crete it’s more than I hope for anyway. . . .”

  Nekonkh flung open the gate, and they halted, breathless. “I’ll wait,” gasped Mara. “I swear I’ll wait. There in the corner.”

  Nekonkh loosed her arm at last and sprinted for the door.

  Stumbling to the farthest, darkest corner of the courtyard, Mara huddled there, trying to catch her breath and listening for the clatter of weapons in the streets beyond. She heard them, all too soon. But before that she heard Nekonkh’s voice in the tavern, followed by scrambling activity, then the sound of the rear door banging open and soft, hasty footsteps scattering in all directions. They were still hurrying stealthily by her on the other side of the courtyard wall when the heavy ones, the bold ones, pounded up the street.

  Naught holds me here, thought Mara, shrinking against the wall. I could climb up these vines and be over the wall and away. . . .

  But she did not move. She had told Nekonkh she would wait, and just once—just once in her life—she meant to do what she said.

  She could hear the swords clanking now, and the panting, and see the orange glow of torchlight over the wall yonder, on the buildings across the street.

  Nekonkh, come! Nekonkh, come! she thought. Make haste. . . .

  And there he was at last, in the doorway, beckoning to her. She darted out of her corner—and the first soldiers burst at that moment through the gate.

  “In the name of the queen!” a hoarse voice bellowed.

  Mara flung herself back; Nekonkh vanished, and the raiders poured into the courtyard.

  Gods of Egypt! They are everywhere, Mara was thinking as she flattened herself against the vines. Swarming over the courtyard like angry bees, dashing into the tavern and through it, shouting, cursing—and from the sound of it, breaking every piece of crockery Miphtahyah owned. Some ran out the back, she could hear them beating about the alleys, calling to one another, growling their fury that for the second time that nigh
t their prey had eluded them.

  Mara found herself laughing silently, clutching the vines in wild excitement. They all went free! She exulted. You sons of crocodiles, they all slid through your claws, every one! Then a light glared in her face.

  “Who’s that?” cried a voice. “Ast! I found one, at least. Come out of there!” A rough hand dragged her forth. “Look you, it’s a maid!”

  “A maid?” echoed another voice—one she knew.

  She twisted about to face Chadzar the Libyan.

  “By the Sacred Horns of Hathor!” he exploded. “What kheft spirited you out of the palace? With a guard at the door and every sentry warned—”

  Mara loosed her held-in laughter; it rang clear and mocking and triumphant through the courtyard and the empty inn.

  “You daughter of forty devils!” spat the Libyan, grabbing for his whip. “I’ll teach you to laugh at me—”

  From long habit, Mara flung an arm over her face, half crouching. The first savage, familiar bite of the lash quenched her laughter. As she gasped under the second, and the third, and the fourth, she knew her thirty short days of freedom were at an end.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Mara walked into the great audience chamber of the Golden House, weary, sore, with hands bound tight behind her, it seemed a different room from the one she had entered the morning of Inanni’s audience with the queen. Now, soldiers instead of courtiers stood in groups about it, and torches blazed on every wall, throwing dancing, dazzling reflections over the dais and the electrum throne which stood tall and empty, awaiting its occupant. Not gentle Inanni but Chadzar stood beside Mara, whip in hand—and no Lord Sheftu lounged with deceptive laziness in the background, ready to throw her a glance of encouragement, devise a way out.

  Instead there was Senmut the Architect, hastily summoned from his bed and talking in low tones with his brother Nahereh—and there was no way out.

  Count Senmut’s ravaged face showed a fierce elation; he kept looking over his shoulder toward the door leading to the queen’s private apartments.

  “I made her summons urgent,” Mara heard him murmur. “And we’d best wait, she’ll want to do the questioning herself. Amon! What luck this is! Now perhaps that cursed affair of the bodyguard will be forgotten. Her Radiance has shown me naught but the edge of her tongue these last few days, I must confess. You say this slave girl’s your only capture?”

  “Aye, but she’s enough, provided she’ll speak truth.”

  Senmut glanced at Mara, his cheeks furrowing with a faint, contemptuous smile. “There are ways to insure that.”

  Mara heard him as from a great distance. None of this seemed quite believable; disasters had fallen in such a deadly rain that she felt dazed by now. The night seemed to have been going on forever, like a chaotic dream. Only the fresh welts across her shoulders were vividly real; they throbbed without ceasing, each stripe separately, like crisscrossed bands of fire.

  I have grown soft, she thought, or else this Libyan’s hand is heavier than Zasha’s ever was. . . .

  There was a sudden stir among those who stood nearest the inner door. “Now, we’ll see!” breathed Senmut with satisfaction. He crossed the room quickly; the soldiers effaced themselves against the walls, and the Libyan gave Mara a shove which sent her sprawling on her face, unable to catch herself because of her bound wrists. The whole company dropped to their knees as the door swung open.

  “Behold,” intoned the chamberlain. “The majesty of the Black Land, Horus of Gold, Enduring of Kingships, Splendid of Diadems, Ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt—”

  “Enough!” rang Hatshepsut’s high, metallic voice, accompanied by the whisper of her sandals across the floor. “I care naught for ceremony in the middle of the night. Count Senmut, what, I pray you, is of such vast importance that I be roused from my couch at this hour . . . ? Move that cursed cushion! I like it not.”

  Mara lay tensely quiet, intensely aware. Everything was real now—too real. Her shoulders burned with fresh pain from her wrenching fall, and the Architect’s soothing tones turned her sick with dread.

  “Your Radiance will scarce regret the loss of a little sleep when you hear my news. I have this night—with some help from my esteemed brother Lord Nahereh—struck the death blow at a conspiracy against your Enduring Majesty’s throne and person. The very conspiracy, in fact, that we have long suspected to be in progress under the secret direction of your kinsman the Pretender—”

  “Fewer words, Count Senmut! Do you say you have caught the leaders? I see them not.”

  “Majesty, this wretched slave girl you see before you—”

  “She is the leader? You ask me,” said the queen waspishly, “to believe that tale?”

  “Shining One, my tale is not yet told!” retorted Senmut. “When you see the face of this wench . . . Pull her up, there!”

  Mara felt the Libyan’s rough grasp; the next instant she was on her knees, looking straight into the glittering dark eyes of Hatshepsut. The queen’s face was as beautiful as before—perhaps more so, for this time its femininity was not mocked by the tied-on ceremonial beard and the massive severity of the double crown. Confined only by a narrow golden circlet bearing the royal cobra, her hair fell loose about her shoulders; and she wore a flowing dressing gown instead of robes of state.

  “Blue eyes,” she remarked. “Where have I seen this girl before?”

  “Daughter of the Sun, she is the Canaanite’s interpreter, and one of our own spies.”

  “By my father the god!” exclaimed the queen, leaning forward. “She’s dared deceive us?”

  “Exactly, Your Radiance. And if you will allow my tale to proceed . . .”

  The queen leaned back, still staring at Mara. “Go on,” she ordered.

  And so the tale was told, with all the eloquence and subtle emphasis on his own cleverness of which Count Senmut had made himself master through long years of courting the favor of his queen. Mara listened with growing astonishment, scarcely able to recognize the happenings she knew so well. Nahereh was barely mentioned; the soldiers and Sahure dismissed with a shrug. It became clear that Count Senmut alone, inspired by his pure and lifelong devotion to the Radiant One, had solved the whole riddle in a flash of genius, conducted the raid singlehanded, and desired naught for reward save the smile of pharaoh. . . . Aye, and pharaoh was beginning to smile.

  Prince of serpents! thought Mara, almost in awe. It was this same sly, persuasive tongue which for years had twisted all reports into the shape of what Hatshepsut wished to hear, a hymn to her own glory. It was these fluidly gesturing hands, as much as the slim, beringed ones resting on the arms of the throne, which maneuvered the destiny of Egypt and her helpless thousands. The Black Land might perish under taxes or the sword of an enemy, so long as these two gained their ends.

  Behold, that which men dreaded now exists, thought Mara. The old Prophecy of Neferrohu was forming in her mind. Foes are in the East, and Asiatics descend into Egypt, and no protector hears. The land is diminished, its rulers multiplied. . . . Little is the corn, great the corn measure, yet it must be measured to overflowing.

  “You, slave!” The queen’s voice sliced through her thoughts. “You may address my majesty. Have you heard the charges made against you by His Excellency?”

  “Aye, Radiant One,” whispered Mara.

  “Do you deny them?”

  “Nay, I do not—deny them.”

  What am I saying? she thought in sudden panic. I must deny them, somehow—

  “You used your position as interpreter to hold private converse with my half brother the Pretender, you bore messages from him to the rabble at this inn, whom he calls his followers—and you were aware as you did this that you were assisting a plot against my sacred majesty and the throne of Egypt?”

  “Nay, nay, I knew it not! I knew not what I did. I was bewitch
ed! Your Majesty, it was as in a dream, I knew only that I must go to the inn, but I did not even understand the words I spoke there! I moved as one under a spell, I swear it was so! His Highness your brother bewitched me—”

  “Lies!” cut in Nahereh contemptuously. “None could bewitch that maid, she’s half kheft herself! She knew what she did.”

  “I’ve no doubt of it,” said Hatshepsut. “Come, girl, this babble will gain you naught. You bore messages and assisted in treason against me. However, it is possible I might spare your life if you show yourself helpful now. Name me the leader of the plot.”

  The moment had come. Mara’s lips parted, and her heart suddenly began to pound against her ribs. “I do not know him, Majesty,” she whispered.

  “You do not know him?” The queen seemed not able to believe what she had heard. Then her eyes narrowed with fury. “Do you dare defy me? Answer at once, before I have your tongue slit! Who is the leader?”

  “I do not know him.”

  There was an incredulous silence. Then Count Senmut spoke harshly. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, she has forgotten. You, Libyan! Refresh her memory!”

  Chadzar scrambled off his knees and plied his whip with a will. One, two, three lashes blazed across Mara’s back, already striped with welts.

  “Who is the leader?” repeated Hatshepsut.

  Trying with difficulty to catch her breath, Mara said, “I tell you I know him not.”

  “Ast! It is the daughter of Set himself that you have brought me, Senmut!” breathed the queen, white faced. “Question this slave, I will not speak to her again.”

  “I hear and obey, Your Radiance.” The furrows of his smile carved deep into the Architect’s face as he left his place beside the throne and advanced upon Mara. “I advise you,” he rapped out, “to answer me while you’re able. Who is this leader?”

  “I do not know him.”

  “Double your strokes, Libyan.”