Setne sensed the magical breath of a god and his marvelous ardor pass over him. His soul swelled; it became more powerful. He exclaimed, in the sweetness of the dream and the violence of enthusiasm: “King even greater than your renown, the man who could resist your arms would succumb before your wisdom. You have given me victory; it will not abandon your servant so long as your grace is allied with him.”
His voice pleased the king, for it was neither humble not fearful, but worshipful and full of courage. He thought he was hearing one of those men who do more by virtue of amour than servitude; he knew that those are the best warriors, audacious against death and loyal in misfortune. Touching the chief with his scepter, he said: “Let you fate be blessed by your master. May you live a long time, in order to serve me and learn that I recompense with justice those who are devoted to my glory.”
II
When Setne returned to his tents he saw that the captives had been parked. All of them seemed to be asleep, as the warriors were also asleep, save for the guards.
The chief contemplated his troop with a secret joy. By the light of the fires, the sentinels, black or red statues, were calling out at intervals, in accordance with the custom established by King Ahmose, vanquisher of the Shous.
Setne made a tour of the camp; he made sure that all was well. Only then did he sit down beside the fire. The odor of roasted meat and papyrus stems delighted his nostrils. He broke his fast, maintained all day, and found life good that gave such a savor to nourishment and enabled him to succeed in his enterprises.
He summoned the centurion of the guard and offered him barley wine. He was a warrior from the nome of Sais, skillful in running the desert and sniffing out the enemy, full of energy, courage and stratagems, but devoid of a taste for pitched battles.
“Habak, son of Takeren,” he said to him. “We depart tomorrow for the Hennar. Our march must be rapid. We shall have few donkeys and even fewer cattle; the forest will doubtless be accessible by the southern route of which the captive from Belem spoke. It’s necessary to integrate that man.”
“Is the army of the king of kings not going to continue its route?” Habak asked.
“Yes, but we will join it beyond the marshes.”
Habak approved of the hazard; his long black eyes and his mouth with tanned lips smiled. “I like marching under your orders,” he replied. “Ammon protects your enterprises, and danger fears your footsteps. It’s agreeable to be in that fortunate shadow.”
Setne remembers Thutmose’s words and rejoiced in their being confirmed by the centurion’s. The future was shining like an enameled cup. “Bring me the captive,” he said, in a hollow voice.
While Habak disappeared between the fires, Setne had a vision of the land of Egypt: the image of women passed like the odor of cinnamon and lilies of the valley when the intoxicating hour descends over the delta. It was impregnated with the violence of battles and delicious cries of victory. The slave and the princess mingled in the soul of the chief with the murmur of the reeds of the Nile and the rumor of canals during the flood. And he sensed that the gods were sending him across the expanse a subtle resemblance of his native soil and beloved women.
He took pleasure in that dream for some time and then, with a start, he returned to the Mesopotamian night. The plain of asphodels silvered the perspective all the way to the edge of the firmament. The silence seemed to fall from the stars. Nothing could be heard but the voices of watchmen, at intervals, like the cries of herons on a promontory, the intelligent barking of jackals and the distant roar of a lion. The fires were dying down; the moon, fixed on the waters of the sky, was more clearly visible.
Meanwhile, Habak brought the prisoner. He was a tall chief of the sands, with violent eyes. A long beard grew on his face, and bituminous eyebrows; his terrible mouth seemed made for tearing buffalo apart; with the movement of his lips it glittered like nacre in a seashell. His features were nervous and agile, but he was able to immobilize it like a face of ivory. A black crown, from which two horns seemed to sprout, shadowed his head. The amplitude of his body was increased by garments of linen and camel-hide.
He stopped before Setne with the serenity of a god.
“Chief of the sands,” the Egyptian said to him, “you have told me that you are not in the service of Nineveh.”
“I told the truth. But I had sworn to protect the caravan.”
“The gods are more powerful than your word; you have not failed in your promise. The men of the caravan have become our slaves, their chief has perished; is it not me who has inherited your oath?”
“According to our custom, I no longer owe anything to anyone; the death of the chef and the servitude of the others releases me from my vow.”
“Do you not want to engage yourself to your master?”
The chief of the sands turned his gaze away from the plain and fixed it on Setne. The liberty of great wild beasts shone there like the star of Osiris in the well of Syene.
“I cannot have two masters, my oath and you. If you take me as a slave I will obey you as a slave; if you want my oath, I ought only to belong to the oath.”
That response did not displease the Egyptian. He linked his gaze with that of the captive.
“Choose your master!”
The hard face quivered and showed its teeth with a violent joy. Mastering his mouth, however, the tall nomad replied: “Intar, son of Zaoud, will be the slave of the oath. His word is as unshakable as the Sineh. You can rely on it.”
“You will guide us,” said Setne, “to the gorge of Koud, which you claim to know; if you have lied, you will sleep in death.”
“So be it! I will guide you.”
The Egyptian chief gave Intar cervoise to drink, and while the chariot of Isis inclined, they talked about the forest of Zahal, the unnamed mysteries, the marshes where the last Men of the Waters lived, and the plain of Hennar, where the men armed by Nineveh were to assemble.
III. The Dry Cistern
Sixty hours had passed since Setne had quit Thutmose’s camp. It was morning. The sun, already high, appeared over the desert like the round mouth of a furnace. The Egyptians had almost no water, either for the beasts or the men, but the cistern was nearby. They perceived a meager oasis of reddening palm trees and plaintive grass. Setne, Intar, Habak and ten soldiers were heading for it at the gallop of their onagers.
“By Ka.” said Habak, “the oasis is poor! It wouldn’t give pasture to a dozen donkeys. Are you sure, chief of the sands, that there is enough water there for our men?”
“Nine years out of ten,” replied the Bedouin, “There is water there in abundance.”
They reached the oasis. Intar pointed to the cistern, where an old split water-skin hung.
“It’s here.”
He leaned over, his fiery eyes exploring the dark hole. A long shiver agitated his meager body.
“The cistern is empty,” he said. “I don’t think the skins will encounter a drop of water.” He lowered his head again and looked into the utmost depths of the cistern. “It ought not to be like this now,” he added. “It only dries up for one season in nine years.”
Mastering his annoyance, Setne asked: “How many days are we from the next cistern?”
“There’s a well to the west, three days away, and a cistern to the east which we could reach before the end of the day. But that would delay our progress, while the other is on the route.”
Setne made no immediate response. He sensed the wing of the black god. His entire destiny was in suspense; and his eyes paused fearfully on the twelve hundred men that King Thutmose had confided to him.
“My soldiers can’t wait three days,” he said, bitterly. “It will already be hard for them to march until nightfall...”
The chief of the sands and the Egyptian considered one another in silence, with equal sadness, for the soul of Intar had softened. Incapable of transgressing his oath, he had nonetheless hated, at the beginning of the journey, the man who had surprised his vigila
nce; but Setne’s silent confidence had acted upon the nomad’s soul. His rancor had diminished by the hour, and he no longer called the wrath of the gods down upon the expedition.
In a hollow voice, he said: “There is another route that would advance the march toward the gorge, but it is terrible. It traverses the desert of dragons, the forest of tigers and the marsh of the Men of the Water. It’s an impure land, more ancient than any on earth. You’ll lose men in the morning, in the desert of dragons, and in the evening in the forest. The following dawn, you’ll see the Men of the Water. There, your entire army might perish. Such is the frightful route. Our forefathers knew it. Entire tribes were swallowed up there. Only Doud, the son of Schoun, was able to come back with his men, for having pleased the men of the marsh. But he did not transmit his arcanum.
Setne had heard the reports of captives, guides and scouts too often to be credulous. He listened to Intar without saying anything.
“Is it known, at least, that the route leads to the gorge?” he murmured. “Did you know Doud, or have these things been recounted to you?”
“I’ve seen Doud in his old age, and I’ve also known Schemel, the runner who approached the desert of dragons by the route we’d have to follow to reach the cistern. He saw the marsh of the Men of the Water to the north. In truth, Schemel was only able to recognize the stumps of the road, but scarcely twelve hours’ march separates the limits of those two journeys...”
A shadow fell between the two men. Setne turned and saw Habak. The old centurion’s eyes expressed the same fatalistic will that was born in the Tanite’s soul.
“We’ll go via the desert of dragons and the marsh,” said Set. You can abandon us on the threshold if you wish, Intar, for your oath does not condemn you to that ordeal.”
Intar smiled with his gleaming teeth. “This dry cistern has changed my oath, since it has changed your route. I will go via the land of the dragons and share the fate of your army.”
Those words attached the two men. They sensed it with certainty.
“That is good!” said Setne. “You will follow the oath as you dictate it to yourself. And I shall not forget it.”
He emerged from the shade of the palm tree and went to command the departure.
IV. The Dragons and the Forest
On the fourth days after the departure, in the morning, Setne and his soldiers reached an oasis between the hills. Date palms grew on the heights, males to the west and females to the east. A spring poured forth between granite banks.
“We’re two hours from the desert of dragons,” said Intar. “Let your men drink and fill their water-skins without delay. It’s necessary that we pass through the marshes before nightfall.”
The army only stayed in the oasis for half an hour. Sitting under a date palm, motionless and mute, Setne passed through one of the great emotions of his life. His soul was convulsed by energy and anxiety. He was about to gamble with destiny. Before the cross of Isis had reached the height of its course, everything would be settled; Thutmose’s men would be destroyed, or on their way to the battle.
As he was lost in thought, a hand fell upon his shoulder. He saw the corroded face of Habak, who was smiling at him with humility and courage.
“Habak,” he said, “would we have dared to reappear before Thutmose if we had arrived too late to surprise the caravan?”
“No,” the centurion replied. “And you did well to turn away from the route that was too slow. Thutmose estimated you better than that, even if we fail.” He shook his head slowly, and added: “War is a gamble with death. No one should play it who refuses the stake. And your centurion will pass joyously, this evening, if he must, into profound death.”
“It seems that you don’t love life,” murmured Setne. “No one is as tranquil as you when death flies, with her darts and her trenchant blades!”
“Yes, I love life,” said Habak, “but it is my nature to fear nothing before a chief that I love.”
Setne looked at him emotionally. Although he could be hard, and even ferocious, for having killed so many men, witnessed so many tortures, treasons and pillages, there was a tenderness in the depths of his being. It was not necessary for him to make a promise or an oath to ally himself with his fellows; and he sensed that he loved that old man.
“Don’t forget,” said Habak, “to have the livestock and the onagers precede you...”
Setne smiled.
“I don’t fear the dragons overmuch, he said, or the tigers…only the men who live on the water. Intar spoke in accordance with his own people. His race exaggerates; they see a people in a tribe, an army in a phalanx. I don’t believe that those who have perished in these deserts were in numerous troops. The nomads scarcely assemble more than a hundred when they traverse the sands. Strangers to discipline, acting at hazard, tigers or dragons might easily surprise them, but I have difficulty believing that a single one of our phalanges, if it is marching attentively, cannot traverse these forests full of lions.
Habak listened to him with a slight impatience.
“I know Intar’s race well,” he said. “It’s true that their speech exaggerates; words carry them away more easily than our Egyptians, so their stories are magnificent; they have wings. But a man like Intar knows how to reduce his words during a march and keep his fine stories for late evenings. I don’t claim that the peril is invincible, but it’s not despicable; Intar’s eyes have told me so.”
“Be tranquil, Habak. It has never cost me to foresee a peril greater than the reality. Everything will be done as if the dragons and the tigers could annihilate an army. As for the Men of the Water, I fear them veritably. Their marshes render them formidable; we might all perish there. It’s a throw of the dice against the night. But who would win a battle if he did not put hazard in his party? Who would even deliver one?”
“The Men of the Waters allowed Doud to complete his journey, after taking him in amity...”
“I have not forgotten that, and we’ll talk about it again when we’re in sight of the marshes. It’s necessary to march, Habak.”
The soldiers had drunk and filled their water-skins. Setne had the trumpets sounded. He presented himself at the front of his phalanges, on a mound planted with turpentine trees, and, surrounded by chiefs, he announced that the hour of combats was imminent. He made the simple speech of men of war, full of threats and promises.
“I am alone, with the chief of the sands,” he concluded, “in knowing the road and its ambushes. Woe betide those who believe that they can have recourse to flight; water, fire, beasts and men will not take long to annihilate them. They will never see the land of Egypt again, and their shades, expelled from our necropolises, will wander eternally in darkness and fear.
That harangue made its impression. The Egyptians of the powerful epochs, not conceiving of death, could not fear it in itself. The subterranean city, the necropolis, had scarcely any more terrors than the city in the sunlight; everything developed with simplicity, and eternity. And the kings of the eighteenth dynasty remained sheltered in the tomb from cowardly actions or military courage.
Thutmose III, more than any other, had borne the prerogatives of his dynasty into the judgment of souls, and the priests, still full of the memory of the Shous, and dominated by that stubborn, vindictive and generous prince, did nothing to combat the dogma, so Thutmose III’s army was the bravest that ever emerged from Egypt.
Setne allowed the dread to expand and increase in the multitude, and then he went on: “I will keep a book of your actions. No one will be forgotten. Those whose death will have been the most beautiful will return to Egypt to receive the great embalming there. Those who survive after strong acts of war will receive a command and a considerable part of the spoils. Cowards will be prey to filthy beasts; living, they will be nailed to the trunks of trees; dead, the jackals and the vultures will receive their cadavers as offerings.”
The soldiers saluted their young chief with long cries; the trumpets sounded the departure, and th
e great desert and the great terrible sky reappeared as they emerged from the oasis.
The army marched until midday; then granite cliffs appeared, where a creeping brushwood grew. The firmament seemed harsher there; a russet light wandered between the fissures. Something false, like an eternal ambush, made the silence savage.
Intar, who was in the lead with the beasts of burden, examined the cliffs for a long time. Then he came to say to Setne: “It’s through the gorge on the right that it’s necessary to enter the land…”
“Send the bulls through first,” replied Setne. “Choose from among the least docile. The iron phalanx will follow them. It’s necessary that the initial peril be swiftly averted.”
The bulls passed through, and then the iron phalanx and then the entire army, without anything stirring in front of them. Setne saw a mild and sinister country of yellow beaches, putrescent waters, and plaintive vegetation full of rust, mildews and necroses. An insipid odor rose with the vapor of pools; moist beasts swarmed on the promontories, darting immobile gazes over the expanse or devouring one another in silence. Extraordinary birds could be seen, with immense feet the color of flesh, which alighted on the islets or rose like arrows into the sky, and an unnamable beast in the form of a lizard with scaly wings, which fluttered heavily at the level of the mangroves and tamarisks.
The army marched swiftly. It had to cross a muddy causeway; afterwards it skirted large stones in which vague muzzles could be seen, sculpted by vanished humans. Then more marshes surged forth, with bright ashen colors. The bulls bellowed; colossal forms undulated between the mangroves; a mysterious terror spread from man to man and rendered flesh tremulous.
Setne went forward to assist in the attack. The bulls had fallen upon monsters; others recoiled with profound clamors. Long bodies were seen coiling around breasts and heads. The iron phalanx did not budge, fascinated; Intar incited them, his blade raised. It was the minute when panic takes possession of men. Rapidly, Setne observed the scintillating beasts, thirty cubits long, with cold eyes and frothing mouths; he only counted ten.
Pan's Flute Page 18
