Escape—surely this must mean escape! And though he had seen no chance for that, perhaps others had been more fortunate. Who could they be? Some of the guard who had survived the storming of the Candace’s palace, even some of her nobles? Those who knew his high birth might be willing to risk much for him. It could even be, if the Pharaoh had not reached the safety of Meroë, that Sherkarer’s own family now ruled Nubia. Such speculations made him restless, so that he could not sit and wait, but arose and walked around the edge of the pool. The waters were murky, evil-smelling, as always, and the sirrush-lau had sunk to the bottom, seeking a hiding place from the light which struck in while the matting was being replaced.

The Nubian tried to measure by the shadows how much time it might be before his appointed meeting. He fought down his excitement and he was lucky in that there was no senior priest on duty. The others were so used to his daily inspection of the pool, which he made last as long as possible to suggest his special knowledge, that they no longer watched him.

He ate alone, as usual, for here he was neither slave laborer nor freeman. So he drew his ration of barley-meal porridge, radishes, a few figs, and today an onion. These he ate very quickly, hardly able to choke down the mouthfuls.

Midday—and the courtyard was empty. Sherkarer walked to the pool, appearing to check on the new matting roof. He could hear from beyond the wall the trumpeting of an ill-tempered elephant. The sound carried well, since the usual hum of the temple and the city had died away. A swift glance told him he was unobserved as he came to the drain, squatting down there to look as if he suspected some trouble with the water supply.

“You are there?” A voice came hollowly out of the ground.

But the three words were enough to disappoint the Nubian. No countryman of his would speak so; his own hard-learned knowledge of this language carried with it an accent, and he was sure that the same would be true of any Nubian.

“I am here,” he answered, wanting to solve the mystery of who had sent a royal scarab, pricked a message on a reed.

There was a grunt, as if whoever lay there was trying to shift position in cramped quarters. Then the other spoke again. “Have you thought of the words of Daniel, Nubian?”

Daniel! Was that court intriguer still trying to draw him into some plot against the priests?

“He who asks questions cannot avoid answers in turn”—Sherkarer repeated a country saying as he tried to think fast. “Who are you who hide in the ground to speak of Daniel?”