Despite all this, he remained under her spell, her portrait never leaving his vest; he gave it all his attention whenever he found himself alone. “Do you see who this enchanting tyrant is?” he thought to himself. “A little peasant girl? Incredible… and what peasant girl has such luminous, magical eyes? And where was the modesty of the peasant in her arrogance and her stubbornness? And where was the peasant's simplicity in her biting sarcasm and her resounding scorn?” If he had surprised a true peasant girl that way, perhaps she would have run away -or surrendered contentedly - but that is hardly what happened here! Could he ever forget her sitting there among her companions like a princess with her servants and ladies-in-waiting? And could he ever forget how they defended her from him, as though unto death? And would he ever forget how they stayed with him — after her flight — not running away, afraid that he would follow them to her? Instead, they resigned themselves to the cold and dark. Would they have done all those things for a peasant girl like themselves? Perhaps she was from the rural aristocracy - if only she was. Then Nafa could not taunt him again that he was likely to fall in a broken-down hut. If only he had succeeded with her, so that he could tell Nafa about it. What a pity!
Be all that as it may, the month that he imagined would never end, finally did. He left the academy as one would leave a fearful prison, and went to the house with a pent-up yearning for something other than his family. He met them with a joy not equal to theirs, and sat among them with an absent heart. Nor did he notice the stiffness and listlessness that had come over Gamurka, as he waited with an empty patience, when minutes seemed like months. Finally, he made off for the pure place of Apis where his eyes would seek out the beloved face.
This was the month of Barmuda - the air was humid and mild, taking from the cold a pinch of its freshness, and from the heat a lively breath that stirred playfulness and passion. The sky was tinted a delicate, translucent white, a pale blue gleaming beyond.
He looked tenderly at the dear spot, and asked himself, “Where is the peasant girl with the bewitching eyes?” Would she remember him? Was she still angry with him? And was his desire still so daunting for her? Could it be that his love would find an echo within her?
The empty place did not reply, the rocks were deaf to his call - and a spirit of pessimism, longing, and solitude possessed him.
And time — first hope tempted him to believe that there was still enough for her to appear, so it passed slowly and heavily. Then despair made him imagine that she had already come and gone, and time flew like an arrow, while the sun seemed to be riding a speedy chariot racing off into the western horizon.
He kept wandering around where he saw her for the first time, peering into the green grass, longing to see the tracks of her sandals or the drag-mark of her skirt. Alas, the grass preserved no more trace of her body than had the waters retained the shape of her legs!
Does she still visit this place as she did before, or did she give up her outings to avoid seeing him? Where could she be? And how could he find her? Should he call out, but without knowing the name to call? He kept on meandering around the beloved place in confusion, his patience running out, battered back and forth by optimism and dejection. In the midst of these musings he looked up at the sky, and saw the fire of the sun going down. His eye looked upon it as though it were a human giant humbled by old age and infirmities. But then he turned his face toward the sprawling fields and saw the outline of a village. Not knowing what he was doing, he set out to reach it, and midway he met a peasant returning home after his long day's labor, and asked him about the place. The peasant answered him, staring at his uniform with respect, “It is the village of Ashar, sir.” Djedef nearly showed him the picture snuggled against his breast to ask him about its mistress, but did not.
He resumed his aimless journey. Yet he found relief in the traveling that he did not find in stopping and walking around. It was as if the disappointed hope that had beguiled him on the bank of the Nile had fled into the precincts of this village and he was following its trail. It was an evening he would not forget, for he crisscrossed all the hamlet's lanes, reading the faces of those that he passed, stopping to ask at each house. As he did so, his searching look aroused curiosity, and his good looks attracted stares, with eyes locked on him from every side. Nor was it long before he found himself ambling amidst a throng of girls, boys, and older youths. The talk and clamor began to rise, while he found not a trace of the cherished object of his quest. Soon he shunned the people of the village as he left it quickly, speeding his steps toward the Nile in the gloom of his soul, and the darkness of the world.
Though grieving, his ardor burned within him, while the sense of loss tore him apart. His condition reminded him of the ordeal of Goddess Isis when she went looking for the remnants of her husband Osiris - whose body evil Seth had scattered to the winds. Mother Isis had been more fortunate than he was. If his own beloved were a phantom that one sees in dreams, then his chances of finding her would have been much stronger.
Handsome Djedef was in love, but his was an odd infatuation, one without a beloved, a passion whose agony was not from rejection or betrayal or the vagaries of time, or from people's wiles. Rather, his torment was the absence of a sweetheart altogether. She was like an errant breeze borne by cyclone -winds which took it to a place unknown to man. His heart was lost, not knowing a place of rest. He knew not if it was near or far, in Memphis or in the farthest parts of Nubia. How cruel -were the Fates that turned his eye toward that picture that he kept next to his heart — ruthless Fates, like those spirits -who take delight in the torments of men.
He returned to his house, -where he met his brother Nafa in the garden.
“Where have you been, Djedef?” the artist asked. “You were gone a long time — didn't you know that Kheny is in his room?”
“Kheny?” he asked, taken aback. “Is it true what you say? But I didn't find him when I came.”
“He arrived in the past two hours, and he's waiting for you.”
Djedef hurried to the room of the priest, whom he had not set eyes on in years. He saw him sitting as he did during the days gone by, book in hand. When Kheny saw him he stood up and said to him with joy, “Djedef! How are you, O gallant officer!”
They clasped each other around the neck for a long while, as Kheny kissed his cheeks and blessed him in the name of the Lord Ptah. Then he said, “How fleetly the years pass, O Djedef! Your face is still as handsome as ever… but you have grown into something quite spectacular. To me you look like those intrepid soldiers that the king blesses at the end of great battles, and whose heroism he immortalizes on the walls of the temples. My dear Djedef, how happy I am to see you after all these long years!”
Filled with joy, Djedef said, “I too am very happy, my dear brother. My God, you've turned out the faithful image of the men of the priesthood, in the leanness of your body, the dignity of your presence, and the sharpness of your expression. Have you finished your studies, my dear Kheny?”
Kheny smiled as he sat, clearing a space for Djedef next to him.
“The priest never stops learning, for there is no end to knowledge,” he expounded. “Kagemni taught, ‘The learned man seeks knowledge from the cradle to the grave — yet he dies an ignorant man.’ Nonetheless, I have finished the first stage of study.”
“And how was your life in the temple?”
Kheny turned dreamy eyes upon him. “Oh how long it has been!” he replied. “It's as though I were listening to you ten years ago, when you would hurl a question at me - do you remember, Djedef? You shouldn't be surprised, for a priest's life is spent between question and answer - or between a question and the attempt to answer it. The question is the summary of the spiritual life. Pardon me, Djedef, but what interests you about life in the temples? Not all of what is known is uttered. Suffice it that you be aware it is a life of inner struggle and purity. They habituate us to making the body pure and obedient to our will, then they teach us the divine knowledge. F
or where does the good seed grow except in the good soil?”
“And what are you busying yourself with, dear brother?” asked Djedef.
“I shall soon work as a servant of the sacrifices to Lord Ptah, exalted be His name. I have won the sympathy of the high priest, who has predicted that it will not be ten years before I am elected one of the ten judges of Memphis.”
“I believe that His Holiness's prophecy will come true before then,” Djedef said with passion. “You are a great man, my brother.”
Kheny grinned in his quiet way. “I thank you, dear Djedef. And now, tell me, are you reading anything useful?”
Djedef laughed. “If that's how you count military strategy, or the history of the Egyptian army, then I'm reading something useful!”
Then Kheny inquired empathetically, “Wisdom, O Djedef! You were listening to the words of the sages with zeal in this very place, but ten years ago!”
“The truth is that you planted the love of wisdom in my heart,” Djedef said. “But my life in the military leaves me little free time for the reading I crave. Be that as it may, the distance between myself and liberation has been shortened.”
Disturbed, Kheny said, “The virtuous mind never dismisses wisdom even for a day, just as the healthy stomach does not renounce food for a day. You should make up for what you have already lost, O Djedef. The virtue of the science of war is that it trains the soldier to serve his homeland and his sovereign with his might, though his soul does not benefit at all. And the soldier who is ignorant of wisdom is like the faithful beast — nothing more. Perhaps he would do well under an iron hand, but if left to his own devices, he is unable to help himself, and can help only others instead. The gods have distinguished him from the animals by giving him a soul, and if the soul isn't nourished by wisdom then it sinks to the level of the lesser creatures. Don't neglect this, O Djedef, for I feel from the depths of my heart that your spirit is lofty, and I read on your handsome forehead splendid lines of majesty and glory, may the Lord bless your comings and your goings.”
The conversation flowed between them sweetly and agreeably, closing with the subject of Nafa's marriage. Kheny learned of it for the first time from Djedef, calling down blessings on the husband and the wife. Then a thought occurred to Djedef and he asked, “Kheny, won't you marry?”
“Why not, Djedef?” the priest said to the young man. “The clergyman cannot remain sure of his own wisdom if he does not marry. Can mortal man ascend to heaven with a soul still yearning for the earth? The virtue of marriage is that it takes care of one's lust and so purifies the body.”
Djedef left his brother's chamber at midnight, and repaired to his own room. He had started to remove his robe while recalling his talk with the priest, when sorrow assailed him as he remembered his day, and the frustration it had brought him. But just before dropping onto his bed he heard a light tapping, and he bid the person knocking to come in.
Zaya entered, her face distressed.
“Did I awake you?” she asked him.
“No, Mama, I hadn't gone to sleep yet,” he said, feeling afraid. “Is everything alright?”
The woman hesitated, trying to speak, but her tongue would not obey. She gestured for him to follow her, and he did so apprehensively until she halted at her bedroom. She pointed at the floor - and Djedef saw Gamurka sprawled out as though wounded by a fatal shaft. He could not control himself as he cried out in alarm, “Gamurka… Gamurka… what's wrong with him, Mama?”
With a choking voice, the woman said, “Have courage, Djedef, have courage.”
His heart torn out of his chest, the soldier knelt by the dear dog, which did not greet him as normal by leaping about with joy. He stroked his body but Gamurka did not stir.
“Mama, what's the matter with him?” he asked again.
“Be brave, Djedef, for he is dying.”
The fearsome word horrified Djedef. “How did this happen?” he said in a protesting tone. “He came to see me this morning, the way he always does.”
“He wasn't like he always was, my dear. Even though his love for you obliterated his pain at the time, he's now very old, Djedef, and the final feebleness has been clear in him these last few days.”
Djedef's pain intensified; he turned to his faithful friend and whispered into his ear in deepest grief, “Gamurka… don't you hear me? Gamurka!”
The trusty dog lifted his head with difficulty, looking at his master with unseeing eyes, as though he was bidding the final goodbye. Then he returned to his heavy sleep, and began to moan hoarsely, as Djedef called to him time and again, but without any response at all. He sensed that the force of death was gathering around his loyal comrade, watching as he opened and closed his mouth, panting heavily. He crouched helplessly as Gamurka shuddered weakly just once, before journeying quietly into Eternity. He called out to him from the depths of his heart, “Gamurka,” but the plea was futile. For the first time since becoming a soldier, the tears flowed from his eyes as he wept in farewell for the companion of his childhood, the dear friend of his boyhood, and the comrade of his youth.
His mother lifted him up before her and dried his tears with her lips, then sat him down next to her on her bed, consoling him -with tender -words — but he did not hear. Nor did he open his mouth all that night except -when he told her, “Mama, I want to embalm him and lay him in a sarcophagus. Then I -want to put him in the spot in the garden where he and I used to play — until he's moved into my tomb -when the Lord calls me to Him.”
And so ended that tragic day.
18
DJEDEF'S SIXTH and final year in the war college had finished. The school held its traditional annual tournament in -which the graduates contended with each other before being assigned to the various branches of the army. A vivid liveliness dawned that day on the mighty academy, its walls adorned with the standards of the military divisions, the air resounding with the rousing strains of music.
The doors opened to receive the invitees, both men and women, whose masses came from the families of the army officers and commanders, as well as the graduates and high officials.
After midday, there came the great men of state, led by the priests and ministers. At their head were His Holiness Hemiunu, the Military High Commander under Arbu, plus many of the other leading civil servants, scribes, and artists. They all assembled there in order to receive His Royal Highness Prince Khafra, the heir apparent, whom His Majesty the King had appointed to preside over the celebration in his name.
When the time of the prince's arrival drew nigh, the elite men of office hastened to the academy's gateway and stood waiting amidst lines of soldiers. Before long there appeared in the broad, level square in front of the school the crown prince's procession, led by a troop of chariots from the Great House Guards. The music played in salute as the masses stood in tribute, their cheers rising for Khufu and the crown prince.
When Khafra's retinue reached the building's entrance, the academy's director approached, bearing in his hands a silken cushion stuffed with ostrich feathers upon which His Royal Highness would rest his feet. With Khafra came his sister, Her Royal Highness Princess Meresankh, as well as his brothers, the princes Baufra, Hordjedef, Horsadef, Kawab, Sedjedef, Khufukhaf, Hata, and Meryb.
The notables bowed before the crown prince, -who walked with a hardened face and square build that the maturity of age made seem even harsher and more vainglorious. As he took his seat in the center, the princess and the other princes sat at his right, while to his left were Hemiunu, the ministers, the commanders, and the chief civil officials. After the prince's arrival, the cheering quieted down as the guests were seated, and the festivities began. The horn sounded, the music was played, and from the direction of the barracks there appeared a group of graduating officers marching four abreast, headed by the commander of the trainees, holding the school's standard. For the first time they were dressed in officers’ uniform with its green shirt, loincloth, and leopard-skin cape.
When they
reached a point parallel to the throne upon which His Royal Highness reposed, they drew out their swords and raised them with arms outstretched like pillars, their tips pointed skyward, offering their salute. Khafra, standing, returned it.
The great competition commenced with a horse race. The officers mounted colorfully adorned steeds and lined up in formation. When the horn sounded, they plunged forward like arrows shot from giant bows, the legs of the chargers shaking the ground like a powerful earthquake. Their pace was so fast that the onlookers almost lost sight of them, while the brave riders clung to them as though nailed to their backs. At first there was a single row, then the violent pace began to pull them apart. Suddenly, one horseman bolted free of the others as though riding a mad wind, beating them back to the starting place. The trainer announced the name of this rider — “Djedef son of Bisharu” — as the winner. If, amidst the thunderous applause, he had been able to hear his father cheering, “Go, son of Bisharu!” he would not have been able to control his laughter.
A short time later, the chariot race began. The officers mounted their vehicles and waited in formation. Then the horn blew as they burst out like giants, sending terror out before them, leaving a roar behind them like the breaking of boulders and the sundering of mountains. They swayed in their vehicles without wavering, like firmly rooted palm trunks buffeted by winds determined to upend them - winds that were forced to give up in -wailing frustration.
Suddenly there raced out from among them a rider who sped past them all -with preternatural power, -who moved so quickly that they seemed to be standing still. He was headed for victory right until the end, when the trainer again announced the name of the winner — “Djedef son of Bisharu.” Again, the cheers rose for him, and this time the clapping was even stronger.
Three Novels of Ancient Egypt Khufu's Wisdom Page 14
