Pan's Flute

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  Extracting himself from his magnificent dream, however, he turned to the centurion Habak, who was waiting, ready to receive his orders.

  “You’ll supervise the division of the spoils,” he said. The weapons, the wheat, the beasts of burden, the crates and baskets will be reserved for the king and his army. As for the objects of gold and silver, and the precious stones and fabrics, they belong to our phalanges, to wit: a tenth for me, a tenth to be divided between the chiefs of the phalanges, another tenth for the centurions and the subaltern commanders, the rest for the soldiers. But before then, I’ll make the choice of my booty. I’ll also distribute the women and the slaves. Have we dead?”

  “Yes, Lord. Three dead and five wounded. The enemy has more than a hundred dead.”

  “We’ll make a halt, and do for our dead what is prescribed. Go, Habak.”

  Then he heard the grave voice of Intar: “Is my Lord not wounded?”

  He shivered; he smiled at the nomad chief. Thinking of all that had come from him, and the triumph itself, he placed his hand on his head tenderly.

  “I will share my booty with you!”

  Habak came back with two old centurions. Wounded men were still moaning; a few would moan all day and all night. Nevertheless, tranquility had returned; the women were standing in troops, the more anxious the less pretty they were; the merchants were maintaining an imploring attitude; the Ninevite soldiers were awaiting massacre or slavery, somberly.

  “Your orders will be carried out,” said Habak, “but the soldiers would like to drink the Ninevites’ wine.”

  “A measure will be given to them this evening. During the day, wine makes the body heavy, and we still have a stage to cover.”

  Habak, who liked wine and cervoise, showed a resigned expression. Then he said: “Don’t you want us to bring you the women, Lord?”

  “Bring the women.”

  The captives were brought before Setne. In general, the soldiers had not despoiled them, for they had been captured under the eyes of the chief. Several were beautiful, destined for the sars of the Ninevite army. Those wore Babylonian embroideries, transparent byssus and Sidonian crimson. They scintillated with the flames of rubies, aquamarines and carbuncles or the soft gleam of pearls, seashells and turquoise. They shook little silver moons. Gold and ivory figurines, amulets and corals. A few, already visited by the soldiers, no longer had anything but torn garments; blood was trickling from their ears and nostrils, brutally stripped.

  Setne distributed the beauties to the centurions and the others to those who had captured them, but he had the jewels and precious fabrics retained in order to make a just division later. For himself he kept a Persian with blue eyes, gleaming skin and coppery hair. She astonished him. He spoke to her in Assyrian without her appearing to understand him. She stood in front of him, silent, sad and proud. He desired her all the more for it, and was drawing her toward his tent when he saw Intar, who was gazing at her with a desperate covetousness. He hesitated. A voluptuous and jealous flux surged in his veins, but with a great effort of will he turned to the nomad and said: “Would you like to possess her?”

  In a breathless voice, Intar replied: “I’ve never admired a woman so much.”

  “She’s yours.”

  The chief of the sands uttered a hoarse sigh. Seizing his prey with an ardent tenderness, he carried her away. She smiled, with the imperious malice of a woman who senses a great amour descending upon her. Melancholy at first, Setne shook his head and had no regrets.

  Two days later, Setne’s phalanges reached the exit from the gorge. It was a narrow and tortuous passage, protected by natural forts of porphyry where a thousand archers could be garrisoned without having to fear ten times that number of enemies. It opened on to an immense plain interrupted by three hills toward the south, where the armies of Nineveh and Egypt had already fought violent battles several times, with various fortunes. It was deserted.

  Setne sent skilful scouts in all directions. In the evening, they announced that no allied or enemy troop was yet visible.

  The chief spent two days fortifying the place. He armed it with blocks of granite to roll down on assailants. He planted hedges of spikes in accessible places under masses of plants, and dug traps everywhere. Thanks to the slaves and the Assyrian prisoners, the work was done quickly; the gorge became inaccessible.

  When the place was ready, emissaries returned one after another to announce the approach of the Ninevites from the north and the Egyptians from the south.

  Then Setne was gripped by a great agitation. The defense of his fortress seemed to him to be assured. It would be glorious, but it could not give a vast hope, like a command on the battlefield. He asked old Habak’s advice, who replied: “Send a messenger to beg Thutmose to let you fight with his army. Bitiu is skillful and obedient. He will be able to defend the gorge, which you have rendered inaccessible.

  Setne did as the old man said. He announced to his master the capture of the caravan and the works he had accomplished for the defense of the pass.

  The messenger came back after two hours, when Thutmose’s advance guard was already perceptible on the hills. The king authorized Setne to rejoin the army and give command to the phalanges to Bitiu.

  Setne set forth, only accompanied by Habak, Intar and twenty archers. The plain was still deserted to the north. No Ninevite runner was furrowing it as yet.

  The young Tanite chief appeared before Thutmose at dusk. The king did not speak to him at first. Standing on the highest hill, he was casting a final glance over his camp. Four army corps were visible, over a breadth of three thousand cubits, and a double depth. The advance guard occupied the three hills; it was mainly composed of archers. Pyres were already being built, but Thutmore had forbidden lighting them until the last moment, for fear of a surprise attack by the Ninevites.

  When Thutmose had gazed for some time and seen that all was well, he turned toward the Tanite. His face was grave but his eyes were cheerful. Everything had gone as he had wished and augured well for the imminent battle.

  “Be welcome,” he said to Setne, putting his ivory staff on his shoulder. “The servant who has accomplished the work conceived by his master will be recompensed. You have been able to command a thousand men across the desert; you will command ten phalanges against the Ninevites on the day of the battle.”

  Setne uttered a cry of joy and prostrated himself before Thutmose.

  “Who would not die for you, master of the world!” he murmured.

  The king was pleased by that joy. He liked all conquests, and there were none more agreeable to him than those the hearts of his soldiers gave him.

  “Get up,” he said. “Recount your journey to me, briefly.”

  Setne spoke briefly, but when he spoke about the dragons, the tigers and the Men of the Waters, the king became animated and wanted to know everything. Then a doubt passed through him.

  “Be careful,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to tell me more than the truth. Have you seen these things?”

  “I have taken twenty men from my phalanges, King of Thebes. Interrogate them...”

  Thutmose wanted him to finish his story.

  When Setne had depicted the capture of the caravan and the works carried out in the gorge of the Hennar, he said: “That’s good! Everything has been accomplished as it ought to be. My gaze will follow you during the battle, Setne, son of Raneferka, and you will receive in accordance with your merit.”

  And. dismissing the chief with a slow gesture, he remained alone before the rapid dusk

  PART THREE

  I

  For a long time, a slave massaged Aoura’s body, still warm from the bath, with balms from Araby that were incorporated into the skin, and light Syrian perfumes that recalled the enchanted breezes of the Liban at every movement.

  Aoura contemplated herself in a large silver mirror that Thutmose had sent her from Asia. Her torso had grown; she was almost perfect, and her breasts, delicate and round, with their
little pink fruits, were connected in a charming fashion to the tender neck, the voluptuous nape and the beautiful, well polished shoulders. She loved herself. Braced in front of the bright mirror, she tried the innumerable play of attitudes, sometimes raising her arms, curious about the shadow of the armpits, sometimes flexed for the caress, sometimes full of emotion in contemplating the mystery of life and imagining the happiness of the man who would be designated by her brother Thutmose to know her.

  Once she had dreamed that the king himself might be her first lover. That would not displease her, although she was fearful of displeasing her sister Hatsheput, who was jealous. But that dream no longer visited her. Her choice was fixed; among all men, only one veritably attracted her flesh.

  Twelve months, however, had passed since she had spoken to him in the enclosure of the old temple of Amenemhat. She ought to have forgotten him, and, in fact, she could no longer form an exact image of his bearing or his face; nothing remained but an impression of tall stature, supple forms and bold eyes. Alone, perhaps she would have let the memory fade, but she saw Gaila every day. The two of them stimulated the flame. Thus, far from decreasing, the amour of the Princes of Thebes increased with absence; she could no longer compose a legend of happiness without binding Setne tightly within it.

  When the slave had finished infusing her with balms and sprinkling her with perfumes, Aoura dressed in a swathe of byssus and went on to the terrace. Thebes was scintillating in the strong morning light. The new temple built by Thutmose was growing among those of the ancestors. The city of the hundred gates was more populated with sphinxes than the Libyan desert with lions, buffaloes and elephants; columns and obelisks sprouted like an immense forest of stone, enameled walls sparkled like immense gems. The Theban people could be seen swarming in the squares, on the steps, in the narrow streets, outside houses on mud and papyrus, and in boats floating on the Nile all the way to the horizon of the plains, pyramids and pullulating cities.

  But Aoura, sated by that spectacle, did not pay much attention to it. She agitated in the shade of the tamarinds; like a great mobile flower, she embalmed the air with each of her gestures. Joyful at first, impatience slowly took possession of her. Gaila was late. For the slave had been able to remain free to come and go at her caprice, by virtue of the tender generosity of the princess of Thebes and the enigmatic reasons she gave for her conduct.

  “She promised to come!” said Aoura, nervously.

  She knew full well that the promise of the daughter of the Gulf had not been categorical, but in her chagrin she did not want to admit that to herself.

  “I want her to obey me!”

  It was the thousandth time that she had proposed to herself forcing the will of the mysterious Bedouin. Fundamentally quick tempered, but not tyrannical, the princess did not dislike Gaila’s capricious tendencies; it was a more complex attraction, which gave an extraordinary price to the strange young woman’s submissions.

  Suddenly, a smile brought Aoura’s eyelids closer together. A red silhouette appeared down below, among the sycamores. The princess would have recognized that stride in a hundred thousand, which sowed rhythm and sensuality.

  When Gaila had climbed the steps of the terrace, Aoura said, coldly: “You’re late!”

  “No,” replied the slave. “I hadn’t promised anything.”

  She stood before Aoura, serious, mild and firm. The princess, her eyes lowered, saw the small feet enveloped in ribbons, a delicate ankle, scarcely burnished, quivering. The spectacle softened her. She raised her head, and saw Gaila’s magnificent lips, where the redness of the flesh took on the charming tones of petals and moist seashells. Then she smiled, and, kissing the slave’s eyes tenderly, said; “Oh, you’re indifferent! Don’t you know the impatience with which I await your coming? You make me suffer.”

  “I can’t do otherwise. And I’m not indifferent. I think about your happiness day and night.”

  “But you don’t experience any impatience. Here you are before me like a submissive slave. That’s not what I want, Gaila.”

  The Bedouin woman smile enigmatically. Her large eyes stared at Thebes, full of dreams.

  “Have I not said that the daughters of my race are simple?” she replied. “They are only able to love the amour of a man. But their amity is as faithful as their hatred. Now, I would die for you, daughter of Ahmose, as I would die for my vengeance; why desire anything else? As well ask a lioness to engender monkeys, or a vine to produce dates.”

  Chagrined, Aoura exclaimed: “I’m beautiful, though...”

  “You are the most beautiful of all women, Mistress. From the Red Gulf to Syria, no daughter of men is comparable to you.”

  The princess smiled, drew Gaila to the silver mirror and, contemplating their delicious images complaisantly, she said: “Witch, the man who possessed us both would be more fortunate than the gods.”

  Those words troubled the slave. “But you would not permit,” she said, “a man to love both of us?”

  “Why not?” said Aoura, tenderly.

  “Would your pride not revolt, or would you not be jealous?”

  Aoura started laughing. “No, Gaila, I would not be jealous, I would be glad. The man who loved you would appear more beautiful to me if he loved me too. I would find that very pleasant. And, then, he would no longer be able to think of any other woman. We would be able to render him faithful!”

  Gaila contemplated the princess with a shiver of joy. “You merit that someone would die for you!” she said. “Nevertheless, consider that I am only a wanderer, a thousand times outraged.”

  “One does not lose the force of the blood! Have you not told me that your brother commanded a large tribe of the Gulf? Thutmose esteems the chiefs of your race; Thutmose knows me well.”

  The nomad’s face was covered with darkness. “My father is not avenged,” she said, “nor my mother, nor my brothers. Those who seized our pastures live in peace and abundance. The first virtue is hatred.”

  Her eyes darted a red flame. Aoura sensed clearly that her companion possessed the first virtue of vigorous races fully. She had the same maxims, albeit more tenderly.

  “Do you believe that one of Thutmose’s phalanges could get rid of your enemies?” she said.

  “No. The men of Daour have a thousand warriors in the vigor of age, and as many old men and boys capable of handling a sword. Ten phalanges would not be sufficient to envelop them, for the chiefs must not flee. It is necessary that they perish, buried up to the neck, or roasted in the furnace, that their women are raped and their entrails thrown to the jackals. Only thus will justice be satisfied.”

  Aoura listened to the nomad with admiration. She liked strength. Pensively, she said: “Would your tribe consent to pay tribute to Thutmose? The king is not avid. A few beasts of burden would acquit your debt.”

  “We would no longer be free,” said Gaila, bitterly.

  “Oh, yes! You would be the king’s allies; no tribe could attack you without igniting his anger.”

  They fell silent. Then Aoura sighed. “Who can tell where Thutmose’s warriors are fighting now?”

  Gaila smiled. That morning, she had seen one of the men of the desert, who, invariably outdistancing the king’s couriers, was spreading among the lower orders the news that was as yet unknown to the upper castes.

  “Thutmose is victorious,” she said. “He has defeated his enemies in a great plain one day’s journey from the Euphrates.”

  “How do you know?” cried the princess of Thebes, trembling with pleasure. “Why are you talking today, having kept silent on other days?”

  “Have I not told you that the arcana are not always efficacious?”

  “Is the news certain?”

  “Unless an evil god...”

  Aoura interrupted, impatiently: “And what do you know of Setne?”

  Gaila hesitated, because she knew nothing about her master. But she only dared hide that partially.

  “I have seen that he has fought glori
ously, then the signs became obscure. Nevertheless, it seems that he had gained the king’s favor...”

  She stopped. Trumpets sounded at the great pylon. A courier appeared, thin and black, followed by servants who were crying: “Thutmose has slain twenty thousand men, and Setne has felled ten thousand!”

  The young women had raced on to the terrace; they were pale with joy. Aoura, kissing the face of the slave passionately, cried: “I believe in you, witch!”

  II

  The courier appeared before Queen Hatsheput, the elder sister of Thutmose III.22 Tall and massively proportioned and benevolent appearance, with the eyes of a heifer, misty and slow, she was jealous, imperious and vindictive. She did not look at the man blackened by the deserts, desiccated by hunger, tanned as if with dust, who had thrown himself on the ground. She remained as motionless and dormant as the statues of temples, but, as no one could speak before her without her having permitted it, she finally said: “King Thumtmose has sent you?”

  “The king of kings has sent me,” the man replied, “with five other runners, by the Syrian route. Three of my companions fell, of malady and lassitude. The other two perished under the swords of nomads. There were also runners on other roads. If any of them have arrived before me, daughter of Ahmose, I am only bringing you dead news.”

  “No one has preceded you,” said the queen, coldly. “Speak.”

  And the courier spoke, his face to the ground.

  “Three months after the battle of the Hennar, Thutmose encountered the enemy again, in greater number, in the plain of Sades, near the Euphrates. Ten sars have crawled at his feet; thirty others have lost their breath. In the evening, the count was made of twenty thousand hands, cut from the dead. And there is an innumerable booty of gold, silver, precious stones, amulets, beasts and weapons. All of Assyria fled before the face of the king and that of his servant Setne.”