CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT HAPPENED WHEN MENNA, SON OF MENNA, WENT A-WOOING

The ruined Shrine of Mentuhotep lay somewhat to the north of the great sandstone mortuary-temple of Amenhotep III.

Fronting it stood a dwarf pyramid surrounded by brightly-painted columned porticos. Far to the south stretched Queen Thi’s beautiful “pleasure lake,” which seemed, at this distance, a veritable bowl of gold rimmed with emeralds. The glowing walls and avenues of stately trees which marked Queen Hatshepsut’s terraced temple, shut it in toward the north. High above, and seemingly ever in danger of crashing down upon it, towered the precipitous and ever crumbling masses of the purple Libyan Hills.

The way thither led along the Necropolis Route, a high-banked road which passed immediately in front of the obelisks and twin statues fronting the granite threshold of Amenhotep’s stupendous mortuary-temple.

At this season of the year the wayfarer might appreciate the full height of the waters of the inundation, since their turgid reaches now swirled about the walls of the Royal Palace to the south, and lapped the high walls of Amenhotep’s mortuary temple itself, though the latter’s massive walls and pylons stood well back upon the edge of that crescent-shaped strip of land whose upper reaches had been set apart by the Thebans from time immemorial, as their place of burial.

This late afternoon the waters flashed like streams of fire as the sun sank ever lower, ever more rapidly it seemed, toward the low blue line of the southern hills which sheltered Erment, city of the falcon-headed Wargod.

The arid sand-drifts, which stretched along the lower slopes of the Theban hills, seemed composed rather of snow than sand, so brilliant was the glare, so clear the atmosphere.

Most welcome to the eye were the villa-gardens of the nobles, with their deep green groves of date palm, sycamore and acacia. Many resembled little islands that seemed to float upon the flashing waters.

But neither desert glare nor flashing water could detain Prince Menna. Within the hour Atum, the evening sun, would sink below the southern hills; the cool north breeze would spring up, as was its custom.

Menna’s chair-bearers had stood before his villa door an hour ahead of time. Bentu, their chief, placed his hands upon his heart and gazed heavenward, simulating the ardent lover. Another love-affair, without a doubt.

Such missions meant _uten_, necklaces or rings; a spree at Hentiu’s at any rate, and Bentu loved the very sight of a bursting wine-skin!

Bentu’s speculations were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the doorkeeper. With a knowing wink at Bentu the latter obsequiously bowed, as Menna strode through the curtained door.

Another moment and Menna, Superintendent of the King’s estates, high above the shoulders of six stalwart Nubians, was borne swiftly along the highway which led to the northern end of the curving Theban Plain.

Taking his cue from the gorgeous costume scarcely concealed beneath his master’s fringed and brightly colored Syrian cloak, Bentu launched into one of Ata’s love-songs. His grinning comrades punctuated each verse with a staccato “ha-ha, o-ay!”

Menna sank back against his cushions; he smiled. It pleased him that this black shadow of his had divined his mission. Nay, Menna felt himself so at peace with the world that he gave command to allow a peasant’s all too-heavily laden donkey to pass unchallenged, an unheard of proceeding on the part of a Theban noble!

Bentu’s hopes rose. Under such circumstances all things were possible. He might receive a jeweled necklace, golden bars; a small farm, perhaps.

Indeed, Bentu’s expectations assumed so rosy an aspect, that he broke into a dance, clapping his hands or snapping his fingers in time to his leapings and posturings, quite in the manner of the Nubians, the curly-headed people to the south.

With the sudden disappearance of the swollen sun-disk behind the deep blue hills of Erment, song and dance abruptly ceased. Menna indicated that he would descend from his chair, and all, master and men together, addressed a short prayer for the success of the Sun-god in his ceaseless conflict with Apep, Fiend of Darkness.

Piety was a habit with Menna, as with Bentu and the rest.

This done, once more Menna’s chair swung along the high embankment. Once again the warning shouts or blows from the forked staff of Bentu kept the narrow way free.

Arrived before the tree-set entrance to the Temple of Thothmes, Menna left his servants and continued westward, past Amenhotep the Second’s temple, on foot. Soon his tall figure was lost among the groves of cedars, karobs and acacias with which the tomb precincts of the nobles Senmut, Ra, and Rekmara, were thickly planted.

Passing the great monument of the architect Senmut, from which vantage point the great cedar which marked the tomb precinct of his father and mother was visible, Menna turned towards the yellow terraces of Hatshepsut’s ivory-columned temple. To the left, he could already distinguish the little pyramid and the terraced colonades of the Mentuhotep Shrine, near which was the spot he sought. A few minutes more and he had crossed the ruined forecourt of that ancient king’s memorial shrine.

For a moment Menna looked about him. He consulted a memorandum which he took from his jeweled belt. Then again, with an anticipatory smile, he ascended to the highest terrace and suddenly vanished into a dark opening which seemed to lead into the very face of the stupendous cliffs which towered above.

Menna was soon in total darkness. He felt himself descending a long, narrow passage-way pitched at a very steep incline. He must have gone some two hundred paces when he felt, rather than saw the glow of a light. Soon he could distinguish the polished surface of the granite slabs with which the narrow walls were faced.

All was well! The Princess awaited him!

Standing in the opening of the doorway, Menna softly spoke her name. The Princess did not answer, but stood well back within the shadows of an alabaster naos, a shrine which, centuries before, had held a statue of the deified king, Mentuhotep. At the right he saw a dark and narrow doorway in which were visible a few ascending steps cut in the rock.

The slim figure of the Princess was concealed beneath a long Memphite cloak. She appeared not to have heard his greeting.

Again Menna softly called her name: “Sesen! My Lily, My Lotus! Behold thy lover, O Daughter of Hathor!”

Still the figure was silent. Smilingly Menna drew near; he understood. With a wealth of flattering phrases on his lips, he sought to catch her to him. As he did so, the figure turned, and revealed to his astounded gaze the burning eyes of Hanit, of Hanit the former Queen!

Yet, Hanit was dead! He had seen her embalmed body laid away in her rock-hewn tomb!

With a hoarse and inarticulate cry Menna turned and fled. ’Twas the visible _ka_ of the outraged queen, ’twas Hanit’s vindictive _double_! Nay, it ’twas Hanit herself, whose mummified form he himself had seen, what time Huy, the Great High Priest, had performed the last rites, with the ceremonial opening of the eyes, the ears, the mouth! Had not he himself placed a wreath upon her well-swathed form, and thereafter seen the coffin lowered in her rock-hewn tomb?

As Menna stumbled up the steep incline of the rock-hewn passage, black horror seized upon him; a paralyzing terror rose from his throbbing heart and mounted to his numbed brain. He tore the heavy gold chains and the jeweled _wesekh_ from his throat. He felt that he was choking.

“Breath of Ra! The doorway, air, light, the blessed daylight!”

As Menna groped his way up the passage he heard in front of him, a dull thud as of some heavy falling body. For a moment his headlong flight was arrested. The solid rock beneath his feet seemed to tremble. He rushed up the last few yards of the narrow corridor and came suddenly in violent contact with an immovable block of polished granite.

A cold perspiration burst out upon his forehead; his knees trembled beneath him. He was trapped.

The overseer made a last attempt to think clearly. For a few moments he succeeded in stifling the terror that gripped his heart.

Menna carefully felt the walls over and over again to left, to right, in front! Not a crack nor a crevice. Always that granite door! In an agony of fear Menna hurled himself against it. He shrieked, he raved, he cursed.

Finally the Overseer, no longer human, turned and crept back along the granite passage-way. The dust of centuries rose into his throat and filled his lungs. Its fine, impalpable particles got into his eyes. The droppings of innumerable bats covered his robes; his scented wig had fallen from his head.

Slowly Menna scrambled down the passage, now in a crouching position, now on all fours. His blood-red eyes gleamed in the gloomy obscurity like those of a savage panther of the south. Blood trickled slowly from his inflamed nostrils; his lips were drawn far back upon the gums, as if he snarled.

Menna stood again in the shrine-chamber. The light still flickered along its granite sides, upon the ivory-toned naos and the figures and hieroglyphs with which it was decorated. The prince gazed wildly about him. Even the ponderous inner door had now swung into place.

Stretching out his bleeding hands he approached the huge shrine. He would cast himself upon the mercy of Hanit’s vengeful spirit, for by now Menna was long past fear of _bas_ or _kas_, of “_ghosts_” or “_doubles_!” He called her name as, with outstretched hands he shuffled hesitatingly towards the shrine.

Hanit had vanished!

With a low moan Menna crumpled up and pitched headlong at the foot of the shrine. Above his head the light brightened for an instant, then slowly sank and, suddenly, vanished. Once again the painted forms of gods and demons alone reigned supreme amidst the fetid heat and darkness.