Mara, Daughter of the Nile: Part III

Her pride was outraged, she was in tears half a dozen times a day at this cavalier treatment—yet the magnificence of the palace so overawed her that she hardly dared touch the furnishings of her own apartments.

Also, she was a natural mimic blessed with a sense of humor and a cool nerve—which Inanni certainly was not—and her precarious life had made her as adaptable as a chameleon.

Now she was the one who snapped her fingers for others to obey—and she had not forgotten a single haughty gesture.

It was true that her painted eyes held an insolent gleam—any Egyptian felt superior to a barbarian.

It is possible I will not mention your miserable name to Hatshepsut the Glorious—provided you show proper deference to your princess after this.

The servant prostrated herself and then fled.

Mara was inwardly convulsed. Oh, marvelously done! she thought.

Among and beyond these were walled gardens in bewildering profusion—and every one of them had its lotus pool.

Slowly they moved down the long aisle of watching faces, past all the supercilious, painted eyes and quirking lips, past the arched brows, the murmurs behind hands, the disdainful shrugs—down the whole shining length of the room.

Then, at last, the doors swung open; the chamberlain stepped forward and flung himself on his face, intoning: "Behold, the majesty of the Black Land! Horus of Gold, Enduring of Kingship, Splendid of Diadems, Ruler of Lower and Upper Egypt, Enduring-of-form-is-Ra, Makere Hatshepsut! May the god live forever!”

There, across a stretch of gleaming pavement, stood a raised dais framed by two exquisitely painted columns.

As she translated the stilted phrases she began to be aware of other people in the room.

His smile, faint though it was, carved harsh furrows from his flaring nostrils to the corners of his mouth; his eyes were rapacious.

How stupid and vulgar she is in her tasteless wrappings! A fit consort for my surly half brother, think you not?

No more than an inclination of the head was required for his exalted rank, and he bent not a hair lower.

“Pharaoh’s name is glorious,” he remarked amiably—without specifying, Mara noticed, whether it was Hatshepsut or Thutmose to whom he gave the title.

Hatshepsut smiled on him, and he smiled winsomely back.

He made a careless gesture; at once lackeys bearing sweetmeats and garlanded jars of wine converged on Inanni, then passed through the ranks of the courtiers, who obediently came to life, clinking their wine cups with the rigidly correct, stilted movements which made court etiquette a sort of elegant ballet.

For a moment the man’s cold visage held her fascinated. Did he ever change expression?

Her only sure safety lay in serving her master. But as she looked from him to the indolently lounging Lord Sheftu, it was hard to choose.

And offer her my majesty’s felicitations on her coming marriage—which will surely be a joyous one.

The voice dripped mockery, and the beautiful lips twisted in a smile remarkably like the one carving furrows on the dark countenance of Count Senmut, behind her.

Her flesh was creeping as she rose from her knees at last to back slowly toward the door beside the pallid Inanni.

By that time the effect of the queen’s laughter had worn off, leaving Mara free of forebodings and once more impudently confident of herself and her wits.

He wrung few enough concessions from his iron-willed sister; even this indirect acknowledgment of his royal status was a victory of sorts.

“Your Highness! This impertinence is intolerable! With your leave, I shall have this person removed at once, and shall myself see to it that—”

Indeed, he is not only touched but smitten with Your Highness. He expressed great astonishment that one so comely should also have a warm heart.

Tell him I will prepare the poppy draught with my own hands, and no other shall touch it.

The king’s preoccupied scowl was formidable; she knew he had forgotten their very existence.

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.

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.

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.

That was the part she could scarcely credit yet, that Mara would lie to her so callously.

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.

Mara preserved a sullen silence, mentally cursing him and his Chadzar and all their relatives, in two languages.

You’d best bestir yourself and dance to his tune. You can be tired later.
“It was no fault of mine, master," she explained in a more conciliatory tone.

On the ride back to the palace the pace was as headlong as before, but Mara had learned better how to brace herself for it.

There was a muttered argument growing rapidly angrier on both sides; finally Chadzar leaned half out of the chariot, brandishing his whip.

Own brother to Senmut the Architect, he of the deep-etched smile and avaricious eyes who stood nearest Hatshepsut and her throne.

Might it please Amon to make that sentry susceptible to blue eyes!