The Woman of the Pyramid by Perley Poore Sheehan

Author:Perley Poore Sheehan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

They were taking breakfast together—the last breakfast, or meal of any kind, they should ever take together on earth, so far as the appearance of things was concerned.

Berenice, Menni, Netokris!

It was in one of the lesser chambers of the palace—large and magnificent though it was; a room, like so many of the others in the Pharaoh palace, with walls on three sides only, a row of lotus-capitaled columns on the other.

An ideal plan for the hot, clear days and nights of Egypt; a man-made grotto, cool and shadowy, looking out upon the limitless prospect of deep blue sky, of dark-green foliage and splashing fountains, of other painted walls and pillars further on; an occasional flash of color as tame birds of gorgeous plumage fluttered about; a group of gardeners passing by—slaves, white, brown, black, naked save for their loin-cloths of striped, coarse linen.

There were three low tables, not much more than ankle-high; cushions on the richly carpeted floor instead of chairs—this being less formal and more intimate. The queen in the center, her two guests seated to the left and the right of her.

There had, as yet, been not a single opportunity for conversation. Even while the Isis was in her own private apartments, a small army of slave-girls had surrounded Menni and his bride, had kept them apart while anointing them with perfumes and decorating them with lotus-buds.

Neither the queen nor Menni nor Berenice wore much else than the necklace of such flowers and their all but transparent skirts of fine linen.

The queen, as hard and radiant—and as silent—as a jewel, smiled upon them. Berenice also smiled, but she was too wonder-struck for happiness; was just beginning to grasp the sombrous portent of all that was going on. At first she had put it down to the fact that she had married an illustrious man; but intuition had not been slow in hinting at the dread possibilities which filled the mind of her new lord and master. For, though Menni smiled as well, it was none the less the smile of that friend of his who, in the shadow of death, had called attention to the butterflies.

A smile, so far as he was concerned, was called forth no more by the requirements of politeness than the look of outraged surprise he had seen on the faces of the guilty princes Seti, Saites, Asis, Tentares—regicides, suitors for the hand of the queen—whom they had passed in the outer courtyard of the palace.

Four old harpists, shaven like priests, had taken their position in a corner of the room, had struck up a lilting refrain.

Slave-girls, painted and perfumed, brought food and drink—fruit, syrups, meats, and biscuits, both cold and hot; wines and beers, water from the Nile made clear and sweet by having been strained through almond-paste.

Then, while yet they had scarcely touched their viands, while the harpists were still engaged on their first lilting theme, that nightmarish incident—not nightmarish then, nor inexplicable, as it was later—only solemn and impressive.

Quite suddenly, coming up the steps from the garden, appeared Baknik, the high priest.

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