Baltu the Phoenician left his bales of merchandise and returned to the side of the trembling Bhanar. Erdu, his steersman could count the bales as well as he. As each tenth bale passed over the vessel’s side, Erdu sang out the tally. He checked it with a mark upon a piece of potsherd which he held in his hand. Misunderstanding the signs of excitement which appeared in the face of the trembling Bhanar, following Renny’s signal, the Phoenician merchant sought to interest her in the sights about her. In a few moments she would be off his hands forever. She must not be allowed to break down at this juncture. In a voice which he sought to make sympathetic Baltu pointed out the wonders of the Western Bank. He named the builders of the various temples, shrines and gold-capped obelisks; the owners of the more important villas whose gardens lined the river bank. He even attempted to give some chronological sequence to the intricate maze of rock-hewn tombs which rose, vast and imposing, from the edge of the Theban Plain to a point high up beneath the crumbling cliffs of the western hills. Yet, Bhanar found little of interest in her surroundings. Her eyes dwelt fearfully upon the treeless hills, upon the mud-walled villages and gloomy temples. She noted that each and all of the Theban temples were guarded from the eyes of mortals by high and forbidding walls of solid masonry. How different was this to the hospitality of her own little temple, whose snowy colonnades were open to every passerby; its great wooden doors thrown open from sunrise to sunset! Again, in contradistinction to these sun-baked hills her native village nestled in an olive grove, its encircling hills were green with pastures and Presently she would be swallowed up in one of those forbidding temples, palaces or villas! She thought that the well of her tears had dried, yet now the tears sprang hot and blinding to her eyes. Fearing that she might ruin his chances if she lost that soft rose coloring he so prized, to divert her Baltu led her to the cabin door and bade her robe herself to go ashore. Baltu took from his long fringed gown two small gold-capped jars of obsidian and placed them in her hands: “Descend to thy cabin, my Rose-bud. Bid Darman let down that glossy hair of thine. Let her sprinkle a little of this perfumed oil and gold dust upon it. The oil is more precious than the gold. Let her not waste a drop. Now Soon Bhanar was arrayed in a cream-colored robe, a golden girdle encircled her slender waist, a diadem gleamed in her perfumed hair. Darman stood back to admire the effect of her ministrations. Darman, like Bhanar, snatched from some distant village, was short, fat and continually sniffling or weeping outright. She had often assured Bhanar, as indeed she had assured other unfortunates whom it had been her lot to serve in a like capacity, that the love and devotion which she bore her, alone prevented her from throwing herself overboard. In the present case it may well have been the truth, for Darman had conceived an utter infatuation for the beautiful Syrian. On the contrary, Darman loathed her loud-voiced master, though her abject fear of him was cause for jest with the whole crew, including Baltu himself. In spite of her threats to do away with herself Darman had now spent six years upon the Tyrian’s vessel. During this time she had prepared Bhanar reappeared on deck to find Baltu in the act of teasing the unfortunate youth, who now lay prostrate at his feet in an agony of fear and apprehension. “Up! Dry those woman’s tears, Page of Pharaoh! Dost wish a tombkeeper to purchase thee? Queen Ataho’s page servitor to a mummy! Pull thyself together, boy! Otherwise”—Baltu closed his eyes, folded his hands across his chest and assumed the rigid pose of a mummy. As his eyes opened he caught sight of the advancing Bhanar: “Astar’s doves! Did I not tell thee Darman, ‘A robe of cream, transparent, bordered with green and gold, dainty sandals of pink and gold, a simple gold diadem and the hair parted in the center—so!’ Seen Hardly waiting for the unfortunate Hittite youth to gather himself together, Baltu, trembling with excitement and cupidity, led his two victims to the long cedar gangplank. Once on shore he pushed aside the sweating carriers, and pulling along his two charges with him, started off down the street. Presently they passed the common slaver’s block. Two brilliantly painted booths were at the moment in use. Upon one stood a stolid Nubian woman and two weeping children; upon the other a troop of half-starved Amu, whom the priests of Karnak, their original owners, were now selling. Baltu’s great fist thundered at the door of the last house southward along the waterfront. He slid back the bolt and threw open the door, waving his two charges into a narrow corridor. In a stentorian voice he shouted a command or greeting to the unseen inhabitants of the dwelling This room turned a blank wall to the river front—as indeed did all three stories of the house—but it overlooked a broad and well-kept garden. Its painted cedar door gave upon an awning-covered balcony which immediately overlooked the customary lotus-pool. A giant sycamore spread its shady branches far and wide above the flower-dotted water. In the shade of this aged tree Baltu’s Egyptian wife, an enormously fat but strikingly handsome Theban, was taking a short walk supported on the arms of two Nubian women. Her pet gosling rested upon her capacious bosom. At the sudden appearance of their lord and master the latter dropped Bentamen’s arms and commenced dancing, clapping their hands, and sending out upon the quiet morning air the shrill “welcome cry” of their race, in which the beaming Bentamen, Baltu’s spouse, attempted to join. Tears of joy the while dropped in a shower upon the head of her devoted pet. However, Baltu had no time for greetings. In response to his directions Bentamen, supported by her maids, waddled slowly toward a little kiosk in the rear of the garden, a summer house almost buried in a circle of ragged date and dÔm palm. Though in his rough way, Baltu devotedly loved his fat wife, business always consigned her to second place in her lord’s heart. During this little scene Bhanar had had time to gaze about her. The room in which they stood was decorated with painted designs of hunting scenes, boomerang-hunting amidst the marshes, a common pastime with the wealthier Egyptians. The ceiling decoration consisted of a painted band of spiral grape vines, whose dainty tendrils met and intertwined immediately above her head. In one corner the artist had introduced a cat crouching to spring upon an unsuspecting field mouse. The latter was busily engaged in eating its way into a fat bunch of luscious purple grapes. Puns being the Egyptian’s stock in trade, his Bhanar, it is true, could not read the inscription, but she could appreciate the charm of the little apartment, its brilliant frescoes and its floors powdered with finest white sand, gold dust, lapis lazuli and turquoise. A scent as of some sweet pungent incense floated in the air. Scented woods from the Incense Country had been stocked in the center of the little brazier which glowed fitfully at the edge of a low dais hung with richly embroidered linen. This dais stood well back against the eastern wall of the room. Upon it stood a light wicker-work couch, its head and back of ebony, its four high feet of ivory carved to represent panther’s claws. Clapping his hands, Baltu gave certain sharp directions to an obsequious Nubian, who appeared as if by magic at his summons. Thereafter Baltu in this, did but follow the lead of Pharaoh himself, though Pharaoh, god incarnate, had he but paused to consider it, did but seek to bribe himself, in the person of his celestial counterpart. Word soon spread through the mart that Baltu the Phoenician was selling, and Baltu was known as a merchant who sold nothing but the best and rarest, whether that best consisted of spices, perfumes, wines, jewels, Babylonian glass or slaves. Baltu the Phoenician lifted a jeweled hand: “Listen, Thebans! Four months have passed “This time we bring ye amethysts and turquoise for your beads and bangles, malachite for the healing of your eyes, incense for your nostrils, precious oils for your anointing, or to mix with those ceremonial cones that custom bids ye place upon your graceful wigs, also”—suddenly his eyes catch the sight of the one man above all others he wished to see. He broke off and addressed the newcomer directly. “For thee, my lord Nebamon, a rose; nay, a human rose, softly pink as a rose of Naharin! Step up, great lord, see for thyself!” With a quick movement Baltu unloosed the gold girdle that supported the heavy robe so gracefully draped about the shrinking Bhanar. “A rose indeed, Nebamon? Do my lord’s Nebamon, typical eunuch and slave-dealer, handsome of face, obese to such an extent that the skin of his torso lay over his jeweled girdle in thick folds, Nebamon nodded his head as his great velvet eyes slowly appraised the many charms of the crouching maiden. “Thy price, Baltu? And mark thee well! Should she turn out the shrew that fair-skinned Hittite Gadiya proved to be, she shall be returned, or never again will Baltu’s galley pass the northern frontier into Egypt! May the Hound eat her, she is still upon my hands, and like to be!” “Great lord! Could I know the Hittite for a “Five hundred uten, Baltu; all I have is thine for the maid!” The handsome noble shot a hasty glance in the direction of the oncoming chair of Menna, the King’s Overseer. It was plainly visible to all present, as it swung up the Nebamon drew from his jeweled girdle his writing set. He affected to write out a memorandum. “One thousand uten and five hundred bags of wheat will buy the maid, Nebamon, nothing less.” Arriving just in time to hear the repetition of the price Menna descended from his chair, crossed the room and stood before the shrinking Bhanar. Menna never haggled. He bought outright or he signaled his bearers and was borne away without a word. On this occasion Menna took a hasty look at Bhanar, turned to Baltu and cried: “Done, the girl is mine!” With a scowl upon his handsome face Nebamon haughtily withdrew, followed by a half score of excited Theban nobles and the usual group of hangers on, those “flies on meat” who Within the hour the delighted Bhanar found herself attached as maid to the person of the Princess Sesen, attendant of Noferith, the young Queen. All her fears in this direction were instantly dispelled when the Princess advised her of her simple duties in Syrian as pure as her own. From that hour Bhanar adored the very ground her beautiful mistress walked on. From that day Bhanar became the very shadow of the little Princess. The secret of Bhanar’s present good fortune was due to the fact that Menna, son of Menna, loved the Princess Sesen. Menna felt that such a gift as that of the beautiful slave-girl would go far to impress the haughty little maiden with the sincerity of his suit. Possibly this lavish expenditure would touch her hard little heart. The price was indeed a high one, even for a Royal Overseer. But it was the first time in all Menna’s thirty-odd years that a woman had not smiled upon his suit. Stranger still, perhaps, for the first time, Menna truly loved a woman. True, Menna’s love by now was closely akin to madness, since the little maid continually frowned upon his suit. The youthful general, Ramses, he knew, was ever in her thoughts. Yet, Menna never despaired. In earlier years he had often been on the point of relinquishing some tirelessly pursued quarry, of a similarly serenely unruffled type, when lo, the pomegranate had suddenly fallen into his hands. But what of Renny, Bhanar’s would-be rescuer? Returning overjoyed from his visit to Yakab, the Chancellor, Renny had reached the acacia grove fronting Thethi’s Tavern when something suddenly descended upon his head and the last thing he remembered was a stunning blow and then—oblivion. Could Renny the Syrian but have had some slight premonition of what next would happen to his poor unconscious body, he would certainly have rubbed that small green crocodile pendant at his neck, the gift of an Egyptian friend, and But Renny was a Syrian. He wore that little green charm merely to please his friend. Renny put no trust in feathers of ibis or blood of lizard; he smiled at charms and magic incantations. Renny’s own simple religion was a religion of love, not of fear. Yet, who knows, perhaps the little charm was to assist him, and this in spite of himself. |