“I have invited you, Commander,” she said, “to congratulate you on the great trust placed in you by the king.”
The commander seemed surprised and said, “Thank you, my lady. It is an old favor, bestowed upon me by the gods.”
Forcing a smile, she said slyly, “And I thank you for the fine praise you lavished upon my idea.”
The man thought for a moment before recalling, “Perhaps my lady means the brilliant idea that her lofty mind inspired?”
She nodded, and he continued, “It is a wonderful idea, worthy of your outstanding intelligence.”
She showed no sign of pleasure, and said, “Its success guarantees the power and sovereignty of His Majesty, and peace and stability for the kingdom.”
“That is true without doubt,” said the commander. “That is why we greeted it with such enthusiasm.”
She looked deep into his eyes and said, “The day will soon come when my idea will need your strength and power to bring it to fruition, to be crowned with victory and success.”
Tahu bowed his head and said, “Thank you for your valued trust.”
The woman was silent for a moment. Tahu was dignified, composed, and serious, not as she had known him in the past. She had not expected from him otherwise, and now she sensed trust and reassurance in his presence. She felt a burning impulse to bring up the old matter and to ask him to forgive her and forget, but words failed her. Her bewilderment got the better of her and she was afraid she would say the wrong thing. Reluctant and confused, she abandoned the idea. Then, thinking at the last moment to announce to him her good intentions in another way, she held out her hand, and smiled as she said, “Noble commander, I extend to you the hand of friendship and appreciation.”
Tahu placed his rough hand against her soft and tender palm. He seemed moved, but he did not answer. Thus ended their short, crucial encounter.
On his way back to his boat he asked himself frantically why the woman had invited him. He gave free rein to the emotions he had stifled in her presence, flying into a rage as the color faded from his face and his body shook. Before long he had completely lost his mind, and as the oars plied the surface of the water he swayed like a drunkard, as if returning from a battle defeated, his wisdom and honor in shreds. The palm trees lining the shore seemed to dance wildly and the air was thick with choking dust. The blood rushed through his veins, hot and impassioned, poisoned with madness. He found a jug of wine on the table in the cabin and he poured it into his mouth. The drink made him reckless and moody and he threw himself down onto the couch in a state of abject despair.
Of course he had not forgotten her. She was concealed in some deep hidden recess of his mind, forever shut away by consolation, patience, and his strong sense of duty. Now that he had seen her for the first time in a year, the hidden deposit in his soul had exploded and the flames had spread to consume his entire being. He felt tormented by shame and despair, his pride slaughtered. Now he had tasted ignominy and defeat twice in the same battle. He felt his unbalanced head spinning as he spoke furiously to himself. He knew why she had gone to the trouble of summoning him. She had invited him to find out if she could trust his loyalty, to put her heart at rest regarding her beloved lord and majesty. In order to do so she had feigned friendship and admiration. How strange that Rhadopis, capricious and cruel, was suffering pain and anguish, learning what love is, and what fears and pains come in its wake. She feared some treachery from Tahu — who once had clung to the sole of her sandal like dust and she had shaken him off in a moment of boredom and disgust. Woe to the heavens and the earth, woe to all the world. He was filled with an unspeakable despair that crushed his proud and mighty spirit to powder. His anger was violent and insane. It set his blood on fire and pressed on his ears so that he could hardly hear a sound, and it stained his eyes so that he saw the world a blaze of red.
As soon as the boat docked at the steps of the royal palace he strode off and, oblivious to the greetings of the guards, staggered up the garden toward the barracks and the quarters of the commander of the guard. Suddenly he found Prime Minister Sofkhatep walking toward him on his way back from the king's chambers. The prime minister greeted him with a smile. Tahu stood before him expressionless, as if he did not know him. The prime minister was surprised and asked, “How are you, Commander Tahu?”
“I am like a lion that has fallen into a trap,” he replied with strange haste, “or like a tortoise lying upturned on top of a burning oven.”
Sofkhatep was taken aback. “What are you saying? What likens you to a lion in a trap, or a tortoise on an oven?”
“The tortoise lives for a long time,” said Tahu as if in a daze. “It moves slowly, and is weighed down by a heavy load. The lion shrinks back, roars, springs violently, and finishes off his prey.”
Sofkhatep gazed into his face in amazement, saying, “Are you angry? You are not your usual self.”
“I am angry. Would you deny me that, venerable sir? I am Tahu, lord of war and battle. Ah, how can the world put up with this ponderous peace? The gods of war are parched and I must one day quench their burning thirst.”
Sofkhatep nodded his head, in order to humor the commander. “Ah, now I understand, Commander. It is that fine Maryut vintage.”
“No,” said Tahu firmly. “No. Truly, I have drunk a cup of blood, the blood of an evil person it seems, and my blood is poisoned. But there is — worse to come. On my — way here, I encountered the Lord of Goodness sleeping in the meadow and I plunged my sword into his heart. Let us go to battle, for blood is the drink of the fearless soldier.”
“It is the wine, no doubt,” said Sofkhatep in dismay. “You should return to your palace at once.”
But Tahu shook his head in disdain. “Be very careful, Prime Minister. Beware of corrupted blood, for it is poison itself. The tortoise's patience has run out, and the lion will pounce.”
With that he went on his way, oblivious to all that was around him, leaving Sofkhatep standing there in a daze.
The waiting
Pharaoh's palace, the palace of Biga, and the government house all waited impatiently for the return of the messenger. Yet they felt confident about the future. Each day that passed brought Rhadopis closer to victory, and hope glowed warmly in her breast. This optimistic mood may have continued uninterrupted had not the prime minister received an ominous letter from the priests. Sofkhatep generally ignored such letters, or felt obliged to show them to the queen, but this time he perceived a serious escalation. Not wishing to incur the ire of his lord for concealing it, even though showing it to him would provoke a certain amount of anger, he met Pharaoh and read him the letter. It was a solemn petition signed by all the clergy, with the high priests of Ra, Amun, Ptah, and Apis at their head, requesting His Majesty to restore the temple estates to their owners, the worshipped gods who protect and watch over Pharaoh, and affirming at the same time that they would not have submitted their petition if they had found any reason that would necessitate the appropriation of the lands.
The letter was strongly worded, and Pharaoh was furious. He tore it up into pieces and threw it on the floor. “I will respond to them soon enough,” he shouted.
“They are petitioning you as one body,” said Sofkhatep. “Before they were petitioning as individuals.”
“I will strike them all together, so let them protest the way their ignorance dictates.”
Events however were moving quickly. The governor of Thebes sent word to the prime minister that Khnumhotep had visited his province and received a tumultuous welcome from the populace and the priests and priestesses of Amun alike. Cries had gone up in his name and the people had called for the rights of the gods to be preserved and upheld. Some even went further, and weeping, cried out, “Shame, the wealth of Amun is spent on a dancer!”
The prime minister was grievously saddened, but not for the first time his loyalty overcame his reluctance, and he tactfully informed his lord of the news. As usual the king was angry, and said regretfully, “The governor of Thebes watches and listens but can do nothing.”
“My lord, he has only the force of the police,” said Sofkhatep sadly, “and they are of no use against such large numbers of people.”
