But half conscious of what he was doing, Menna gazed at his handsome features as reflected in the burnished oval of the mirror. Slowly his features relaxed. He smiled, and, laying down the mirror, clapped his hands. He gave direction to the obsequious Syrian who immediately appeared, that Bentu, chief of his chair-bearers, be sent to him immediately.
Soon after, Bentu left his master’s presence, his face, wreathed in smiles, his ivory teeth flashing. Bentu walked on air, he could hardly refrain from snapping his fingers and dancing his joy like “the curly-headed ones,” as he hurried down the quiet corridors. An excursion such as his master planned for the morrow customarily ended well for Bentu, chief of the carriers.
Throughout the long night following, while Menna tossed upon his ivory-footed couch, Bentu gambled away his last worldly possessions.
At first Bentu lost three heifers at a throw. Then seven sheep went to Beq, the sculptor. Quickly followed the loss of thirty geese, the two gold _uten_ which encircled his wrist, his hound Antef, and finally, most prized possession of all, his bright blue scarab-seal. All passed to Beq, the sculptor.
But what cared Bentu, the Carrier! In his master’s explicit directions as to clothes for the carriers, as to food and drink, Bentu scented an assignation. The new hood was to be put on the carrying-chair. It was a beautiful hood, made of the finest linen, in stripes of green and gold. A love affair without a doubt! There was a woman in it, and women—as Bentu knew full well—women paid well for messengers and—carriers!
Bentu curled himself up in a corner of Beq’s studio and went promptly to sleep. He feared to go home; his wife might ask questions, and Bentu was in mortal dread of Sebekmeryt his Nubian wife.
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.