“I see that my father has put at the head of his army a commander who is obsessed by the despairs of Death, rather than by victory and triumph,” she answered with scorn.
“I am aware of my duty, Your Highness,” he said with pride, his handsome face flushing, “and I shall carry it out as befits an Egyptian commander whom the gods have honored by granting him the trust of his sovereign. And I shall sacrifice my life as the price ofthat trust.”
“The man of courage does not forget his past, nor does he violate his traditions, even unto death.”
The foolhardy spirit prevailed over him for an instant longer when he said, “This is true, but what is my life if these traditions prevent my tongue from expressing what beats in my heart? I'm leaving tomorrow, and I prayed to the gods that I would see you before going away. My wish was granted — so how could I repudiate the divine favor with cowardly silence?”
“It would be better for you if you learned the virtue of silence.”
“After I have said one word.”
“What do you want to say?”
His ardor plain on his face, he blurted, “I love you, My Mistress. I loved you the moment I first laid eyes upon you. This is a solemn fact: the courage to express it to Your Highness would not have come to me if it weren't for its transcendent power within me. I beg your pardon, Your Highness.”
“This is what you call one word?” she replied, mockingly. “Regardless, what good can your speech do you, when I heard it before one troublesome day on the bank of the Nile?”
She jolted both him and his memory by saying “on the bank of the Nile.” So he replied, “I never tire of repeating those words for one minute of my life, O My Mistress, for it is the most vital thing that my tongue can say, the most beautiful thing my ears have heard.”
They had reached the marbled steps. Anxiety seized him again, as he said with fervor, “And what shall you say for farewell?”
“I call upon the gods for you, O Commander,” she said. “I pray to Mighty Ptah that you achieve victory for your beloved homeland.”
Then she descended the staircase to the boat with deliberateness and dignity.
Djedef continued to look at her with sorrow, watching the craft slowly fade into the distance with a pounding heart. The princess tarried on its deck, rather than entering her compartment, and he fixed his eyes upon her. He kept gazing after her until she vanished at the bend in the river.
Then, with heavy steps, he walked impotently away, headstrong rebellion and a fuming rage massing within him. Yet Djedef possessed a quality that did not let him down in catastrophes, that prevented him from succumbing to emotional reactions that could deflect him from his course or divert him from what he must do. His brother Kheny had taught him how to regard himself critically and to commit himself to the truth and to proper conduct. He excused the princess for her harshness and rigidity, saying to himself that if her sympathies did not incline her toward his suffering, that only meant that she did not share his feelings — nor was she obliged to love him. His bitter disappointment need mean nothing to her. Rather, he should accept this with kindness and mercy. Did he not say to her what cannot be said to a princess of Pharaoh's household? And what did she do about it? Nothing — but to hear him out and forgive him beautifully. If she wished, she could destroy him — with disgrace, and reduce him to the lowest of the low! His thoughts helped to quell his heart, but they did not assuage his frustration in the least — and he was enveloped in a sad, painful silence.
He spent that evening in Bisharu's house, saying goodbye to his family. He tried his best to display the joy and the gaiety that they obliged him to feel. They all gathered around the dinner table: Bisharu, Zaya, Kheny, Nafa and his wife, Mana, and in the center was the youthful commander. They ate tantalizing food washed down with beer, while Bisharu kept talking throughout without stopping, utterly oblivious to the morsels that flew from his toothless mouth. He told them war stories, especially of those wars whose adversities he had faced as a young man, as though to reassure Zaya, whose paleness revealed the fears that surged within her breast.
“The burdens of war mostly fall to the ordinary soldiers,” he asserted. “The commanders occupy a safer position, planning and thinking things out.”
Djedef understood his purpose. “I believe you, father,” he said. “But do you mean that you proved your outstanding courage in the war in Nubia as a minor officer or as a great commander?”
The old man's body stiffened with pride. “At that time I was a low-ranking officer in the spear-throwers’ brigade. My record in the war was one of the merits that lay behind my appointment as general inspector of Pharaoh's pyramid.”
Bisharu's prattle continued without pause. Djedef would listen to him sometimes, only to drift away distractedly at others. Perhaps the pain overcame him then, and a grief-stricken look would flash in his eyes. Zaya seemed instinctively aware of his sadness, for she was silent and heavy-hearted. She did not touch her food, sating herself merely with a flagon of beer at the banquet.
Nafa wanted this night to end happily — so he invited his wife Mana to play the lyre-harp and to sing a charming song, “I Was Triumphant in Love and War.” Mana's voice was soft and melodious, and she played with great skill, as she filled the room with the enchanting tune.
Meanwhile, a scorching fire flared in Djedef's heart, whose flames reached none of those present but he himself. Nafa studied him in ignorance and naivete, drawing close to Djedef to whisper in his ear, “I bring good news, O Commander. Yesterday you were triumphant in love, and tomorrow you shall be triumphant in war.”
“What do you mean by that?” Djedef asked, confused.
The painter grinned slyly. “Do you think that I have forgotten the picture of the beautiful peasant girl? Ah — how lovely are the peasant girls of the Nile! They all dream of lying in the arms of a handsome officer in the green grass on the banks of the river. What would you say if this officer was none other than the seductive Djedef?”
“Quiet, O Nafa,” he said indignantly. “You know nothing!”
What Nafa said disturbed him just as Mana's singing had; he felt the desire to flee. He would have acted on his wish if he had not remembered his mother. He glanced at her sideways to find her staring fixedly at him. He feared that she would read the page of his heart with her all-consuming eyes, and that she would be wounded with a great sorrow. So he drew close to her and smiled, deceiving her with merriment and joy.
26
Commander Djedef sat in his tent in the military camp outside the walls of Memphis, staring at a map of the Sinai Peninsula, its great wall, and the desert roads that lead to it. The horses neighed and the chariots rattled as the soldiers came and went, all enveloped in the calm azure light of early morning.
Officer Sennefer came into Djedef's tent, saluting him — with respect. “A messenger from His Pharaonic Highness Prince Khafra has come,” he said, “seeking leave to enter upon you.”
“Bid him do so,” said Djedef, his interest aroused.
Sennefer disappeared for a moment, then returned with the messenger before again exiting the tent. The messenger wore a priest's ample robe that covered his body from his shoulders to his ankles. On his head was a black cowl, while his thick beard flowed down to the hollow of his chest. Djedef was amazed at the sight of him, because he had expected to encounter a familiar face, one of those that he regularly saw in the crown prince's palace. And then he heard a voice that, despite its faintness, he imagined he was not hearing for the first time.
“I have come, Your Excellency, about a serious matter,” said the messenger. “Therefore, I hope that you will order the curtain to be drawn over the doorway, and that you will forbid anyone from entering without your permission.”