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Mara, Daughter of the Nile
Mara, Daughter of the Nile
Mara, Daughter of the Nile
Ebook337 pages7 hours

Mara, Daughter of the Nile

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

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This compelling story of adventure, romance, and intrigue, set in ancient Egypt, was written by the three-time Newbery Honor and Edgar Award winning author Eloise Jarvis McGraw.
 
Mara is a proud and beautiful slave girl who yearns for freedom in ancient Egypt, under the rule of Queen Hatshepsut. Mara is not like other slaves; she can read and write, as well as speak the language of Babylonian. So, to barter for her freedom, she finds herself playing the dangerous role of double spy for two arch enemies—each of whom supports a contender for the throne of Egypt.
 
Against her will, Mara finds herself falling in love with one of her masters, the noble Sheftu, and she starts to believe in his plans of restoring Thutmose III to the throne. But just when Mara is ready to offer Sheftu her help and her heart, her duplicity is discovered, and a battle ensues in which both Mara’s life and the fate of Egypt are at stake.
 
“Dangerous espionage, an unusual love story, and richly drawn background make this a book to capture quick and lasting interest.”—Horn Book
 
“Thoroughly engrossing.”—Kirkus Reviews
LanguageEnglish
PublisherPenguin Books
Release dateMar 20, 2018
ISBN9780451479365
Author

Eloise Jarvis McGraw

Eloise Jarvis McGraw (1915–2000) was an American author of children's books and young adult novels. Her novels were named Newbery Honor Books three times in three different decades: Moccasin Trail (1952), The Golden Goblet (1962), and The Moorchild (1997). A Really Weird Summer (1977) won an Edgar Award for Best Juvenile Mystery from the Mystery Writers of America. McGraw had a strong interest in history, and among the many books she wrote for children are Greensleeves, The Seventeenth Swap, a light-hearted tale for younger children. McGraw also contributed to the Oz series started by L. Frank Baum. Eloise Jarvis McGraw was married to William Corbin McGraw, and had two children, Peter and Lauren. She lived much of her life in Oregon, where her first novel, Sawdust in His Shoes, is set.

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Rating: 4.318014926470589 out of 5 stars
4.5/5

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I think this was probably the third time I read this book to myself, not to mention the (at least) two times I listened to Mom read it aloud as I grew up. This book has been a family favorite for years. When my brothers and I were discussing some of our favorite books with a friend recently, this one came up—and my brothers ranked it pretty high in their favorites, too.

    This book has all the marks of a good historical fiction. You feel like you’re there on the boat with Mara, tasting freedom for the first time in your life, or curled up in a booth in an inn watching people go about their normal lives, or working to come up with a clever response to a question meant to entrap you. Egypt and her culture is lush, vibrant, and beautiful through Mara’s eyes, and her people are tough, complex, and intriguing.

    Then, aside from the setting and culture, this is one of the most intriguing double-spy scenarios I’ve ever come across in a book. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t come across many books like this (that’s probably quite likely, actually), but I loved how the author did it here. This book is full of adventure, quick-wittedness, and the danger accompanying trying to walk a tightrope between two dangerous enemies.

    Engaging, captivating, sweet yet dangerous, Mara is the kind of heroine that makes a story worth reading. I love Sheftu, too, and the way he was so passionate about trying to make what he saw as right win in the end.

    If you haven’t read this book, but enjoy historical fiction, I’d highly recommend you get yourself a copy. Better yet, find someone to read it aloud to—it’s a book that’s meant to be enjoyed and shared!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I read this in middle school in the late 1990's and I loved it so much that I've kept a copy since I was able to buy books. I love the characters and the fact that the time period is hardly used in historical fiction.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Very fun book... a bit predictable, but it is meant for teens after all.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I read this as a teenager, and LOVED it. Later reread as an adult and still loved it.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Fourth time reading:

    I'm not sure what it is about it, but Mara never gets old. I never tire of reliving her journey through life as an Egyptian slave to a double-agent amidst the mysterious era of Hatshepsut and Thutmose III. Not to mention the epicness that is Sheftu...

    Admittedly, it may not always be the most riveting tale and Mara and Sheftu may act a little silly sometimes, but as a whole, this book is awesome. Mara is one of my all-time favorite heroines: genuinely intelligent, quick on her feet, with a tongue to match her wit. And what can I say, I'm a sucker for plucky slaves that infiltrate greatness.

    And don't get me started on Sheftu. Dashing young men who can flip from easy charm to stoic death threats are also one of my weaknesses.

    And the supporting cast? Also brilliant. Nekonkh, Inanni, even the little ones like Miphtahyah.

    This is the book that convinced me I knew all about that stretch of Egyptian history. I still think of Thutmose III as the rightful Pharoah of Egypt.

    I will never fail to recommend this book to lovers of history, mystory, romance, and adventure.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    The story takes place in Ancient Egypt. It is a tale of a young slave girl who falls in love with her master.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This book gave me a stronger appreciation for reading. The story was so powerful and mesmerizing that I could not leave it. My thoughts would continually return to the story trying to discern what was going to happen the next time I read it. A story of a power struggle in Egypt involving spies, danger, action, lies, and a romance twist this book has it all. And all of it is done so well that it doesn’t matter if you don’t like either action or romance. It is too much to reveal any more because it would take away the experience for any unsuspecting reader. It has been years since I read it but every detail still clings to my mind. I am not one to read books over again, but I would definitely read this one again, now if they would only make it into a movie.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Here is a book hand-crafted for thirteen-year-old girls. Meet our heroine, Mara, who is spunky, smart, and will spit curses at you in three languages. Oh no! Mara is a slave girl. She yearns for better things. She has special powers of Dazzling Awesome, so before you can say, "Mmmm, Sheftu, baby" she's been recruited as a spy by both sides in a power struggle over the throne of Egypt. Am I giving anything away if I mention that one of her new employers is young, handsome, and dashing? I think not. There is also an awesome plus size Canaanite princess, the evil vampy Queen Hatshepsut, and more colourful supporting characters and thrilling edge-of-your-seat spy-type adventure and sizzling romance than you could possibly poke a stick at.

    I read "Twilight" recently and I have no hesitation whatsoever in telling you to read "Mara" instead.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    One of my two all-time favorites, for any girl aged 13 to 113. I still return to reread it on cold winter nights. A truly fine balance of adventure, romance and history in lovely, fluid prose.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This was my favorite book from 7th to 9th grade. Mara is a slave who is bought by a mysterious stranger to spy on the pharoh's brother, who is rumored to be organizing a revolt. But on her journey she gets tangled up in events that force her to become a spy for the pharoh's brother. Trying to save her neck and gain her freedom while working for both sides of the fight for the pharohship, Mara discovers what is really important. And finds love in the process. It's a really quick and fun read.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is one of my favorite childhood books ever. Partly because I'm a romantic, partly because I like Egypt in general. Anyway, I am trying to collect all of my favorite books from being a kid and I started with this one.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    My daughter gets to start out her 8th grade literature class with this book, and it's a pretty darn good one. It's set in ancient Egypt and tells the story of an educated slave girl, Mara, who gets caught up in a plot to overthrow the current pharaoh. The question is, which side is she on? Ah, but that would be telling. Anyway, it's very readable and Ms. McGraw does an excellent job of creating a believable tale. The only weakness is that it's hard for me to believe that a beautiful 17-year old slave girl would be employed as a house slave, rather than as something more degrading. I don't know if that's 1950's sensibilities cleaning up a view of ancient Egypt or my 21st century biases dragging it down into the gutter. Either way, don't let my problems keep you from checking it out.
    --J.

Book preview

Mara, Daughter of the Nile - Eloise Jarvis McGraw

PART 1

MENFE

CHAPTER 1

The Mysterious Passenger

Nekonkh, captain of the Nile boat Silver Beetle, paused for the fiftieth time beside his vessel’s high beaked prow and shaded his eyes to peer anxiously across the wharfs.

The city that rose beyond them shimmered, almost drained of color, in the glare of Egyptian noon. Doorways were blue-black in white buildings, alleys were plunged in shadow; the gay colors of the sails and hulls that crowded the harbor seemed faded and indistinct, and even the green of the Nile was overlaid by a blinding surface glitter. Only the sky was vivid, curving in a high blue arch over ancient Menfe.

The wharf itself seethed with activity. Sweating porters hurried in and out among groups of merchants haggling over stacks of cargo yet to be loaded; sailors, both foreign and Egyptian, swarmed everywhere, talking in a babble of tongues. A donkey drover pushed through a cluster of pale-faced Libyans, shouting at his laden beasts; three Mitanni traders in the fringed garments of Babel laid wagers on a dogfight at one end of the wharf, while a ring of yelling urchins surrounded a cage of monkeys at the other. Over all rose the rank smell of the river—an odor compounded of fish, mud, water-soaked rope, pitch, and crocodiles.

But nowhere in that tangle was the one tall figure for which the captain searched.

Nekonkh chewed his lip and drummed upon the gunwale with his big, blunt fingers. An hour ago he had been uneasy; now he was so tense that when his helmsman strolled across the deck and touched his elbow, he leaped as if he had been burned.

By Set and all the devils! he roared, whirling about savagely. Fool! Coming upon me from behind like that! What do you want?

The helmsman took a hasty step back. The cargo, he mumbled. Everything is stowed, master. We’re ready to sail.

Well?

The—er—we await orders.

Then await them!

The helmsman laid his right hand on his left shoulder in the attitude of submission, and escaped, casting puzzled glances backward as he did so.

Nekonkh sighed explosively and mopped the sweat off his upper lip with a hairy wrist. He was a burly man with a fierce jaw contradicted by mild brown eyes, and just now he looked and felt a good deal older than his forty years. For a moment he leaned wearily against the gunwale, staring upriver, where the luxurious barge of some noble moved over the sparkling water like a gigantic water bug, twelve oars on each side dipping rhythmically. Then he straightened, shoved his square-cut black wig askew in order to scratch under it, and adjusted it again with an irritable slap.

Automatically his eye checked the Silver Beetle, moving about her trim scrubbed confines from the two great sweeps at the stern to the tall masts with their horizontally furled sails; past the tiny cabin to the bales of wool and hides stacked on the deck, the oarsmen lounging at their posts.

Yes, all was ready to sail, so far as cargo and crew were concerned. But the passenger? The puzzling, unpredictable, portentous passenger whose very charm set alarm bells ringing loudly in Nekonkh’s mind—what of him?

Nekonkh swore under his breath, wishing fervently that cargo and crew were all he had to worry about—wishing he knew either more or less. It was dangerous to have brains these days in the land of Kemt.

He took a restless turn about the deck, his joined hands flapping impatiently at his back, and reviewed once more his brief acquaintance with the missing passenger. It was an acquaintance only ten days old; he had seen the young man for the first time the morning he set sail from Thebes on this trip to Menfe. Since the youth—Sheftu, he had said his name was—had paid his passage promptly, there seemed no reason to give him a second thought. He was pleasant but unobtrusive—tall, somewhere around twenty years old, with an attractively homely face and a common white shenti and headcloth like a thousand others. Except for a certain odd, lazy grace in the way he moved, the captain found nothing unusual about him.

That was at first.

Later, during the long, sun-drenched days of the Beetle’s journey down the river, Nekonkh had good reason to study his passenger more attentively. Only then did he become aware of other details—for instance, the areas of slightly paler skin on Sheftu’s upper arms, which indicated that he habitually wore bracelets, though his sole ornament now was a curious amulet on his left wrist; also the absent, brooding expression which sat so often and so oddly on his young face, and the suave charm which covered this instantly if he knew he was being watched. The charm itself was a little odd, once you thought of it. Since when did a scribe’s apprentice—for so Sheftu had described himself—possess the smooth and subtle manners of a courtier? The captain grew surer and surer that his passenger was no ordinary nobody. Breeding was written in every line of his long, well muscled body, and his voice had the careless authority of one accustomed to being obeyed.

However, Nekonkh might have noticed none of this, had it not been for a conversation which suddenly focused his attention on the young man. It took place early one morning, about five days out of Thebes. The Silver Beetle was sailing past an ancient temple surrounded by scaffolding and piles of stone, around which workmen swarmed busily. Nekonkh, standing alone at the door of his cabin, scowled across the river and shook his head.

"Ai! There it is again!" he muttered sourly to himself.

What do you mean, Captain?

Nekonkh jumped. He had not heard his passenger come up beside him. Why, the rebuilding of the old temple yonder, he answered, pointing. If I’ve seen that sight once I’ve seen it forty times in the past few years. Our good queen Hatshepsut evidently thinks gold grows on papyrus stalks! Does she mean to restore every ancient building up and down the Nile? Nekonkh grunted as scaffolds and workmen slipped upstream past the Beetle’s stern sweeps. It’s not only the old ruins. Amon himself knows what her new temple at Thebes is costing poor folk like me in sweat and taxes!

The new temple is a beautiful one, though, remarked Sheftu. They say every wall of the inner room is covered with handsomely carved reliefs.

Reliefs depicting Her Majesty’s sacred birth, no doubt? inquired the captain sardonically.

Of course. What better subject could there be? Hatshepsut was fathered by the Sun himself, nursed by goddesses, and named Pharaoh in her cradle.

Aye, so she claims, so she claims! snorted Nekonkh incautiously. As for me, I would rather see a man on the throne of Egypt! That young Thutmose, her half-brother—when is he to grow up? For fifteen years now she’s been acting as his regent, spending gold and silver like water, sending ships—mine among them!—to the edge of the world for her own amusement, letting the empire foul its rudder for want of trained soldiers. And still the king does not come of age! Why? It’s obvious, friend! He’s not allowed to, nor will he ever be! Hatshepsut is pharaoh, and Egypt must put up with it!

You do not admire the queen, Captain?

It was the very blandness of the voice that caused the alarm bells to clang suddenly in Nekonkh’s mind. He swung around and really looked at his passenger for the first time; noted the cleverness of the irregular dark face, the odd little smile hovering about the mouth, the dangerous alertness of the long black eyes. Nekonkh went cold all over. What had he been saying! It was treason to speak against the queen—near treason even to mention the young king’s name above a whisper, much less actually complain . . .

Full of a sudden clear picture of himself impaled on the torturer’s stake in the midst of some desert, he sagged back against the cabin door. May the queen live forever! he exclaimed. May my tongue be clipped if it utters a word against Hatshepsut, the Daughter of the Sun!

Pray rest easy, Captain. Sheftu’s voice was like a purr. You but stated an opinion. But you are somewhat indiscreet. There are those who might haul you off to the palace dungeons at once if they heard what I just heard. He gave Nekonkh a moment to absorb that thought, then added casually, So you would overthrow the queen?

By the Feather of Truth, I said no such thing! gasped Nekonkh. He darted an agonized glance up and down the deck, then strode to a deserted spot in the bows.

Sheftu followed, his face amused. A wise precaution, he commented, arranging himself comfortably against the gunwale. They say the queen’s spies are everywhere.

No doubt! Nekonkh was convinced he was talking to one that minute. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and attempted to change the subject, but Sheftu overrode him.

She has grounds for her constant suspicions. There’s a group of reckless fools in Thebes—no doubt you’ve heard of them—who have organized in secret to topple Hatshepsut off her throne and set young Thutmose there instead.

I know nothing of them, nothing! Such movements have started before, and been squashed like beetles. They must be fools indeed who would try again!

Perhaps. Sheftu shrugged expressively. He had lowered his voice, moving a little closer to Nekonkh. But one must give them credit, Captain: they have courage. And they insist they are fighting for what all Egypt really wants. They say it’s monstrous that a woman should wear the double crown, and call herself not Royal Wife and Consort, but King and Pharaoh. They say the backs of the people are breaking under her taxes, that the children’s ribs show plainer with every statue of herself she erects in the new temple, while Count Senmut the Architect, the favorite, the Lord-High-Everything-In-Egypt, grows mysteriously richer each time a porch is built or a terrace paved. . . . Captain, they say—I but quote, you understand—they say she grows so arrogant that the gods themselves will soon rise up to strike her down, and Egypt with her! Should we permit . . .

Nekonkh’s brain was spinning. What was this young rogue up to, talking like a spy one minute, a firebrand the next? But no, of course he was but quoting. Yet the captain found himself responding fiercely to the forbidden words. Aye, it was true, it was all true, and everyone knew it! Count Senmut had a finger in every pot in Egypt, and as for the queen, that usurper . . . Beware, clanged the alarm bells. You’re walking into a trap.

Sheftu was still talking, softly, insistently. Should we permit these crimes, they ask? Can we risk the anger of the gods? Is not this woman a peril to all the Black Land?

Nekonkh grasped blindly at a safe question, whose answer tradition had taught him. The First Thutmose—he who was pharaoh in my youth—he lives with the gods now. He will protect Egypt from their anger.

For Hatshepsut’s sake? came the mocking whisper. For the sake of the daughter who snatched his throne without waiting for him to die? Captain, he disowned her himself, he chiseled her name off all his monuments.

I know not for whose sake, I know nothing! snarled Nekonkh. You’ll not trick me into speaking treason, I tell you! Hatshepsut is pharaoh. So be it! Maybe young Thutmose is not fit to rule. Aye, that’s it! Only a weakling could be held down so long by a woman—like a rabbit in a snare!

There was no answer for a moment. When Sheftu spoke again his voice was grim and quiet, without a trace of mockery. You are mistaken, Captain, he said. Thutmose is no rabbit, he is a lion. And the snare is not made that will hold a lion forever.

Nekonkh turned slowly. By the Blessed Son! he exclaimed. Which camp are you in, young man? Who speaks treason now?

Sheftu eased back against the gunwale, his face bland and expressionless. Why, no one, my friend, he murmured. We spoke only of snares and rabbits.

Suddenly he smiled. It had an astonishing effect, that smile. It lighted up his dark irregular features with a charm that seemed to warm the world. The nervous sweat dried on Nekonkh’s brow, and his throat relaxed. He was even conscious of an obscure exhilaration, a sense of well-being. He found himself grinning genially.

Aye, aye, you’re quite right, mate, he agreed. Snares and rabbits. Nothing more.

Sheftu bowed and took himself off to the other end of the ship, and there was no more conversation that day. But Nekonkh watched his passenger with feverish interest from that hour on. By the time the Silver Beetle docked at Menfe he was convinced that Sheftu was not and never had been a scribe’s apprentice; in fact he strongly suspected that the youth was one of those very fools—or heroes—who had secretly rallied about the king.

Furthermore he realized with a reckless sort of excitement that he, too, would be glad to offer his life to such a cause, for the sake of this extraordinary young man, his fettered king, and the Egypt they both loved.

Now, two days after docking, the new cargo was stowed and all was ready to sail. But still there was no sign of Sheftu. He had left the vessel as soon as it tied up, having arranged to return with it to Thebes when the time came. Then he had vanished into the tangle of mud-brick buildings, twisting streets, and hurrying, shouting, sweating humanity that was Menfe. He had not come back.

Restlessly Nekonkh paced his scrubbed acacia deck, from gunwale to cabin, from cabin to sweeps, back again to gunwale. Ominous pictures rose in his mind—Sheftu seized by some spy of the queen, Sheftu questioned by torture, Sheftu hanging head downward from the city walls.

What a fool I am, thought Nekonkh desperately. Why do I fret over the young rogue? For all I know he’s reporting me to the queen’s men this instant! . . . No, by Amon, when he spoke of the king he spoke his heart, I’d stake my last copper on it! If I had told him—if I had offered myself and my ship to him and the king—then he would have let me know his plans, what to do if he did not come back. Hai! That I knew more—or else nothing at all! What a fool I am! Why doesn’t he come?


•   •   •

Eastward from the wharfs, in another part of the city, a young slave girl of about seventeen years sat in a sunny corner between her master’s storerooms and his garden wall. She was bending over a papyrus roll held carefully in her lap, and her lips moved as she read.

Spend the day merrily.

Put unguent and fine oil together to thy nostrils,

Set singing and music before thy face.

Cast all evil behind thee, and bethink thee only of joy,

Till comes that day of mooring in the land that loveth silence.

Spend the day merrily . . .

"Mara! The harsh voice shattered the quiet of the garden. The girl snatched up the papyrus and stuffed it into her sash, half turning away from the grim-faced woman who had appeared in the storeroom door. So there you are, Miss Blue-Eyed Good-For-Nothing! the woman said angrily. Idling away your time while the rest of us work like the slaves we are! Up with you! The master’s shentis must be starched and pleated!"

I wish they clothed his corpse, muttered Mara, flashing a venomous look over her shoulder.

Aye, aye, so wish we all, retorted the other. But Zasha’s far from in his tomb, and his stick’s livelier than he is, as you’ll know if he comes home from his jewel trading and finds you skulking here. Come, now, up with you!

I come. Go away, Teta.

Nay, I’ll not go until I see you on your feet, and starting for the pressing rooms. Move, now! Teta leaned farther out the door and peered suspiciously over Mara’s shoulder. "What’s that you’re hiding, you thieving wretch? One of the master’s scrolls again, I’ll take my oath! Hai-ai! Remember the last time! He all but took the flesh off your shoulders, stupid, isn’t once enough? Put it back, make haste, or I won’t answer for your life. . . . Reading! she grumbled, turning back into the house as Mara scrambled to her feet and ran in the direction of the Room of Books. Idle as the mistress herself, when there’s ironing to be done, and a thrashing is all she’ll get for her high-and-mighty airs!"

May the kheft-things take that Zasha and all his kin! fumed Mara as she ran up the red-graveled path. Better not to live at all than to live like this! I swear the dogs in the marketplace have a better life!

She pulled open the heavy door and slipped across the cool clay pavements of the Room of Books, to shove the papyrus to its place among the others on the shelves. For a moment she stood, letting her envious gaze rest on one neat roll after another—The Proverbs of Ptah-hotep, The Prophecies of Neferrohu, The Book of Surgery, The Eloquent Peasant, Baufra’s Tale—forbidden treasure houses of wisdom and poetry and ancient fable which it was a crime for her to touch. Yet Zasha could read no more of it than could his vain and empty-headed lady, who spent most of her time before a mirror. He could write no more than his name, but must call in a scribe on every occasion. Mara’s lip curled. Beast! Slave though she was, she could both read and write, thanks to a former master. And she spoke Babylonian as well as her own tongue.

But what good did it do her? Zasha was rich, and that was what counted. He was rich and he was free.

She turned to look wistfully about the room, and as she did so the old memory returned to haunt her. It was all so long ago and vague now that she never knew whether it was real or imagined, but somehow, somewhere, maybe only in a dream, she had known a room like this; like this only finer—high-ceilinged and luxurious, with rich furnishings and shelves of scrolls.

There were times when her conviction was strong that she had once lived a different life. Sometimes—very seldom now that she had grown older—there had even come the fleeting vision of a face, a beautiful smiling face with blue eyes, like her own, and the dim recollection of someone bending over her and laughing. . . .

A dismal rumbling from her stomach brought her back to the present. Someone will be bending over me with a stick soon, she thought. I had best be gone from here.

Her stomach protested its emptiness once again, making her feel lightheaded and dizzy, as she hurried out of the room and across the garden. She clenched her teeth and pulled her sash tighter. One thing she could never remember was a time when she had not been hungry.

Well, Teta, the scroll is returned, she remarked as she entered the storeroom. "Where are the precious shentis of that swineherd, that son of wretched Kush, beloved of crocodiles—"

"Ast! Behold them in their usual place! rasped Teta, pointing. That tongue of yours will flap once too often, Reckless One! Be silent and useful, for once!"

Teta turned back to her task of sealing wine jars, and the earthy smell of the clay she was using mingled with that of the hot starch as the two worked for a while in silence. Presently a new fragrance drifted in through the open door, from the direction of the kitchen nearby—the fragrance of roasting waterfowl.

Ahhhhh! groaned Mara, stopping in the midst of wringing out one of the linen kilts. Great Amon, is there anything at all to eat in this place?

Teta tamped down a pottery bung, tied it firmly with linen, capped it with clay, and pressed down Zasha’s seal before she answered. Then she half turned, gesturing toward the shelves that lined the walls. Plenty, she said sarcastically. Help yourself.

Mara’s eyes traveled over the shelves, stacked with jars and kegs, and sacks of dried fish—all sealed and untouchable, save at the order of the mistress. Then she finished wringing out the shenti, flung it in the basket, and gave another yank to her sash.

Someday, she said through her teeth, I’m going to have gold. So much gold that I could eat roasted waterfowl every day. So much that I could buy Zasha and his simpering wife and all his relatives, and toss them to the crocodiles!

Teta laughed shrilly. "Hai, tell me another, stupid! A slave you are and a slave you’ll be, if you don’t die before your time from the beatings you get for your impudence. Gold! Hai! Gold!"

Yes, gold! thought Mara. And jewels, and linen so sheer you can see through it, and little alabaster pots like the mistress’ to hold the paint for my eyelids, and freedom, freedom! A slave I’ll not be all my life! Someday there’ll be a chance—and though it cost my neck I’ll take it, snatch it!

She hurled the last kilt into the basket and swung the basket to her head. Farewell, Teta, she muttered, starting for the pressing rooms. Take care you don’t faint of emptiness where the mistress can see you—it might offend her!

Gold! retorted Teta, still chuckling under her breath. "Hai! Gold!"

Mara slammed the door behind her. She crossed the courtyard to the pressing rooms with the smooth, swinging stride made second nature to those who habitually carry burdens on the head. Setting the basket on a stool beside the narrow table she went to poke up the fire that was to heat the irons.

Spend the day merrily, echoed the Song of the Harper ironically in her mind. Bethink thee only of joy, till comes that day of mooring in the land that loveth silence . . . Lo, none that hath gone may come again.

Aye, and who knew when that day of mooring would be upon one, swift and final? Here were the hateful fluting irons, the steaming shentis of that son of crocodiles, Zasha; outside the air was soft, the sky blue as the eye of heaven.

Suddenly Mara flung the poker into the fire with all her strength. She whirled out of the room and across the red-graveled path to a dom palm that grew beside the garden wall. Up she scrambled like a squirrel, her bare toes clinging to the rough bark. At the top of the wall she glanced once over her shoulder toward the closed storeroom door, then leaped down on the other side.

Freedom, brief and costly though it might be, was hers for a little while. She was laughing aloud as she plunged into the nearest alleyway and through the next street, in the direction of the marketplace.

CHAPTER 2

The Sale of a Slave

On the shadowed side of one of the mud-brick buildings that edged Menfe’s thriving marketplace, Sheftu stood quietly, with folded arms. His position commanded a good view of the entire area—merchants’ and bakers’ stalls, shops of silver-workers, weavers, glassblowers, and makers of sandals. Here a potter spun his wheel and shaped the clay, chanting supplications to Khnum, ram-headed deity of all potters, who had once shaped man himself on a divine wheel. There, in a shady corner, a barber plied his trade, jostled by roving fishmongers. The square was thronged with shoppers—the white-clad, copper-skinned, black-wigged inhabitants of Menfe with their baskets and their squabbling voices and their long, painted eyes.

They took no notice whatever of Sheftu, whose ordinary white shenti and headcloth made him inconspicuous, and whose immobility made him seem merely part of the shadow in which he stood. Outwardly casual, he was inwardly as alert as a cat at a mousehole. His eyes, the only part of him that moved, flashed restlessly over the crowd, searching, probing, overlooking nothing. He had been waiting a long time.

Presently his attention was drawn to a little commotion in a far corner of the square. A group of soldiers, pushing officiously through the crowd, had shoved a ragged girl against a passing litter, so that she collided with one of the Nubian bearers. He in turn lost his balance, staggered, and almost dropped his corner of the litter; whereupon the bejeweled great lady inside thrust her head between the curtains and began to scold furiously.

Begone, rabble! shouted the servant in attendance behind the litter. He sprang forward, yelling imprecations, and began to lay about him with his stick, his blows falling impartially upon the bearer and the unfortunate girl, who screamed back at him with equal fury, in both Egyptian and Babylonian. Suddenly she dodged out of his reach, ducked with remarkable agility between the legs of an ass and vanished into the crowd. An instant later, however, she reappeared some distance behind the litter, strutting along in the wake of the self-important attendant in a perfect imitation of his pompous swagger. The bystanders roared and slapped their thighs.

Sheftu was grinning too. He was sorry when with a final mocking impudence, the girl melted once more into the crowd.

Her lithe image still in his mind, Sheftu returned to his vigilant scanning of the marketplace. The messenger was late. A glance at the sun told him that he dared not wait much longer, that if the promised signal did not come soon, it would never come, and all his arguments and pleas of yesterday had failed. He stirred restlessly in his shadowed corner, and gnawed his lip.

Suddenly he caught sight of the girl again. This time she was quite near him, strolling with apparent aimlessness among the stalls. She stopped to watch a potter at work, and Sheftu studied her curiously, unable to fit her into any

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