Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “Compassion, like power, is among the virtues of the perfect sovereign,” she replied with irritation.

  “My father did not teach me this saying, Meresankh,” he answered sarcastically. “Instead, he taught me immortal examples of the monuments of creative power, the most majestic of works. He utilized the nation of believers to build his pyramid, to move mountains and to tame the recalcitrant rocks. He roared like the marauding lion, and hearts dropped down submissively in horror and fright, and souls approached him, out of obedience — or from hate. He would kill whomever he pleased. That was my father, whom I miss, and whom I do not find. I see nothing but that old man who passes all but a few nights in his burial chamber, pondering and dictating. That old man who avoids war, and who feels for his soldiers as though they were made for something other than fighting.”

  “Do not speak of Pharaoh this way, O Prince,” said Meresankh. “Our father served our homeland in the days when he was strong. And he will go on serving it doubly so — with his wisdom.”

  Yet not all her visits to the prince's palace — were spent in conversations like this one. For, when twenty days had passed since the Egyptian army's departure, she found the heir apparent pleased and happy. As she looked at him, she saw the tough features soften briefly with a smile, and her heart fluttered, her thoughts flying away to her distant sweetheart.

  “What's behind this, O Your Highness?” she asked her brother.

  “The wonderful news has reached me that our army has won some outstanding victories,” he said. “Soon they will take the enemy's fortress.”

  She cried out to him, “Do you have more of this happy news to tell me?”

  “The messenger says that our soldiers advanced behind their shields until they came to within an arm's length of the wall — on which it was impossible for the tribesmen to appear without being hit. And so our arrows brought many of them down.”

  This was the happiest news she had heard from her brother in her life. She left the prince's palace headed for the Temple of Ptah, and prayed to the mighty lord that the army would be victorious and her sweetheart safe. She remained deeply immersed in prayer for a long time, in the way that only lovers know. But as she returned to Pharaoh's palace, unease crept into her heart — whose patience diminished the closer she came to its goal.

  29

  The egyptian troops had gotten so close to the fortress's wall that they could touch it with the tips of their spears. Faced by marksmen all around, each time a man appeared on it, they would sight him — with their bows — and fell him. There was no means left for the enemy but to throw rocks down upon them, or to hunt — with their arrows anyone — who tried to scale the wall. Things remained in this state for a time, each side lying in — wait for his adversary. Then at dawn on the twenty-fifth day of siege, Djedef issued his order to the archers to make a general attack. They broke into two groups: one to watch the wall, and the other to advance bearing wooden ladders, protected by their great shields, and armed with bows and arrows. They leaned their ladders against the wall and climbed up, holding their shields before them like standards. Then they secured their shields on top of the wall, making it look like the rampart of an Egyptian citadel armored with “domes.” Once on the wall they were met with thousands of arrows, shot at them from every direction, and more than a few men perished. They answered their enemy's fire, continuously filling the air with the terrifying whoosh of their lethal shafts, as loud cries pierced the clouds in the sky, the cheers of hitting a target mixing with the moans of pain and the screams of fear. During the desperate struggle, a group of foot soldiers attacked the great gate with battering rams made from the trunks of date palms. They rattled it immensely, creating an appalling din.

  Djedef stood astride his war chariot, surveying the battle apprehensively, his heart braced for combat. His head turned from side to side as he shifted his gaze from the soldiers scaling the wall and those rushing to do so, then to the men assaulting the towering doorway whose four corners had begun to loosen, and whose frame to throb.

  After some time, he saw the archers leaping down inside the wall. Then he saw the infantrymen, their spears at the ready, climbing the ladders, brandishing their shields. He then knew that the enemy had started to abandon an area behind the wall, and was retreating — within the peninsula.

  Hours of grueling combat and anxious suspense went by. The squadron of chariots — the young commander at its lead — was waiting tensely, when suddenly the gate flew open after the Egyptian troops inside the — wall raised its bolt. The horses — were given free rein as the vehicles charged through it, with a rumble like the sound of a falling mountain, kicking up a gale of dust and sand behind them. One by one they flew past the portal, this going to the right, that to the left, forming two broad wings that joined behind the commander's chariot.

  They smote the enemy as a massive fist mashes a fragile bird, while the bowmen seized all the fortified positions and the overlooking hills. Meanwhile, the spearmen moved forward behind them to protect the chariots, and to fight whoever doubled back to encircle them.

  The decisive engagement ended in just a few hours. The tribesmen's villages spent that night at the mercy of the occupying army. The ground was strewn with the bodies of those killed or wounded, as the soldiers roamed here and there without any order. The Egyptians devoted themselves to searching among the corpses for their brothers in battle who had fallen on the field of honor. They kept carrying them to the encampment outside the wall, while others gathered the remains of the enemy dead in order to count them. Yet others bound the prisoners with ropes as they stripped them of their weapons, lining them up, row upon row. Then the little hamlets were emptied of their women and children and bunched into different groups, where they screamed and wailed beside their captured menfolk, guards surrounding them on every side. As the troops returned, each went to where the standard of his own unit was raised. The brigades then stood in formation, all headed by officers that had made it through the scourge of battle alive.

  The commander came, followed by the leaders of the brigades, and reviewed the victorious army that saluted him with a prodigious fervor. He greeted his gallant officers, congratulating them for their success and their survival, as he paid tribute to those who had given themselves as martyrs. Then he walked with his war chiefs to the spot where the cadavers of the fallen foe were thrown. Some of their bodies were stretched out next to each other; their blood flowed from them in rivers. Djedef found a detachment watching over them, and asked the officer in command, “How many killed and wounded?”

  “Three thousand enemy killed, and five thousand wounded,” the man replied.

  “And our losses were how many?”

  “One thousand of our own killed, and three thousand wounded.”

  The youth's face darkened. “Have the Bedouin tribes cost us so dear?” he wondered aloud.

  Next, the commander went to see the place where the prisoners were held. They were gathered under guard, the long ropes splitting them into groups, their arms tied behind their backs, their heads bent down until their beards touched their breasts. Djedef glanced at them, then said to those around him, “They shall work the mines of Qift that complain of being short of labor, where they'll be glad indeed to get these strong men.”

  He and his consort then moved on to a raucous area, from which there was no escape, where the noncombatant captives were kept. The children bawled and cried, as the parents slapped their faces and shrieked at them. The women beat their own faces, lamenting their menfolk who were killed or wounded, or taken prisoner, or gone fugitive. While Djedef did not know their language, he gazed at them from his chariot with a look not lacking in sympathy. His sight fell upon a band of them who seemed more affluent than the rest.

  “Who are these women?” he asked the officer supervising their guards.

  “They're the harem of the tribesmen's leader,” answered the officer.

  The commander considered them with a smile
. They regarded him with cold eyes, which no doubt concealed behind them a blazing fire, — wishing that they could overpower this conquering commander — who had taken them and their master captive — and who had turned them from privileged persons into the lowest of the low in a single blow.

  One of them broke free from the others and wanted to approach the commander. Between her and her goal was a soldier, who signaled to her threateningly — but she called out to Djedef in clear Egyptian, “O Commander, let me come close to you, and may the Lord Ra bless you!”

  Djedef was dumbfounded, as they all were, at what issued from her tongue — she spoke Egyptian with a native accent. The commander ordered the soldier to let her approach him. She did so with slow, deliberate steps until she neared the youth, then bowed before him in deference and respect. She was a woman of fifty, of dignified appearance, her face showing the traces of an ancient beauty that time and misery had destroyed. Her features bore an uncanny resemblance to the daughters of the Nile.

  “I see that you know our language, madam,” Djedef addressed her.

  The woman was moved so intensely that her eyes drowned in tears. “How could I not know it, since I was raised to know no other?” she said. “I am Egyptian, my lord.”

  The young man's astonishment increased and he felt a powerful sympathy for her. “Are you truly an Egyptian, my lady?”

  She answered with sadness and certainty, “Yes, sir — an Egyptian, daughter of Egyptians.”

  “And what brought you here?”

  “What brought me here was my wretched luck, that I was kidnapped in my youth by these uncouth, uncivilized men, who obtained their just portion at your courageous hands. The vilest torment was inflicted upon me until their leader rescued me from their evil — only to afflict me with his own. He added me to his harem, where I suffered the debasement of being a prisoner — which I endured for twenty years.”

  This roused Djedef's emotions even further. “Today, your captivity ends, my lady, who are bound to me by race and nation,” he told the despairing woman. “So be gladdened.”

  The woman to whom time had been so cruel for twenty long years sighed. She wanted to kneel at the commander's feet, but he grasped her hand empathetically. “Be at ease, my lady. From what town do you come?”

  “From On, my lord — the residence of Our Lord Ra.”

  “Don't be sad that the Lord subjected you to twenty years of evil, out of wisdom known only to Him,” he said. “Yet He did not forget you. I will recount your story to My Lord the King and petition him to set you free, so that you may return to your native district, happy and content.”

  Anxiously the woman pleaded, “I beg you, sir, please send me to my hometown at once. The gods may grant that I will find my family.”

  But the youth shook his head. “Not before I raise your case with Pharaoh — for you, and this applies to all the prisoners — are the king's property, and we must invariably render those things entrusted to our care to their rightful owner. Yet be reassured, and do not fear anything, for Pharaoh, Lord of the Egyptians, will neither keep them as captives nor humiliate them.” He wanted to restore confidence to this tortured soul, hence he sent her to his camp, honored with great esteem.

  When evening came that day the army had finished burying its dead and dressing the wounds of the injured. The men repaired to their tents to take their ration of rest after the fatigue of the exhausting day. Djedef sat in front of the entrance to his own tent, warming himself by the fire and contemplating his surroundings with dreamy eyes. On the earth, the greatest thing moving him was the sight of the Egyptian standards mounted over the wall of the fortress; in the sky, it was those stars that were like eyes sparkling miraculously for eternity by the power of the Creator and the splendor of creation. Lovely visions hovered in the heaven of his imagination, like these stars — standing in his heart for his happy memories of Memphis and the dreams that they conjured. In his rapture, he did not forget that solemn moment soon approaching when he would stand before Pharaoh and ask for the heart of the dearest creature to himself in Egypt. What a grave moment that would be! Yet, how beautiful life would be if he were propelled from triumph to triumph, transported from happiness to happiness. May it go that way always! If only the Fates would have mercy on man. But the obvious reality is that happiness is scarce in this world. And could he ever forget the image oft hat woman of rare pride, whom the Bedouin had kidnapped amidst her own happiness, stolen her youth, and made her endure oppression for all of twenty years? How outrageous!

  Yes, Djedef was unable, amidst his own happiness and triumph, to forget that woman's wretchedness.

  30

  As the sun rose over Memphis of the White Walls, the city looked as though she was hosting one of the great fetes dedicated to the Lord Ptah. The flags waved over the roofs of the houses and mansions. The roads and squares surged with the masses of people as if they were the billows of the Nile during the yearly flood. The air resounded with anthems of greeting for Pharaoh, his triumphant army, and its heroic soldiers.

  The branches of palm and olive trees flapped about like the wings of a genial bird, caressing heads crowned with victory as it warbled with joy. And through this elated melee, the processions of princes, ministers, and priests pressed their way to the city's northern gate, to receive the victorious forces and their valiant commander.

  At the appointed hour, the breeze brought them the tunes of the conquering army, as its forward units, their banners flapping, appeared on the horizon. The cheers went up as the people clapped and waved the branches with their hands. The crowd overflowed with a tide of fervid enthusiasm that made it seem like a roiling sea.

  The army advanced in its customary order, led by the bands of prisoners, their arms bound and chins lowered. These were followed by the great wagons carrying the captive women and children, and the spoils of conquest. Then came the squadron of chariots headed by the young commander, surrounded by the important men of the realm who had come to receive him. Next were the lines of mighty war chariots in their exacting array, and, immediately after them, the archers, spearmen, and bearers of light weapons. All of them proceeded to the strains of their own music, leaving gaps in their ranks for those who had fallen, in salute to their memory and their noble martyrdom for the sake of their homeland and sovereign.

  Djedef was blissful and proud, gazing into the impassioned crowd — with gleaming eyes, returning the warm salutations — with sweeps of his awesome sword. His eyes plumbed the masses for the beloved faces of those who he never doubted would cry out his name when they saw him. He even imagined for a moment that he heard the voice of his mother, Zaya, and the bellow of his vain and boastful father, Bisharu. His heart pounded violently as he wondered if those two dark eyes that inspired him with love, as the emerging sun inspires the hearts of the Egyptians to worship the divine presence, now looked upon him. Does she see him in his hour of glory? Does she hear his name cheered by the thronging thousands? Does she recognize his face, pale from separation and longing?

  The army continued on its way to the Great House of Pharaoh. The king and queen stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the huge square known as the Place of the People. Below them paraded the prisoners of war, the wagons full of booty, the civilian captives, and the divisions of the army. Then, as Djedef approached the royal balcony, he pulled out his sword, stretching his arm out in salute, and turned to face Khufu and his wife. Behind them stood the princesses Henutsen, Neferhetepheres, Hetepheres — and Meresankh. His eyes were drawn to those bewitching orbs that held a power over him unlike anything else in creation. Their eyes exchanged a burning message of ardent desire and consuming passion, and if, on its path between them, it had brushed against the hem of one of the banners, it would have burst into an engulfing flame.

  Commander Djedef was called to appear before Pharaoh, and — steady and confident — he obeyed. Once again, as he came into His Majesty's presence, the king leaned toward him, putting forward his staff.
Djedef prostrated himself to kiss it, then laid the bolt to the gate of the forbidding wall that his victorious army had sundered at the foot of the throne.

  “My Lord, His Majesty Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt, Sovereign of the Eastern and Western Deserts, and Master of the Land of Nubia,” he declaimed, “Sire! The gods have lent their strength to a mighty task and a striking conquest. For a group that until yesterday were rebellious bullies has now been brought forcibly into your obedience. Beneath the sheltering wings of your divinity, the humbled now huddle in misery, swearing, in their demeaning captivity, their pledge of fealty to your indomitable throne.”

  The king, his head crowned with white hair, said to him, “Pharaoh congratulates you, O triumphant Commander, for your integrity and your valor. He wishes that the gods may lengthen your life, so that the homeland may continue to benefit from your gifts.”

  Khufu bent forward, offering his hand to the youthful commander, who kissed it in profound respect.

  “How many of my soldiers sacrificed themselves for the sake of their homeland and Pharaoh?” asked the king.

  “One thousand heroes were martyred,” answered Djedef, his voice subdued.

  “And the number of wounded?”

  “Three thousand, my lord.”

  Pharaoh paused for a moment. “Great life requires great sacrifice,” he said. “May the Lord be praised, Who creates life out of death.”

  He looked at Djedef for a long while before saying, “You have rendered me two magnificent services. In the first, you saved the life of my heir apparent. And in the second, you rescued the well-being of my people. So what, then, is your request?”

  “My God!” Djedef thought. “The horrendous hour has come that my soul has always desired, that I have always pictured in my happiest dreams.” Yet, ever an intrepid lad, he did not lose his nerve even in the most daunting situations.