Three Novels of Ancient Egypt Khufu's Wisdom, Rhadopis of Nubia, Thebes at War

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Zaya glanced behind her to see her mistress, but found her wrapped under the quilt, as his lordship the high priest had left her. “What a wretched woman - no one could imagine such an atrocious sleep for a lady who had just given birth,” the servant thought. “Her great husband did not dream of such hardships as those the Fates had sent to her. If he could have known the future, he would not have wished to be a father - nor would he have married Lady Ruddjedet, who was twenty years his junior!”

  Yet, miserable, she moaned to herself, “If only the Lord would grant me a baby boy — even if he brings me all the troubles in the world!”

  Zaya was an infertile wife aching for a child that she wished the gods would give her, like a blind person hoping for a glimpse of light. How many times had she consulted physicians and sorcerers? How many times had she resorted to herbs and medicines without benefit or hope? She shared the despair of her husband, Karda, who suffered the most intense agony to see life going on year after year -without the gift of a child to love in his home, to warm him with the promise of immortality. He bid her farewell for the last time as he prepared to depart for Memphis, where he worked in building the pyramid — threatening to take a new wife if she failed to produce a child. He had been gone for one month, two months, ten months — while she had monitored herself for the signs of pregnancy hour by hour, to no avail. O Lord! What was the wisdom of making her a woman, then? What is a woman without motherhood? A woman without children is like wine without the power to intoxicate, like a rose without scent, or like worship without strong faith behind it.

  Just then she heard a faint voice calling, “Zaya.” She rushed to the wooden box, lifting it up and opening its side, and saw her mistress along with her child, whom she held in her arms. Worn out from exertion, Ruddjedet's lovely brown face had lost its color, as Zaya asked her, “How is your ladyship?”

  “I am well, Zaya, thank the gods,” she answered weakly. “But what about the danger that threatens us now?”

  “Be reassured, my mistress,” the servant replied. “The peril to you and my little master is now far away.”

  The lady sighed deeply. “Do we still have a long trip ahead?” she asked.

  “We have an hour, at the very least, left before us,” Zaya said amiably. “But first you must sleep in the Lord Ra's protection.”

  The lady sighed again and turned to the slumbering infant, her pale but captivating face filled with maternal love. Zaya kept looking at her and at her son, at their beautiful, joyful image, despite the pains and perils that they faced.

  What a gorgeous sight they make! If only she could, just once, taste motherhood, she would gladly give her life for it! O God! The Lord shows no compassion, nor does pleading help, nor will Karda forgive her failure. Perhaps before long she will become a mere divorcee, expelled from her home, wracked by solitude and the misfortunes of being unmarried.

  Zaya shifted her gaze from the happy mother to the two oxen. “If only I had a son like that!” she said to herself. “What if I take this child and pretend that he is my own, after yearning that the gods would favor me with one by natural means?”

  Her intention was not evil, rather, she was being wishful — as the soul wishes for the impossible — and as it wishes for what it would not do — from fear, or compassion.

  Zaya wished away, while the heavens created happiness for her under the wings of dreams. In them she saw herself walking with the exquisite child up to Karda, saying, “I have borne you this gorgeous boy.” She saw her husband grin and jump for joy, kissing and hugging her and little Djedef together. Drunk from this imaginary ecstasy, she lay down on her right side, holding the two oxen's reins with one hand, while cradling her head with the other. She let her mind wander until she abandoned herself to the world of dreams, her eyes quickly numbed by the delicate fingers of sleep, veiled from the light of wakefulness, as the western horizon veils the light of the sun from the world.

  When Zaya returned to the sensate world, she thought that she was greeting the morning in her bed in the palace of her benefactor, the priest of Ra. She stretched out her hand to pull the blanket around her, because she suddenly felt a cold breeze. Her hand dug into something that resembled sand. Amazed, she opened her eyes to see the cosmos blackened and the sky studded with stars. Her body felt a strange shaking — and she remembered the wagon, her mistress Ruddjedet with her little, fugitive child, and all the memories that the conquering power of sleep had snatched away from her.

  But where was she? What time of night was it?

  She looked around to see an ocean of darkness on three sides. On the fourth, she saw a feeble light coming from very far away, which undoubtedly emanated from the villages spread out along the bank of the Nile. Beyond that, there was no sign of life in the direction toward which the oxen were plodding.

  The desolation of the world penetrated her soul, its gloom piercing her heart. A terrifying tremor made her teeth chatter with fear, -while she kept peering into the darkness -with eyes that expected horrors in unsettling forms.

  On the dark horizon Zaya imagined that she could make out the ghostly shapes of a Bedouin caravan. She recalled what people said about the tribes of Sinai - their assaults on villages, their kidnapping of people who had wandered off the road or taken the wrong course, their interception of other caravans. No doubt the wagon that she piloted so aimlessly would be precious booty to them - with all the wheat it carried, and the oxen that hauled it. Not to mention the two women — over whom the chief of the tribe would have every right to drool. Her fear rose to the point of madness, so she stepped down onto the desert sands. As she did so, she looked at the sleeping woman and child, regarding their faces by the light of the pulsing stars. Without thought or plan, she reached out her hand and, lifting the boy up delicately, expertly wrapped the quilt around him, and set off in the direction of the city's lights. As she walked on, she thought that she heard a voice calling out to her in terror, and she believed that the Bedouin had surrounded her mistress. Her fear grew even stronger and she doubled her pace. Nothing would hinder her progress: not the heaping dunes of sand, nor the dear burden she carried, nor her enormous tiredness. She was like someone falling into an abyss, pulled down by their own weight, unable to stop their descent. Perhaps she had not gone too far into the desert, or perhaps she had covered more distance toward her goal than she could tell, because, beneath her feet, she felt hard-packed ground like the surface of the great Desert Road. Looking behind her, Zaya saw only blackness. By this time she had used up her hysterical strength: her speed slowed and her steps grew heavier. Then she fell down onto her knees, panting fearsomely. She was still insanely afraid, but couldn't move, like the victim pursued by a specter in a nightmare, but who cannot flee. She continued swiveling to her right and to her left, not knowing in which direction could come escape - or ruin.

  Suddenly, she fancied that she could hear the rumble of chariots and the whinnying of horses! Did she really see wheels and vehicles, knights and steeds - or was it just the blood throbbing in her ears and her brain? But the voices became clearer, until she was certain that she could make out the forms of the riders returning from the north. She did not know if they came in peace — or to kill her. Nor -was it possible to hide, because Djedef had begun to sob and cry. Not feeling safe from the plunging chariots -while kneeling in the center of the road, she shouted, “Charioteers! Look here!”

  She called out to them again - then surrendered herself to the Fates. The chariots drew up quickly, then stopped a short distance away. She heard a voice ask who was shouting - and she thought it was not unfamiliar. She gripped the child more firmly as though to warn him, and putting on an uncouth, countrified accent, told them, “I'm just a woman who's gotten lost - this hard road and the scary things in the dark have worn me out. And this is my baby boy - the wind and the damp night have nearly killed him.”

  “Where are you going?” the owner of the first voice asked her.

  “I'm heading for Me
mphis, sir,” Zaya answered, beginning to feel assured that she was talking to Egyptian soldiers.

  The man laughed and said in astonishment, “To Memphis, ma'am? Don't you know that a man mounted on a horse takes two hours to travel that far?”

  “I've been walking since the midafternoon,” Zaya said, plainly suffering. “Lack of means forced me to move, and I was fooled into thinking that I could reach Memphis before nightfall.”

  “Whom do you have in Memphis?”

  “My husband, Karda. He's helping to build the Lord Pharaoh's pyramid.”

  The man questioning her leaned toward another in the chariot to his left, whispering a few words in his ear.

  “Granted — that one soldier will escort her to her home district,” the second man said.

  But the first one rejoined, “No, Hemiunu — she'll find nothing there but hunger and shame. Why don't we take her to Memphis, instead?”

  Obeying Pharaoh's order, Hemiunu came down from his chariot and -went over to the woman, helping her to rise. He then walked to the nearest chariot and put her and her child inside it, advising the soldier within it about them.

  At that moment, Khufu turned to the architect Mirabu. “Watching the massacre ofthat innocent mother and child, who bore neither guilt nor offence, has torn your tender heart, Mirabu,” he said. “Take care not to accuse your lord of cruelty. Look at how it gratifies me to carry along a famished woman and her nursing baby to spare them the ills of hunger and cold, and deliver them to a place that they could reach by themselves only with tremendous strain. Pharaoh is compassionate to his servants. And he was not less compassionate when that ill-starred infant's fate was decreed. In this way, the acts of kings are like those of the gods — cloaked in the robe of villainy, yet, in their essence, they are actually celestial wisdom.

  “The first thing you must do, O Architect Mirabu,” said Prince Khafra, “is to marvel at the power of the overwhelming will that has defeated the Fates - and blotted the sentence of Destiny.”

  Hemiunu returned to his chariot, ordering the driver to proceed. The squadron again took off in the direction of Memphis, slicing their way through the waves of darkness.

  7

  ZAYA ARRIVED in Memphis just before midnight, after a short ride -with the pharaonic guards. The king gave her two pieces of gold, so she sat before him thankfully - as one obliged by a debt — thinking him to be an important commander, but no more. She bid him farewell in the pitch-dark night, without seeing his face — or he seeing hers.

  Zaya was in a terrible state — both in her mind, and in her body. She craved a room in which she could retire by herself, so she asked a policeman if he knew of a modest inn where she could spend the rest of the night. Finally, when she found herself and the child alone, she heaved a deep sigh of relief and threw herself down on the bed.

  At last she felt released from the agony of physical pain and internal fear. Yet the terrors of her soul overshadowed the torments of her body. Drained and frightened, all that Zaya's mind's eye could see was her mistress who had just given birth, whose infant she had abducted as she abandoned her in that derelict wagon in the midst of the desert. The darkness had engulfed Ruddjedet, desolation surrounding her - while the men of pillage and plunder, who know neither mercy nor compassion — had set upon her.

  Now perhaps she was a prisoner in their hands, treated only with brutality, forced into bondage and slavery. Meanwhile, she would be telling the gods of her humiliation, complaining of how she'd suffered from despair, treachery, and torture.

  More and more wracked with discomfort and fear, Zaya kept tossing and turning on her bed, first right, then left, as grimacing ghosts pursued her. Begging for sleep to rescue her, she tossed and turned ever more before slumber finally lifted her from the hellfire of damnation.

  She awoke to the baby's crying. The sun's rays broke through the room's tiny window, carpeting the floor -with light. She took pity on the child, rocking him gently and kissing him. Sleep had alleviated her sickness and calmed her soul, though it had not rid her of worry, or her mind of torment. Yet the infant was able to divert her feelings toward him, saving her from the agony and afflictions of the night. She tried caressing him, but he sobbed even more as she confronted the problem of feeding him — which utterly perplexed her. Then she hit upon the only solution: she went to the room's door and knocked on it with her hand. An old woman came, inquiring what she wanted. Zaya asked the woman to bring her half a rod of goat's milk.

  Carrying Djedef in her arms, she walked with him back and forth across the room, putting her breast into his mouth to soothe and amuse him. She gazed at his beautiful face and sighed with a sudden thrill that seemed to have slipped unnoticed into her heart: “Smile, Djedef— smile, and be happy — you will see your father soon.”

  But no sooner had she sighed in relief than she said to herself fearfully, “Do you see how I won him despite everything? The issue of his true mother is finished - and of his true father, as well!”

  As for his mother, the Bedouin had taken her prisoner, and she - Zaya - could do nothing to rescue her. If she had lingered another moment before fleeing, she too would have found herself but cold plunder in the hands of the barbarous nomads. There was no justice in taking the blame for a crime that she did not commit, so she felt no embarrassment. As regards Djedef's father, no doubt Pharaoh's soldiers killed him in revenge for helping his wife and son escape.

  Thinking about these things reassured her. She went back over all of them again to appease her conscience, to put paid to the ghosts of dread and the harbingers of pain.

  She told herself incessantly that she had done the most virtuous thing by kidnapping the child and running away, for if she had stayed at her mistress's side, she would not have been able to protect her against the assault - and would have perished with her, as well. After all, it was not within her ability to carry her or to give her shelter. Nor would there have been any mercy in leaving the child in Ruddjedet's arms until the men of Sinai killed him. She felt it was more of a good deed to flee, and to take Djedef -with her!

  However torturous these thoughts, how lovely it was to wind up with Djedef by herself, not having to share him with anyone! She was his mother without any rival, and Karda was his father. As if she wanted to be confident of this fact she kept cooing to him, saying: “Djedefra son of Karda… Djedefra son of Zaya.”

  The old woman came with the goat's milk. The make-believe mother began to nurse the infant in an unnatural manner until she thought that he had had his fill. Then there was nothing left for her but to get ready to go out to see Karda. She bathed herself, combed her hair, and put her veil over her shoulders, before leaving the inn with Djedef in her arms.

  The streets of Memphis were crowded, as they usually were, with people both walking and riding — men and women, citizens, settlers, and foreigners. Zaya did not know the road to the Sacred Plateau, so she asked a constable which way to go. The plateau, he said, was “northwest of the Wall of Memphis - it would take two hours or more to get there on foot - a half hour on horseback.” In her hand she clutched the pieces of gold, so she hired a wagon with two horses, seating herself in it with serenity and bliss.

  No sooner had her dreams pulled her out of the world and taken her to the heaven of rapture and delight, than her imagination raced ahead of the wagon to her dear husband, Karda. With his tawny skin and brawny arms, nothing was more becoming than the effect of his short loincloth, which revealed his thighs of iron. And what was more loveable than his long face with its narrow forehead, his great nose, and widely-spaced eyes, and his broad, powerful voice with its saucy Theban drawl? How many times had she yearned to grab his forearms, kiss his mouth, and listen to him speak! In earlier reunions of this kind, when she had been gone for a long time, he had kissed her passionately and said to her caressingly, “Come now, wife — for me you are like stony ground that soaks up water, but grows nothing.” This time, though, he wouldn't say it — how could he, when she meets
him holding the most beautiful creature ever conceived by woman? There is nothing -wrong if he stares at her in confusion, the muscles softening on his hardened face, the look in his flashing eyes dissolving into gentleness. Or as he shouts out to her, unable to contain himself for joy, “Finally, Zaya - you have borne a child! Is this truly my son? Come to me — come to me!” Holding her head high in haughtiness and pride, she would say to him: “Take your child, Karda - kiss his little feet, and kneel down in thanks to the Lord Ra. He is a boy, and I have named him Djedef.” She vowed to take her husband to his birthplace of Thebes, because she was still afraid - though she did not know just why exactly — of the North and its people. In lovely Thebes, under the protection of the Lord Amon, she would raise her son and love her husband, and live the life that she had been denied for so long.

  She was jolted from her reverie by the clamor and chaos of Memphis. She looked ahead to see the wagon ascending the winding road, the man urging the horses onward with his whip. From her seat she could not make out the surface of the plateau, but the lively voices, clanging tools, and chants of the workers rang in her ears. Among the chants, she recognized one that Karda would sing to her in happy times:

  We are the men of the South, whom the waters of the Nile Have brought to this land, that the gods have chosen for our home, Home of the Pharaohs — where we make the black earth flourish. Behold the towering cities, and the temples with many pillars! Before us, there were but ruins that sheltered beasts and crows. For us, stone is soft and obedient, and so are the mighty waters. Ask of our strength among the tribes of Nubia and Sinai! Ask about our labors afar — while our chaste wives wait alone.