WHAT HAPPENED WHEN MENNA, SON OF MENNA, WENT A-WOOING
The ruined Shrine of Mentuhotep lay somewhat to the north of the great
sandstone mortuary-temple of Amenhotep III.
Fronting it stood a dwarf pyramid surrounded by brightly-painted columned
porticos. Far to the south stretched Queen Thi’s beautiful “pleasure
lake,” which seemed, at this distance, a veritable bowl of gold rimmed
with emeralds. The glowing walls and avenues of stately trees which
marked Queen Hatshepsut’s terraced temple, shut it in toward the north.
High above, and seemingly ever in danger of crashing down upon it,
towered the precipitous and ever crumbling masses of the purple Libyan
Hills.
The way thither led along the Necropolis Route, a high-banked road which
passed immediately in front of the obelisks and twin statues fronting
the granite threshold of Amenhotep’s stupendous mortuary-temple.
At this season of the year the wayfarer might appreciate the full height
of the waters of the inundation, since their turgid reaches now swirled
about the walls of the Royal Palace to the south, and lapped the high
walls of Amenhotep’s mortuary temple itself, though the latter’s massive
walls and pylons stood well back upon the edge of that crescent-shaped
strip of land whose upper reaches had been set apart by the Thebans from
time immemorial, as their place of burial.
This late afternoon the waters flashed like streams of fire as the sun
sank ever lower, ever more rapidly it seemed, toward the low blue line
of the southern hills which sheltered Erment, city of the falcon-headed
Wargod.
The arid sand-drifts, which stretched along the lower slopes of the
Theban hills, seemed composed rather of snow than sand, so brilliant was
the glare, so clear the atmosphere.
Most welcome to the eye were the villa-gardens of the nobles, with their
deep green groves of date palm, sycamore and acacia. Many resembled
little islands that seemed to float upon the flashing waters.
But neither desert glare nor flashing water could detain Prince Menna.
Within the hour Atum, the evening sun, would sink below the southern
hills; the cool north breeze would spring up, as was its custom.
Menna’s chair-bearers had stood before his villa door an hour ahead of
time. Bentu, their chief, placed his hands upon his heart and gazed
heavenward, simulating the ardent lover. Another love-affair, without a
doubt.
Such missions meant _uten_, necklaces or rings; a spree at Hentiu’s at
any rate, and Bentu loved the very sight of a bursting wine-skin!
Bentu’s speculations were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the
doorkeeper. With a knowing wink at Bentu the latter obsequiously bowed,
as Menna strode through the curtained door.
Another moment and Menna, Superintendent of the King’s estates, high
above the shoulders of six stalwart Nubians, was borne swiftly along the
highway which led to the northern end of the curving Theban Plain.
Taking his cue from the gorgeous costume scarcely concealed beneath his
master’s fringed and brightly colored Syrian cloak, Bentu launched into
one of Ata’s love-songs. His grinning comrades punctuated each verse with
a staccato “ha-ha, o-ay!”
Menna sank back against his cushions; he smiled. It pleased him that this
black shadow of his had divined his mission. Nay, Menna felt himself so
at peace with the world that he gave command to allow a peasant’s all
too-heavily laden donkey to pass unchallenged, an unheard of proceeding
on the part of a Theban noble!
Bentu’s hopes rose. Under such circumstances all things were possible. He
might receive a jeweled necklace, golden bars; a small farm, perhaps.
Indeed, Bentu’s expectations assumed so rosy an aspect, that he broke
into a dance, clapping his hands or snapping his fingers in time to
his leapings and posturings, quite in the manner of the Nubians, the
curly-headed people to the south.
With the sudden disappearance of the swollen sun-disk behind the deep
blue hills of Erment, song and dance abruptly ceased. Menna indicated
that he would descend from his chair, and all, master and men together,
addressed a short prayer for the success of the Sun-god in his ceaseless
conflict with Apep, Fiend of Darkness.
Piety was a habit with Menna, as with Bentu and the rest.
This done, once more Menna’s chair swung along the high embankment. Once
again the warning shouts or blows from the forked staff of Bentu kept the
narrow way free.
Arrived before the tree-set entrance to the Temple of Thothmes, Menna
left his servants and continued westward, past Amenhotep the Second’s
temple, on foot. Soon his tall figure was lost among the groves of
cedars, karobs and acacias with which the tomb precincts of the nobles
Senmut, Ra, and Rekmara, were thickly planted.
Passing the great monument of the architect Senmut, from which vantage
point the great cedar which marked the tomb precinct of his father
and mother was visible, Menna turned towards the yellow terraces of
Hatshepsut’s ivory-columned temple. To the left, he could already
distinguish the little pyramid and the terraced colonades of the
Mentuhotep Shrine, near which was the spot he sought. A few minutes more
and he had crossed the ruined forecourt of that ancient king’s memorial
shrine.
For a moment Menna looked about him. He consulted a memorandum which he
took from his jeweled belt. Then again, with an anticipatory smile, he
ascended to the highest terrace and suddenly vanished into a dark opening
which seemed to lead into the very face of the stupendous cliffs which
towered above.
Menna was soon in total darkness. He felt himself descending a long,
narrow passage-way pitched at a very steep incline. He must have gone
some two hundred paces when he felt, rather than saw the glow of a light.
Soon he could distinguish the polished surface of the granite slabs with
which the narrow walls were faced.
All was well! The Princess awaited him!
Standing in the opening of the doorway, Menna softly spoke her name.
The Princess did not answer, but stood well back within the shadows of
an alabaster naos, a shrine which, centuries before, had held a statue
of the deified king, Mentuhotep. At the right he saw a dark and narrow
doorway in which were visible a few ascending steps cut in the rock.
The slim figure of the Princess was concealed beneath a long Memphite
cloak. She appeared not to have heard his greeting.
Again Menna softly called her name: “Sesen! My Lily, My Lotus! Behold thy
lover, O Daughter of Hathor!”
Still the figure was silent. Smilingly Menna drew near; he understood.
With a wealth of flattering phrases on his lips, he sought to catch her
to him. As he did so, the figure turned, and revealed to his astounded
gaze the burning eyes of Hanit, of Hanit the former Queen!
Yet, Hanit was dead! He had seen her embalmed body laid away in her
rock-hewn tomb!
With a hoarse and inarticulate cry Menna turned and fled. ’Twas the
visible _ka_ of the outraged queen, ’twas Hanit’s vindictive _double_!
Nay, it ’twas Hanit herself, whose mummified form he himself had seen,
what time Huy, the Great High Priest, had performed the last rites, with
the ceremonial opening of the eyes, the ears, the mouth! Had not he
himself placed a wreath upon her well-swathed form, and thereafter seen
the coffin lowered in her rock-hewn tomb?
As Menna stumbled up the steep incline of the rock-hewn passage, black
horror seized upon him; a paralyzing terror rose from his throbbing heart
and mounted to his numbed brain. He tore the heavy gold chains and the
jeweled _wesekh_ from his throat. He felt that he was choking.
“Breath of Ra! The doorway, air, light, the blessed daylight!”
As Menna groped his way up the passage he heard in front of him, a dull
thud as of some heavy falling body. For a moment his headlong flight was
arrested. The solid rock beneath his feet seemed to tremble. He rushed up
the last few yards of the narrow corridor and came suddenly in violent
contact with an immovable block of polished granite.
A cold perspiration burst out upon his forehead; his knees trembled
beneath him. He was trapped.
The overseer made a last attempt to think clearly. For a few moments he
succeeded in stifling the terror that gripped his heart.
Menna carefully felt the walls over and over again to left, to right,
in front! Not a crack nor a crevice. Always that granite door! In an
agony of fear Menna hurled himself against it. He shrieked, he raved, he
cursed.
Finally the Overseer, no longer human, turned and crept back along the
granite passage-way. The dust of centuries rose into his throat and
filled his lungs. Its fine, impalpable particles got into his eyes. The
droppings of innumerable bats covered his robes; his scented wig had
fallen from his head.
Slowly Menna scrambled down the passage, now in a crouching position, now
on all fours. His blood-red eyes gleamed in the gloomy obscurity like
those of a savage panther of the south. Blood trickled slowly from his
inflamed nostrils; his lips were drawn far back upon the gums, as if he
snarled.
Menna stood again in the shrine-chamber. The light still flickered
along its granite sides, upon the ivory-toned naos and the figures and
hieroglyphs with which it was decorated. The prince gazed wildly about
him. Even the ponderous inner door had now swung into place.
Stretching out his bleeding hands he approached the huge shrine. He would
cast himself upon the mercy of Hanit’s vengeful spirit, for by now Menna
was long past fear of _bas_ or _kas_, of “_ghosts_” or “_doubles_!” He
called her name as, with outstretched hands he shuffled hesitatingly
towards the shrine.
Hanit had vanished!
With a low moan Menna crumpled up and pitched headlong at the foot of the
shrine. Above his head the light brightened for an instant, then slowly
sank and, suddenly, vanished. Once again the painted forms of gods and
demons alone reigned supreme amidst the fetid heat and darkness.