work? Tell me the honest truth, Mirabu.”
The architect paused to consider for a moment, summoning his memories. All eyes were fixed upon him with extreme interest. Then, with deliberate slowness, speaking in his natural manner — which was filled with passion and self-possession — he answered, “The workers, my lord, are divided into two camps. The first of these consists of the prisoners of war and the foreign settlers. These know not what they are about: they go and they come without any higher feelings, just as the bull pushes around the water wheel without reflection. If it weren't for the harshness of the rod and the vigilance of our soldiers, we would have no effect on them.
“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?”
A long silence settled upon them, his companions longing for their nightly session of exquisite small talk, so they might forget their ponderous troubles. All of them hoped that the king, after he'd had his fill of projects and purposes, would propose some entertaining sport, or invite them to a party with libations and song. But in those days Khufu complained in his leisure hours of boredom with the palace and its spectacular aspects. When he learned that the time for diversion had come, he would grow weary, looking around at his friends as though in a daze. Hence, Hemiunu queried, “Has my lord filled his cup with drink?”
Pharaoh nodded his head. “I drank today, as I drank yesterday.”
“Shall we call in the lady musicians, sire?”
Indifferently, he answered, “I listen to their music night and day.”
Mirabu interjected, “What would my lord think about going on a hunt?”
The king responded in the same tone, “I'm fed up with the chase, be it on land or water.”
“In that case, what about strolling among the trees and flowers?”
“Is there, in this valley, a beautiful sight that I have yet to behold?”
The king's laments saddened his loyal retainers — all except Prince Hordjedef, who was saving a delicious surprise for his father, of which Pharaoh had no hint.
“O my father the king,” said Hordjedef, “I am able to bring right before you, if you desire, an amazing magician who knows the secrets of life and death, and who is able merely to command something to be, and it is.”
Khufu said nothing, this time not hastening to reaffirm his boredom. He looked at his son with interest, for the king followed closely the news of the wizards and their wonders, enjoying what was said about their rare contrivances. Pleased that he would be seeing one of them before him, he asked his son, “Who is this magician, Prince Hordjedef?”
“He is the sorcerer Djedi, my lord. He is a hundred and ten years old, but still strong as a young tough. He has an astonishing power to control the will of both man and beast, and vision that can penetrate the Veil of the Invisible.”
Pharaoh grew intrigued, his ennui waning. “Can you bring him to me here, now?” he said.
“Please bear with me a few moments, sire!” the prince replied, joyfully.
Hordjedef stood up and saluted his father with a prolonged bow — then rushed off to fetch the fabulous magician.
2
Soon prince Hordjedef returned — with a tall, broad-shouldered man — walking before him. The man's gaze — was sharp and piercing. His head was crowned with a mane of soft white hair, and a long, thick beard fell over his breast. Wrapped in a loose robe, he steadied his step with a crude, massive cane.
The prince bowed low and announced, “My lord! I present your obedient servant, Djedi the magician.”
The sorcerer prostrated himself before the king, kissing the ground between his feet. Then he said, in a powerful voice that made all those who heard it quake: “My lord, Son of Khnum, Radiance of the Rising Sun and Ruler of the Worlds, long live his glory, and may happiness settle within him forever!”
Pharaoh eyed the wizard warmly and sat down close to him, saying, “How have I not seen you before, when you have preceded me into the light of this world by all of seventy years?”
The superannuated sorcerer answered in a kindly tone, “May the Lord grant you life, health, and strength:
