The king smiled ironically. “How amazing!” he said. “We commanded you to build a pyramid - and you have dug for us a river, instead! Do you think of your lord and master as a sovereign offish?”
Pharaoh laughed, and so did his companions - all but Prince Khafra, the heir apparent. He took the matter very seriously. Despite his youth, he was a stern tyrant, intensely cruel, who had inherited his father's sense of authority, but not his gracious-ness or amiability.
“The truth is that I am astounded by all those years that you have spent on simply preparing the site,” he berated the architect, “for I have learned that the sacred pyramid erected by King Sneferu took much less time than the eons you have wasted till now.”
Mirabu clasped his hand to his forehead, then answered with dejected courtesy, “Herein, Your Royal Highness, dwells an amazing mind, tireless in its turnings, ever leaning toward perfection. It is the fashioner of the ideal, and - after monumental effort - a gigantic imagination was created for me whose workings I expend my very soul in bringing to physical reality. So please be patient, Your Majesty, and bear with me also, Your Royal Highness!”
There was a moment of silence. Suddenly the air was filled with the music of the Great House Guards, which preceded the troops as they retired to their barracks from the place where they had been standing watch. Pharaoh was thinking about what Mirabu had said, and - as the sounds of the music melted away — he looked at his vizier Hemiunu, high priest of the temple of Ptah, supreme god of Memphis. He asked -with the sublime smile that never left his lips, “Is patience among a king's qualities, Hemiunu?”
Tugging at his beard, the man answered quietly, “My lord, our immortal philosopher Kagemni, vizier to King Huni, says that patience is man's refuge in times of despair, and his armor against misfortunes.”
“That is what says Kagemni, vizier to King Huni,” said Pharaoh, chuckling. “But I want to know what Hemiunu, vizier to King Khufu, has to say.”
The formidable minister's cogitation was obvious as he prepared his riposte. But Prince Khafra was not one to ponder too cautiously before he spoke. With all the passion of a twenty-year-old born to royal privilege, he declared, “My lord, patience is a virtue, as the sage Kagemni has said. But it is a virtue unbecoming of kings. Patience allows ministers and obedient subjects to bear great tribulations - but the greatness of kings is in overcoming calamities, not enduring them. For this reason, the gods have compensated them for their want of patience with an abundance of power.”
Pharaoh tensed in his seat, his eyes glinting with an obscure luminescence that — were it not for the smile drawn upon his lips — would have meant the end for Mirabu. He sat for a while recalling his past, regarding it in the light of this particular trait. Then he spoke with an ardent fervor that, despite his forty years, was like that of a youth of twenty.
“How beautiful is your speech, my son - how happy it makes me!” he said. “Truly, power is a virtue not only for kings, but for all people, if only they knew it. Once I was but a little prince ruling over a single province — then I was made King of Kings of Egypt. And what brought me from being a prince into possession of the throne and of kingship was nothing but power. The covetous, the rebellious, and the resentful never ceased searching for domains to wrest away from me, nor in preparing to dispatch me to my fate. And what cut out their tongues, and what chopped off their hands, and what took their wind away from them -was nothing but power. Once the Nubians snapped the stick of obedience -when ignorance, rebellion, and impudence put foolish ideas into their heads. And what cracked their bravura to compel their submission, if not power? And what raised me up to my divine status? And what made my word the law of the land, and what taught me the wisdom of the gods, and made it a sacred duty to obey me? Was it not power that did all this?”
The artist Mirabu hastened to interrupt, as though completing the king's thought, “And divinity, my lord.”
Pharaoh shook his head scornfully. ‘And what is divinity, Mirabu?” he asked. ‘“Tis nothing if not power.”
But the architect said, in a trusting, confident tone, “And mercy and affection, sire.”
Pointing at the architect, the king replied, “This is how you artists are! You tame the intractable stones - and yet your hearts are more pliant than the morning breeze. But rather than argue with you, I'd like to throw you a question whose answer will end our meeting today. Mirabu, for ten years you have been mingling with those armies of muscular laborers. By now you must truly have penetrated their innermost secrets and learned what they talk about among themselves. So what do you think makes them obey me and withstand the terrors of this arduous work? Tell me the honest truth, Mirabu.”
The architect paused to consider for a moment, summoning his memories. All eyes were fixed upon him with extreme interest. Then, with deliberate slowness, speaking in his natural manner — which was filled with passion and self-possession — he answered, “The workers, my lord, are divided into two camps. The first of these consists of the prisoners of war and the foreign settlers. These know not what they are about: they go and they come without any higher feelings, just as the bull pushes around the water wheel without reflection. If it weren't for the harshness of the rod and the vigilance of our soldiers, we would have no effect on them.
“As for those workers who are in fact Egyptians, most of them are from the southern part of the country. These are people with self-respect, pride, steadfastness, and faith. They are able to bear terrific torment, and to patiently tolerate overwhelming tragedies. Unlike those aliens, they are aware of what they are doing. They believe in their hearts that the hard labor to which they devote their lives is a splendid religious obligation, a duty to the deity to whom they pray, and a form of obedience owed to the title of him who sits upon the throne. Their affliction — for them — is adoration, their agony, rapture. Their huge sacrifices are a sign of their subservience to the will of the divine man that imposes itself over time everlasting. My lord, do you not see them in the blazing heat of noon, under the burning rays of the sun, striking at the rocks with arms like thunderbolts, and with a determination like the Fates themselves, as they sing their rhythmic songs, and chant their poems?”
The listeners were delighted, their blood gladdened in a swoon of gaiety and glory, and contentment glowed on Pharaoh's strong, manly features. As he rose from his couch, his movement sent all those in attendance to their feet. In measured steps, he processed with dignity down the broad balcony until he reached its southern edge. Contemplating its magnificent view, he peered into the remote expanse at that deathless plateau of the dead on whose holy terrain were traced the long lines of toilers. What augustness, and what grandeur! And what suffering and struggle in their pursuit! Was it right for so many worthy souls to be expended for the sake of his personal exaltation? Was it proper for him to rule over so noble a people, who had only one goal — his own happiness?
This inner whispering was the only disturbance that beat from time to time in that breast filled with courage and belief. To him it appeared like a bit of wandering cloud in heavens of pure blue, and, when it came, it would torment him: his chest would tighten, his very serenity and bliss would seem loathsome to him. The pain worsened, so he gave the pyramids plateau his back — then wheeled angrily upon his friends, catching them off guard. He put to them this question: “Who should give up their life for the benefit of the other: the people for Pharaoh, or Pharaoh for the people?”
They were all struck speechless, until the commander, Arbu, broke through them excitedly, calling out in his stentorian voice, “All of us together - people, commanders, and priests - would give our lives for Pharaoh!”
Prince Horsadef, one of the king's sons, said with intense passion, “And the princes, too!”
The king smiled vaguely, the anxiety easing on his sublime face, as his vizier Hemiunu said, “My lord, Your Divine Majesty! Why differentiate your lofty self from the people of Egypt, as one would the head from the heart or the
soul from the body? You are, my lord, the token of their honor, the mark of their eminence, the citadel of their strength, and the inspiration for their power. You have endowed them with life, glory, might, and happiness. In their affection there is neither humiliation nor enslavement; but rather, a beautiful loyalty and venerable love for you, and for the homeland.”
The king beamed with satisfaction, returning with long strides to his golden divan. As he sat down, so did the rest. But Prince Khafra, the heir apparent, was still not relieved of his father's earlier misgivings.
“Why do you disturb your peace of mind with these baseless doubts?” he said. “You rule according to the wish of the gods, not by the will of men. It is up to you to govern the people as you desire, not to ask yourself what you should do when they ask you!”
“O Prince, no matter how other kings may exalt themselves
- your father need only say, “I am Pharaoh of Egypt,’ “ Khufu rejoined.
He then seemed to swell up as he said with a booming voice
- yet as though speaking to himself, “Khafra's speech would be appropriate if it were directed toward a weak ruler - but not toward Khufu, the omnipotent - Khufu, Pharaoh of Egypt. And what is Egypt but a great work that would not have been under taken if not for the sacrifices of individuals? And of what value is the life of an individual? It equals not a single dry tear to one who looks to the far future and the grand plan. For this I would be cruel without any qualms. I would strike with an iron hand, and drive hundreds of thousands through hardships - not from stupidity of character or despotic egotism. Rather, it's as if my eyes were able to pierce the veil of the horizons to glimpse the glory of this awaited homeland. More than once, the queen has accused me of harshness and oppression. No - for what is Khufu but a -wise man of far-seeing vision, -wearing the skin of the preying panther, -while in his breast there beats the heart of an openhanded angel?”
A long silence settled upon them, his companions longing for their nightly session of exquisite small talk, so they might forget their ponderous troubles. All of them hoped that the king, after he'd had his fill of projects and purposes, would propose some entertaining sport, or invite them to a party with libations and song. But in those days Khufu complained in his leisure hours of boredom with the palace and its spectacular aspects. When he learned that the time for diversion had come, he would grow weary, looking around at his friends as though in a daze. Hence, Hemiunu queried, “Has my lord filled his cup with drink?”
Pharaoh nodded his head. “I drank today, as I drank yesterday.”
“Shall we call in the lady musicians, sire?”
Indifferently, he answered, “I listen to their music night and day.”
Mirabu interjected, “What would my lord think about going on a hunt?”
The king responded in the same tone, “I'm fed up with the chase, be it on land or water.”
“In that case, what about strolling among the trees and flowers?”
“Is there, in this valley, a beautiful sight that I have yet to behold?”
The king's laments saddened his loyal retainers - all except Prince Hordjedef, who was saving a delicious surprise for his father, of which Pharaoh had no hint.
“O my father the king,” said Hordjedef, “I am able to bring right before you, if you desire, an amazing magician who knows the secrets of life and death, and who is able merely to command something to be, and it is.”
Khufu said nothing, this time not hastening to reaffirm his boredom. He looked at his son with interest, for the king followed closely the news of the wizards and their wonders, enjoying what was said about their rare contrivances. Pleased that he would be seeing one of them before him, he asked his son, “Who is this magician, Prince Hordjedef?”
“He is the sorcerer Djedi, my lord. He is a hundred and ten years old, but still strong as a young tough. He has an astonishing power to control the will of both man and beast, and vision that can penetrate the Veil of the Invisible.”
Pharaoh grew intrigued, his ennui waning. “Can you bring him to me here, now?” he said.
“Please bear with me a few moments, sire!” the prince replied, joyfully.
Hordjedef stood up and saluted his father with a prolonged bow - then rushed off to fetch the fabulous magician.
2
SOON PRINCE Hordjedef returned -with a tall, broad-shouldered man -walking before him. The man's gaze -was sharp and piercing. His head was crowned with a mane of soft white hair, and a long, thick beard fell over his breast. Wrapped in a loose robe, he steadied his step with a crude, massive cane.
The prince bowed low and announced, “My lord! I present your obedient servant, Djedi the magician.”
The sorcerer prostrated himself before the king, kissing the ground between his feet. Then he said, in a powerful voice that made all those who heard it quake: “My lord, Son of Khnum, Radiance of the Rising Sun and Ruler of the Worlds, long live his glory, and may happiness settle within him forever!”
Pharaoh eyed the wizard warmly and sat down close to him, saying, “How have I not seen you before, when you have preceded me into the light of this world by all of seventy years?”
The superannuated sorcerer answered in a kindly tone, “May the Lord grant you life, health, and strength: the likes of me are not favored to appear before you without being asked.”
Regarding him benignly, the king pressed him, “Is it true that you can make miracles, Djedi? Is it true that you can force your will on both man and beast, and that you can snatch the Veil of the Invisible from the face of Time?”
The man nodded his head until his beard bounced on his chest. “That verily is true, sire,” he replied.
“I would like to see some of these miracles, Djedi,” answered Pharaoh.
And so came the frightful hour. The eyes of those watching widened, their faces full of obvious fascination. Djedi did not rush to his task, but stood frozen for a long while as though turned into stone. Then he shot a sharp-toothed grin as he looked them over quickly.
“To my right there beats a heart that does not believe in me,” said Djedi.
Those gathered were shocked, and exchanged confused glances. The monarch -was pleased -with the keen eye of the magician, and turned to ask his men, “Is there one among you who denies the truth of Djedi's miracles?”
Commander Arbu shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, then marched before the king. “My lord, I do not believe in magic tricks. I see them as a kind of sleight of hand, a skill for those who have the time to devote to it,” he said.
“What's the point of talking when we have the man right before us?” said Khufu. “Go bring him a lion and turn it loose upon him. We'll see how he tames it with his magic and bends it to his will.”
But the commander was not satisfied. “Please forgive me, sire,” he said, “but I have no dealings with lions. However, as I'm standing right in front of him, perhaps he could try his magical art on me. If he so wishes — that is, to make me believe in him — then he could force me to submit to his will, and wrench control of my own strength from me.”
A heavy silence fell. The faces of some of those assembled seemed anxious, while others expressed exultation or the simple love of gawking. Both groups looked at the magician to see what he would do with the obstinate commander. They huddled about him as he stood quietly and serenely, a confident smile stuck to his thin, angular lips. Pharaoh let out a huge laugh, asking in a voice not lacking in sarcasm, “Arbu, do you really hold yourself so little dear?”
With stunning self-assurance, the commander replied, “My self, sire, is strong, thanks to the strength of my mind — which mocks the conceits of mere legerdemain.”
At this, anger flashed on the face of Prince Hordjedef. Aiming his vehement speech directly at the commander, he said to the king, “Let what you wish come to pass. If it pleases my lord, may Djedi be permitted to respond to this challenge?”
Pharaoh gazed upon his furious son, then told the wizard, “Very
well, then — let us see how your sorcery overcomes the might of our friend Arbu.”
Commander Arbu stood regarding the magician -with an arrogant glare. He wanted to turn his face away from him -with contempt — then felt a power pulling at him from -within the man's eyes. Seething -with rage, he struggled to turn his neck, to -wrench loose his gaze from the overwhelming attraction that held it fast. Instead, weak and frustrated, he found his eyes locked into the bulging, gleaming orbs of Djedi, -which burned and blazed like a pair of crystals reflecting the rays of the sun. Their brilliance outshone that in Arbu's own eyes, -which darkened as the light of the world seemed to fade out of them. The great soldier's strength disappeared with it, as he sank into submission.
When Djedi was convinced that his preternatural power had taken full effect, he stood up tall and erect. Pointing to his seat, he shouted at the commander imperiously, “Sit down!”
Arbu carried out the order slavishly. He staggered like a drunk, throwing himself onto the chair with an air of doomed compliance, in a state of total devastation.
A disbelieving ‘Ah!” escaped the lips of those present. Prince Hordjedef smiled with relief and pride. As for Djedi, he looked respectfully at Khufu, saying with an easy grace, “Sire, I am able to make him do whatever is desired, and he would be powerless to resist a single demand. Yet I am reluctant to do this to a man such as he, one of our homeland's most estimable commanders, and of Pharaoh's personal companions. So I ask, is my lord satisfied with what he has seen?”
Three Novels of Ancient Egypt Khufu's Wisdom, Rhadopis of Nubia, Thebes at War Page 5