strain. Pharaoh is compassionate to his servants. And he was not less compassionate when that ill-starred infant's fate was decreed. In this way, the acts of kings are like those of the gods — cloaked in the robe of villainy, yet, in their essence, they are actually celestial wisdom.
“The first thing you must do, O Architect Mirabu,” said Prince Khafra, “is to marvel at the power of the overwhelming will that has defeated the Fates — and blotted the sentence of Destiny.”
Hemiunu returned to his chariot, ordering the driver to proceed. The squadron again took off in the direction of Memphis, slicing their way through the waves of darkness.
7
Zaya arrived in Memphis just before midnight, after a short ride — with the pharaonic guards. The king gave her two pieces of gold, so she sat before him thankfully — as one obliged by a debt — thinking him to be an important commander, but no more. She bid him farewell in the pitch-dark night, without seeing his face — or he seeing hers.
Zaya was in a terrible state — both in her mind, and in her body. She craved a room in which she could retire by herself, so she asked a policeman if he knew of a modest inn where she could spend the rest of the night. Finally, when she found herself and the child alone, she heaved a deep sigh of relief and threw herself down on the bed.
At last she felt released from the agony of physical pain and internal fear. Yet the terrors of her soul overshadowed the torments of her body. Drained and frightened, all that Zaya's mind's eye could see was her mistress who had just given birth, whose infant she had abducted as she abandoned her in that derelict wagon in the midst of the desert. The darkness had engulfed Ruddjedet, desolation surrounding her — while the men of pillage and plunder, who know neither mercy nor compassion — had set upon her.
Now perhaps she was a prisoner in their hands, treated only with brutality, forced into bondage and slavery. Meanwhile, she would be telling the gods of her humiliation, complaining of how she'd suffered from despair, treachery, and torture.
More and more wracked with discomfort and fear, Zaya kept tossing and turning on her bed, first right, then left, as grimacing ghosts pursued her. Begging for sleep to rescue her, she tossed and turned ever more before slumber finally lifted her from the hellfire of damnation.
She awoke to the baby's crying. The sun's rays broke through the room's tiny window, carpeting the floor — with light. She took pity on the child, rocking him gently and kissing him. Sleep had alleviated her sickness and calmed her soul, though it had not rid her of worry, or her mind of torment. Yet the infant was able to divert her feelings toward him, saving her from the agony and afflictions of the night. She tried caressing him, but he sobbed even more as she confronted the problem of feeding him — which utterly perplexed her. Then she hit upon the only solution: she went to the room's door and knocked on it with her hand. An old woman came, inquiring what she wanted. Zaya asked the woman to bring her half a rod of goat's milk.
Carrying Djedef in her arms, she walked with him back and forth across the room, putting her breast into his mouth to soothe and amuse him. She gazed at his beautiful face and sighed with a sudden thrill that seemed to have slipped unnoticed into her heart:
But no sooner had she sighed in relief than she said to herself fearfully, “Do you see how I won him despite everything? The issue of his true mother is finished — and of his true father, as well!”
As for his mother, the Bedouin had taken her prisoner, and she — Zaya — could do nothing to rescue her. If she had lingered another moment before fleeing, she too would have found herself but cold plunder in the hands of the barbarous nomads. There was no justice in taking the blame for a crime that she did not commit, so she felt no embarrassment. As regards Djedef's father, no doubt Pharaoh's soldiers killed him in revenge for helping his wife and son escape.
Thinking about these things reassured her. She went back over all of them again to appease her conscience, to put paid to the ghosts of dread and the harbingers of pain.
She told herself incessantly that she had done the most virtuous thing by kidnapping the child and running away, for if she had stayed at her mistress's side, she would not have been able to protect her against the assault — and would have perished with her, as well. After all, it was not within her ability to carry her or to give her shelter. Nor would there have been any mercy in leaving the child in Ruddjedet's arms until the men of Sinai killed him. She felt it was more of a good deed to flee, and to take Djedef — with her!
However torturous these thoughts, how lovely it was to wind up with Djedef by herself, not having to share him with anyone! She was his mother without any rival, and Karda was his father. As if she wanted to be confident of this fact she kept cooing to him, saying: “Djedefra son of Karda… Djedefra son of Zaya.”
The old woman came with the goat's milk. The make-believe mother began to nurse the infant in an unnatural manner until she thought that he had had his fill. Then there was nothing left for her but to get ready to go out to see Karda. She bathed herself, combed her hair, and put her veil over her shoulders, before leaving the inn with Djedef in her arms.
The streets of Memphis were crowded, as they usually were, with people both walking and riding — men and women, citizens, settlers, and foreigners. Zaya did not know the road to the Sacred Plateau, so she asked a constable which way to go. The plateau, he said, was “northwest of the Wall of Memphis — it would take two hours or more to get there on foot — a half hour on horseback.” In her hand she clutched the pieces of gold, so she hired a wagon with two horses, seating herself in it with serenity and bliss.
No sooner had her dreams pulled her out of the world and taken her to the heaven of rapture and delight, than her imagination raced ahead of the wagon to her dear husband, Karda. With his tawny skin and brawny arms, nothing was more becoming than the effect of his short loincloth, which revealed his thighs of iron. And what was more loveable than his long face with its narrow forehead, his great nose, and widely-spaced eyes, and his broad, powerful voice with its saucy Theban drawl? How many times had she yearned to grab his forearms, kiss his mouth, and listen to him speak! In earlier reunions of this kind, when she had been gone for a long time, he had kissed her passionately and said to her caressingly, “Come now, wife — for me you are like stony ground that soaks up water, but grows nothing.” This time, though, he wouldn't say it — how could he, when she meets him holding the most beautiful creature ever conceived by woman? There is nothing — wrong if he stares at her in confusion, the muscles softening on his hardened face, the look in his flashing eyes dissolving into gentleness. Or as he shouts out to her, unable to contain himself for joy, “Finally, Zaya — you have borne a child! Is this truly my son? Come to me — come to me!” Holding her head high in haughtiness and pride, she would say to him: “Take your child, Karda — kiss his little feet, and kneel down in thanks to the Lord Ra. He is a boy, and I have named him Djedef.” She vowed to take her husband to his birthplace of Thebes, because she was still afraid — though she did not know just why exactly — of the North and its people. In lovely Thebes, under the protection of the Lord Amon, she would raise her son and love her husband, and live the life that she had been denied for so long.
She was jolted from her reverie by the clamor and chaos of Memphis. She looked ahead to see the wagon ascending the winding road, the man urging the horses onward with his whip. From her seat she could not make out the surface of the plateau, but the lively voices, clanging tools, and chants of the workers rang in her ears. Among the chants, she recognized one that Karda would sing to her in happy times:
We are the men of the South, whom the waters of the Nile Have brought to this land, that the gods have chosen for our home, Home of the Pharaohs — where we make the black earth flourish. Behold the towering cities, and the temples with many pillars! Before us, there were but ruins that sheltered beasts and crows. For us, stone is soft and obedient, and so are the mighty waters. Ask of our strength among the tribes of Nubia and Sinai! Ask about our labors afar — while our chaste wives wait alone.
She listened to the men as they repeated these verses with strength and affection combined, and she longed to be with them, as the dove longs for the cooing of its mate. Her heart sang with them.
