“Excellent, excellent… because if he does not do so, he would betray his custodianship from the Lord, forget his divine trust, and forfeit the rights of the believers.”
The king's face grew harsher, showing a resolution that could shake even mountains. “Hear me, priest — he who poses a threat to the throne has been exposed.”
Monra lowered his eyes and held his tongue.
“The Fates are making mock as is their wont,” Khufu continued, “and have conjured a male child.”
“A male child, sire?” the priest ventured, quaking.
Anger sparked in Pharaoh's eyes. “How, priest, can you be so ignorant?” he shouted. “You have spoken so keenly of honesty and credibility — so why do you let a lie slink into your heart right before your master? You surely know what we do — that you are this child's father, as well as his prophet!”
The blood drained from the priest's face, as he said in surrender, “My son is but a suckling child, only a few hours old.”
“Yet he is an instrument in the hands of the Fates — who care not if their tool is an infant or an adult.”
A calm silence spread suddenly among them, while a frightful horror reigned over all as they held their breath, awaiting the word that would let fly the arrow of death at the unfortunate child. Prince Khafra's forbearance failed him, his brows creasing, his naturally severe face growing even harder.
“O Priest,” the king intoned, “a moment ago you declared that Pharaoh must eliminate whoever threatens his throne — is this not so?”
“Yes, sire,” the priest answered, in despair.
“No doubt the gods were cruel to you in creating this child,” said Khufu, “but the cruelty inflicted on you is lighter than that which has been inflicted on Egypt and her throne.”
“That is true, my lord,” Monra murmured.
“Then carry out your duty, priest!”
Monra fell speechless; all words failed him.
“We — the community of Egypt's kings — have an inherited tradition of respect and caring for the priesthood,” Pharaoh continued. “Do not force me to break it.”
How amazing! What does Pharaoh mean by this? Does he want the priest to understand that he respects him and would not like to slay his son — and that therefore, it is necessary that he undertake this mission, from — which the king himself recoils? And how can he ask him to kill his own child by his own hand?
Truly, the loyalty that he owed to Pharaoh obliged him to execute his divine will without the least hesitation. He knew for certain that any individual from among the Egyptian people would gladly give up his soul in order to please great Pharaoh. Must he then take his own dear son and plunge a dagger into his heart?
Yet who had decreed that his son should succeed Khufu on the throne of Egypt? Was it not the Lord Ra? And hadn't the king declared his intention to kill the innocent child, in defiance of the Lord Creator's will? Who then must he obey — Khufu or Ra? And what would Pharaoh and his minions do, who are waiting for him to speak? They're becoming restless and angry — so what should he do?
A dangerous thought came to him rapidly amidst the clamor of confused embarrassment, like a flash of lightning among dark clouds. He remembered Kata, and her son — to whom she had given birth that very morning. He recalled that she was sleeping in the room opposite that of her mistress. Truly, this was a fiendish idea of which a priest like himself ought to be totally innocent, but any conscience would yield if subjected to the pressures that now assailed Monra before the king and his men. No — he was unable to hesitate.
The cleric bowed his heavy head in respect, then went off to carry out a most abominable crime. Pharaoh followed him; the princes and the notables trailing behind. They mounted to the highest floor behind him — but — when they saw the high priest begin to enter the room's door, they stopped, silent, in the hallway. Monra, wavering, turned toward his lord.
“Sire, I have no weapon with which to kill,” he said. “I possess not even a dagger.”
Khufu, staring, did not stir. Khafra felt his chest tighten. He withdrew his dagger, shoving it brusquely into the high priest's hand.
Trembling, the man took it and hid it in his cloak. He entered the chamber, his feet almost unable to bear his weight. His arrival awoke Kata, who smiled at him gratefully, believing that her master had come to give her his blessings. She revealed the face of the blameless child, telling him wanly, “Thank the Lord with your little heart, for he has made up for the death of your father with divine compassion.”
Horrified and panicked, Monra's spirit abandoned him: he turned away in revulsion. His emotions overflowing, their torrent swept away the froth of sin. But where could he find sanctuary? And how would it all end? Pharaoh was standing at the door — and there wasn't a moment to pause and reflect. His confusion grew more and more profound, until his mind was dazed. He bellowed in bewilderment, then — drawing a deep breath — he unsheathed his dagger in a hopeless gesture, thrusting its blade deep into his own heart. His body shuddered dreadfully — then tumbled, stiff and lifeless, to the floor.
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
