[18]Another form of Astarte.
[18]Another form of Astarte.
All these tidings were collected by the most worthy Sem and his assistants. The holy fathers, Mefres and Mentezufis, communicated to him other information which had come to them from Memphis:—
The Chaldean priest and miracle-worker, Beroes, was received in the subterranean parts of the temple of Set by the priest Osochar, who, when giving his daughter in marriage two months later, had presented her with rich jewels and bought a good estate for her and her husband. And since Osochar had no considerable income, a suspicion rose that that priest had overheard the conversation of Beroes with the Egyptian priests, and had sold to Phœnicians, criminally, the secret of the treaty, and received a great estate from them.
When he heard this, the high priest Sem added,—
“If the holy Beroes does, indeed, perform miracles, then ask him, first of all, if Osochar has betrayed the secret.”
“They inquired of Beroes,” said Mefres, “but the holy man answered that in that affair he preferred to be silent. He added, also, that even if some one had heard their conversation, and reported to Phœnicians, neither Egypt nor Chaldea would suffer any injury; and if they should find the guilty person, it would be proper to show him mercy.”
“A holy man! Indeed, a holy man!” whispered Sem.
“And what wilt thou say, worthiness,” asked Mefres, “ofthe prince and the disturbances which his conduct has caused in the country?”
“I will say the same as Beroes: ‘The heir does not cause harm to Egypt, so we should show him indulgence.’”
“This young man reviles the gods and miracles; he enters foreign temples, he excites the men to rebellion. These are no small matters,” said Mefres, bitterly. This priest could not pardon Rameses for having jeered at his devotion so rudely.
The high priest Sem loved Rameses; so he answered with a kindly smile,—
“What laborer is there in Egypt who would not like to have a slave, and abandon hard labor for sweet idleness? Or what man is there on earth who is without the dream of not paying taxes, since with that which he pays the treasury, his wife, he himself, and his children might buy showy clothes and use various dainties?”
“Idleness and excessive outlay spoil a man,” said Mentezufis.
“What warrior,” continued Sem, “would not desire war and covet a thousand drachmas, or even a greater sum? Further, I ask you, O fathers, what pharaoh, what nomarch, what noble pays old debts with alacrity, and does not look askance at the wealth of temples?”
“That is vile greed,” whispered Mefres.
“And, finally,” said Sem, “what heir to the throne has not dreamed of decreasing the importance of the priesthood? What pharaoh at the beginning of his reign has not tried to shake off the supreme council’s influence?”
“Thy words are full of wisdom,” said Mefres, “but to what may they lead us?”
“To this, not to accuse the heir before the supreme council, for there is no court that would condemn the prince for this, that earth-workers would be glad not to pay taxes, or that soldiers want war if they can have it. Nay, ye may receive a reprimand. For if ye had followed the prince day by day and restrained his minor excesses, we should not have at present that pyramid of complaints founded, moreover, on nothing. In such affairs the evil is not in this, that people are inclined to sin, for they have been so at all times. But thedanger is here, that we have not guarded them. Our sacred river, the mother of Egypt, would very soon fill all canals with mud, if engineers ceased to watch it.”
“And what wilt thou say, worthiness, of the fictions which the prince permitted himself in speaking with us? Wilt thou forgive his foul reviling of miracles?” inquired Mefres. “Moreover this stripling has insulted me grievously in my religious practices.”
“Whoso speaks with a drunken man is himself an offender,” said Sena. “To tell the truth, ye had no right, worthy fathers, to speak with a man who was not sober about important state questions. Ye committed a fault in making a drunken man commander of an army. A leader must be sober.”
“I bow down before thy wisdom,” said Mefres; “still I vote to lay a complaint against the heir before the supreme council.”
“But I vote against a complaint,” answered Sem, energetically. “The council must learn of all acts of the viceroy, not through a complaint, but through an ordinary report to it.”
“I too am opposed to a complaint,” said Mentezufis.
The high priest, Mefres, seeing that he had two votes against him, yielded in the matter of a complaint. But he remembered the insult from the prince and hid ill-will in his bosom.
BY advice of astrologers the headquarters were to move from Pi-Bast on the seventh day of Hator. For that day was “good, good, good.” Gods in heaven and men on earth rejoiced at the victory of Ra over his enemies; whoever came into the world on that day was destined to die at an advanced age surrounded by reverence.
That was a favorable day for pregnant women, and people trading in woven stuffs, but for toads and mice it was evil.
From the moment that he was appointed commander Rameses rushed to work feverishly. He received each regiment as it arrived; he inspected its weapons, its train, and its clothing. He greeted the recruits, and encouraged them to diligent exercise at drilling, to the destruction of their enemies and the glory of thepharaoh. He presided at every military council, he was present at the examination of every spy, and in proportion as tidings were brought in, he indicated on the map with his own hand the movement of Egyptian armies and the positions of the enemy.
He passed so swiftly from place to place that they looked for him everywhere, and still he swooped on them suddenly like a falcon. In the morning he was on the south of Pi-Bast and verified the list of provisions; an hour later he was north of the city, and discovered that a hundred and fifty men were lacking in the Ieb regiment. In the evening he overtook the advance guard, was at the crossing of an arm of the Nile, and passed in review two hundred war chariots.
The holy Mentezufis, who, as a representative of Herhor, understood the military art well, was overcome by astonishment.
“Ye know,” said he to Sem and Mefres, “that I do not like the heir to the throne, for I have discovered his perversity and malice. But Osiris be my witness that that young man is a born leader. I will tell you a thing unparalleled: We shall concentrate our forces on the border three or four days earlier than it was possible to expect. The Libyans have lost the war already, though they have not heard the whistle of our arrows.”
“So much the worse is such a pharaoh for us,” interposed Mefres, with the stubbornness peculiar to old men.
Toward evening the sixth of Hator, Prince Rameses bathed and informed his staff that they would march on the morrow two hours before sunrise. “And now I wish to sleep,” said he.
To wish for sleep was easier than to get it. The whole city was swarming with warriors; at the palace of the prince a regiment had encamped which had no thought of rest, but was eating, drinking, and singing.
The prince went to the remotest chamber, but even there he could not undress. Every few minutes some adjutant flew in with a report of no moment, or for an order in questions which could have been settled on the spot by the commander of a regiment. Spies were led in who brought no new information; great lords with small followings were announced; these wished to offer their services to the prince as volunteers. Phœnician merchants broke in on him; these wanted contracts forthe army, or were contractors who complained of the extortion of generals.
Even soothsayers and astrologers were not lacking, who in the last hours before marching wished to draw his horoscope for the viceroy; there were even practisers of the black art who wished to sell unfailing amulets against missiles.
These people simply broke into the prince’s chamber: each one of them judged that the fate of the expedition was in his hands, and that in such a case every etiquette should vanish.
The heir satisfied all applicants patiently. But when behind an astrologer one of his own women pushed into the room with complaint that Rameses did not love her, since he had not taken farewell, and when a quarter of an hour later the weeping of another was heard outside the window, the heir could endure no longer; he summoned Tutmosis.
“Sit in this room,” said he, “and if thou wish, console the women of my household. I will hide somewhere in the garden; if not, I shall not sleep and to-morrow I shall look like a hen just pulled out of a cistern.”
“Where am I to seek thee in case of need?” asked Tutmosis.
“Oho! ho!” laughed the heir. “Seek me nowhere. I shall appear of myself when the trumpet is sounded.”
And throwing over his shoulders a long mantle with a hood, he slipped out to the garden. Through the garden were prowling soldiers, kitchen boys, and other servants. In the whole space about the palace order had disappeared, as usual before an expedition. Noting this, Rameses turned to the densest part of the park, found a little arbor formed of grape-vines, and threw himself on a bench satisfied.
“Here neither priests nor women will find me,” muttered the viceroy.
He fell asleep immediately, and slept like a stone.
Kama had felt ill for some days. To her irritation was joined some peculiar weakness and pain in the joints. Then there was an itching of her face, but especially of her forehead above the eyebrows.
These minute symptoms seemed to her so alarming that she ceased to dread assassination, but straightway she sat downbefore a mirror, and told her servants to withdraw and leave her. At such times she thought neither of Rameses nor the hated Sarah; all her attention was fixed on those spots which an untrained eye would not have even noticed.
“A spot—yes, these are spots,” whispered she, full of terror. “Two, three— O Astaroth, but thou wilt not punish thy priestess in this way! Death would be better— But again what folly! If I rub my forehead, the spots will be redder. Evidently something has bitten me, or I have used impure oil in anointing. I will wash, and the spots will be gone by to-morrow.”
The morrow came, but the spots had not vanished.
Kama called a servant.
“Listen!” said she. “Look at me!”
But as she spoke she sat down in a less lighted part of the chamber.
“Listen and look!” said she, in a stifled voice. “Dost thou see spots on my face? But come no nearer.”
“I see nothing,” answered the serving-woman.
“Neither under my left eye nor on my brows?” asked she, with growing irritation.
“Let the lady be pleased graciously to sit with the side of her face to the light,” said the woman.
Of course that request enraged Kama.
“Away, wretch,” cried she; “show thyself no more to me!”
When the serving-woman fled, her mistress rushed feverishly to the dressing-table, opened two little toilet jars, and with a brush painted her face rose-color.
Toward evening, feeling continual pain in her joints and fear in her heart, which was worse than pain, she commanded to call a physician. When they told her that the physician had come, she looked at the mirror, and was seized by a new attack, as it were of insanity. She threw the mirror to the pavement, and cried out with weeping that she did not need the physician.
During the sixth of Hator she ate nothing all day and would see no person.
When the slave woman brought in a light after sundown,Kama lay on the bed, after she had wound herself in a shawl. She ordered the slave to go out as quickly as possible; then she sat in an armchair at a distance from the lamp, and passed some hours in a half-waking stupor.
“There are no spots,” said she, “and if there are, they are not spots of that kind! They are not leprosy. O ye gods!” cried she, throwing herself on the pavement. “It cannot be that I— O ye gods, save me! I will go back to the temple; I will do lifelong penance— I have no spots. I have been rubbing my skin for some days; that is why it is red. Again, how could I have it; has any one ever heard that a priestess and a woman of the heir to the throne could have leprosy? O ye gods! that never has happened since the world began. Only fishermen, prisoners, and vile Jews— Oh, that low Jewess! Heavenly powers, oh, send down leprosy to her!”
At that moment some shadow passed by the window on the first story. Then a rustle was heard, and from the door to the middle of the room sprang in—Lykon.
Kama was amazed. She seized her head suddenly, and in her eyes immense terror was depicted.
“Lykon!” whispered she. “Thou here, Lykon? Be off! They are searching for thee.”
“I know,” answered the Greek, with a jeering laugh. “All the Phœnicians are hunting me, and all the police of his holiness. Still I am with thee, and I have been in thy lord’s chamber.”
“Wert thou with the prince?”
“Yes; in his own bedchamber. And I should have left a dagger in his breast if the evil spirits had not saved him. Evidently he went to some other woman, not to thee.”
“What dost thou wish here?” whispered Kama. “Flee!”
“But with thee. On the street a chariot is ready for us; on this we shall ride to the Nile, and there my boat is in waiting.”
“Thou hast gone mad! But the city and the streets are filled with warriors.”
“For that very reason I was able to enter this palace, and we can escape very easily. Collect all thy treasures. I shall be back here immediately and take thee.”
“Whither art thou going?”
“I am seeking thy lord. I shall not go without leaving him a memento.”
“Thou art mad!”
“Be silent!” interrupted Lykon, pale from anger. “Thou wishest yet to defend him.”
The Phœnician woman tottered; she clinched her fists, and an evil light flashed in her eyes.
“But if thou canst not find him?”
“Then I will kill one of his sleeping warriors. I will set fire to the palace. Do I know what I shall do? But I will not go without leaving a memento.”
The great eyes of the Phœnician woman had such a ghastly look that the Greek was astonished.
“What is the matter with thee?” asked Lykon.
“Nothing; listen. Thou hast never been so like the prince as to-day. Hence, if thou wish to do a good thing—”
She put her face to his ear and whispered.
The Greek listened in amazement.
“Woman,” said he, “Hades speaks through thee.”
“Yes; suspicion will be turned on him.”
“That is better than a dagger,” said Lykon, laughing. “Never could I have come on that idea. Perhaps both would be better?”
“No! Let her live. This will be my vengeance.”
“What a wicked soul!” whispered Lykon. “But thou pleasest me. We will pay them both in kingly fashion.”
He withdrew to the window and vanished. Kama leaned out after him, and forgetting every other thing, listened in a fever.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour after the departure of Lykon, at the side of the fig grove rose the piercing shriek of a woman. It was repeated a couple of times, and then ceased.
Instead of the expected delight, terror seized Kama. She fell on her knees, and gazed into the dark garden with a wandering stare.
Below was heard almost noiseless running; there was a squeak at the pillar in the antechamber, and in the window appeared Lykon again in a dark mantle. He was panting with violence, and his hands trembled.
“Where are thy jewels?” whispered he.
“Let me alone,” replied she.
The Greek seized her by the shoulder.
“Wretch! Dost thou not understand that before sunrise they will imprison thee, and will strangle thee a couple of days later?”
“I am sick.”
“Where are thy jewels?”
“Under the bed.”
Lykon went to her bedchamber; with the light of a lamp he drew out a heavy casket, threw a mantle over Kama, and pulled her by the arm.
“Make ready! Where are the doors through which he comes to thee—that lord of thine?”
“Leave me!”
The Greek bent to her, and whispered,—
“Aha! Dost think that I will leave thee here? I care as much for thee now as I do for a dog that has lost sense of smell. But thou must go with me. Let that lord of thine know that there is a man better than he. He stole a priestess from Astaroth, I take his mistress from the heir of Egypt.”
“I tell thee that I am sick.”
The Greek drew out a slender blade, and put the point of it to her throat.
Kama trembled, and whispered,—
“I go.”
They passed through the secret door to the garden. From the direction of the palace came the noise of warriors kindling fires. Here and there among the trees were lights; from time to time some one in the service of the heir passed the pair. At the gate the guard stopped them,—
“Who are ye?”
“Thebes,” answered Lykon.
Then they went out to the street unhindered, and vanished in the alleys of the foreign quarter.
Two hours before daybreak drums and trumpets sounded through the city.
Tutmosis was lying sunk in deep sleep, when Prince Rameses pulled his mantle, and called,—
“Rise, watchful leader. The regiments are marching!”
Tutmosis sat up in bed and rubbed his drowsy eyes.
“Ah, is it thou, lord?” asked he, yawning. “Hast thou slept?”
“As never before,” replied Rameses.
“But I should like to sleep more.”
Both bathed, put on their jackets and light mail, then mounted horses, which were tearing away from the equerries.
Soon the heir, with a small suite, left the city, and on the way passed slowly moving columns. The Nile had overflowed widely, and the prince wished to be present at the passage of fords and canals.
At sunrise the last army chariot was far outside the city, and the worthy nomarch of Pi-Bast said to his servants,—
“I am going to sleep now, and woe to the man who rouses me before the hour of our feast in the evening! Even the divine sun rests when each day is past, while I have not lain down since the first day of Hator.”
Before he had finished praising his own watchfulness, a police officer entered, and begged for a special hearing in a case of immense importance.
“Would that the earth had swallowed thee!” muttered the worthy nomarch.
But still he commanded to summon the officer, and inquired with ill-humor,—
“Is it not possible to wait a few hours? The Nile will not run away, as it seems to me.”
“A terrible misfortune has happened,” replied the officer. “The son of the erpatr is killed.”
“What? Who?” cried the nomarch.
“The son of the Jewess Sarah.”
“Who killed him? When—”
“Last night.”
“But who could do this?”
The officer bent his head and spread his arms.
“I asked who killed him?” repeated the nomarch, more astonished than angry.
“Be pleased, lord, thyself to investigate. My lips will not utter what my ears have heard.”
The astonishment of the nomarch increased. He gavecommand to lead in Sarah’s servants, and sent for Mefres, the high priest. Mentezufis, as representative of the minister of war, had gone with the viceroy.
The astonished Mefres came. The nomarch told of the murder of the child, and said that the police official dared not give explanations.
“But are there witnesses?” inquired the high priest.
“We are waiting for thy commands, holy father.”
They brought in Sarah’s doorkeeper.
“Hast thou heard,” inquired the nomarch, “that the child of thy mistress is killed?”
The man fell to the pavement, and answered,—
“I have even seen the worthy remains broken against the wall, and I detained our lady when she ran out to the garden, screaming.”
“When did this happen?”
“At midnight. Immediately after the most worthy heir came to our lady,” answered the watch.
“How is this? Did the prince visit thy lady last night?” inquired Mefres.
“Thou hast said it, great prophet.”
“This is wonderful!” whispered Mefres to the nomarch.
The second witness was Sarah’s cook, the third her waiting-woman. Both declared that after midnight the prince had entered Sarah’s chamber, stayed there awhile, then run out quickly to the garden, and soon after him appeared Lady Sarah, screaming terribly.
“But the prince remained all night in his chamber; he did not leave the palace,” said the nomarch.
The police-officer shook his head, and declared that some of the palace servants were waiting in the antechamber.
They were summoned. Mefres questioned them, and it appeared that the heir had not slept in the palace. He had left his chamber before midnight, and gone to the garden; he returned when the first trumpet sounded.
When the witnesses had been led out, and the two dignitaries were alone, the nomarch threw himself on the pavement, and declared to Mefres that he was grievously ill, and would rather lose his life than carry on investigations. Thehigh priest was very pale and excited; but he replied that they must clear up a question of murder, and he commanded the nomarch in the name of the pharaoh to go with him to Sarah’s dwelling. It was not far to the garden of the heir, and the two dignitaries soon found themselves at the place where the crime had been committed.
When they entered the chamber on the first story, they saw Sarah kneeling at the cradle in such a posture as if nursing the child. On the wall and the pavement were blood spots.
The nomarch grew so weak that he was forced to sit down, but Mefres was calm. He approached Sarah, touched her arm, and said,—
“We come hither, lady, in the name of his holiness.”
Sarah sprang to her feet suddenly, and, looking at Mefres, cried in a terrible voice,—
“A curse on you! Ye wished to have a Jew king, and here is the king for you. Oh, why did I, unfortunate, listen to your traitorous advice!”
She dropped, and fell again at the side of the cradle, groaning,—
“My son—my little Seti! How beautiful he was,—so cunning; just stretching out his little hands to me! O Jehovah! give him back to me, for that is in Thy power. O gods of Egypt,—Osiris, Horus, Isis,—O Isis, for thou too wert a mother! It cannot be that in the heavens there is not one who will listen to my prayer. Such a dear, little child! A hyena would have spared him—”
The high priest took her by the arms, and put her on her feet. The police and the servants filled the room.
“Sarah,” said the high priest, “in the name of his holiness, the lord of Egypt, I summon thee, and command thee to answer, Who killed thy son?”
She gazed straight ahead, like a maniac, and rubbed her forehead.
The nomarch gave her water and wine, and one of the women present sprinkled her with vinegar.
“In the name of his holiness,” repeated Mefres, “I command thee, Sarah, to tell the name of the murderer.”
Those present withdrew toward the door; the nomarch with despairing action closed both his ears.
“Who killed?” said Sarah, in a panting voice, sinking her gaze in the face of Mefres. “Who killed, dostthouask? I know you, ye priests! I knowyourjustice.”
“Then who killed?” insisted Mefres.
“I!” cried Sarah, in an unearthly voice. “I killed my child, because ye made him a Jew.”
“That is false!” hissed the high priest.
“I, I!” repeated Sarah. “Hei, ye people who see me and hear me,” she turned to the witnesses, “ye know that I killed him—I—I—I!” cried she, beating her breast.
At such an explicit accusation of herself the nomarch recovered, and looked with compassion on Sarah; the women sobbed, the doorkeeper wiped away tears. But the holy Mefres closed his blue lips firmly. At last he said, with emphatic voice, while looking at the police official,—
“Servants of his holiness, I surrender this woman, whom ye are to conduct to the edifice of justice—”
“But my son with me!” interrupted Sarah, rushing to the cradle.
“With thee, with thee, poor woman,” said the nomarch; and he covered his face.
The dignitaries went out of the chamber. The police officer had a litter brought, and with marks of the highest respect conducted Sarah down to it. The unfortunate woman seized a blood-stained bundle from the cradle, and took a seat, without resistance, in the litter.
All the servants went after her to the chamber of justice.
When Mefres, with the nomarch, was passing through the garden, the nomarch said,—
“I have compassion on that woman.”
“She will be punished properly for lying,” answered the high priest.
“Dost thou think so, worthiness?”
“I am certain that the gods will discover and punish the real murderer.”
At the garden gate the steward of Kama’s villa stood in the road before them.
“The Phœnician woman is gone. She disappeared last night.”
“A new misfortune,” whispered the nomarch.
“Have no fear,” said Mefres; “she followed the prince.”
From these answers the worthy nomarch saw that Mefres hated the prince, and his heart sank in him. If they proved that Rameses had killed his own son, the heir would never ascend the throne of his fathers, and the heavy yoke of the priesthood would weigh down still more mightily on Egypt.
The sadness of the nomarch increased when they told him in the evening that two physicians of the temple of Hator, when looking at the corpse of the infant, had expressed the opinion that only a man could have committed the murder. Some man, said they, seized with his right hand the feet of the little boy, and broke his skull against the wall of the building. Sarah’s hand could not clasp both legs, on which, moreover, were traces of large fingers.
After this explanation Mefres, in company with the high priest Sem, went to Sarah in the prison, and implored her by all the gods of Egypt and of foreign lands to declare that she was not guilty of the death of the child, and to describe the person of the murderer.
“We will believe thy word,” said Mefres, “and thou wilt be free immediately.”
But Sarah, instead of being moved by this proof of friendliness, fell into anger.
“Jackals,” cried she, “two victims are not enough; ye want still more. I, unfortunate woman, did this; I,—for who else would be so abject as to kill a child—a little child that had never harmed any one?”
“But dost thou know, stubborn woman, what threatens thee?” asked the holy Mefres. “Thou wilt hold the remains of thy child for three days in thy arms, and then be fifteen years in prison.”
“Only three days?” repeated Sarah. “But I would never part with my little Seti; and not only to prison, but to the grave will I go with him, and my lord will command to bury us together.”
When the high priest left Sarah, the most pious Sem said,—
“I have seen mothers who killed their own children, and I have judged them; but none were like her.”
“For she did not kill her child,” answered Mefres, angrily.
“Who, then?”
“He whom the servants saw when he rushed into Sarah’s house and fled a moment later; he who, when going against the enemy, took with him the priestess Kama, who defiled the altar; he,” concluded Mefres, excitedly, “who hunted Sarah out of the house, and made her a slave because her son had been made a Jew.”
“Thy words are terrible,” answered Sem, in alarm.
“The criminal is still worse, and, in spite of that stupid woman’s stubbornness, he will be discovered.”
But the holy man did not suppose that his prophecy would be accomplished so quickly.
And it was accomplished in the following manner:—Prince Rameses, when moving from Pi-Bast with the army, had not left the palace when the chief of the police learned of the murder of Sarah’s child, and the flight of Kama, and this, too,—that Sarah’s servants saw the prince entering her house in the night time. The chief of police was a very keen person; he pondered over this question, Who could have committed the crime? and instead of inquiring on the spot, he hastened to pursue the guilty parties outside the city, and forewarned Hiram of what had happened.
While Mefres was trying to extort a confession from Sarah, the most active agents of the Pi-Bast police, and with them every Phœnician under the leadership of Hiram, were hunting the Greek Lykon and the priestess Kama.
So three nights after the prince had departed, the chief of police returned to Pi-Bast, bringing with him a large cage covered with linen, in which was some woman who screamed in heaven-piercing accents. Without lying down to sleep, the chief summoned the officer who had made the investigation, and listened to his report attentively.
At sunrise the two priests, Sem and Mefres, with the nomarch of Pi-Bast, received a most humble invitation to deign immediately, should such be their will, to come to the chief of police. In fact, all three entered at the very same moment;so the chief, bending low, implored them to tell all that they knew concerning the murder of the son of the viceroy.
The nomarch, though a great dignitary, grew pale when he heard the humble invitation, and answered that he knew nothing. The high priest Sem gave almost the same answer, adding, for himself, the reflection that Sarah seemed to him innocent.
When the turn came to the holy Mefres, he said,—
“I know not whether thou hast heard, worthiness, that during the night of the crime one of the prince’s women escaped; her name was Kama.”
The chief of police feigned to be greatly astonished.
“I know not,” continued Mefres, “whether they have told thee that the heir did not pass the night in the palace, but was in Sarah’s house. The doorkeeper and two servants recognized him, for the night was rather clear. It is a great pity,” finished the high priest, “that thou hast not been here these two days past.”
The chief bowed very low to Mefres, and turned to the nomarch,—
“Wouldst thou be pleased, worthiness, to tell me, graciously, how the prince was dressed that evening?”
“He wore a white jacket, and a purple apron with gold fringe,” answered the nomarch. “I remember very well, for that evening I was one of the last who spoke with him.”
The chief of the police clapped his hands, and Sarah’s doorkeeper entered the chamber.
“Didst thou see the prince,” inquired he, “when he came in the night to the house of thy lady?”
“I opened the door to his worthiness,—may he live through eternity!”
“And dost thou remember how he was dressed?”
“He wore a jacket with yellow and black stripes, a cap of the same colors, and a blue and red apron,” answered the doorkeeper.
Both priests and the nomarch began to wonder.
Then they brought in Sarah’s servants, who repeated exactly the same description of the prince’s dress. The nomarch’s eyes flashed with delight, but on the face of the holy Mefres confusion was evident.
“I will swear,” put in the worthy nomarch, “that the prince wore a white jacket and a purple apron with gold fringe.”
“Now, most worthy men,” said the chief of police, “be pleased to come with me to the prison. There we shall see one more witness.”
They went to a subterranean hall, where under a window stood a great cage covered with linen. The chief threw back the linen with his stick, and those present saw a woman lying in a corner.
“But this is the Lady Kama!” cried the nomarch.
It was indeed Kama, sick and changed very greatly. When she rose at sight of the dignitaries, and appeared in the light, those present saw that her face had bronze-colored spots on it. Her eyes seemed wandering.
“Kama,” said the chief, “the goddess Astaroth has touched thee with leprosy.”
“It was not the goddess!” said she, with a changed voice. “It was the low Asiatics, who threw in a tainted veil to me. Oh, I am unfortunate!”
“Kama,” continued the chief, “our most famous high priests, Sem and Mefres, have taken compassion on thee. If thou wilt tell the truth, they will pray for thee, and perhaps the all-mighty Osiris will turn from thee misfortune. There is still time, the disease is only beginning, and our gods have great power.”
The sick woman fell on her knees, and pressing her face against the grating, said in a broken voice,—
“Have compassion on me! I have renounced Phœnician gods, and to the end of life will serve the gods of Egypt. Only avert from me—”
“Answer, but answer truly,” said the chief, “and the gods will not refuse thee their favor. Who killed the child of the Jewess Sarah?”
“The traitor, Lykon, the Greek. He was a singer in our temple, and said that he loved me. But he has rejected me, the infamous traitor, and seized my jewels.”
“Why did Lykon kill the child?”
“He wanted to kill the prince, but not finding him in the palace, he ran to Sarah’s villa.”
“How did the criminal enter a house that was guarded?”
“Dost thou not know that Lykon resembles the prince? They are as much alike as two leaves of one palm-tree.”
“How was Lykon dressed that night?”
“He wore a jacket in yellow and black stripes, a cap of the same material, and a red and blue apron. Do not torment me; return me my health! Be compassionate! I will be faithful to your gods! Are ye going already? Oh, hard-hearted!”
“Poor woman,” said the high priest Sem, “I will send to thee a mighty worker of miracles; he may—”
“May ye be blessed by Astaroth! No, may your almighty and compassionate gods bless you,” whispered Kama, in dreadful weariness.
The dignitaries left the prison and returned to the upper hall. The nomarch, seeing that the high priest Mefres kept his eyes cast down and his lips fixed, asked him,—
“Art thou not rejoiced, holy man, at these wonderful discoveries made by our chief?”
“I have no reason to rejoice,” answered Mefres, dryly. “The case, instead of being simplified, has grown difficult. Sarah asserts that she killed the child, while the Phœnician woman answers as if some one had taught her—”
“Then dost thou not believe, worthiness?” interrupted the chief.
“No, for I have never seen two men so much alike that one could be mistaken for the other. Still more, I have never heard that there exists in Pi-Bast a man who could counterfeit our viceroy,—may he live through eternity!”
“That man,” said the chief, “was in Pi-Bast, at the temple of Astaroth. The Tyrian Prince Hiram knew him, and our viceroy has seen him with his own eyes. More than that, not long ago, he commanded me to seize him, and even offered a large reward.”
“Ho! ho!” cried Mefres, “I see, worthy chief,—I see that the highest secrets of the state are concentrating about thee. But permit me not to believe in that Lykon till I see him.”
And he left the hall in anger, and after him Sem, shrugging his shoulders. But when their steps had ceased to sound inthe corridor, the nomarch, looking quickly at the chief, asked,—
“What dost thou think?”
“Indeed,” said the chief, “the holy prophets are beginning to interfere in things which have never been under their jurisdiction.”
“And we must endure this!” whispered the nomarch.
“For a time only,” sighed the chief. “In so far as I know men’s hearts, all the military, all the officials of his holiness, in fine, all the aristocracy, are indignant at this priestly tyranny. Everything must have its limit.”
“Thou hast uttered great words,” said the nomarch, pressing the chief’s hand, “and some internal voice tells me that I shall see thee as supreme chief of police at the side of his holiness.”
A couple of days passed. During this time the dissectors had secured from corruption the remains of the viceroy’s son; but Sarah continued in prison, awaiting her trial, certain that she would be condemned.
Kama was sitting, also, confined in her cage; people feared her, for she was infected with leprosy. It is true that a miracle-working physician visited her, repeated prayers before her, gave her everything to drink, and gave her healing water. Still, fever did not leave the woman, and the bronze-colored spots on her cheeks and brows grew more definite. Therefore an order came from the nomarch to take her out to the eastern desert, where, separated from mankind, dwelt a colony of lepers.
On a certain evening the chief appeared at the temple of Ptah, saying that he wished to speak with the high priest. The chief had with him two agents, and a man covered from head to foot in a bag.
After a while an answer was sent to the chief that the high priests were awaiting him in the sacred chamber of the statue of their divinity.
The chief left the agents before the gate, took by the arm the man dressed in the bag, and, conducted by a priest, went to the sacred chamber. When he entered, he found Mefres and Sem arrayed as high priests, with silver plates on their bosoms.
He fell before them on the pavement, and said,—
“In accordance with your commands, I bring to you, holy fathers, the criminal Lykon. Do ye wish to see his face?”
When they assented, the chief rose, and pulled the bag from the man standing near him.
Both high priests cried out with astonishment. The Greek was really so like Rameses that it was impossible to resist the deception.
“Thou art Lykon, the singer from the temple of Astaroth?” asked the holy Sem of the bound Greek.
Lykon smiled contemptuously.
“And didst thou kill the child of the prince?” added Mefres.
The Greek grew blue from rage, and strove to tear off his bonds.
“Yes!” cried he, “I killed the whelp, for I could not find the wolf, his father,—may heaven’s blazes burn him!”
“In what has the prince offended thee, criminal?” asked the indignant Sem.
“In what? He seized from me Kama, and plunged her into a disease for which there is no remedy. I was free, I might have fled with life and property, but I resolved to avenge myself, and now ye have me. It was his luck that your gods are mightier than my hatred. Now ye may kill me; the sooner ye do so, the better.”
“This is a great criminal,” said Sem.
Mefres was silent and gazed into the Greek’s eyes, which were burning with rage. He admired his courage, and fell to thinking. All at once he said to the chief,—
“Worthy sir, thou mayst go, this man belongs to us.”
“This man,” replied the chief, who was indignant, “belongs to me. I seized him and I shall receive a reward from Prince Rameses.”
Mefres rose and drew forth from under his mantle a gold medal.
“In the name of the supreme council, of which I am a member,” said he, “I command thee to yield this man to us. Remember that his existence is among the highest state secrets, and indeed it would be a hundred times better for thee to forget that thou hast left him here.”
The chief fell again to the pavement, and went out repressing his anger.
“Our lord the prince will repay you when he is the pharaoh!” thought he. “And he will pay you my part—ye will see.”
“Where is the prisoner?” asked the agents standing before the gate.
“In prison,” answered the chief; “the hands of the gods have rested on him.”
“And our reward?” asked the elder agent.
“The hands of the gods have rested on your reward also. Imagine then to yourselves that ye saw that prisoner only in a dream, ye will be safer in health and in service.”
The agents dropped their heads in silence. But in their hearts they swore vengeance against the priests, who had taken a handsome reward from them.
After the chief had gone Mefres summoned a number of priests, and whispered something into the ears of the eldest. The priests surrounded the Greek and conducted him out of the chamber. Lykon made no resistance.
“I think,” said Sem, “that this man should be brought before the court as a murderer.”
“Never!” cried Mefres, with decision. “On this man weighs an incomparably greater crime, he is like the heir to the throne.”
“And what wilt thou do with him, worthiness?”
“I will reserve him for the supreme council,” said Mefres. “When the heir to the throne visits pagan temples and steals from them women, when the country is threatened with danger of war, and the power of the priests with rebellion, Lykon may be of service.”
On the following midday the high priest Sem, the nomarch, and the chief of police went to Sarah’s prison. The unfortunate woman had not eaten for a number of days, and was so weak that she did not rise from the bench even in presence of so many dignitaries.
“Sarah,” said the nomarch, whom she had known before, “we bring thee good news.”
“News,” repeated she with a pathetic voice. “My son isnot living, that is the news; my breast is full of nourishment, but my heart is full of sadness.”
“Sarah,” said the nomarch, “thou art free. Thou didst not kill thy child.”
Her seemingly dead features revived. She sprang from the bench, and cried,—
“I—I killed him—only I.”
“Consider, Sarah, a man killed thy son, a Greek, named Lykon, the lover of the Phœnician Kama.”
“What dost thou say?” whispered she, seizing the nomarch’s hands. “Oh, that Phœnician woman! I knew that she would ruin us. But the Greek? I know no Greek. How could my son offend any man?”
“I know not,” continued the nomarch. “That Greek is no longer alive. But that man was so like Prince Rameses that when he entered thy chamber thou didst think him our lord. And thou hast preferred to accuse thy own self rather than our lord, and thine.”
“Then that was not Rameses?” cried she, seizing her head. “And I, wretched woman, let a strange man take my son from his cradle. Ha! ha! ha!”
Then she laughed more and more. On a sudden, as if her legs had been cut from under her, she fell to the floor, her hands hopped a couple of times, and she died in hysteric laughter.
But on her face remained an expression of sorrow which even death could not drive from it.
THE western boundary of Egypt for a distance of more than a hundred geographic miles is composed of a wall of naked limestone hills about two hundred metres high, intersected by ravines. They run parallel to the Nile, from which they are sometimes five miles distant, sometimes one kilometre.
Whoso should clamber up one of these hills and turn his face northward would see one of the strangest sights possible. He would have on his right hand the narrow but green plain cutlengthwise by the Nile; on his left he would see an endless yellow open region, varied by spots, white or brick colored.
Monotony, the irritating yellow color of the sand plain, the heat, and, above all, boundless immensity are the most peculiar traits of the Libyan desert, which extends westward from Egypt.
But viewed more nearly the desert is in fact less monotonous. Its sand is not level, but forms a series of swellings which recall immense waves of water. It is like a roused sea solidified on a sudden. But whoso should have the courage to go across that sea for an hour, two hours, a day, directly westward would see a new sight. On the horizon would appear eminences, sometimes cliffs and rocks of the strangest outlines. Under foot the sand would grow thinner, and from beneath it limestone rocks would emerge just like land out of water.
In fact that was a land, or even a country in the midst of a sand ocean. Around the limestone hills were valleys, in them the beds of streams and rivers, farther on a plain, and in the middle of it a lake with a bending line of shores and a sunken bottom.
But on these plains, hills, and heights no blade of grass grows; in the lake there is no drop of water; along the bed of the river no current moves. That is a landscape, even greatly varied with respect to forms, but a landscape from which all water has departed,—the very last atom of moisture has dried from it; a dead landscape, where not only all vegetation has vanished, but even the fertile stratum of earth has been ground into dust or dried up into rock slabs.
In those places the most ghastly event has taken place of which it is possible to meditate: Nature has died there, and nothing remains but her dust and her skeleton, which heat dissolves to the last degree, and burning wind tosses from spot to spot.
Beyond this dead, unburied region stretches again a sea of sand, on which are seen, here and there, towering up in one and another place, pointed stacks as high as a house of one story. Each summit of such a little hill is crowned by a small bunch of gray, fine, dusty leaves, of which it is difficult to say that they are living; but it may be said that they cannot wither.
One of these strange stacks signifies that water in that place has not dried up altogether, but has hidden from drought beneath the earth, and preserves dampness in some way. On that spot a tamarind seed fell, and the plant has begun to grow with endless effort.
But Typhon, the lord of the desert, has noted this, and begun to stifle it with sand. And the more the little plant pushes upward, the higher rises the stack of sand which is choking it. That tamarind which has wandered into the desert looks like a drowning man raising his arms, in vain, heavenward.
And again the yellow boundless ocean stretches on with its sand waves and those fragments of the plant world which have not the power to perish. All at once a rocky wall is in front, and in it clefts, which serve as gateways.
The incredible is before us. Beyond one of these gateways a broad green plain appears, a multitude of palms, the blue waters of a lake. Even sheep are seen pasturing, with cattle and horses. From afar, on the sides of a cliff, towers up a town; on the summit of the cliff are the white walls of a temple.
That is an oasis, or island in the sand ocean.
In the time of the pharaohs there were many such oases, perhaps some tens of them. They formed a chain of islands in the desert, along the western boundary of Egypt. They lay at a distance of ten, fifteen, or twenty geographic miles from the Nile, and varied in size from a few to a few tens of square kilometres in area.
Celebrated by Arab poets, these oases were never really the forecourts of paradise. Their lakes are swamps for the greater part; from their underground sources flow waters which are warm, sometimes of evil odor, and disgustingly brackish; their vegetation could not compare with the Egyptian. Still, these lonely places seemed a miracle to wanderers in the desert, who found in them a little green for the eye, a trifle of coolness, dampness, and some dates also.
The population of these islands in the sand ocean varied from a few hundred persons to numbers between ten and twenty thousand, according to area. These people were all adventurers or their descendants,—Europeans, Libyans,Ethiopians. To the desert fled people who had nothing to lose,—convicts from the quarries, criminals pursued by police, earth-tillers escaping from tribute, or laborers who left hard work for danger. The greater part of these fugitives died on the sand ocean. Some of them, after sufferings beyond description, were able to reach the oases, where they passed a wretched life, but a free one, and they were ready at all times to fall upon Egypt for the sake of an outlaw’s recompense.
Between the desert and the Mediterranean extended a very long, though not very wide strip of fruitful soil, inhabited by tribes which the Egyptians called Libyans. Some of these worked at land tilling, others at navigation and fishing; in each tribe, however, was a crowd of wild people, who preferred plunder, theft, and warfare to regular labor. That bandit population was perishing always between poverty and warlike adventure; but it was also recruited by an influx of Sicilians and Sardinians, who at that time were greater robbers and barbarians than were the native Libyans.
Since Libya touched the western boundary of Lower Egypt, barbarians made frequent inroads on the territory of his holiness, and were terribly punished. Convinced at last that war with Libyans was resultless, the pharaohs, or, more accurately, the priesthood, decided on another system: real Libyan families were permitted to settle in the swamps of Lower Egypt, near the seacoast, while adventurers and bandits were enlisted in the army, and became splendid warriors.
In this way the state secured peace on the western boundary. To keep single Libyan robbers in order police were sufficient, with a field guard and a few regiments of regulars disposed along the Canopus arm of the great river.
Such a condition of affairs lasted almost two centuries; the last war with the Libyans was carried on by Rameses III., who cut enormous piles of hands from his slain enemies, and brought thirteen thousand slaves home to Egypt. From that time forth no one feared attack on the Libyan boundary, and only toward the end of the reign of Rameses XII. did the strange policy of the priests kindle the flame of war again in those regions.
It burst out through the following causes:—
His worthiness, Herhor, the minister of war, and high priest of Amon, because of resistance from his holiness the pharaoh, was unable to conclude with Assyria a treaty for the division of Asia. But wishing, as Beroes had forewarned him, to keep a more continued peace with Assyria, Herhor assured Sargon that Egypt would not hinder them from carrying on a war with eastern and northern Asiatics.
And since Sargon, the ambassador of King Assar, seemed not to trust their oaths, Herhor decided to give him a material proof of friendly feeling, and, with this object, ordered to disband at once twenty thousand mercenaries, mainly Libyans.
For those disbanded warriors, who were in no way guilty and had been always loyal, this decision almost equalled a death sentence. Before Egypt appeared the danger of a war with Libya, which could in no case give refuge to men in such numbers,—men accustomed only to comforts and military exercise, not to poverty and labor. But in view of great questions of state, Herhor and the priests did not hesitate at trifles.
Indeed, the disbanding of the Libyans brought them much advantage.
First of all, Sargon and his associates signed and swore to a treaty of ten years with the pharaoh, during which time, according to predictions of priests in Chaldea, evil fates were impending over Egypt.
Second, the disbanding of twenty thousand men spared four thousand talents to the treasury; this was greatly important.
Third, a war with Libya on the western boundary was an outlet for the heroic instincts of the viceroy, and might turn his attention from Asiatic questions and the eastern boundary for a long time. His worthiness Herhor and the supreme council had calculated very keenly that some years would pass before the Libyans, trained in petty warfare, would ask for peace with Egypt.
The plan was well constructed, but the authors of it failed in one point; they had not found Rameses a military genius.
The disbanded Libyan regiments robbed along the way, and reached their birthplace very quickly,—all the more quickly since Herhor had given no command to place obstacles beforethem. The very first of the disbanded men, when they stood on Libyan soil, told wonders to their relatives.
According to their stories, dictated by anger and personal interest, Egypt was then as weak as when the Hyksos invaded it nine hundred years earlier. The pharaoh’s treasury was so poor that he, the equal of the gods, had to disband them, the Libyans, who were the chief, if not the only honor of the army. Moreover, there was hardly any army unless a mere band on the eastern boundary, and that was formed of warriors of a common order.
Besides, there was dissension between the priesthood and his holiness. The laborers had not received their wages, and the earth tillers were simply killed through taxes, therefore masses of men were ready to rebel if they could only find assistance. And that was not the whole case, for the nomarchs, who ruled once independently, and who from time to time demanded their rights again, seeing now the weakness of the government, were preparing to overturn both the pharaoh and the supreme priestly council.
These tidings flew, like a flock of birds, along the Libyan boundary, and found credit quickly. Those barbarians and bandits ever ready to attack, were all the more ready then, when ex-warriors and officers of his holiness assured them that to plunder Egypt was easy.
Rich and thoughtful Libyans believed the disbanded men also; for during many years it had been to them no secret that Egyptian nobles were losing wealth yearly, that the pharaoh had no power, and that earth-tillers and laborers rebelled because they suffered.
And so excitement burst out through all Libya. People greeted the disbanded warriors and officers as heralds of good tidings. And since the country was poor, and had no supplies to nourish visitors, a war with Egypt was decided on straightway, so as to send off the new arrivals at the earliest.
Even the wise and crafty Libyan prince, Musawasa, let himself be swept away by the general current. It was not, however, the disbanded warriors who had convinced him, but certain grave and weighty persons who, in every likelihood, were agents of the chief Egyptian council.
These dignitaries, as if dissatisfied with things in Egypt, or offended at the pharaoh and the priesthood, had come to Libya from the seashore; they took no part in conversations, they avoided meetings with disbanded warriors, and explained to Musawasa, as the greatest secret, and with proofs in hand, that that was just his time to fall on Egypt.
“Thou wilt find there endless wealth,” said they, “and granaries for thyself, thy people, and the grandsons of thy grandsons.”
Musawasa, though a skilful diplomat and leader, let himself be caught in that way. Like a man of energy, he declared a sacred war at once, and, as he had valiant warriors in thousands, he hurried off the first corps eastward. His son, Tehenna, who was twenty years of age at that time, led it.
The old barbarian knew what war was, and understood that he who plans to conquer must act with speed and give the first blows in the struggle.
Libyan preparations were very brief. The former warriors of his holiness had no weapons, it is true, but they knew their trade, and it was not difficult in those days to find weapons for an army. A few straps, or pieces of rope for a sling, a dart or a sharpened stick, an axe, or a heavy club, a bag of stones, and another of dates,—that was the whole problem.
So Musawasa gave two thousand men, ex-warriors of the pharaoh, and four thousand of the Libyan rabble to Tehenna, commanding him to fall on Egypt at the earliest, seize whatever he could find, and collect provisions for the real army. Assembling for himself the most important forces, he sent swift runners through the oases and summoned to his standard all who had no property.
There had not been such a movement in the desert for a long time. From each oasis came crowd after crowd, such a proletariat, that, though almost naked, they deserved to be called a tattered rabble. Relying on the opinion of his counsellors, who a month earlier had been officers of his holiness, Musawasa supposed, with perfect judgment, that his son would plunder hundreds of villages and small places from Terenuthis to Senti-Nofer, before he would meet important Egyptian forces. Finally they reported to him, that at thefirst news of a movement among the Libyans, not only had all laborers fled from the glass works, but that even the troops had withdrawn from fortresses in Sochet-Heman on the Soda Lakes.
This was of very good import to the barbarians, since those glass works were an important source of income to the pharaoh’s treasury.
Musawasa had made the same mistake as the supreme priestly council. He had not foreseen military genius in Rameses. And an uncommon thing happened: before the first Libyan corps had reached the neighborhood of the Soda Lakes the viceroy’s army was there, and was twice as numerous as its enemies.
No man could reproach the Libyans with lack of foresight. Tehenna and his staff had a very well-organized service. Their spies had made frequent visits to Melcatis, Naucratis, Sai, Menuf, and Terenuthis, and had sailed across the Canopus and Bolbita arms of the Nile. Nowhere did they meet troops; the movements of troops would have been paralyzed in those places by the overflow, but they did see almost everywhere the alarm of settled populations which were simply fleeing from border villages. So they brought their leader exact intelligence.
Meanwhile the viceroy’s army, in spite of the overflow, had reached the edge of the desert in nine days after it was mobilized, and now, furnished with water and provisions, it vanished among the hills of the Soda Lakes.
If Tehenna could have risen like an eagle above the camp of his warriors, he would have been frightened at seeing that Egyptian regiments were hidden in all the ravines of that district, and that his corps might be surrounded at any instant.