Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

Enraged, the king entered the room, his men in train. They all kept peering at the high priest's corpse, and the terrified woman in childbed, her eyes like glass. All, that is, except Prince Khafra, whom nothing would deflect from his purpose. Worried that the golden opportunity would be wasted, he drew his sword and raised it dramatically in the air. He brought it down upon the infant — but the mother, swift as lightning, instinctively threw herself over her son. Yet she was unable to frustrate the Fates: in one great stroke, the saber severed her head — along with that of her child.

The father looked at his son, and the son looked at his father.

Only the vizier Hemiunu could rescue them from the anxious silence that then overcame them. “May it please my lord,” he said, “we should leave this bloody place.”

They all went out together, without speaking.

The vizier suggested that they leave for Memphis immediately, so they might reach it before nightfall. But the king disagreed.

“I will not flee like a criminal,” he said. “Instead, I will summon the priests of Ra, to tell them the story of the Fates that sealed the calamitous ruin of their unfortunate chief. I shall not return to Memphis before that is done.”

6

The wagon ambled on behind two plodding oxen, — with Zaya at the reins. For an hour it paced down On's main thoroughfare, before pulling away from the city's eastern gate. There it turned toward the desert trail that led to the village of Senka, where Monra's in-laws lived.

Zaya could not forget the frightful moment when the soldiers surrounded her, interrogating her as they looked closely at her face. Yet she felt — proudly — that she had kept her wits about her, despite the terror of her position, and that her steadiness had persuaded them to let her go in peace. If only they knew what was hidden in the wagon!

She remembered that they were tough soldiers indeed. Nor could she forget what enlivened the magnificence of the man who approached them. She would never forget his awesome manner, or his majestic bearing, which made him seem the living idol of some god. But, how incredible — that this stately person had come to kill the innocent infant who had only seen the light of the world that very morning!

Zaya glanced behind her to see her mistress, but found her wrapped under the quilt, as his lordship the high priest had left her. “What a wretched woman — no one could imagine such an atrocious sleep for a lady who had just given birth,” the servant thought. “Her great husband did not dream of such hardships as those the Fates had sent to her. If he could have known the future, he would not have wished to be a father — nor would he have married Lady Ruddjedet, who was twenty years his junior!”

Yet, miserable, she moaned to herself, “If only the Lord would grant me a baby boy — even if he brings me all the troubles in the world!”

Zaya was an infertile wife aching for a child that she wished the gods would give her, like a blind person hoping for a glimpse of light. How many times had she consulted physicians and sorcerers? How many times had she resorted to herbs and medicines without benefit or hope? She shared the despair of her husband, Karda, who suffered the most intense agony to see life going on year after year — without the gift of a child to love in his home, to warm him with the promise of immortality. He bid her farewell for the last time as he prepared to depart for Memphis, where he worked in building the pyramid — threatening to take a new wife if she failed to produce a child. He had been gone for one month, two months, ten months — while she had monitored herself for the signs of pregnancy hour by hour, to no avail. O Lord! What was the wisdom of making her a woman, then? What is a woman without motherhood? A woman without children is like wine without the power to intoxicate, like a rose without scent, or like worship without strong faith behind it.

Just then she heard a faint voice calling, “Zaya.” She rushed to the wooden box, lifting it up and opening its side, and saw her mistress along with her child, whom she held in her arms. Worn out from exertion, Ruddjedet's lovely brown face had lost its color, as Zaya asked her, “How is your ladyship?”

“I am well, Zaya, thank the gods,” she answered weakly. “But what about the danger that threatens us now?”

“Be reassured, my mistress,” the servant replied. “The peril to you and my little master is now far away.”

The lady sighed deeply. “Do we still have a long trip ahead?” she asked.

“We have an hour, at the very least, left before us,” Zaya said amiably. “But first you must sleep in the Lord Ra's protection.”

The lady sighed again and turned to the slumbering infant, her pale but captivating face filled with maternal love. Zaya kept looking at her and at her son, at their beautiful, joyful image, despite the pains and perils that they faced.