[19]Polar star.
[19]Polar star.
“Then the Phœnicians, too, have this god?”
“They do not even know of him. The god which points one hand always to the star Eshmun, is known only to us and the priests of Chaldea. By the aid of this god every prophet night and day, in bad and good weather, can find his way on the sea or in the desert.”
At command of the prince, who went with a lighted torch at the side of Pentuer, the retinue and the prisoners followed the priest, northeastward. The god depending from a string trembled, but indicated with outstretched hand, the sacred star, Eshmun, the guardian of travellers.
They went on foot at a good pace, leading the horses. The cold was so sharp, that even Asiatics blew on their hands, and the Libyans trembled.
With that, something began to crackle and break underfoot. Pentuer stopped, and bent down.
“In this place,” said he, “rain has made a pool on the rock. And see, worthy lord, what has become of the water.”
Thus speaking, he raised and showed the prince what seemed a plate of glass, but which melted in his hand.
“When there is great cold,” said he, “water becomes a transparent stone.”
The Asiatics confirmed the words of the priest, and added that far away in the north, water turned into stone very often, and fog turned into a white salt which is tasteless, but breaks in the hands and causes pain in the teeth.
The prince admired Pentuer’s wisdom still more.
Meanwhile, the northern side of the heavens grew clear, showing the Great Bear and the star, Eshmun. The priest repeated a prayer again, put the guiding god into his bag, and commanded to quench the torches, and to leave only a burning cord which kept the fire, and indicated time by its gradual burning.
The prince enjoined watchfulness on his men, and taking Pentuer, pushed ahead some tens of paces.
“Pentuer,” said he, “from this hour I make thee my counsellor, both now and when it shall please the gods to give me the crown of Upper and Lower Egypt.”
“How have I deserved this favor?”
“Before my eyes thou hast done deeds which show great wisdom, and also power over spirits. Besides thou wert ready to save me. So, although it is thy resolve to keep many things from my knowledge—”
“Pardon, lord,” interrupted Pentuer. “For gold and jewels, thou wilt find traitors shouldst thou need them, among priests even. But I am not of those men. For think, were I to betray the gods, what bond could I give not to betray thee also?”
Rameses grew thoughtful.
“Thou hast answered wisely,” said he. “But it is a wonder to me why thou, a priest, hast for me kindness in thy heart. Thou didst bless me a year ago, and to-day thou wouldst not let me go alone into the desert, and hast shown me great service.”
“Because the gods have forewarned me that thou art worthy, lord; shouldst thou wish, thou mayst rescue the ill-fated people of Egypt.”
“How do the people concern thee?”
“I came from them. My father and brother raised water long days from the Nile, and received blows of sticks for their labor.”
“How can I aid the people?” asked Rameses.
Pentuer grew animated.
“Thy people,” said he, with emotion, “toil too much, they pay too much tribute, they suffer persecution and misery. Hard is the fate of the toiling man. The worm eats half his harvest, the rhinoceros the other half; in the fields, a legion of mice live; the locust comes,—the cattle trample,—the sparrows steal. What is left after these for the threshing floor the thief takes. Oh, wretched earth-tillers! Now comes the scribe to the boundary and mentions the harvest. His attendants have sticks, and black men carry palm rods. ‘Give wheat!’ say they. He answers, ‘There is none.’ They flog him; immediately they stretch him out at full length—they bind him; they hurl him into the canal, where they sink him, head downward. They bind his wife in his presence and also his children. His neighbors flee, carrying their wheat away with them.”[20]
[20]Original description.
[20]Original description.
“I have seen that myself,” said Rameses, “and have driven off at least one scribe of that sort. But can I be everywhere to forestall injustice?”
“Thou mayst command, lord, not to torment working-men needlessly. Thou mayst decrease taxes, appoint days of rest for the earth-tillers. Thou mayst give each family a patch of land, even the harvest of which would be theirs, and serve to nourish them. In the opposite case they will feed themselves as they now do, with lotus seeds, rotten fish and papyrus, till thy people will perish finally. But show them favor and they will rise.”
“Indeed, I will do so!” said Rameses. “A wise owner will not let cattle starve nor work beyond the strength of their bodies, or be clubbed without reason. This must be changed.”
Pentuer halted.
“Dost thou promise that, worthy lord?”
“I swear!” answered Rameses.
“Then I swear that thou wilt be the most famous of all pharaohs; before thee the fame of Rameses the Great, will grow pale!” cried the priest, mastering himself no longer.
The prince fell to thinking, then asked,—
“What can we two do against those priests who hate me?”
“They fear thee, lord,” answered Pentuer. “They fear lest thou begin war too soon against Assyria?”
“What is that to them if the war be successful?”
The priest bent his head and spread his hands, but was silent.
“Then I will tell thee,” cried the prince, in anger. “They want no war! They fear that I might return from it a conqueror, laden with treasures, urging on slaves in front of me. They fear this because they wish every pharaoh to be a weak tool in their grasp,—a utensil of no real value,—a utensil to be thrown aside when the wish comes. But this will not happen in my case. Either I shall do what I plan, and which I, as the son and heir of the gods have the right to do, or I shall perish.”
Pentuer drew back, and muttered an exorcism.
“Speak not thus, worthy lord,” said he, in confusion, “lest evil spirits circling through the desert may seize thy words. A word,—remember this, ruler,—is like a stone sent from a sling; it may strike a wall, rebound, and hit the man who hurled it.”
The prince motioned with his hand contemptuously.
“It is all one,” replied he. “A life in which every one stops my will has no worth for me. When the gods do not bar me, the winds of the desert do; when evil spirits are not against me, the priests are. Is the power of a pharaoh to be of such sort. I wish to do what my mind says, to give account to my deathless ancestors, and to them only, not to this or that shaven head, who pretends to interpret the will of divinity, but who is really seizing power, and turning my wealth to his own use.”
At some tens of yards from them a strange cry was heard at that moment, half neighing, half bleating, and an immense shadow sped past. It went like an arrow, and as far as could be seen had a humped back and a long neck.
From the prince’s retinue came sounds of fear.
“That is a griffin! I saw its wings clearly,” said one and another of the Asiatics.
“The desert is swarming with monsters,” added the old Libyan.
Rameses was afraid; he also thought that the passing shadow had the head of a serpent, and something resembling short wings.
“Do monsters really show themselves in the desert?” asked he of the priest.
“It is true,” said Pentuer, “that in such a lonely place evil spirits prowl about in strange guises. But it seems to me that that which has passed is rather a beast. It is like a saddle horse, only larger and quicker in movement. Dwellers in the oases say that this beast may live without drinking water at all, or at least very rarely. If that be the case, men hereafter may in crossing deserts use this strange creature, which to-day rouses fear only.”
“I should not dare to sit on the back of a great beast like that,” said Rameses, as he shook his head.
“Our ancestors said the same of the horse, which helped the Hyksos to conquer Egypt, but to-day it is indispensable to our army. Time changes men’s judgments greatly,” said Pentuer.
The last clouds had vanished from the sky and a clear night set in. Though the moon was absent the air was so clear that on the background of the white sand a man could distinguish the general outline of objects, even when small or distant. The piercing cold also diminished. All advanced now in silence, and sank, as they walked, in the sand to their ankles. Suddenly a tumult and cries rose among the Asiatics,—
“A sphinx! Look, a sphinx! We shall not escape from this desert if spectres show themselves all the time.”
Indeed, outlines of a sphinx on a white limestone hill were seen very clearly. The body of a lion, an immense head with an Egyptian cap, and as it were a human profile.
“Calm yourselves, barbarians,” said the old Libyan. “That is no sphinx; it is a lion, and he will do no harm, for he is occupied in eating.”
“Indeed, that is a lion!” confirmed the prince halting. “But how he resembles a sphinx.”
“He is the father of our sphinxes,” added the priest in a low voice. “His face recalls a man’s features, his mane is the wig.”
“And our great sphinx, that at the pyramids?”
“Many ages before Menes,” said Pentuer, “when there were no pyramids yet, there was on that spot a rock which looked like a recumbent lion, as if the gods wished in that way to indicate the beginning of the desert. The holy priests of that period commanded artists to hew the rock around with more accuracy and to fill out its lacks by additions. The artists, seeing people oftener than lions, cut out the face of a man, and thus the first sphinx had its origin.”
“To which we give divine honor,” said the prince, smiling.
“And justly,” answered the priest. “For the gods made the first features of this work and men finished them under divine guidance. Our sphinx by its size and mysteriousness recalls the desert. It has the posture of spirits wandering through it, and terrifies men as does the desert. That sphinx is really the son of the gods and the father of terror.”
“Everything has in its own way an earthly beginning,” answered the prince. “The Nile does not flow from heaven, but from certain mountains which lie beyond Ethiopia. The pyramids, which Herhor said were an image of our state, are built on the model of mountain summits. And our temples, too, with their pylons and obelisks, with their gloom and coolness, do they not recall caves and mountains, extending along the Nile valley? How many times in hunting have I not gone astray among eastern ridges! I have always struck upon some strange collection of rocks which recalled a temple. Frequently even, on their rough sides, I have seen hieroglyphs written by wind and by rainstorms.”
“In that, worthiness, thou hast proof,” said Pentuer, “that our temples were reared on a plan which the gods themselves outlined. And as a small kernel cast into the ground gives birth to a heaven-touching palm tree, so the picture of a cliff, a cave, a lion, even a lotus, placed in the soul of a pious pharaoh, gives birth to an alley of sphinxes, to temples and their mighty columns. Those are the works of divinities, not men, and happy is the ruler who when he looks can discover divine thought in earthly objects and present it in a form pleasing to future generations.”
“But such a ruler must have power, much wealth, and not depend on the fancies of priests,” interrupted Rameses.
Before them extended a second sandy elevation, on which at that moment appeared some horsemen.
“Are they our men, or the Libyans?” asked Rameses.
The sound of a horn was heard from the eminence; to this an answer was given by the prince’s retinue. The horsemen came down as quickly as the deep sand would let them. When they had approached one cried out,—
“Is the heir to the throne here?”
“He is, and is well!” cried Rameses.
They dismounted and fell on their faces.
“Oh, Erpatr!” cried the leader of the newly arrived, “thy troops are rending their garments and scattering dust on their heads, thinking that thou hast perished. All the cavalry has scattered over the desert to find traces, while the gods have permitted us, the unworthy, to be first to greet thee.”
The prince named the man a centurion and commanded him to present his subordinates for a reward on the morrow.
HALF an hour later dense throngs of the Egyptian army appeared and soon the escort of the prince was in the camp. From all sides were heard trumpets sounding the recall. Warriors seized their weapons, stood in ranks and shouted. Officers fell at the feet of the prince, then raised him in their arms, bore him around before the divisions, as they had after the triumph of the day previous. The walls of the ravine trembled from the shouts: “Live through eternity, victor! The gods are thy guardians!”
The holy Mentezufis, surrounded by torches, approached now. The heir, seeing the priest, tore himself free from the arms of the officers and hurried to him.
“Know, holy father, we have caught the Libyan chief Tehenna.”
“Vain is the capture,” replied the priest severely, “for which the supreme chief must leave his army; especially when a new enemy may attack at any moment.”
The prince felt all the justice of this reproach, but for that very cause did anger spring up in him. He clinched his fist, his eyes gleamed.
“In the name of thy mother, be silent,” whispered Pentuer, standing behind him.
The heir was so astonished by the unexpected words of his adviser, that in one moment he regained self-control, and then he understood that it would be best to recognize his error.
“Thou speakest truth,” answered he. “An army should never leave its leader, nor the leader his army. I thought, however, that thou wouldst take my place, since thou art a representative of the ministry of war.”
The calm answer mollified Mentezufis, so the priest did not remind the prince of the manœuvres of the previous year when he left the army in the same way and incurred the pharaoh’s disfavor.
At that moment Patrokles approached them with great uproar. The Grecian general was drunk again and called from afar to the viceroy,—
“See, O heir, what the holy Mentezufis has done. Thou didst proclaim pardon to the Libyans who would leave the invaders and return to the army of his holiness. Those men came to me, and owing to thy promise I broke the left wing of the enemy. But the worthy Mentezufis gave command to slay every man of them. About a thousand prisoners have perished—all recent warriors of ours, who were to have pardon.”
The blood rushed to the prince’s head again, but Pentuer, who stood there always behind him, whispered,—
“Be silent, for the sake of the gods, be silent.”
But Patrokles had no adviser, so he continued,—
“From this moment we lose forever, not only the confidence of others, but also that of our own people. For our army must become demoralized utterly when it learns that traitors are forcing their way to the head of it.”
“Vile hireling,” replied Mentezufis, coldly, “how darest thou talk thus of the army and the confidants of his holiness? Since the world became the world such blasphemy has not been uttered! And I fear lest the gods may avenge the insult wrought on them.”
Patrokles laughed loudly.
“While I sleep among the Greeks, I am not afraid of the vengeance of night gods. And while I am on the alert they will do nothing in the daytime.”
“Go to sleep! go among thy Greeks, drunkard,” said Mentezufis, “lest a thunderbolt fall on our heads because of thy offenses.”
“On thy shaven head, thou soul worth a copper, it will not fall, for it would think thy head something else,” said the Greek, half unconscious. But seeing that the prince did not support him, he withdrew to his camp ground.
“Didst thou really command to kill the prisoners in spite of my promise that they should have pardon?” asked the prince.
“Thou wert not in camp, worthiness,” replied Mentezufis, “hence responsibility falls not on thee for that deed: while I observe our military laws, which command to destroy traitorous warriors. The man who served his holiness once and joins his enemies afterward is to be slain immediately—that is the law.”
“But if I had been here?”
“As supreme leader and a son of the pharaoh thou couldst suspend the execution of certain laws which I must obey,” replied Mentezufis.
“Couldst thou not have waited till my return?”
“The law commands to killimmediately, so I carried out its provisions.”
The prince was so stunned that he interrupted conversation and withdrew to his tent. There falling into a seat he said to Tutmosis,—
“I am to-day a captive of the priests. They murder prisoners, they threaten officers, they do not even respect my duties. Did ye say nothing to Mentezufis when he commanded to kill those unfortunate prisoners?”
“He shielded himself with military laws, and new orders from Herhor.”
“But it is I who am leader here, though I went out for half a day.”
“Thou didst give the leadership explicitly into my hands and into those of Patrokles,” answered Tutmosis. “But when theholy Mentezufis came we had to yield to him, for he is our superior.”
The prince thought that the seizure of Tehenna was in every case purchased with surpassing misfortunes. At the same time he felt in all its force the significance of the maxim that a chief must never leave his army. He had to confess his error, but that irritated his pride the more and filled him with hatred for the priesthood.
“Behold,” said he, “I am in captivity even before I have become the pharaoh, may his holiness live through eternity. So to-day I must begin to work myself out of this slavery, and first of all to be silent. Pentuer is right: I must be silent always, and put away my anger, like precious jewels into the storehouse of memory. But when it is full, ye will pay me, O prophets.”
“Thou dost not inquire, worthiness, for the results of the battle,” said Tutmosis.
“Aha, just that. What are they?”
“More than two thousand prisoners, more than three thousand killed, and barely a few hundred escaped.”
“What, then, was the Libyan army?” asked the astonished prince.
“From six to seven thousand men.”
“That cannot be. Is it possible that almost a whole army could perish in such an encounter?”
“And still it is so; that was a terrible battle,” replied Tutmosis. “Thou didst surround them on all sides, the soldiers did the rest, well—yes—and the worthy Mentezufis. Even inscriptions on the tombs of the most famous pharaohs do not mention such a crushing of the enemies of Egypt.”
“Go to sleep, Tutmosis; I am wearied,” interrupted the prince, feeling that pride was beginning to rise to his head.
“Then have I won such a victory? Impossible!” thought he.
He threw himself on to the skins, but though mortally weary he could not sleep.
Only fourteen hours had passed since the moment when he had given the signal to begin the battle. Only fourteen hours? Was it possible!
Had he won such a battle? But he had not even seen a battle, nothing but a yellow dense cloud, whence unearthly shouts were poured out in torrents. Even now he sees that cloud, he hears the uproar, he feels the heat, but there is no battle.
Next he sees a boundless desert, in which he is struggling through the sand with painful effort. He and his men have the best horses in the army, and still they creep forward like turtles. And what heat! Impossible for man to support the like.
And now Typhon springs up, hides the light, burns, bites, suffocates. Pale sparks are shooting forth from Pentuer’s body. Above their heads thunder rolls—such thunder as he had never heard till that day. Later on, silent night in the desert. The fleeing griffin, the dark outline of the sphinx on the limestone hill.
“I have seen so much. I have passed through so much,” thought Rameses. “I have been present at the building of our temples, and even at the birth of the great sphinx, which is beyond having an age now, and—all this happened in the course of fourteen hours.”
Now the last thought flashed before the prince: “A man who has passed through so much cannot live long.”
A chill went through him from head to foot, and he fell asleep.
He woke next morning a couple of hours after sunrise. His eyes smarted, all his bones ached; he coughed a little, but his mind was clear and his heart full of courage.
Tutmosis was at the door of the tent.
“What is it?” asked the prince.
“Spies from the Libyan boundary bring strange news,” said the favorite. “A great throng of people are approaching our ravine, not troops, however, but unarmed men, with children and women; at the head of them is Musawasa, and the foremost of the Libyans.”
“What does this mean?”
“Evidently they wish to beg peace of thee.”
“After one battle?” asked the prince, with wonder.
“But what a battle! Besides, fear increases our army in their eyes. They fear invasion and death.”
“Let us see if this is a military stratagem,” answered the prince, after some thought. “How are our men?”
“They are in good health, they have eaten and drunk, they have rested and are gladsome. But—”
“But what?”
“Patrokles died in the night,” whispered Tutmosis.
“How?” cried the prince, springing up.
“Some say that he drank too much, some—that it was the punishment of the gods. His face was blue and his mouth full of foam.”
“Like that captive in Atribis, thou rememberest him? His name was Bakura; he broke into the feasting hall with complaints against the nomarch. He died that same night—from drunkenness, of course. What dost thou think?”
Tutmosis dropped his head.
“We must be very careful, my lord,” whispered he.
“We shall try,” answered the prince, calmly. “We will not even wonder at the death of Patrokles. For what is there surprising in this, that some drunken fellow dies who insulted the gods, nay! insulted the priests even.”
Tutmosis felt a threat in these jeering words.
The prince had loved Patrokles greatly. The Greek leader had been as faithful as a dog to him. Rameses might forget many wrongs done himself, but the death of that man he would not forgive.
Before midday a fresh regiment, the Theban, arrived from Egypt at the prince’s camp, and besides that some thousands of men and several hundreds of asses bringing large supplies of provisions and also tents. At the same time, from the direction of Libya, returned spies with information that the band of unarmed people coming toward the ravine was increasing.
At command of the heir numerous small detachments of cavalry reconnoitred the neighborhood in every direction to learn if a hostile army were not hidden somewhere. Even the priests, who had brought with them a small chapel of Amon, went to the summit of the highest hill and held a religious service. Then returning to the camp, they assured Rameses that a crowd of some thousands of unarmed Libyanswere approaching, but that there was no army at any point, at least none within a fifteen mile radius.
The prince laughed at the report.
“I have good sight,” said he, “but I could not see an army at that distance.”
The priests, after they had counselled together, informed the prince that if he would bind himself not to tell the uninitiated what he saw he would learn that it was possible to see at great distances.
Rameses took an oath. The priests placed the altar of Amon on a height, and began prayers. When the prince had washed, removed his sandals, offered to the god a gold chain and incense, they conducted him to a small box which was perfectly dark and told him to look at one wall of it.
After a while sacred hymns were intoned during which a bright circle appeared on the box. Soon the bright color grew darker; the prince saw a sandy plain, in the midst of it cliffs, and near them an Asiatic outpost.
The priests sang with more animation and the picture changed. Another patch of the desert was visible, and on it a group of people who looked no larger than ants. Still the movements and dress, and even the faces of the persons were so definite that the prince could describe them.
The astonishment of the heir knew no bounds. He rubbed his eyes, touched the moving picture. Suddenly he turned away his face; the picture vanished and darkness remained.
When he went out of the chapel the elder priest asked him,—
“Well, Erpatr, dost thou believe now in the might of the gods of Egypt?”
“Indeed,” answered he, “ye are such great sages that the whole world ought to give you offerings and homage. If ye can see the future in an equal degree nothing can oppose you.”
After these words a priest entered the chapel and began to pray; soon a voice was heard from the chapel, saying,—?
“Rameses! the fates of the kingdom are weighed, and before another full moon comes thou wilt be its ruler.”
“O gods!” cried the terrified prince. “Is my father so sick, then?”
He fell on his face in the sand; then an assisting priest inquired if he did not wish to learn something more.
“Tell me, Father Amon, whether my plans will be accomplished.”
After a while a voice spoke in the chapel.
“If thou begin no war in the east, if thou give offerings to the gods and respect their servants, a long life awaits thee, and a reign full of glory.”
After the miracles which had happened on the open field, in the open day, the excited prince returned to his tent.
“Nothing can resist the priests,” thought he in fear.
He found Pentuer in the tent.
“Tell me, my counsellor,” said he, “whether priests can read the heart of a man and unveil his secret purpose.”
Pentuer shook his head.
“Sooner,” answered he, “will man see what there is in the centre of a cliff than read the heart of another man. It is even closed to the gods, and death alone can discover its secrets.”
Rameses drew a deep sigh of relief, but he could not free himself from fear. When, toward evening, it was necessary to call a military council, he summoned Mentezufis and Pentuer.
No one mentioned the sudden death of Patrokles; perhaps because there was more urgent business; for Libyan envoys had come imploring in the name of Musawasa mercy for his son Tehenna, and offering to Egypt surrender and peace forever.
“Evil men,” said one of the envoys, “tempted our people saying that Egypt was weak; that her pharaoh was the shadow of a ruler. But yesterday we learned how strong your arm is, and we consider it wiser to yield and pay you tribute than expose our people to certain death and our property to ruin.”
When the military council had heard this speech the Libyans were sent from the tent, and Prince Rameses asked the holy Mentezufis directly for his opinions; this astonished even the generals.
“Only yesterday,” said the worthy prophet, “I should have been glad to refuse the prayer of Musawasa, transfer the war to Libya, and destroy that nest of robbers. But to-day Ihave received such important news from Memphis that I will vote for mercy to the conquered.”
“Is his holiness, my father, sick?” inquired the prince, with deep emotion.
“He is sick. But till we finish with the Libyans thou must not think of his holiness.”
When the heir dropped his head in sadness, Mentezufis added,—
“I must perform one more duty. Yesterday, worthy prince, I made bold to offer a judgment that for such a wretched captive as Tehenna, a chief should not leave his army. To-day I see that I was mistaken, for if thou hadst not seized Tehenna we should not have this early peace with Musawasa. Thy wisdom, chief, has proved higher than military regulations.”
The prince was arrested by this compunction on the part of Mentezufis.
“Why does he speak thus?” thought he. “It is evident that Amon is not alone in knowing of my holy father’s illness.”
And in the soul of the heir the old feelings were roused,—contempt for the priests and distrust of their miracles.
“So it was not the gods who told me that I should soon become pharaoh, but the news came from Memphis, and the priests tricked me in the chapel! But if they lie in one thing, who will assure me that those views of the desert shown on the wall were not deceit also?”
Since the prince was silent all the time, which was attributed to his sorrow because of his father’s illness, and the generals did not dare to say anything after the decisive words of Mentezufis, the military council ended. A unanimous decision was made to stop the war, take the very highest tribute from the Libyans, and send them an Egyptian garrison.
All expected now that the pharaoh would die. But Egypt, to celebrate a funeral worthy of its ruler, needed profound peace.
When leaving the tent of the military council the prince said to Mentezufis,—
“The valiant Patrokles died last night; do ye holy fathers think to show his remains honor?”
“He was a barbarian and a great sinner,” said the priest, “but he rendered such famous services to Egypt that it is proper to assure life beyond the grave to him. If thou permit, worthiness, we will send the body of that man this day to Memphis, so as to make a mummy of it, and take it to an eternal dwelling in Thebes among the retreats of the pharaohs.”
The prince consented willingly, but his suspicions rose.
“Yesterday,” thought he, “Mentezufis threatened me as he might a lazy pupil, and it was even a favor of the gods that he did not beat my back with a stick; but to-day he speaks to me like an obedient son to a father, and almost falls on his breast before me. Is this a sign that power is drawing near my tent, and also the hour of reckoning?”
Thus thinking, the prince increased in pride, and his heart was filled with greater wrath against the priesthood. Wrath which was the worse for being silent like a scorpion which has hidden in the sand and maims the incautious foot with its biting sting.
AT night the sentries gave notice that a throng of Libyans imploring mercy had entered the valley. Indeed the light of their fires was visible on the desert.
At sunrise the trumpets were sounded, and all the Egyptian forces were drawn up under arms on the widest part of the valley. According to command of the prince, who wished to increase the fright of the Libyans—the carriers were arranged between the ranks of the army, and men on asses were disposed among the cavalry. So it happened that the Egyptians seemed as numerous as sands in the desert, and the Libyans were as timid as doves, over which a falcon is soaring.
At nine in the morning his gilded war chariot stood before the tent of the viceroy. The horses bearing ostrich plumes reared so that two men had to hold each of them.
Rameses came out of his tent, took his place in the chariot, and seized the reins himself, while the place of the charioteerwas occupied by the priest Pentuer, who held now the position of counsellor. One of the commanders carried a large green parasol over the prince; behind, and on both sides of the chariot, marched Greek officers in gilded armor. At a certain distance behind the prince’s retinue came a small division of the guard, in the midst of it Tehenna, son of the Libyan chief Musawasa.
A few hundred paces from the Egyptians, at the entrance of the ravine, stood the gloomy crowd of Libyans imploring the conqueror’s favor.
When Rameses came with his suite to the eminence where he was to receive the envoys of the enemy, the army raised such a shout in his honor that the cunning Musawasa was still more mortified, and whispered to the Libyan elders,—
“I say to you, that is the cry of an army which loves its commander.”
Then one of the most restless of the Libyan chiefs, a great robber, said to Musawasa,—
“Dost thou not think that in a moment like this we should be wiser to trust to the swiftness of our horses than to the kindness of the pharaoh’s son? He must be a raging lion, which tears the skin even when stroking it, while we are like lambs snatched away from our mothers.”
“Do as may please thee,” replied Musawasa, “thou hast the whole desert before thee. But the people sent me to redeem their faults, and above all I have a son, Tehenna, on whom the prince will pour out his wrath unless I win favor.”
To the crowd of Libyans galloped up two Asiatic horsemen, who declared that their lord was waiting for submission.
Musawasa sighed bitterly and went toward the height on which the conqueror had halted. Never before had he made such a painful journey. Coarse linen used by penitents covered his back imperfectly; on his head, sprinkled with ashes, the heat of the sun was burning; sharp pebbles cut his naked feet, and his heart was crushed by his own sorrow and that of his people.
He had advanced barely a few hundred paces, but he was forced to halt a couple of times to rest and recover. He looked backward frequently to be sure that the naked slaves carryinggifts to the prince were not stealing gold chains, or what was worse, stealing jewels. For Musawasa knowing life, knew that man is glad to make use of his neighbor’s misfortune.
“I thank the gods,” said the cunning barbarian, comforting himself in mishap, “that the lot has come to me of humbling myself to a prince who may put on the pharaoh’s cap any moment. The rulers of Egypt are magnanimous, especially in time of triumph. If I succeed then in moving my lord he will strengthen my position in Libya, and permit me to collect a multitude of taxes. It is a real miracle that the heir to the throne himself seized Tehenna; and not only will he not do him wrong, but he will cover him with dignities.” Thus he thought and looked behind continually, for a slave, though naked, may conceal a stolen jewel in his mouth, and even swallow it.
At thirty steps from the chariot of the heir Musawasa and those who were with him, the foremost of the Libyans, fell upon their faces and lay on the sand till command to rise was given them through the prince’s adjutant. When they had approached a few steps they fell again; later they fell a third time, and rose only at command of Rameses.
During this interval Pentuer, standing at the prince’s chariot, whispered to his lord,—
“Let thy countenance show neither harshness nor delight. Be calm, like the god Amon, who despises his enemies and delights in no common triumphs.”
At last the penitent Libyans stood before the face of the prince, who looked at them as a fierce hippopotamus at ducklings which have no place to hide before his mightiness.
“Art thou he?” asked Rameses, suddenly. “Art thou that Musawasa, the wise Libyan leader?”
“I am thy servant,” answered Musawasa, and he threw himself on the ground again.
When they ordered him to rise, the prince said,—
“How couldst thou commit such a grievous sin, and raise thy hand against the kingdom of the gods? Has thy former wisdom deserted thee?”
“Lord,” answered the wily Libyan, “sorrow disturbed the reason of the disbanded warriors of his holiness, so they ran to their own destruction, drawing me and mine afterthem. And the gods alone know how long this dreadful war might have lasted if at the head of the army of the ever living pharaoh, Amon himself had not appeared in thy semblance. Thou didst fall on us like a storm wind of the desert, when thou wert not expected, where thou wert not expected, and as a bull breaks a reed so didst thou crush thy blinded opponent. All people then understood that even the terrible regiments of Libya had value only while thy hand sent them forward.”
“Thou speakest wisely, Musawasa,” said the viceroy, “and thou hast done still better to meet thus the army of the divine pharaoh, instead of waiting till it came to thee. But I should be glad to know how sincere thy obedience is.”
“Let thy countenance be radiant, great potentate of Egypt,”[21]answered Musawasa. “We come to thee as subjects, may thy name be great in Libya, be thou our sun, as thou art the sun of nine nations. Only command thy subordinates to be just to us the conquered people who are joined to thy power. Let thy officials govern us justly and with conscience, and not according to their own evil wishes, reporting falsely concerning our people, and rousing thy disfavor against us and our children. Command them, O viceroy of the victorious pharaoh, to govern according to thy will, sparing our freedom, our property, our language, and the customs of our ancestors and fathers.
[21]An inscription on the monument of Horem-Hep, 1470 yearsB. C.
[21]An inscription on the monument of Horem-Hep, 1470 yearsB. C.
“Let thy laws be equal for all subjects, let not thy officials favor some too much and be too harsh toward others; let their sentences be of the same kind for all. Let them collect the tribute predestined for thy needs and for thy use, but let them not take secretly other tributes which never go into thy treasury, and enrich only thy servants and the servants of those servants.
“Command them to govern without injustice to us and our children, for thou art to us a deity and a ruler forever. Imitate the sun, which sends his light to all and gives life and strength to them. We, thy Libyan subjects, implore thy favor and fall on our faces before thee, O heir of the great and mighty pharaoh.”
So spoke the crafty Libyan prince, Musawasa, and after he had finished speaking he prostrated himself again. But whenthe pharaoh’s heir heard these wise words his eyes glittered, and his nostrils dilated like those of a young stallion which after good feeding runs to a field where mares are at pasture.
“Rise, Musawasa, and listen to what I tell thee. Thy fate and that of thy people depend not on me, but on that gracious lord who towers above us all, as the sky above the earth. I advise thee, then, to go and to take Libyan elders hence to Memphis, and, falling on thy face before the leader and the god in this world, to repeat the humble prayer, which I have heard here from thee.
“I know not what the effect of thy prayer will be; but since the gods never turn from him who implores and is repentant, I have a feeling that thou wilt not meet a bad reception.
“And now show me the gifts intended for his holiness, so that I may judge whether they will move the heart of the all-powerful pharaoh.”
At this moment Mentezufis gave a sign to Pentuer who was standing on the prince’s chariot.
When Pentuer descended and approached the holy man with honor, Mentezufis whispered,—
“I fear lest the triumph may rise to the head of our young lord over much. Dost thou not think it would be wise to interrupt the solemnity in some way?”
“On the contrary,” answered Pentuer, “do not interrupt the solemnity, and I guarantee that he will not have a joyous face.”
“Thou wilt perform a miracle.”
“If I succeed I shall merely show him that in this world great delight is attended by deep suffering.”
“Do as thou wishest,” said Mentezufis, “for the gods have given thee wisdom worthy a member of the highest council.”
Trumpets and drums were heard, and the triumphal review began.
At the head of it went naked slaves bearing gifts. Rich Libyans guarded these bondmen who carried gold and silver divinities, boxes filled with perfumes, enamelled vessels, stuffs, furniture, finally gold dishes dotted with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The slaves who bore these had shaven heads and were gagged lest some one of them might steal a costly jewel.
Rameses rested both hands on the edge of the chariot and looked from the height of the hill at the Libyans, and at his own men, as a golden-headed eagle looks down on many colored partridges. Pride filled the prince from foot to head, and all present felt that it was impossible to have more power than was possessed by that victorious commander.
But in one instant the prince’s eyes lost their brightness, and on his face the bitterest surprise was depicted. Pentuer was standing near him.—
“Bend thy ear, lord,” whispered he. “Since thou hast left Pi-Bast wondrous changes have taken place there. Thy Phœnician woman, Kama, has fled with Lykon.”
“With Lykon?” repeated the prince.
“Move not, Erpatr, and show not to thousands that thou feelest sorrow in the day of thy triumph.”
Now there passed below the prince an endless line of Libyans with fruit and bread in baskets, as well as wine and olive oil in roomy pitchers for the army. At sight of this a murmur of delight was spread among the warriors, but Rameses, occupied with Pentuer’s story, took no note of what was passing.
“The gods,” said the prophet in a whisper, “have punished the traitorous Kama.”
“Is she caught?” inquired the prince.
“She is caught, but they have sent her to the eastern colony, because leprosy attacked her.”
“O gods!” whispered Rameses. “But may it not threaten me?”
“Be calm, lord; if it had infected thee thou wouldst be leprous this moment.”
The prince felt a chill in every member. How easy for the gods to thrust a man down from the highest summits to the depths of the lowest misery!
“And Lykon?”
“He is a great criminal,” said Pentuer; “a criminal of such kind that the earth has given few such.”
“I know him. He is as like me as a reflection of me in a mirror,” replied Rameses.
Now came a crowd of Libyans leading strange animals. At the head of these was a one-humped camel with white hair,one of the first which they had caught in the desert, next two rhinoceroses, a herd of horses, and a tame lion caged. Then a multitude of cages holding birds of various colors, monkeys, and small dogs intended for court ladies. Behind them were driven great herds of cattle, and flocks of sheep as food for the pharaoh’s army.
The prince cast an eye on the moving menagerie, and asked the priest,—
“But is Lykon caught?”
“I will tell thee now the worst news, unhappy lord,” whispered Pentuer. “But remember that the enemies of Egypt must not notice grief in thee.”
The heir moved.
“Thy second woman, Sarah the Jewess—”
“Has she run away too?”
“She died in prison.”
“O gods! Who dared imprison her?”
“She confessed that she killed thy son.”
“What?”
A great cry was heard at the prince’s feet: the Libyan prisoners captured in battle were marching past, and at the head of them the sorrowful Tehenna.
Rameses had at that moment a heart so full of pain that he nodded to Tehenna, and said,—
“Stand near thy father Musawasa, so that he may touch thee, and see thee living.”
At these words all the Libyans and the whole army gave forth a mighty shout; but the prince did not hear it.
“Is my son dead?” asked he of the priest. “Sarah accused herself of child-murder? Did madness fall on her?”
“The vile Lykon slew thy son.”
“O gods give me strength!” groaned Rameses.
“Restrain thyself, lord, as becomes a victorious leader.”
“Is it possible to conquer such pain? O gods without pity!”
“Lykon slew thy son; Sarah accused herself to save thee, for seeing the murderer in the night she mistook him for thee.”
“And I thrust her out of my house! And I made her a servant of the Phœnician!”
Now appeared Egyptian warriors bearing baskets filled with hands which had been cut from the fallen Libyans.
At sight of this Rameses hid his face and wept bitterly.
The generals surrounded the chariot at once and gave their lord consolation. The holy Mentezufis made a proposition which was received immediately, that thenceforth the Egyptian army would not cut off the hands of enemies who had fallen in battle.
With this unforeseen incident ended the first triumph of the heir to the throne of Egypt. But the tears which he shed over the severed hands attached the Libyans to him more than the victorious battle. No one wondered then that around the fires Libyan and Egyptian warriors sat in concord sharing bread, and drinking wine from the same goblet. Instead of wars which were to last for years, there was a deep feeling of peace and confidence.
Rameses gave command that Musawasa, Tehenna, and the foremost Libyans should go to Memphis straightway, and he gave them an escort, not so much to watch them as to safeguard their persons and the treasures which they were taking. The prince withdrew to a tent then, and did not appear again until a number of hours had passed. He was like a man to whom pain is the dearest companion. He did not receive even Tutmosis.
Toward evening a deputation of Greeks appeared under the leadership of Kalippos. When the heir asked what their wish was Kalippos answered,—
“We have come, lord, to implore that the body of our leader, thy servant Patrokles, should not be given to Egyptian priests, but be burned in accord with Greek usage.”
The prince was astonished.
“Is it known to you,” asked he, “that the priests wish to make of the remains of Patrokles a mummy of the first order, and to put it near the graves of the pharaohs? Can honor greater than this meet a man anywhere?”
The Greeks hesitated; at last Kalippos took courage and answered,—
“Our lord, permit us to open our hearts to thee. We know well that the making of a mummy is of more profit to a manthan to burn him, for the soul of a burned man is transferred to eternal regions immediately; the soul of a mummied man may live during thousands of years on this earth and enjoy its beauties.
“But the Egyptian priests, O chief,—let this not offend thy ears—hated Patrokles. Who will assure us, then, that these priests in making him a mummy are not detaining him on earth so as to subject him to tortures? And what would our worth be if we who suspect revenge did not protect from it the soul of our compatriot and leader?”
Great was the prince’s astonishment.
“Do,” said he, “as ye think proper.”
“But if they will not give us the body?”
“Prepare the funeral pile; I will attend to the rest of the ceremony.”
The Greeks left the tent. The prince sent for Mentezufis.
THE priest observed the heir stealthily, and found him much changed. Rameses was pale; he had almost grown thin in a few hours; his eyes had lost their glitter and had sunk beneath his forehead.
When Mentezufis heard what the Greeks had in mind he did not hesitate a moment to surrender the body of Patrokles.
“The Greeks are right,” said the holy man, “in thinking that we have power to torment the shade of Patrokles, but they are fools to suppose that any priest of Chaldea or Egypt would permit such a crime. Let them take the body of their compatriot, if they think that after death he will be happier under protection of their own rites.”
The prince sent an officer straightway with the needful order, but he detained Mentezufis. Evidently he wished to say something to him, though he hesitated.
After some silence Rameses asked suddenly,—
“Thou knowest, of course, holy prophet, that one of my women, Sarah, is dead, and that her son was murdered?”
“That happened,” said Mentezufis, “the night that we marched from Pi-Bast.”
The prince sprang up.
“By the eternal Amon!” cried he. “Did that take place so long ago, and ye did not mention it? Ye did not even tell me that I was suspected of murdering my own son?”
“Lord,” said the priest, “the leader of an army in the day before battle has neither son nor father; he has no one whatever save the army and the enemy. Could we in extreme moments disturb thee with such tidings?”
“That is true,” replied the prince, after some thought. “If we were attacked to-day I am not sure that I could command the army. In general I am not sure of my power to regain peace of mind.
“Such a little—such a beautiful child! And that woman who sacrificed herself for me after I had wronged her grievously. Never have I thought that misfortunes of such sort could happen, and that people’s hearts could endure them.”
“Time heals—time and prayer,” whispered the priest.
The prince nodded, and again there was such silence in the tent that the dropping of sand in the hour glass was audible.
Again the heir rallied,—
“Tell me, holy father,” said he, “unless it belongs to the great secrets, what is the real difference between burning the dead and the making of mummies? for though I have heard something at school I do not understand clearly this question, to which the Greeks attach such importance.”
“We attach far more, the greatest importance to this question,” replied Mentezufis. “To this our cities of the dead testify; they occupy a whole region in the western desert. The pyramids testify to it also; they are the tombs of the pharaohs of the ancient kingdom, and the immense tombs which are cut in cliffs for the rulers of our period.
“Burial and the tomb are of great importance—the very greatest human importance. For while we live in bodily form fifty or a hundred years, our shades endure tens of thousands till they are perfectly purified.
“The Assyrian barbarians laugh at us, saying that we give more to the dead than the living; but they would weep over their own lack of care for the dead did they know the mystery of death and the tomb as do the priests of Egypt.”
The prince started up.
“Thou dost terrify me,” said he. “Dost forget that among the dead there are two beings dear to me, and these are not buried according to Egyptian ritual.”
“On the contrary. Just now men are embalming them. Both Sarah and thy son will have everything which may profit them in the long journey.”
“Will they?” asked Rameses, as if comforted.
“I guarantee,” answered Mentezufis, “that everything will be done which is needed, and should this earthly life ever be unpleasant to thee thou wilt find them happy in the other.”
On hearing this Rameses was greatly affected.
“Then dost thou think, holy man,” inquired he, “that I shall find my son some time, and that I shall be able to say to that woman: ‘Sarah, I know that I have been too harsh to thee?’”
“I am as certain of it as that I see thee now, worthy lord,” replied the prophet.
“Speak, speak of this!” exclaimed the prince. “A man does not think of the grave till he has put a part of himself there. This misfortune has struck me, and struck just when I thought myself more powerful than any save the pharaoh.”
“Thou hast inquired, lord,” began Mentezufis, “as to the difference between burning the dead and embalming them. We find the same difference that there is between destroying a garment and preserving it in a closet. When the garment is preserved it may be of use frequently; and if a man has only one garment it would be madness to burn it.”
“I do not understand this,” interrupted Rameses. “Ye do not explain it even in the higher schools.”
“But we can tell it to the heir of the pharaoh. Thou knowest, worthiness,” continued the priest, “that a human being is composed of three parts: the body, the divine spark, and the shade, orKa, which connects the body and the divine spark.
“When a man dies his shade separates from his body as does the divine spark. If the man lives without sin the divine spark and the shade appear among the gods to live through eternity. But each man sins, stains himself in this world; therefore his shade, theKa, must purify itself, for thousandsof years sometimes. It purifies itself in this way, that being invisible it wanders over our earth among people and does good in its wandering,—though the shades of criminals, even in life beyond the grave, commit offences, and at last destroy themselves and the divine spark contained in them.
“Now—and this is no secret for thee, worthiness—this shade, theKa, is like a man, but looks as though made of most delicate mist. The shade has a head, hands, body, it can walk, speak, throw things or carry them, it dresses like a man, and even, especially during a few hundred of the earlier years after death, must take some food at intervals. But the shade obtains its main strength from the body which remains on the earth here. Therefore if we throw a body into a grave it spoils quickly and the shade must satisfy itself with dust and decay. If we burn the body the shade has nothing but ashes with which to gain strength. But if we embalm the body, or preserve it for thousands of years the shadeKais always healthy and strong; it passes the time of purification in calmness, and even agreeably.”
“Wonderful things!” whispered the heir.
“Priests in the course of investigations during thousands of years have learned important details of life beyond the grave. They have convinced themselves that if the viscera are left in the body of a dead man, his shade, theKa, has a great appetite, and needs as much food as a man during earthly existence, and if food is withheld it will rush at living people and suck the blood out of them. But if the viscera are removed from the body, as we remove them, the shade lives on without food almost: its own body, embalmed and filled with plants which are strongly fragrant, suffices it for millions of years.
“It has been verified, also, that if the tomb of a dead man is empty the shade yearns for the world and wanders about in it needlessly. But if we place in a mortuary chapel the clothing, furniture, arms, vessels, utensils, things pleasant during life to the dead man, if the walls are covered with paintings depicting feasts, hunts, divine services, wars, and, in general, events in which the departed took share, if besides we add statues of members of his family, servants, horses, dogs and cattle, the shade will not go out to the world without need,for it will find what it wants in the house of the dead with its mummy.
“Finally they have convinced themselves that many shades, even after penance is finished, could not enter regions of endless bliss since they know not the needful prayers, incantations, and conversations with gods. We provide for that by winding the mummies in papyruses, on which are written sentences, and by putting the ‘Book of the Dead’ in their coffins.
“In one word, our funeral ritual assures strength to the shade, preserves it from misfortunes and yearnings after earth, facilitates its entrance to the company of gods, and secures living people from every harm which shades might inflict on them. Our great care of the dead has this in view specially; hence we erect for them almost palaces and in them dwellings with the greatest ornaments.”
The prince thought awhile, but said finally,—
“I understand that ye show great kindness to weak and defenceless shades by caring for them in this manner. But who will assure me that there are shades?”
“That there is a waterless desert,” said the priest, “I know, for I see it, I have sunk in its sands and felt heat in it. That there are countries in which water turns to stone, and steam into white down, I know also, for credible witnesses have informed me.”
“But how do ye know of shades which no man has seen, and how do ye know of their life after death since no one of them has ever returned to us?”
“Thou art mistaken, worthiness,” replied the priest. “Shades have shown themselves more than once, and even revealed their own secrets.
“It is possible to live ten years in Thebes and not see rain: it is possible to live a hundred years on earth and not meet a shade. But whoso should live hundreds of years in Thebes, or live thousands of years on earth would see more than one rain, and more than one shade.”
“Who has lived thousands of years?” inquired Rameses.
“The sacred order of priests has lived, is living, and will live,” replied Mentezufis. “The sacred order of priestssettled on the Nile thirty thousand years ago. Since then, it has scrutinized the heavens and the earth; it has created our wisdom, and made the plan of every field, sluice, canal, pyramid, and temple in Egypt.”
“That is true. The order of priests is mighty and wise, but where are the shades? What man has seen them, and who is the person who has spoken to them?”
“Know this, lord,” said Mentezufis. “There is a shade in each living man; as there are people distinguished for immense strength, or a marvellous swiftness of vision, so there are men who possess the uncommon gift that during life they can separate their own shades from their bodies.
“Our secret books are filled with the most credible narratives touching this subject. More than one prophet has been able to fall into a sleep that is deathlike. At that time his shade separated from the body and transferred itself in a moment to Tyre, Babylon, or Nineveh, examined what it wished, listened to counsels relating to us, and after the awakening of the prophet gave the most minute account of all that it had witnessed. More than one evil magician, after falling asleep in like fashion, has sent out his shade against a man whom he hated, and overturned or destroyed furniture and terrified a whole household.
“It has happened, too, that the man attacked by the shade of the magician struck the shade with a spear or a sword, and on his house bloody traces were left, while the magician received on his body that wound exactly which was inflicted on his shade.
“More than once also has a shade of a living man appeared in company with him, but some steps distant.”
“I know such shades,” said the prince ironically.
“I must add,” continued Mentezufis, “that not only people, but animals, plants, stones, buildings, and utensils have shades also. But—a wonderful thing—the shade of an inanimate object is not dead, it possesses life, moves, goes from place to place, it even thinks and expresses thought through various signs, most frequently through knocking.
“When a man dies his shade lives and shows itself to people. In our books thousands of such cases are noted; some shadesasked for food, others walked about in houses, worked in a garden, or hunted in the mountains with the shades of their dogs and cats with them. Other shades have frightened people, destroyed their property, drunk their blood, even enticed living persons to excesses. But there are good shades: those of mothers nursing their children, of soldiers, fallen in battle, who give warning of an ambush of an enemy, of priests who reveal important secrets.
“In the eighteenth dynasty the shade of the pharaoh, Cheops, who was doing penance for oppressing people while building the great pyramid, appeared in Nubian gold mines, and in compassion for the sufferings of toiling convicts showed them a new spring of water.”
“Thou tellest curious things, holy man,” replied Rameses; “let me now tell thee something. One night in Pi-Bast my own shade appeared to me. That shade was just like me, and even dressed like me. Soon, however, I convinced myself that it was no shade. It was a living man, a certain Lykon, the vile murderer of my son. He began his offences by frightening the Phœnician woman Kama. I appointed a reward for seizing him—but our police not only did not seize the man, they even permitted him to seize that same Kama and to slay a harmless infant.
“To-day I hear that they have captured Kama, but I know nothing of Lykon. Of course he is living in freedom, in good health, cheerful and rich through stolen treasures; may be making ready for new crimes even.”
“So many persons are pursuing that criminal that he must be taken at last,” said Mentezufis. “And if he falls into our hands Egypt will pay him for the sufferings which he has caused the heir to her throne. Believe me, lord, thou mayst forgive all his crimes in advance, for the punishment will be in accord with their greatness.”
“I should prefer to have him in my own hands,” said the prince. “It is always dangerous to have such a ‘shade’ while one is living.”[22]