Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

“As for those workers who are in fact Egyptians, most of them are from the southern part of the country. These are people with self-respect, pride, steadfastness, and faith. They are able to bear terrific torment, and to patiently tolerate overwhelming tragedies. Unlike those aliens, they are aware of what they are doing. They believe in their hearts that the hard labor to which they devote their lives is a splendid religious obligation, a duty to the deity to whom they pray, and a form of obedience owed to the title of him who sits upon the throne. Their affliction — for them — is adoration, their agony, rapture. Their huge sacrifices are a sign of their subservience to the will of the divine man that imposes itself over time everlasting. My lord, do you not see them in the blazing heat of noon, under the burning rays of the sun, striking at the rocks with arms like thunderbolts, and with a determination like the Fates themselves, as they sing their rhythmic songs, and chant their poems?”

The listeners were delighted, their blood gladdened in a swoon of gaiety and glory, and contentment glowed on Pharaoh's strong, manly features. As he rose from his couch, his movement sent all those in attendance to their feet. In measured steps, he processed with dignity down the broad balcony until he reached its southern edge. Contemplating its magnificent view, he peered into the remote expanse at that deathless plateau of the dead on whose holy terrain were traced the long lines of toilers. What augustness, and what grandeur! And what suffering and struggle in their pursuit! Was it right for so many worthy souls to be expended for the sake of his personal exaltation? Was it proper for him to rule over so noble a people, who had only one goal — his own happiness?

This inner whispering was the only disturbance that beat from time to time in that breast filled with courage and belief. To him it appeared like a bit of wandering cloud in heavens of pure blue, and, when it came, it would torment him: his chest would tighten, his very serenity and bliss would seem loathsome to him. The pain worsened, so he gave the pyramids plateau his back — then wheeled angrily upon his friends, catching them off guard. He put to them this question: “Who should give up their life for the benefit of the other: the people for Pharaoh, or Pharaoh for the people?”

They were all struck speechless, until the commander, Arbu, broke through them excitedly, calling out in his stentorian voice, “All of us together — people, commanders, and priests — would give our lives for Pharaoh!”

Prince Horsadef, one of the king's sons, said with intense passion, “And the princes, too!”

The king smiled vaguely, the anxiety easing on his sublime face, as his vizier Hemiunu said, “My lord, Your Divine Majesty! Why differentiate your lofty self from the people of Egypt, as one would the head from the heart or the soul from the body? You are, my lord, the token of their honor, the mark of their eminence, the citadel of their strength, and the inspiration for their power. You have endowed them with life, glory, might, and happiness. In their affection there is neither humiliation nor enslavement; but rather, a beautiful loyalty and venerable love for you, and for the homeland.”

The king beamed with satisfaction, returning with long strides to his golden divan. As he sat down, so did the rest. But Prince Khafra, the heir apparent, was still not relieved of his father's earlier misgivings.

“Why do you disturb your peace of mind with these baseless doubts?” he said. “You rule according to the wish of the gods, not by the will of men. It is up to you to govern the people as you desire, not to ask yourself what you should do when they ask you!”

“O Prince, no matter how other kings may exalt themselves — your father need only say, “I am Pharaoh of Egypt,’ “ Khufu rejoined.

He then seemed to swell up as he said with a booming voice — yet as though speaking to himself, “Khafra's speech would be appropriate if it were directed toward a weak ruler — but not toward Khufu, the omnipotent — Khufu, Pharaoh of Egypt. And what is Egypt but a great work that would not have been under taken if not for the sacrifices of individuals? And of what value is the life of an individual? It equals not a single dry tear to one who looks to the far future and the grand plan. For this I would be cruel without any qualms. I would strike with an iron hand, and drive hundreds of thousands through hardships — not from stupidity of character or despotic egotism. Rather, it's as if my eyes were able to pierce the veil of the horizons to glimpse the glory of this awaited homeland. More than once, the queen has accused me of harshness and oppression. No — for what is Khufu but a — wise man of far-seeing vision, — wearing the skin of the preying panther, — while in his breast there beats the heart of an openhanded angel?”