THE WAKING OF THE WANDERER
Now Rei the Priest, as had been appointed, went to the pylon gate of
the Temple of Hathor. Awhile he stood looking for the Wanderer, but
though the hour had come, the Wanderer came not. Then the Priest went
to the pylon and stood in the shadow of the gate. As he stood there a
wicket in the gate opened, and there passed out a veiled figure of a
woman upon whose breast burned a red jewel that shone in the night like
a star. The woman waited awhile, looking down the moonlit road between
the black rows of sphinxes, but the road lay white and empty, and she
turned and hid herself in the shadow of the pylon, where Rei could see
nothing of her except the red star that gleamed upon her breast.
Now a great fear came upon the old man, for he knew that he looked upon
the strange and deadly Hathor. Perchance he too would perish like the
rest who had looked on her to their ruin. He thought of flight, but he
did not dare to fly. Then he too stared down the road seeking for the
Wanderer, but no shadow crossed the moonlight. Thus things went for
awhile, and still the Hathor stood silently in the shadow, and still
the blood-red star shone upon her breast. And so it came to pass that
the World’s Desire must wait at the tryst like some forsaken village
maid.
While Rei the Priest crouched thus against the pylon wall, praying for
the coming of him who came not, suddenly a voice spoke to him in tones
sweeter than a lute.
“Who art thou that hidest in the shadow?” said the voice.
He knew that it was the Hathor who spoke, and so afraid was he that he
could not answer.
Then the voice spoke again:
“Oh, thou most crafty of men, why doth it please thee to come hither to
seek me in the guise of an aged priest. Once, Odysseus, I saw thee in
beggar’s weeds, and knew thee in the midst of thy foes. Shall I not
know thee again in peace beneath thy folded garb and thy robes of
white?”
Rei heard and knew that he could hide himself no longer. Therefore he
came forward trembling, and knelt before her, saying:
“Oh, mighty Queen, I am not that man whom thou didst name, nor am I hid
in any wrappings of disguise. Nay, I do avow myself to be named Rei the
Chief Architect of Pharaoh, the Commander of the Legion of Amen, the
chief of the Treasury of Amen, and a man of repute in this land of
Khem. Now, if indeed thou art the Goddess of this temple, as I judge by
that red jewel which burns upon thy breast, I pray thee be merciful to
thy servant and smite me not in thy wrath, for not by my own will am I
here, but by the command of that hero whom thou hast named, and for
whose coming I await. Be merciful therefore, and hold thy hand.”
“Fear not thou, Rei,” said the sweet voice. “Little am I minded to harm
thee, or any man, for though many men have gone down the path of
darkness because of me, who am a doom to men, not by my will has it
been, but by the will of the immortal Gods, who use me to their ends.
Rise thou, Rei, and tell me why thou art come hither, and where is he
whom I have named?”
Then Rei rose, and looking up saw the light of the Helen’s eyes shining
on him through her veil. But there was no anger in them, they shone
mildly as stars in an evening sky, and his heart was comforted.
“I know not where the Wanderer is, O thou Immortal,” he said. “This I
know only, that he bade me meet him here at one hour before midnight,
and so I came.”
“Perchance he too will come anon,” said the sweet voice; “but why did
he, whom thou namest the Wanderer, bid thee meet him here?”
“For this reason, O Hathor. He told me that this night he should be wed
to thee, and was minded thereafter to fly from Khem with thee.
Therefore he bade me come, who am a friend to him, to talk with thee
and him as to how thy flight should go, and yet he comes not.”
Now as Rei spake, he turned his face upward, and the Golden Helen
looked upon it.
“Hearken, Rei,” she said; “but yesterday, after I had stood upon the
pylon tower as the Gods decreed, and sang to those who were ripe to
die, I went to my shrine and wove my web while the doomed men fell
beneath the swords of them who were set to guard my beauty, but who now
are gone. And as I wove, one passed the Ghosts and rent the web and
stood before me. It was he whom I await to-night, and after awhile I
knew him for Odysseus of Ithaca, Laertes’ son. But as I looked on him
and spake with him, behold, I saw a spirit watching us, though he might
not see it, a spirit whose face I knew not, for no such man have I
known in my life days. Know then, Rei, that the face of the spirit was
_thy_ face, and its robes _thy_ robes.”
Then once more Rei trembled in his fear.
“Now, Rei, I bid thee tell me, and speak the truth, lest evil come on
thee, not at my hands indeed, for I would harm none, but at the hands
of those Immortals who are akin to me. What did thy spirit yonder, in
my sacred shrine? How didst thou dare to enter and look upon my beauty
and hearken to my words?”
“Oh, great Queen,” said Rei, “I will tell thee the truth, and I pray
thee let not the wrath of the Gods fall upon me. Not of my own will did
my spirit enter into thy Holy Place, nor do I know aught of what it saw
therein, seeing that no memory of it remains in me. Nay, it was sent of
her whom I serve, who is the mistress of all magic, and to her it made
report, but what it said I know not.”
“And whom dost thou serve, Rei? And why did she send thy spirit forth
to spy on me?”
“I serve Meriamun the Queen, and she sent my spirit forth to learn what
befell the Wanderer when he went up against the Ghosts.”
“And yet he said naught to me of this Meriamun. Say, Rei, is she fair?”
“Of all women who live upon the earth she is the very fairest.”
“Of _all_, sayest thou, Rei? Look now, and say if Meriamun, whom thou
dost serve, is fairer than Argive Helen, whom thou dost name the
Hathor?” and she lifted her veil so that he saw the face that was
beneath.
Now when he heard that name, and looked upon the glory of her who is
Beauty’s self, Rei shrank back till he went nigh to falling on the
earth.
“Nay,” he said, covering his eyes with his hand; “nay thou art fairer
than she.”
“Then tell me,” she said, letting fall her veil again, “and for thine
own sake tell me true, why would Meriamun the Queen, whom thou servest,
know the fate of him who came up against the Ghosts?”
“Wouldst thou know, Daughter of Amen?” answered Rei; “then I will tell
thee, for through thee alone she whom I serve and love can be saved
from shame. Meriamun doth also love the man whom thou wouldst wed.”
Now when the Golden Helen heard these words, she pressed her hand
against her bosom.
“So I feared,” she said, “even so. She loves him, and he comes not. Ah!
if it be so! Now, Rei, I am tempted to pay this Queen of thine in her
own craft, and send thy spirit forth to spy on her. Nay, that I will
not do, for never shall Helen work by shameful guile or magic. Nay—but
we will hence, Rei, we will go to the Palace where my rival dwells,
there to learn the truth. Fear not, I will bring no ill on thee, nor on
her whom thou servest. Lead me to the Palace, Rei. Lead me swiftly.”
Now the Wanderer slept in the arms of Meriamun, who wore the shape of
Argive Helen. His golden harness was piled by the golden bed, and by
the bed stood the black bow of Eurytus. The night drew on towards the
dawning, when of a sudden the Bow awoke and sang, and thus it sang:
“Wake! wake! though the arms of thy Love are about thee, yet dearer by
far
Than her kiss is the sound of the fight;
And more sweet than her voice is the cry of the trumpet, and goodlier
far
Than her arms is the battle’s delight:
And what eyes are so bright as the sheen of the bronze when the sword
is aloft,
What breast is so fair as the shield?
Or what garland of roses is dear as the helm, and what sleep is so soft
As the sleep of slain men on the field?”
Lo! the Snake that was twined about the form of her who wore the shape
of Helen heard the magic song. It awoke, it arose. It twisted itself
about the body of the Wanderer and the body of her who wore the shape
of Helen, knitting them together in the bond of sin. It grew, and
lifting its woman’s head on high, it sang in answer. And thus it sang
of doom:
“Sleep! be at rest for an hour; as in death men believe they shall
rest,
But they wake! And thou too shalt awake!
In the dark of the grave do they stir; but about them, on arms and on
breast,
Are the toils and the coils of the Snake:
By the tree where the first lovers lay, did I watch as I watch where he
lies,
Love laid on the bosom of Lust!”
Then the great bow answered the Snake, and it sang:
“Of the tree where the first lovers sinned was I shapen; I bid thee
arise,
Thou Slayer that soon shall be dust.”
And the Snake sang reply:
“Be thou silent, my Daughter of Death, be thou silent nor wake him from
sleep,
With the song and the sound of thy breath.”
The Bow heard the song of the Snake. The Death heard the song of the
Sin, and again its thin music thrilled upon the air. For thus it sang:
“Be thou silent, my Mother of Sin, for this watch it is given me to
keep
O’er the sleep of the dealer of Death!”
Then the Snake sang:
“Hush, hush, thou art young, and thou camest to birth when the making
was done
Of the world: I am older therein!”
And the Bow answered:
“But without me thy strength were as weakness, the prize of thy
strength were unwon.
I am _Death_, and thy Daughter, O Sin!”
Now the song of the Snake and the song of the Bow sunk through the
depths of sleep till they reached the Wanderer’s ears. He sighed, he
stretched out his mighty arms, he opened his eyes, and lo! they looked
upon the eyes that bent above him, eyes of flame that lit the face of a
woman—the face of Meriamun that wavered on a serpent’s neck and
suddenly was gone. He cried aloud with fear, and sprang from the couch.
The faint light of the dawning crept through the casements and fell
upon the bed. The faint light of the dawning fell upon the golden bed
of Pharaoh’s Queen, it gleamed upon the golden armour that was piled by
the bed, and on the polished surface of the great black bow. It shone
upon the face of her who lay in the bed.
Then he remembered. Surely he had slept with the Golden Helen, who was
his bride, and surely he had dreamed an evil dream, a dream of a snake
that wore the face of Pharaoh’s Queen. Yea, there lay the Golden Helen,
won at last—the Golden Helen now made a wife to him. Now he mocked his
own fears, and now he bent to wake her with a kiss. Faintly the
new-born light crept and gathered on her face; ah! how beautiful she
was in sleep. Nay, what was this? Whose face was this beneath his own?
Not so had Helen looked in the shrine of her temple, when he tore the
web. Not so had Helen seemed yonder in the pillared hall when she stood
in the moonlit space—not so had she seemed when he sware the great oath
to love her, and her alone. Whose beauty was it then that now he saw?
By the Immortal Gods, it was the beauty of Meriamun; it was the glory
of the Pharaoh’s Queen!
He stared upon her lovely sleeping face, while terror shook his soul.
How could this be? What then had he done?
Then light broke upon him. He looked around the chamber—there on the
walls were the graven images of the Gods of Khem, there above the bed
the names of Meneptah and Meriamun were written side by side in the
sacred signs of Khem. Not with the Golden Helen had he slept, but with
the wife of Pharaoh! To her he had sworn the oath, and she had worn the
Helen’s shape—and now the spell was broken.
He stood amazed, and as he stood, again the great bow thrilled, warning
him of Death to come. Then his strength came back to him, and he seized
his armour and girt it about him piece by piece till he lifted the
golden helm. It slipped from his hand; with a crash it fell upon the
marble floor. With a crash it fell, and she who slept in the bed awoke
with a cry, and sprang from the bed, her dark hair streaming down, her
night-gear held to her by the golden snake with gemmy eyes that she
must ever wear. But he caught his sword in his hand, and threw down the
ivory sheath.
BOOK III
CHAPTER I.
THE VENGEANCE OF KURRI
The Wanderer and Pharaoh’s Queen stood face to face in the twilight of
the chamber. They stood in silence, while bitter anger and burning
shame poured into his heart and shone from his eyes. But the face of
Meriamun was cold as the dead, and on it was a smile such as the carven
sphinxes wear. Only her breast heaved tumultuously as though in
triumph, and her limbs quivered like a shaken reed. At length she
spoke.
“Why lookest thou so strangely on me, my Lord and Love; and why hast
thou girded thy harness on thy back? Scarcely doth glorious Ra creep
from the breast of Nout, and wouldest thou leave thy bridal bed,
Odysseus?”
Still he spoke no word, but looked on her with burning eyes. Then she
stretched out her arms and came towards him lover-like. And now he
found his tongue again.
“Get thee from me!” he said, in a voice low and terrible to hear; “get
thee from me. Dare not to touch me, thou, who art a harlot and a witch,
lest I forget my manhood and strike thee dead before me.”
“That thou canst not do, Odysseus,” she answered soft, “for whatever
else I be I am thy wife, and thou art bound to me for ever. What was
the oath which thou didst swear not five short hours ago?”
“I swore an oath indeed, but not to thee, Meriamun. I swore an oath to
Argive Helen, whom I love, and I wake to find thee sleeping at my side,
thee whom I hate.”
“Nay,” she said, “to me thou didst swear the oath, Odysseus, for thou,
of men the most guileful, hast at length been over-mastered in guile.
To me, ‘Woman or Immortal,’ thou didst swear ‘for now and for ever, for
here and hereafter, _in whatever shape thou goest on the earth, by
whatever name thou art known among men_.’ Oh, be not wroth, my lord,
but hearken. What matters the shape in which thou seest me? At the
least am I not fair? And what is beauty but a casket that hides the gem
within? ’Tis my love which thou hast won, my love that is immortal, and
not the flesh that perishes. For I have loved thee, ay, and thou hast
loved me from of old and in other lives than this, and I tell thee that
we shall love again and yet again when thou art no more Odysseus of
Ithaca, and when I am no more Meriamun, a Queen of Khem, but while we
walk in other forms upon the world and are named by other names. I am
thy doom, thou Wanderer, and wherever thou dost wander through the
fields of Life and Death I shall be at thy side. For I am She of whom
thou art, and thou art He of whom I am, and though the Gods have
severed us, yet must we float together down the river of our lives till
we find that sea of which the Spirit knows. Therefore put me not from
thee and raise not my wrath against thee, for if I used my magic to
bring thee to my arms, yet they are thy home.” And once more she came
towards him.
Now the Wanderer drew an arrow from his quiver, and set the notch
against his breast and the keen barb towards the breast of Meriamun.
“Draw on,” he said. “Thus will I take thee to my arms again. Hearken,
Meriamun the witch—Meriamun the harlot: Pharaoh’s wife and Queen of
Khem. To thee I swore an oath indeed, and perchance because I suffered
thy guile to overcome my wisdom, because I swore upon That which
circles thee about, and not by the Red Star which gleams upon the
Helen’s breast, it may be that I shall lose her whom I love. So indeed
the Queen of Heaven told me, yonder in sea-girt Ithaca, though to my
sorrow I forgot her words. But if I lose her or if I win, know this,
that I love her and her only, and I hate thee like the gates of hell.
For thou hast tricked me with thy magic, thou hast stolen the shape of
Beauty’s self and dared to wear it, thou hast drawn a dreadful oath
from me, and I have taken thee to wife. And more, thou art the Queen of
Khem, thou art Pharaoh’s wife, whom I swore to guard; but thou hast
brought the last shame upon me, for now I am a man dishonoured, and I
have sinned against the hospitable hearth, and the God of guests and
hosts. And therefore I will do this. I will call together the guard of
which I am chief, and tell them all thy shame, ay, and all my sorrow. I
will shout it in the streets, I will publish it from the temple tops,
and when Pharaoh comes again I will call it into his ear, till he and
all who live in Khem know thee for what thou art, and see thee in thy
naked shame.”
She hearkened, and her face grew terrible to see. A moment she stood as
though in thought, one hand pressed to her brow and one upon her
breast. Then she spoke.
“Is that thy last word, Wanderer?”
“It is my last word, Queen,” he answered, and turned to go.
Then with the hand that rested on her breast she rent her night robes
and tore her perfumed hair. Past him she rushed towards the door, and
as she ran sent scream on scream echoing up the painted walls.
The curtains shook, the doors were burst asunder, and through them
poured guards, eunuchs, and waiting-women.
“Help,” she cried, pointing to the Wanderer. “Help, help! oh, save mine
honour from this evil man, this foreign thief whom Pharaoh set to guard
me, and who guards me thus. This coward who dares to creep upon me—the
Queen of Khem—even as I slept in Pharaoh’s bed!” and she cast herself
upon the floor and threw her hair about her, and lay there groaning and
weeping as though in the last agony of shame.
Now when the guards saw how the thing was, a great cry of rage and
shame went up from them, and they rushed upon the Wanderer like wolves
upon a stag at bay. But he leapt backwards to the side of the bed, and
even as he leapt he set the arrow in his hand upon the string of the
great black bow. Then he drew it to his ear. The bow-string sang, the
arrow rushed forth, and he who stood before it got his death. Again the
bow-string sang, again the arrow rushed, and lo! another man was sped.
A third time he drew the bow and the soul of a third went down the ways
of hell. Now they rolled back from him as the waters roll from a rock,
for none dares face the shafts of death. They shot at him with spears
and arrows from behind the shelter of the pillars, but none of these
might harm him, for some fell from his mail and some he caught upon his
buckler.
Now among those who had run thither at the sound of the cries of
Meriamun was that same Kurri, the miserable captain of the Sidonians,
whose life the Wanderer had spared, and whom he had given to the Queen
to be her jeweller. And when Kurri saw the Wanderer’s plight, he
thought in his greedy heart of those treasures that he had lost, and of
how he who had been a captain and a rich merchant of Sidon was now
nothing but a slave.
Then a great desire came upon him to work the Wanderer ill, if so he
might. Now all round the edge of the chamber were shadows, for the
light was yet faint, and Kurri crept into the shadows, carrying a long
spear in his hand, and that spear was hafted into the bronze point
which had stood in the Wanderer’s helm. Little did the Wanderer glance
his way, for he watched the lances and arrows that flew towards him
from the portal, so the end of it was that the Sidonian passed round
the chamber unseen and climbed into the golden bed of Pharaoh on the
further side of the bed. Now the Wanderer stood with his back to the
bed and a spear’s length from it, and in the silken hangings were fixed
spears and arrows. Kurri’s first thought was to stab him in the back,
but this he did not; first, because he feared lest he should fail to
pierce the golden harness and the Wanderer should turn and slay him;
and again because he hoped that the Wanderer would be put to death by
torment, and he was fain to have a hand in it, for after the fashion of
the Sidonians he was skilled in the tormenting of men. Therefore he
waited till presently the Wanderer let fall his buckler and drew the
bow. But ere the arrow reached his ear Kurri had stretched out his
spear from between the hangings and touched the string with the keen
bronze, so that it burst asunder and the grey shaft fell upon the
marble floor. Then, as the Wanderer cast down the bow and turned with a
cry to spring on him who had cut the cord, for his eye had caught the
sheen of the outstretched spear, Kurri lifted the covering of the
purple web which lay upon the bed and deftly cast it over the hero’s
head so that he was inmeshed. Thereon the soldiers and the eunuchs took
heart, seeing what had been done, and ere ever the Wanderer could clear
himself from the covering and draw his sword, they rushed upon him.
Cumbered as he was, they might not easily overcome him, but in the end
they bore him down and held him fast, so that he could not stir so much
as a finger. Then one cried aloud to Meriamun:
“The Lion is trapped, O Queen! Say, shall we slay him?”
But Meriamun, who had watched the fray through cover of her hands,
shuddered and made answer:
“Nay, but lock his tongue with a gag, strip his armour from him, and
bind him with fetters of bronze, and make him fast to the dungeon walls
with great chains of bronze. There shall he bide till Pharaoh come
again; for against Pharaoh’s honour he hath sinned and shamefully
broken that oath he swore to him, and therefore shall Pharaoh make him
die in such fashion as seems good to him.”
Now when Kurri heard these words, and saw the Wanderer’s sorry plight,
he bent over him and said:
“It was I, Kurri the Sidonian, who cut the cord of thy great bow,
Eperitus; with the spear-point that thou gavest back to me I cut it, I,
whose folk thou didst slay and madest me a slave. And I will crave this
boon of Pharaoh, that mine shall be the hand to torment thee night and
day till at last thou diest, cursing the day that thou wast born.”
The Wanderer looked upon him and answered: “There thou liest, thou
Sidonian dog, for this is written in thy face, that thou thyself shalt
die within an hour and that strangely.”
Then Kurri shrank back scowling. But no more words might Odysseus
speak, for at once they forced his jaws apart and gagged him with a gag
of iron; and thereafter, stripping his harness from him, they bound him
with fetters as the Queen had commanded.
Now while they dealt thus with the Wanderer, Meriamun passed into
another chamber and swiftly threw robes upon her to hide her disarray,
clasping them round her with the golden girdle which now she must
always wear. But her long hair she left unbound, nor did she wash the
stain of tears from her face, for she was minded to seem shamed and
woe-begone in the eyes of all men till Pharaoh came again.
Rei and the Golden Helen passed through the streets of the city till
they came to the Palace gates. And here they must wait till the dawn,
for Rei, thinking to come thither with the Wanderer, who was Captain of
the Guard, had not learned the word of entry.
“Easy would it be for me to win my way through those great gates,” said
the Helen to Rei at her side, “but it is my counsel that we wait
awhile. Perchance he whom we seek will come forth.”
So they entered the porch of the Temple of Osiris that looked towards
the gates, and there they waited till the dawn gathered in the eastern
sky. The Helen spoke no word, but Rei, watching her, knew that she was
troubled at heart, though he might not see her face because of the veil
she wore; for from time to time she sighed and the Red Star rose and
fell upon her breast.
At length the first arrow of the dawn fell upon the temple porch and
she spoke.
“Now let us enter,” she said; “my heart forebodes evil indeed; but much
of evil I have known, and where the Gods drive me there I must go.”
They came to the gates, and the man who watched them opened to the
priest Rei and the veiled woman who went with him, though he marvelled
at the beauty of the woman’s shape.
“Where are thy fellow-guards?” Rei asked of the soldier.
“I know not,” he answered, “but anon a great tumult rose in the Palace,
and the Captain of the Gate went thither, leaving me only to guard the
gate.”
“Hast thou seen the Lord Eperitus?” Rei asked again.
“Nay, I have not seen him since supper-time last night, nor has he
visited the guard as is his wont.”
Rei passed on wondering, and with him went Helen. As they trod the
Palace they saw folk flying towards the hall of banquets that is near
the Queen’s chambers. Some bore arms in their hands and some bore none,
but all fled east towards the hall of banquets, whence came a sound of
shouting. Now they drew near the hall, and there at the further end,
where the doors are that lead to the Queen’s chambers, a great crowd
was gathered.
“Hide thee, lady—hide thee,” said Rei to her who went with him, “for
methinks that death is afoot here. See, here hangs a curtain, stand
thou behind it while I learn what this tumult means.”
She stepped behind the curtain that hung between the pillars as Rei
bade her, for now Helen’s gentle breast was full of fears, and she was
as one dazed. Even as she stepped one came flying down the hall who was
of the servants of Rei the Priest.
“Stay thou,” Rei cried to him, “and tell me what happens yonder.”
“Ill deeds, Lord,” said the servant. “Eperitus the Wanderer, whom
Pharaoh made Captain of his Guard when he went forth to slay the rebel
Apura—Eperitus hath laid hands on the Queen whom he was set to guard.
But she fled from him, and her cries awoke the guard, and they fell
upon him in Pharaoh’s very chamber. Some he slew with shafts from the
great black bow, but Kurri the Sidonian cut the string of the bow, and
the Wanderer was borne down by many men. Now they have bound him and
drag him to the dungeons, there to await judgment from the lips of
Pharaoh. See, they bring him. I must begone on my errand to the keeper
of the dungeons.”
The Golden Helen heard the shameful tale, and such sorrow took her that
had she been mortal she had surely died. This then was the man whom she
had chosen to love, this was he whom last night she should have wed.
Once more the Gods had made a mock of her. So had it ever been, so
should it ever be. Loveless she had lived all her life days, now she
had learned to love once and for ever—and this was the fruit of it! She
clasped the curtain lest she should sink to the earth, and hearing a
sound looked forth. A multitude of men came down the hall. Before them
walked ten soldiers bearing a litter on their shoulders. In the litter
lay a man gagged and fettered with fetters of bronze so that he might
not stir, and they bore him as men bear a stag from the chase or a wild
bull to the sacrifice. It was the Wanderer’s self, the Wanderer
overcome at last, and he seemed so mighty even in his bonds, and his
eyes shone with so fierce a light, that the crowd shrank from him as
though in fear. Thus did Helen see her Love and Lord again as they bore
him dishonoured to his dungeon cell. She saw, and a moan and a cry
burst from her heart. A moan for her own woe and a cry for the shame
and faithlessness of him whom she must love.
“Oh, how fallen art thou, Odysseus, who wast of men the very first,”
she cried.
He heard it and knew the voice of her who cried, and he gazed around.
The great veins swelled upon his neck and forehead, and he struggled so
fiercely that he fell from the litter to the ground. But he might not
rise because of the fetters, nor speak because of the gag, so they
lifted him again and bore him thence.
And after him went all the multitude save Rei alone. For Rei was fallen
in shame and grief because of the tale that he had heard and of the
deed of darkness that the man he loved had done. For not yet did he
remember and learn to doubt. So he stood hiding his eyes in his hand,
and as he stood Helen came forth and touched him on the shoulder,
saying:
“Lead me hence, old man. Lead me back to my temple. My Love is lost
indeed, but there where I found it I will abide till the Gods make
their will clear to me.”
He bowed, saying no word, and following Helen stepped into the centre
of the hall. There he stopped, indeed, for down it came the Queen, her
hair streaming, all her robes disordered, and her face stained with
tears. She was alone save for Kurri the Sidonian, who followed her, and
she walked wildly as one distraught who knows not where she goes nor
why. Helen saw her also.
“Who is this royal lady that draws near?” she asked of Rei.
“It is Meriamun the Queen; she whom the Wanderer hath brought to
shame.”
“Stay then, I would speak with her.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Rei. “She loves thee not, Lady, and will slay thee.”
“That cannot be,” Helen answered.
CHAPTER II.
THE COMING OF PHARAOH
Presently, as she walked, Meriamun saw Rei the Priest and the veiled
woman at his side, and she saw on the woman’s breast a red jewel that
burnt and glowed like a heart of fire. Then like fire burned the heart
of Meriamun, for she knew that this was Argive Helen who stood before
her, Helen whose shape she had stolen like a thief and with the mind of
a thief.
“Say,” she cried to Rei, who bowed before her, “say, who is this
woman?”
Rei looked at the Queen with terrified eyes, and spake in a voice of
warning.
“This is that Goddess who dwells in the Temple of Hathor,” he said.
“Let her pass in peace, O Queen.”
“In peace she shall pass indeed,” answered Meriamun. “What saidest
thou, old dotard? That Goddess! Nay, no Goddess have we here, but an
evil-working witch, who hath brought woes unnumbered upon Khem. Because
of her, men die month by month till the vaults of the Temple of Hathor
are full of her slain. Because of her it was that curse upon curse fell
on the land—the curse of water turned to blood, of hail and of terrible
darkness, ay, and the curse of the death of the firstborn among whom my
own son died. And thou hast dared, Rei, to bring this witch here to my
Palace halls! By Amen if I had not loved thee always thy life should
pay the price. And thou,” and she stretched her hand towards the Helen,
“thou hast dared to come. It is well, no more shalt thou bring evil
upon Khem. Hearken, slave,” and she turned to Kurri the Sidonian; “draw
that knife of thine and plunge it to the hilt in the breast of yonder
woman. So shalt thou win freedom and all thy goods shall be given thee
again.”
Then for the first time Helen spake:
“I charge thee, Lady,” she said in slow soft tones, “bid not thy
servant do this deed, for though I have little will to bring evil upon
men, yet I may not lightly be affronted.”
Now Kurri hung back doubtfully fingering his dagger.
“Draw, knave, draw!” cried Meriamun, “and do my bidding, or presently
thou shalt be slain with this same knife.”
When the Sidonian heard these words he cried aloud with fear, for he
well knew that as the Queen said so it would be done to him. Instantly
he drew the great knife and rushed upon the veiled woman. But as he
came, Helen lifted her veil so that her eyes fell upon his eyes, and
the brightness of their beauty was revealed to him; and when he saw her
loveliness he stopped suddenly as one who is transfixed of a spear.
Then madness came upon him, and with a cry he lifted the knife, and
plunging it, not into her heart, but into his own, fell down dead.
This then was the miserable end of Kurri the Sidonian, slain by the
sight of the Beauty.
“Thou seest, Lady,” said Helen, turning from the dead Sidonian, “no man
may harm me.”
For a moment the Queen stood astonished, while Rei the Priest muttered
prayers to the protecting Gods. Then she cried:
“Begone, thou living curse, begone! Wherefore art thou come here to
work more woe in this house of woe and death?”
“Fear not,” answered the Helen, “presently I will begone and trouble
thee no more. Thou askest why I am come hither. I came to see him who
was my love, and whom but last night I should have wed, but whom the
Gods have brought to shame unspeakable, Odysseus of Ithaca, Odysseus,
Laertes’ son. For this cause I came, and I have stayed to look upon the
face of her whose beauty had power to drive the thought of me from the
heart of Odysseus, and bring him, who of all men was the greatest hero
and the foremost left alive, to do a dastard deed and make his mighty
name a byword and a scorn. Knowest thou, Meriamun, that I find the
matter strange, since if all else be false, yet is this true, that
among women the fairest are the most strong. Thou art fair indeed,
Meriamun, but judge if thou art more fair than Argive Helen,” and she
drew the veil from her face so that the splendour of her beauty shone
out upon the Queen’s dark loveliness. Thus for awhile they stood each
facing each, and to Rei it seemed as though the spirits of Death and
Life looked one on another, as though the darkness and the daylight
stood in woman’s shape before him.
“Thou art fair indeed,” said the Queen, “but in this, witch, has thy
beauty failed to hold him whom thou wouldst wed from the most shameless
sin. Little methinks can that man have loved thee who crept upon me
like a thief to snatch my honour from me.”
Then Helen bethought her of what Rei had said, that Meriamun loved the
Wanderer, and she spoke again:
“Now it comes into my heart, Egyptian, that true and false are mixed in
this tale of thine. Hard it is to believe that Odysseus of Ithaca could
work such a coward deed as this, or, unbidden, seek to clasp thee to
his heart. Moreover, I read in thine eyes that thou thyself dost love
the man whom thou namest dastard. Nay, hold thy peace, look not so
wildly on me whom thou canst not harm, but hearken. Whether thy tale be
true or false I know not, who use no magic and learn those things only
that the Gods reveal to me. But this at the least is true, that
Odysseus, whom I should have wed, has looked on thee with eyes of love,
even in that hour when I waited to be made his wife. Therefore the love
that but two days agone bloomed in my heart, dies and withers; or if it
does not, at least I cast it from me and tread its flowers beneath my
feet. For this doom the Gods have laid upon me, who am of all women the
most hapless, to live beloved but loveless through many years, and at
the last to love and be betrayed. And now I go hence back to my temple
shrine; but fear not, Meriamun, not for long shall I trouble thee or
Khem, and men shall die no more because of my beauty, for I shall
presently pass hence whither the Gods appoint; and this I say to
thee—deal gently with that man who has betrayed my faith, for whatever
he did was done for the love of thee. It is no mean thing to have won
the heart of Odysseus of Ithaca out of the hand of Argive Helen. Fare
thee well, Meriamun, who wouldst have slain me. May the Gods grant thee
better days and more of joy than is given to Helen, who would look upon
thy face no more.”
Thus she spake, and letting her veil fall turned to go. For awhile the
Queen stood shamed to silence by these gentle words, that fell like dew
upon the fires of her hate. But ere Helen had passed the length of a
spear her fury burned up again. What, should she let this strange woman
go—this woman who alone of all that breathed was more beautiful than
she, by the aid of whose stolen beauty she alone had won her love, and
for whose sake she had endured such bitter words of scorn? Nay, while
Helen yet lived she could find nor joy nor sleep. But were Helen dead,
then perchance all might yet be well, and the Wanderer yet be hers, for
when the best is gone men turn them to the better.
“Close the gates and bar them,” she cried to the men, who now streamed
back into the hall; and they ran to do her bidding, so that before
Helen reached the Palace doors, they had been shut and the gates of
bronze beyond had clashed like the shields of men.
Now Helen drew near the doors.
“Stay yon witch,” cried the Queen to those who guarded them, and in
wonder they poised their spears to bar the way to Helen. But she only
lifted her veil and looked upon them. Then their arms fell from their
hands and they stood amazed at the sight of beauty.
“Open, I beseech you,” said the Helen gently, and straightway they
opened the doors and she passed through, followed by those who guarded
them, by the Queen, and by Rei. But one man there was who did not see
her beauty, and he strove in vain to hold back the doors and to clasp
Helen as she passed.
Now she drew near to the gates—
“Shoot the witch!” cried Meriamun the Queen; “if she pass the gates, by
my royal word I swear that ye shall die every man of you. Shoot her
with arrows.”
Then three men drew their bows mightily. The string of the bow of one
burst, and the bow was shattered, and the arrow of the second slipped
as he drew it, and passing downwards pierced his foot; and the shaft of
the third swerved ere it struck the breast of Helen, and sunk into the
heart of that soldier who was next to the Queen, so that he fell down
dead. It was the same man who had striven to hold to the doors and
clasp the Helen.
Then Helen turned and spoke:
“Bid not thy guard to shoot again, Meriamun, lest the arrow find _thy_
heart, for, know this, no man may harm me;” and once more she lifted
her veil, and speaking to those at the gates said: “Open, I beseech
you, and let the Hathor pass.”
Now their weapons fell from their hands, and they looked upon her
beauty, and they too made haste to open the gates. The great gates
clanged upon their sockets and rolled back. She passed through them,
and all who were there followed after her. But when they looked, lo!
she had mingled with the people who went to and fro and was gone.
Then Meriamun grew white with rage because Helen whom she hated had
escaped her, and turning to those men who had opened the doors and
those who had given passage of the gates, who yet stood looking on each
other with dazed eyes, she doomed them to die.
But Rei, kneeling before her, prayed for their lives:
“Ill will come of it, O Queen!” he said, “as ill came to yonder
Sidonian and to the soldier at thy feet, for none may work evil on this
Goddess, or those who befriended the Goddess. Slay them not, O Queen,
lest ill tidings follow on the deed!”
Then the Queen turned on him madly:
“Hearken thou, Rei!” she said; “speak thus again, and though I have
loved thee and thou hast been the chief of the servants of Pharaoh,
this I swear, that thou shalt die the first. Already the count is long
between thee and me, for it was thou who didst bring yon accursed witch
to my Palace. Now thou hast heard, and of this be sure, as I have
spoken so I will do. Get thee gone—get thee from my sight, I say, lest
I slay thee now. I take back thy honours, I strip thee of thy offices,
I gather thy wealth into my treasury. Go forth a beggar, and let me see
thy face no more!”
Then Rei held his peace and fled, for it were better to stand before a
lioness robbed of her whelps than before Meriamun in her rage. Thereon
the gates were shut again, and the captain of the gates was dragged
before the place where the Queen stood, and asking no mercy and taking
little heed, for still his soul was filled with the beauty of Helen as
a cup with wine, he suffered death, for his head was straightway
smitten from him.
Rei, watching from afar, groaned aloud, then turned and left the
Palace, but the Queen called to the soldiers to slay on. Even as she
called there came a cry of woe without the Palace gates. Men looked
each on each. Again the cry rose and a voice without called, “Pharaoh
is come again! Pharaoh is come again!” and there rose a sound of
knocking at the gates.
Now for that while Meriamun thought no more of slaying the men, but
bade them open the gates. They opened, and a man entered clad in
raiment stained with travel. His eyes were wild, his hair was
dishevelled, and scarce could his face be known for the face of Pharaoh
Meneptah, it was so marred with grief and fear.
Pharaoh looked on the Queen—he looked upon the dead who lay at her
feet, then laughed aloud:
“What!” he cried, “more dead! Is there then no end to Death and the
number of his slain? Nay, here he doth work but feebly. Perchance his
arm grows weary. Come, where are _thy_ dead, Queen? Bring forth thy
dead!”
“What hath chanced, Meneptah, that thou speakest thus madly?” asked the
Queen. “She whom they name the Hathor hath passed here, and these, and
another who lies yonder, do but mark her path. Speak!”
“Ay, I will speak, Queen. I have a merry tale to tell. Thou sayest that
the Hathor hath passed here and these mark her footsteps. Well, I can
cap thy story. He whom the Apura name Jahveh hath passed yonder by the
Sea of Weeds, and there lie many, lie to mark His footsteps.”
“Thy host! Where is thy host?” cried the Queen. “At the least some are
left.”
“Yes, Queen, _all_ are left—all—all—save myself alone. They drift to
and fro in the Sea of Weeds—they lie by tens of thousands on its banks;
the gulls tear their eyes, the lion of the desert rends their flesh;
they lie unburied, their breath sighs in the sea gales, their blood
sinks into the salt sands, and Osiris numbers them in the hosts of
hell. Hearken! I came upon the tribes of the Apura by the banks of the
Sea of Weeds. I came at eve, but I might not fall upon them because of
a veil of darkness that spread between my armies and the hosts of the
Apura. All night long through the veil of darkness, and through the
shrieking of a great gale, I heard a sound as of the passing of a
mighty people—the clangour of their arms, the voices of captains, the
stamp of beasts, and the grinding of wheels. The morning came, and lo!
before me the waters of the sea were built up as a wall on the right
hand and the left, and between the walls of water was dry land, and the
Apura passed between the walls. Then I cried to my captains to arise
and follow swiftly, and they did my bidding. But the chariot wheels
drew heavily in the sand, so that before all my host had entered
between the waters, the Apura had passed the sea. Then of a sudden, as
last of all I passed down into the path of the ocean bed, the great
wind ceased, and as it ceased, lo! the walls of water that were on
either side of the sea path fell together with noise like the noise of
thunder. I turned my chariot wheels, and fled back, but my soldiers, my
chariots, and my horses were swallowed; once more they were seen again
on the crest of the black waves like a gleam of light upon a cloud,
once a great cry arose to the heaven; then all was done and all was
still, and of my hosts I alone was left alive of men.”
So Pharaoh spoke, and a great groan rose from those who hearkened. Only
Meriamun spoke:
“So shall things go with us while that False Hathor dwells in Khem.”
Now as she spoke thus, again there came a sound of knocking at the
gates and a cry of “Open—a messenger! a messenger!”
“Open!” said Meriamun, “though his tidings be ill, scarce can they
match these that have been told.”
The gates were opened, and one came through them. His eyes stared wide
in fear, so dry was his throat with haste and with the sand, that he
stood speechless before them all.
“Give him wine,” cried Meriamun, and wine was brought. Then he drank,
and he fell upon his knees before the Queen, for he knew not Pharaoh.
“Thy tidings!” she cried. “Be swift with thy tidings.”
“Let the Queen pardon me,” he said. “Let her not be wrath. These are my
tidings. A mighty host marches towards the city of On, a host gathered
from all lands of the peoples of the North, from the lands of the
Tulisha, of the Shakalishu, of the Liku, and of the Shairdana. They
march swiftly and raven, they lay the country waste, naught is left
behind them save the smoke of burning towns, the flight of vultures,
and the corpses of men.”
“Hast done?” said Meriamun.
“Nay, O Queen! A great fleet sails with them up the eastern mouth of
Sihor, and in it are twelve thousand chosen warriors of the Aquaiusha,
the sons of those men who sacked Troy town.”
And now a great groan went up to heaven from the lips of those who
hearkened. Only Meriamun spoke thus:
“And yet the Apura are gone, for whose sake, ye say, came the plagues.
They are fled, but the curse remains, and so shall things ever be with
us while yon False Hathor dwells in Khem.”
CHAPTER III.
THE BED OF TORMENT
It was nightfall, and Pharaoh sat at meat and Meriamun sat by him. The
heart of Pharaoh was very heavy. He thought of that great army which
now washed to and fro on the waters of the Sea of Weeds, of whose
number he alone had lived to tell the tale. He thought also of the host
of the Apura, who made a mock of him in the desert. But most of all he
brooded on the tidings that the messenger had brought, tidings of the
march of the barbarians and of the fleet of the Aquaiusha that sailed
on the eastern stream of Sihor. All that day he had sat in his council
chamber, and sent forth messengers east and north and south, bidding
them gather the mercenaries from every town and in every city, men to
make war against the foe, for here, in his white-walled city of Tanis,
there were left but five thousand soldiers. And now, wearied with toil
and war, he sat at meat, and as he sat bethought him of the man whom he
had left to guard the Queen.
“Where, then, is that great Wanderer, he who wore the golden harness?”
he asked presently.
“I have a tale to tell thee of the man,” Meriamun answered slowly, “a
tale which I have not told because of all the evil tidings that beat
about our ears like sand in a desert wind.”
“Tell on,” said Pharaoh.
Then she bent towards him, whispering in his ear.
As she whispered, the face of Pharaoh grew black as the night, and ere
all the tale was done he sprang to his feet.
“By Amen and by Ptah!” he cried, “here at least we have a foe whom we
may conquer. Thou and I, Meriamun, my sister and my queen, are set as
far each from each as the sky is set from the temple top, and little of
love is there between us. Yet I will wipe away this blot upon thy
honour, which also is a blot upon my own. Sleepless shall this Wanderer
lie to-night, and sorry shall he go to-morrow, but to-morrow night he
shall sleep indeed.”
Thereupon he clapped his hands, summoning the guard, and bade them pass
to the dungeon where the Wanderer lay, and lead him thence to the place
of punishment. He bade them also call the tormentors to make ready the
instruments of their craft, and await him in the place of punishment.
Then he sat for awhile, drinking sullenly, till one came to tell him
that all was prepared. Then Pharaoh rose.
“Comest thou with me?” he asked.
“Nay,” said Meriamun, “I would not look upon the man again; and this I
charge thee. Go not down to him this night. Let him be found upon the
bed of torment, and let the tormentors give him food and wine, for so
he shall die more hardly. Then let them light the fires at his head and
at his feet and leave him till the dawn alone in the place of torment.
So he shall die a hundred deaths ere ever his death begins.”
“As thou wilt,” answered Pharaoh. “Mete out thine own punishment.
To-morrow when I have slept I will look upon his torment.” And he spoke
to his servants as she desired.
The Wanderer lay on the bed of torment in the place of torment. They
had taken the gag from his mouth, and given him food and wine as
Pharaoh commanded. He ate and drank and his strength came back to him.
Then they made fast his fetters, lit the braziers at his head and foot,
and left him with mocking words.
He lay upon the bed of stone and groaned in the bitterness of his
heart. Here then was the end of his wanderings, and this was the breast
of the Golden Helen in whose arms Aphrodite had sworn that he should
lie. Oh, that he were free again and stood face to face with his foes,
his harness on his back! Nay, it might not be, no mortal strength could
burst these fetters, not even the strength of Odysseus, Laertes’ son.
Where now were those Gods whom he had served? Should he never again
hear the clarion cry of Pallas? Why then had he turned him from Pallas
and worshipped at the shrine of the false Idalian Queen? Thus it was
that she kept her oaths; thus she repaid her votary.
So he thought in the bitterness of his heart as he lay with closed eyes
upon the bed of torment whence there was no escape, and groaned:
“Would, Aphrodite, that I had never served thee, even for one little
hour, then had my lot gone otherwise.”
Now he opened his eyes, and lo! a great glory rolled about the place of
torment, and as he wondered at the glory, a voice spoke from its
midst—the voice of the Idalian Aphrodite:
“Blame me not, Odysseus,” said the heavenly voice; “blame me not
because thou art come to this pass. Thyself, son of Laertes, art to
blame. What did I tell thee? Was it not that thou shouldst know the
Golden Helen by the Red Star on her breast, the jewel whence fall the
red drops fast, and by the Star alone? And did she not tell thee, also,
that thou shouldst know her by the Star? Yet when one came to thee
wearing no Star but girdled with a Snake, my words were all forgotten,
thy desires led thee whither thou wouldst not go. Thou wast blinded by
desire and couldst not discern the False from the True. Beauty has many
shapes, now it is that of Helen, now that of Meriamun, each sees it as
he desires it. But the Star is yet the Star, and the Snake is yet the
Snake, and he who, bewildered of his lusts, swears by the Snake when he
should have sworn by the Star, shall have the Snake for guerdon.”
She ceased, and the Wanderer spoke, groaning bitterly:
“I have sinned, O Queen!” he said. “Is there then no forgiveness for my
sin?”
“Yea, there is forgiveness, Odysseus, but first there is punishment.
This is thy fate. Never now, in this space of life, shalt thou be the
lord of the Golden Helen. For thou hast sworn by the Snake, and his
thou art, nor mayest thou reach the Star. Yet it still shines on.
Through the mists of death it shall shine for thee, and when thou
wakest again, behold, thine eyes shall see it fitfully.
“And now, this for thy comfort. Here thou shalt not die, nor by
torment, for thy death shall come to thee from the water as the dead
seer foretold, but ere thou diest, once more thou shalt look upon the
Golden Helen, and hear her words of love and know her kiss, though
thine she shall not be. And learn that a great host marches upon the
land of Khem, and with it sails a fleet of thine own people, the
Achæans. Go down and meet them and take what comes, where the swords
shine that smote Troy. And this fate is laid upon thee, that thou shalt
do battle against thy own people, even against the sons of them by
whose side thou didst fight beneath the walls of Ilios, and in that
battle thou shalt find thy death, and in thy death, thou Wanderer, thou
shalt find that which all men seek, the breast of the immortal Helen.
For though here on earth she seems to live eternally, it is but the
shadow of her beauty that men see—each as he desires it. In the halls
of Death she dwells, and in the garden of Queen Persephone, and there
she shall be won, for there no more is beauty guarded of Those that
stand between men and joy, and there no more shall the Snake seem as
the Star, and Sin have power to sever those that are one. Now make thy
heart strong, Odysseus, and so do as thy wisdom tells thee. Farewell!”
Thus the Goddess spoke from the cloud of glory, and lo! she was gone.
But the heart of the Wanderer was filled with joy because he knew that
the Helen was not lost to him for ever, and he no more feared the death
of shame.
Now it was midnight, and Pharaoh slept. But Meriamun the Queen slept
not. She rose from her bed, she wrapped herself in a dark cloak that
hid her face, and taking a lamp in her hand, glided through the empty
halls till she came to a secret stair down which she passed. There was
a gate at the foot of the stair, and a guard slept by it. She pushed
him with her foot.
He awoke and sprang towards her, but she held a signet before his eyes,
an old ring of great Queen Taia, whereon a Hathor worshipped the sun.
Then he bowed and opened the gate. She swept on through many passages,
deep into the bowels of the earth, till she came to the door of a
little chamber where a light shone. Men talked in the chamber, and she
listened to their talk. They spoke much and laughed gleefully. Then she
entered the doorway and looked upon them. They were six in number,
evil-eyed men of Ethiopia, and seated in a circle. In the centre of the
circle lay the waxen image of a man, and they were cutting it with
knives and searing it with needles of iron and pincers made red-hot,
and many instruments strange and dreadful to look upon. For these were
the tormentors, and they spoke of those pains that to-morrow they
should wreak upon the Wanderer, and practised them.
But Meriamun, who loved him, shivered as she looked, and muttered thus
beneath her breath:
“This I promise you, black ministers of death, that in the same fashion
ye shall die ere another night be sped.”
Then she passed into the chamber, holding the signet on high, and the
tormentors fell upon their faces before her majesty. She passed between
them, and as she went she stamped with her sandalled foot upon the
waxen image and brake it. On the further side of the chamber was
another passage, and this she followed till she reached a door of stone
that stood ajar. Here she paused awhile, for from within the chamber
there came a sound of singing, and the voice was the Wanderer’s voice,
and thus he sang:
“Endure, my heart: not long shalt thou endure
The shame, the smart;
The good and ill are done; the end is sure;
Endure, my heart!
There stand two vessels by the golden throne
Of Zeus on high,
From these he scatters mirth and scatters moan,
To men that die.
And thou of many joys hast had thy share,
Thy perfect part;
Battle and love, and evil things and fair;
Endure, my heart!
Fight one last greatest battle under shield,
Wage that war well:
Then seek thy fellows in the shadowy field
Of asphodel,
There is the knightly Hector; there the men
Who fought for Troy;
Shall we not fight our battles o’er again?
Were that not joy?
Though no sun shines beyond the dusky west,
Thy perfect part
There shalt thou have of the unbroken rest;
Endure, my heart!”
Meriamun heard and wondered at this man’s hardihood, and the greatness
of his heart who could sing thus as he lay upon the bed of torment. Now
she pushed the door open silently and passed in. The place where she
stood was dreadful. It was shaped as a lofty vault, and all the walls
were painted with the torments of those who pass down to Set after
living wickedly on earth. In the walls were great rings of bronze, and
chains and fetters of bronze, wherein the bones of men yet hung. In the
centre of the vault there was a bed of stone on which the Wanderer was
fastened with fetters. He was naked, save only for a waistcloth, and at
his head and feet burned polished braziers that gave light to the
vault, and shone upon the instruments of torment. Beyond the further
braziers grinned the gate of Sekhet, that is shaped like a woman, and
the chains wherein the victim is set for the last torment by fire, were
hanging from the roof.
Meriamun passed stealthily behind the head of the Wanderer, who might
not see her because of the straitness of his bonds. Yet it seemed to
her that he heard somewhat, for he ceased from singing and turned his
ear to hearken. She stood awhile in silence looking on him she loved,
who of all living men was the goodliest by far. Then at length he spoke
craftily:
“Who art thou?” he said. “If thou art of the number of the tormentors,
begin thy work. I fear thee not, and no groan shall thy worst torture
wring from these lips of mine. But I tell thee this, that ere I be
three days dead, the Gods shall avenge me terribly, both on thee and
those who sent thee. With fire and with sword they shall avenge me, for
a great host gathers and draws nigh, a host of many nations gathered
out of all lands, ay, and a fleet manned with the sons of my own
people, of the Achæans terrible in war. They rush on like ravening
wolves, and the land is black before them, but the land shall be
stamped red behind their feet. Soon they shall give this city to the
flames, the smoke of it shall go up to heaven, and the fires shall be
quenched at last in the blood of its children—ay, in thy blood, thou
who dost look on me.”
Hearing these words Meriamun bent forward to look on the face of the
speaker and to see what was written there; and as she moved, her cloak
slipped apart, showing the Snake’s head with the eyes of flame that was
set about her as a girdle. Fiercely they gleamed, and the semblance of
them was shown faintly on the polished surface of the brazier wherein
the fire burned at the Wanderer’s feet. He saw it, and now he knew who
stood behind him.
“Say, Meriamun the Queen—Pharaoh’s dishonoured wife,” he said, “say,
wherefore art thou come to look upon thy work? Nay, stand not behind
me, stand where I may see thee. Fear not, I am strongly bound, nor may
I lift a hand against thee.”
Then Meriamun, still speaking no word, but wondering much because he
knew her ere his eyes fell upon her, passed round the bed of torment,
and throwing down her cloak stood before him in her dark and royal
loveliness.
He looked upon her beauty, then spoke again:
“Say, wherefore art thou come hither, Meriamun? Surely, with my ears I
heard thee swear that I had wronged thee. Wouldst thou then look on him
who wronged thee, or art thou come, perchance, to watch my torments,
while thy slaves tear limb from limb, and quench yon fires with my
blood? Oh, thou evil woman, thou hast worked woe on me indeed, and
perchance canst work more woe now that I lie helpless here. But this I
tell thee, that thy torments shall outnumber mine as the stars
outnumber the earth. For here, and hereafter, thou shalt be parched
with such a thirst of love as never may be quenched, and in many
another land, and in many another time, thou shalt endure thine agony
afresh. Again, and yet again, thou shalt clasp and conquer; again, and
yet again, thou shalt let slip, and in the moment of triumph lose. By
the Snake’s head I swore my troth to thee, I, who should have sworn by
the Star; and this I tell thee, Meriamun, that as the Star shall shine
and be my beacon through the ages, so through the ages shall the Snake
encircle thee and be thy doom!”
“Hold!” said Meriamun, “pour no more bitter words upon me, who am
distraught of love, and was maddened by thy scorn. Wouldst thou know
then why I am come hither? For this cause I am come, to save thee from
thy doom. Hearken, the time is short. It is true—though how thou
knowest it I may not guess—it is true that the barbarians march on
Khem, and with them sails a fleet laden with the warriors of thine own
people. This also is true, Pharaoh has returned alone: and all his host
is swallowed in the Sea of Weeds. And I, foolish that I am, I would
save thee, Odysseus, thus: I will put it in the heart of Pharaoh to
pardon thy great offence, and send thee forward against the foe; yes, I
can do it. But this thou shalt swear to me, to be true to Pharaoh, and
smite the barbarian host.”
“That I will swear,” said the Wanderer, “ay, and keep the oath, though
it is hard to do battle on my kin. Is that all thy message, Meriamun?”
“Not all, Odysseus. One more thing must thou swear, or if thou swearest
it not, here thou shalt surely die. Know this, she who in Khem is named
the Hathor, but who perchance has other names, hath put thee from her
because last night thou wast wed to me.”
“It may well be so,” said the Wanderer.
“She hath put thee from her, and thou—thou art bound to me by that
which cannot be undone, and by an oath that may not be broken; in
whatever shape I walk, or by whatever name I am known among men, still
thou art bound to me, as I am bound to thee. This then thou shalt
swear, that thou wilt tell naught of last night’s tale to Pharaoh.”
“That I swear,” said the Wanderer.
“Also that if Pharaoh be gathered to Osiris, and it should chance that
she who is named the Hathor pass with him to the Underworld, then that
thou, Odysseus, wilt wed me, Meriamun, and be faithful to me for thy
life days.”
Now the crafty Odysseus took counsel with his heart, and bethought him
of the words of the Goddess. He saw that it was in the mind of Meriamun
to slay Pharaoh and the Helen. But he cared nothing for the fate of
Pharaoh, and knew well that Helen might not be harmed, and that though
she change eternally, wearing now this shape, and now that, yet she
dies only when the race of men is dead—then to be gathered to the
number of the Gods. This he knew also, that now he must go forth on his
last wandering, for Death should come upon him from the water.
Therefore he answered readily:
“That oath I swear also, Meriamun, and if I break it may I perish in
shame and for ever.”
Now Meriamun heard, and knelt beside him, looking upon him with eyes of
love.
“It is well, Odysseus: perchance ere long I shall claim thy oath. Oh,
think not so ill of me: if I have sinned, I have sinned from love of
thee. Long years ago, Odysseus, thy shadow fell upon my heart and I
clasped its emptiness. Now thou art come, and I, who pursued a shadow
from sleep to sleep and dream to dream, saw thee a living man, and
loved thee to my ruin. Then I tamed my pride and came to win thee to my
heart, and the Gods set another shape upon me—so thou sayest—and in
that shape, the shape of her thou seekest, thou didst make me wife to
thee. Perchance she and I are _one_, Odysseus. At the least, not so
readily had _I_ forsaken thee. Oh, when thou didst stand in thy might
holding those dogs at bay till the Sidonian knave cut thy bowstring——”
“What of him? Tell me, what of Kurri? This would I ask thee, Queen,
that he be laid where I lie, and die the death to which I am doomed.”
“Gladly would I give thee the boon,” she answered, “but thou askest too
late. The False Hathor looked upon him, and he slew himself. Now I will
away—the night wanes and Pharaoh must dream dreams ere dawn. Fare thee
well, Odysseus. Thy bed is hard to-night, but soft is the couch of
kings that waits thee,” and she went forth from him.
“Ay, Meriamun,” said the Wanderer, looking after her. “Hard is my bed
to-night, and soft is the couch of the kings of Men that waits me in
the realms of Queen Persephone. But it is not thou who shalt share it.
Hard is my bed to-night, harder shall thine be through all the nights
of death that are to come when the Erinnyes work their will on folk
forsworn.”
CHAPTER IV.
PHARAOH’S DREAM
Pharaoh slept heavily in his place, for he was wearied with grief and
toil. But Meriamun passed into the chamber, and standing at the foot of
the golden bed, lifted up her hands and by her art called visions down
on Pharaoh, false dreams through the Ivory Gate. So Pharaoh dreamed,
and thus his vision went:—
He dreamed that he slept in his bed, and that the statue of Ptah, the
Creator, descended from the pedestal by the temple gate and came to
him, towering over him like a giant. Then he dreamed that he awoke, and
prostrating himself before the God, asked the meaning of his coming.
Thereon the God spoke to him:—
“Meneptah, my son, whom I love, hearken unto me. The Nine-bow
barbarians overrun the ancient land of Khem; nine nations march up
against Khem and lay it waste. Hearken unto me, my son, and I will give
thee victory. Awake, awake from sloth, and I will give thee victory.
Thou shalt hew down the Nine-bow barbarians as a countryman hews a
rotting palm; they shall fall, and thou shalt spoil them. But hearken
unto me, my son, thou shalt not thyself go up against them. Low in thy
dungeon there lies a mighty chief, skilled in the warfare of the
barbarians, a Wanderer who hath wandered far. Thou shalt release him
from his bonds and set him over thy armies, and of the sin that he has
sinned thou shalt take no heed. Awake, awake, Meneptah; with this bow
which I give thee shalt thou smite the Nine-bow barbarians.”
Then Meriamun laid the bow of the Wanderer, even the black bow of
Eurytus, on the bed beside Pharaoh, and passed thence to her own
chamber, and the deceitful dream too passed away.
Early in the morning, a waiting-woman came to the Queen saying that
Pharaoh would speak with her. She went into the ante-chamber and found
him there, and in his hand was the black bow of Eurytus.
“Dost thou know this weapon?” he asked.
“Yea, I know it,” she answered; “and thou shouldst know it also, for
surely it saved us from the fury of the people on the night of the
death of the first-born. It is the bow of the Wanderer, who lies in the
place of torment, and waits his doom because of the wrong he would have
wrought upon me.”
“If he hath wronged thee, yet it is he who shall save Khem from the
barbarians,” said Pharaoh. “Listen now to the dream that I have
dreamed,” and he told her all the vision.
“It is indeed evil that he who would have wrought such wickedness upon
me should go forth honoured, the first of the host of Pharaoh,” quoth
Meriamun. “Yet as the God hath spoken, so let it be. Send now and bid
them loose the man from the place of torment, and put his armour on him
and bring him before thee.”
So Pharaoh went out, and the Wanderer was loosed from his bed of stone
and clothed again in his golden harness, and came forth glorious to
see, and stood before Pharaoh. But no arms were given him. Then Pharaoh
told him all his dream, and why he caused him to be released from the
grip of the tormentors. The Wanderer hearkened in silence, saying no
word.
“Now choose, thou Wanderer,” said Pharaoh: “choose if thou wilt be
borne back to the bed of torment, there to die beneath the hands of the
tormentors, or if thou wilt go forth as the captain of my host to do
battle with the Nine-bow barbarians who waste the land of Khem. It
seems there is little faith in thine oaths, therefore I ask no more
oaths from thee. But this I swear, that if thou art false to my trust,
I will yet find means to bring thee back to that chamber whence thou
wast led but now.”
Then the Wanderer spoke:—
“Of that charge, Pharaoh, which is laid against me I will say nothing,
though perchance if I stood upon my trial for the sin that is laid
against me, I might find words to say. Thou askest no oath from me, and
no oath I swear, yet I tell thee that if thou givest me ten thousand
soldiers and a hundred chariots, I will smite these foes of thine so
that they shall come no more to Khem, ay, though they be of my own
people, yet will I smite them, and if I fail, then may those who go
with me slay me and send me down to Hades.”
Thus he spoke, and as he spoke he searched the hall with his eyes. For
he desired to see Rei the Priest, and charge him with a message to
Helen. But he sought him in vain, for Rei had fled, and was in hiding
from the anger of Meriamun.
Then Pharaoh bade his officers take the Wanderer, and set him in a
chariot and bear him to the city of On, where Pharaoh’s host was
gathering. Their charge was to watch him night and day with uplifted
swords, and if he so much as turned his face from the foe towards
Tanis, then they should slay him. But when the host of Pharaoh marched
from On to do battle on the foe, then they should give the Wanderer his
own sword and the great black bow, and obey him in everything. But if
he turned his back upon the foe, then they should slay him; or if the
host of Pharaoh were driven back by the foe, then they should slay him.
The Wanderer heard, and smiled as a wolf smiles, but spoke no word.
Thereon the great officers of Pharaoh took him and led him forth. They
set him in a chariot, and with the chariot went a thousand horsemen;
and soon Meriamun, watching from the walls of Tanis, saw the long line
of desert dust that marked the passing of the Wanderer from the city
which he should see no more.
The Wanderer also looked back on Tanis with a heavy heart. There, far
away, he could see the shrine of Hathor gleaming like crystal above the
tawny flood of waters. And he must go down to death, leaving no word
for Her who sat in the shrine and deemed him faithless and forsworn.
Evil was the lot that the Gods had laid upon him, and bitter was his
guerdon.
His thoughts were sad enough while the chariot rolled towards the city
of On, where the host of Pharaoh was gathering, and the thunder of the
feet of horses echoed in his ears, when, as he pondered, it chanced
that he looked up. There, on a knoll of sand before him, a bow-shot
from the chariot, stood a camel, and on the camel a man sat as though
he waited the coming of the host. Idly the Wanderer wondered who this
might be, and, as he wondered, the man urged the camel towards the
chariot, and, halting before it cried “Hold!” in a loud voice.
“Who art thou?” cried the captain of the chariot, “who darest cry
‘hold’ to the host of Pharaoh?”
“I am one who have tidings of the barbarians,” the man made answer from
the camel.
The Wanderer looked on him. He was wondrous little, withered and old;
moreover, his skin was black as though with the heat of the sun, and
his clothing was as a beggar’s rags, though the trappings of the camel
were of purple leather and bossed with silver. Again the Wanderer
looked; he knew him not, and yet there was that in his face which
seemed familiar.
Now the captain of the chariot bade the driver halt the horses, and
cried, “Draw near and tell thy tidings.”
“To none will I tell my tidings save to him who shall lead the host of
Pharaoh. Let him come down from the chariot and speak with me.”
“That may not be,” said the captain, for he was charged that the
Wanderer should have speech with none.
“As thou wilt,” answered the aged man upon the camel; “go then, go to
thy doom! thou art not the first who hath turned aside a messenger from
the Gods.”
“I am minded to bid the soldiers shoot thee with arrows,” cried the
captain in anger.
“So shall my wisdom sink in the sand with my blood, and be lost with my
breath. Shoot on, thou fool.”
Now the captain was perplexed, for from the aspect of the man he deemed
that he was sent by the Gods. He looked at the Wanderer, who took but
little heed, or so it seemed. But in his crafty heart he knew that this
was the best way to win speech with the man upon the camel. Then the
captain took counsel with the captain of the horsemen, and in the end
they said to the Wanderer:
“Descend from the chariot, lord, and walk twelve paces forward, and
there hold speech with the man. But if thou go one pace further, then
we will shoot thee and the man with arrows.” And this he cried out also
to him who sat upon the camel.
Then the man on the camel descended and walked twelve paces forward,
and the Wanderer descended also from the chariot and walked twelve
paces forward, but as one who heeds little what he does. Now the two
stood face to face, but out of earshot of the host, who watched them
with arrows set upon the strings.
“Greetings, Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,” he said who was
clothed in the beggar’s weeds.
The Wanderer looked upon him hard, and knew him through his disguise.
“Greeting, Rei the Priest, Commander of the Legion of Amen, Chief of
the Treasury of Amen.”
“Rei the Priest I am indeed,” he answered, “the rest I am no more, for
Meriamun the Queen has stripped me of my wealth and offices, because of
thee, thou Wanderer, and the Immortal whose love thou hast won, and by
whom thou hast dealt so ill. Hearken! I learned by arts known to me of
the dream of Pharaoh, and of thy sending forth to do battle with the
barbarians. Then I disguised myself as thou seest, and took the
swiftest camel in Tanis, and am come hither by another way to meet
thee. Now I would ask thee one thing. How came it that thou didst play
the Immortal false that night? Knowest thou that she waited for thee
there by the pylon gate? Ay, there I found her and led her to the
Palace, and for that I am stripped of my rank and goods by Meriamun,
and now the Lady of Beauty is returned to her shrine, grieving bitterly
for thy faithlessness; though how she passed thither I know not.”
“Methought I heard her voice as those knaves bore me to my dungeon,”
said the Wanderer. “And she deemed me faithless! Say, Rei, dost thou
know the magic of Meriamun? Dost thou know how she won me to herself in
the shape of Argive Helen?”
And then, in as few words as might be, he told Rei how he had been led
away by the magic of Meriamun, how he who should have sworn by the Star
had sworn by the Snake.
When Rei heard that the Wanderer had sworn by the Snake, he shuddered.
“Now I know all,” he said. “Fear not, thou Wanderer, not on thee shall
all the evil fall, nor on that Immortal whom thou dost love; the Snake
that beguiled thee shall avenge thee also.”
“Rei,” the Wanderer said, “one thing I charge thee. I know that I go
down to my death. Therefore I pray thee seek out her whom thou namest
the Hathor and tell her all the tale of how I was betrayed. So shall I
die happily. Tell her also that I crave her forgiveness and that I love
her and her only.”
“This I will do if I may,” Rei answered. “And now the soldiers murmur
and I must be gone. Listen, the might of the Nine-bow barbarians rolls
up the eastern branch of Sihor. But one day’s march from On the
mountains run down to the edge of the river, and those mountains are
pierced by a rocky pass through which the foe will surely come. Set
thou thy ambush there, Wanderer, there at Prosopis—so shalt thou smite
them. Farewell. I will seek out the Hathor if in any way I can come at
her, and tell her all. But of this I warn thee, the hour is big with
Fate, and soon will spawn a monstrous birth. Strange visions of doom
and death passed before mine eyes as I slept last night. Farewell!”
Then he went back to the camel and climbed it, and passing round the
army vanished swiftly in a cloud of dust.