The Pyramid Chapter 8

ISIS ON EARTH

The pyramids pink in the morning light, just as they always are, to this day; but one of them ruddier than the others—the smallest and most beautiful of the three mighty ones, for it is sheathed in polished red granite from its pointed apex down to the mighty platform on which it stands.

Ruddier also is the face of the sphinx, of mighty Harmachis, which guards the necropolis of Memphis, for the same queen who sheathed the pyramid of Menkaura in red granite has likewise caused the face of Harmachis to be painted her favorite color.

Which is only natural, for she herself is the “ruddy-faced,” and, according to every prince and courtier who gets a chance to whisper the fact, the fairest creature in the length and breadth of Egypt—of the world.

“Netokris, who united the two countries, Queen of the Diadem of the Vulture and the Snake, of abiding splendor, the golden Horus in woman’s form, soul of gods, Queen of Upper Egypt and Queen of Lower Egypt, Isis of splendid life, daughter of Isis, Netokris!”

As the heralds took their places to the left and the right of the entrance to the Red Pyramid, and shouted the titles of her who was about to appear, other mourners in other parts of the necropolis came forward, some of them on the run.

The chance was too good to be lost. There had been a good deal of talk about the queen, even before her husband died. There had been more since.

A wonderful woman, even if it hadn’t been for the recent tragedy in her life which had left her alone on the Double Throne—young, fairly good-looking, passionate, yet marvelously well versed in the wisdom of the priests.

A widow, mistress of the world!

No wonder that she was being courted by every eligible prince in the empire! More than one woman was thinking of that as she hurried along the granite pavements of the city of the dead toward the door of the Red Pyramid whence Netokris was about to appear. Had she really been there mourning her husband, they wondered, or had she been casting spells to find out who the dead king’s successor should be?

Heralds lined up to the left and right. A crowd of half-naked mercenaries with long staffs to keep the crowds back and to clear the way. A group of noblemen in sleeveless tunics of transparent linen. A gold and ivory litter covered with lion-skins, a dozen Nubians standing near to carry it.

The Nubians don’t know that the princes have agreed among themselves to seize the litter, as if in response to spontaneous impulse, and carry her majesty back to the palace as a token that they themselves are her slaves. There isn’t a man in the group who wouldn’t give his right hand to be picked out as the queen’s favorite.

The crowd was constantly becoming larger. Netokris always did like to keep people waiting.

“Been praying all night,” whispered a middle-aged citizen from Memphis.

He was rich enough, as you could tell by his gold collar, albeit he wore little else than sandals and a thin linen skirt.

The woman at his side, dressed almost exactly the same, except that her hair was longer, done up in crinkly plaits and dyed blue, sneered up into her husband’s face.

“Praying!”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “You think evil, even of the gods,” he retorted, then strained his eyes again in the direction of the pyramid door.

There wasn’t a man in Memphis who wouldn’t rather see the queen than his own wife, almost.

There appeared from the interior of the colossal temple a band of priests, their heads completely shaven, leopard-skins draped over their bare shoulders, indicating that they had been at their duties all night.

Another interval and a young man followed—all alone, very straight, his smooth face pale.

“Menni, the new governor of the palace,” someone whispered in the crowd.

The name was taken up and repeated.

“Did you notice,” one of the princes whispered, “how troubled he looks? The Isis must be displeased with him. I’m glad of it.”

“So am I,” hissed the other. “I’m not wishing him anything evil, but if he’d only step on an asp—”

Menni did look anything but cheerful, it must be confessed. What cursed luck had brought him out to the pyramid last night! He knew that the queen would be there. That was the hideous folly of it.

Had he remained in the city he would have evaded this perilous crisis, perhaps indefinitely.

Whence had come that impulse?

Then he knew. The Isis had been designing his entanglement for some time past. It filled him with mortification, but he admitted it. He had guessed the truth long ago from the way that she had looked at him out of those green eyes of hers.

He had felt it more than ever yesterday afternoon when she had looked at him again across a crowded room of the palace, had smiled at him that haunting, disquieting smile of provocation. And yet, in spite of it all, he had gone out to the pyramid at night, he hardly knew why—the night of the new moon, which is always dangerous to those who would avoid dangerous sorcery.

He recalled how the queen had found him sitting at the side of the pyramid staring out across the desert—blue darkness everywhere, save for the golden lamps of the stars; he all alone in the universe. And then, she!

Netokris!

She had smiled at him, had lulled his senses with her uncanny powers. None but a witch, even if she were the Isis on earth, would use a perfume like that.

Great Ammon! Great Ptah!

Why hadn’t he accepted the invitation to go along on that trip up the Nile? But at thought of Berenice there again crept into his mind the dim, faintly heard echo of that other name—Alice! And this other dream of his—phantasmagoria which returned to him there in the midst of the familiar sights and sounds around him like the shadows of another civilization—people oddly clad “all over,” of mammoth boats with fire in them, of curiously frail houses, of waving banners such as he had never seen before in any dream!

Menni passed on down through the waiting crowd of slaves, attendants, and courtiers, speaking a word here, giving a direction there—a man of power, a favorite of the queen, according to all reports, but obviously distraught and heavy-laden.

“He has been watching all night,” said the citizen of Memphis in the abbreviated skirt.

“Yes, he has,” said his wife, the lady with the blue hair, with a fine inflection of irony. She laughed scornfully, but she likewise was on tiptoes by this time.

A cheer went up that drowned what the heralds had started to chant—”Netokris, who united the two countries, Queen of the Diadem of the Vulture and the Snake, of abiding splendor, the golden Horus in—”

About the door of the pyramid there was a swirl of movement—long-handled fans of ostrich-feathers going up, a swaying of bodies as slaves, attendants and courtiers alike bowed low. Not a person in the group of all those near the royal presence who did not wilt with body and soul except that young governor of the palace with the thoughtful face. More than one prince—if not all the others—noticed how stiff-necked he was and secretly rejoiced.

They would have been willing to wager good money that before very long Menni would indeed be stepping on that poisoned asp.

She stood there for a moment or two, perfectly conscious of all the eyes upon her and thoroughly enjoying it.

Netokris!

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so—slender, as graceful as a palm, a wonderful vision in silver and old rose. For she wore a silver skirt—as fine and transparent as though it had been woven of spider-web—embroidered with old-rose flowers; this and little else.

But she had managed to carry out the color-scheme with all the arts ever known to woman, then or since. Her face and her body had been lightly powdered, apparently, with crushed pearl. Toes and finger-tips and lips had all been stained with henna. Her eyes, naturally hypnotic and beautiful, had been penciled across her temples.

And odd and unforgettable moving presence surely.

He wasn’t the only one who did it, but the citizen from Memphis let out a little gurgling gasp at sight of her.

“You’re like all the rest,” his wife gibed bitterly.

He didn’t even hear her.

Netokris, with perfect composure, had gone forward to her litter, swooned gracefully down upon the piled-up lion-skins, and a moment later the giant Nubians, who were her bearers, had swept her shoulder high.

There were those in that foolish little conspiracy—to seize upon the litter of the queen—who had seen from the first that such a compliment could not be delivered at the present time without a good deal of risk. They had seen her majesty look like that before—just as smiling, just as pleasant, and yet had sensed the sudden death that lurked about her.

But among those who hadn’t noticed anything untoward in this was a young prince recently arrived at the court from Upper Egypt.

Impulsively he had sprung forward, seized the bar of the litter nearest to him, stood there for a second or two dazed by his own hardihood, recognizing too late that the others had not acted with him. For a moment he gazed up into the basilisk, painted eyes he adored.

Netokris let her eyes shift to a captain of the guard just back—a tall Assyrian—a huge fellow with a black beard and black, bold eyes, his shining yellow shoulders rippling in the young sunlight. She made a quick, slight movement with one of her painted fingers.

There was a flash of polished bronze and the young prince went down shuddering with a crushed skull, blood spattering the pavement.

The crowd—slaves, princes, citizens from Memphis, men and women—let out a loyal, exultant cheer—all except Menni, the governor of the palace—all cheered wildly.

“Netokris! Netokris! Queen of gods! Isis on earth!”