Mara, Daughter of the Nile (4 page)

He drew from his girdle a tiny green scarab, inscribed with the name of Hatshepsut. Mara took it in a hand cold with excitement. So far this man had not really told her anything. What was behind all these strange instructions?

“The clothes? The hair?” she murmured.

“Saankh-Wen will arrange for all that,” returned her master, gesturing impatiently. “When you leave Abydos attached as interpreter to Inanni’s train, you will be suitably adorned, and entirely above suspicion of any kind. Now.”

He paused, fixing her with narrowed eyes, and Mara stiffened.

“Once in Thebes,” the man went on softly, “you will accompany the princess to her quarters in the palace and remain there for an indefinite period. You will be present at all her interviews with the king, naturally, since she does not speak a word of our language, and he will not deign to speak hers.
Keep your ears open
. Listen to whatever goes on between the king and those who surround him—his servants, his scribes, his musicians. I want to know which of these people carries his orders to others outside the palace walls. Somehow he is sending and receiving messages. I want to know how.”

Mara stared at him, breathing hard. “In short, I am a spy.”

“Exactly. If you are as clever as I think you are, you should have no trouble obtaining this information. If you succeed, you will not be dissatisfied with your reward. But if you fail, whether by accident
or design
—”

He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. He was smiling in a way that sent a little trickle of fear down Mara’s spine.

She took a deep breath. “How am I to report to you?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Is it permitted to know your name?”

“It is not. The less you know, the less you will be tempted to let your wits run away with you.” The man stood up, taking a heavy gold chain from his neck. “Take this. It will pay your passage to Abydos. Get on the next boat that leaves.” Again the thin smile. “Remember I am no stupid baker’s apprentice. Should the chain—and you—disappear somehow between here and the wharves it would be … regrettable. Do we understand each other?”

“Perfectly,” said Mara.

“Then go. Enjoy your freedom and your fine clothes and your acquaintance with royalty—while you can. It may not last long.”

He leaned back, gesturing toward the door, and Mara
realized that she was dismissed. She was free, free to walk out that door, make her way unchallenged to the wharf, and set sail for Abydos, Thebes—adventure. No more rags. No more beatings or loaf snatching. No more hunger! Instead there would be luxury and royal intrigue and excitement; and once she was in the palace, whatever this man’s threats might be, there would be endless opportunities for a girl who knew how to use her wits!

The future opened up before her in a vista radiant with possibilities, each more entrancing than the last. Without knowing it, she laughed aloud for joy.

The man’s dry voice rasped suddenly across her daydreams. “Be careful, Mara. You are still a slave.”

She shrugged and grinned. “I’ll try to remember.”

“I will be there to remind you,” he remarked acidly. He jerked his head toward the door and this time she went, without even looking back.

WHEN Sheftu had assured himself that the street was finally empty, he opened the door in the wall and quickly slipped through it. The Nubian was waiting for him.

“This way, my lord,” he murmured.

“Well, Ebi, what think you? Is there good news for me?”
Sheftu asked in a low voice, following the servant across the courtyard.

“I cannot say, master. This garden is green and pleasant. Khofra is an old man now. To be truthful, he is tired of both wars and pharaohs, having seen too much of both in his life. I think he will decide to stay here.”

Sheftu’s heart sank. But he said only, “Perhaps he may yet be persuaded.”

“The old are sometimes stubborn, master,” said Ebi.

Sheftu smiled grimly. “The young are sometimes even more so! He’ll come to Thebes if I have to carry him there in chains.”

“I wish you good fortune, then.” Ebi stopped before a door. “He is here. Enter, if you will.”

Drawing a long breath to calm his nerves, Sheftu opened the door and stepped into a quiet, sunny room. It was of familiar design, spacious, rectangular, windowless. But the two outside walls stopped some feet short of the ceiling, and through this open space, which was divided by graceful columns, light and air poured down into the room. In its center, in a chair beside a low table, sat the man Sheftu had come to see—Khofra, the warrior hero of all Egypt. Veteran of countless foreign campaigns, leader of men and for many years chief general of all the armies under the First Thutmose, Hatshepsut’s father, Khofra was now, at sixty, enjoying a peaceful old age. But he was far from feeble. His eyes still flashed dark fire under his white eyebrows, and the hand he stretched out to Sheftu was vigorous and firm.

“Well, my boy. Were you observed?”

He laughed soundlessly at the expression on Sheftu’s face, and waved his visitor to a seat. “No, no, naturally not. You are discretion itself, as skilled in mummery as you are in guile. One would never recognize the gold-hung son of Lord Menkau in those simple rags. I must congratulate you. You look neither more nor less distinguished than every
third man one meets in the street, and so are practically invisible.”

“That was my aim, Honored One.” Sheftu forced himself to sit down unhurriedly, place relaxed hands on the arms of his chair and smile with a confidence he was far from feeling. “When you come to Thebes to offer your services to the queen as head of her armies, I promise none but you and Ebi and the king will ever have known of my connection with the affair.”

“
When
I come?” said the old man drily. “I did not know I had made the decision.”

“A mere formality! Yesterday I spread the facts before you, revealed our plans and begged your assistance, without which we must fail. Today I come to hear your answer.”

“And you have not the slightest doubt what that answer will be?” inquired Khofra, even more drily.

“Not the slightest,” said Sheftu.

For a moment their eyes met, the old man’s ironic and a little sad, Sheftu’s dark and steady. Khofra gave a laugh that was half a sigh, and moved restlessly on his cushioned chair.

“Look you, my boy,” he said. “I was young once, I know what you are feeling. I, too, loved my pharaoh; I rode in my chariot against his enemies and was fearless, and smote them down in great numbers and brought their severed hands and ears to his tent and was happy when he smiled. Together we subjugated the whole southern land of Nubia, even beyond the third cataract of the Nile. Together we rode northward against the Keftyews and the Canaanites and gazed at last on the strange Euphrates, the river which flows the wrong way. Together we returned to the Black Land with prisoners by the thousand—with an empire! But we were not together after that, not ever again, my friend. Pharaoh knew me not, once the empire was gained. He valued me not, loved me not, wanted me not. I was forgotten
as though I had never been.” The old general broke off, looking down at his hands.

“
Haut meryt
, you are mistaken!” protested Sheftu. “There is no name better remembered or more honored than yours in all the Black Land.”

“Honor I never cared for—nor fame nor riches—then or now. ‘Beloved General,’ you call me—” Khofra raised his head. “That was what I wanted, to be pharaoh’s friend at home as well as on the battlefield. But pharaohs do not love men, they use them. No, Lord Sheftu, I have seen enough of pharaohs. Serve yours if you will—I will stay comfortably at home. And when young Thutmose tosses you aside like a worn sandal, come to me. Perhaps I can comfort you.”

There was a pause. Then Sheftu said gravely, “You do not understand,
Haut Khofra
.”

“Understand?” The old man frowned in surprise. “Certainly I understand. You wish me to come to Thebes as head of Hatshepsut’s troops, especially the two thousand of the bodyguard, who are sadly in need of training. You wish me to train them, inspire them, discipline them to blind obedience to me personally, so that at my word of command they will rise against the queen herself. I understand all this perfectly. What you do not understand, my boy, is that I have finished with pharaohs.”

“But I do not ask it for pharaoh. I ask it for Egypt.”

Khofra’s fingers stopped drumming upon the table. “Egypt?” he echoed.

“Aye, my general! Have you never known that it was Egypt you served?” Sheftu left his chair to stand over the old man. “That empire you conquered—was that pharaoh’s? No, pharaoh is dead. It is Egypt’s! But by all the gods, how long can we keep it, with this pampered woman on the throne? All Syria is growing restive. The Kadesh, the Keftyew, they have not felt the point of an Egyptian spear since their graybeards were young, and they need to be taught
respect. You think Hatshepsut will do it? Pah! She cares for nothing except building more temples—at whatever cost!”

Sheftu broke off, breathing hard. Khofra’s still profile told him nothing, and he had a sudden terrible vision of returning to Thutmose empty handed. He leaned closer, gripping Khofra’s chair. “But Egypt cares! Egypt groans under taxes, while the empire slips away, bit by bit! With you in control of the Army, Hatshepsut can be overthrown, and Thutmose, who is a man and a warrior, can set things to rights.
Hai
, think, Khofra! Pharaohs come and go—what matter if one used you and tossed you aside and loved you not? Egypt loved you, and she needs you worse than ever before. She is sick! Will you let her die?”

Still the old man sat motionless. Sheftu had done all he could, and he knew it. He straightened slowly, in a silence only intensified by the humming of bees in the acacia blossoms outside, and the shrill, far-off scream of an eagle. Khofra was looking at his hands, where they lay palm-down on the polished table. They were powerful hands still—blunt fingered and scarred and sinewy—and once they had gripped the mightiest sword in all Egypt.

The general rose suddenly and walked to the open door, where he stood looking out at the sunny courtyard.

“You are a remarkable young man, Lord Sheftu,” he murmured at last. “Remarkable and wise, for you have shown me a thing I never knew. So Egypt loved me!” He paused, and for a moment longer remained motionless, leaning against the doorframe. Then he turned back into the room. “Egypt needs me? So be it I will come.”

“Blessed of Amon!” breathed Sheftu. He crossed the room and bowed low. “In pharaoh’s name, in Egypt’s name, I thank you,
Haut meryt
.”

“I want no thanks. Up, my lord. It is I who thank you. You’ve cured an ache of twenty years’ standing—and at last made my life seem a reasonable thing.”

“Reasonable? By all the gods, it’s glorious! Now, more than ever. This news—” Sheftu stopped, then suddenly laughed. “This news will cheer my prince so that he may even smile upon the Canaanite princess!”

“Thutmose has sent for a Canaanite princess?” exclaimed Khofra.

“Can you think so, my general? Nay, it is Hatshepsut who has sent for her. Thutmose wants no barbarian for a wife! He rages like the leopard of Upper Egypt at the very idea. It is just one more arrogant insult from that most arrogant of women, his sister. She holds him fast in a snare of politics and spies, and when he struggles, offers him this princess as one offers a toy to a fretful child.
Ai
, Khofra! She underestimates him!”

Khofra gave his soundless laugh. “A pretty scene it will be, the arrival of this unfortunate Canaanite! When does she come?”

“Soon. Her barge is at Abydos now. I may reach Thebes before her—unless my good river captain has set sail already, fearing me dead. I must take leave.” Sheftu turned, placing his hand on his shoulder as he bowed once again. “Live forever,
Haut Khofra!
Till we meet again in Thebes.”

Five minutes later he was hurrying through the side streets toward the wharf and the
Silver Beetle
. Thanks be to all the gods, his mission to Khofra had been successful. But there was one great obstacle in his path before it was finished. Word must be sent to the king as soon as possible. Since Sheftu’s own carefully maintained position at court was that of a trusted favorite of the queen, it was unthinkable that he give Thutmose the message himself. And the old palace servant who used to act as go-between had been murdered in his bed two weeks before.

Sheftu’s jaw set. It was dangerous business, to have anything to do with the king. So dangerous that it was highly uncertain where he would find another trustworthy messenger
who was daring enough to serve him well. Yet find one he must, and soon.

He was still pondering the problem as he came out onto the wharves a few moments later, perceiving to his relief that the
Silver Beetle
was still waiting for him. It was the only southbound ship in the harbor; he would have been in a sorry plight had it sailed without him. A figure on its deck straightened suddenly and flung up an arm in greeting; Sheftu grinned as he waved back. Nekonkh must have been having a bad time of it the past hour. Well, so had he—but now all was done and they could be on their way. He moved swiftly toward the ship.

At the other end of the wharf, the slave girl Mara was picking her way through a tangle of fishing nets and upended reed boats. She shaded her eyes to scan the line of vessels which bobbed along the quay, their masts swaying and weaving with the motion of the water. Far down toward the southern end of the wharf she saw what she was looking for—a stout-timbered Theban craft with an embroidered sail.

For a moment she stood motionless, grinning triumphantly. Then she started to run.

A few minutes later she was on the deck of the
Silver Beetle
, looking coolly into the face of the fierce-jawed riverman who was its captain.

“Passage to Abydos?” he roared. “We’re a cargo ship, Mistress High-and-Mighty! We’ve hides and sheep’s wool on board, so many there’s scarce room enough for the oarsmen to dip their paddles! Think you we can set up some dainty pavilion in the middle of—”