The ruined Shrine of Mentuhotep lay somewhat to the north of the great sandstone mortuary-temple of Amenhotep III.
Fronting it stood a dwarf pyramid surrounded by brightly-painted columned porticos. Far to the south stretched Queen Thi’s beautiful “pleasure lake,” which seemed, at this distance, a veritable bowl of gold rimmed with emeralds. The glowing walls and avenues of stately trees which marked Queen Hatshepsut’s terraced temple, shut it in toward the north. High above, and seemingly ever in danger of crashing down upon it, towered the precipitous and ever crumbling masses of the purple Libyan Hills.
The way thither led along the Necropolis Route, a high-banked road which passed immediately in front of the obelisks and twin statues fronting the granite threshold of Amenhotep’s stupendous mortuary-temple.
At this season of the year the wayfarer might appreciate the full height of the waters of the inundation, since their turgid reaches now swirled about the walls of the Royal Palace to the south, and lapped the high walls of Amenhotep’s mortuary temple itself, though the latter’s massive walls and pylons stood well back upon the edge of that crescent-shaped strip of land whose upper reaches had been set apart by the Thebans from time immemorial, as their place of burial.
This late afternoon the waters flashed like streams of fire as the sun sank ever lower, ever more rapidly it seemed, toward the low blue line of the southern hills which sheltered Erment, city of the falcon-headed Wargod.
The arid sand-drifts, which stretched along the lower slopes of the Theban hills, seemed composed rather of snow than sand, so brilliant was the glare, so clear the atmosphere.
Most welcome to the eye were the villa-gardens of the nobles, with their deep green groves of date palm, sycamore and acacia. Many resembled little islands that seemed to float upon the flashing waters.
But neither desert glare nor flashing water could detain Prince Menna. Within the hour Atum, the evening sun, would sink below the southern hills; the cool north breeze would spring up, as was its custom.
Menna’s chair-bearers had stood before his villa door an hour ahead of time. Bentu, their chief, placed his hands upon his heart and gazed heavenward, simulating the ardent lover. Another love-affair, without a doubt.
Such missions meant uten, necklaces or rings; a spree at Hentiu’s at any rate, and Bentu loved the very sight of a bursting wine-skin!
Bentu’s speculations were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the doorkeeper. With a knowing wink at Bentu the latter obsequiously bowed, as Menna strode through the curtained door.
Another moment and Menna, Superintendent of the King’s estates, high above the shoulders of six stalwart Nubians, was borne swiftly along the highway which led to the northern end of the curving Theban Plain.
Taking his cue from the gorgeous costume scarcely concealed beneath his master’s fringed and brightly colored Syrian cloak, Bentu launched into one of Ata’s love-songs. His grinning comrades punctuated each verse with a staccato “ha-ha, o-ay!”
Menna sank back against his cushions; he smiled. It pleased him that this black shadow of his had divined his mission. Nay, Menna felt himself so at peace with the world that he gave command to allow a peasant’s all too-heavily laden donkey to pass unchallenged, an unheard of proceeding on the part of a Theban noble!
Bentu’s hopes rose. Under such circumstances all things were possible. He might receive a jeweled necklace, golden bars; a small farm, perhaps.
Indeed, Bentu’s expectations assumed so rosy an aspect, that he broke into a dance, clapping his hands or snapping his fingers in time to his leapings and posturings, quite in the manner of the Nubians, the curly-headed people to the south.
With the sudden disappearance of the swollen sun-disk behind the deep blue hills of Erment, song and dance abruptly ceased. Menna indicated that he would descend from his chair, and all, master and men together, addressed a short prayer for the success of the Sun-god in his ceaseless conflict with Apep, Fiend of Darkness.
Piety was a habit with Menna, as with Bentu and the rest.
This done, once more Menna’s chair swung along the high embankment. Once again the warning shouts or blows from the forked staff of Bentu kept the narrow way free.
Arrived before the tree-set entrance to the Temple of Thothmes, Menna left his servants and continued westward, past Amenhotep the Second’s temple, on foot. Soon his tall figure was lost among the groves of cedars, karobs and acacias with which the tomb precincts of the nobles Senmut, Ra, and Rekmara, were thickly planted.
Passing the great monument of the architect Senmut, from which vantage point the great cedar which marked the tomb precinct of his father and mother was visible, Menna turned towards the yellow terraces of Hatshepsut’s ivory-columned temple. To the left, he could already distinguish the little pyramid and the terraced colonades of the Mentuhotep Shrine, near which was the spot he sought. A few minutes more and he had crossed the ruined forecourt of that ancient king’s memorial shrine.
For a moment Menna looked about him. He consulted a memorandum which he took from his jeweled belt. Then again, with an anticipatory smile, he ascended to the highest terrace and suddenly vanished into a dark opening which seemed to lead into the very face of the stupendous cliffs which towered above.
Menna was soon in total darkness. He felt himself descending a long, narrow passage-way pitched at a very steep incline. He must have gone some two hundred paces when he felt, rather than saw the glow of a light. Soon he could distinguish the polished surface of the granite slabs with which the narrow walls were faced.
All was well! The Princess awaited him!
Standing in the opening of the doorway, Menna softly spoke her name. The Princess did not answer, but stood well back within the shadows of an alabaster naos, a shrine which, centuries before, had held a statue of the deified king, Mentuhotep. At the right he saw a dark and narrow doorway in which were visible a few ascending steps cut in the rock.
The slim figure of the Princess was concealed beneath a long Memphite cloak. She appeared not to have heard his greeting.
Again Menna softly called her name: “Sesen! My Lily, My Lotus! Behold thy lover, O Daughter of Hathor!”
Still the figure was silent. Smilingly Menna drew near; he understood. With a wealth of flattering phrases on his lips, he sought to catch her to him. As he did so, the figure turned, and revealed to his astounded gaze the burning eyes of Hanit, of Hanit the former Queen!
Yet, Hanit was dead! He had seen her embalmed body laid away in her rock-hewn tomb!
With a hoarse and inarticulate cry Menna turned and fled. ’Twas the visible ka of the outraged queen, ’twas Hanit’s vindictive double! Nay, it ’twas Hanit herself, whose mummified form he himself had seen, what time Huy, the Great High Priest, had performed the last rites, with the ceremonial opening of the eyes, the ears, the mouth! Had not he himself placed a wreath upon her well-swathed form, and thereafter seen the coffin lowered in her rock-hewn tomb?
As Menna stumbled up the steep incline of the rock-hewn passage, black horror seized upon him; a paralyzing terror rose from his throbbing heart and mounted to his numbed brain. He tore the heavy gold chains and the jeweled wesekh from his throat. He felt that he was choking.
“Breath of Ra! The doorway, air, light, the blessed daylight!”
As Menna groped his way up the passage he heard in front of him, a dull thud as of some heavy falling body. For a moment his headlong flight was arrested. The solid rock beneath his feet seemed to tremble. He rushed up the last few yards of the narrow corridor and came suddenly in violent contact with an immovable block of polished granite.
A cold perspiration burst out upon his forehead; his knees trembled beneath him. He was trapped.
The overseer made a last attempt to think clearly. For a few moments he succeeded in stifling the terror that gripped his heart.
Menna carefully felt the walls over and over again to left, to right, in front! Not a crack nor a crevice. Always that granite door! In an agony of fear Menna hurled himself against it. He shrieked, he raved, he cursed.
Finally the Overseer, no longer human, turned and crept back along the granite passage-way. The dust of centuries rose into his throat and filled his lungs. Its fine, impalpable particles got into his eyes. The droppings of innumerable bats covered his robes; his scented wig had fallen from his head.
Slowly Menna scrambled down the passage, now in a crouching position, now on all fours. His blood-red eyes gleamed in the gloomy obscurity like those of a savage panther of the south. Blood trickled slowly from his inflamed nostrils; his lips were drawn far back upon the gums, as if he snarled.
Menna stood again in the shrine-chamber. The light still flickered along its granite sides, upon the ivory-toned naos and the figures and hieroglyphs with which it was decorated. The prince gazed wildly about him. Even the ponderous inner door had now swung into place.
Stretching out his bleeding hands he approached the huge shrine. He would cast himself upon the mercy of Hanit’s vengeful spirit, for by now Menna was long past fear of bas or kas, of “ghosts” or “doubles!” He called her name as, with outstretched hands he shuffled hesitatingly towards the shrine.
Hanit had vanished!
With a low moan Menna crumpled up and pitched headlong at the foot of the shrine. Above his head the light brightened for an instant, then slowly sank and, suddenly, vanished. Once again the painted forms of gods and demons alone reigned supreme amidst the fetid heat and darkness.
Pharaoh’s recently completed City of the Sun stretched at some length along both sides of the Nile, about sixty miles north of the ancient city of Siut, sacred to the Wolf-god.
To-day, fronting its white quay, a fleet of barges swung idly at anchor. From the high poop of one, a large temple-barge by its decoration, Merira, High Priest of Aton, was about to disembark. At the landward end of its gangplank, which had been stretched to the well-built limestone wall of the quay, a knot of white-robed priests of Aton bowed a fawning welcome to their portly brother hierophant. Sixteen stalwart lay-brothers stood expectantly beside the dignitary’s hooded-chair. Soon, Merira, High Priest of Aton, high above the gleaming heads of his chanting followers, vanished down the avenue of criosphinxes which led toward the massive pylons of the imposing Aton Temple.
Parallel with the well-planted gardens and vineyards of the Temple of the Sun ran the northern wall of Pharaoh’s new palace. The southern wall divided it from the gardens which hedged in the home of the General Mei, a favorite of Pharaoh. Both the grounds about the Aton Temple, the palace, villa, and library of Pharaoh and the house of Mei, ran backward from the Nile bank to the first rise of the low hills to the east.
Pharaoh’s gardens, both of villa, library and palace, were already thickly planted with the rarest of native trees and vines, but myrrh, sandalwood, dôm-palm and young Lebanus cedar from the terraces, might be seen both in the gardens of the monarch and in those of his favorites.
At this moment the huge limestone palace glowed in the heat of midafternoon like a piece of painted ivory. The sun’s rays turned to fire the gold caps of the lofty cedar flag-posts which towered above the walls.
At the end of a long avenue of young acacias one could distinguish the archers-of-the-guard, as they paced to and fro before the palace gates. A pair of Syrian horses, harnessed to a light chariot, pawed the sandstone flagging before the entrance-pylon, or reared high in air, did the iron-wristed katana show the least sign of relaxing his grip upon the gilded reins.
Queen Noferith was about to visit the hillset tomb of one of her daughters, who had died shortly after the royal family had taken up its residence in the new city. The royal-nurse, Thuya, and the three sisters of the dead Princess, were already well on their way to the tomb, bearing offerings of food, flowers and cosmetics for the use of the ka.
Within the interior of the palace, Pharaoh was busily engaged with that corpulent official, the chief-scribe, Enei. At the moment Enei was squatting cross-legged among the reeds and water-fowl painted upon the stucco floor of the room. Upon his kilted knees lay the open sheet of a long leather-roll already closely written in red and black with lines of deftly inscribed hieratic.
Enei held a long reed pen in one hand; two others stuck out behind his elephantine ears. He had been occupied all morning transcribing from Pharaoh’s own lips the “Hymn to Aton,” which for weeks had engrossed his fanatical master.
Famine and pestilence at home, revolt in Nubia, new mutterings of trouble along the Asiatic frontier, one and all had to give place now to the completion of this Sun-hymn, and the ritual of the Aton cult.
The ritual had already been chanted in the Temple of the Sun. Indeed, it had been intoned for the first time in a little chapel erected among the now well-nigh deserted temples of Amen at Karnak. Here was bitter hearing for the exiled priest of Amen!
Pharaoh was extremely anxious to hear the High Priest Merira chant his “Hymn to the Sun,” a composition which Pharaoh had written for the express use of the Priests of the Temple of Aton. In order to finish the hymn Pharaoh had shut himself up in his library with orders that on no account should he be disturbed. Ambassadors, envoys, nobles of the empire, spies and messengers, all must wait who sought an audience of the engrossed monarch.
But a few moments before, Pentu, Chief Court Physician, had backed from his master’s presence, loaded down with chains and bracelets of gold.
Pentu had gained some real or fancied ascendancy over Enei the Scribe in a heated argument as to a probable connection between the sun-god Ra of Heliopolis, Aton, and Adon, the Syrian God of Fertility. Pentu’s bald head glistened like the mirror clasped in the hand of his waiting daughter. Pentu’s broad smile widened, if indeed that might be, as his waiting servants hurled themselves into the dust at sight of his gleaming decorations, those “gifts which the king bestows.”
“What stiff campaign hath earned such rich rewards?” asks the travel-worn Rabba, messenger of Ribaddi, one of Egypt’s vassals in Asia.
“Peace, peace, soldier! Hold thy tongue, fit but to frighten lousy Sand-dwellers! Hast thou not heard? Egypt hath done with war! Corn grows upon our spearshafts, boys swim in our shields; our curved swords cut wheat and spelt, our slings kill reed-birds. The ‘gifts of Majesty’ now reach priests, poets and potters. Breath of Ra—ahem—Aton, I should have said, a soldier now must stand aside that shaven-headed sucklings from the new religious school may pass! Amemet seize me! Five hours’ waiting is enough for me! Honors to thy son’s son,” and the officer passes out.
Some three hours later, Ribaddi’s urgent call for assistance, that small clay tablet upon whose safe and speedy deliverance into the hands of the Egyptian king hung the fate of Syria, Ribaddi’s last despairing cry for help, still rested in its metal tube about the impatient Rabba’s neck.
Tired of his long vigil, Rabba had addressed a few somewhat pointed remarks in the direction of the painted ceiling, but intended for the large ears of Seneb the Court Usher. As a not unnatural sequel, another moment found him on the wrong side of the palace door.
From the threshold of the courtyard two giggling pages made the infuriated Rabba mock bows and salutations in the Syrian manner.
Thereafter, Rabba wandered aimlessly about and finally disappeared behind the deep red curtains which blew in and out of Thethi’s tavern-door.
The following morning, Rabba awoke to find himself seated upon the edge of a wine-stained couch. In one hand he clasped a faded spray of mimosa. He pulled a chaplet of dried and blackened lotus-flowers from his aching head. Not a bar remained about his arms, not a strand of beads flashed upon his massive chest. Neith, a full-lipped Theban dancer, had them all!
Rabba’s hand went to his throat hesitatingly, despairingly. The case that had held his master’s message, his credentials and his master’s seal, all had vanished with that velvet-eyed traitress.
Ten days ago should the precious letter have been added to the thousands of clay tablets which lined the alcoves of Pharaoh’s library and registry. Ten days ago, Rabba the Messenger should have been well on his way back to Gebal, his hillset station, with Pharaoh’s reply.
Alas! At the moment, Ribaddi’s devoted city lay a mass of smouldering ruins, in the midst of which were scattered the ashes of Ribaddi, Pharaoh’s most loyal vassal, his family, and those of the entire squadron of Baal, to which the unhappy Rabba himself belonged. Feeling that the Egyptian monarch had lulled himself into a sense of security, the hosts of the Khabiri and Hittites, headed by Rimur of Charchemish and the kings of Kadesh and Megiddo, had suddenly swooped upon the territory of Pharaoh’s Syrian vassal, Ribaddi the Loyal.
Reflected in the quiet reaches of the Nile, a brilliant planet hung, like a silver ball, in the green and gold of Egypt’s long-continued afterglow. Below it Aah, the pale young moon, seemed as if it sought to catch that scintillating jewel in the hollow of its crescent cup.
The evening’s stillness was broken at intervals by the snarls of marauding hyenas, the barks of jackals and the hooting of the little golden-brown owls which haunted the over-hanging eaves of the massive Temple of Khonsu.
Dusky forms stole stealthily along the narrow alleys of the half-deserted city of Thebes. As they hurried past, the paling afterglow reflected upon the low white walls caused their nodding shadows to appear unnaturally enlarged, menacing, terrifying.
Within Renny’s workshop the more immediate shadows were at times revealed by the light from a deep bronze bowl, a brazier filled with glowing incense-wood. The bowl stood upon a low stand immediately in front of Renny’s statue of the Princess Sesen.
Once again relieved of its encircling ropes and mattings, the beautiful statue of the Princess stood revealed in all its grace and freedom. Following Menna’s sudden and mysterious disappearance Renny had come again to his workshop to claim the statue which was his. The little crocodile amulet at his throat had, indeed, saved him from Bar’s murderous attack. Bar himself felt this to be a fact.
In the center of the room stood the Princess herself. Her gaze was fixed upon the statue with a mingled expression of awe, pride and delight. At her feet knelt Renny the sculptor, his upturned face transfigured.
Bhanar, trembling with fear, frequently opened the door and gazed anxiously, impatiently it seemed, down the length of the garden path. As she slipped to the lock the broken seals tapped softly against the wooden panels.
Why so impatient, Bhanar? Why that gleam of hatred in those eyes, ever so gentle, ever so beautiful, as they rest upon the figure of thy mistress?
To account for Bhanar’s attitude, we must revert once more to Bar, servant to Menna. All unwitting of his master’s horrible fate, Bar had set spies about the Princess. He engaged a servant attached to the villa to report day by day the doings of the little Princess, hoping to surprise her in some unguarded evidence of affection for the infatuated Renny. He himself sought and gained the confidence of the jealous Bhanar.
The beautiful slave-girl, now envenomed by a sudden jealousy of her mistress, confided to the sympathetic Bar a note which Renny had bribed Baquit, the Gate-Keeper, to deliver to the Princess. Bhanar, after many a vain attempt, had managed to abstract it from her mistress’s ebony jewel-box.
In return for this, the overjoyed Bar had promised her that this very night should see Sesen and Renny parted forever.
Thus it happened, that when, towards sun-down, Sesen commanded Bhanar to get her long Memphite cloak for an outing in the gardens, Bhanar trembled with anticipation. She barely glanced at the ducks, the gazelle’s hearts, the Delta wine and the lotus-seed bread, which composed the evening meal. The meal being over and the low tabourets removed, Prince Wozer, Sesen’s father, was carried off upon the shoulders of six chair-bearers in the direction of the Theban cemetery. It was the anniversary of the death of a life-long friend and, as had been his habit, he himself would light the first torch preparatory to the service held in the dead man’s honor, he with his own hands would place the gifts of food and drink upon the offering-table of the dead noble’s tomb. For the last five years Prince Wozer had thus acted the part of ka-servant to Surera the Justified.
When once the long procession of offering-bearers which regularly accompanied her father on such occasions was well on its way, Sesen and Bhanar descended into the palace gardens.
Arrived at a little postern gate which connected with the villa-garden of Thi’s favorite, the unhappy Menna, the Princess pushed back the barlock, and both passed through. Another moment and they had entered the dimly-lit room of Renny’s former workshop.
All unsuspecting of Bhanar’s treachery, Sesen had placed the little slave at the door to watch. Bhanar’s heart beat so violently that it well-nigh suffocated her. A glimpse of her mistress reaching out her fingers toward the statue, her mistress’ other self, struck suddenly a tardy repentance into the very soul of the despairing slave-girl.
Suddenly Bhanar started. Three figures had turned into the narrow garden-path and were rapidly approaching. In the foremost of the three Bhanar recognized Bar the Memphite. Menna’s former spy was speaking in loud tones and violently gesticulating as he hurried the others up the path. Two archers of Prince Wozer’s guard strode behind him.
Forgetful of herself, her jealousy and treachery, Bhanar shrieked aloud; “Renny! My Renny! Bar is here, Menna’s spy! Fly, while there is yet time!”
At her first words, Renny leaped to the door. A glance showed him his old enemy. Who could have betrayed them?
Hardly knowing what he would do, he drew the Princess down behind the festooned pedestal, covering her at the same time with its heavy wreaths and flowers.
Even as he paused, rapidly scanning the effect, the outer door was burst violently open and the giant Bar pushed headlong into the room.
In the doorway, looming large against the afterglow, Renny beheld the sturdy forms of the two archers.
Bar shot a hasty glance at the statue, then ripped out an oath: “Dog, son of a dog, the Princess. Where is she?”
With a smile upon his pale face, Renny slowly raised his hand and pointed to the statue. Then suddenly as Bar turned, he sprang straight at the Memphite and struck, alas, in vain, for his dagger broke short off against Bar’s hidden leather corslet.
Realizing that his last moment had come, Renny slowly drew his long Asiatic sleeve across his bowed head. Motionless, he anticipated the arrow that trembled between the thumb and forefinger of one of the guardsmen who, at his sudden attack upon the Memphite, had moved up into the room.
The twang of the bow thrummed in his ears, and, with it, a choking sob and the thud of a falling body.
Quickly Renny threw aside the light covering from his face, dreading what his trembling heart too truly warned him he should see. With a cry of agony he dropped beside the limp body of the dead Bhanar. Gently he lifted her head, scanned her face, breathed her name. In vain! Too well had Wenamon’s arrow done its work! A few red feathers and an inch of reed showed just above the white robe of his little countrywoman. The rest of the long shaft was buried in her breast.
Renny rose slowly to his feet. His gaze swept the terrified archers to the threshold of the door. With a roar like that of some southern panther maddened with its wounds, once more he hurled himself upon the treacherous Bar.
His onslaught hurled the dagger from the nerveless hand of the horror-struck Memphite. For that worthy stood gazing, as if fascinated, at the upturned face of the dead Bhanar.
They grappled, tripped and fell, rolling over and over, now one seeming to gain the mastery, now the other. Above their writhing forms the archers awaited their opportunity.
Kneeling at the base of the pedestal the terrified little Princess alone made outcry, sending out upon the still evening air shriek upon shriek, intermingled with peals of frenzied laughter.
A slight lessening of the grip and Renny’s powerful hand stole towards Bar’s jeweled throat. A snap, a quiver of the big limbs and the Memphite lay motionless.
Renny staggered like a drunken man to his feet. Stealthily Wenamon the archer approached, with somewhat of the caution with which one might beard a wounded lion in its den. His bow had been cast aside. A dagger gleamed in his raised hand.
Renny’s swaying figure lurched heavily towards the statue of the Princess, to the base of which the Princess herself still clung. As his fingers gripped its flower-festooned base, Wenamon’s dagger flashed.
Renny suddenly straightened himself. His bloodshot eyes sought those of the Princess, who stood rooted to the spot.
“Sesen! Sesen,” he cried, and fell dead at her feet.
The city of Kadesh lay gleaming in the evening sunlight at the upper end of that vast plain which stretched northward to the Lake Country. As viewed from Shabtuna, where the Egyptian army was now encamped, it seemed a veritable city of towers.
Along the eastern front of this Asiatic city the waters of the Orontes glittered like a straight Hittite sword. The high, machicolated gate-towers, on the eastern side, were approached by a causeway and a broad flight of stone steps. Protected by a white wall on either side, these steps rose from the very waters of the turgid Orontes itself.
The city towers were black with people, frenzied women for the most part. Their piercing shrieks, now of exultation, now of despair, floated out upon the flashing waters of the broad river. The sounds reached the ears of Ramses, the Egyptian general, where he stood.
Along the city walls youths and old men peered anxiously southward, across the level plain. Men, women and children stood with faces glued to the openings which capped the city walls.
The eyes of the people of Kadesh were riveted upon the ebb and flow of a gigantic conflict, which had raged throughout the day back and forth across the broad reaches of the plain below.
The mighty hosts of the Hittites, led by Rimur of Charchemish in person, had struggled since daybreak with the forces of Egypt.
The battle had opened auspiciously for the Hittites, though the ninth of Khoiak was a favorable day alike to Egyptian and Hittite. To the Egyptians it meant that the very gods would lend their aid in the conflict, for was not this the day in which the god Thoth gained his memorable victory over Set!
Yet, so far, matters had gone badly for the Egyptians. The Division of Sutekh, led by old Noferhotep, had been surprised at the ford near Shabtuna, and cut to pieces. Noferhotep himself had been drowned in the blood-red waters and his body had not been recovered.
Alas, O Noferhotep, the harpers will not sing before thy silent form; “the feathered dancers” will not join thy funeral dance!
It appeared that the spies sent out by the Egyptians had been deceived as to the numerical superiority of the Hittite host. An unknown force of the enemy had been enabled to steal up on Noferhotep’s infantry as it crossed the ford.
A few wounded stragglers from this unequal action had managed to reach the main Egyptian camp, where their distorted accounts of the recent disaster well-nigh caused a panic. However, at this juncture the arrival of Yankhamu with a division of Ethiopian troops, had put new heart into the Egyptian host.
Thus, then, it had been since daybreak. The tide of battle had leaned now toward the Hittite, now toward Egypt.
The main affray had resolved itself into a frontal attack, which extended right across the plain to the very foothills.
The Egyptian chariots had endeavored to cut around the right flank of the enemy, hoping to drive them into a swamp which lay to the south-west.
Across the broad plains serried ranks of infantry pressed to the attack. The reserves of both armies were now brought into action. Thus commenced the final stage of the conflict, a last desperate onslaught which should, once and for all, decide the fate of one of the two opposing armies.
The non-combatants high upon the battlemented walls of Kadesh broke into Wild shouts of triumph, as the right wing of the Egyptian army was seen to bend, to break and, finally, to rush, in wildest disorder, towards a slight curve in the Orontes river eastward. A mass of the howling sons of Kheta pressed hard upon its heels.
The people of the city could contain themselves no longer. For them the battle was as good as won. The youths flew down to the great gates which opened as if by magic, and in another moment hot-footed youth, halting old-age, women and little children could be seen spreading in a fan-shaped wave across the dusty expanse which separated the contending forces from the city walls.
Suddenly, from behind a low ridge to the westward, there appeared a long line of two-horse chariots. In the center, easily recognized by his bright red leather doublet and gilded warbonnet, stood the young Egyptian general, Ramses. A huge Ethiopian katana, leaning well out over the leather body of the chariot, urged on Ramses’ horses by word of mouth and lash of whip. At the right of the chariot bounded a lean Nubian panther.
The onrushing chariots aligned themselves upon that of their young and impetuous leader. With ever quickening pace the long line swept across the well-nigh deserted right flank, turned, and hurled a devastating avalanche of arrows into the wavering center of the enemy’s line.
Without pausing an instant the gleaming line crashed into the very heart of the Hittite army. Thereafter Charchemish, Kadesh, Megiddo, On, Thebes and Napata, were mingled in an indescribable whirl of choking yellow dust, rearing and screaming horses, yelling and cursing men, and flashing weapons.
The right flank of the Egyptian army, which had feinted at retreat, now turned upon its pursuers. Many they hurled into the river; many they slew out of hand. The majority, panic-stricken, took to flight in the direction of the city.
Scenting disaster, Rimur, King of Charchemish, fled headlong from the stricken field. The King of Kadesh hurled his wounded companion, Belur the Hittite, from his chariot, and urged his tired horses toward the southern gate.
Seeing their King take to flight, the forces of Kadesh broke. One and all followed their royal master as fast as chariot, horse or limbs could carry them.
In a moment the fleeing soldiers had burst into the densely-massed body composed of their distracted wives, mothers, grandsires and wailing children. These likewise attempted now to turn and again to seek shelter within the city walls.
There ensued a state of indescribable confusion in which terror reigned supreme. And this state of utter panic was not confined to those unfortunates upon the plain, but communicated itself to the few people who still remained within the city. Fearing the fury of the Egyptian soldiers, these now shut and barred the ponderous city gates.
There followed such a slaughter of the miserable sons of Kheta as had not been witnessed in the Orontes Valley since the day Great Thothmes had first taken Kadesh by assault.
Fifteen full days was Pahura the Scribe occupied in listing the spoils of gilded chariots, jeweled breast-plates, gold and silver temple-vessels, and the treasure of Belil, King of Kadesh.
As to Belil himself, his obese form was ignominiously pierced by an arrow, as he dangled at the end of a rope half-way up the city walls.
Once the Ethiopian division had burst in the city gate, those who had attempted to save their King, and others who had been driven to the battlements surrounding the palace, were hurled over its parapet and met their death either upon the flagging of the court or in the waters of the moat which surround it.
Rimur, King of Charchemish, fled night and day by means of relays. Not a night did he rest until he found himself once again behind the giant walls of his capital.
Belur, his brother, badly wounded on the field, was brought, a pale and sullen captive, to the chariot of the victorious Ramses. At the present plight of the once haughty ambassador to Egypt Ramses allowed the faintest indication of a sneer to break the stony indifference of his glance.
Following his commands the Prince of Kheta was led away that his wounds might be attended to. Belur was reserved for a fate far worse than death. Indeed, death would come as a welcome relief to the indignities and tortures that would presently be meted out to him. He was destined to swing from the prow of Ramses’ galley head down, where he would be lightly fed, yet, were it possible, not allowed to die, until Pharaoh himself should despatch him.
According to custom, a captive chief must be presented to the great god Amen of Thebes. Established precedent required that he be killed before the temple portals of the god himself. Whether Aton would scorn such a blood-thirsty offering, Ramses did not pause to think.
The irruption of the victorious Egyptian army into Kadesh was followed by wholesale loot, division of the women among the soldiery, riotous drunkenness, child-murder and the apportioning of the manhood of the vanquished among the temples of Egypt. There followed the utter obliteration of the conquered city in a holocaust of fire.
Within twenty days from the time Pahura had commenced to list the first golden ewer, the once famous city of Kadesh with its gilded towers and blue-glazed walls, its palace ablaze with lazuli, silver and ivory, and the great temple to the Sun-god, a veritable treasure-house of richly colored tiles and bricks, gold, turquoise, silver, ebony, Lebanus cedar and sweet-smelling woods from the Incense Country, lay a mass of smouldering ruins, encircled during the day by a veritable ring of vultures, throughout the night by droves of snarling and quarreling hyenas.
But, by this time, the victorious host of Egypt was well on its way up the straight highroad to the frontier, where it was hailed by the acclaiming vanguard of the overjoyed Egyptian populace.
At the first Egyptian city, Suan-of-the-North, it was rumored that the aged Magician Enana, Ramses’ grandsire, together with two unknown and mysterious personages, had been seen to enter Ramses’ tent. Thereafter they accompanied him.
A feeling, closely akin to panic, had settled upon the Egyptian Court. Its members, of whom by far the greater number were, outwardly at least, firm adherents of Aton, had now received a second violent shock to their already perplexed minds.
Following her safe return from one of her periodic visits to Pharaoh’s new capital to the north, Thi the Queen-Mother, had suddenly and most mysteriously vanished.
The Women’s Quarter of the palace was in an uproar. Consternation and, withal a nameless dread, was stamped upon the faces of courtier and servant alike. The remembrance of Menna’s unaccountable, and still unsolved disappearance, was still fresh in their minds.
Upon the evening in which the Queen-Mother had so suddenly vanished, the Princess Bekit-aton had left her side for a few moments in order to warm, with her own hands, a cup of old Thinite wine. When the little Princess returned it was to find the Queen-Mother gone.
She chanced to look out of the window and was astonished to see Queen Thi, in company with another lady of the court, the Lady Renenet she thought, about to round the bend of the road which led to the Temple of Sekhmet. It was the first time in her experience that the Queen-Mother had gone out so little attended.
Bekit-aton returned to the harem. She did not suspect that anything was amiss until darkness descended upon the palace. Then and not until then, according to the rigid court etiquette, she again entered the Queen-Mother’s room—upon this occasion accompanied by the other ladies-in-waiting—in order to assist the Queen-Mother to the Banquet Hall. Among the ladies she was surprised to see the Lady Renenet. Upon inquiry she found that Renenet had not left the Women’s Quarters that day. And it was the same with respect to the other ladies. Not one had left the Palace walls during the entire day.
Yet, one lady asserted that she had seen Queen Thi enter the palace within the hour. Somewhat relieved by this, the Princess Bekit-aton sought the Queen-Mother in each and every room of the Women’s Quarter. Yet this search, similarly, proved unsuccessful.
Once again she entered the Queen’s robing-room. She found no sign of disorder. Queen Thi had apparently left of her own free will. The mystified little Princess called to her assistance Queen Noferit and other ladies of the harem.
Again the rooms were searched. Led by the Princess the searchers descended into the gardens. They entered the quarters of the cooks and butlers. They explored the dark shadows of the various columned courts and the murkier gloom of the side aisles, together with their innumerable storerooms.
Finally, when panic seized upon them, they called to their assistance the Steward of the Palace. At the news Soken’s changed expression did little to allay their fears. With a gesture he swept them all back in the direction of the harem.
In turn the Palace Steward and the other eunuchs once again carefully searched palace, court, garden and lakeside. Darkness descended upon a house filled with grief and consternation on the part of the women, and deadly fear on the part of Soken and the other eunuchs of the palace.
The fate of Prince Menna, Pharaoh’s Overseer, was still upon the lips of palace-servant, priest and peasant alike. Menna’s enemies were many. It might well be that someone whom Menna had misused or wronged had at last struck back and that successfully.
But the sudden disappearance of the Queen-Mother from the midst of her ladies, from a mighty building guarded within and without, caused a thrill of horror and a nameless fear to run through palace and countryside alike. It was inexplicable.
The Temple of Sekhmet, the lake, the palace and the palace-gardens, were searched and researched again and again. Not a spot was overlooked. When at last it became necessary to send the evil tidings to the new capital, the City of the Sun, Pharaoh himself came hurriedly back to Thebes.
As, day after day, the searching parties returned empty-handed, Pharaoh lost patience. Hundreds were slain. Soken and many of the palace eunuchs met their death at the strangler’s hands. Men soon went to the task of searching for the lost Queen as criminals already condemned to death.
For a full week the search was renewed. Fresh men were called up for the task. Finally, the soldiers of the Divisions of Khonsu, Ptah and Sutekh were pressed into service. All in vain.
One remarkable circumstance was discovered, following the disappearance of the Queen-Mother, and that by the Princess Bekit-aton. The portrait of the Ex-Queen Hanit, which had been painted on a column in the Audience Hall of the late Pharaoh, had been carefully and completely obliterated. This had been done just prior to or immediately following the Queen-Mother’s disappearance. Nothing remained, where once the portrait stood, but six words written in red in roughly drawn hieratic: “By the Power of the Book of Thoth.”
No one could explain this desecration of the former Queen’s portrait. Mention of the magic Book of Thoth struck terror into every heart, not excepting that of Pharaoh himself.
Thenceforth Pharaoh’s fanatical zeal in the interest of Aton, his Syrian sun-cult, slowly waned and finally ceased. The innumerable gifts to the many new Aton shrines throughout Egypt—one had been set up against the very walls of the Temple of Amen in the Apt—the gorgeous religious processions, the ceaseless theological studies and debates, all were suddenly abandoned.
With the change Pharaoh himself seemed to fade. Little nourishment passed his lips. Within the dim shadows of his private chapel, hour after hour the hollow-eyed monarch stood in prayer before the gold and gem-encrusted statue of Aton, the sun-god. At times the statue appeared to his distracted mind to mock him with a smile half-pitying, half-contemptuous!
Verily, the curse of Huy, High Priest of Amen was upon him! Noferith, his wife, had borne him no heir, no son to follow him upon the gold Horus Throne of Egypt! The scepter must go to others, to that hollow cousin of his, whom Thi had been wont to call the mirage.
As for old Ay, another distant relative and possible claimant to the Throne, Pharaoh suspected that Ay was even now in secret correspondence with the exiled priests of Amen, whose influence was again making itself felt, not alone in Thebes, but as far north as the new capital, the City of the Sun itself.
To whom then could he turn? Among the courtiers about him there was not one in whom he could trust. Not one could help him. Alas, too late, he bethought him of the exiled Ramses!
In the midst of a rising on the part of his famine-stricken people in the south, an insurrection started by the exiled priests of Amen, Pharaoh took to his ivory couch.
Thereafter few saw him. He held no more audiences. Dedu, Keeper of the Robes, alone attended him. Even Pentu, his physician, was dismissed and shortly after strangled, together with Mei, Chief of the Military Forces in the new capital. Mei and Pentu had both been found in secret correspondence with the priests of Amen in distant Nubia.
Dedu, Keeper of the Robes, entered his royal master’s apartment late one morning to find him sitting bolt upright, his prominent eyes fixed in a horrified stare upon the curtain which screened the door. A single word fell from Pharaoh’s trembling lips as he sank back fainting in Dedu’s outstretched arms. That single word the wondering Dedu swore was ... Hanit!
Thereafter, Pharaoh in terror bade his guards drive all visitors, petitioners and beggars from the palace gates. Pharaoh shut himself up within its brightly painted courts and allowed things without to take their course.
The silver-embossed doors remained fast closed. No watchman paced the battlemented walls and pylons. No plumed Syrian horses pawed the flagging before the outer gates. The gay bannerettes no longer rose upon the gold-tipped poles fronting the main entrance to the palace forecourt. Hushed were the voices of the guards and other palace servants. Even the birds which flitted back and forth among the trees seemed to have forgotten their cheerful songs.
Finally, one memorable evening, when the dying Pharaoh lay propped up high upon his couch, he beckoned to Prince Antef, Lord of Thebes, who stood in the center of the awe-struck group before him.
Dropping the hairless lids of a pair of vulture-like eyes, eyes filled at the moment with a joy which the Prince tried in vain to conceal, Antef fell upon his knees beside the dying Pharaoh’s couch. He already felt the gold diadem of kings about his wig, the royal asps about his forehead.
Silence descended upon the little room. Silence seemed to fall upon the entire building, both within and without. The wails of the women ceased, the chanting of the priests and the sobs and cries of the palace servants, all abruptly stopped.
So long continued was the sudden hush that the expectant Antef slowly raised his head.
As his questioning eyes met those of his royal master, Antef there beheld such a look of terror, a look reflected he saw upon the faces of the nobles behind the dying monarch, that the astounded Theban himself felt somewhat of the chill that seemed to have changed his master and his friends to stone.
He caught the whispered sound of a once familiar name. It seemed to be on everyone’s lips: Hanit! Hanit! Hanit!
Antef turned himself about. At once that same nameless terror held him also in its grip.
In the doorway stood Queen Hanit, Hanit upon whose mummified form he himself had placed a wreath of flowers! Antef stumbled to his feet and there remained, his eyes fixed upon this apparition of the Ex-Queen, as if he likewise had been turned to stone.
A richly plaited robe covered Queen Hanit’s form. About her head was set the vulture diadem, that circlet of gold which queens of the royal blood alone may wear. Her throat was hidden by a necklace of bright blue beads. Upon one finger she wore a blue glazed ring, a ring such as is worn by the dead alone! Before her she held a Book which seemed to glow, as if by some preternatural light.
By now Antef and the horrified nobles had backed to the furthest corner of the room, whence they continued to gaze at this apparition of the former Queen, believing it to be in very fact the visible “double” of Thi’s murdered rival.
Hanit’s black eyes glittered like those of some poisonous snake. She fixed them threateningly upon the shrunken features of the terrified monarch:
“Dost know me, son of Thi?”
The trembling monarch tried in vain to speak.
“Dost know me, Syrian?”
Again Pharaoh essayed to find his nerveless tongue. At last, in a hoarse and breathless whisper, he managed to articulate the one word ... Hanit!
Again the soft and unearthly voice of Hanit thrilled their ears:
“Son of Thi, thou that art about to wander forth upon the steep and stony hills of Duat, hearken unto the utterance of Amen, king of gods! By the power of this Magic Book, thy Hidden Names are revealed to me! Known to me are the Mystic Names of the Genii that protect thee! By the Power of the Book, thy ka hath been destroyed! Thy soul is destroyed!
“Awake, awake! Pass not forth until I have shown thee a marvel, saith Amen, king of gods! Stand forth, Son of Amen! Receive the Scepter of Amen which is thine!”
With this the apparition slowly moved back, and there before them, arrayed in the full regalia of kings, the curved sword of Amen clasped in his hand, stood Ramses, the conqueror of Rimur and the Hittites.
The seeming “double” of the dead Queen raised the Luminous Book high above her head:
“Hearken, Egyptians! Hearken to the words of Amen, king of gods! With this sword divine hath Ramses, my son, hurled back the Hittites from your borders! With this sword divine hath he won a glorious victory! Rimur grovels in the dust before him; Belur awaits his bitter doom! Of a truth is this my son, born of my will, essence of my essence, saith Amen, king of gods! Salute your king! Salute him, Electrum of Kings, Essence of a God!”
She ceased, and vanished as abruptly as she had appeared. In her place stood a figure arrayed in the regalia of the great god Amen. In his hand he held the Double Crown of Egypt.
As if overcome at this manifestation of the power of the great God Amen, Mei-amen, new leader of the Prophets of Amen, slowly and reverently advanced and, falling at Ramses’ knees, kissed the hem of his garment. As he rose, few noted the look that passed between them.
Thereafter, the dead Pharaoh was forgotten. Indeed, as the cries of the palace-women broke out once more, the assembled nobles burst into a shout, new to those resplendent walls, a shout which brought the terrified servants to the door:
“Hail to thee, Ramses, chosen of Amen! Life, Satisfaction and Health to Pharaoh, our lord, forever and ever!”
“Let me see, how do the Egyptians express it? O, I remember! Now of the coming to the throne of Ramses, of his marriage to the Princess Sesen, of the cutting out of the hated name of Aton from temple, tomb and dwelling, is it not written in letters of red and black upon a leather scroll and stored within the Temple of Amen in the Apt unto this day!
“You know this to be true, Clem! But do you know that Seneb, the mason, was sent to cut out all mention of Menna upon the walls of his tomb! Menna, son of Menna, never reached the Blessed fields of Aaru, of that you may be sure.
“Yes, I know what your next question will be! The Luminous Book!
“Listen! What I am going to tell you is interesting and true. I can vouch for the story, as I had it from the lips of Enana himself.
“Enana placed the Magic Book in a cauldron of boiling water drawn from the Sacred Lake by a virgin of the Temple of the Mother-goddess. Thus the mystic powers with which the Book had been imbued became incorporated in the holy water.
“A draught of this enchanted water Queen Hanit drank and, drinking, died. The remainder, according to her wish, was sprinkled over her body, immediately following the placing of her mummy in the tomb.
“Thereafter Enana ‘said that which he said,’ Enana ‘intoned that which he intoned,’ and the immutable curse of the Conjurers of Amen was repeated before the door of her tomb:
“‘Behold! As Ra, the Sun-god, liveth! Whosoever seeketh to desecrate this tomb dieth! Whosoever toucheth this body to remove it dieth! On earth death is his portion! In the underworld annihilation is his destiny! In the Hidden Name of Amen, king of gods, this curse remaineth, yea, so long as Ra, the Sun-god, endureth!’
“You see, Clem! It is not to be wondered at that those men died so suddenly, or that the curator, who likewise handled mummy No. 49, himself succumbed. It proves, without the shadow of a doubt, that the curse of the Conjurers of Amen did endure. Sesen can tell you....”
“Steven, please lie down and stop talking. Don’t worry about things. Try to compose yourself.”
As I sank dutifully back upon the pillows, I was aware of a soft and deliciously cool hand which gently pressed my throbbing head. A smiling face bent over me.
My bewildered eyes wandered from a trim little white cap to a spotless white dress and shoes, White canvas shoes!
“Where are her pretty gilded sandals?” thought I.
I tried to speak to her. I even made an effort to catch the soothing hand at my forehead.
At this the white figure vanished, and in its place, stood Braintree, the Seaforth’s doctor.
“Great Scott, I have it. I am in the hospital! That was Susan....”
“That’s just where you are, Steven. And I must ask you not to excite yourself about it. Here you are and here you have been for some time. Tribe, Dunn and I have slaved over you and won out, at last.
“But who, may I ask, is Menna! No friend of yours, I’d swear! Susan is equally interested in some lady friend of your acquaintance, Sesen I think her name was! Well, never mind that now. Turn over and rest.”
Then it was a dream; the vision of a fevered brain! Enana, Hanit, Sesen, Menna, and Renny—could I have been Renny—all were dreams! Hanit! Why such a person never existed. And Ramses! As yet he wasn’t born!
I tried to smile at the busy little figure in white. I recognized her now. It was Susan Braintree, my Susan!
I caught myself repeatedly murmuring: “Susan the Lily, Sesen the Lotus, one and the same name, one and the same person perhaps. Ah, my Beautiful Princess! I can smell the sweet unguents which Bhanar has sprinkled upon your dainty Wig, the myrrh upon your supple hands...!”
Susan presses a little phial to my nostrils. A few short breaths and—I sleep.