“Why not, Djedef?” the priest said to the young man. “The clergyman cannot remain sure of his own wisdom if he does not marry. Can mortal man ascend to heaven with a soul still yearning for the earth? The virtue of marriage is that it takes care of one's lust and so purifies the body.”
Djedef left his brother's chamber at midnight, and repaired to his own room. He had started to remove his robe while recalling his talk with the priest, when sorrow assailed him as he remembered his day, and the frustration it had brought him. But just before dropping onto his bed he heard a light tapping, and he bid the person knocking to come in.
Zaya entered, her face distressed.
“Did I awake you?” she asked him.
“No, Mama, I hadn't gone to sleep yet,” he said, feeling afraid. “Is everything alright?”
The woman hesitated, trying to speak, but her tongue would not obey. She gestured for him to follow her, and he did so apprehensively until she halted at her bedroom. She pointed at the floor — and Djedef saw Gamurka sprawled out as though wounded by a fatal shaft. He could not control himself as he cried out in alarm, “Gamurka… Gamurka… what's wrong with him, Mama?”
With a choking voice, the woman said, “Have courage, Djedef, have courage.”
His heart torn out of his chest, the soldier knelt by the dear dog, which did not greet him as normal by leaping about with joy. He stroked his body but Gamurka did not stir.
“Mama, what's the matter with him?” he asked again.
“Be brave, Djedef, for he is dying.”
The fearsome word horrified Djedef. “How did this happen?” he said in a protesting tone. “He came to see me this morning, the way he always does.”
“He wasn't like he always was, my dear. Even though his love for you obliterated his pain at the time, he's now very old, Djedef, and the final feebleness has been clear in him these last few days.”
Djedef's pain intensified; he turned to his faithful friend and whispered into his ear in deepest grief, “Gamurka… don't you hear me? Gamurka!”
The trusty dog lifted his head with difficulty, looking at his master with unseeing eyes, as though he was bidding the final goodbye. Then he returned to his heavy sleep, and began to moan hoarsely, as Djedef called to him time and again, but without any response at all. He sensed that the force of death was gathering around his loyal comrade, watching as he opened and closed his mouth, panting heavily. He crouched helplessly as Gamurka shuddered weakly just once, before journeying quietly into Eternity. He called out to him from the depths of his heart, “Gamurka,” but the plea was futile. For the first time since becoming a soldier, the tears flowed from his eyes as he wept in farewell for the companion of his childhood, the dear friend of his boyhood, and the comrade of his youth.
His mother lifted him up before her and dried his tears with her lips, then sat him down next to her on her bed, consoling him — with tender — words — but he did not hear. Nor did he open his mouth all that night except — when he told her, “Mama, I want to embalm him and lay him in a sarcophagus. Then I — want to put him in the spot in the garden where he and I used to play — until he's moved into my tomb — when the Lord calls me to Him.”
And so ended that tragic day.
18
Djedef's sixth and final year in the war college had finished. The school held its traditional annual tournament in — which the graduates contended with each other before being assigned to the various branches of the army. A vivid liveliness dawned that day on the mighty academy, its walls adorned with the standards of the military divisions, the air resounding with the rousing strains of music.
The doors opened to receive the invitees, both men and women, whose masses came from the families of the army officers and commanders, as well as the graduates and high officials.
After midday, there came the great men of state, led by the priests and ministers. At their head were His Holiness Hemiunu, the Military High Commander under Arbu, plus many of the other leading civil servants, scribes, and artists. They all assembled there in order to receive His Royal Highness Prince Khafra, the heir apparent, whom His Majesty the King had appointed to preside over the celebration in his name.
When the time of the prince's arrival drew nigh, the elite men of office hastened to the academy's gateway and stood waiting amidst lines of soldiers. Before long there appeared in the broad, level square in front of the school the crown prince's procession, led by a troop of chariots from the Great House Guards. The music played in salute as the masses stood in tribute, their cheers rising for Khufu and the crown prince.
When Khafra's retinue reached the building's entrance, the academy's director approached, bearing in his hands a silken cushion stuffed with ostrich feathers upon which His Royal Highness would rest his feet. With Khafra came his sister, Her Royal Highness Princess Meresankh, as well as his brothers, the princes Baufra, Hordjedef, Horsadef, Kawab, Sedjedef, Khufukhaf, Hata, and Meryb.
The notables bowed before the crown prince, — who walked with a hardened face and square build that the maturity of age made seem even harsher and more vainglorious. As he took his seat in the center, the princess and the other princes sat at his right, while to his left were Hemiunu, the ministers, the commanders, and the chief civil officials. After the prince's arrival, the cheering quieted down as the guests were seated, and the festivities began. The horn sounded, the music was played, and from the direction of the barracks there appeared a group of graduating officers marching four abreast, headed by the commander of the trainees, holding the school's standard. For the first time they were dressed in officers’ uniform with its green shirt, loincloth, and leopard-skin cape.
When they reached a point parallel to the throne upon which His Royal Highness reposed, they drew out their swords and raised them with arms outstretched like pillars, their tips pointed skyward, offering their salute. Khafra, standing, returned it.
The great competition commenced with a horse race. The officers mounted colorfully adorned steeds and lined up in formation. When the horn sounded, they plunged forward like arrows shot from giant bows, the legs of the chargers shaking the ground like a powerful earthquake. Their pace was so fast that the onlookers almost lost sight of them, while the brave riders clung to them as though nailed to their backs. At first there was a single row, then the violent pace began to pull them apart. Suddenly, one horseman bolted free of the others as though riding a mad wind, beating them back to the starting place. The trainer announced the name of this rider — “Djedef son of Bisharu” — as the winner. If, amidst the thunderous applause, he had been able to hear his father cheering, “Go, son of Bisharu!” he would not have been able to control his laughter.
A short time later, the chariot race began. The officers mounted their vehicles and waited in formation. Then the horn blew as they burst out like giants, sending terror out before them, leaving a roar behind them like the breaking of boulders and the sundering of mountains. They swayed in their vehicles without wavering, like firmly rooted palm trunks buffeted by winds determined to upend them — winds that were forced to give up in — wailing frustration.
Suddenly there raced out from among them a rider who sped past them all — with preternatural power, — who moved so quickly that they seemed to be standing still. He was headed for victory right until the end, when the trainer again announced the name of the winner — “Djedef son of Bisharu.” Again, the cheers rose for him, and this time the clapping was even stronger.
Next the crier proclaimed that it was time for the steeplechase. Once more the officers mounted their horses, as wooden benches, whose height gradually increased one after another, were set up in the midst of the long field. With the blast of the horn, the horses bounded forward abruptly, flying over the first obstacle like attacking eagles. They leapt over the second like the waves of a ferocious waterfall, clear victory seeming to crown them as they progressed. But fortune betrayed most of them. The horses of some could not hear their commands; others stumbled amidst piteous cries. Only one horseman cleared all the hurdles as though he were an inexorable Fate, the embodiment of conquest. The crier called out his name, “Djedef son of Bisharu,” to the crowd's huge praise and applause.
Victory was his ally in all of the trials. He hit the target most accurately with lances and in archery. He humbled all comers with swords and with axes. The gods made his an absolute triumph. He was the hero of that
