Murmuring agreement, Mara turned with some nervousness to the startled Thutmose.
“Pray restrain yourself!” he told her. “You will have this fat Syrian in my arms. Come, give me the message, and hasten, our privacy will not last.”
“The war hawk is coming.”
An instantaneous change came over Thutmose. “Amon be blessed!” he exclaimed. He gnawed his lip a moment, staring at nothing, and Mara could feel herself and Inanni recede into a limbo of unimportance. Suddenly he whirled and began to pace up and down, up and down, until she was reminded of a panther in a cage. Inanni turned to her, bewildered.
“Why does he act so, Mara? What did he say?”
“That he is overjoyed with your offer to prepare the poppy pods. He is now trying to remember whether there are any in the palace storerooms.”
“Oh, he need not worry over that! My women brought plenty from the homeland. Tell him the draught will be here within the hour.”
Mara hesitated. The king’s preoccupied scowl was formidable; she knew he had forgotten their very existence. But Inanni urged her impatiently. “Tell him, Mara!”
“Son of pharaoh,” Mara ventured. “I crave pardon, but I must speak lest this maiden grow suspicious—”
“Eh? What?”
“Will Your Highness allow her to prepare this draught . . . ?”
“Aye, aye, let her do what she likes! The war hawk.” Thutmose kept on pacing. “That was the exact wording of the message?”
“Aye, Your Highness.”
“By Amon, that even my clever one should have such powers of persuasion! I begin to think he is the Great Magician himself—and indeed, he’ll have to be. . . . We must have gold, now. Much, and more than much! Tell him that. Ask him . . .” The king halted beside a table, his back to Mara. He picked up a papyrus that lay there, turned it absently in his fingers a moment, then tossed it down again. “Ask him,” he went on quietly, “if his magic is indeed a shield and a buckler to him. For he must go on a far journey. There is one, and only one in the land of Egypt who will give gold for my sake—and who has enough.”
He paused again, as if reluctant to go on. Mara mechanically invented some fiction or other for Inanni, but her attention remained on the king. A far journey? What was he talking about? There was something strange in his manner, an air of dread coupled with grim resolve that promised no easy task for Sheftu.
Suddenly Thutmose whirled and planted his feet. “Thou of the blue eyes,” he said with quiet menace. “Thy life is worth less than nothing should this reach any ears but his. Do you understand that?”
Mara nodded, shrinking back a little. His glare was frightening.
“Then here is the message. Tell him he must journey to the River of Darkness, as we talked of long ago. He must take the treasure of him who sleeps there, even the royal cobra from his brow and the collar of amulets—”
“River of Darkness?” Mara choked on the words.
“Aye. He must take from the dead the gold Egypt must have to live! He must go down into the land of night and bring it forth to me.”
There was a cold emptiness in the pit of Mara’s stomach. Sheftu’s orders were to commit the foulest crime known to Egypt—to rob a pharaoh’s tomb. He must break open doors once sealed with prayers and chanting for all eternity, descend into echoing silence, deepest night, creep through rooms and passages and darkest mystery to the farthest chamber, where pharaoh dwelt amid his treasure—and he would die there, trying to wrest it from the khefts who guarded it. He will never come back, thought Mara.
Thutmose watched her narrowly a moment as she stood sick and numb with what she had heard. Softly he added, “He knows which door to enter.” Then he jerked away to a wine stand at the other side of the room, tore the garlands off the jug, and splashed a cup full of the amber liquid. “You may arrange audience for this Syrian whenever you need to see me,” he rapped out. “Begone now.”
Mara managed to stammer something to the puzzled Inanni, and they withdrew. The king did not acknowledge their farewells. When they left the room he was still standing with his back to them and his head bent, turning the empty wine cup over and over in his hands.
Mara never knew quite how she explained that last few minutes to Inanni’s satisfaction, or to what mingling of headache and ardor she attributed the king’s behavior. But the words must have convinced Inanni, for the farther she progressed down the halls and passages to her own apartments, the wider she smiled and the faster she walked. Flushed and talkative, she summoned her women as soon as she reached her suite and immediately set them to preparing the poppy-pod headache potion.
“Quickly, Jezra, the finest pods you brought from the homeland, and the little mortar and pestle. Dashtar, fetch a flagon of water and the cup that measures its own contents, for we must know to the width of a hair, lest the draught be too potent. . . . His Highness will find relief soon, I am sure of it! He is so kind, I cannot tell you how thoughtful he was of my comfort! But he is a strange man, nonetheless, scowling and sudden; I was half frightened of him at first. It was his headache that made him so. How he paces! Up and down, up and down. . . .”
The quick, excited voice ran on, the plump fingers worked diligently with the pestle; the room was full of the mumbling hiss of Babylonian comment, exclamation, and question. At last Inanni had something to talk about, and something to do. She was happier than at any time since leaving Syria.
Not so Mara. The interview with Thutmose had so disturbed her that she could barely keep up the pretense of listening to the women’s chatter. Surely Sheftu would not obey that terrible command! Of all crimes in the land of Kemt, tomb robbing was the most monstrous—a sin against living and dead, gods and man. Even earthly punishment for it was swift and fearful, but what of the vengeance of him who was robbed? Hidden and safe in his secret palace, he lay wrapped in linen and spices, the cobra of Egypt on his forehead and his storerooms filled with the wealth that would sustain him in luxury through his allotted three thousand years in the Land of the West. Would not his ka strike Sheftu blind or dumb for daring to enter the Precious Habitation? Would it not creep like a shadow into his body to waste him with illness, to steal away his soul, to bring him down in all his youth to that mooring in the land of silence from whose shore none ever returned?
Nay, it was more than should be asked of any man, even for his king!
Put it out of your mind, Mara told herself fiercely. Sheftu will not obey. If he does, then it is his concern, and none of yours! Look out for yourself, and let others do the same. . . .
But the old formula did not comfort her this time. Nor did the sight of Inanni’s joyful face as she labored over the poppy pods and repeated for the admiring Syrians every smallest word of the conversation she believed she had held with the king. A cruel deception that had been, to raise her hopes when there was nothing real to hope for. Mara was not proud of her handiwork. Surely there must have been some other way—but faced with that pacing lion of a man and two conversations to keep up in as many languages, who could have hit on it?
She found she could not bear to hear for the third time how kind and how handsome His Highness was. Pleading a need for rest, she excused herself and went into her own room.
What kheft has entered into me? she thought angrily, flinging herself down on her couch. Perhaps too much royalty in one day has given me a fever, that I should fret about a fat barbarian and her feelings! This queen, this king, this princess, this great Lord Sheftu, what have they to do with me and my plans? I must beware of them, that’s all. They are strangers, they are enemies. I must never forget it.
Steadied, she sat up and pushed the thick, ebony-black hair away from her face. She would summon little Nesi to dress it, that would be a diversion. She would put on fresh clothes, and have her feet bathed and her eyes bathed, and the long black line of kohl painted fresh above her lashes, and demand a b
lue lotus to wear upon her brow as the great ladies wore them, with its stem trailing down the back of her head.
Soon it would be time for the evening meal, then for that walk in the lotus garden. She must be ready for it.
She rose and clapped her hands for her slave.
CHAPTER 10
The Lotus Garden
A strange man my bridegroom is, indeed, thought Inanni as she sank into a chair. From his manner one would take oath he is indifferent—even scornful—yet it is not so. Did he not send those others from the room, that I might be more comfortable? Aye, he is gentle at heart, he must be.
She lay back among her cushions, reaching for a half-finished piece of embroidery that lay on the table beside her. The poppy-pod draught had just been dispatched to the king by one of the chamberlains, and already she was wishing she had not been so hasty in its preparation. Now, again, there was nothing to do, save think about the audience just past and speculate about the next one. Surely he would not behave so oddly next time. . . . She bent over her needlework, shoving out of her mind that first chilling scrutiny, under which she had felt she must sink straight through the gleaming pavements. That was naught but the effect of his headache, and so were the other strange contradictions in his words and manner. They must be. Mara had said so.
Dear Mara. How warm she was, how comforting!
After the marriage it will all come right, Inanni assured herself. The king and I will understand each other, and I will be a good wife to him, and comfort him when his head aches. Perhaps he would even let me go home sometime to see my brothers and the beautiful land of Canaan. . . .
The old hunger started up in her again at the thought of home. The sheep would be coming in over the green hills right now, their bells sounding faintly on the evening air, their tired shepherd outlined against the sky behind him. Oh, beloved Canaan. . . . Inanni looked up, biting off a scarlet thread, as Mara entered the room from her own chambers. At once the hunger receded a little. She smiled, holding out her hand in welcome.
“I have sent the potion, Mara. Come, sit beside me while I embroider, and talk to me of the king. Do you think he was pleased with me? A little? In spite of his headache?”
“Of course, my princess!” Mara crossed the room with that supple, swinging walk of hers, and sitting down beside Inanni began to chatter reassuringly of Thutmose and the splendid life awaiting his spouse.
How cool she is, how sure of herself! thought Inanni wistfully. I don’t believe she is afraid of anything on earth. And she is not unhandsome, though of course she needs more meat on her bones to have a fine figure like my own. In Egypt all women look half-starved. . . . That blue flower is becoming, fastened there just above her forehead. It makes her eyes look like two more blue lilies, down below it. Odd—only a single blossom. For my own part, I would have made a great wreath of them, using dozens of flowers and plenty of ribbons as well, with my hair flowing out all around it. But perhaps that would have been wrong. Mara always knows about these things. . . . Strange, that I should have grown so fond of this Egyptian maiden, whom I did not even know existed three weeks ago! Gentle Ishtar, what would I have done without her in this frightening land! Though I know not what my brothers would say of her. No doubt they would think her glance too bold, for certainly she does not keep her eyes downcast as a maiden should, and has no meekness in her. As for her dress . . .
Inanni blushed and looked away from the narrow garment with its fluted, filmy sleeves, through which the lines of Mara’s brown body were quite frankly visible. But that is the way things are done in Egypt, the princess thought nervously. It is not Mara alone who values coolness above modesty. The servant maids, that haughty queen herself . . .
Inanni drew her shawl a little closer about her shoulders, reflecting that, in some ways, it was just as well her brothers had stayed at home in Canaan. If they had fully realized the wickedness to which their sheltered young sister would be exposed, they would have risen up in protest against this grand and wealthy marriage. Indeed, they would have . . .
To Inanni’s relief, the palace servants appeared at that moment to begin the elaborate ritual of serving the evening meal. She did not want to go on with her thoughts, to remember that whatever protests her brothers might have made, she would have journeyed to Egypt just the same. A Canaanite did not refuse a messenger of pharaoh.
An excellent dinner occupied both her thoughts and energies for a time. She was just beginning on her third pastry when Mara, who had finished some time ago, suggested an after-dinner stroll.
“It is pleasant to walk abroad in the cool of the evening. And there is a garden with a great pool of lotus which we must surely visit. I saw it from the roof pavilion this morning.”
“Indeed?” murmured Inanni. She found she did not want the pastry after all. “Of course I—have no objection, Mara. But—will there be many Egyptians there?”
“In Egypt one must expect Egyptians, my princess,” said Mara with a smile. “But from the roof I saw no one but a gardener, tending the flower beds. I hardly think it will be crowded.”
“But if it is a large garden . . . ?”
Mara leaned forward on her elbows. “My princess, it is important that you show yourself. It must not be said that the king’s intended hides like a timid hare in her own apartments.”
“No, no, of course not, it would not do, I see that. Let us go at once. I am ready. Dashtar! Jezra!”
I will not be afraid of these Egyptians, Inanni thought. I must not be. Ah, but if only there were not so many of them, all looking at me out of their painted eyes!
Moistening her lips and trying to ignore the tremors of nervousness in the pit of her stomach, she gathered her long robes about her and, with Dashtar and Jezra in reluctant attendance, followed Mara down the hall to the outside stair.
At the bottom they found themselves in the first of a series of walled courts and gardens, through which they passed without encountering anyone more frightening than a few slaves or hurrying servants. Inanni began to relax. She peered curiously at the storerooms and shedlike workshops, catching glimpses of basket makers and glassblowers still at work, of hundreds of stacked wine jars, mountains of baled linen, the neat rows of a kitchen garden. There were vineyards, date groves, curving flower beds in which scarlet sage and larkspur glowed against dark tamarisk trees. As they entered a broad paved area surrounded by weaver’s stalls, Inanni gave a start of joy and stopped.
“Mara! Look at that woman yonder,” she whispered. “She who cards wool. Why, it is just so that we do it in Syria! I believe she is Syrian herself, I do indeed. . . . Look you, Dashtar, is not that woman from our country?”
Mara said vaguely, “Indeed, she may be. Come, let us go on.”
“No, no, wait, I know she is Syrian! Ah, Jezra, do you remember old Ninurta, who taught us to handle the carder when we were children together?”
“Aye, mistress. And this woman resembles her a little, as I trust in Ishtar! The same broad brow, and the little downy moustache on the upper lip!”
“How happy we were then,” sighed Inanni.
Mara was fidgeting, saying something about the lotus garden, but Inanni was lost in her homesick dreams. The woman with the carder looked up and smiled, and it was as if a small patch of Canaan opened up suddenly in this alien land, with old Ninurta holding out a hand in welcome.
“I must talk to her!” breathed the princess. She started forward, but Mara caught her elbow.
“Nay, Highness! We must not tarry here!”
“But why not? There are other days to see the lotus garden. Indeed, Mara, I would rather sit awhile with this woman from my homeland than visit a hundred gardens! How kindly she looks at me. . . . Perhaps she will let me ply the carder for a while, and we will talk about Canaan—”
“Nay, wait!” Mara seemed almost alarmed. She recovered herself quickly, drawing Inanni aside. “I fe
ar you forget yourself, Highness. Does a princess speak to a common weaver woman? Indeed, in Egypt this is not done!”
“But—she is—she seems most respectable. . . .”
“She is beneath you! I know not what the son of pharaoh would say if you so demeaned yourself.”
Inanni flushed. Ah, I must learn to be Egyptian, she thought. The king will be ashamed of me. She bent her shawled head and moved on in silence across the court.
“It is of course possible,” said Mara after a moment, “that you speak to that woman—in another way—in your own apartments, perhaps. Yes, it would be quite proper for your highness to send for her. . . .”
Then why may I not speak to her here? thought Inanni. Mara’s tone seemed strangely unconvincing, even distraught. Inanni stole a backward glance across the courtyard at the Syrian woman’s broad, kindly face and nimble fingers, away from which she was being led—aye, almost hurried—at a pace hardly suitable to an evening’s stroll. What was the matter with Mara? Even now her smile was nervous, as if she were having to force herself to behave normally.
Could it be that she was in a hurry, and had feared to be delayed in the Court of the Weavers?
It was a surprising idea, but though Inanni did not see how it could be so, the more she thought of it the more certain it seemed. They passed through the gate, and stepped onto a wide pavement bordered by stone rams, the far end of which was blocked by high, bronze doors and an armed sentry.
“What place is this?” inquired Inanni.
“I believe it is one of the entrances to the palace grounds.” Mara stopped, her face quickening with interest. “Aye, it is! Yonder doors pierce the Great Walls themselves, and on the other side is Thebes. Ai, Princess, I would love to walk abroad in that city! A place of marvels, it must be—”