On the dark horizon Zaya imagined that she could make out the ghostly shapes of a Bedouin caravan. She recalled what people said about the tribes of Sinai — their assaults on villages, their kidnapping of people who had wandered off the road or taken the wrong course, their interception of other caravans. No doubt the wagon that she piloted so aimlessly would be precious booty to them — with all the wheat it carried, and the oxen that hauled it. Not to mention the two women — over whom the chief of the tribe would have every right to drool. Her fear rose to the point of madness, so she stepped down onto the desert sands. As she did so, she looked at the sleeping woman and child, regarding their faces by the light of the pulsing stars. Without thought or plan, she reached out her hand and, lifting the boy up delicately, expertly wrapped the quilt around him, and set off in the direction of the city's lights. As she walked on, she thought that she heard a voice calling out to her in terror, and she believed that the Bedouin had surrounded her mistress. Her fear grew even stronger and she doubled her pace. Nothing would hinder her progress: not the heaping dunes of sand, nor the dear burden she carried, nor her enormous tiredness. She was like someone falling into an abyss, pulled down by their own weight, unable to stop their descent. Perhaps she had not gone too far into the desert, or perhaps she had covered more distance toward her goal than she could tell, because, beneath her feet, she felt hard-packed ground like the surface of the great Desert Road. Looking behind her, Zaya saw only blackness. By this time she had used up her hysterical strength: her speed slowed and her steps grew heavier. Then she fell down onto her knees, panting fearsomely. She was still insanely afraid, but couldn't move, like the victim pursued by a specter in a nightmare, but who cannot flee. She continued swiveling to her right and to her left, not knowing in which direction could come escape — or ruin.
Suddenly, she fancied that she could hear the rumble of chariots and the whinnying of horses! Did she really see wheels and vehicles, knights and steeds — or was it just the blood throbbing in her ears and her brain? But the voices became clearer, until she was certain that she could make out the forms of the riders returning from the north. She did not know if they came in peace — or to kill her. Nor — was it possible to hide, because Djedef had begun to sob and cry. Not feeling safe from the plunging chariots — while kneeling in the center of the road, she shouted, “Charioteers! Look here!”
She called out to them again — then surrendered herself to the Fates. The chariots drew up quickly, then stopped a short distance away. She heard a voice ask who was shouting — and she thought it was not unfamiliar. She gripped the child more firmly as though to warn him, and putting on an uncouth, countrified accent, told them, “I'm just a woman who's gotten lost — this hard road and the scary things in the dark have worn me out. And this is my baby boy — the wind and the damp night have nearly killed him.”
“Where are you going?” the owner of the first voice asked her.
“I'm heading for Memphis, sir,” Zaya answered, beginning to feel assured that she was talking to Egyptian soldiers.
The man laughed and said in astonishment, “To Memphis, ma'am? Don't you know that a man mounted on a horse takes two hours to travel that far?”
“I've been walking since the midafternoon,” Zaya said, plainly suffering. “Lack of means forced me to move, and I was fooled into thinking that I could reach Memphis before nightfall.”
“Whom do you have in Memphis?”
“My husband, Karda. He's helping to build the Lord Pharaoh's pyramid.”
The man questioning her leaned toward another in the chariot to his left, whispering a few words in his ear.
“Granted — that one soldier will escort her to her home district,” the second man said.
But the first one rejoined, “No, Hemiunu — she'll find nothing there but hunger and shame. Why don't we take her to Memphis, instead?”
Obeying Pharaoh's order, Hemiunu came down from his chariot and — went over to the woman, helping her to rise. He then walked to the nearest chariot and put her and her child inside it, advising the soldier within it about them.
At that moment, Khufu turned to the architect Mirabu. “Watching the massacre ofthat innocent mother and child, who bore neither guilt nor offence, has torn your tender heart, Mirabu,” he said. “Take care not to accuse your lord of cruelty. Look at how it gratifies me to carry along a famished woman and her nursing baby to spare them the ills of hunger and cold, and deliver them to a place that they could reach by themselves only with tremendous strain. Pharaoh is compassionate to his servants. And he was not less compassionate when that ill-starred infant's fate was decreed. In this way, the acts of kings are like those of the gods — cloaked in the robe of villainy, yet, in their essence, they are actually celestial wisdom.
“The first thing you must do, O Architect Mirabu,” said Prince Khafra, “is to marvel at the power of the overwhelming will that has defeated the Fates — and blotted the sentence of Destiny.”
Hemiunu returned to his chariot, ordering the driver to proceed. The squadron again took off in the direction of Memphis, slicing their way through the waves of darkness.
7
Zaya arrived in Memphis just before midnight, after a short ride — with the pharaonic guards. The king gave her two pieces of gold, so she sat before him thankfully — as one obliged by a debt — thinking him to be an important commander, but no more. She bid him farewell in the pitch-dark night, without seeing his face — or he seeing hers.
Zaya was in a terrible state — both in her mind, and in her body. She craved a room in which she could retire by herself, so she asked a policeman if he knew of a modest inn where she could spend the rest of the night. Finally, when she found herself and the child alone, she heaved a deep sigh of relief and threw herself down on the bed.
At last she felt released from the agony of physical pain and internal fear. Yet the terrors of her soul overshadowed the torments of her body. Drained and frightened, all that Zaya's mind's eye could see was her mistress who had just given birth, whose infant she had abducted as she abandoned her in that derelict wagon in the midst of the desert. The darkness had engulfed Ruddjedet, desolation surrounding her — while the men of pillage and plunder, who know neither mercy nor compassion — had set upon her.
Now perhaps she was a prisoner in their hands, treated only with brutality, forced into bondage and slavery. Meanwhile, she would be telling the gods of her humiliation, complaining of how she'd suffered from despair, treachery, and torture.
More and more wracked with discomfort and fear, Zaya kept tossing and turning on her bed, first right, then left, as grimacing ghosts pursued her. Begging for sleep to rescue her, she tossed and turned ever more before slumber finally lifted her from the hellfire of damnation.
She awoke to the baby's crying. The sun's rays broke through the room's tiny window, carpeting the floor — with light. She took pity on the child, rocking him gently and kissing him. Sleep had alleviated her sickness and calmed her soul, though it had not rid her of worry, or her mind of torment. Yet the infant was able to divert her feelings toward him, saving her from the agony and afflictions of the night. She tried caressing him, but he sobbed even more as she confronted the problem of feeding him — which utterly perplexed her. Then she hit upon the only solution: she went to the room's door and knocked on it with her hand. An old woman came, inquiring what she wanted. Zaya asked the woman to bring her half a rod of goat's milk.
Carrying Djedef in her arms, she walked with him back and forth across the room, putting her breast into his mouth to soothe and amuse him. She gazed at his beautiful face and sighed with a sudden thrill that seemed to have slipped unnoticed into her heart: “Smile, Djedef— smile, and be happy — you will see your father soon.”
But no sooner had she sighed in relief than she said to herself fearfully, “Do you see how I won him despite everything? The issue of his true mother is finished — and of his true father, as well!”
; As for his mother, the Bedouin had taken her prisoner, and she — Zaya — could do nothing to rescue her. If she had lingered another moment before fleeing, she too would have found herself but cold plunder in the hands of the barbarous nomads. There was no justice in taking the blame for a crime that she did not commit, so she felt no embarrassment. As regards Djedef's father, no doubt Pharaoh's soldiers killed him in revenge for helping his wife and son escape.
Thinking about these things reassured her. She went back over all of them again to appease her conscience, to put paid to the ghosts of dread and the harbingers of pain.
She told herself incessantly that she had done the most virtuous thing by kidnapping the child and running away, for if she had stayed at her mistress's side, she would not have been able to protect her against the assault — and would have perished with her, as well. After all, it was not within her ability to carry her or to give her shelter. Nor would there have been any mercy in leaving the child in Ruddjedet's arms until the men of Sinai killed him. She felt it was more of a good deed to flee, and to take Djedef — with her!
However torturous these thoughts, how lovely it was to wind up with Djedef by herself, not having to share him with anyone! She was his mother without any rival, and Karda was his father. As if she wanted to be confident of this fact she kept cooing to him, saying: “Djedefra son of Karda… Djedefra son of Zaya.”
The old woman came with the goat's milk. The make-believe mother began to nurse the infant in an unnatural manner until she thought that he had had his fill. Then there was nothing left for her but to get ready to go out to see Karda. She bathed herself, combed her hair, and put her veil over her shoulders, before leaving the inn with Djedef in her arms.
The streets of Memphis were crowded, as they usually were, with people both walking and riding — men and women, citizens, settlers, and foreigners. Zaya did not know the road to the Sacred Plateau, so she asked a constable which way to go. The plateau, he said, was “northwest of the Wall of Memphis — it would take two hours or more to get there on foot — a half hour on horseback.” In her hand she clutched the pieces of gold, so she hired a wagon with two horses, seating herself in it with serenity and bliss.
No sooner had her dreams pulled her out of the world and taken her to the heaven of rapture and delight, than her imagination raced ahead of the wagon to her dear husband, Karda. With his tawny skin and brawny arms, nothing was more becoming than the effect of his short loincloth, which revealed his thighs of iron. And what was more loveable than his long face with its narrow forehead, his great nose, and widely-spaced eyes, and his broad, powerful voice with its saucy Theban drawl? How many times had she yearned to grab his forearms, kiss his mouth, and listen to him speak! In earlier reunions of this kind, when she had been gone for a long time, he had kissed her passionately and said to her caressingly, “Come now, wife — for me you are like stony ground that soaks up water, but grows nothing.” This time, though, he wouldn't say it — how could he, when she meets him holding the most beautiful creature ever conceived by woman? There is nothing — wrong if he stares at her in confusion, the muscles softening on his hardened face, the look in his flashing eyes dissolving into gentleness. Or as he shouts out to her, unable to contain himself for joy, “Finally, Zaya — you have borne a child! Is this truly my son? Come to me — come to me!” Holding her head high in haughtiness and pride, she would say to him: “Take your child, Karda — kiss his little feet, and kneel down in thanks to the Lord Ra. He is a boy, and I have named him Djedef.” She vowed to take her husband to his birthplace of Thebes, because she was still afraid — though she did not know just why exactly — of the North and its people. In lovely Thebes, under the protection of the Lord Amon, she would raise her son and love her husband, and live the life that she had been denied for so long.
She was jolted from her reverie by the clamor and chaos of Memphis. She looked ahead to see the wagon ascending the winding road, the man urging the horses onward with his whip. From her seat she could not make out the surface of the plateau, but the lively voices, clanging tools, and chants of the workers rang in her ears. Among the chants, she recognized one that Karda would sing to her in happy times:
We are the men of the South, whom the waters of the Nile Have brought to this land, that the gods have chosen for our home, Home of the Pharaohs — where we make the black earth flourish. Behold the towering cities, and the temples with many pillars! Before us, there were but ruins that sheltered beasts and crows. For us, stone is soft and obedient, and so are the mighty waters. Ask of our strength among the tribes of Nubia and Sinai! Ask about our labors afar — while our chaste wives wait alone.
She listened to the men as they repeated these verses with strength and affection combined, and she longed to be with them, as the dove longs for the cooing of its mate. Her heart sang with them.
Crossing the road called the Valley of Death, the wagon arrived at the plateau. Zaya got out and walked toward the mass of men spread over the sprawling terrain like an enormous army milling about a square. On her way, she passed the Temple of Osiris, the Great Sphinx, and the mastaba tombs of the ancestors whose — worldly — works earned their repose — within this purified ground. She saw the long channel that the — workers had cut for waters from the Nile to reach the plateau. Huge boats were plying her — waters, filled — with massive rocks and stones, awaited by crowds of laborers — with — wagons crawling at the dockside. From a distance she saw the base of the pyramid that the limits of vision could not wholly take in, and the men scattered like stars on its surface. The sounds of the chanting blended with the shouts of the overseers, as well as those of the commanders of the Heavenly Guard, and the crackle of tools. Confused, Zaya stopped with the child in her arms, turning this way and that without knowing which direction to choose, and saw the futility of calling out over this depthless ocean of humanity. Her anxious, exhausted eyes rambled back and forth among all the faces.
One of the guards who passed her — thinking there was something strange about her — approached and asked her roughly, “What did you come to do here, madam?”
In all simplicity, she replied, “I'm looking for my husband, Karda, sir.”
“Karda? Is he an architect or a member of the guard?” the soldier asked her, knitting his brow as he tried to remember.
“He's a laborer, sir,” she said, timidly.
The man laughed sarcastically and said, pointing to a nearby building, “You can ask about him at the Inspector's Office.”
Zaya walked toward her goal, an elegant building of modest size, where a military guard stood by the door, blocking her way inside. But when she told him why she had come, he made way for her. She entered a wide room, its sides lined with desks, behind which sat the employees. The walls were filled with shelves stacked with papyrus scrolls. Within the room there was a door standing ajar, toward which the guard directed her with his staff. She passed through it to a smaller chamber, more beautiful and more expensively furnished than the other. In one corner, behind an enormous desk, there was a fat, squat man, distinguished by his outsized head, short, broad nose, full face, jutting jaw, and cheeks inflated like two small water skins. His eyes bulged under heavy lids as he sat with immense conceit, inflicting his supercilious bossiness upon — whoever came to him.
He sensed someone had entered — yet did not raise his eyes nor display any sign of interest until he finished what he had before him. Then he peered at Zaya with bold disdain, asking in an overbearing, vainglorious voice, “What do you want, woman?”
Embarrassed and afraid, Zaya answered weakly, “I have come to look for my husband, sir.”
Again in the same tone, he asked her, “And who is your husband?”
“A laborer, sir.”
He struck his desk with his fist, then said fiercely, his voice ringing out as though in a vault, “And what reason could there be for taking him from his work, and putting us to this trouble?”
Zaya grew more fri
ghtened. Confused, she did not even try to respond. The inspector continued to look at her. He noticed her round, bronze-colored face, her warm, honey-hued eyes, and her succulent youth. Hard it was for him to lay the weight of fear over a face as lovely as hers. His conspicuous power was only for show and vanity — his heart was good, his feelings refined. Taking pity on the woman, he said to her, in his usual pompous manner, but as gently as he could manage, “Why are you looking for your husband, madam?”
Sighing in relief, Zaya said calmly, “I have come from On, after I lost my means of livelihood there. I want him to know, sir, that I am now here.”
The inspector gazed at the child that she held in her arms, then asked her in the fashion of high-ranking persons, “Is that really why you came here — or was it to inform him of this child's birth?”
Zaya's cheeks flushed a deep red with shame. The man stared lustfully at her for an instant, before saying, “Fine… from what town is your husband?”
“From On, sir, but he was born in Thebes.”
“And what is his name, madam?”
“Karda son of An, sir.”
The inspector called for a scribe, dictating an order to him in the imperious style that he had earlier relinquished for the sake of Zaya's eyes.
“Karda son of An from On,” he told him.
The scribe — went to search in the record books, pulling out one and unrolling its pages, looking up the sign “k” and the name “Karda.” He then returned to his chief, leaning into his ear and — whispering in a low voice, before going back to his work.
The inspector regained his former demeanor and looked at the — woman's face for some time, before saying quietly, “Madam, I am sorry that I must offer you my condolences for your husband. He died on the field of work and duty.”
Three Novels of Ancient Egypt Page 7
