IX
Dio was watching the fire beyond the River from the flat roof of Khnum's house. Charuk Palace was burning—the residence of the Viceroy Tutankhaton.
Built of very old dry cedar and cypress wood, it burned hotly and steadily like a resin torch. The bare crags of the Lybian Mountains above it glowed as though red hot; the flames were reflected in the river as a pillar of fire and white smoke coiled in clouds of moonlight blue and fiery crimson.
Khnum's servants were standing by Dio's side on the roof. All the faces wore the look of that unaccountable joy which people always feel at the sight of a fire at night.
"There, look where it has caught now! The women's apartments are on fire!" someone said.
"No, the prince's lodge," another answered.
"And now something in the garden is on fire, by the very lake, it must be Aton's chapel."
"I expect it's all Kiki's doing—his handiwork!"
"The rabble will warm their hands at the fire, you may be sure!"
"Look, mates, look, it's begun on our side, too!" said someone joyfully, pointing to the right side of the river, where fire broke out in two places at once.
"Ah, the dogs, they've set it ablaze from all sides!"
Khnum came up on to the roof by a steep staircase. Two servants supported him. He had just got out of bed: after the trial of Yubra that afternoon he had had a liver attack. Nibituia and Inioteph, his secretary, followed him.
An armchair was brought for Khnum and Nibituia sat on a stool at his feet. Dio came up to them and kissed them both on the shoulders.
"Is it long since you came back from town, my daughter?" Khnum asked her.
"I have only just returned."
"Have you heard anything?"
"The rebels have been scattered near Amon's temple, at Oisit, but at other places they are gathering together again, burning and plundering. I've heard that the Achaean mercenaries have come with Mahu, the king's chief of the guards."
"Extraordinary!" Inioteph muttered under his breath and shook his head with a smile.
Khnum looked at him sullenly from under his brows.
"What are you muttering?"
"Extraordinary, I say: there are plenty of loyal troops in the town and instead of sending them against the rebels they wait for the Achaeans!"
"Hold your tongue, silly! You must be careful what you say.... And where is the Viceroy?" he turned to Dio again.
"No one knows for certain. Some say he is on the other side of the river and others that he has come over to this side, with a large detachment of Nubians."
She very nearly said 'run away' and Khnum understood.
"Uhuh have mercy upon us!" Nibituia sighed. "What if he falls into the brigands' hands!"
Khnum looked at the fire for some time without speaking.
"Quite, quite, quite! Here it is, this is the beginning," he said, quietly, as though thinking aloud. "According to Ipuver's prophecy 'the slaves shall be masters, the beggars shall become new gods.' Our Yubra knew what he was doing, the worm: an ant knows how far the flood will reach and build its hill on safe ground. He has gone to the rebels just in time."
Dio, too, was looking at the fire and suddenly the familiar feeling of repetition, of eternal recurrence came over her—nem-ankh—'all this has been already'; the red flame of the fire lighted from below the bare rocks and was reflected as a red pillar in the water in exactly the same way; white smoke curled in clouds of moonlight-blue and fiery crimson just like this; now as then the cold of the dead lips penetrated her through and through—it never left her from the moment she kissed Pentaur good-bye.
There was a sound of rapid steps on the stairs. The centurion of the Viceroy's bodyguard, quite a young boy, ran up to the roof. From his dusty helmet, torn clothes, restless eyes and trembling lips one could see that he had just come from a serious engagement.
"Rejoice, my lord!" he said, approaching Khnum with a low bow, "His Highness asks me to tell you...."
He stopped breathless with hurry.
"Is His Highness safe?" Khnum asked, looking into the frightened face of the boy.
"Thanks be to Aton, he is safe now, but he has been in great danger. The riotous rabble is so turbulent, it is terrible.... His Highness will be here directly, he asks you to give him shelter."
"How many are coming with him?"
"Less than thirty."
"Where are the others?"
"Some have run away and others have been sent to Mahu, the chief of the guards: His Highness has given him the command of the city."
"Quite, quite, quite," said Khnum, shaking his head, thoughtfully: he understood that Tuta ran away like a coward. "Mahu is a brave soldier and will make short work of the rebels. For the moment the city is saved, though God only knows what the end of it will be.... Well, let us go, my son, I shall be happy to receive His Highness."
Khnum got up and went downstairs. All followed him.
Dio and Zenra went into Dio's room on the second storey. Dio began to undress. She was trembling so that her teeth were chattering. The cold still penetrated her through and through.
"Why are you trembling?" Zenra asked her.
Dio made no answer and lay down on the couch. Zenra tucked her in, kissed her and was about to go when Dio took her hand.
"Do you know, nurse, Pentaur is killed?" she said quietly, with apparent calm.
The old woman's legs gave way under her. She sat down on the edge of the couch so as not to fall.
"Good Lord!" she whispered, with the surprise people always feel at the news of a sudden death. "But how, where, when?"
"Just now in the riot by Amon's temple."
"Ah, poor thing!" Zenra wept. "Such a good man, and I had hoped..."
Dio smiled.
"You hoped he would marry me? Yes, the bridegroom was right enough, but the bride was no good.... Well, go now and don't cry. One mustn't cry for him—he died a good death. God grant us all to die like that!"
Dio closed her eyes, but as soon as Zenra went out she opened them again and looked at the other end of the room where a moonbeam fell upon the tall Amon's harp with crossed strings and two rainbow-coloured sun discs at the foot; their golden centres glittered dimly in the uncertain light. It was the harp on which Pentaur had played that afternoon his quiet songs of love and death.
Whether a cloud had covered the moon or Dio's eyes were dimmed with tears, she suddenly fancied that somebody's shadow flitted across the slanting square made by the moonbeams on the white wall. "It is he," she thought, and was all alert as though waiting for the harpstrings to sound. But all was silent and the shadow disappeared; the light on the wall was once more even and white. Dio covered her head with the bedclothes and settled down to sleep but she could not.
All of a sudden she heard the sound of the harp. She threw off the coverlet, sat up and listened: the chords were ringing and singing:
"Death is now to me like sweetest myrrh,
Death is now to me like healing,
Death is now to me like refreshing rain,
Death is now to me like a home to an exile!"
And again a shadow flitted across the wall. Terror possessed her. But the familiar pain of inexpiable guilt, insatiable pity was stronger than terror: oh, if she could only see his shadow, could only say to his shadow 'forgive'!
She got up from the bed and went to the harp. The strings continued vibrating quietly but clearly. Something living was fluttering down below. Dio looked down and saw a bat that was caught in the network of the crossed strings and was struggling against them.
Dio smiled bitterly and regretted the terror of the moment ago. The wall of death rose between them more impenetrable than ever, the dead went further away into death, as though he had died again.
She carefully released the captive, kissed it on the head and, climbing on to a chair, let it out of the long and narrow window right up by the ceiling.
She returned to her bed, lay down and sank at once into the deep heavy sleep of grief.
"Get up, my dear, get up, it is time to go," she heard Zenra's voice over her.
"To go? Where?" she muttered without opening her eyes.
"To the City of the Sun. Tuta is going to-day and we go with him. Come, wake up, sleepy head!"
Dio opened her eyes. The light was still dim in the windows: the sun had not yet risen. But a sudden joy flooded her like sunlight. It seemed she had only now understood what it meant—"Akhnaton, the Joy of the Sun!"
She dressed quickly and ran up to the roof.
The winter morning was still and misty and its stillness seemed to say that the riot was over, the earth had not turned upside down, but stood firmly and would go on doing so for a long time yet. Everything was as usual: two white turtle-doves were cooing in the garden under the black feathery cedar tree; the morning sounds, slightly muffled by the fog, were wafted from afar over the water of the canal: the braying of the donkey, the creaking of the water-raising wheels, the clatter of the laundry bats and the mournful droning song:
"Washerman, washing clothes in the river,
Good neighbour of the crocodile swimming past"
As always one smelt in the morning freshness the slightly bitter smoke of manure-bricks, like the smell of autumn bonfires in the fields of her native north.
Suddenly a warm, rosy light shone through the cold whiteness of the mist, like heavenly joy through earthly sorrow. "Heaven is united with the earth; on earth there is the joy of heaven." Dio recalled the words of the Osiris mysteries.
"Joy of the Sun, Joy of the Sun—Akhnaton!" she repeated, weeping and laughing with joy.
Zenra called to her and told her to make haste. Dio ran downstairs to say good-bye to Khnum and Nibituia. Khnum gave her his blessing and kind old Nibituia put her arms around her and wept: she had grown to love Dio as her own daughter.
They stepped into a boat and went down the Big Canal to the Risit Harbour where the Viceroy's boat was waiting. Tuta was on it already: he had gone before daylight.
The boat had two masts; the sails with a check pattern were spread out widely like a falcon's wings; on the prow was the horned head of a gazelle and on the stern a huge lotus-flower: the rudder was a flowering shrub and its handle the head of a king in a high tiara; the deck cabins of carved acacia wood were arranged in two storeys, like a small palace, magnificently painted and gilded, and fenced round the top with a network of royal snakes standing on their tails; coloured flags were displayed everywhere. The whole ship was a living miracle of gold, purple and azure, half bird, half flower.
The anchor was raised and they set off. The sun had risen and the mists melted away. A fresh wind blowing through the mountain gorges, filled the sails; the oarsmen plied their oars and the ship swiftly glided down the river.
Tuta did not leave his cabin all day: he had toothache and his cheek was swollen. The cat Ruru went about with a bandaged paw: it had been hit with a stone in the riot. When at last Tuta did come out towards evening he looked so crestfallen that Dio thought he was just like a cat that had received a shower bath.
Later on the wits at court composed a song about this dismal journey.
Poor little Tuta
Moans in his cabin.
His cheek is swollen,
Toothache very bad.
He warmed himself that night
By the Charuk palace fire,
Then exposed his heated cheek
To a draught in terror dire.
"Well, he hasn't had his way this time, but he will the next," Dio thought. "You will be king over the mice, you cat."
The City of the Sun, Akhetaton, Egypt's new Capital, was built in the province of Hares, half-way between Memphis and Thebes, four hundred aters or five days' journey from Thebes.
They sailed in the day-time only and spent the nights in harbours: sailing at night was dangerous because of the many shallows and whirlpools. The bed of the Nile changed continually, especially in winter when the water was shallow. The pilot, standing on the ship's prow, was all the time feeling the bottom with a pole.
They passed the big commercial harbour, Copt, which lay on the caravan route leading through the desert to the Red Sea; the town of Dendera, with the great temple of Isis-Hathor; the town of Abt, where the body of the god-man, Osiris, was buried, and the most ancient of the Egyptian cities, Tinis, the capital of Men, the first king of Egypt.
But the cities were few; poor villages with huts made of the dried mud of the Nile were more frequent. The yellow streak of dead sand and the black streak of fertile earth—Black Earth, Kemet, was the name of Egypt—stretched on either side of the river, peaceful, simple and monotonous; the black of the Nile mud, humid and shining like the living 'pupil of Isis' and the yellow of the desert—life and death—were side by side, in an eternal union, eternal peace.
It was winter—sowing time. Men were ploughing, harrowing, sowing. Oxen slowly walked along drawing rich furrows with the plough. Here and there the first crops already showed their bright spring green. And the melancholy singing of the ploughman echoed far in the stillness of the fields.
The dull white waters of the Nile now flowed fast, pressed in by rocky banks; now widened out in pools and backwaters still as a pond, with impassable jungles of papyrus and green carpets of floating lotus leaves; only a hippopotamus, waddling ashore, and a lion or a leopard, coming down to drink, cut narrow paths in those thickets.
A long-legged ibis strode along the humid slime measuring the ground like the wise god Tot, the land-measurer. Crocodiles lay on the sandbanks, like slimy logs, and the birds benu—a kind of heron—walked along their backs picking off the water fleas or, fearlessly thrusting their heads into the open jaws, cleaned the monsters' teeth.
And long after the fall of dusk, the tops of the cliffs glowed a fiery yellow and the girlishly slender outlines of the palms and the coal black cones of the granaries showed black against the crimson west.
The nights were as still as the days; only the jackals barked and howled in the desert and the hippopotamus in the papyrus thicket bellowed, like a bull, at the dazzlingly bright moon, the sun of the night.
And in the morning the day-sun rose as radiant as ever. The two streaks—the black and the yellow—stretched along the banks as monotonously as before; the oxen walked along as slowly, cutting deep furrows with the plough and the melancholy singing of the ploughman echoed in the stillness of the fields.
And everything was as still and gentle as the face of the god whose name is Quiet-Heart.
On the evening of the fifth day after passing a rocky gorge that seemed like a dark and narrow fortress gate, the ship suddenly came out into a sunlit expanse of water. One gate was in the south and another in the north; between them, surrounded on all sides by mountain ridges, as by fortress walls, lay the great plain cut in two by the Nile: in the west green meadows stretched as far as the Lybian Hills that melted into rose and amethyst in the light of the setting sun; in the east lay the semicircle of rocky and sandy desert, rising gradually towards the parched rocks of the Arabian mountains. Between the river and the desert there was a long and narrow streak of palm groves and gardens. White houses were scattered among them like dice and a huge white temple towered above them.
"The City of the Sun! The City of the Sun!" Dio recognised it at once and with a joyous terror she thought: "He is here!"
And just as when she stood by the body of Pentaur, the word 'He' had a double meaning for her: he—the king and He—the Son.