Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

Mirabu clasped his hand to his forehead, then answered with dejected courtesy, “Herein, Your Royal Highness, dwells an amazing mind, tireless in its turnings, ever leaning toward perfection. It is the fashioner of the ideal, and — after monumental effort — a gigantic imagination was created for me whose workings I expend my very soul in bringing to physical reality. So please be patient, Your Majesty, and bear with me also, Your Royal Highness!”

There was a moment of silence. Suddenly the air was filled with the music of the Great House Guards, which preceded the troops as they retired to their barracks from the place where they had been standing watch. Pharaoh was thinking about what Mirabu had said, and — as the sounds of the music melted away — he looked at his vizier Hemiunu, high priest of the temple of Ptah, supreme god of Memphis. He asked — with the sublime smile that never left his lips, “Is patience among a king's qualities, Hemiunu?”

Tugging at his beard, the man answered quietly, “My lord, our immortal philosopher Kagemni, vizier to King Huni, says that patience is man's refuge in times of despair, and his armor against misfortunes.”

“That is what says Kagemni, vizier to King Huni,” said Pharaoh, chuckling. “But I want to know what Hemiunu, vizier to King Khufu, has to say.”

The formidable minister's cogitation was obvious as he prepared his riposte. But Prince Khafra was not one to ponder too cautiously before he spoke. With all the passion of a twenty-year-old born to royal privilege, he declared, “My lord, patience is a virtue, as the sage Kagemni has said. But it is a virtue unbecoming of kings. Patience allows ministers and obedient subjects to bear great tribulations — but the greatness of kings is in overcoming calamities, not enduring them. For this reason, the gods have compensated them for their want of patience with an abundance of power.”

Pharaoh tensed in his seat, his eyes glinting with an obscure luminescence that — were it not for the smile drawn upon his lips — would have meant the end for Mirabu. He sat for a while recalling his past, regarding it in the light of this particular trait. Then he spoke with an ardent fervor that, despite his forty years, was like that of a youth of twenty.

“How beautiful is your speech, my son — how happy it makes me!” he said. “Truly, power is a virtue not only for kings, but for all people, if only they knew it. Once I was but a little prince ruling over a single province — then I was made King of Kings of Egypt. And what brought me from being a prince into possession of the throne and of kingship was nothing but power. The covetous, the rebellious, and the resentful never ceased searching for domains to wrest away from me, nor in preparing to dispatch me to my fate. And what cut out their tongues, and what chopped off their hands, and what took their wind away from them — was nothing but power. Once the Nubians snapped the stick of obedience — when ignorance, rebellion, and impudence put foolish ideas into their heads. And what cracked their bravura to compel their submission, if not power? And what raised me up to my divine status? And what made my word the law of the land, and what taught me the wisdom of the gods, and made it a sacred duty to obey me? Was it not power that did all this?”

The artist Mirabu hastened to interrupt, as though completing the king's thought, “And divinity, my lord.”

Pharaoh shook his head scornfully. ‘And what is divinity, Mirabu?” he asked. ‘“Tis nothing if not power.”

But the architect said, in a trusting, confident tone, “And mercy and affection, sire.”

Pointing at the architect, the king replied, “This is how you artists are! You tame the intractable stones — and yet your hearts are more pliant than the morning breeze. But rather than argue with you, I'd like to throw you a question whose answer will end our meeting today. Mirabu, for ten years you have been mingling with those armies of muscular laborers. By now you must truly have penetrated their innermost secrets and learned what they talk about among themselves. So what do you think makes them obey me and withstand the terrors of this arduous work? Tell me the honest truth, Mirabu.”

The architect paused to consider for a moment, summoning his memories. All eyes were fixed upon him with extreme interest. Then, with deliberate slowness, speaking in his natural manner — which was filled with passion and self-possession — he answered, “The workers, my lord, are divided into two camps. The first of these consists of the prisoners of war and the foreign settlers. These know not what they are about: they go and they come without any higher feelings, just as the bull pushes around the water wheel without reflection. If it weren't for the harshness of the rod and the vigilance of our soldiers, we would have no effect on them.