guest himself, he went down to greet her, arriving by chance just as Zaya was leaving like one possessed by madness. Shocked and confused, he approached the room's door with caution, behind which he heard the voice of Ruddjedet — which she had forgotten to lower — erupting as she spoke in a state of high excitement. Secretly he listened, along with Djedef, to the woman's story — from its beginning through to its end.
Afterward, he rushed from his hiding place straight to his bedroom, heedless of all things around him, his face furrowed by a seriousness reserved for the most grievous disasters. He couldn't bear to sit down, so he kept pacing back and forth, his consciousness scattered, his soul upset, his thoughts rash and reckless. He was considering what he had heard as its jumble kept running through his head, turning it up and down on its various sides, until the feverish contemplation burnt up his mind, making it like a piece of molten bronze.
Aloud he said to himself, as though addressing a stranger, “Bisharu! Oh, you wretched old man! The gods have tested you with a difficult trial.”
And what a trial!
Dear, handsome Djedef, whom he had held as a suckling baby, rescued from hunger and want, and raised in the merciful eye of fatherhood — as a crawling infant, as a running boy, and as a wholesome young man. He to whom he gave the upbringing of a nobleman's son, and for whom he smoothed the road to success, until he became a man worth a nation full of men. He to whom he granted a father's affection, and his heart entire — and from whom he received the love of a son, and filial piety, as well. Dear, beautiful Djedef, the Fates have shown him the truth about himself- and suddenly his enemy is Pharaoh! Suddenly, he was the means that the Lord Ra had held in store to convulse the unshakeable throne by challenging its majestic sire, and to usurp the right of the noble heir apparent!
The Inspector of Pharaoh's Pyramid cried out again as he spoke to himself, “Bisharu! You miserable old man! The deities have tested you with a difficult trial!” The man's anxiety escalated and weighed more heavily upon him, as he continued blabbering to himself in sorrow and pain.
“O beloved Djedef, whether you're the son of the martyred worker, or the heir to the priest of Ra the Most Powerful, I truly love you the way I do Kheny and Nafa — and you have known no father but me.
“Hence, I granted you my name, out of love and compassion. By God, you are a youth whose goodness and purity radiate from his nature like the rays of the sun. Yet, and more's the pity, the deities made you the trustee of the greatest treason that history has ever known — treason against the lord of the immutable throne. Betrayer of the trust of Khufu, our mighty sire; Khufu, whose name we teach our children to praise before they have learned how to write the sacred script. O you Fates! Why do you delight in our torment? Why do you throw us into tribulations and woes in the midst of our good fortune? How would it have harmed you if I ended my life as it began — happy, healthy, and content?”
His state of mind deteriorated as he felt his end grow near, so he took small steps to the mirror and looked at his sad, miserable face. Lecturing his image, he said, “Bisharu! O man who has never harmed anyone in his life! Shall dear Djedef become the first victim whom you will reach out your hand to hurt? How bizarre! Why all this torture? Why not just keep your mouth shut as though you had heard nothing? My God! The reply is preordained — that your heart would not be at ease because it belongs to Bisharu, Inspector of the Pyramid, servant of the king. Bisharu, who adores his duty excessively; Bisharu, who worships his duty like a slave. Here is the malady: you believe in duty. Truly, you have done injury to no one, yet neither have you ever relinquished your duty. Now, which of the two do you think will be first to be sold? Duty, or the avoidance of doing harm? A pupil in the primary school at Memphis could answer this question immediately. Bisharu will not end his life — with an act of treachery. No, he will never sell out his sire: Pharaoh is first — Djedef comes second.” He sighed in agony and grief, his soul pierced with a poisoned dagger.
He left the room with heavy steps and went down to the house's garden. On his way, as he passed the guest room, he saw Djedef standing at its door, looking deeply absorbed in thought. Bisharu's heart pounded queerly at the sight of him, and everything within and without him — his soul, breast, even his eyelids — quivered. He avoided his eyes, for fear that any conversation would reveal the tumult in his heart.
The youth glanced peculiarly at his robes of office, asking him in a weak voice, “Where are you going now… Father?”
Hurrying on his way, Bisharu replied, “To perform a duty that cannot be delayed, my son.”
Then he mounted his wagon, telling the driver, “To Pharaoh's palace.”
While the wagon was starting on its way, the armies of night were gathering on the horizon to sweep down upon the defenseless, dying day. Bisharu regarded the approaching sundown with dejected eyes, and a heart that had turned dark like the creep of evening.
“I knew that duty was both a hardship and a delight,” he said to himself as he groaned with regret and chagrin. “Yet here I am swallowing only the bitter of it — not the sweet — like a fast-killing poison.”
33
Weeping continuously, Ruddjedet told her devastating story as Djedef sat listening to her quavering voice, feeling her warm breath on his face. He gazed for a long time into her dear, tearful eyes, ripped nearly to pieces by sorrow, pity, and pain.
When her tragic tale was done, she asked him, “Who, my son, is the priest of Ra?”
“Shudara!” he replied.
“I'm so sorry that your father was made a victim — through no fault of his own.”
“This surprise has me utterly confused…. Only yesterday I was Djedef son of Bisharu, while today I'm a new person, whose past is full of calamities. Born to a father who was killed at the time, and a wretched mother suffering the life of a prisoner for all of twenty years. How fantastic! My birth was accursed — I'm so sorry for that, Mother!”
“Don't say that, my dear son, and burden your pure soul with the sin of the Accursed Satan.”
“How horrible! My father was killed, and you endured torment for twenty long years!”
“May the gods have mercy on my son,” she abjured. “Forget your sorrows and think about how things will end — my heart is not reassured.”
“What do you mean, Mama?”
“Danger still surrounds us, O my son. It menaces you today through him who provided for you yesterday.”
“How incredible! Could I, Djedef, be an enemy of Pharaoh? And Pharaoh — who bestowed upon me all his blessings every day, and generously granted me his favors — is he the slayer of my father and the torturer of my mother?”
“No one can keep silent who watches people and the world. So look toward the end, because I don't want to lose you on the very day that I found you, after the torment of the years.”
“Where should we go, Mama?”
“The Lord's land is wide.”
“How can I flee like a felon — when I have committed no crime?”
“Had your father done anything — wrong?”
“My nature scorns flight,” he replied.
“Take pity on my heart, — which is torn to bits by fear.”
“Do not fear, Mother,” he consoled her. “My devotion and loyalty to the throne will serve on my behalf with Pharaoh.”
“Nothing will serve on your behalf with him for anything,” she admonished, “when he discovers that you are his rival, whom the gods created to inherit his throne.”
The youth's eyes widened in disbelief. “Inherit his throne?” he cried. “How misguided a prophecy is this!”
“I beg you, my son, to put my heart at rest.”
He took her in his arms, pressing against her with compassion. “I have lived twenty years, without anyone knowing my secret,” he said. “Forgetfulness has enfolded it — and it shall not arise again.”
“I know not, Son, why I am frightened and apprehensive. Perhaps it is Zaya….”
