Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

by Naguib Mahfouz

  But no sooner had she put her doubts at bay than her imagination drifted once again to hover round her fears: she saw Tahu's angry face contorted with agony and heard his hoarse voice, pained and wounded. She suffered greatly for her fears but she did not dare to interpret them, or remove the mystery that shrouded them.

  She wondered if she was right to fear Tahu, or to think ill of him. All indications seemed to suggest that he had forgotten. But could he do something that he had, of his own accord, sworn not to? He could no longer knock at her door since it had become sacred and prohibited. All he could do was submit and obey, but that did not mean he had forgotten or was to be trusted.

  She wondered if any remnants of the past still clung to his heart. Tahu was a stubborn bully, and love might transmute in his heart into concealed resentment, ready to — wreak revenge when the occasion presented itself. Still, despite her turmoil, she did not forget to be just to Tahu, and she recalled his loyalty and his unswerving dedication to his lord. He was a man of duty who would not be led astray by desire or temptation.

  Everything suggested that she should relax, yet she was plagued with misgivings. The messenger had left her palace only hours before; how then was she to wait for a month or more? She was at her wits’ end, when suddenly the thought occurred to her to invite Tahu to come and meet her. She would not have dreamed of the idea the day before, but today it reassured her and she felt inclined to pursue it, forced along in the same way one is forced to embrace a danger one fears, but cannot deflect or escape from. She thought about it, unsure for a moment which course to take, then she said to herself, “Why not invite him and talk to him to see what his heart conceals. Perhaps I will be able to guard against his malice, if there is malice to be guarded against, and I shall save Tahu from himself, and save His Majesty from his evil.” Her desire had turned into a determination that would accept no delay and seized her with all its might until she could think of nothing else. She immediately called Shayth and ordered her to go to Commander Tahu's palace and summon him.

  Shayth went off while her mistress waited nervously in the reception hall. She had no doubt that he would accept her invitation. As she waited, it dawned on her how nervous she was, and she compared herself now to how strong and unfeeling she had been in the past. She realized that from the moment she had fallen in love she had turned into a weak and nervous woman whose sleep was haunted with ridiculous delusions and false fears.

  Tahu came as she had expected. He was dressed in his official uniform, which reassured her somewhat, as if he were telling her that he had forgotten Rhadopis, the courtesan of the white palace, and that he was now in audience with the friend of his lord and majesty, Pharaoh.

  The commander bowed his head in reverence and respect, and speaking quietly and without the slightest trace of emotion, said, “May the gods make happy your days, my venerable lady.”

  She examined his face, saying, “And your days too, noble commander. I thank you for accepting my invitation.”

  Tahu bowed again. “I am at your command, my lady.”

  He looked the same as he had before, strong, sturdy, and copper-skinned, but it did not escape her searching glance that some change had come over him that eyes other than hers would not have observed. She discerned upon the man's face a withered look that had dimmed the sparkle in his eyes and had quenched the all-encompassing spirit that once effused from his face. She was worried that the reason might be the events of that strange night they had parted ways almost a year ago. How awful it was! Tahu had been like a swirling wind; now he was like stagnant air.

  “I have invited you, Commander,” she said, “to congratulate you on the great trust placed in you by the king.”

  The commander seemed surprised and said, “Thank you, my lady. It is an old favor, bestowed upon me by the gods.”

  Forcing a smile, she said slyly, “And I thank you for the fine praise you lavished upon my idea.”

  The man thought for a moment before recalling, “Perhaps my lady means the brilliant idea that her lofty mind inspired?”

  She nodded, and he continued, “It is a wonderful idea, worthy of your outstanding intelligence.”

  She showed no sign of pleasure, and said, “Its success guarantees the power and sovereignty of His Majesty, and peace and stability for the kingdom.”

  “That is true without doubt,” said the commander. “That is why we greeted it with such enthusiasm.”

  She looked deep into his eyes and said, “The day will soon come when my idea will need your strength and power to bring it to fruition, to be crowned with victory and success.”

  Tahu bowed his head and said, “Thank you for your valued trust.”

  The woman was silent for a moment. Tahu was dignified, composed, and serious, not as she had known him in the past. She had not expected from him otherwise, and now she sensed trust and reassurance in his presence. She felt a burning impulse to bring up the old matter and to ask him to forgive her and forget, but words failed her. Her bewilderment got the better of her and she was afraid she would say the wrong thing. Reluctant and confused, she abandoned the idea. Then, thinking at the last moment to announce to him her good intentions in another way, she held out her hand, and smiled as she said, “Noble commander, I extend to you the hand of friendship and appreciation.”

  Tahu placed his rough hand against her soft and tender palm. He seemed moved, but he did not answer. Thus ended their short, crucial encounter.

  On his way back to his boat he asked himself frantically why the woman had invited him. He gave free rein to the emotions he had stifled in her presence, flying into a rage as the color faded from his face and his body shook. Before long he had completely lost his mind, and as the oars plied the surface of the water he swayed like a drunkard, as if returning from a battle defeated, his wisdom and honor in shreds. The palm trees lining the shore seemed to dance wildly and the air was thick with choking dust. The blood rushed through his veins, hot and impassioned, poisoned with madness. He found a jug of wine on the table in the cabin and he poured it into his mouth. The drink made him reckless and moody and he threw himself down onto the couch in a state of abject despair.

  Of course he had not forgotten her. She was concealed in some deep hidden recess of his mind, forever shut away by consolation, patience, and his strong sense of duty. Now that he had seen her for the first time in a year, the hidden deposit in his soul had exploded and the flames had spread to consume his entire being. He felt tormented by shame and despair, his pride slaughtered. Now he had tasted ignominy and defeat twice in the same battle. He felt his unbalanced head spinning as he spoke furiously to himself. He knew why she had gone to the trouble of summoning him. She had invited him to find out if she could trust his loyalty, to put her heart at rest regarding her beloved lord and majesty. In order to do so she had feigned friendship and admiration. How strange that Rhadopis, capricious and cruel, was suffering pain and anguish, learning what love is, and what fears and pains come in its wake. She feared some treachery from Tahu — who once had clung to the sole of her sandal like dust and she had shaken him off in a moment of boredom and disgust. Woe to the heavens and the earth, woe to all the world. He was filled with an unspeakable despair that crushed his proud and mighty spirit to powder. His anger was violent and insane. It set his blood on fire and pressed on his ears so that he could hardly hear a sound, and it stained his eyes so that he saw the world a blaze of red.

  As soon as the boat docked at the steps of the royal palace he strode off and, oblivious to the greetings of the guards, staggered up the garden toward the barracks and the quarters of the commander of the guard. Suddenly he found Prime Minister Sofkhatep walking toward him on his way back from the king's chambers. The prime minister greeted him with a smile. Tahu stood before him expressionless, as if he did not know him. The prime minister was surprised and asked, “How are you, Commander Tahu?”

  “I am like a lion that has fallen into a trap,” he replied with strang
e haste, “or like a tortoise lying upturned on top of a burning oven.”

  Sofkhatep was taken aback. “What are you saying? What likens you to a lion in a trap, or a tortoise on an oven?”

  “The tortoise lives for a long time,” said Tahu as if in a daze. “It moves slowly, and is weighed down by a heavy load. The lion shrinks back, roars, springs violently, and finishes off his prey.”

  Sofkhatep gazed into his face in amazement, saying, “Are you angry? You are not your usual self.”

  “I am angry. Would you deny me that, venerable sir? I am Tahu, lord of war and battle. Ah, how can the world put up with this ponderous peace? The gods of war are parched and I must one day quench their burning thirst.”

  Sofkhatep nodded his head, in order to humor the commander. “Ah, now I understand, Commander. It is that fine Maryut vintage.”

  “No,” said Tahu firmly. “No. Truly, I have drunk a cup of blood, the blood of an evil person it seems, and my blood is poisoned. But there is — worse to come. On my — way here, I encountered the Lord of Goodness sleeping in the meadow and I plunged my sword into his heart. Let us go to battle, for blood is the drink of the fearless soldier.”

  “It is the wine, no doubt,” said Sofkhatep in dismay. “You should return to your palace at once.”

  But Tahu shook his head in disdain. “Be very careful, Prime Minister. Beware of corrupted blood, for it is poison itself. The tortoise's patience has run out, and the lion will pounce.”

  With that he went on his way, oblivious to all that was around him, leaving Sofkhatep standing there in a daze.

  The waiting

  Pharaoh's palace, the palace of Biga, and the government house all waited impatiently for the return of the messenger. Yet they felt confident about the future. Each day that passed brought Rhadopis closer to victory, and hope glowed warmly in her breast. This optimistic mood may have continued uninterrupted had not the prime minister received an ominous letter from the priests. Sofkhatep generally ignored such letters, or felt obliged to show them to the queen, but this time he perceived a serious escalation. Not wishing to incur the ire of his lord for concealing it, even though showing it to him would provoke a certain amount of anger, he met Pharaoh and read him the letter. It was a solemn petition signed by all the clergy, with the high priests of Ra, Amun, Ptah, and Apis at their head, requesting His Majesty to restore the temple estates to their owners, the worshipped gods who protect and watch over Pharaoh, and affirming at the same time that they would not have submitted their petition if they had found any reason that would necessitate the appropriation of the lands.

  The letter was strongly worded, and Pharaoh was furious. He tore it up into pieces and threw it on the floor. “I will respond to them soon enough,” he shouted.

  “They are petitioning you as one body,” said Sofkhatep. “Before they were petitioning as individuals.”

  “I will strike them all together, so let them protest the way their ignorance dictates.”

  Events however were moving quickly. The governor of Thebes sent word to the prime minister that Khnumhotep had visited his province and received a tumultuous welcome from the populace and the priests and priestesses of Amun alike. Cries had gone up in his name and the people had called for the rights of the gods to be preserved and upheld. Some even went further, and weeping, cried out, “Shame, the wealth of Amun is spent on a dancer!”

  The prime minister was grievously saddened, but not for the first time his loyalty overcame his reluctance, and he tactfully informed his lord of the news. As usual the king was angry, and said regretfully, “The governor of Thebes watches and listens but can do nothing.”

  “My lord, he has only the force of the police,” said Sofkhatep sadly, “and they are of no use against such large numbers of people.”

  “I have no choice but to wait,” said the king, irritated. “Truly, by the Lord, my pride is bled dry.”

  A cloud of affliction settled over glorious Abu, and drifted into the lofty palaces and halls of government. Queen Nitocris stayed in her chambers, hostage of her confinement and loneliness, suffering the pangs of a broken heart and wounded pride as she watched events with sad and sorry eyes. Sofkhatep received all this news with a dejected heart, and would say sadly to taciturn and miserable Tahu, “Have you ever seen such rebellious unrest in Egypt? How sad it is.”

  The king's happiness had turned to anger and wrath. He did not taste rest unless he lay in the arms of the woman to whom he had surrendered his soul. She knew what plagued him. She would flirt with him and comfort him and whisper in his ear, “Patience,” and he would sigh and say bitterly, “Yes, until I have the upper hand.”

  Still the situation deteriorated. The visits of Khnumhotep to the provinces increased. Wherever he went he was greeted by enthusiastic crowds, and his name rang out up and down the country. Many of the governors were gravely concerned, for the matter was placing serious strain on their loyalty to Pharaoh. The governors of Ambus, Farmuntus, Latopolis, and Thebes met to consult with one another. They decided to meet the king, and they headed for Abu and asked for an audience.

  Pharaoh received them officially with Sofkhatep present. The governor of Thebes approached Pharaoh, uttered the greeting of humble veneration and loyalty, and said, “Your Majesty, true loyalty serves no purpose if it is simply an emotion in the heart. Rather it must be combined with sound advice and good works, and sacrifice if circumstance demands it. We stand before a matter in which honesty may expose us to displeasure, but we are no longer able to silence the stirring of our consciences. Therefore we must speak the truth.”

  Pharaoh was silent for a moment then said to the governor, “Speak, Governor. I am listening to you.”

  The man spoke with courage. “Your Majesty, the priests are angry. Like a contagion, their anger has spread among the people who listen to their speeches morning and evening. It is because of this that all agree on the necessity of returning the estates to their owners.”

  A look of vehemence appeared on the king's face. “Is it right that Pharaoh should yield to the will of the people?” he said furiously.

  The governor continued, his words bold and direct: “Your Majesty, the contentment and well-being of the people is a responsibility with which the gods have entrusted the person of Pharaoh. There is no yielding, only the compassion of an able master concerned for his slaves.”

  The king banged his staff on the ground. “I see only submission in retreat.”

  “May the gods forbid that I refer to Your Majesty as submissive, but politics is a churning sea, the ruler a captain who steers clear of the raging storm and makes full use of good opportunity.”

  The king was not impressed with his words and he shook his head in stubborn contempt. Sofkhatep requested permission to speak, and asked the governor of Thebes, “What proof do you have that the people share the sentiments of the priests?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” said the governor without hesitation. “I have sent my spies around the region. They have observed the mood of the people at close quarters and have heard them discussing matters they should not.”

  “I did the same thing,” said the governor of Farmuntus, “and the reports that came back were most regrettable.”

  Every governor spoke his piece, and their statements left no doubt about the precariousness of the situation. Thus ended the first such meeting of its kind ever seen in the palaces of the pharaohs.

  Immediately the king met — with his prime minister and the commander of the guard in his private wing. He was beside himself with rage, threatening menace and intimidation. “These governors,” he said, “are loyal and trustworthy, but they are weak. If I were to take their advice I would lay open my throne to ignominy and shame.”

  Tahu quickly seconded His Majesty's opinion, and said, “To retreat now is clearly defeat, my lord.”

  Sofkhatep was thinking about other probabilities. “We must not forget the festival of the Nile. Only a few days remain before it begi
ns. In truth, my heart is not happy at the thought of thousands of irate people gathered in Abu.”

  “We control Abu,” Tahu was quick to point out.

  “There is no doubt about that. But we should not forget that at the last festival certain treacherous cries were heard, even though at that time His Majesty's wish had still not been realized. This year we should expect other, more vociferous cries.”

  “All hope hangs on the return of the messenger before the festival,” said the king.

  Sofkhatep continued to consider the matter from his own point of view, for in his heart he believed in the proposal of the governors. He said, “The messenger will come soon and he will read his message for all to hear. No doubt the priests, having courted the favor of their lord and believing that they once again enjoyed their ancient rights, will be more enthusiastically inclined to accept mobilization, for even if my lord were to take the upper hand and dictate his desire, there is none who can refuse to do his will.”

  The king took umbrage at Sofkhatep's opinion, and feeling isolated and alone even in his private wing, he hastened to the palace of Biga, where loneliness never followed him. Rhadopis did not know what had happened in the latest meeting and her mind was less troubled than his. Still, she found no difficulty reading the telling expression on his face and sensed the anger and vexation that churned in his heart. She was filled with trepidation and she looked at him questioningly, but the words piled up behind her lips, afraid to come out.