Uarda : a Romance of Ancient Egypt — Complete

by Georg Ebers

  CHAPTER XLI.

  The king did not return to the great pavilion till after sun-down; thebanqueting hall, illuminated with a thousand lamps, was now filled withthe gay crowd of guests who awaited the arrival of the king. All bowedbefore him, as he entered, more or less low, each according to his rank;he immediately seated himself on his throne, surrounded by his childrenin a wide semicircle, and his officers and retainers all passed beforehim; for each he had a kindly word or glance, winning respect from all,and filling every one with joy and hope.

  "The only really divine attribute of my royal condition," said heto himself, "is that it is so easy to a king to make men happy.My predecessors chose the poisonous Uraeus as the emblem of theirauthority, for we can cause death as quickly and certainly as thevenomous snake; but the power of giving happiness dwells on our ownlips, and in our own eyes, and we need some instrument when we decreedeath."

  "Take the Uraeus crown from my head," he continued aloud, as he seatedhimself at the feast. "Today I will wear a wreath of flowers."

  During the ceremony of bowing to the king, two men had quitted thehall--the Regent Ani, and the high-priest Ameni.

  Ani ordered a small party of the watch to go and seek out the priestPentaur in the tents of the wounded by the harbor, to bring the poetquietly to his tent, and to guard him there till his return. He stillhad in his possession the maddening potion, which he was to have givento the captain of the transport-boat, and it was open to him still toreceive Pentaur either as a guest or as a prisoner. Pentaur might injurehim, whether Katuti's project failed or succeeded.

  Ameni left the pavilion to go to see old Gagabu, who had stood so longin the heat of the sun during the ceremony of receiving the conqueror,that he had been at last carried fainting to the tent which he sharedwith the high-priest, and which was not far from that of the Regent. Hefound the old man much revived, and was preparing to mount his chariotto go to the banquet, when the Regent's myrmidons led Pentaur past infront of him. Ameni looked doubtfully at the tall and noble figure ofthe prisoner, but Pentaur recognized him, called him by his name, andin a moment they stood together, hand clasped in hand. The guards showedsome uneasiness, but Ameni explained who he was.

  The high-priest was sincerely rejoiced at the preservation andrestoration of his favorite disciple, whom for many months he hadmourned as dead; he looked at his manly figure with fatherly tenderness,and desired the guards, who bowed to his superior dignity, to conducthis friend, on his responsibility; to his tent instead of to Ani's.

  There Pentaur found his old friend Gagabu, who wept with delight at hissafety. All that his master had accused him of seemed to be forgotten.Ameni had him clothed in a fresh white robe, he was never tired oflooking at him, and over and over again clapped his hand upon hisshoulder, as if he were his own son that had been lost and found again.

  Pentaur was at once required to relate all that had happened to him, andthe poet told the story of his captivity and liberation at Mount Sinai,his meeting with Bent-Anat, and how he had fought in the battle ofKadesh, had been wounded by an arrow, and found and rescued by thefaithful Kaschta. He concealed only his passion for Bent-Anat, and thefact that he had preserved the king's life.

  "About an hour ago," he added, "I was sitting alone in my tent, watchingthe lights in the palace yonder, when the watch who are outside broughtme an order from the Regent to accompany them to his tent. What can hewant with me? I always thought he owed me a grudge."

  Gagabu and Ameni glanced meaningly at each other, and the high-priestthen hastened away, as already he had remained too long away from thebanquet. Before he got into his chariot he commanded the guard to returnto their posts, and took it upon himself to inform the Regent that hisguest would remain in his tent till the festival was over; the soldiersunhesitatingly obeyed him.

  Ameni arrived at the palace before them, and entered the banqueting-halljust as Ani was assigning a place to each of his guests. The high-priestwent straight up to him, and said, as he bowed before him:

  "Pardon my long delay, but I was detained by a great surprise. The poetPentaur is living--as you know. I have invited him to remain in my tentas my guest, and to tend the prophet Gagabu."

  The Regent turned pale, he remained speechless and looked at Ameni witha cold ghastly smile; but he soon recovered himself.

  "You see," he said, "how you have injured me by your unworthysuspicions; I meant to have restored your favorite to you myselfto-morrow."

  "Forgive me, then, for having anticipated your plan," said Ameni, takinghis seat near the king. Hundreds of slaves hurried to and fro loadedwith costly dishes. Large vessels of richly wrought gold and silver werebrought into the hall on wheels, and set on the side-boards. Childrenwere perched in the shells and lotus-flowers that hung from the paintedrafters; and from between the pillars, that were hung with cloudytransparent tissues, they threw roses and violets down on the company.The sounds of harps and songs issued from concealed rooms, and from analtar, six ells high, in the middle of the hall, clouds of incense werewafted into space.

  The king-one of whose titles was "Son of the Sun,"--was as radiant asthe sun himself. His children were once more around him, Mena was hiscupbearer as in former times, and all that was best and noblest in theland was gathered round him to rejoice with him in his triumph and hisreturn. Opposite to him sat the ladies, and exactly in front of him,a delight to his eyes, Bent-Anat and Nefert. His injunction to Mena tohold the wine cup steadily seemed by no means superfluous, for his looksconstantly wandered from the king's goblet to his fair wife, from whoselips he as yet had heard no word of welcome, whose hand he had not yetbeen so happy as to touch.

  All the guests were in the most joyful excitement. Rameses related thetale of his fight at Kadesh, and the high-priest of Heliopolis observed,"In later times the poets will sing of thy deeds."

  "Their songs will not be of my achievements," exclaimed the king,"but of the grace of the Divinity, who so miraculously rescued yoursovereign, and gave the victory to the Egyptians over an innumerableenemy."

  "Did you see the God with your own eyes? and in what form did he appearto you?" asked Bent-Anat. "It is most extraordinary," said the king,"but he exactly resembled the dead father of the traitor Paaker. Mypreserver was of tall stature, and had a beautiful countenance; hisvoice was deep and thrilling, and he swung his battle-axe as if it werea mere plaything."

  Ameni had listened eagerly to the king's words, now he bowed low beforehim and said humbly: "If I were younger I myself would endeavor, as wasthe custom with our fathers, to celebrate this glorious deed of a Godand of his sublime son in a song worthy of this festival; but meltingtones are no longer mine, they vanish with years, and the car of thelistener lends itself only to the young. Nothing is wanting to thyfeast, most lordly Ani, but a poet, who might sing the glorious deedsof our monarch to the sound of his lute, and yet--we have at hand thegifted Pentaur, the noblest disciple of the House of Seti."

  Bent-Anat turned perfectly white, and the priests who were presentexpressed the utmost joy and astonishment, for they had long thought theyoung poet, who was highly esteemed throughout Egypt, to be dead.

  The king had often heard of the fame of Pentaur from his sons andespecially from Rameri, and he willingly consented that Ameni shouldsend for the poet, who had himself borne arms at Kadesh, in order thathe should sing a song of triumph. The Regent gazed blankly and uneasilyinto his wine cup, and the high-priest rose to fetch Pentaur himselfinto the presence of the king.

  During the high-priest's absence, more and more dishes were served tothe company; behind each guest stood a silver bowl with rose water, inwhich from time to time he could dip his fingers to cool and clean them;the slaves in waiting were constantly at hand with embroidered napkinsto wipe them, and others frequently changed the faded wreaths, round theheads and shoulders of the feasters, for fresh ones.

  "How pale you are, my child!" said Rameses turning to Bent-Anat. "If youare tired, your uncle will no doubt allow you to leave the hal
l; thoughI think you should stay to hear the performance of this much-laudedpoet. After having been so highly praised he will find it difficult tosatisfy his hearers. But indeed I am uneasy about you, my child--wouldyou rather go?" The Regent had risen and said earnestly, "Your presencehas done me honor, but if you are fatigued I beg you to allow me toconduct you and your ladies to the apartments intended for you."

  "I will stay," said Bent-Anat in a low but decided tone, and she kepther eyes on the floor, while her heart beat violently, for the murmurof voices told her that Pentaur was entering the hall. He wore the longwhite robe of a priest of the temple of Seti, and on his forehead theostrich-feather which marked him as one of the initiated. He did notraise his eyes till he stood close before the king; then he prostratedhimself before him, and awaited a sign from the Pharaoh before he roseagain.

  But Rameses hesitated a long time, for the youthful figure before him,and the glance that met his own, moved him strangely. Was not this thedivinity of the fight? Was not this his preserver? Was he again deludedby a resemblance, or was he in a dream?

  The guests gazed in silence at the spellbound king, and at the poet; atlast Rameses bowed his head,

  Pentaur rose to his feet, and the bright color flew to his face as closeto him he perceived Bent-Anat.

  "You fought at Kadesh?" asked the king. "As thou sayest," repliedPentaur.

  "You are well spoken of as a poet," said Rameses, "and we desire to hearthe wonderful tale of my preservation celebrated in song. If you willattempt it, let a lute be brought and sing."

  The poet bowed. "My gifts are modest," he said, "but I will endeavor tosing of the glorious deed, in the presence of the hero who achieved it,with the aid of the Gods."

  Rameses gave a signal, and Ameni caused a large golden harp to bebrought in for his disciple. Pentaur lightly touched the strings, leanedhis head against the top of the tall bow of the harp, for some time lestin meditation; then he drew himself up boldly, and struck the chords,bringing out a strong and warlike music in broad heroic rhythm.

  Then he began the narrative: how Rameses had pitched his camp beforeKadesh, how he ordered his troops, and how he had taken the fieldagainst the Cheta, and their Asiatic allies. Louder and stronger rosehis tones when he reached the turning-point of the battle, and began tocelebrate the rescue of the king; and the Pharaoh listened with eagerattention as Pentaur sang:--[A literal translation of the ancientEgyptian poem called "The Epos of Pentaur"]

  "Then the king stood forth, and, radiant with courage, He looked like the Sun-god armed and eager for battle. The noble steeds that bore him into the struggle 'Victory to Thebes' was the name of one, and the other Was called 'contented Nura'--were foaled in the stables Of him we call 'the elect,' 'the beloved of Amon,' 'Lord of truth,' the chosen vicar of Ra.

  Up sprang the king and threw himself on the foe, The swaying ranks of the contemptible Cheta. He stood alone-alone, and no man with him. As thus the king stood forth all eyes were upon him, And soon he was enmeshed by men and horses, And by the enemy's chariots: two thousand five hundred. The foe behind hemmed him in and enclosed him. Dense the array of the contemptible Cheta, Dense the swarm of warriors out of Arad, Dense the Mysian host, the Pisidian legions. Every chariot carried three bold warriors, All his foes, and all allied like brothers.

  "Not a prince is with me, not a captain, Not an archer, none to guide my horses! Fled the riders! fled my troops and horse By my side not one is now left standing." Thus the king, and raised his voice in prayer. "Great father Amon, I have known Thee well. And can the father thus forget his son? Have I in any deed forgotten Thee? Have I done aught without Thy high behest Or moved or staid against Thy sovereign will? Great am I--mighty are Egyptian kings But in the sight of Thy commanding might, Small as the chieftain of a wandering tribe. Immortal Lord, crush Thou this unclean people; Break Thou their necks, annihilate the heathen.

  And I--have I not brought Thee many victims, And filled Thy temple with the captive folk? And for thy presence built a dwelling place That shall endure for countless years to come? Thy garners overflow with gifts from me. I offered Thee the world to swell Thy glory, And thirty thousand mighty steers have shed Their smoking blood on fragrant cedar piles. Tall gateways, flag-decked masts, I raised to Thee, And obelisks from Abu I have brought, And built Thee temples of eternal stone. For Thee my ships have brought across the sea The tribute of the nations. This I did-- When were such things done in the former time?

  For dark the fate of him who would rebel Against Thee: though Thy sway is just and mild. My father, Amon--as an earthly son His earthly father--so I call on Thee. Look down from heaven on me, beset by foes, By heathen foes--the folk that know Thee not. The nations have combined against Thy son; I stand alone--alone, and no man with me. My foot and horse are fled, I called aloud And no one heard--in vain I called to them. And yet I say: the sheltering care of Amon Is better succor than a million men, Or than ten thousand knights, or than a thousand Brothers and sons though gathered into one. And yet I say: the bulwarks raised by men However strong, compared to Thy great works Are but vain shadows, and no human aid Avails against the foe--but Thy strong hand. The counsel of Thy lips shall guide my way; I have obeyed whenever Thou hast ruled; I call on Thee--and, with my fame, Thy glory Shall fill the world, from farthest east to west."

  Yea, his cry rang forth even far as Hermonthis, And Amon himself appeared at his call; and gave him His hand and shouted in triumph, saying to the Pharaoh: "Help is at hand, O Rameses. I will uphold thee-- I thy father am he who now is thy succor, Bearing thee in my hands. For stronger and readier I than a hundred thousand mortal retainers; I am the Lord of victory loving valor? I rejoice in the brave and give them good counsel, And he whom I counsel certainly shall not miscarry."

  Then like Menth, with his right he scattered the arrows, And with his left he swung his deadly weapon, Felling the foe--as his foes are felled by Baal. The chariots were broken and the drivers scattered, Then was the foe overthrown before his horses. None found a hand to fight: they could not shoot Nor dared they hurl the spear but fled at his coming Headlong into the river."

  [I have availed myself of the help of Prof. Lushington's translation in "Records of the past," edited by Dr. S. Birch. Translator.]

  A silence as of the grave reigned in the vast hall, Rameses fixed hiseyes on the poet, as though he would engrave his features on his verysoul, and compare them with those of another which had dwelt thereunforgotten since the day of Kadesh. Beyond a doubt his preserver stoodbefore him.

  Seized by a sudden impulse, he interrupted the poet in the midst of hisstirring song, and cried out to the assembled guests:

  "Pay honor to this man! for the Divinity chose to appear under his formto save your king when he 'alone, and no man with him,' struggled with athousand."

  "Hail to Pentaur!" rang through the hall from the vast assembly, andNefert rose and gave the poet the bunch of flowers she had been wearingon her bosom.

  The king nodded approval, and looked enquiringly at his daughter;Bent-Anat's eyes met his with a glance of intelligence, and with all thesimplicity of an impulsive child, she took from her head the wreath thathad decorated her beautiful hair, went up to Pentaur, and crowned himwith it, as it was customary for a bride to crown her lover before thewedding.

  Rameses observed his daughter's action with some surprise, and theguests responded to it with loud cheering.

  The king looked gravely at Bent-Anat and the young priest; the eyes ofall the company were eagerly fixed on the princess and the poet. Theking seemed to have forgotten the presence of strangers, and to bewholly absorbed in thought, but by degrees a change came over his face,it cleared,
as a landscape is cleared from the morning mists under theinfluence of the spring sunshine. When he looked up again his glancewas bright and satisfied, and Bent-Anat knew what it promised when itlingered lovingly first on her, and then on her friend, whose head wasstill graced by the wreath that had crowned hers.

  At last Rameses turned from the lovers, and said to the guests:

  "It is past midnight, and I will now leave you. To-morrow evening I bidyou all--and you especially, Pentaur--to be my guests in this banquetinghall. Once more fill your cups, and let us empty them--to a long time ofpeace after the victory which, by the help of the Gods, we have won.And at the same time let us express our thanks to my friend Ani, who hasentertained us so magnificently, and who has so faithfully and zealouslyadministered the affairs of the kingdom during my absence."

  The company pledged the king, who warmly shook hands with the Regent,and then, escorted by his wandbearers and lords in waiting, quitted thehall, after he had signed to Mena, Ameni, and the ladies to follow him.

  Nefert greeted her husband, but she immediately parted from the royalparty, as she had yielded to the urgent entreaty of Katuti that sheshould for this night go to her mother, to whom she had so much to tell,instead of remaining with the princess. Her mother's chariot soon tookher to her tent.

  Rameses dismissed his attendants in the ante-room of his apartments;when they were alone he turned to Bent-Anat and said affectionately.

  "What was in your mind when you laid your wreath on the poet's brow?"

  "What is in every maiden's mind when she does the like," repliedBent-Anat with trustful frankness.

  "And your father?" asked the king.

  "My father knows that I will obey him even if he demands of me thehardest thing--the sacrifice of all my--happiness; but I believe thathe--that you love me fondly, and I do not forget the hour in which yousaid to me that now my mother was dead you would be father and motherboth to me, and you would try to understand me as she certainly wouldhave understood me. But what need between us of so many words. I lovePentaur--with a love that is not of yesterday--with the first perfectlove of my heart and he has proved himself worthy of that high honor.But were he ever so humble, the hand of your daughter has the power toraise him above every prince in the land."

  "It has such power, and you shall exercise it," cried the king. "Youhave been true and faithful to yourself, while your father and protectorleft you to yourself. In you I love the image of your mother, and Ilearned from her that a true woman's heart can find the right pathbetter than a man's wisdom. Now go to rest, and to-morrow morning put ona fresh wreath, for you will have need of it, my noble daughter."