HOW BHANAR FOUND A HOME IN EGYPT
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 crowned with thickly
growing trees. At this very season its fields were yellow with the
fragrant Syrian crocus. Over all was a sky blue as a turquoise, an
atmosphere pure and limpid. How different from the blazing heat of Egypt
and that great throbbing cauldron of molten brass which the Egyptians
called their sky!
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 haste thee, my Syrian Crocus! We go ashore immediately.”
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
hundreds of timorous maidens for their first, and last, appearance upon
the slave-traders’ dais. When the owner grew tired of his new plaything,
like the playthings of infancy, it disappeared. No one knew whither, no
one cared.
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 through such
Syrian byssus that rosy form proclaims thee Astar’s daughter. Ah,
Nebamon, what a treat for thine eyes!”
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
and stalked off down the corridor, and then up a short flight of stairs
to a room in the harem or second story.
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 common form of wit, the
artist had scrawled in minute hieroglyphics below: “Oh, guest, whosoever
thou art, what do you think of this for a vignette?”
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
smiled, stroked his long beard and, taking a small bottle of wine from
a niche in the wall, shook a few drops into the brazier. He muttered
a prayer to Bar, Baal and Isis as he poured out the wine. Could his
two hearers have understood his words, they would have heard the old
slaver bribe his gods, foreign and Egyptian alike, with promises of rich
libations, of oxen and geese, should his bait be taken at the figure he
had fixed.
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 since I have gazed upon the Queen of Cities, Thebes the
Glorious! During these four months I have visited Meggido, Charchemish,
Tyre and Askelon. My last voyage hither brought ye true lazuli of
Babylon, and precious incense from the Incense Land, the waterless land
of the East!
“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 lists boast a form more perfect, a
skin more lustrous, hair so long, so like the ruddy gold of Nubia? Should
not this damsel, this daughter of a long line of kings, be added to the
royal lists? Were the great noble Menna, son of Menna, here now, would he
not straightway buy the maiden? Never shall I be content until I see thee
take from thy finger the seal that adds this wondrous creature to thy
villa yonder.”
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 shrew. Remember, more than
three months I had her on my book. With me, as with Darman, she was a
very dove, as soft and cooing as the sacred doves of Hathor’s temple
yonder! Nay, have done with Gadiya; we will speak of her anon. Thou
wouldst know the price of Bhanar the Beautiful, of Bhanar—a daughter
of Kings? There are perhaps four whose names allow the purchase of the
maid, and these be Pharaoh himself, Rames, your good Vizier, Menna, the
King’s Overseer, and, perhaps, thyself! One thousand gold _uten_ and five
hundred bags of northern wheat will buy the maid, Nebamon! Make up thy
mind, and quickly. Yonder I see approaching the carrying chair of thy
most dreaded rival, Menna, son of Menna. What says my lord Nebamon?”
“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 garden path, two outrunners with slaves going before, a
foreign conceit which Menna had imported from Naharin.
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 customarily attached themselves to the
more reckless nobles of the resident city.
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 uttered the formula which drives that voracious creature
from its prey.
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.