suffered the most intense agony to see life going on year after year — without the gift of a child to love in his home, to warm him with the promise of immortality. He bid her farewell for the last time as he prepared to depart for Memphis, where he worked in building the pyramid — threatening to take a new wife if she failed to produce a child. He had been gone for one month, two months, ten months — while she had monitored herself for the signs of pregnancy hour by hour, to no avail. O Lord! What was the wisdom of making her a woman, then? What is a woman without motherhood? A woman without children is like wine without the power to intoxicate, like a rose without scent, or like worship without strong faith behind it.
Just then she heard a faint voice calling, “Zaya.” She rushed to the wooden box, lifting it up and opening its side, and saw her mistress along with her child, whom she held in her arms. Worn out from exertion, Ruddjedet's lovely brown face had lost its color, as Zaya asked her, “How is your ladyship?”
“I am well, Zaya, thank the gods,” she answered weakly. “But what about the danger that threatens us now?”
“Be reassured, my mistress,” the servant replied. “The peril to you and my little master is now far away.”
The lady sighed deeply. “Do we still have a long trip ahead?” she asked.
“We have an hour, at the very least, left before us,” Zaya said amiably. “But first you must sleep in the Lord Ra's protection.”
The lady sighed again and turned to the slumbering infant, her pale but captivating face filled with maternal love. Zaya kept looking at her and at her son, at their beautiful, joyful image, despite the pains and perils that they faced.
What a gorgeous sight they make! If only she could, just once, taste motherhood, she would gladly give her life for it! O God! The Lord shows no compassion, nor does pleading help, nor will Karda forgive her failure. Perhaps before long she will become a mere divorcee, expelled from her home, wracked by solitude and the misfortunes of being unmarried.
Zaya shifted her gaze from the happy mother to the two oxen. “If only I had a son like that!” she said to herself. “What if I take this child and pretend that he is my own, after yearning that the gods would favor me with one by natural means?”
Her intention was not evil, rather, she was being wishful — as the soul wishes for the impossible — and as it wishes for what it would not do — from fear, or compassion.
Zaya wished away, while the heavens created happiness for her under the wings of dreams. In them she saw herself walking with the exquisite child up to Karda, saying, “I have borne you this gorgeous boy.” She saw her husband grin and jump for joy, kissing and hugging her and little Djedef together. Drunk from this imaginary ecstasy, she lay down on her right side, holding the two oxen's reins with one hand, while cradling her head with the other. She let her mind wander until she abandoned herself to the world of dreams, her eyes quickly numbed by the delicate fingers of sleep, veiled from the light of wakefulness, as the western horizon veils the light of the sun from the world.
When Zaya returned to the sensate world, she thought that she was greeting the morning in her bed in the palace of her benefactor, the priest of Ra. She stretched out her hand to pull the blanket around her, because she suddenly felt a cold breeze. Her hand dug into something that resembled sand. Amazed, she opened her eyes to see the cosmos blackened and the sky studded with stars. Her body felt a strange shaking — and she remembered the wagon, her mistress Ruddjedet with her little, fugitive child, and all the memories that the conquering power of sleep had snatched away from her.
But where was she? What time of night was it?
She looked around to see an ocean of darkness on three sides. On the fourth, she saw a feeble light coming from very far away, which undoubtedly emanated from the villages spread out along the bank of the Nile. Beyond that, there was no sign of life in the direction toward which the oxen were plodding.
The desolation of the world penetrated her soul, its gloom piercing her heart. A terrifying tremor made her teeth chatter with fear, — while she kept peering into the darkness — with eyes that expected horrors in unsettling forms.
On the dark horizon Zaya imagined that she could make out the ghostly shapes of a Bedouin caravan. She recalled what people said about the tribes of Sinai — their assaults on villages, their kidnapping of people who had wandered off the road or taken the wrong course, their interception of other caravans. No doubt the wagon that she piloted so aimlessly would be precious booty to them — with all the wheat it carried, and the oxen that hauled it. Not to mention the two women — over whom the chief of the tribe would have every right to drool. Her fear rose to the point of madness, so she stepped down onto the desert sands. As she did so, she looked at the sleeping woman and child, regarding their faces by the light of the pulsing stars. Without thought or plan, she reached out her hand and, lifting the boy up delicately, expertly wrapped the quilt around him, and set off in the direction of the city's lights. As she walked on, she thought that she heard a voice calling out to her in terror, and she believed that the Bedouin had surrounded her mistress. Her fear grew even stronger and she doubled her pace. Nothing would hinder her progress: not the heaping dunes of sand, nor the dear burden she carried, nor her enormous tiredness. She was like someone falling into an abyss, pulled down by their own weight, unable to stop their descent. Perhaps she had not gone too far into the desert, or perhaps she had covered more distance toward her goal than she could tell, because, beneath her feet, she felt hard-packed ground like the surface of the great Desert Road. Looking behind her, Zaya saw only blackness. By this time she had used up her hysterical strength: her speed slowed and her steps grew heavier. Then she fell down onto her knees, panting fearsomely. She was still insanely afraid, but couldn't move, like the victim pursued by a specter in a nightmare, but who cannot flee. She continued swiveling to her right and to her left, not knowing in which direction could come escape — or ruin.
Suddenly, she fancied that she could hear the rumble of chariots and the whinnying of horses! Did she really see wheels and vehicles, knights and steeds — or was it just the blood throbbing in her ears and her brain? But the voices became clearer, until she was certain that she could make out the forms of the riders returning from the north. She did not know if they came in peace — or to kill her. Nor — was it possible to hide, because Djedef had begun to sob and cry. Not feeling safe from the plunging chariots — while kneeling in the center of the road, she shouted, “Charioteers! Look here!”
She called out to them again — then surrendered herself to the Fates. The chariots drew up quickly, then stopped a short distance away. She heard a voice ask who was shouting — and she thought it was not unfamiliar. She gripped the child more firmly as though to warn him, and putting on an uncouth, countrified accent, told them, “I'm just a woman who's gotten lost — this hard road and the scary things in the dark have worn me out. And this is my baby boy — the wind and the damp night have nearly killed him.”
“Where are you going?” the owner of the first voice asked her.
“I'm heading for Memphis, sir,” Zaya answered, beginning to feel assured that she was talking to Egyptian soldiers.
The man laughed and said in astonishment, “To Memphis, ma'am? Don't you know that a man mounted on a horse takes two hours to travel that far?”
“I've been walking since the midafternoon,” Zaya said, plainly suffering. “Lack of means forced me to move, and I was fooled into thinking that I could reach Memphis before nightfall.”
“Whom do you have in Memphis?”
“My husband, Karda. He's helping to build the Lord Pharaoh's pyramid.”
The man questioning her leaned toward another in the chariot to his left, whispering a few words in his ear.
“Granted — that one soldier will escort her to her home district,” the second man said.
But the first one rejoined, “No, Hemiunu — she'll find nothing there but hunger and shame. Why don't we take her to Memphis, instead?”
Obeying Pharaoh's order, Hemiunu came down from his chariot and — went over to the woman, helping her to rise. He then walked to the nearest chariot and put her and her child inside it, advising the soldier within it about them.
At that moment, Khufu turned to the architect Mirabu. “Watching the massacre ofthat innocent mother and child, who bore neither guilt nor offence, has torn your tender heart, Mirabu,” he said. “Take care not to accuse your lord of cruelty. Look at how it gratifies me to carry along a famished woman and her nursing baby to spare them the ills of hunger and cold, and deliver them to a place that they could reach by themselves only with tremendous
