IV
Saakera was giving a feast. The pillared hall of the palace where the guests were assembled gave on to an open porch and the porch on to the river. The palm-shaped columns, decorated with a scaly design of coloured glass on a golden background, seemed made of precious stones, glittering in the light of candelabra, each of which resembled a burning bush; the yawning abyss of darkness gaped in between. There the rusty sickle of the waning moon shed its dim light on the ragged tops of the Lybian mountains and was reflected as a pillar of dull copper in the black rippled surface of the river, so wide that it was hard to believe it was a river and not the sea.
The night was still, but fresh, as often happens during the overflow. The gentle breeze from the north blew so evenly that the flames of the lamps were all bent to one side.
The blue ceiling, studded with golden stars, looked through the white smoke of incense like a real sky through the clouds.
The guests sat in a semi-circle in the square space that was free from columns: the king was in the middle, on his right sat Saakera, the heir-apparent, with his consort, Meritatona, the king's eldest daughter; then Ramose, Tuta, Ay; on the king's left was the queen, next to her was an empty seat reserved for Merira, who had not yet arrived; then came Mahu, Dio, and others. Members of the royal family and senior dignitaries sat in arm-chairs and on folding chairs, and the lesser ones sat on carpets and mats on the floor.
Within the semi-circle stood a big, round, one-legged table of alabaster. It was covered with loaves of bread shaped like pyramids, cones, balls and sacred animals, dishes of food, covered with fresh leaves to protect the food from flies, and mounds of fruit: gigantic bunches of Lybian grapes, a foot long, the rare fruits of shakarab, spotted like a leopard's skin, and the egg-shaped persae in a four-petalled chalice, golden-coloured and fragrant as flowers. Four wine and beer stands made of trellised woodwork and garlanded with flowers stood round the table.
Nubian girls, dressed in white, transparent linen—'woven air'—or naked but for a narrow girdle just above the navel, served round the cups with food and drink. Meat was cut up into small pieces and eaten with the fingers, which were washed in scented water after every dish. Wine and beer were sucked through reeds.
Fans of ostrich feathers and flykillers of jackals' tails were being waved unceasingly to keep off the night midges, zezet.
Each guest wore on his head a tiny cup filled with fragrant ointment, with a lotos stuck through it, so that the flower hung over the forehead. Melting slowly with the warmth of the body and the heat of the room the ointment fell in drops upon the white linen of the dresses, leaving greasy yellow streaks upon it; the greater the number of such streaks the better: it meant the guest had been well looked after. When the cup was empty the girls produced a new one offering the choice between kemi, 'the royal ointment,' or anti, 'the dew of the gods,' which gave a golden tint to the skin and made the face look 'like the morning star.'
"Where is Merira?" the king asked.
"He has promised to come, but he is not here yet. He is not well. He can't sleep," answered Saakera, the heir apparent, a young man with a beautiful face, fine and mournful like the sickle of the moon turning pale in the morning sky.
"Why don't you cure him, Pentu?" the king asked.
"There is only one certain remedy against sleeplessness, sire," Pentu, the physician, answered.
"What is it?"
"A clear conscience."
"But isn't his conscience clear?"
Pentu made no answer, as though he had not heard, and there was a general silence.
"Why are you eating so little, Tuta?" the host inquired solicitously. "This is your favourite dish, antelope from the salty plains. Isn't it cooked to your liking?"
"Oh, yes, prince, it is excellent; I have eaten much of it."
"He is telling fibs—he hasn't had a bite, I have seen myself," the king laughed. "He is grieving over poor Ruru. Haven't they discovered yet who killed it?"
"No, they haven't," Tuta answered in confusion.
"They will soon discover it, I am on the track," Mahu said, looking intently at Tuta.
Tuta was more dead than alive: he took a piece of meat into his mouth and could not swallow it.
"What's the matter with you, stomach-ache again?" his consort, princess Ankhsenbatona, who sat next to him, asked him in a whisper.
"Yes," he answered with the languid air he always assumed when speaking about his health.
Ankhi knew that his stomach-ache was generally due to fear.
"What has frightened you?"
He said nothing.
"Speak! what is it? Ah, you insufferable creature!" she whispered furiously and pinched his back so viciously that he nearly cried out.
Ay saw Tuta's confusion and wanted to help him, but did not know how.
Ay's wife, the great royal nurse, Ty, was sitting next to him. Enormously stout—a regular toad—with a purplish face covered with warts that had red hair on them, the old lady was wearing a fiery-red wig, a Canaan novelty, and gold-coloured gloves, a Hittite novelty; though there was no need to wear them in a hot country like Egypt, she showed them off on every festive occasion. People thought her half-mad, but she was very cunning and intelligent, and a malicious gossip, especially in love affairs.
Soft-boiled ibis eggs were served. They were not eaten as a rule, for the ibis was a bird sacred to the god Tot. But this time all the company ate some to please the king and show their contempt for the false god.
Ty helped herself to three eggs. It was awkward to eat them with gloved hands and she smeared herself with the yolk which, however, was not very noticeable beside the yellow streaks from the ointment.
"Aita! Aita!" she suddenly said in a loud voice, when there was a silence and everyone was occupied with the eggs, and she gave a high-pitched little laugh, curiously out of keeping with her enormous size; it was like the silvery trill of a toad.
Ay looked at her and understood what he had to do. He began telling about the pretty Aita, wife of one of the king's dignitaries who used to deceive her husband so boldly and cleverly under his very nose that everyone knew it except him.
"She had a feed, wiped her mouth and said 'I haven't done any wrong'," Ay concluded.
"What? What?" the king laughed. "She had a feed, wiped her mouth...." he tried to repeat it but could not go on for laughter.
"Wiped her mouth and said 'I haven't done any wrong'," Ay repeated.
"And what is your other saying? 'It is no use crying....'" the king began again and could not finish.
"No use crying over sour milk," Ay said.
Tuta was saved. Ruru was forgotten.
Meanwhile Dio was whispering with Mahu, the chief of the guards.
"And what if he does not come?" she asked.
"He is sure to come," Mahu answered. "How many have you hidden away?"
"Three hundred."
"That will do."
"Hadn't we better tell the king?"
"Heaven forbid! If he learns it, all is lost, he will not believe a word of it. We must catch the scoundrel red-handed.... Ah, there he is!"
Merira came in. Tuta almost fainted.
"Here he is, at last!" said the king, getting up to greet Merira.
He made him sit down next to the queen and began asking him about his health. Merira answered calmly, almost jokingly. But when a Nubian brought him a cup of perfume he sent her away with a grimace of disgust.
The little girls who sang and played the lute, the tambourine, the flute and the cithern sat down in a circle on the floor. Miruit, Pentaur's pupil whom Dio had brought with her from Thebes, stood in the middle. Her dark amber-coloured body could be seen through the flowing folds of the transparent dress. Her face, ugly, charming and dangerous, like the head of a snake, seemed tiny under the mass of the dull black hair powdered with blue.
The girls played and sang:
"Sweet one, you are sweet for love
Fairer than any woman,
Fairer than any girl,
Your hair is blacker than abed berries,
Your teeth are whiter than sunny flint.
Your lips are the bud of a flower,
Your arms are slender branches.
Two flowering crowns,
Your breasts are hardly formed,
Your nipples smell of myrrh."
Miruit was dancing the dance de venire. The upper part of the body remained motionless and the lower moved rapidly, although she stood on the same spot. Her head was thrown back, her lips open, her eyes dark and fixed, and the slender waist moved like a serpent's tongue; the belly rose and fell, the narrow, childish hips moved slower and slower as though prolonging the last tremours of passion. If she had really done before everyone the things her dance pictured, it would not have been so innocently shameless.
The women looked down, the men smiled, beating measure with their hands and the girls sang:
"You have captured my heart,
You have captured my heart
By a single look of your eyes.
How tender are your embraces,
How sweet your caresses!
Better than wine is your kiss,
The odour of your sweet body
Is better than any perfume."
When Miruit had finished the dance the choir of the blind men who had sung at the Sun's festival entered the hall. They sat down on the floor and sang to the sounds of the harp:
"One generation replaces another,
The sun rises, the sun sets again,
The nostrils of all breathe the morning air,
Until man goes to his place of rest.
No one can return from there, no one can tell
What awaits us beyond the tomb.
Rejoice then, O mortal, in thy day of life,
Until the day of weeping comes.
I have heard of what befell my forefathers:
The walls of their tombs are destroyed,
Their coffins are empty like coffins of beggars,
Forsaken by everyone on earth.
Their dwelling place knows them no more.
It is as though they had never been:
Rejoice then, mortal, in thy day of life!
Oil thy body with fragrant oil
Make lotos garlands for thy arms
And the breasts of thy sister beloved.
Enjoy the music and the songs
Forget thou all thy sorrows,
Remember nothing but the joy,
Until the day thy boat shall land
Upon the shores of Silence."
The song stopped and the breath of the night blew fresher than before from the black gaps between the pillars; the flames of the lamps bent lower, all on one side, as though someone invisible had come into the room.
"Isn't it a fine song?" Saakera asked.
"No, prince, it isn't," answered Panehesy, the second priest of Aton and the head of the king's spies—a man without age who looked like a eunuch. He was a mild fanatic, 'a holy fool,' in the words of Ay.
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's godless. If it is true, our faith is in vain."
"I would answer you, my friend, but it doesn't behove ignorant men to speak in the presence of the wise."
"Speak, Saakera," the king said. "I like listening to you. You say what many people think, but don't say, and to me even a bitter truth is dearer than a sweet lie."
"Listen then, Panehesy," Saakera began. "Let the son of the Sun who has come down from heaven speak of heavenly things, and I will speak of the earthly. We are all creatures of yesterday and we know nothing, for our days upon earth are like a shadow. The same fate befalls the righteous and the unrighteous, the good and the wicked, the clean and the unclean, him that sacrifices and him that does not sacrifice. A man has no pre-eminence above a beast: all are of the dust and all turn to dust again. I have seen all the works that are done under the sun and believe the dead are happier than the living, and happiest of all is he who was never born!"
"What are we to do then, we who have been born?" Panehesy asked.
"The song gives an answer: rejoice in your day, mortals, but remember that the peace of the god with the unbeating heart is the better portion."
"Thank you very much, our kind host, you have given us a treat!" Ay laughed. "Why, I couldn't swallow a morsel to the accompaniment of a song like that!"
"Why not, my friend? Remembrance of sorrow in the midst of joy is like salt in one's food."
"That's all very well, but every condiment should be used in moderation, and this is too much salt."
"No, this is not salt," Pentu the physician said, quietly, as though to himself.
"What is it then?" Ay asked.
"Poison," Pentu answered, quieter still. Mahu glanced at Merira. He sat with his head bent and his eyes half closed, his face as unmoved as that of a man asleep or dead.
"Why don't you speak, sire?" Panehesy cried, turning to the king.
"I don't speak because there is nothing to say: he is right," the king answered.
"Well said, Abby darling!" Princess Meritatona exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight.
Everyone looked at her with surprise.
"What does this mean, sire?" Panehesy faltered.
"It means, my friend, that if there is no God man is worse off than a beast, because a beast does not know its end and a man does."
"But there is God."
"Yes, there is. Everyone says there is, but acts as though there were not. And haven't you read, my son, that we shall have to give a terrible answer for empty words? Pentu, too, is right: there is poison in that song. But poison may be a medicine. There are two endings to the song: one is 'eat, drink and die' and another 'feed the starving, give drink to the thirsty'.... But it is better not to speak of it. God is a spring in the wilderness, sealed for the talkers and open for the silent. Merira is silent and he is right, more right than any of us. Don't be vexed with our chatter, our silent friend, forgive us!"
Merira made no answer, he merely looked at the king and his face remained as unmoved as though he were asleep or dead.
Suddenly there came through the stillness the slow, measured clang of the cymbals on the roof of Aton's temple, as though a huge heart of brass began beating in the night.
All rose from their seats; the king, the queen, the princesses, the heir-apparent and Merira walked to the altar that stood in the depths of the room before a bas-relief of the god Aton.
"Glory be to the unseen god, to the midnight sun!" Merira intoned. "Oh, mighty Falcon, with broad wings, flying through the two skies, hastening in thy sleepless course through the sky underneath the earth, to arise in thy place in the morning, the most secret of secret gods. In thy life the dead come to life again; thou givest their nostrils the breath of life and air to their stifled throats. Thou bringest light to those who are in death; glorifying thee from within their tombs, the dead lift up their hands and those in the earth rejoice!"
When the cymbals sounded Mahu and Dio went into the adjoining room. He walked up to the wall, knocked at it gently and put his ear to it. A knock came from the other side, too. The block of stone in the wall turned round like a swing door, leaving a narrow opening. The palace walls were double and there was a hiding place between them. No one knew of it except the king, Mahu and Ramose.
The Hittite Amazons of the king's bodyguard came out of the open door noiselessly like shadows. The dwarf Iagu jumped out after them, ran up to Mahu and asked in a whisper:
"Where are they?"
"Who?"
"Tuta, Merira."
"Why do you want to know?"
"I won't give them to anyone, I will throttle them with my own hands."
It was Iagu who had killed Ruru: he had climbed the tree by the window, looked into the room, listened to all that the conspirators said and told Mahu.
"You are a fine fellow, Iagu!" said Mahu, patting the dwarf on the head. "Tiny as you are, you have a lion's heart. But there's one thing, my friend: if you want to save the king, you must not touch them, do you hear?"
"I hear," Iagu answered, grinding his teeth.
"Make haste, make haste!" Dio hurried them.
"Don't be afraid, we'll be in time," Mahu said calmly. "You go to the king, and I will wait here. We will run out as soon as you call."
Dio returned to the guest chamber. Both Tuta and Ay had gone. The king stood by the altar, whispering a prayer. Dio placed herself behind him, opposite Merira.
A table with bread, wine and fruit stood near the altar. Merira went to it and began preparing the libation cup.
He then returned to the altar, holding the cup in his hands.
Dio noticed a ring with a carbuncle on his finger; he had not worn it before.
Their eyes met. "Who is to drink the cup?" he read the question in her eyes. "You will see," she read the answer in his.
He approached the king and said:
"King Uaenra, Sun's only Son, light of light, spirit of spirit, flesh of Sun's flesh, accept the cup of life, drink the cup of immortality, thou who overcomest death!"
He held out the cup to the king. But before Akhnaton had had time to take it, Dio snatched it out of Merira's hand and threw it on the floor.
"What are you doing?" the king cried.
"I've poured out the poison," Dio answered and she called:
"Mahu! Mahu!"
The door was flung open, and the Hittite women, led by Mahu, ran into the room. Some surrounded the king, others occupied the porch and mounted guard by the doors, but most of them ran to the next room where a battle with a detachment of Midian mercenaries had started.
"Rebellion! Save the king!" the dignitaries cried, rushing about the room in search of an exit.
Suddenly there was a loud hammering at the door from which the Hittite women had come. Both halves of the door were creaking and shaking under the blows of the axe from the other side. No one had expected an attack from the rear. The Amazons had barely had time to run to the door. A new battle began there.
Arrows and spears whistled in the air. A spear struck the stand with wines, and it fell with a clatter of broken crockery. A candelabrum was overthrown and the mats on the floor caught fire.
"Fire! Fire!" the dignitaries shouted, but they did nothing to put it out.
A Nubian girl seized a carpet and flung it over the flame, extinguishing it at once.
An arrow pierced the fragrant cup on Ty's head and tore off the wig, leaving her bald head bare. But the old woman sat unperturbed and did not even take her gloves off; rebellion seemed to be part of the court ceremonial to her.
Miruit, wounded in the stomach with a spear, lay in a pool of blood on the floor, scratching the ground with her nails and showing her teeth as it were in a smile, and the narrow childish hips moved slower and slower as though ending the dance of love.
The Hittite Amazons might not have withstood the attack of the Midians, had not half the mercenaries deserted the conspirators at the last moment.
The noise of the battle began to subside, the rebels were in retreat. The women had conquered the men. It had all happened so quickly that those present had hardly come to their senses.
Suddenly Ramose, lightly wounded in the left arm, came into the chamber dragging Tuta after him. He threw him at the king's feet and cried:
"Here is the chief criminal, sire! It is for his sake the other one has been working," he pointed to Merira and turned to Tuta again. "Confess, you rascal, or I'll kill you like a dog."
He raised the knife over Tuta. The king seized his hand.
"Let go the knife!"
Ramose did not obey and, shaking with anger, grumbled:
"Will you forgive this one, too?"
"It's for me to decide what I will do, but you let go the knife!"
The king pulled the knife out of Ramose's hand by force and threw it aside.
"Woe to us! God will not save him who ruins himself!" the old man muttered, sinking into an armchair heavily, exhausted by his wound.
Tuta lay at the king's feet.
"Is it true that you have done it?" the king asked him.
"Not I, not I, sire, God sees it isn't I...." Tuta babbled, pointing his finger at Merira.
Merira stood at a distance without moving; he looked so unconcerned that he seemed not to see or hear anything. Someone had tied his hands behind his back.
The king went up to him and asked:
"You wanted to kill me, Merira?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you prepare the way for the Son of perdition."
"Haven't we prepared it together?"
"No, not together."
"Why have you lied to me, then?"
"To destroy your work."
"But why did you rise against Him?"
"May I ask you a favour, sire?"
"Do."
"Don't ask me about anything and put me to death as soon as possible."
"No, Merira, I will not put you to death."
"You will forgive me like Tuta?" Merira said, with a smile that looked like a grimace of disgust. He had spoken with his eyes on the ground; suddenly he raised them and said looking straight into the king's eyes:
"Do what you like, but remember, Uaenra, that if you don't kill me, I will...."
He did not finish, but the king understood 'I will kill you.'
He put both hands on Merira's shoulders, and, also looking straight into his eyes, said, with a gentle smile:
"Remember, you too, Merira: whatever happens, I love you."