because of the halt, and mounted his chariot. But he would tell nothing
of what the man had said to him, save that he was surely a messenger
from the Under-world to instruct him in the waging of the war.
Then the chariot and the horsemen passed on again, till they came to
the city of On, and found the host of Pharaoh gathering in the great
walled space that is before the Temple of Ra. And there they pitched
their camp hard by the great obelisks that stand at the inner gate,
which Rei the architect fashioned by Thebes, and the divine Rameses
Miamun set up to the glory of Ra for ever.
CHAPTER V.
THE VOICE OF THE DEAD
When Meriamun the Queen had watched the chariot of the Wanderer till it
was lost in the dust of the desert, she passed down from the Palace
roof to the solitude of her chamber.
Here she sat in her chamber till the darkness gathered, as the evil
thoughts gathered in her heart, that was rent with love of him whom she
had won but to lose. Things had gone ill with her, to little purpose
she had sinned after such a fashion as may not be forgiven. Yet there
was hope. He had sworn that he would wed her when Pharaoh was dead, and
when Argive Helen had followed Pharaoh to the Shades. Should she shrink
then from the deed of blood? Nay, from evil to evil she would go. She
laid her hand upon the double-headed snake that wound her about, and
spake into the gloom:
“Osiris waits thee, Meneptah—Osiris waits thee! The Shades of those who
have died for thy love, Helen, are gathering at the gates. It shall be
done. Pharaoh, thou diest to-night. To-morrow night, thou Goddess
Helen, shall all thy tale be told. _Man_ may not harm thee indeed, but
shall fire refuse to kiss thy loveliness? Are there no _women’s_ hands
to light thy funeral pile?”
Then she rose, and calling her ladies, was attired in her most splendid
robes, and caused the uraeus crown to be set upon her head, the snake
circlet of power on her brow, the snake girdle of wisdom at her heart.
And now she hid somewhat in her breast, and passed to the ante-chamber,
where the Princes gathered for the feast.
Pharaoh looked up and saw her loveliness. So glorious she seemed in her
royal beauty that his heart forgot its woes, and once again he loved
her as he had done in years gone by, when she conquered him at the Game
of Pieces, and he had cast his arms about her and she stabbed him.
She saw the look of love grow on his heavy face, and all her gathered
hate rose in her breast, though she smiled gently with her lips and
spake him fair.
They sat at the feast and Pharaoh drank. And ever as he drank she
smiled upon him with her dark eyes and spake him words of gentlest
meaning, till at length there was nothing he desired more than that
they should be at one again.
Now the feast was done. They sat in the ante-chamber, for all were gone
save Meneptah and Meriamun. Then he came to her and took her hand,
looking into her eyes, nor did she say him nay.
There was a lute lying on a golden table, and there too, as it chanced,
was a board for the Game of Pieces, with the dice, and the pieces
themselves wrought in gold.
Pharaoh took up the gold king from the board and toyed with it in his
hand. “Meriamun,” he said, “for these five years we have been apart,
thou and I. Thy love I have lost, as a game is lost for one false move,
or one throw of the dice; and our child is dead and our armies are
scattered, and the barbarians come like flies when Sihor stirs within
his banks. Love only is left to us, Meriamun.”
She looked at him not unkindly, as if sorrow and wrong had softened her
heart also, but she did not speak.
“Can dead Love waken, Meriamun, and can angry Love forgive?”
She had lifted the lute and her fingers touched listlessly on the
cords.
“Nay, I know not,” she said; “who knows? How did Pentaur sing of Love’s
renewal, Pentaur the glorious minstrel of our father, Rameses Miamun?”
He laid the gold king on the board, and began listlessly to cast the
dice. He threw the “Hathor” as it chanced, the lucky cast, two sixes,
and a thought of better fortune came to him.
“How did the song run, Meriamun? It is many a year since I heard thee
sing.”
She touched the lute lowly and sweetly, and then she sang. Her thoughts
were of the Wanderer, but the King deemed that she thought of himself.
O joy of Love’s renewing,
Could Love be born again;
Relenting for thy rueing,
And pitying my pain:
O joy of Love’s awaking,
Could Love arise from sleep,
Forgiving our forsaking
The fields we would not reap!
Fleet, fleet we fly, pursuing
The Love that fled amain,
But will he list our wooing,
Or call we but in vain?
Ah! vain is all our wooing,
And all our prayers are vain,
Love listeth not our suing,
Love will not wake again.
“Will he not waken again?” said Pharaoh. “If two pray together, will
Love refuse their prayer?”
“It might be so,” she said, “if two prayed together; for if they
prayed, he would have heard already!”
“Meriamun,” said the Pharaoh eagerly, for he thought her heart was
moved by pity and sorrow, “once thou didst win my crown at the Pieces,
wilt thou play me for thy love?”
She thought for one moment, and then she said:
“Yes, I will play thee, my Lord, but my hand has lost its cunning, and
it may well be that Meriamun shall lose again, as she has lost all. Let
me set the Pieces, and bring wine for my lord.”
She set the Pieces, and crossing the room, she lifted a great cup of
wine, and put it by Pharaoh’s hand. But he was so intent on the game
that he did not drink.
He took the field, he moved, she replied, and so the game went between
them, in the dark fragrant chamber where the lamp burned, and the
Queen’s eyes shone in the night. This way and that went the game, till
she lost, and he swept the board.
Then in triumph he drained the poisoned cup of wine, and cried,
“Pharaoh is dead!”
“Pharaoh is dead!” answered Meriamun, gazing into his eyes.
“What is that look in thine eyes, Meriamun, what is that look in thine
eyes?”
And the King grew pale as the dead, for he had seen that look
before—when Meriamun slew Hataska.
“Pharaoh is dead!” she shrilled in the tone of women who wail the
dirges. “Pharaoh, great Pharaoh is dead! Ere a man may count a hundred
thy days are numbered. Strange! but to-morrow, Meneptah, shalt thou sit
where Hataska sat, dead on the knees of Death, an Osirian in the lap of
the Osiris. Die, Pharaoh, die! But while thy diest, hearken. There is
one I love, the Wanderer who leads thy hosts. His love I stole by arts
known to me, and because I stole it he would have shamed me, and I
accused him falsely in the ears of men. But he comes again, and, so
sure as thou shalt sit on the knees of Osiris, so surely shall he sit
upon thy throne, Pharaoh. For Pharaoh is dead!”
He heard. He gathered his last strength. He rose and staggered towards
her, striking at the air. Slowly she drew away, while he followed her,
awful to see. At length he stood still, he threw up his hands, and fell
dead.
Then Meriamun drew near and looked at him strangely.
“Behold the end of Pharaoh,” she said. “That then was a king, upon
whose breath the lives of peoples hung like a poised feather. Well, let
him go! Earth can spare him, and Death is but the richer by a weary
fool. ’Tis done, and well done! Would that to-morrow’s task were also
done—and that Helen lay as Pharaoh lies. So—rinse the cup—and now to
sleep—if sleep will come. Ah, where hath sleep flown of late? To-morrow
they’ll find him dead. Well, what of it? So do kings ofttimes die.
There, I will be going; never were his eyes so large and so unlovely!”
Now the light of morning gathered again on all the temple tops, and men
rose from sleep to go about their labours. Meriamun watched it grow as
she lay sleepless in her golden bed, waiting for the cry that presently
should ring along the Palace walls. Hark! What was that? The sound of
swinging doors, the rush of running feet. And now it came—long and
shrill it rose.
“Pharaoh is dead! Awake! Awake, ye sleepers! Awake! awake! and look
upon that which has come about. Pharaoh is dead! Pharaoh is dead!”
Then Meriamun arose, and followed by the ladies, rushed from her
chamber.
“Who dreams so evilly?” she said. “Who dreams and cries aloud in his
haunted sleep?”
“O Queen, it is no dream,” said one. “Pass into the ante-chamber and
see. There lies Pharaoh dead, and with no wound upon him to tell the
manner of his end.”
Then Meriamun cried aloud with a great cry, and threw her hair about
her face, while tears fell from her dark eyes. She passed into the
chamber, and there, fallen on his back and cold, lay Pharaoh in his
royal robes. Awhile the Queen looked upon him as one who is dumb with
grief. Then she lifted up her voice and cried:
“Still is the curse heavy upon Khem and the people of Khem. Pharaoh
lies dead; yea, he is dead who has no wound, and this I say, that he is
slain of the witchcraft of her whom men name the Hathor. Oh, my Lord,
my Lord!” and kneeling, she laid her hand upon his breast; “by this
dead heart of thine I swear that I will wreak thy murder on her who
wrought it. Lift him up! Lift up this poor clay, that was the first of
kings. Clothe him in the robes of death, and set him on the knees of
Osiris in the Temple of Osiris. Then go forth through the city and call
out this, the Queen’s command; call it from street to street. This is
the Queen’s command, that ‘every woman in Tanis who has lost son, or
husband, or brother, or kin or lover, through the witchcraft of the
False Hathor, or by the plagues that she hath wrought on Khem, or in
the war with the Apura, whom she caused to fly from Khem, do meet me at
sundown in the Temple of Osiris before the face of the God and of dead
Pharaoh’s Majesty.’”
So they took Meneptah the Osirian, and wrapping him in the robes of
death, bore him to the knees of Osiris, where he should sit a day and a
night. And the messengers of Meriamun went forth summoning the women of
the city to meet her at sunset in the Temple of Osiris. Moreover,
Meriamun sent out slaves by tens and by twenties to the number of two
thousand, bidding them gather up all the wood that was in Tanis, and
all the oil and the bitumen, and bundles of reeds by hundreds such as
are used for the thatching of houses, and lay them in piles and stacks
in a certain courtyard near the Temple of Hathor. This they did, and so
the day wore on, while the women wailed about the streets because of
the death of Pharaoh.
Now it chanced that the camel of Rei the Priest fell down from
weariness as it journeyed swiftly back to Tanis. But Rei sped forward
on foot, and came to the gates of Tanis, sorely wearied, towards the
evening of that day. When he heard the wailing of the women, he asked
of a passer-by what new evil had fallen upon Khem, and learned the
death of Pharaoh. Then Rei knew by whose hand Pharaoh was dead, and
grieved at heart, because she whom he had served and loved—Meriamun the
moon-child—was a murderess. At first he was minded to go up before the
Queen and put her to an open shame, and then take his death at her
hands; but when he heard that Meriamun had summoned all the women of
Tanis to meet her in the Temple of Osiris, he had another thought.
Hurrying to that place where he hid in the city, he ate and drank. Then
he put off his beggar’s rags, and robed himself afresh, and over all
drew the garment of an aged crone, for this was told him, that no man
should be suffered to enter the Temple. Now the day was dying, and
already the western sky was red, and he hurried forth and mingled with
the stream of women who passed towards the Temple gates.
“Who then slew Pharaoh?” asked one; “and why does the Queen summon us
to meet her?”
“Pharaoh is slain by the witchcraft of the False Hathor,” answered
another; “and the Queen summons us that we may take counsel how to be
rid of the Hathor.”
“Tell not of the accursed Hathor,” said a third; “my husband and my
brother are dead at her hands, and my son died in the death of the
first-born that she called down on Khem. Ah, if I could but see her
rent limb from limb I should seek Osiris happily.”
“Some there be,” quoth a fourth, “who say that not the Hathor, but the
Gods of those Apura brought the woes on Khem, and some that Pharaoh was
slain by the Queen’s own hand, because of the love she bears to that
great Wanderer who came here a while ago.”
“Thou fool,” answered the first; “how can the Queen love one who would
have wrought outrage on her?”
“Such things have been,” said the fourth woman; “perchance he wrought
no outrage, perchance she beguiled him as women may. Yes, yes, such
things have been. I am old, and I have seen such things.”
“Yea, thou art old,” said the first. “Thou hast no child, no husband,
no father, no lover, and no brother. Thou hast lost none who are dear
to thee through the magic of the Hathor. Speak one more such slander on
the Queen, and we will fall upon thee and tear thy lying tongue from
its roots.”
“Hush,” said the second woman, “here are the Temple gates. By Isis did
any ever see such a multitude of women, and never a man to cheer them,
a dreary sight, indeed! Come, push on, push on or we shall find no
place. Yea, thou soldier—we are women, all women, have no fear. No need
to bare our breasts, look at our eyes blind with weeping over the dead.
Push on! push on!”
So they passed by the guards and into the gates of the Temple, and with
them went Rei unheeded. Already it was well-nigh filled with women.
Although the sun was not yet dead, torches were set about to lighten
the gloom, and by them Rei saw that the curtains before the Shrine were
drawn. Presently the Temple was full to overflowing, the doors were
shut and barred, and a voice from behind the veil cried:
“_Silence!_”
Then all the multitude of women were silent, and the light of the
torches flared strangely upon their shifting upturned faces, as fires
flare over the white sea-foam. Now the curtains of the Shrine of Osiris
were drawn aside slowly, and the light that burned upon the altar
streamed out between them. It fell upon the foremost ranks of women, it
fell upon the polished statue of the Osiris. On the knees of Osiris sat
the body of Pharaoh Meneptah, his head resting against the breast of
the God. Pharaoh was wrapped about with winding clothes like the marble
statue of the God, and in his cold hands were bound the crook, the
sceptre, and the scourge, as the crook, the sceptre, and the scourge
were placed in the hands of the effigy of the God. As was the statue of
the God, so was the body of Pharaoh that sat upon his knees, and cold
and awful was the face of Osiris, and cold and awful was the face of
Meneptah the Osirian.
At the side, and somewhat in front of the statue of the God, a throne
was placed of blackest marble, and on the throne sat Meriamun the
Queen. She was glorious to look on. She wore the royal robes of Khem,
the double-crown of Khem fashioned of gold, and wreathed with the
uraeus snakes, was set upon her head; in her hand was the crystal cross
of Life, and between her mantle’s purple folds gleamed the eyes of her
snake girdle. She sat awhile in silence speaking no word, and all the
women wondered at her glory and at dead Pharaoh’s awfulness. Then at
length she spoke, low indeed, but so clearly that every word reached
the limits of the Temple hall.
“Women of Tanis, hear me, the Queen. Let each search the face of each,
and if there be any man among your multitude, let him be dragged forth
and torn limb from limb, for in this matter no man may hear our
counsels, lest following his madness he betray them.”
Now every woman looked upon her neighbour, and she who was next to Rei
looked hard upon him so that he trembled for his life. But he crouched
into the shadow and stared back on her boldly as though he doubted if
she were indeed a woman, and said no word. When all had looked, and no
man had been found, Meriamun spoke again.
“Hearken, women of Tanis, hearken to your sister and your Queen. Woe
upon woe is fallen on the head of Khem. Plague upon plague hath smitten
the ancient land. Our first-born are dead, our slaves have spoiled us
and fled away, our hosts have been swallowed in the Sea of Weeds, and
barbarians swarm along our shores like locusts. Is it not so, women of
Tanis?”
“It is so, O Queen,” they answered, as with one voice.
“A strange evil hath fallen on the head of Khem. A false Goddess is
come to dwell within the land; her sorceries are great in the land.
Month by month men go up to look upon her deadly beauty, and month by
month they are slain of her sorceries. She takes the husband from his
marriage bed; she draws the lover from her who waits to be a bride; the
slave flies to her from the household of his lord; the priests flock to
her from the altars of the Gods—ay, the very priests of Isis flock
forsworn from the altars of Isis. All look upon her witch-beauty, and
to each she shows an altered loveliness, and to all she gives one
guerdon—Death! Is it not so, women of Tanis?”
“Alas! alas! it is so, O Queen,” answered the women as with one voice.
“Woes are fallen on you and Khem, my sisters, but on me most of all are
woes fallen. My people have been slain, my land—the land I love—has
been laid waste with plagues; my child, the only one, is dead in the
great death; hands have been laid on me, the Queen of Khem. Think on
it, ye who are women! My slaves are fled, my armies have been swallowed
in the sea; and last, O my sisters, my consort, my beloved lord, mighty
Pharaoh, son of great Rameses Miamun, hath been taken from me! Look!
look! ye who are wives, look on him who was your King and my most
beloved lord. There he sits, and all my tears and all my prayers may
not summon one single answering sigh from that stilled heart. The curse
hath fallen on him also. He too hath been smitten silently with
everlasting silence. Look! look! ye who are wives, and weep with me, ye
who are left widowed.”
Now the women looked, and a great groan went up from all that
multitude, while Meriamun hid her face with the hollow of her hand.
Then again she spoke.
“I have besought the Gods, my sisters; I have dared to call down the
majesty of the Gods, who speak through the lips of the dead, and I have
learnt whence these woes come. And this I have won by my prayers, that
ye who suffer as I suffer shall learn whence they come, not from my
mortal lips, indeed, but from the lips of the dead that speak with the
voice of the Gods.”
Then, while the women trembled, she turned to the body of Pharaoh,
which was set upon the knees of Osiris, and spoke to it.
“Dead Pharaoh! great Osirian, ruling in the Underworld, hearken to me
now! Hearken to me now, thou Osiris, Lord of the West, first of the
hosts of Death. Hearken to me, Osiris, and be manifest through the lips
of him who was great on earth. Speak through his cold lips, speak with
mortal accents, that these people may hear and understand. By the
spirit that is in me, who am yet a dweller on the earth, I charge thee
speak. Who is the source of the woes of Khem? Say, Lord of the dead,
who are the living evermore?”
Now the flame on the altar died away, and dreadful silence fell upon
the Temple, gloom fell upon the Shrine, and through the gloom the
golden crown of Meriamun, and the cold statue of the Osiris, and the
white face of dead Meneptah gleamed faint and ghost-like.
Then suddenly the flame of the altar flared as flares the summer
lightning. It flared full on the face of the dead, and lo! the lips of
the dead moved, and from them came the sound of mortal speech. They
spake in awful accents, and thus they spoke:
“_She who was the curse of Achæans, she who was the doom of Ilios; she
who sits in the Temple of Hathor, the Fate of man, who may not be
harmed of Man, she calls down the wrath of the Gods on Khem. It is
spoken!_”
The echo of the awful words died away in the silence. Then fear took
hold of the multitude of women because of the words of the Dead, and
some fell upon their faces, and some covered their eyes with their
hands.
“Arise, my sisters!” cried the voice of Meriamun. “Ye have heard not
from my lips, but from the lips of the dead. Arise, and let us forth to
the Temple of the Hathor. Ye have heard who is the fountain of our
woes; let us forth and seal it at its source for ever. Of men she may
not be harmed who is the fate of men, from men we ask no help, for all
men are her slaves, and for her beauty’s sake all men forsake us. But
we will play the part of men. Our women’s milk shall freeze within our
breasts, we will dip our tender hands in blood, ay, scourged by a
thousand wrongs we will forget our gentleness, and tear this foul
fairness from its home. We will burn the Hathor’s Shrine with fire, her
priests shall perish at the altar, and the beauty of the false Goddess
shall melt like wax in the furnace of our hate. Say, will ye follow me,
my sisters, and wreak our shames upon the Shameful One, our woes upon
the Spring of Woe, our dead upon their murderess?”
She ceased, and then from every woman’s throat within the great Temple
there went up a cry of rage, fierce and shrill.
“We will, Meriamun, we will!” they screamed. “To the Hathor! Lead us to
the Hathor’s Shrine! Bring fire! Bring fire! Lead us to the Hathor’s
Shrine!”
CHAPTER VI.
THE BURNING OF THE SHRINE
Rei the Priest saw and heard. Then turning, he stole away through the
maddened throng of women and fled with what speed he might from the
Temple. His heart was filled with fear and shame, for he knew full well
that Pharaoh was dead, not at the hand of Hathor, but at the hand of
Meriamun the Queen, whom he had loved. He knew well that dead Meneptah
spake not with the voice of the dread Gods, but with the voice of the
magic of Meriamun, who, of all women that have been since the days of
Taia, was the most skilled in evil magic, the lore of the Snake. He
knew also that Meriamun would slay Helen for the same cause wherefore
she had slain Pharaoh, that she might win the Wanderer to her arms.
While Helen lived he was not to be won away.
Now Rei was a righteous man, loving the Gods and good, and hating evil,
and his heart burned because of the wickedness of the woman that once
he cherished. This he swore that he would do, if time were left to him.
He would warn the Helen so that she might fly the fire if so she
willed, ay, and would tell her all the wickedness of Meriamun her foe.
His old feet stumbled over each other as he fled till he came to the
gates of the Temple of the Hathor, and knocked upon the gates.
“What wouldst thou, old crone?” asked the priest who sat in the gates.
“I would be led to the presence of the Hathor,” he answered.
“No woman hath passed up to look upon the Hathor,” said the priest.
“That women do not seek.”
Then Rei made a secret sign, and wondering greatly that a woman should
have the inner wisdom, the priest let him pass.
He came to the second gates.
“What wouldst thou?” said the priest who sat in the gates.
“I would go up into the presence of the Hathor.”
“No woman hath willed to look upon the Hathor,” said the priest.
Then again Rei made the secret sign, but still the priest wavered.
“Let me pass, thou foolish warden,” said Rei. “I am a messenger from
the Gods.”
“If thou art a mortal messenger, woman, thou goest to thy doom,” said
the priest.
“On my head be it,” answered Rei, and the priest let him pass
wondering.
Now he stood before the doors of the Alabaster Shrine that glowed with
the light within. Still Rei paused not, only uttering a prayer that he
might be saved from the unseen swords; he lifted the latch of bronze,
and entered fearfully. But none fell upon him, nor was he smitten of
invisible spears. Before him swung the curtains of Tyrian web, but no
sound of singing came from behind the curtains. All was silence in the
Shrine. He passed between the curtains and looked up the Sanctuary. It
was lit with many hanging lamps, and by their light he saw the Goddess
Helen, seated between the pillars of her loom. But she wove no more at
the loom. The web of fate was rent by the Wanderer’s hands, and lay on
either side, a shining cloth of gold. The Goddess Helen sat songless in
her lonely Shrine, and on her breast gleamed the Red Star of light that
wept the blood of men. Her head rested on her hand, and her heavenly
eyes of blue gazed emptily down the empty Shrine.
Rei drew near trembling, though she seemed to see him not at all, and
at last flung himself upon the earth before her. Now at length she saw
him, and spoke in her voice of music.
“Who art thou that dares to break in upon my sorrow?” she said
wonderingly. “Art thou indeed a woman come to look on one who by the
will of the Gods is each woman’s deadliest foe?”
Then Rei raised himself saying:
“No woman am I, immortal Lady. I am Rei, that aged priest who met thee
two nights gone by the pylon gates, and led thee to the Palace of
Pharaoh. And I have dared to seek thy Shrine to tell thee that thou art
in danger at the hands of Meriamun the Queen, and also to give thee a
certain message with which I am charged by him who is named the
Wanderer.”
Now Helen looked upon him wonderingly and spoke:
“Didst thou not but now name me immortal, Rei? How then can I be in
danger, who am immortal, and not to be harmed of men? Death hath no
part in me. Speak not to me of dangers, who, alas! can never die till
everything is done; but tell me of that faithless Wanderer, whom I must
love with all the womanhood that shuts my spirit in, and all my spirit
that is clothed in womanhood. For, Rei, the Gods, withholding Death,
have in wrath cursed me with love to torment my deathlessness. Oh, when
I saw him standing where now thou standest, my soul knew its other
part, and I learned that the curse I give to others had fallen on
myself and him.”
“Yet was this Wanderer not altogether faithless to thee, Lady,” said
Rei. “Listen, and I will tell thee all.”
“Speak on,” she said. “Oh, speak, and speak swiftly.”
Then Rei told Helen all that tale which the Wanderer had charged him to
deliver in her ear, and keep no word back. He told her how Meriamun had
beguiled Eperitus in her shape; how he had fallen in the snare and
sworn by the Snake, he who should have sworn by the Star. He told her
how the Wanderer had learned the truth, and learning it, had cursed the
witch who wronged him; how he had been overcome by the guards and borne
to the bed of torment; how he had been freed by the craft of Meriamun;
and how he had gone forth to lead the host of Khem. All this he told
her swiftly, hiding naught, while she listened with eager ears.
“Truly,” she said, when all was told, “truly thou art a happy
messenger. Now I forgive him all. Yet has he sworn by the Snake who
should have sworn by the Star, and because of his fault never in this
space of life shall Helen call him Lord. Yet will we follow him, Rei.
Hark! what is that? Again it comes, that long shrill cry as of ghosts
broke loose from Hades.”
“It is the Queen,” quoth Rei; “the Queen who with all women of Tanis
comes hither to burn thee in thy Shrine. She hath slain Pharaoh, and
now she would slay thee also, and so win the Wanderer to her arms. Fly,
Lady! Fly!”
“Nay, I fly not,” said Helen. “Let her come. But do thou, Rei, pass
through the Temple gates and mingle with the crowd. There thou shalt
await my coming, and when I come, draw near, fearing nothing; and
together we will pass down the path of the Wanderer in such fashion as
I shall show thee. Go! go swiftly, and bid those who minister to me
pass out with thee.”
Then Rei turned and fled. Without the doors of the Shrine many priests
were gathered.
“Fly! the women of Tanis are upon you!” he cried. “I charge ye to fly!”
“This old crone is mad,” quoth one. “We watch the Hathor, and, come all
the women of the world, we fly not.”
“Ye are mad indeed,” said Rei, and sped on.
He passed the gates, the gates clashed behind him. He won the outer
space, and hiding in the shadows of the Temple walls, looked forth. The
night was dark, but from every side a thousand lights poured down
towards the Shrine. On they came like lanterns on the waters of Sihor
at the night of the feast of lanterns. Now he could see their host. It
was the host of the women of Tanis, and every woman bore a lighted
torch. They came by tens, by hundreds, and by thousands, and before
them was Meriamun, seated in a golden chariot, and with them were
asses, oxen, and camels, laden with bitumen, wood, and reeds. Now they
gained the gates, and now they crashed them in with battering trees of
palm. The gates fell, the women poured through them. At their head went
Meriamun the Queen. Bidding certain of them stay by her chariot she
passed through, and standing at the inner gates called aloud to the
priests to throw them wide.
“Who art thou who darest come up with fire against the holy Temple of
the Hathor?” asked the guardian of the gates.
“I am Meriamun, the Queen of Khem,” she answered, “come with the women
of Tanis to slay the Witch thou guardest. Throw the gates wide, or die
with the Witch.”
“If indeed thou art the Queen,” answered the priest, “here there sits a
greater Queen than thou. Go back! Go back, Meriamun, who art not afraid
to offer violence to the immortal Gods. Go back! lest the curse smite
thee.”
“Draw on! draw on! ye women,” cried Meriamun; “draw on, smite down the
gates, and tear these wicked ones limb from limb.”
Then the women screamed aloud and battered on the gates with trees, so
that they fell. They fell and the women rushed in madly. They seized
the priests of Hathor and tore them limb from limb as dogs tear a wolf.
Now the Shrine stood before them.
“Touch not the doors,” cried Meriamun. “Bring fire and burn the Shrine
with her who dwells therein. Touch not the doors, look not in the
Witch’s face, but burn her where she is with fire.”
Then the women brought the reeds and the wood, and piled them around
the Shrine to twice the height of a man. They brought ladders also, and
piled the fuel upon the roof of the Shrine till all was covered. And
they poured pitch over the fuel, and then at the word of Meriamun they
cast torches on the pitch and drew back screaming. For a moment the
torches smouldered, then suddenly on every side great tongues of flame
leapt up to heaven. Now the Shrine was wrapped in fire, and yet they
cast fuel on it till none might draw near because of the heat. Now it
burned as a furnace burns, and now the fire reached the fuel on the
roof. It caught, and the Shrine was but a sheet of raging flame that
lit the white-walled city, and the broad face of the waters, as the sun
lights the lands. The alabaster walls of the Shrine turned whiter yet
with heat: they cracked and split till the fabric tottered to its fall.
“Now there is surely an end of the Witch,” cried Meriamun, and the
women screamed an answer to her.
But even as they screamed a great tongue of flame shot out through the
molten doors, ten fathoms length and more, it shot like a spear of
fire. Full in its path stood a group of the burners. It struck them, it
licked them up, and lo! they fell in blackened heaps upon the ground.
Rei looked down the path of the flame. There, in the doorway whence it
had issued, stood the Golden Hathor, wrapped round with fire, and the
molten metal of the doors crept about her feet. There she stood in the
heart of the fire, but there was no stain of fire on her, nor on her
white robes, nor on her streaming hair; and even through the glow of
the furnace he saw the light of the Red Star at her breast. The flame
licked her form and face, it wrapped itself around her, and curled
through the masses of her hair. But still she stood unharmed, while the
burners shrank back amazed, all save Meriamun the Queen. And as she
stood she sang wild and sweet, and the sound of her singing came
through the roar of the flames and reached the ears of the women, who,
forgetting their rage, clung to one another in fear. Thus she sang—of
that Beauty which men seek in all women, and never find, and of the
eternal war for her sake between the women and the men, which is the
great war of the world. And thus her song ended:
“Will ye bring flame to burn my Shrine
Who am myself a flame,
Bring death to tame this charm of mine
That death can never tame?
Will ye bring fire to harm my head
Who am myself a fire,
Bring vengeance for your Lovers dead
Upon the World’s Desire?
Nay, women while the earth endures,
Your loves are not your own.
They love you not, these loves of yours,
_Helen_ they love alone!
My face they seek in every face,
Mine eyes in yours they see,
They do but kneel to you a space,
And rise and follow _me!_”
Then, still singing, she stepped forward from the Shrine, and as she
went the walls fell in, and the roof crashed down upon the ruin and the
flames shot up into the very sky. Helen heeded it not. She looked not
back, but out to the gates beyond. She glanced not at the fierce
blackened faces of the women, nor on the face of Meriamun, who stood
before her, but slowly passed towards the gates. Nor did she go alone,
for with her came a canopy of fire, hedging her round with flame that
burned from nothing. The women saw the wonder and fell down in their
fear, covering their eyes. Meriamun alone fell not, but she too must
cover her eyes because of the glory of Helen and the fierceness of the
flame that wrapped her round.
Now Helen ceased singing, but moved slowly through the courts till she
came to the outer gates. Here by the gates was the chariot of Meriamun.
Then Helen called aloud, and the Queen, who followed, heard her words:
“Rei,” she cried, “draw nigh and have no fear. Draw nigh that I may
pass with thee down that path the Wanderer treads. Draw nigh, and let
us swiftly hence, for the hero’s last battle is at hand, and I would
greet him ere he die.”
Rei heard her and drew near trembling, tearing from him the woman’s
weeds he wore, and showing the priest’s garb beneath. And as he came
the fire that wrapped her glory round left her, and passed upward like
a cloak of flame. She stretched out her hand to him, saying:
“Lead me to yonder chariot, Rei, and let us hence.”
Then he led her to the chariot, while those who stood by fled in fear.
She mounted the chariot, and he set himself beside her. Then he grasped
the reins and called to the horses, and they bounded forward and were
lost in the night.
But Meriamun cried in her wrath:
“The Witch is gone, gone with my own servant whom she hath led astray.
Bring chariots, and let horsemen come with the chariots, for where she
passes there I will follow, ay, to the end of the world and the coast
of Death.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE LAST FIGHT OF ODYSSEUS, LAERTES’ SON
Now the host of Pharaoh marched forth from On, to do battle with the
Nine-bow barbarians. And before the host marched, the Captains came to
the Wanderer, according to the command of Pharaoh, and placing their
hands in his, swore to do his bidding on the march and in the battle.
They brought him the great black bow of Eurytus, and his keen sword of
bronze, Euryalus’ gift, and many a sheaf of arrows, and his heart
rejoiced when he saw the goodly weapon. He took the bow and tried it,
and as he drew the string, once again and for the last time it sang
shrilly of death to be. The Captains heard the Song of the Bow, though
what it said the Wanderer knew alone, for to their ears it came but as
a faint, keen cry, like the cry of one who drowns in the water far from
the kindly earth. But they marvelled much at the wonder, and said one
to another that this man was no mortal, but a God come from the
Under-world.
Then the Wanderer mounted the chariot of bronze that had been made
ready for him, and gave the word to march.
All night the host marched swiftly, and at day-break they camped
beneath the shelter of a long, low hill. But at the sunrise the
Wanderer left the host, climbed the hill with certain of the Captains,
and looked forth. Before him was a great pass in the mountains, ten
furlongs or more in length, and through it ran the road. The sides of
the mountain sloped down to the road, and were strewn with rocks split
by the sun, polished by the sand, and covered over with bush that grew
sparsely, like the hair on the limbs of a man. To the left of the
mountains lay the river Sihor, but none might pass between the mountain
and the river. The Wanderer descended from the hill, and while the
soldiers ate, drove swiftly in his chariot to the further end of the
pass and looked forth again. Here the river curved to the left, leaving
a wide plain, and on the plain he saw the host of the Nine-bow
barbarians, the mightiest host that ever his eyes had looked upon. They
were encamped by nations, and of each nation there was twenty thousand
men, and beyond the glittering camp of the barbarians he saw the curved
ships of the Achæans. They were drawn up on the beach of the great
river, as many a year ago he had seen them drawn up on the shore that
is by Ilios. He looked upon plain and pass, on mountain and river, and
measured the number of the foe. Then his heart was filled with the lust
of battle, and his warlike cunning awoke. For of all leaders he was the
most skilled in the craft of battle, and he desired that this, his last
war, should be the greatest war of all.
Turning his horses’ heads, he galloped back to the host of Pharaoh and
mustered them in battle array. It was but a little number as against
the number of the barbarians—twelve thousand spearmen, nine thousand
archers, two thousand horsemen, and three hundred chariots. The
Wanderer passed up and down their ranks, bidding them be of good
courage, for this day they should sweep the barbarians from the land.
As he spoke a hawk flew down from the right, and fell on a heron, and
slew it in mid-air. The host shouted, for the hawk is the Holy Bird of
Ra, and the Wanderer, too, rejoiced in the omen. “Look, men,” he cried;
“the Bird of Ra has slain the wandering thief from the waters. And so
shall ye smite the spoilers from the sea.”
Then he held counsel with Captains, and certain trusty men were sent
out to the camp of the barbarians. And they were charged to give an ill
report of the host of Pharaoh, and to say that such of it as remained
awaited the barbarian onset behind the shelter of the hill on the
further side of the pass.
Then the Wanderer summoned the Captains of the archers, and bade them
hide all their force among the rocks and thorns on either side of the
mountain pass, and there to wait till he drew the hosts of the foe into
the pass. And with the archers he sent a part of the spearmen, but the
chariots he hid beneath the shelter of the hill on the hither side of
the pass.
Now, when the ambush was set, and all were gone save the horsemen only,
his spies came in and told him that the host of the barbarians marched
from their camp, but that the Achæans marched not, but stopped by the
river to guard the camp and ships. Then the Wanderer bade the horsemen
ride through the pass and stand in the plain beyond, and there await
the foe. But when the hosts of the barbarians charged them, they must
reel before the charge, and at length fly headlong down the pass as
though in fear. And he himself would lead the flight in his chariot,
and where he led there they should follow.
So the horsemen rode through the pass and formed their squadrons on the
plain beyond. Now the foe drew nigh, and a glorious sight it was to see
the midday sun sparkling on their countless spears. Of horsemen they
had no great number, but there were many chariots and swordsmen, and
spearmen, and slingers beyond count. They came on by nations, and in
the centre of the host of each nation sat the king of the nation in a
glorious chariot, with girls and eunuchs, holding fans to fan him with
and awnings of silk to hide him from the sun.
Now the Wanderer hung back behind the squadrons of horsemen as though
in fear. But presently he sent messengers bidding the Captains of the
squadrons to charge the first nation, and fight for a while but feebly,
and then when they saw him turn his horses and gallop through the pass,
to follow after him as though in doubt, but in such fashion as to draw
the foe upon their heels.
This the Captains of the mercenaries did. Once they charged and were
beaten back, then they charged again, but the men made as though they
feared the onset. Now the foe came hard after them, and the Wanderer
turned his chariot and fled through the pass, followed slowly by the
horsemen. And when the hosts of the barbarians saw them turn, they set
up a mighty shout of laughter that rent the skies, and charged after
them.
But the Wanderer looked back and laughed also. Now he was through the
pass followed by the horsemen, and after them swept the hosts of the
barbarians, like a river that has burst its banks. Still the Wanderer
held his hand till the whole pass was choked with the thousands of the
foe, ay, until the half of the first of the nations had passed into the
narrow plain that lay between the hill and the mouth of the pass. Then,
driving apace up the hill, he stood in his chariot and gave the signal.
Lifting his golden shield on high he flashed it thrice, and all the
horsemen shouted aloud. At the first flash, behold, from behind every
rock and bush of the mountain sides arose the helms of armed men. At
the second flash there came a rattling sound of shaken quivers, and at
the third flash of the golden shield, the air was darkened with the
flight of arrows. As the sea-birds on a lonely isle awake at the cry of
the sailor, and wheel by thousands from their lofty cliffs, so at the
third flash of the Wanderer’s shield the arrows of his hidden host
rushed downward on the foe, rattling like hail upon the harness. For
awhile they kept their ranks, and pressed on over the bodies of those
that fell. But soon the horses in the chariots, maddened with wounds,
plunged this way and that, breaking their companies and trampling the
soldiers down. Now some strove to fly forward, and some were fain to
fly back, and many an empty chariot was dragged this way and that, but
ever the pitiless rain of shafts poured down, and men fell by thousands
beneath the gale of death. Now the mighty host of the Nine-bows rolled
back, thinned and shattered, towards the plain, and now the Wanderer
cried the word of onset to the horsemen and to the chariots that drew
from behind the shelter of the hill, and following after him they
charged down upon those barbarians who had passed the ambush, singing
the song of Pentaur as they charged. Among those nigh the mouth of the
pass was the king of the nation of the Libu, a great man, black and
terrible to see. The Wanderer drew his bow, the arrow rushed forth and
pierced the king, and he fell dead in his chariot. Then those of his
host who passed the ambush turned to fly, but the chariot of the
Wanderer dashed into them, and after the chariot came the horsemen, and
after the horsemen the chariots of Pharaoh.
Now all who were left of the broken host rolled back, mad with fear,
while the spearmen of Pharaoh galled them as hunters gall a flying
bull, and the horsemen of Pharaoh trampled them beneath their feet. Red
slaughter raged all down the pass, helms, banners, arrow-points shone
and fell in the stream of the tide of war, but at length the stony way
was clear save for the dead alone. Beyond the pass the plain was black
with flying men, and the fragments of the broken nations were mixed
together as clay and sand are mixed of the potter. Where now were the
hosts of the Nine-bow barbarians? Where now were their glory and their
pride?
The Wanderer gathered his footmen and his chariots and set them in
array again but the horsemen he sent out to smite the flying nations
and wait his coming by the camp; for there were mustering those who
were left of the nations, perchance twenty thousand men, and before
their ships were ranged the dense ranks of the Achæans, shield to
shield, every man in his place.
The Wanderer led his host slowly across the sandy plain, till at length
he halted it two bow-shots from the camp of the barbarians. The camp
was shaped like a bow, and the river Sihor formed its string, and round
it was a deep ditch and beyond the ditch a wall of clay. Moreover,
within the camp and nearer to the shore there was a second ditch and
wall, and behind it were the beaks of the ships and the host of
Aquaiusha, even of his own dear people the Achæans. There were the old
blazons, and the spears that had fought below Troy town. There were the
two lions of Mycenæ, the Centaur of the son of Polypaetas, son of
Pirithous; there were the Swan of Lacedæmon, and the Bull of the Kings
of Crete, the Rose of Rhodes, the Serpent of Athens, and many another
knightly bearing of old friends and kindred dear. And now they were the
blazons of foemen, and the Wanderer warred for a strange king, and for
his own hand, beneath the wings of the Hawk of the Legion of Ra.
The Wanderer sent heralds forward, calling to those barbarians who
swarmed behind the wall to surrender to the host of Pharaoh, but this,
being entrenched by the river Sihor, they would in nowise do. For they
were mad because of their slaughtered thousands, and moreover they knew
that it is better to die than to live as slaves. This they saw also,
that their host was still as strong as the host of Pharaoh, which was
without the wall, and weary with the heat and stress of battle and the
toil of marching through the desert sands. Now the Captains of the host
of Pharaoh came to the Wanderer, praying him that he would do no more
battle on that day, because the men were weary, and the horses neighed
for food and water.
But he answered them: “I swore to Pharaoh that I would utterly smite
the people of the Nine-bows and drive them down to death, so that the
coasts of Khem may be free of them. Here I may not camp the host,
without food or pasture for the horses, and if I go back, the foe will
gather heart and come on, and with them the fleet of the Achæans, and
no more shall we lure them into ambush, for therein they have learned a
lesson. Nay, get you to your companies. I will go up against the camp.”
Then they bowed and went, for having seen his deeds and his skill and
craft in war, they held him the first of Captains, and dared not say
him nay.
So the Wanderer divided his host into three parts, set it in order of
battle, and moved up against the camp. But he himself went with the
centre part against the gate of the camp, for here there was an earthen
way for chariots, if but the great gates might be passed. And at a word
the threefold host rushed on to the charge. But those within the walls
shot them with spears and arrows, so that many were slain, and they
were rolled back from the wall as a wave is rolled from the cliff.
Again the Wanderer bade them charge on the right and left, bearing the
dead before them as shields, and hurling corpses into the ditch to fill
it. But he himself hung back awhile with the middle army, watching how
the battle went, and waiting till the foe at the gate should be drawn
away.
Now the mercenaries of Pharaoh forced a passage on the right and
thither went many of the barbarians who watched the gate, that they
might drive them back.
Then the Wanderer bade men take out the poles of chariots and follow
him and beat down the gates with the poles. This with much toil and
loss they did, for the archers poured their arrows on the assailants of
the gate. Now at length the gates were down, and the Wanderer rushed
through them with his chariot. But even as he passed the mercenaries of
Pharaoh were driven out from the camp on the right, and those who led
the left attack fled also. The soldiers who should have followed the
Wanderer saw and wavered a little moment, and while they wavered the
companies of the barbarians poured into the gateway and held it so that
none might pass. Now the Wanderer was left alone within the camp, and
back he might not go. But fear came not nigh him, nay, the joy of
battle filled his mighty heart. He cast his shield upon the brazen
floor of the chariot, and cried aloud to the charioteer, as he loosened
the long grey shafts in his quiver.
“Drive on, thou charioteer! Drive on! The jackals leave the lion in the
toils. Drive on! Drive on! and win a glorious death, for thus should
Odysseus die.”
So the charioteer, praying to his Gods, lashed the horses with his
scourge, and they sprang forward madly among the foe. And as they
rushed, the great bow rang and sang the swallow string—rung the bow and
sung the string, and the lean shaft drank the blood of a leader of men.
Again the string sang, again the shaft sped forth, and a barbarian king
fell from his chariot as a diver plunges into the sea, and his teeth
bit the sand.
“Dive deep, thou sea-thief!” cried the Wanderer, “thou mayest find
treasures there! Drive on, thou charioteer, so should lions die while
jackals watch.”
Now the barbarians looked on the Wanderer and were amazed. For ever his
chariot rushed to and fro, across the mustering ground of the camp, and
ever his grey shafts carried death before them, and ever the foemen’s
arrows fell blunted from his golden harness. They looked on him amazed,
they cried aloud that this was the God of War come down to do battle
for Khem, that it was Sutek the Splendid, that it was Baal in his
strength; they fled amain before his glory and his might. For the
Wanderer raged among them like great Rameses Miamun among the tribes of
the Khita; like Monthu, the Lord of Battles, and lo! they fled before
him, their knees gave way, their hearts were turned to water, he drove
them as a herdsman drives the yearling calves.
But now at length a stone from a sling smote the charioteer who
directed the chariot, and sunk in between his eyes, so that he fell
down dead from the chariot. Then the reins flew wide, and the horses
rushed this way and that, having no master. And now a spear pierced the
heart of the horse on the right, so that he fell, and the pole of the
chariot snapped in two. Then the barbarians took heart and turned, and
some of them set on to seize the body of the charioteer, and spoil his
arms. But the Wanderer leaped down and bestrode the corpse with shield
up and spear aloft.
Now among the press of the barbarians there was a stir, as of one
thrusting his way through them to the front. And above the plumes of
their helmets and the tossing of their shields the Wanderer saw the
golden head, unhelmeted, of a man, taller than the tallest there from
the shoulders upwards. Unhelmeted he came and unshielded, with no body
armour. His flesh was very fair and white, and on it were figures
pricked in blue, figures of men and horses, snakes and sea-beasts. The
skin of a white bear was buckled above his shoulder with a golden
clasp, fashioned in the semblance of a boar. His eyes were blue, fierce
and shining, and in his hand he held for a weapon the trunk of a young
pine-tree, in which was hafted a weighty axe-head of rough unpolished
stone.
“Give way!” he cried. “Give place, ye dusky dwarfs, and let a man see
this champion!”
So the barbarians made a circle about the Wanderer and the giant, and
stood silently to watch a great fight.
“Who art thou?” said the mighty man disdainfully, “and whence? Where is
thy city, and thy parents who begat thee?”
“Now I will avow that men call me Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, Laertes’
son, a Prince of the Achæans,” said the Wanderer. “And who art thou, I
pray thee, and where is thy native place, for city, I wot, thou hast
none?”
Then the mighty man, swinging his great stone axe in a rhythmic motion,
began to chant a rude lay, and this was the manner of the singing—
“Laestrygons men
And Cimmerians call us
Born of the land
Of the sunless winter,
Born of the land
Of the nightless summer:
Cityless, we,
Beneath dark pine boughs,
By the sea abiding
Sail o’er the swan’s bath.
_Wolf_ am I hight,
The son of Signy,
Son of the were-wolf.
Southwards I sailed,
Sailed with the amber,
Sailed with the foam-wealth.
Among strange peoples,
Winning me wave-flame,[*]
Winning me war-fame,
Winning me women.
Soon shall I slay thee,
Sacker of Cities!”
[*] Gold.
With that, and with a cry, he rushed on the Wanderer, his great axe
swung aloft, to fell him at a blow.
But while the giant had been singing, the Wanderer had shifted his
place a little, so that the red blaze of the setting sun was in his
face. And as the mighty man came on, the Wanderer lifted up his golden
shield and caught the sunlight on it, and flashed it full in the
giant’s eyes, so that he was dazzled, and could not see to strike. Then
the Wanderer smote at his naked right arm, and struck it on the joint
of the elbow; with all his force he smote, and the short sword of
Euryalus bit deep, and the arm fell, with the axe in the hand-grip. But
so terrible was the stroke that bronze might not abide it, and the
blade was shattered from the ivory handle.
“Didst thou feel aught, thou Man-eater?” cried Odysseus, jeering, for
he knew from the song of the giant that he was face to face with a
wanderer from an evil race, that of old had smitten his ships and
devoured his men—the Laestrygons of the land of the Midnight Sun, the
Man-eaters.
But the giant caught up his club of pine-tree in his left hand, the
severed right arm still clinging to it. And he gnawed on the handle of
the stone axe with his teeth, and bit the very stone, and his lips
foamed, for a fury came upon him. Roaring aloud, suddenly he smote at
the Wanderer’s head, and beat down his shield, and crushed his golden
helm so that he fell on one knee, and all was darkness around him. But
his hands lit on a great stone, for the place where they fought was the
holy place of an ancient temple, old and ruined before King Mena’s day.
He grasped the stone with both hands; it was the basalt head of a
fallen statue of a God or a man, of a king long nameless, or of a
forgotten God. With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose,
it was a weight of a chariot’s burden, and poising it, he hurled it
straight at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling
his axe, before he smote another blow. But ere ever the stroke fell,
the huge stone struck him full and broke in his breast bone, and he
staggered long, and fell like a tree, and the black blood came up
through his bearded lips, and his life left him.
Then the multitude of the barbarians that stood gazing at the fray drew
yet further back in fear, and the Wanderer laughed like a God at that
old score paid, and at the last great stroke of the hands of the
City-sacker, Odysseus.
CHAPTER VIII.
“TILL ODYSSEUS COMES!”
The Wanderer laughed like a God, though he deemed that the end was
near, and the foes within the camp and the friends without looked on
him and wondered.
“Slay him!” cried the foes within, speaking in many tongues. “Slay
him!” they cried, and yet they feared the task, but circled round like
hounds about a mighty boar at bay.
“Spare him!” shouted the host of the Achæans, watching the fray from
far, as they stood behind their inner wall, for as yet they had not
mingled in the battle but stayed by their ships to guard them.
“Rescue!” cried the Captains of Pharaoh without, but none came on to
force the way.
Then of a sudden, as Fate hung upon the turn, a great cry of fear and
wonder rose from the ranks of Pharaoh’s host beyond the wall. It
swelled and swelled till at length the cry took the sound of a name—the
sound of the name of _Hathor_.
“The Hathor! the Hathor! See, the Hathor comes!”
The Wanderer turned his head and looked swiftly. A golden chariot sped
down the slope of sand towards the gate of the camp. The milk-white
horses were stained with sweat and splashed with blood. They thundered
on towards the gate down the way that was red with blood, as the horses
of the dawn rush through the blood-red sky. A little man, withered and
old, drove the chariot, leaning forward as he drove, and by his side
stood the Golden Helen. The Red Star blazed upon her breast, her hair
and filmy robes floated on the wind.
She looked up and forth. Now she saw him, Odysseus of Ithaca, her love,
alone, beset with foes, and a cry broke from her. She tore away the
veil that hid her face, and her beauty flashed out upon the sight of
men as the moon flashes from the evening mists. She pointed to the
gate, she stretched out her arms towards the host of Pharaoh, bidding
them look upon her and follow her. Then a shout went up from the host,
and they rushed onwards in the path of the chariot, for where the Helen
leads there men must follow through Life to Death, through War to
Peace.
On the chariot rushed to the camp, and after it the host of Pharaoh
followed. The holders of the gate saw the beauty of her who rode in the
chariot; they cried aloud in many tongues that the Goddess of Love had
come to save the God of War. They fled this way and that, or stood
drunken with the sight of beauty, and were dashed down by the horses
and crushed of the chariot wheels. Now she had passed the gates, and
after her poured the host of Pharaoh. Now Rei reined up the horses by
the broken chariot of the Wanderer, and now the Wanderer, with a shout
of joy, had sprung into the chariot of Helen.
“And art thou come to be with me in my last battle?” he whispered in
her ear. “Art thou indeed that Argive Helen whom I love, or am I drunk
with the blood of men and blind with the sheen of spears, and is this
the vision of a man doomed to die?”
“It is no vision, Odysseus, for I am Helen’s self,” she answered
gently. “I have learned all the truth, and knowing thy fault, count it
but a little thing. Yet because thou didst forget the words of the
immortal Goddess, who, being my foe now and for ever, set this cunning
snare for thee, the doom is on thee, that Helen shall not be thine in
this space of life. For thou fightest in thy last battle, Odysseus. On!
see thy hosts clamour to be led, and there the foe hangs black as storm
and shoots out the lightning of his spears. On, Odysseus, on! that the
doom may be accomplished, and the word of the Ghost fulfilled!”
Then the Wanderer turned and called to the Captains, and the Captains
called to the soldiers and set them in array, and following the
blood-red Star they rolled down upon the gathered foe as the tide rolls
upon the rocks when the breath of the gale is strong; and as the waters
leap and gather till the rocks are lost in the surge, so the host of
Pharaoh leapt upon the foe and swallowed them up. And ever in the
forefront of the war blazed the Red Star on Helen’s breast, and ever
the sound of her singing pierced the din of death.
Now the host of the Nine-bow barbarians was utterly destroyed, and the
host of Pharaoh came up against the wall that was set about the camp of
the Achæans to guard their ships, and at its head came the golden
chariot wherein were the Wanderer and Helen. The Captains of the
Achæans looked wondering from their wall, watching the slaughter of
their allies.
“Now, who is this?” cried a Captain, “who is this clad in golden armour
fashioned like our own, who leads the host of Pharaoh to victory?”
Then a certain aged leader of men looked forth and answered:
“Such armour I have known indeed, and such a man once wore it. The
armour is fashioned like the armour of Paris, Priam’s son—Paris of
Ilios; but Paris hath long been dead.”
“And who is she,” cried the Captain, “she on whose breast a Red Star
burns, who rides in the chariot of him with the golden armour, whose
shape is the shape of Beauty, and who sings aloud while men go down to
death?”
Then the aged leader of men looked forth again and answered:
“Such a one have I known, indeed; so she was wont to sing, and hers was
such a shape of beauty, and such a Star shone ever on her breast. Helen
of Ilios—Argive Helen it was who wore it—Helen, because of whose
loveliness the world grew dark with death; but long is Helen dead.”
Now the Wanderer glanced from his chariot and saw the crests of the
Achæans and the devices on the shields of men with whose fathers he had
fought beneath the walls of Ilios. He saw and his heart was stirred
within him, so that he wept there in the chariot.
“Alas! for the fate that is on me,” he cried, “that I must make my last
battle in the service of a stranger against my own people and the
children of my own dear friends.”
“Weep not, Odysseus,” said Helen, “for Fate drives thee on—Fate that is
cruel and changeless, and heeds not the loves or hates of men. Weep
not, Odysseus, but go on up against the Achæans, for from among them
thy death comes.”
So the Wanderer went on, sick at heart, shooting no shafts and striking
no blow, and after him came the remnant of the host of Pharaoh. Then he
halted the host, and at his bidding Rei drove slowly down the wall
seeking a place to storm it, and as he drove they shot at the chariot
from the wall with spears and slings and arrows. But not yet was the
Wanderer doomed. He took no hurt, nor did any hurt come to Rei nor to
the horses that drew the chariot, and as for Helen, the shafts of Death
knew her and turned aside. Now while they drove thus Rei told the
Wanderer of the death of Pharaoh, of the burning of the Temple of
Hathor, and of the flight of Helen. The Wanderer hearkened and said but
one thing, for in all this he saw the hand of Fate.
“It is time to make an end, Rei, for soon will Meriamun be seeking us,
and methinks that I have left a trail that she can follow,” and he
nodded at the piled-up dead that stretched further than the eye could
reach.
Now they were come over against that spot in the wall where stood the
aged Captain of the Achæans, who had likened the armour of the Wanderer
to the armour of Paris, and the beauty of her at his side to the beauty
of Argive Helen.
The Captain loosed his bow at the chariot, and leaning forward watched
the flight of the shaft. It rushed straight at Helen’s breast, then of
a sudden turned aside, harming her not. And as he marvelled she lifted
her face and looked towards him. Then he saw and knew her for that
Helen whom he had seen while he served with Cretan Idomeneus in the
Argive ships, when the leaguer was done and the smoke went up from
burning Ilios.
Again he looked, and lo! on the Wanderer’s golden shield he saw the
White Bull, the device of Paris, son of Priam, as ofttimes he had seen
it glitter on the walls of Troy. Then great fear took him, and he
lifted up his hands and cried aloud:
“Fly, ye Achæans! Fly! Back to your curved ships and away from this
accursed land. For yonder in the chariot stands Argive Helen, who is
long dead, and with her Paris, son of Priam, come to wreak the woes of
Ilios on the sons of those who wasted her. Fly, ere the curse smite
you.”
Then a great cry of fear rose from the host of the Achæans, as company
called to company that the ghosts of Paris of Ilios and Argive Helen
led the armies of Pharaoh on to victory. A moment they gazed as
frightened sheep gaze upon the creeping wolves, then turning from the
wall, they rushed headlong to their ships.
Behind them came the soldiers of Pharaoh, storming the walls and
tearing at their flanks as wolves tear the flying sheep. Then the
Achæans turned at bay, and a mighty fray raged round the ships, and the
knees of many were loosened. And of the ships, some were burned and
some were left upon the bank. But a remnant of them were pushed off
into the deep water, and hung there on their oars waiting for the end
of the fray.
Now the sun was gone down, so that men could scarce see to slay each
other. The Wanderer stood his chariot on the bank, watching the battle,
for he was weary, and had little mind to swell the slaughter of the
people of his own land.
Now the last ship was pushed off, and at length the great battle was
done. But among those on the ship was a man still young, and the
goodliest and mightiest among all the host of the Achæans. By his own
strength and valour he had held the Egyptians back while his comrades
ran the curved ship down the beach, and the Wanderer, looking on him,
deemed him their hardiest warrior and most worthy of the Achæans.
He stood upon the poop of the ship, and saw the light from the burning
vessels gleam on the Wanderer’s golden helm. Then of a sudden he drew a
mighty bow and loosed an arrow charged with death.
“This gift to the Ghost of Paris from Telegonus, son of Circe and of
Odysseus, who was Paris’ foe,” he cried with a loud voice.
And as he cried it, and as the fateful words struck on the ears of
Odysseus and the ears of Helen, the shaft, pointed by the Gods, rushed
on. It rushed on, it smote the Wanderer with a deadly wound where the
golden body-plate of his harness joined the taslets, and pierced him
through. Then he knew that his fate was accomplished, and that death
came upon him from the water, as the ghost of Tiresias in Hades had
foretold. In his pain, for the last time of all, he let fall his shield
and the black bow of Eurytus. With one hand he clasped the rail of the
chariot and the other he threw about the neck of the Golden Helen, who
bent beneath his weight like a lily before the storm. Then he also
cried aloud in answer:
“Oh, Telegonus, son of Circe, what wickedness hast thou wrought before
the awful Gods that this curse should have been laid upon thee to slay
him who begat thee? Hearken, thou son of Circe, I am not Paris, I am
Odysseus of Ithaca, who begat thee, and thou hast brought my death upon
me from the water, as the Ghost foretold.”
When Telegonus heard these words, and knew that he had slain his
father, the famed Odysseus, whom he had sought the whole world through,
he would have cast himself into the river, there to drown, but those
with him held him by strength, and the stream took the curved ship and
floated it away. And thus for the first and last time did the Gods give
it to Telegonus to look upon the face and hear the voice of his father,
Odysseus.
But when the Achæans knew that it was the lost Odysseus who had led the
host of Pharaoh against the armies of the Nine Nations, they wondered
no more at the skill of the ambush and the greatness of the victory of
Pharaoh.
Now the chariots of Meriamun were pursuing, and they splashed through
the blood of men in the pass, and rolled over the bodies of men in the
plain beyond the pass. They came to the camps and found them peopled
with dead, and lit with the lamps of the blazing ships of the
Aquaiusha. Then Meriamun cried aloud:
“Surely Pharaoh grew wise before he died, for there is but one man on
the earth who with so small a force could have won so great a fray. He
hath saved the crown of Khem, and by Osiris he shall wear it.”
Now the chariots of Meriamun had passed the camp of the barbarians, and
were come to the inner camp of the Achæans, and the soldiers shouted as
she came driving furiously.
The Wanderer lay dying on the ground, there by the river-bank, and the
light of the burning ships flamed on his golden armour, and on the Star
at Helen’s breast.
“Why do the soldiers shout?” he asked, lifting his head from Helen’s
breast.
“They shout because Meriamun the Queen is come,” Rei answered.
“Let her come,” said the Wanderer.
Now Meriamun sprang from her chariot and walked, through the soldiers
who made way, bowing before her royalty, to where the Wanderer lay, and
stood speechless looking on him.
But the Wanderer lifting his head spake faintly:
“Hail! O Queen!” he said, “I have accomplished the charge that Pharaoh
laid upon me. The host of the Nine-bow barbarians is utterly destroyed,
the fleet of the Aquaiusha is burned, or fled, the land of Khem is free
from foes. Where is Pharaoh, that I may make report to him ere I die?”
“Pharaoh is dead, Odysseus,” she answered. “Oh, live on! live on! and
thyself thou shalt be Pharaoh.”
“Ay, Meriamun the Queen,” answered the Wanderer, “I know all. The
Pharaoh is dead! Thou didst slay Pharaoh, thinking thus to win me for
thy Lord, me, who am won of Death. Heavily shall the blood of Pharaoh
lie upon thee in that land whither I go, Meriamun, and whither thou
must follow swiftly. Thou didst slay Pharaoh, and Helen, who through
thy guile is lost to me, thou wouldst have slain also, but thou couldst
not harm her immortality. And now I die, and this is the end of all
these Loves and Wars and Wanderings. My death has come upon me from the
water.”
Meriamun stood speechless, for her heart was torn in two, so that in
her grief she forgot even her rage against Helen and Rei the Priest.
Then Helen spoke. “Thou diest indeed, Odysseus, yet it is but for a
little time, for thou shalt come again and find me waiting.”
“Ay, Odysseus,” said the Queen, “and I also will come again, and thou
shalt love me then. Oh, now the future opens, and I know the things
that are to be. Beneath the Wings of Truth shall we meet again,
Odysseus.”
“There shall we meet again, Odysseus, and there thou shalt draw the
Veil of Truth,” said the Helen.
“Yea,” quoth the dying Wanderer; “there or otherwhere shall we meet
again, and there and otherwhere love and hate shall lose and win, and
die to arise again. But not yet is the struggle ended that began in
other worlds than this, and shall endure till evil is lost in good, and
darkness swallowed up in light. Bethink thee, Meriamun, of that vision
of thy bridal night, and read its riddle. Lo! I will answer it with my
last breath as the Gods have given me wisdom. When we three are once
more twain, then shall our sin be purged and peace be won, and the veil
be drawn from the face of Truth. Oh, Helen, fare thee well! I have
sinned against thee, I have sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by
the Star, and therefore I have lost thee.”
“Thou hast but lost to find again beyond the Gateways of the West,” she
answered low.
Then she bent down, and taking him in her arms, kissed him, whispering
in his ear, and the blood of men that fell ever from the Star upon her
breast, dropped like dew upon his brow, and vanished as it dropped.
And as she whispered of joy to be, and things too holy to be written,
the face of the Wanderer grew bright, like the face of a God.
Then suddenly his head fell back, and he was dead, dead upon the heart
of the World’s Desire. For thus was fulfilled the oath of Idalian
Aphrodite, and thus at the last did Odysseus lie in the arms of the
Golden Helen.
Now Meriamun clasped her breast, and her lips turned white with pain.
But Helen rose, and standing at the Wanderer’s head looked on Meriamun,
who stood at his feet.
“My sister,” said Helen to the Queen; “see now the end of all. He whom
we loved is lost to us, and what hast thou gained? Nay, look not so
fiercely on me. I may not be harmed of thee, as thou hast seen, and
thou mayest not be harmed of me, who would harm none, though ever thou
wilt hate me who hate thee not, and till thou learnest to love me, Sin
shall be thy portion and Bitterness thy comfort.”
But Meriamun spoke no word.
Then Helen beckoned to Rei and spake to him, and Rei went weeping to do
her bidding.
Presently he returned again, and with him were soldiers bearing
torches. The soldiers lifted up the body of the Wanderer, and bore it
to a mighty pyre that was built up of the wealth of the barbarians, of
chariots, spears, and the oars of ships, of wondrous fabrics, and
costly furniture. And they laid the Wanderer on the pyre, and on his
breast they laid the black bow of Eurytus.
Then Helen spoke to Rei once more, and Rei took a torch and fired the
pyre so that smoke and flame burst from it. And all the while Meriamun
stood by as one who dreams.
Now the great pyre was a mass of flame, and the golden armour of the
Wanderer shone through the flame, and the black bow twisted and
crumbled in the heat. Then of a sudden Meriamun gave a great cry, and
tearing the snake girdle from her middle hurled it on the flames.
“From fire thou camest, thou Ancient Evil,” she said in a dead tongue;
“to fire get thee back again, false counsellor.”
But Rei the Priest called aloud in the same tongue:
“An ill deed thou hast done, O Queen, for thou hast taken the Snake to
thy bosom, and where the Snake passes there thou must follow.”
Even as he spoke the face of Meriamun grew fixed, and she was drawn
slowly towards the fire, as though by invisible hands. Now she stood on
its very brink, and now with one loud wail she plunged into it and cast
herself at length on the body of the Wanderer.
And as she lay there on the body, behold the Snake awoke in the fire.
It awoke, it grew, it twined itself about the body of Meriamun and the
body of the Wanderer, and lifting its head, it laughed.
Then the fire fell in, and the Wanderer and Meriamun the Queen, and the
Snake that wrapped them round, vanished in the heart of the flames.
For awhile the Golden Helen stood still, looking on the dying fire.
Then she let her veil fall, and turning, wandered forth into the desert
and the night, singing as she passed.
And so she goes, wandering, wandering, till Odysseus comes again.
Now this is the tale that I, Rei the Priest, have been bidden to set
forth before I lay me down to sleep in my splendid tomb that I have
made ready by Thebes. Let every man read it as he will, and every woman
as the Gods have given her wit.
THE END
PALINODE
Thou that of old didst blind Stesichorus,
If e’er, sweet Helen, such a thing befell,
We pray thee of thy grace, be good to us,
Though little in our tale accordeth well
With that thine ancient minstrel had to tell,
Who saw, with sightless eyes grown luminous,
These Ilian sorrows, and who heard the swell
Of ocean round the world ring thunderous,
And thy voice break when knightly Hector fell!
And thou who all these many years hast borne
To see the great webs of the weaving torn
By puny hands of dull, o’er-learned men,
Homer, forgive us that thy hero’s star
Once more above sea waves and waves of war,
Must rise, must triumph, and must set again!