As the two disappeared into a side street Sheftu turned back toward the doorway, feeling spiritless and depressed. It was a crass and ugly world where such a girl could be kept a slave.
So occupied was he with this notion that only habit caused him to conceal his face from the other figure who appeared at that moment on the street—a man swathed to the ears in a woolen cloak, though it was warm noonday. This man strode along in the direction the girl and her master had taken, and like them, turned the corner.
It was Destiny that passed, but Sheftu could not know that. He knew only that the street was now empty, and he walked swiftly toward the doorway through which the Nubian had disappeared.
* * *
• • •
Two streets away, the girl and her master were nearing home.
“Goat! Barbarian! Swineherd!” raged Mara under her breath, in Babylonian. She far preferred to rage in Egyptian, since its heavy gutturals lent themselves perfectly to invective. But she was too wise to indulge her preference at the moment. With her arm in her master’s harsh grasp, and his other hand reaching for his stick, she confined herself to a tongue he did not know. Even so, it was satisfying, since she knew it infuriated Zasha to be reminded that his slave was better educated than himself.
“Son of three pigs! Know-nothing!” she spat at him.
“Cease that babble!” he roared. They had reached the front courtyard of his house and he gave her a fling that sent her staggering across the paving to land painfully upon the broad stone steps.
“Crocodile!” she added.
“Stop it, I say!” Zasha had his stick out of his belt now. “Hai! Unhappy day that I bought you, miserable one! Sister of the serpent you are, always sneaking away from your work to go mischief-making in the square! What have you stolen today? Well? What?”
“Bread,” Mara answered him. “Feed your slaves like humans instead of dogs and they’ll not steal.”
“Silence!” bellowed Zasha. He strode across the court and the stick whistled across her bare shoulders. “Hold that tongue of yours, girl, or I’ll have it out! Now, what else? Bread and what else?”
“Naught else!”
The stick whistled again. “The truth!” Zasha demanded.
“It is the truth! I took only a loaf or two from a fat baker who had more than he needed.”
“Pah, you lie!” Zasha raised the stick again, and she decided to cringe, knowing that as long as she defied him he would continue to beat her. When she shrank against the column he grinned. “What, do you fear me then?”
Mara said nothing. Immediately the stick came down with savage force. “Hai! You shall fear me, though I wear my arm out teaching you!” All at once he drew back, gulping. “Turn away your eyes, you kheft-maiden! Look away, I say!”
His free hand groped for the amulet he wore at his throat, and a mocking smile deepened the corners of Mara’s mouth. She knew what the amulet was—an ouzait, a little enameled model of the Sacred Eye of Horus. He had got it from a magician soon after he had bought her from her former master. Zasha was afraid of her blue eyes.
“What, do you fear me?” she could not help taunting.
She leaned forward, fastened her eyes upon him, and widened them deliberately. When he stumbled back another pace she laughed aloud—then he was upon her again, his blows falling as fast as his curses, his voice shaking with rage, while she wrapped her arms about her head and endured the punishment.
Both were too absorbed to notice the stranger, still wrapped from head to toe in his woolen cloak, who had that moment entered the courtyard. He stopped just inside the gate, watched the scene impassively a moment, then strode forward and dropped a heavy hand upon Zasha’s shoulder, whirling him halfway around.
“Let be,” he ordered. “Put away your stick.”
Zasha gasped and blinked. “By Amon!” he puffed. “Who are you to walk into my own courtyard and tell me—”
“Be quiet, fool. I’m buying this slave of you. How much do you want?”
The jewel trader gaped. Then he straightened, massaging his hands craftily. “She’s a valuable property,” he grunted. “I’ve said naught about selling. What makes you think I’d part with a girl like this? Look at her—young, strong, quick as a cat. She’s no common drudge, but can read and write, and she speaks Babylonian as well as our own tongue. Moreover she eats little and is docile as a— Stand up, you!” he hissed angrily at Mara. “Smile!”
Mara stayed where she was, merely regarding him scornfully. The stranger’s laugh was brief and not altogether amused. “Yes, I see how docile she is! Come, cease this chatter, fellow. Name your price or you’ll have to take what you get.”
“Not so fast,” retorted Zasha. “Who are you? I’ll not sell until I know with whom I’m doing business. I’ll not sell at all unless I get my price.”
The stranger growled impatiently, brushed past the bridling jewel merchant, and, leaning down, seized Mara’s wrist and pulled her to her feet. “You’ll sell, right enough! I’m here to buy a clever slave and this is the one I want. Name your price or I’ll simply take her.”
“In whose name?” shouted Zasha.
“In the queen’s name.” The stranger reached inside his cloak and brought out a purse, which he flung contemptuously at Zasha’s feet. Then he led Mara out of the courtyard without another word, leaving the merchant white faced and staring behind him.
The whole thing had happened so fast that Mara felt giddy. In astonished silence she followed her new owner through the crooked streets, stealing curious glances at what she could see of his face. But he was an eye, a jutting nose, and a length of white wool, nothing more. She shrugged and gave it up. No doubt he would show himself in time. Meanwhile—she felt a glorious lightness grow within her at the thought—meanwhile, she was rid of Zasha! Of all the masters she had had, he was the worst. Perhaps this new one would feed her.
Her hand went to her sash, where a few of the honey cakes were still tucked away safe. She frowned. She had meant to give one to Teta, poor soul, who would now have to iron those hateful shentis still lying neglected in their basket. It was too bad. She had never resented Teta’s scolding, knowing that most of her ill temper stemmed from hunger.
No matter, Mara thought, and her face cleared. Teta is gone from your life as others have come and gone, and their fate is no concern of yours. Look after yourself, my girl! Nobody else will.
After some minutes of walking they came to an inn surrounded by a high mud-brick wall. The man turned through the gate, ignored the lower-floor entrance, and led the way up a flight of stairs set against the outside of the building. When they reached the room at the top he secured the door and turned to face Mara, throwing off his cloak at last.
She had to make an effort to conceal her surprise. He was dressed in the finest linen, with arm bands of chased gold and a broad jeweled collar of remarkable beauty. A man of great wealth! But his face filled her with misgivings. It was cold and stony as the Sphinx itself.
“Your name, girl?”
“Mara. Daughter of Nobody and his wife Nothing.”
His granite face showed no flicker of expression, but his voice grew icy. “Take care! Wit becomes impudence in a slave’s mouth.” He sat down in the room’s one chair and regarded her impassively. “I watched you in the marketplace. You are both daring and unscrupulous, and you think fast. I have been looking for a person with those particular characteristics. Also I noticed you speak Babylonian. I presume your command of the language goes somewhat beyond mere invective?”
“I speak the tongue well,” murmured the girl. This conversation astonished her even more than the suddenness of her sale. She could not imagine its purpose.
“Good. Now look you. I have bought you for no ordinary purpose, as you may be guessing. I have a very special duty for you. But”—he leaned forward to emphasize his words—“it is
so dangerous a duty that I will give you free choice whether or not you will attempt it. If your choice be ‘nay,’ you have only to say so, and I will sell you at once to some other master. I’ve no need for more household slaves.”
“And if my choice be aye?”
“It may bring you sudden death, or worse. But you will find the danger has its compensations. So long as you obey my orders you will be quite free from the usual slave’s life, and if you carry them out successfully, I will free you altogether.”
Mara gripped the edge of the table that separated them. There was no hesitation in her mind, but it took a moment to control the wild excitement that filled her. “Aye! My choice is aye!” she whispered.
“Think well. You may be choosing destruction.”
“No matter! I would rather be dead than a slave!”
He gave a faint smile. “So I thought. Now listen closely. One reason I picked you is that you have the appearance of a girl of the upper classes—or you would have if your hair were clipped and dressed and your rags exchanged for decent clothing. If these things were done, do you think you could live up to your fine garments?”
“Why, yes, I suppose I could act the part of a human being.”
He chose to ignore the sarcasm. “So be it. As you heard, I bought you in the queen’s name. You will serve the queen as well as myself, though no one will know this. No one will realize you are a purchased slave at all, for you will masquerade as a free maiden, the daughter of a priest of Abydos, now dead. If anyone should find out differently, you will die at once. Do you understand thus far?”
Mara tingled with fresh astonishment. His eyes were cold, his mouth implacable. He meant exactly what he said. “I understand,” she said slowly. “What service am I to do?”
“A princess of Canaan, one Inanni, is on her way to Thebes at this moment to become the wife of the young pretender Thutmose. She has her own train of servants and waiting women, but she will need an interpreter.” The man leaned forward, jabbing his finger at Mara. “You are to be that interpreter. You will go at once to the city of Abydos, where the princess is spending a week in the usual ceremonies of purification. You will seek out an Egyptian called Saankh-Wen, who is in charge of the ships, and give him this.”
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.
CHAPTER 3
The War Hawk
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 T
hebes 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.”