“I have no choice but to wait,” said the king, irritated. “Truly, by the Lord, my pride is bled dry.”
A cloud of affliction settled over glorious Abu, and drifted into the lofty palaces and halls of government. Queen Nitocris stayed in her chambers, hostage of her confinement and loneliness, suffering the pangs of a broken heart and wounded pride as she watched events with sad and sorry eyes. Sofkhatep received all this news with a dejected heart, and would say sadly to taciturn and miserable Tahu, “Have you ever seen such rebellious unrest in Egypt? How sad it is.”
The king's happiness had turned to anger and wrath. He did not taste rest unless he lay in the arms of the woman to whom he had surrendered his soul. She knew what plagued him. She would flirt with him and comfort him and whisper in his ear, “Patience,” and he would sigh and say bitterly, “Yes, until I have the upper hand.”
Still the situation deteriorated. The visits of Khnumhotep to the provinces increased. Wherever he went he was greeted by enthusiastic crowds, and his name rang out up and down the country. Many of the governors were gravely concerned, for the matter was placing serious strain on their loyalty to Pharaoh. The governors of Ambus, Farmuntus, Latopolis, and Thebes met to consult with one another. They decided to meet the king, and they headed for Abu and asked for an audience.
Pharaoh received them officially with Sofkhatep present. The governor of Thebes approached Pharaoh, uttered the greeting of humble veneration and loyalty, and said, “Your Majesty, true loyalty serves no purpose if it is simply an emotion in the heart. Rather it must be combined with sound advice and good works, and sacrifice if circumstance demands it. We stand before a matter in which honesty may expose us to displeasure, but we are no longer able to silence the stirring of our consciences. Therefore we must speak the truth.”
Pharaoh was silent for a moment then said to the governor, “Speak, Governor. I am listening to you.”
The man spoke with courage. “Your Majesty, the priests are angry. Like a contagion, their anger has spread among the people who listen to their speeches morning and evening. It is because of this that all agree on the necessity of returning the estates to their owners.”
A look of vehemence appeared on the king's face. “Is it right that Pharaoh should yield to the will of the people?” he said furiously.
The governor continued, his words bold and direct: “Your Majesty, the contentment and well-being of the people is a responsibility with which the gods have entrusted the person of Pharaoh. There is no yielding, only the compassion of an able master concerned for his slaves.”
The king banged his staff on the ground. “I see only submission in retreat.”
“May the gods forbid that I refer to Your Majesty as submissive, but politics is a churning sea, the ruler a captain who steers clear of the raging storm and makes full use of good opportunity.”
The king was not impressed with his words and he shook his head in stubborn contempt. Sofkhatep requested permission to speak, and asked the governor of Thebes, “What proof do you have that the people share the sentiments of the priests?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” said the governor without hesitation. “I have sent my spies around the region. They have observed the mood of the people at close quarters and have heard them discussing matters they should not.”
“I did the same thing,” said the governor of Farmuntus, “and the reports that came back were most regrettable.”
Every governor spoke his piece, and their statements left no doubt about the precariousness of the situation. Thus ended the first such meeting of its kind ever seen in the palaces of the pharaohs.
Immediately the king met — with his prime minister and the commander of the guard in his private wing. He was beside himself with rage, threatening menace and intimidation. “These governors,” he said, “are loyal and trustworthy, but they are weak. If I were to take their advice I would lay open my throne to ignominy and shame.”
Tahu quickly seconded His Majesty's opinion, and said, “To retreat now is clearly defeat, my lord.”
Sofkhatep was thinking about other probabilities. “We must not forget the festival of the Nile. Only a few days remain before it begins. In truth, my heart is not happy at the thought of thousands of irate people gathered in Abu.”
“We control Abu,” Tahu was quick to point out.
“There is no doubt about that. But we should not forget that at the last festival certain treacherous cries were heard, even though at that time His Majesty's wish had still not been realized. This year we should expect other, more vociferous cries.”
“All hope hangs on the return of the messenger before the festival,” said the king.
Sofkhatep continued to consider the matter from his own point of view, for in his heart he believed in the proposal of the governors. He said, “The messenger will come soon and he will read his message for all to hear. No doubt the priests, having courted the favor of their lord and believing that they once again enjoyed their ancient rights, will be more enthusiastically inclined to accept mobilization, for even if my lord were to take the upper hand and dictate his desire, there is none who can refuse to do his will.”
The king took umbrage at Sofkhatep's opinion, and feeling isolated and alone even in his private wing, he hastened to the palace of Biga, where loneliness never followed him. Rhadopis did not know what had happened in the latest meeting and her mind was less troubled than his. Still, she found no difficulty reading the telling expression on his face and sensed the anger and vexation that churned in his heart. She was filled with trepidation and she looked at him questioningly, but the words piled up behind her lips, afraid to come out.
“Have you not heard, Rhadopis?” he grumbled. “The governors and ministers are advising me to return the estates to the priests, and to content myself with defeat.”
“What has urged them to pronounce this counsel?” she asked nervously.
The king related what the governors had said and what they had counseled him to do and she grew sadder and more nervous. She could not restrain herself from saying, “The air grows dusty and dark. Only grave danger would have led the governors to reveal their opinions.”
“My people are angry,” said the king scornfully.
“Your Majesty, the people are like a ship off course without a rudder, which the winds carry wherever they will.”
“I will knock the wind out of their sails,” he said ominously.
Fears and doubts returned to plague her, and her patience betrayed her for a moment as she said, “We must seek recourse to wisdom and willingly step back awhile. The day of victory is near.”
He looked at her curiously. “Are you suggesting that I submit, Rhadopis?”
She held him to her breast for his tone had hurt her, then she said, her eyes overflowing with fervent tears, “It is more proper for one about to take a great leap to first crouch down. Victory hinges upon the outcome.”
The king moaned, saying, “Ah, Rhadopis, if you do not know my soul, then who can know it? I am one who, if coerced to bend to a person's will, withers with grief like a rose battered by the wind.”
Her dark eyes were touched by his words and she said with deep sadness, “I would gladly sacrifice myself for you, my darling. You will never wither as long as my breast waters you with pure love.
“I shall live victorious every moment of my life, and I shall never give Khnumhotep the pleasure of saying that he humiliated me for even an hour.”
She smiled at him sadly and asked, “Do you wish to govern a people without at times resorting to subterfuge?”
“Surrender is the subterfuge of the incapable. I shall remain, while I am alive, as straight as a sword upon whose blade the forces of the traitors will be smashed.”
She sighed sadly and regretfully and did not try to win him round. She was content with defeat in the face of his anger and pride, and from that moment she began to ask herself incessantly, “When — will the messenger return? When — will the messenger return? When — will the messenger return?”
How tedious the — waiting — was. If those — who desire knew the torment of-waiting as she now did, they — would prefer abstinence in this world. How she counted the hours and minutes and watched the sun rise and waited for its setting. Her eyes ached from long looking at the Nile as it — wound its — way from the South. She reckoned the days with bated breath and throbbing heart, and often cried out when she could stand the apprehension no more, “Where are you, Benamun?” Even love itself she tasted as one distracted, far away in thought. There would be no peace of mind, no rest until the messenger returned with the letter.
The days elapsed, slowly dragging their intolerable heaviness, until one day she was sitting engrossed in her
