Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

The priest asked her to assist him in carrying her mistress to the grain shed. Surprised by his request, the servant nonetheless obeyed his command. The man wrapped his wife with a soft quilt, and put his hand under her head and shoulders, while Zaya lifted her from under her back and thighs. Together they walked with her to the outer hallway, descending the staircase to the courtyard. They then entered the shed, laying her on the spot that he had prepared for her in the wagon. This done, the priest went back up and returned with his son, who sobbed and cried. He kissed him lovingly, and placed him in the embrace of his mother. He watched them for a little while from the side of the wagon. When he saw Ruddjedet becoming upset, he said to her, his heart skipping a beat, “Calm yourself for the sake of our dear child, and don't allow fear a way into your heart.”

“You haven't named him yet,” she said, weeping.

Smiling, he replied, “I hereby name him with the name of my father, who reposes next to Osiris. Djedef. Djedefra. Djedefson of Monra. By God, I shall make his name blessed, and defend him from the wiles of those who plot against him.”

The man approached with the wooden box and placed it over the pair so dear to him. Zaya sat in the driver's seat, taking the reins of the two oxen, as Monra told her, “Go with the blessings of the Lord our keeper.”

As the wagon began to move slowly on its way, his eyes filled with copious tears, through which he watched as the vehicle crossed the courtyard, until the gate blocked his view. He dashed to the staircase, climbing it with the vigor of a young man, then hurried to the window that looked out upon the road, observing the wagon as it carried his heart and his joy beyond his sight.

Something surprising then occurred that he had thought never — would — certainly not — with the speed that it now did. As he looked on, he — was seized — with an inexpressible terror. He forgot the sorrow of their parting, the agony of their farewell, and his longing as a father. The fear became so inflamed that he lost all sense and perception: he clenched his fists, pounding his breast with them, as he mumbled in dismay, “O Lord Ra, O Lord Ra.” He kept repeating this unconsciously as his eyes saw the squadron of royal chariots suddenly appear on the bend in the road near the temple. They drew closer and closer to his palace, precisely arrayed in assault formation, with equally precise and orderly speed, exactly two paces between each chariot.

“O Lord of Heaven, Pharaoh's soldiers have come more quickly than the mind could conceive. Their arrival trumpets the success of Sarga's mission, and her escape from my soldiers. If only You had been able to send the angels of sudden death as speedily!” he thought.

Pharaoh's troops drew near like giant demons, their horses neighing, their wheels rumbling, their helmets gleaming in the slanting rays of the sun. And why had they come? They came to slay the innocent child, the beloved son, with whom the Lord had gladdened him in his age of despair.

Monra was still beating his breast with his fists, shaking his head like an imbecile, wailing in lament for his son. “O Lord. a group of them are surrounding the wagon; one of them is questioning poor Zaya sternly. What is he asking her? How does she answer him? And what do they seek? The lives of both my child and my wife depend on a single word uttered by Zaya. O My God! O Sacred Ra! Make her strong and secure, place on her tongue the words of life — and not of death! Save Your beloved son to live out the Fate that You have decreed for him, which You have proclaimed to me.”

Hours seemed to be passing slowly as the soldier continued questioning Zaya, stopping her departure. O God — what if one of them should move the box or just peer into it, wondering what was inside? What if the child should cry, or moan, or wail?

“Be still, my son…. By the Lord, if only your mother would place her nipple in your mouth. Should a sigh escape you now, it would be like a sentence of death…. My Lord, my heart is breaking, my soul is ascending into heaven….”

Suddenly, the priest fell silent. His eyes widened and he gasped — but this time, from overwhelming joy. “Praise be to Ra!“ he wept. “They are letting the wagon go safely on its way: in the name of Ra is her flight and her refuge. Praise be to You, O Merciful Lord.”

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