Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

by Naguib Mahfouz

The arriving knights encircled Pharaoh's chariot, their torches lighting up the valley to reveal the corpses of the enemy dead. The faces of those who fell defending the king were also exposed, their blameless blood streaming down over their necks and their brows.

  The horsemen's chief advanced upon Khufu's vehicle — and when he saw his sire standing upright, he praised the god as he knelt in reverence. “How is Our Lord the King?” he asked.

  Khufu held up his vizier as he came down from his chariot. “Pharaoh is well, thanks to the gods, and to the valor of these men,” he said. “But how are you, Hemiunu?”

  “I'm fine, my lord,” he answered weakly. “I was hit in the forearm, but that's not fatal by itself. Let's all pray in thanks to Ptah, who saved our king's life.”

  Pharaoh peered around him and saw the young commander. “You're here, Commander Djedef? Are you trying to put all of the royal family together in your debt!” he exclaimed.

  The youth bowed in deep respect. “We all — each one of us — would sacrifice ourselves for our lord,” he replied.

  “But how did this happen?” asked the king. “To me it appears that what occurred here was no trifling event, certainly not coincidence. I could just perceive in the dark a case of high treason, foiled by your loyalty and your bravery. But first we must have a look at the faces of those killed. Let's begin with the one who rashly fired arrows at us, to halt us on our way.”

  Djedef, Sennefer, and the head of the horsemen marched with the torches before the king in the direction of the chariot, Hemiunu following him with ponderous steps. They came upon someone after only a short distance, sprawled on his face, the fatal shaft buried in his left side, groaning in pain. The king started at the sound, and — hurrying to him — he turned him on his back. Casting a — worried glance upon him, — when he saw his face he howled aloud, “Khafra… my son!”

  All majesty forgotten, Khufu stared at those around him as though appealing for their aid against this tribulation that seemed irresistible. He studied the face of the man lying at his feet once more, and said in grief and revulsion, “Are you the one who attempted to slay me?”

  But the prince — was in the throes of his final agony, slipping into the unconsciousness of one — who is leaving this world. He paid no heed to the horrified eyes now fixed upon him, but continued to moan plaintively, his chest heaving violently. A stifling quiet descended over all of them, in which Hemiunu forgot his aching arm, but kept stealing furtive looks of pity at Khufu's face, who was imploring the Lord to spare him the evil ofthat moment. Pharaoh leaned over his expiring son, regarding him with hardened eyes that trauma made look like two stagnant pools. His soul was dazed and disturbed, conflicting thoughts and emotions clashing within him, as he surrendered to indifference. He went on gaping at the agonizing crown prince until the final glint of glory abandoned him, and his body ceased moving for all eternity.

  The king remained frozen in his queer immobility for not a short while. Then his own majesty and confidence returned as he stood up straight. Turning to Djedef, he asked in an unfamiliar voice, “Inform me, O Commander, of all the details that you know about this matter.”

  In a voice shuddering with sorrow, Djedef told his sire of what the officer Sennefer had reported to him, of the doubts that assailed them, and of the ruse that they devised to rescue their lord.

  “By the gods!” cried Khufu.

  He had been going and coming without any concern, only to be caught unawares by infamy from where he had not at all expected it — from his most precious son, his own heir apparent. The gods had saved him from the terrible evil, but in carrying out their will, they had cost him very dear. This was the spirit that now went up, polluted with the most repugnant sin that a mortal can commit. Pharaoh had survived annihilation, but he felt no delight. His crown prince had been killed, and he did not know how to grieve for him. The world had shown him its most despicable face, just as he was reaching the end of his path.

  35

  The king and his companions returned to the royal palace that morning, as the — world — was adorned — with the rising sun. The all-powerful monarch felt a spiritless fatigue, so he made his way quickly to his chamber and collapsed onto his bed. The awful news spread through the vastness of the palace, carrying with it sadness and dismay. Queen Meritites was shaken to her foundations, a consuming fire exploding — within her, of-which not all the waters of the Nile could extinguish a single brand. The woman stuck close to her great husband seeking to ward off the — woe of this evil by her nearness to him, as — well as to obtain his reassurance and consolation. She found him sleeping, or like one asleep, and touched his forehead — with her chill fingers to discover that he was as hot as a mass of fire, sending up embers into the air.

  She whispered to him in a faltering voice, “My lord!”

  The king stirred at the sound, opening his eyes in a state of indignant turmoil. He sat up in his bed in unaccustomed rage, piercing her with a glare that sent off sparks. In a maddened tone that had not been heard before, he demanded of his spouse, “Are you weeping, O Queen, for the damned assassin?”

  “I am weeping for my miserable fortune, my sire,” she answered submissively, her tears overflowing.

  Insane with rage, he bellowed, “Woman, you bore me a criminal for a son!”

  “My lord!”

  “The divine wisdom decreed his death because the throne was not created to be occupied by criminals!”

  “Mercy, my lord!” the woman wailed. “Mercy for my heart, and for yours! Don't speak to me in this terrifying tone — I need consoling. Let's forget this agonizing memory: he was our son, and now he deserves mourning!”

  He shook his head with lunatic fury. “I see that you are showing him mercy!”

  “We're entitled to weep, sire. Didn't he lose both this — world and the hereafter?”

  Khufu grabbed his head and raved in confusion, “My God… what is this madness that runs through my mind! What are these blows that keep falling on Pharaoh's head? How can it bear the crown of the Egyptians after this moment, — when it is weighed down just by the — white hairs that time has left on it? O Queen, Pharaoh is suffering a new phase of life, and all of your own suffering — will be of no avail. So call for my sons and daughters, and all of my friends. Summon Hemiunu, Mirabu, Arbu, and Djedef- go on, then!”

  The wretched queen left the king's chamber, and sent out a request for the princes, the princesses, and their father's companions. On her own, she also asked for Kara, the king's private physician.

  Each of them answered the call, coming promptly and in speechless shock, as though they were heading for a dreadful wake. They entered Pharaoh's room. He did not tarry on his bed but walked between the two lines of them, that of his immediate family, and the second of his other relatives and friends. The king was still vilely upset, his gaze wandering, when he caught sight of Kara, interrogating him gruffly. “Why did you come here, Doctor, without my asking for you?” he demanded. “You have been with me for all of forty years, and I have never once needed you in all that time. Should not one who can dispense with his doctor in his lifetime, be able to do the same when he dies?”

  Mention of death frightened them, for its effect on Pharaoh's nerves and his state of uproar. As for the physician Kara, he smiled delicately, saying, “My lord is in need of a draught of…”

  Khufu cut him off, shouting, “Take leave of your lord, and vanish from my sight!”

  The sadness was plain on Kara's face as he said quietly, “My lord, perhaps — at times — the physician must disobey an order from his sire.”

  The king's rage grew greater as he shifted his straying eyes through the faces of those arrayed, dumbfounded, around him, then bellowed, “Don't you hear — what this man is saying? And you all stand there doing nothing about it? How extraordinary! Has treason infected every heart here? Is Pharaoh despised by all of his children, and his friends? O Vizier Hemiunu — tell me what's fitting to do — with one — who de
fies Pharaoh!”

  Hemiunu came forth — with obvious weariness and whispered in the doctor's ear. The man bowed to his lord and retreated to the background before exiting the chamber.

  Meanwhile, Hemiunu drew close to Khufu's bed. “Go easy, sire, for what did the man want to do but good? Would my lord like me to fetch him a cup of water?”

  Without awaiting the king's permission, the vizier left the room and Kara gave him a golden goblet filled with water in which a sedative potion had been stirred. The minister carried it to Khufu, who took it from Hemiunu's hand and drank it to the last drop. Swiftly feeling its effects, the king's agitation subsided as his normal expression returned, his flushed face regaining its natural color. Yet his frailty and listlessness were clear to see, as well.

  Sighing deeply, the king said, “Woe to the person who suffers from old age and feebleness. These two weaklings shake the strongest giants!”

  He looked at the group gathered around his bed. “I was a ruler of overwhelming vigor!” he lamented. “I was famed for my right hand, which clove between life and death! I pronounced laws both sacred and profane, inspiring worship and obedience! In my life, never for a moment did I forget my plan of good works and reform. I did not want the benefit for my servants to end with my life on earth. Hence, I wrote a lengthy thesis on medicine and wisdom which will be useful for as long as diseases show no mercy to the human being, and so long as the human being shows no mercy to himself. My life was prolonged, as you all see, and the gods wanted to test me with a severe trial of whose wisdom I was ignorant. They chose my son as their instrument and unleashed the armies of evil in his heart. He rose up as my enemy by ambushing me in the dark in order to kill me. Yet, my survival was written, and the ill-fated son paid the price of his life — for the sake of the few hours left in my own.”

  The group listening called out wishfully, “May God lengthen the king's life!”

  Pharaoh raised his hand, and silence returned before he resumed his address. “The end is decreed,” he declared. “I've summoned you to hear my last speech. Are you all prepared?”

  Hemiunu was awash — with tears. “My lord! Do not mention Death…. This sorrow — will be lifted — and you'll live long, for Egypt, and for us.”

  Pharaoh smiled. “Grieve not, O friend Hemiunu,” he admonished. “If Death were an evil, then immortality would have kept Mina on the throne of Egypt. Therefore, Khufu does not sorrow over death, nor does he dread it. Death is a less critical injury than many others that deform the face of life. Yet I want to be at ease concerning my grand bequest.”

  He turned toward his sons, examining each of them one by one, as though he were trying to read what lay behind and inside them.

  “I see you holding back in silence,” he said, “anxiously concealing a hidden sorrow. Each one of you regards his brother with a suspicious and resentful eye. And how could this not be so, when the heir apparent has died? The king is dying, and each of you harbors ambitions toward the throne, wanting it for himself. I do not deny that you are all noble youths of lofty morals — but I want to put myself at rest about my succession, and about your brethren.”

  Baufra, the oldest of the princes, interrupted him. “My father and my lord,” he said, “however our longings may have divided us, they have conditioned us to obey you. Your will for us is like the holy law that compels our subservience without any dissent.”

  The king grinned ruefully, beholding them with eyes that swiveled exhaustedly in their sockets. “What you said is beautiful, O Baufra,” he said. “Truly, I say to you, that I, at this frightful hour, find within myself an overawing power over the sublimity of human emotions. I feel that my fatherhood over the believers is of more import than my fatherhood toward my sons. They have appointed me to say what is right — and to do it, as well.”

  Once again, he scrutinized their expressions, then proceeded, “To me, it seems that what I have said now has caused you no astonishment. And the truth is that, without disavowing my fatherhood of you, I find before me one who is more deserving of the throne than any of you, one whose assuming the crown will help preserve the virtue of your own brothers. He is a youth whose zeal has long destined him for leadership, while his courage has achieved a magnificent victory for the homeland. His heroism saved Pharaoh's life from perfidy. Be sure not to ask, ‘How can he sit on Egypt's throne if the blood of kings flows not in his veins?’ For he is the husband of Princess Meresankh, in whose veins runs the blood of kings and queens alike.”

  Djedef looked astounded as he exchanged confused glances with Meresankh, while the princes and men of state were all caught so off-guard that their tongues were frozen and their eyes seemed dazed. They all stared at Djedef.

  Prince Baufra was the first to risk rupturing this silence. “My lord, saving the king's life is a duty for every person, and not the sort of deed that anyone would hesitate to perform. Therefore, how can the throne be his reward?”

  Sternly, the king replied, “I see that you would now stoke the fires of rebellion after having sung the anthems of obedience but a short while ago. O my sons, you are the princes of the realm and its lords. You shall have wealth, influence, and position — but the throne shall be Djedef's. This is the last will of Khufu, which he proclaims to his sons, by the right he has over them to command their obedience. Let the vizier hear it, so that he may carry it out by his authority and by his word. Let the supreme commander hear it also, that he may guard its execution with the force of his army. This last bequest of Khufu he leaves in the presence of those that he loves, and who love him; of those with whom he has dwelt closely in amity, and who, in return, offer their affection and fidelity.”

  An intimidating silence settled over them, that none dared to disturb, as each withdrew to his own thoughts — until there entered the chief chamberlain. He prostrated himself before the king, then announced, “My lord, the Inspector of the Pyramid, Bisharu, begs Your Majesty for an audience with you.”

  “Invite him to come in, for from this moment he belongs to our household.”

  Bisharu entered — with his short height and wide girth, and prostrated himself before Pharaoh. Afterward, the king ordered him to stand, granting him permission to speak.

  His voice subdued, the man said, “Sire! I wanted to appear before Your Majesty last night about something very important, but I arrived just after my lord's departure for the pyramid. Hence I had to wait, with much apprehension, until this morning.”

  “What do you wish to say, O father of brave Djedef?”

  “My lord,” Bisharu continued, his voice even lower, as he stared at the floor, “I am not the father of Djedef, and Djedef is not my son.”

  Stunned, Pharaoh replied with mocking irony, “Yesterday, a son denies his father — and today, a father denies his son!”

  In sorrow, Bisharu went on, “My lord, all of the gods know that I love this young man with the affection of a father for his son. I wouldn't say these words if my loyalty to the throne were not greater in me than the sway of human emotions.”

  The king's perplexity multiplied, as the interest grew in the faces of all those in attendance — especially the princes, who hoped that a disaster for the young man would rescue them from the king's final testament. They all kept glancing back and forth between Bisharu and Djedef, whose color had gone pale, his expression rigid.

  “What do you mean by this, Inspector?” Pharaoh asked the disavowing father.

  Still staring at the floor, Bisharu answered, “Sire… Djedef is the son of the former priest of Ra, whose name was Monra.”

  Pharaoh fixed him with an odd, dreamlike look, as ambition stirred among all those listening discreetly, while the eyes of Hemiunu, Mirabu, and Arbu seemed disturbed. Khufu, however, muttered in confusion while his spirit floated through the darkness of the distant past, saying to himself, “Ra! Monra, the Priest of Ra!”

  The architect Mirabu's memory — was most vivid ofthat traumatic day that had carved its events into his conscio
usness. “The son of Monra?” he said with disbelief. “That is far from being credible, my lord — for Ra died, and his son was killed, in the same instant.”

  Pharaoh's memory returned in an aureole of fire. His tired, weakened heart convulsed as he spoke.

  “Yes — the son of Monra was massacred on the bed where he was born. What do you say to this, Bisharu?”

  “Sire,” replied the inspector, “I have no knowledge of the child that was slaughtered. All that I know of this ancient history came to me by chance, or through wisdom known only to the Lord. It has been a trial for my heart that is attached to this lad in every possible manner, yet my fidelity to the king calls upon me to recount it.”

  And so Bisharu told his sovereign — as his eyes brimmed with honorable tears — the story of Zaya and her nursing baby boy, from its beginning to the appalling moment when he stood eavesdropping upon Ruddjedet's strange tale. When the man had finished his unhappy narrative, he bowed his head down to his chest, and spoke no more.

  Astonishment gripped all those there, the eyes of the princes gleaming with a sudden hope. As for Princess Meresankh, her eyes widened with shock and awe, while her heart went mad with fear, pain, and anticipation. Her attention focused on her father's face — or on his mouth, as if she wanted to suppress, with her spirit, the words that might condemn her happiness and her expectations.

  Turning his blanched face toward Djedef, the king asked him, “Is it true what this man is saying, Commander?”

  With his constant courage, Djedef replied, “My lord! What Inspector Bisharu has said is true, without any doubt.”

  Pharaoh looked to Hemiunu, then to Arbu, and finally to Mirabu, pleading for help against the terror of these wonders. “What a marvel this is!” he exclaimed.

  Glaring at Djedef, Prince Baufra declared, “Now the truth has come to light!”

  Pharaoh, however, paid no heed to his son's remark, but began to recite in a fading, delirious voice: “Some twenty years ago, I proclaimed a war against the Fates, ruthlessly challenging the will of the gods. With a small army that I headed myself, I set out to do battle with a nursing child. Everything appeared to me that it would proceed according to my own desire, and I was not troubled by doubt of any kind. I thought that I had executed my own will, and raised the respect for my word. Verily, today my self-assurance is made ridiculous, and now — by the Lord — my pride is battered. Here you all see how I repaid the baby of Ra for killing my heir apparent by choosing him to succeed me on the throne of Egypt. What a marvel this is!”