The young king's head leaned forward, ponderous and forlorn, and he stared at the floor with darkened eyes, then raising them again to his father's statue, he muttered, “Perhaps you find in my life much to humiliate you, but my death will not shame you.”
He turned to the queen and said to her, “Do you forgive my transgression, Nitocris?”
She could contain herself no longer and tears flooded from her eyes as she said, “I have forgotten all my troubles at this hour.”
He was deeply agitated and said, “In harming you, Nitocris, I have dared to intrude upon your pride. I have wronged you and my stupidity has made the story of your life a sad legend which will be greeted with surprise and disbelief. How did it happen? Could I have changed the course my life was taking? Life has swamped me and an outlandish madness has possessed me. Even at this hour I cannot express my regret. How tragic that the intellect is able to know us and all our ridiculous trivialities, and yet appears incapable of rectifying them. Have you ever seen anything as ruthless and unsparing as this tragedy that afflicts me? Even so, the only lesson people will derive from it will be in rhetoric. Madness will remain as long as there are people alive. Nay, even if I were to begin my life anew I would err and fall once again. Sister, I am sick and tired of everything. What use is there in hoping? It is better if I bring on the end.”
A look of resolve and unconcern came over his face as she asked him in a bewildered and nervous voice, “What end, my lord?”
And he said solemnly, “I am no mean degenerate. I can remember my duty after this long forgetfulness. What is the point of fighting? All my loyal men will fall before an enemy as numerous as the leaves of the trees, and my turn will inevitably come after thousands of my warriors and my people have been annihilated. Nor am I a timorous coward who, clutching at a faint glimmer of hope, will cling desperately to life. I will put an end to the bloodshed and face the people myself.”
The queen was terrified. “My lord,” she cried, “would you burden the consciences of your men with the ignominy of abandoning your defense?”
“Rather, I do not wish that they sacrifice themselves in vain. I will go out to my enemy alone that we may settle the score together.”
She felt deeply frustrated. She knew his stubbornness and she despaired of changing his mind. Quietly and firmly she said, “I will be by your side.”
He was shocked, and grabbing her by the arms, pleaded with her, “Nitocris, the people want you. They have chosen well. You are worthy to govern them, so stay with them. Do not appear by my side or they will say that the king is hiding behind his wife from the rage of the people.”
“How can I abandon you?”
“Do it for my sake, and commence no work that will deprive me of my honor forever.”
The woman felt confused, desperate, and deeply sad, and she cried out hopelessly, “What an awful hour this is.”
“It is my wish,” said the king, “carry it out in memory of me. Please, I beseech you, do not resist, for every minute that passes valiant soldiers are falling in vain. Farewell, kind and noble sister. I depart sure in the knowledge that you shall not be sullied with shame in this my final hour. One who has enjoyed absolute authority cannot be content with confinement in a palace. Farewell to the world. Farewell to the self and to pain. Farewell perfidious glory and hollow appearances. My soul has spit it all out. Farewell, farewell.”
He leaned forward and kissed her head. Then he turned to the statues of his parents, bowed to them, and left.
He found Sofkhatep waiting in the outer lobby, motionless like a statue worn down since time immemorial. When he saw his lord, life stirred within him and he followed in silence, construing the king's exit to his own convenience and said, “My lord's appearance will instill a spirit of zeal in their valiant hearts.”
The king did not answer him. They strode down the steps together into the long colonnade that ran down the garden to the courtyard. He sent for Tahu and waited in silence. At that moment, his heart was suddenly drawn to the south-east, where Biga lay, and he sighed from the depths of his heart. He had said farewell to everything except the person he loved the most. So, would he breathe his final breath before setting eyes upon Rhadopis's face and hearing her voice for the last time? He felt a poignant longing in his heart and a deep sadness. Tahu's voice saluting roused him from his troubled trance, and instantly, as if pushed by an irresistible power, he asked about the way to Biga, saying, “Is the Nile safe?”
His face drawn and drained of color, the commander replied, “No, my lord. They attempted to attack us from the rear in armed barges, but our small fleet repelled them without much effort. The palace will never be taken from that direction.”
It was not the palace that worried the king. For that he bowed his head and his eyes clouded over. He would die before he cast a farewell glance upon that face, for which he had sold the world and all its glory. What was Rhadopis doing at this grievous hour? Had news reached her that her hopes were dashed, or did she wander still in vales of happiness, waiting impatiently for him to return?
Time did not permit him to surrender to his thoughts, and consigning his pains to his heart, he said to Tahu in a commanding tone, “Order your men to abandon the walls, cease fighting, and return to their barracks.”
Tahu was stunned with amazement and Sofkhatep, unable to believe his ears, said with some irritation, “But the people will break down the gate at any minute.”
Tahu stood there, showing no sign of moving, so the king roared in a voice like thunder that rang terrifyingly down the colonnade, “Do as I command.”
Tahu departed in a daze to effect the king's order, while Pharaoh walked forward with deliberate steps toward the palace courtyard. At the end of the colonnade he met with the company of chariots that had been deployed there in rows. Officers and men had seen him and their swords — were drawn in salute. The king summoned the company commander and said to him, “Take your company back to its barracks and remain there until you receive further orders.”
The commander saluted and, running back to his company, gave the order to the soldiers in a powerful voice. The chariots moved quickly and in orderly fashion back to their barracks in the south wing of the palace. Sofkhatep's limbs were trembling, and his feeble legs could hardly carry him. He had understood what the king intended to do, but he was unable to utter a single word.
The men-at-arms quit their positions in compliance with the dreadful order, and coming down from the walls and towers, they fell in under their standards and ran quickly back to their barracks behind their officers. The walls were now empty, and the courtyard and colonnades were deserted. Even the force of regular guards, whose duty it was to guard the palace during peacetime, had left.
The king remained standing at the entrance to the colonnade, with Sofkhatep to his right. Tahu came back out of breath and stood on Pharaoh's left, with a look upon his face like that of a fearsome specter. Both men wished to plead with the king and warmly beseech him, but the harsh look frozen upon his face dissipated their courage and they were compelled to silence. The king turned to them and said, “Why are you waiting with me?”
The two men were filled with great fear, and all Tahu could do was to utter a word of fervent sympathy: “My lord.”
As for Sofkhatep, he said with unusual calmness, “If my lord orders me to forsake him I will obey his order without question, but I will put an end to my life immediately thereafter.”
Tahu sighed with relief, as if the old man had come upon the solution that had stubbornly evaded himself, and he mumbled, “You have spoken well, Prime Minister.”
Pharaoh was silent, and did not say a word.
During this time violent and crushing blows had slammed into the great gate of the palace. No one had been bold enough to scale the walls, as if they were afraid, having been unsettled by the garrison's sudden withdrawal and imagining some mortal trap had been set for them. So they directed all their force at the gate, — which — w
as unable to — withstand their pressure for long. The entire structure was wrought with convulsions as the bolts burst open and it came down with a mighty thud that sent violent shock waves through the earth. The clamoring hordes flooded in and spread throughout the courtyard like dust in a summer wind, surging forward violently as if engaged in combat. Fearing some unseen danger, those in front slowed down as much as they could, but still edging forward until they came within sight of the royal palace and their eyes fell upon the one standing at the entrance to the colonnade, the double crown of Egypt upon his head. They recognized him instantly and were taken aback by the sight of him standing there alone in front of them. The feet of those at the head of the mob clung fast to the ground and they raised their hands to halt the surging flood of people pouring down behind them, shouting into the throng, “Slowly, slowly.”
A faint hope flickered in Sofkhatep's heart when he saw the fear that came over those at the front of the crowd, paralyzing their legs and causing them to avert their eyes. In his battered and exhausted heart he expected a miracle that would take the place of his black thoughts. But among the throng there were some conniving deviously against the wishes of Sofkhatep's heart, fearing that their victory might turn to defeat and their cause be lost forever. A hand reached out for its bow, nocked an arrow, took aim at Pharaoh and loosed the string. The arrow leapt out from the midst of the crowd and slammed into Pharaoh's upper chest, no power or wish could deflect it. Sofk-hatep cried out as if it were he who had been hit. He held out his hands to support the king and they met Tahu's cold hands halfway. The king pursed his lips but no moan came out, nor any sigh. Knitting his brow, he mustered what strength remained in him to maintain his balance. Pain was drawn over his face and he quickly felt weak and drained. His eyes clouded over and he gave himself up to the arms of his two trusted men.
A terrible hush fell upon the front ranks and a heavy silence bound their tongues. Their panic-stricken eyes darted wary glances at the great man propped up by his two counselors, as he fingered the spot — where the arrow had entered his chest, and warm blood flowed copiously from the wound. It was as if they could not believe their eyes, or as if they had attacked the palace for some other goal than this.
A voice from the rear tore through the silence, asking, “What is happening?”
Another responded in a more subdued tone, “The king has been killed.”
The news spread like wildfire through the crowd, as the people repeated the words and exchanged looks of horror and confusion.
Tahu called a slave and ordered him to fetch a litter. The man ran off into the palace to return with a group of slaves carrying a royal litter. They set it down on the ground and all lifted Pharaoh and laid him gently down on it. The news spread inside the palace and the king's physician hurried out. The queen appeared behind him moving with hurried steps and in obvious distress. When her eyes alighted upon the litter and he who lay upon it, she ran to him in trepidation, and falling to her knees next to the physician, she said in a trembling voice, “Alas, they have stricken you, my lord, as was your desire.”
The people beheld the queen and one of them cried out, “Her majesty the queen.”
The heads of the dumbfounded populace all bowed in unison as if they were performing a communal prayer. The king started to come round from the effects of the initial shock, and opening his heavy eyes he looked weakly and quietly at the faces of those gathered round him. Sofkhatep was gazing into his face in a silent stupor. Tahu stood motionless, his face like the faces of the dead. The physician, having removed the shirt of mail, was examining the wound. As for the queen, her face wore an expression of anguish and pain and she said to the physician, “Is he not well? Tell me he is well.”
The king was aware of her words, and he said simply, “It is not so, Nitocris. The arrow is fatal.”
The physician wanted to remove the arrow, but the king said to him, “Leave it. There is no point in hoping for an end to this torment.”
Sofkhatep was deeply moved and he said to Tahu with a great fury that completely changed the tone of his voice, “Call your men. Avenge your lord from these criminals.”
The king seemed vexed, and raising his hand with great difficulty, he said, “Do not move, Tahu. Do my orders not matter to you now, Sofkhatep, as I lie here thus? There shall be no more fighting. Inform the priests they have achieved their goal and that Merenra lies on his deathbed. Let them go in peace.”
A shudder ran through the queen's body as she leant to his ear and whispered, “My lord, I do not love to weep in front of your killers, but let your heart rest assured, by our parents and by the pure blood that runs in our veins, I will heap such revenge upon your enemies, that time will recount the tale of it for generations to come.”
He smiled to her a light smile expressing his thanks and affection. The physician washed the wound, gave him a soothing potion to dull the pain, and placed some herbs around the arrow. The king gave himself up to the man's ministering hands but he felt that death was near and his final hour fast approaching. He had not forgotten, as life drained from him, the beloved face he longed to bid farewell to before his inevitable demise. An expression of yearning appeared in his eyes, and he said in a faint voice, oblivious to what was happening around him, “Rhadopis, Rhadopis.”
The queen's face was close to his, and she felt a sharp blow pierce the membrane around her heart. A sudden dizziness took hold of her and she raised her head. He paid no attention to the feelings of those around him and he beckoned to Tahu, who stepped forward, and said to him hopefully, “Rhadopis.”
“Shall I bring her to you, my lord?” he asked.
“No,” replied the king feebly. “Take me to her. There is some life remaining in my heart, I want it to expire on Biga.”
With deep uncertainty Tahu looked at the queen, who rose to her feet and said calmly, “Carry out my lord's desire.”
Hearing her voice, and minding her words, the king said to her, “Sister, as you have forgiven me my sins, so forgive me this too. It is the wish of a dying man.”
The queen smiled a sad smile and leaned over his brow and kissed it. Then she stepped aside to make room for the slaves.
Farewell
The boat slipped gently downstream toward Biga, the litter inside the cabin carrying its precious cargo. The physician stood at Pharaoh's head, and Tahu and Sofkhatep at his feet. It was the first time grief had reigned over the barge as it bore the slumbering, surrendering lord, the shadow of death hovering about his face. The two men stood in silence, their eyes never leaving the king's wan face. From time to time he would lift his heavy eyelids and look at them weakly, then close them again helplessly. Gradually the boat drew nearer to the island, docking eventually at the foot of the steps leading up to the garden of the golden palace.
Tahu leaned over and whispered in Sofkhatep's ear, “I think one of us should go ahead of the litter lest the shock prove too much for the woman.”
At this terrible hour Sofkhatep did not care about the feelings of anyone, and he said abruptly, “Do what you think fit.”
But Tahu stayed where he was, and seized by confusion and hesitation, he said, “It is terrible news. What person would know how to break it to her?”
Sofkhatep said decisively, “What are you afraid of, commander? He who has been tried as sorely as we have throws caution to the wind.”
With these words Sofkhatep hurried out of the cabin, up the steps to the garden and down the path until he reached the pool, where he found the slave girl, Shayth, blocking his way. The woman was amazed to see him, for she knew him from the old days, and she opened her mouth to speak but he gave her no chance, and blurted out, “Where is your mistress?”
“My poor mistress,” she said, “she can find no rest today. She's been going round the rooms and wandering through the garden till….”
The man's patience — wore thin and he interrupted her, “Where is your mistress, woman?”
“In the summer ro
om, sir,” she said, much offended.
He proceeded to the room with great haste, and entered, clearing his throat as he did so. Rhadopis was seated upon a chair — with her head in her hands. When she felt him enter she turned round, and recognized him at once. She leapt sharply her feet and asked — with grave concern and apprehension, “Prime Minister Sofkhatep, — where is my lord?”
Such was his sadness that he spoke in a kind of trance, “He is coming shortly.”
And she clasped her hand to her breast in joy, and said delightedly, “How I — was tormented by fears for my master. News of the tragic rebellion reached me, then I heard nothing more and I — was left alone — with dark fears gnawing my heart. When — will my master come?”
Then, suddenly, it occurred to her that he was not in the habit of sending a messenger ahead of him and she was seized with anxiety, and before Sofkhatep could utter a word she said, “But why has he sent you to me?”
“Patience, my lady,” said the prime minister impassively. “No one has sent me. The grievous truth is that my lord has been wounded.”
These last words rang weird and bloody in her ears and she stared in terror at the prime minister's desolate face as a trembling pathetic moan issued from deep in her lungs. Sofkhatep, whose sensitivity had been obliterated by grief, said, “Patience, patience. My lord will arrive borne on a litter, as was his wish. He has been struck by an arrow this perfidious day that dawned a feast and will end with dreadful obsequies.”
She could not bear to linger in the room a moment longer, and she charged into the garden like a slaughtered chicken. But no sooner had she passed through the door than she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes transfixed on the litter being borne toward her by the slaves. As she made way for them she pressed her hands against the top of her head, which reeled from the gruesome sight, and followed them inside as they placed the litter with great care in the center of the room and then withdrew.
Sofkhatep departed immediately after them and the place was left to her and him. She rushed over and knelt by his side, interlocking her fingers and clasping them tightly in a state of hopeless distress. She looked into his grave and slowly dimming eyes, and as she gasped for breath, her shifting glance was drawn toward his stricken chest. She saw the patches of blood and the arrow protruding and she shivered with unspeakable anguish, as she cried out, her voice disjointed with torment and dread, “They have wounded you. Oh, the horror!”
Three Novels of Ancient Egypt Page 39
