THE FIRST-BORN

      I WANT SOME! I want some!" Riki tugged at his mother as the servant was offering roast goose so that a piece of breast slid off the platter, down Aset's spotless linen dress, and onto the floor. A near-by servant dived for it in shocked silence, while the steward beckoned hastily for another to come running forward with water and towels. Riki shrugged his shoulders a little sulkily and began to study the bright pattern of flowers on the tiled floor, which was painted to represent a garden. On ordinary days he would now have been sent from the room, especially as he was not supposed to speak while music was playing. However, Aset had not forgotten the occasion, and she only smiled as she beckoned the girl back and picked out a drumstick.
      "Don't get it all over your face, then," she warned, handing it to him.
      Riki felt insulted. "Of course not," he swaggered, taking a dainty little nibble. I am too big to do that any more."
      "After one morning's school?" inquired his father, signing to the harpist to leave off and taking up his cup from the 1ittle table beside him. "What did you learn there that makes you so grown-up?"
      There was a flying heron in the frieze around the wall to which Riki always looked for inspiration when he was troubled by questions, He lowered his bone and glanced up at it, screwing up his eyes in an effort to remember correctly. "The ear of a boy is on his back," he chanted in a nasal singsong, rocking a little. "He listens best when he is beaten." 
      Pharaoh's captain, who was the guest of honor, roared loudly, throwing back his head and opening his mouth to show his teeth. "I suppose you were beaten after that?" he asked, fingering the collar of gold which Pharaoh had given him when he appointed him to take charge of the frontier forts.
      "No,” conceded Riki, reluctant to lose importance by the admission. "Not today. Puamra was beaten, though, and he howled ever so loud."
      The captain roared again while Riki, who was not used to being laughed at, fidgeted angrily, resisting a temptation to cry.  Riki's father came to the rescue as he so often did. “Always howl before you are hurt," he agreed solemnly, and perhaps the master will not hit you very hard. What else did you do?"
      "I learned how to mix ink," said Riki, who had forgotten good resolutions and was covering himself from nose to chin with grease. "I had a piece of an old pot to write on, and I painted marks on it for hours and hours." He sighed. “When can I leave school? I don't really think I like it.”
      “It is a long time to sit still, especially at first," agreed Nebamon sympathetically. "How would you like to hunt birds in the marshes this evening for a change?"
      “Hurray!" Riki began to jump and clap his hands, dropping the bone, which was picked up by a slave and disposed of in a basket. Fruit was offered.
      "Riki! " said Aset, noticing, "go over and get your face washed, you messy boy. You had better go to your rest at once if you are to hunt."
      "I want to stay and see the dancers," protested Riki without moving. "I know all the dull old stories the tutor tells at rest times anyway. I wish—“ One of the servants had taken him by the hand, and he could see that his mother was not smiling. Prudently he let his voice die off into a loud muttered grumble as they led him away.
      Aset raised her lotus flower to her nostrils and looked over it apologetically at Pharaoh's captain. "We spoil the child because he is our only son," said she.
      "We do indulge him," agreed Nebamon smiling, "but the schoolmaster will teach him obedience with a stick before very long. Meanwhile, shall we see these dancers? They are Syrians and such as you will often meet if you go to command the frontier fort."
      "That is so," agreed the captain sourly, "and I must admit that I like the acrobatic dancing of the Egyptians better than all this foreign bending and swaying. Give me a woman who can turn a somersault backwards in time to the music, or walk on her hands. I have no use for Syrians."
      Nebamon seemed a little put out at this frank admission, but he judged it best to go on with the entertainment and made signs accordingly. However, as the mandolins began to strum rhythmically and the Syrian women grouped themselves, posturing between the painted pillars, his politeness moved him to pursue the conversation, lest the captain find his hospitality tedious.

      "The captain of Pharaoh's fortress may be far from his master’s sight," began he pleasantly, "but he need never be absent from his mind. Many embassies entering with tribute may bear with them respectful greetings from the keeper of Egypt's gate. These dancers themselves have come in past the fortress and will be all the fashion in Thebes a month from now. Such people are glad to mention the man who has given them a pass, and they will drop a word here and there in season which may bear fruit in time to come.”
      The captain, whom wine was making quarrelsome, scowled at a platter which a young slave boy was offering and pushed it aside. "Syrian fruits!" he said contemptuously, "and Syrian dancers! If I had my way, such trash would never enter the country except as prisoners. No, I know a far better road to promotion than such mean forms of currying favor."
      "And that is?" Nebamon was angry, but as a host he had determined to remain polite.
      The captain put out a finger and poked Nebamon in the ribs, causing him to start away irritably. "Not the people coming in," he said with a chuckle, leaning over and placing a sticky hand on the carved arm of his host's chair, "but the people going out!" He smiled in a satisfied fashion as though he had said something very clever. Nebamon was mystified.
      "The people going out?” he repeated, "Embassies of Pharaoh?"
      The captain winked. "Not the embassies, young fellow," he said with patronizing self-confidence. "The criminals!”  He held out his cup to be filled and nodded to himself.
      Nebamon felt a twinge of disgust. "Oh, criminals!" he responded coldly. "Most runaway slaves will die in the desert if they do get past the gate. However, please yourself if you think they are worth catching."
      The captain bent forward again and lowered his voice to a hoarse confidential whisper, which was nevertheless perfectly audible over the sound of the music. "What do you say to a Syrian escaping from Pharaoh himself?"
      "A slave of Pharaoh's? Why, he has thousands and will not even thank you for recovering the man."
      "This is no slave but a Syrian actually brought up in the palace who has reverted to type, as they all do, and has killed an Egyptian. Bad blood will out! I must press on tonight as soon as my chariot is ready, for Pharaoh really wants to catch this Moses, and I would miss a great chance if he were to sneak out into the desert before I arrived."
      The Syrians were ending their dance, and Nebamon took the opportunity to push back his chair. "Personally," he said, “I am happier laying traps for birds instead of men. However, my carpenters are repairing your chariot, and when you have slept, we will both go hunting, you in your fashion and I after mine."
      "If you had ever been out of the country and seen the world," said the captain rudely, "you would know there is nothing in it but Egyptians and worthless trash. It will do me good to teach this Syrian that he is not a prince, as he has been brought up to think."
      "May all Pharaoh's enemies meet with such a man!”
      "You and your Syrian servants!” retorted the captain, working himself up into a passion at the mockery of Nebamon’s tone. "I wonder if I could not hunt Syrians better by staying here with you."
      Nebamon started up so violently that Aset hurried to intervene. "You must be careful in the boat this evening," she interrupted quickly, laying a hand on her husband's arm. "I am a little afraid because Riki had a bad dream last night."
      "A dream? What dream?" Nebamon was fairly startled out of his quarrel. "Why was not the soothsayer told?"
      "He cannot remember it," replied Aset timidly. "Nevertheless, he screamed as he awoke."
      "It is no matter then." Nebamon shrugged and turned more calmly to his guest. "The slave will take you to your room, and after that I will wish you a very good hunting," said he.

      The first day of school had really been tiring, and Riki fell asleep during the tutor's story, only waking in time to rush out to the stables and get in the way of the servants harnessing Nebamon's chariot. The head groom, who was a deliberate old fellow and disapproved of Riki, could by no means be hurried. "The master's guest has not yet taken leave," grumbled he, sending back a groom to the stable for another strap.
      "Bother the old guest!" shouted Riki, dancing with impatience and causing the horses to shuffle uneasily when he came near.
      By the time that Pharaoh's captain had been sped on his way with fitting compliments, it was already late in the afternoon. Riki, who was only allowed to drive when the horses were walking, unwillingly resigned the reins to his father for the sake of speed. The chariot lurched clattering along the raised bank that did duty both for a path and for a dyke to control the flood waters of the canal. It was the height of the growing season, so that slaves were working wearily at the buckets, and little detours had to be made to cross the ditches carrying water to the vegetable patches, the wheat, the vineyards, and even the gay pastures dotted with pink and yellow flowers. Everywhere men were at work, slowly at first, and then as the rattle of the chariot came to their ears, with furious activity. Farm laborers began to hoe frantically at weeds, overseers yelled and laid about them, slaves splashed water hurriedly into the ditches. In the tumble-down village the women came to their doorways, throwing out spindles before them as though their lives depended on not wasting time. With shrieks their scrambling children deserted the roadway, only to swarm back across it as soon as the master was past.
      Not far beyond the village, the canal had been artificially widened to form a large shallow pond so much overgrown that except at one end the water was chiefly visible in narrow channels winding between matted islands of reed. Beside a small landing place stood two servants, one holding the curved throwing sticks of polished wood, the other waiting by the boat, which was made out of tarred rushes bound round a shallow wooden core. Riki scrambled out of the chariot and jumped into it, amusing himself by rocking from side to side while Nebamon was taking the sticks and throwing off his upper garment.
      “Quiet now, Riki," he said, taking up the light paddle and beginning to move the boat very gently across an open space scattered with water-lily leaves and yellow blossoms.
      The pond was not very noisy, and there was little to be seen, yet it was evident that the reeds were alive with birds. A heron rose from the far corner and sailed off. A moment later a vast flock, disturbed perhaps by its whirring wings, decided to shift their quarters. They rose by hundreds, circled awhile, and dropped back into the rushes nearer to the oncoming boat than they had been before. Nebamon, who had halted a moment, standing perfectly still, now dipped his paddle cautiously in the water and began to move again.

      Presently he took up two or three sticks and handed back the paddle to Riki, who field his tongue between his teeth and breathed heavily in an effort not to splash. Half a dozen birds flew up on either side as the channel narrowed, but Nebamon was far too experienced to let fly at such inferior targets. In another moment the boat would have to part the reeds and nose its way between them. Nebamon raised his right arm.
      Almost immediately there was a frightened squawk ahead, and with a noise of thunder the whole air was suddenly full of birds. Nebamon let fly four times, heard the dull thud as his sticks made contact, and snatched hastily at the pile by his feet. A last duck dropped limply into the rushes, and the air was clear. "Where are they, Riki?" he called to the excited little boy, who was shaking the boat in perilous fashion behind him.
      Riki knew that it was his duty to mark where the birds had fallen, but in the excitement he had forgotten to do so. "Over there!" he stammered, hesitating.
      "That was the last one," agreed Nebamon, "but I saw him myself. Riki, Riki, you will never make a hunter until you learn to keep your head." He caught hold of the reeds and pulled the boat forward in the direction of his quarry.
      The last duck was hanging limply in a mat of reeds, and the stick that had killed it was floating in the water ten yards off. No amount of pushing through the channels, however, could find the other victims, and Nebamon, who valued his throwing sticks, felt annoyed. "If we knew where they were," he complained, pointing out a spot where the tangle of reeds had formed a large matted island, "we might reach them from one side or the other. As it is, there is nothing to be done."
      "Let me go and look," cried Riki, beginning to scramble hastily out of the boat.
      "Get back!" shouted Nebamon crossly. "Those islands are all reed and mud," he added in a calmer tone as Riki withdrew his foot. "They are not at all safe, and they some times have snakes. We have lost so much time that unless we go on now, we shall not be able to give you a turn before dark. You had better come up into the front and stand ready while I take the paddle. Remember, an overarm throw with a good swing will set the stick whirling. It is not so important to aim as it is to throw really hard."
      "You need not raise your hand yet," he cautioned in low tones as they crept across the open water. "The birds will be some way off, and you do not want to get tired."
      Again they passed into the reeds, and this time because Nebamon was skillful, they were almost upon the flock before it rose. Riki clenched his teeth and threw. There was a squawk as something fell flapping. "Bravo!” shouted his father. "Throw again!"
      Riki tried, but in his excitement, he forgot to let go until too late. His stick splashed violently into the water a yard in front of the boat, and before he could recover from his confusion, the birds were out of range. "Too bad!" said Nebamon laughing, "but I think your first shot hit a big one if we only can catch him. Those ducks can move quite fast with a broken wing."

      The wounded bird cowering in the rushes had been marked down by Nebamon's experienced eye, and the boat drove directly for his hiding place. There was a short wild struggle as Riki clutched him, but with an agonized squawk it tore loose and flapped clumsily away. Riki made a fierce spring, landed on a tussock, and went slipping and stumbling across the marshes in his wake.
      "Come back!" shouted Nebamon, making a furious grab which threw him so far off balance that he teetered in the rocking boat and collapsed into the stream with a heavy splash. As he came up, he heard Riki yelling for help, and he well knew the treacherous nature of those islands of reeds and mud. It would take him some minutes to ease himself back into the light boat without upsetting it, and he would probably find no channel through which to force his way to Riki's side. Nebamon deserted the boat in frantic haste and made for the reed bank, hauling, sliding, grasping desperately at the yielding mud. Weed immediately entangled his arms, flies blinded him, half-liquid ooze clutched at his hands and feet. Progress was slow, but a hasty movement might cause him to stick in the mud while Riki perished, or even to drown himself before the servants could rescue him. Nebamon slid very cautiously sideways into deeper water and, shaking the mud out of his eyes, attacked the ooze once more.
      "I have your boy," called out a man's voice, panting. "Get the boat quickly, though, for he is hard to hold."
      Nebamon's surprise and relief at this unexpected aid were so enormous that it was only his own head going under water that brought him sufficiently to his senses to make an answer. "It will take time to fetch the boat," he spluttered at last, "but I will make all haste I can."
      He found a man lying at full length across a tussock, with his arms out over his head supporting Riki and his face sinking into the water between them, except when he jerked it back to take in a gulp of air. Riki himself was so much entangled by weed that it was necessary to move cautiously around him and to tear off the stems by handfuls before he could be eased into the boat. He seemed dazed, and when he recovered, it was only to vomit up quantities of slime. Nebamon held him in his arms, while the stranger, still sitting in the mud by the boat, looked quietly at them as though he had not decided what he should do next. He was a powerful man, and it flashed through Nebamon's mind that a fugitive who hid in the marshes might be dangerous if he thought he was entrapped. The man certainly looked like a savage. Deep-set, dark eyes glared out of a bush of thick black stubble almost half an inch long. What could be seen of his face was swollen by horsefly bites into great lumps, from which here and there a trickle of blood was running. He sat in mud almost to the waist, flies swarmed on him, and he stank of decaying matter from the marsh. Yet his shoulders were unbent by toil and unscarred by beatings, while the ragged remains of his garment were as finely woven as Nebamon’s own. A slave would cringe, but this man haughtily gave back stare for stare. There could be but one such fugitive in Egypt.
      “Moses, the Syrian," said Nebamon with quiet assurance. "The murderer on his way to the frontier gate!"
      "Not murderer, but avenger," corrected he with pride.  "I made life pay for life."
      "I also pay in this fashion," Nebamon assured him as he bent over Riki. "You must not go up to the frontier now, since all the patrols will have been warned. A captain left here for the fortress today, and he was in a great hurry to earn a reward from Pharaoh for capturing you." He grinned a little. "You had better come home with me and grow that fine beard you have started in Syrian fashion. In a month, when it looks better, we may smuggle you out with a party of traders going home. In the meantime, you may trust me to hide you, and to send a report around that you are dead."
      "You are a born trickster, I see, like all Egyptians," said Moses coolly. "You enjoy an intrigue for its own sake. It is not my destiny to die in Egypt, but I have not your cunning and must be content that you are sly enough for us both."
      Nebamon opened his eyes indignantly at this, but he made no motion to prevent Moses from entering the boat. It was Riki who drew aside his legs and turned his head on his father's arm with a whimper of dismay. Nebamon immediately felt ashamed that his son should shrink away from his rescuer. "He has probably never seen a man so badly shaven," he apologized with a little laugh.
      "Children are always afraid of me in Egypt," said Moses as he reached for the paddle, "It is very strange, and I have never understood it."

      It was already dusk in the shadow of the bulrushes, and the boat came out into the open water as the last edge of the sun was going down. The village street was completely empty by the time that the chariot clattered through it, for the laborers went to bed at sunset and used no lamps. Nebamon was well content to have it so and to find the path deserted, as he was aware that he ran some risk if he were seen with this strange passenger. It was with dismay that he saw a gleam of torches by his entrance gate and reflected that Aset must be sending servants to find out what had delayed him. However, since those in the house would soon learn of the Syrian's presence, it really mattered little if they saw him now. Nebamon was almost in the gateway before he perceived that with his servants stood a group of soldiers, such as he had sent away that very afternoon. He halted abruptly, but too late. Pharaoh's captain, whom he had thought far away by now, stepped triumphantly out of the shadows to greet him.
      "Good evening! " said he in an exultant tone. "My instinct told me I should have good hunting here. I see that it was right."
      Nebamon forced himself to shrug his shoulders. "It is always a pleasure," he said coldly, "to welcome a guest. This young man whom you seem to suspect is not, however, dangerous. He is only one of the Syrian musicians who went out of his wits, as they tell me, and wandered away."
      The captain laughed rudely. "A likely story when the man comes home in your chariot, driving by your side. I would not care to be in your place when Pharaoh hears it."
      "You want to take the fellow, upriver, I suppose," replied Nebamon. "Do what you wish, since the dancers are going on to Thebes in any case. I have no time to stand here arguing while my child needs care. Take the fellow, and ask my steward where you can lock him for the night." He pushed roughly past the captain and departed, carrying Riki, whom he handed over to Aset. Immediately he sent his servants running for the youngest mandolin player in the Syrian troupe.

      Nebamon's house, which was almost a village in itself, contained among the servants' quarters a small but stout jail with bare floor and walls and a tiny slit for a window, just big enough for the jailor to hand in food or drink. By standing with his head against this opening, Moses could see quite an expanse of starlit sky. This comforted him, for he was a lonely man in Egypt and could not feel akin to anything less remote. It was cold by the little window, and he was damp as only a man could be who had soaked in mud and water a whole day long. He shivered in the breeze, but he was happy because he was pondering strange and lofty thoughts. He did not fear the cruelties of Egypt, yet he longed for the silent desert where he might lose himself from human sight amid sand and stones and stars.
      Someone was fumbling with the bolts, and as he turned, the door swung inward, grating a little. "Quiet," said the voice of Nebamon. "We have drugged the guard, but he might yet awake."
      A strange young man whose hair and beard had been raggedly shorn now slipped in through the moonlit doorway without a word and curled himself in a corner as though he were asleep. "Your substitute," said Nebamon grinning, “a young Syrian musician. He is well paid and runs no risk, except of being roughly handled on his way to Thebes. He does not look very like you, to be sure, but I have not infinite resources. The captain has only seen you once, in a very poor light. I am almost sorry for the captain," he added with a satisfaction that completely belied him. "He should have known better, perhaps, than to lay a trap for me."
       “And what ingenious scheme have you made for my future?" inquired Moses with a half-unwilling smile.
       "You are to get on a donkey, which I shall give you, and to ride as fast and as far as you can before it is dawn. No warning has gone up to the frontier, for this captain who bore it was anxious to keep the glory of catching you all to himself. Long before he reaches Thebes with the musician, you can easily have scrambled over some unguarded place in the wall."  
      "Nebamon," said Moses slowly, putting out a hand to arrest the Egyptian as he turned away, "I am not ungrateful, but I feel that the very blood in my veins is alien to yours. I do not like your ingenious tricks, and I despise the malice which prompts you to make a fool of Pharaoh's captain. Instead of thanks, therefore, take this warning. I hate Egypt, and one day I shall bring ruin upon it if you are stupid enough to let me go."
      "Syrian," answered Nebamon haughtily, "take away your dirty hand! I neither ask your thanks nor dread your warning, but simply pay what I owe for Riki's life."
      "The price of Riki's life!" said Moses solemnly. "As such I take it. You may yet wish you had not paid me that."