Klea obeyed the high-priest’s command at once, and wandered--not knowing
exactly whither--from one corridor to another of the huge pile, till she
was startled by the sound of the great brazen plate, struck with mighty
blows, which rang out to the remotest nook and corner of the precincts.
This call was for her too, and she went forthwith into the great
court of assembly, which at every moment grew fuller and fuller. The
temple-servants and the keepers of the beasts, the gate-keepers,
the litter-bearers, the water-carriers-all streamed in from their
interrupted meal, some wiping their mouths as they hurried in, or still
holding in their hands a piece of bread, a radish, or a date which they
hastily munched; the washer-men and women came in with hands still wet
from washing the white robes of the priests, and the cooks arrived with
brows still streaming from their unfinished labors. Perfumes floated
round from the unwashed hands of the pastophori, who had been busied in
the laboratories in the preparation of incense, while from the library
and writing-rooms came the curators and scribes and the officials of
the temple counting-house, their hair in disorder, and their light
working-dress stained with red or black. The troop of singers, male
and female, came in orderly array, just as they had been assembled for
practice, and with them came the faded twins to whom Klea and Irene had
been designated as successors by Asclepiodorus. Then came the pupils of
the temple-school, tumbling noisily into the court-yard in high delight
at this interruption to their lessons. The eldest of these were sent
to bring in the great canopy under which the heads of the establishment
might assemble.
Last of all appeared Asclepiodorus, who handed to a young scribe a
complete list of all the inhabitants and members of the temple, that he
might read it out. This he proceeded to do; each one answered with an
audible “Here” as his name was called, and for each one who was absent
information was immediately given as to his whereabouts.
Klea had joined the singing-women, and awaited in breathless anxiety a
long-endlessly long-time for the name of her sister to be called; for it
was not till the very smallest of the school-boys and the lowest of the
neat-herds had answered, “Here,” that the scribe read out, “Klea, the
water-bearer,” and nodded to her in answer as she replied “Here!”
Then his voice seemed louder than before as he read. “Irene, the
water-bearer.”
No answer following on these words, a slight movement, like the bowing
wave that flies over a ripe cornfield when the morning breeze sweeps
across the ears, was evident among the assembled inhabitants of the
temple, who waited in breathless silence till Asclepiodorus stood forth,
and said in a distinct and audible voice:
“You have all met here now at my call. All have obeyed it excepting
those holy men consecrated to Serapis, whose vows forbid their breaking
their seclusion, and Irene, the water-bearer. Once more I call, ‘Irene,’
a second, and a third time--and still no answer; I now appeal to you all
assembled here, great and small, men and women who serve Serapis. Can
any one of you give any information as to the whereabouts of this young
girl? Has any one seen her since, at break of day, she placed the first
libation from the Well of the Sun on the altar of the god? You are all
silent! Then no one has met her in the course of this day? Now, one
question more, and whoever can answer it stand forth and speak the words
of truth.
“By which gate did this lady of rank depart who visited the temple early
this morning?--By the eastern gate--good.
“Was she alone?--She was.
“By which gate did the epistolographer Eulaeus depart?--By the east.
“Was he alone?--He was.
“Did any one here present meet the chariot either of the lady or of
Eulaeus?”
“I did,” cried a car-driver, whose daily duty it was to go to Memphis
with his oxen and cart to fetch provisions for the kitchen, and other
necessaries.
“Speak,” said the high-priest.
“I saw,” replied the man, “the white horses of my Lord Eulaeus hard
by the vineyard of Khakem; I know them well. They were harnessed to a
closed chariot, in which besides himself sat a lady.”
“Was it Irene?” asked Asclepiodorus.
“I do not know,” replied the tarter, “for I could not see who sat in the
chariot, but I heard the voice of Eulaeus, and then a woman’s laugh. She
laughed so heartily that I had to screw my mouth up myself, it tickled
me so.”
While Klea supposed this description to apply to Irene’s merry
laugh-which she had never thought of with regret till this moment--the
high-priest exclaimed:
“You, keeper of the eastern gate, did the lady and Eulaeus enter and
leave this sanctuary together?”
“No,” was the answer. “She came in half an hour later than he did, and
she quitted the temple quite alone and long after the eunuch.”
“And Irene did not pass through your gate, and cannot have gone out by
it?--I ask you in the name of the god we serve!”
“She may have done so, holy father,” answered the gate-keeper in much
alarm. “I have a sick child, and to look after him I went into my room
several times; but only for a few minutes at a time-still, the gate
stands open, all is quiet in Memphis now.”
“You have done very wrong,” said Asclepiodorus severely, “but since you
have told the truth you may go unpunished. We have learned enough. All
you gate-keepers now listen to me. Every gate of the temple must be
carefully shut, and no one--not even a pilgrim nor any dignitary from
Memphis, however high a personage he may be--is to enter or go out
without my express permission; be as alert as if you feared an attack,
and now go each of you to his duties.”
The assembly dispersed; these to one side, those to another.
Klea did not perceive that many looked at her with suspicion as
though she were responsible for her sister’s conduct, and others with
compassion; she did not even notice the twin-sisters, whose place she
and Irene were to have filled, and this hurt the feelings of the good
elderly maidens, who had to perform so much lamenting which they did not
feel at all, that they eagerly seized every opportunity of expressing
their feelings when, for once in a way, they were moved to sincere
sorrow. But neither these sympathizing persons nor any other of the
inhabitants of the temple, who approached Klea with the purpose of
questioning or of pitying her, dared to address her, so stern and
terrible was the solemn expression of her eyes which she kept fixed upon
the ground.
At last she remained alone in the great court; her heart beat faster
unusual, and strange and weighty thoughts were stirring in her soul.
One thing was clear to her: Eulaeus--her father’s ruthless foe and
destroyer--was now also working the fall of the child of the man he
had ruined, and, though she knew it not, the high-priest shared her
suspicions. She, Klea, was by no means minded to let this happen without
an effort at defence, and it even became clearer and clearer to her mind
that it was her duty to act, and without delay. In the first instance
she would ask counsel of her friend Serapion; but as she approached his
cell the gong was sounded which summoned the priests to service, and at
the same time warned her of her duty of fetching water.
Mechanically, and still thinking of nothing but Irene’s deliverance, she
fulfilled the task which she was accustomed to perform every day at the
sound of this brazen clang, and went to her room to fetch the golden
jars of the god.
As she entered the empty room her cat sprang to meet her with two leaps
of joy, putting up her back, rubbing her soft head against her feet with
her fine bushy tail ringed with black stripes set up straight, as
cats are wont only when they are pleased. Klea was about to stroke the
coaxing animal, but it sprang back, stared at her shyly, and, as she
could not help thinking, angrily with its green eyes, and then shrank
back into the corner close to Irene’s couch.
“She mistook me!” thought Klea. “Irene is more lovable than I even to a
beast, and Irene, Irene--” She sighed deeply at the name, and would have
sunk down on her trunk there to consider of new ways and means--all of
which however she was forced to reject as foolish and impracticable--but
on the chest lay a little shirt she had begun to make for little
Philo, and this reminded her again of the sick child and of the duty of
fetching the water.
Without further delay she took up the jars, and as she went towards the
well she remembered the last precepts that had been given her by her
father, whom she had once been permitted to visit in prison. Only a few
detached sentences of this, his last warning speech, now came into
her mind, though no word of it had escaped her memory; it ran much as
follows:
“It may seem as though I had met with an evil recompense from the gods
for my conduct in adhering to what I think just and virtuous; but it
only seems so, and so long as I succeed in living in accordance with
nature, which obeys an everlasting law, no man is justified in accusing
me. My own peace of mind especially will never desert me so long as I do
not set myself to act in opposition to the fundamental convictions of my
inmost being, but obey the doctrines of Zeno and Chrysippus. This peace
every one may preserve, aye, even you, a woman, if you constantly do
what you recognize to be right, and fulfil the duties you take upon
yourself. The very god himself is proof and witness of this doctrine,
for he grants to him who obeys him that tranquillity of spirit which
must be pleasing in his eyes, since it is the only condition of the soul
in which it appears to be neither fettered and hindered nor tossed and
driven; while he, on the contrary, who wanders from the paths of virtue
and of her daughter, stern duty, never attains peace, but feels the
torment of an unsatisfied and hostile power, which with its hard grip
drags his soul now on and now back.
“He who preserves a tranquil mind is not miserable, even in misfortune,
and thankfully learns to feel con tented in every state of life; and
that because he is filled with those elevated sentiments which are
directly related to the noblest portion of his being--those, I mean--of
justice and goodness. Act then, my child, in conformity with justice
and duty, regardless of any ulterior object, without considering
whether your action will bring you pleasure or pain, without fear of the
judgment of men or the envy of the gods, and you will win that peace of
mind which distinguishes the wise from the unwise, and may be happy
even in adverse circumstances; for the only real evil is the dominion of
wickedness, that is to say the unreason which rebels against nature, and
the only true happiness consists in the possession of virtue. He alone,
however, can call virtue his who possesses it wholly, and sins not
against it in the smallest particular; for there is no difference of
degrees either in good or in evil, and even the smallest action opposed
to duty, truth or justice, though punishable by no law, is a sin, and
stands in opposition to virtue.
“Irene,” thus Philotas had concluded his injunctions, “cannot as yet
understand this doctrine, but you are grave and have sense beyond your
years. Repeat this to her daily, and when the time comes impress on your
sister--towards whom you must fill the place of a mother--impress on her
heart these precepts as your father’s last will and testament.”
And now, as Klea went towards the well within the temple-wall to fetch
water, she repeated to herself many of these injunctions; she felt
herself encouraged by them, and firmly resolved not to give her sister
up to the seducer without a struggle.
As soon as the vessels for libation at the altar were filled she
returned to little Philo, whose state seemed to her to give no further
cause for anxiety; after staying with him for more than an hour she left
the gate-keeper’s dwelling to seek Serapion’s advice, and to divulge
to him all she had been able to plan and consider in the quiet of the
sick-room.
The recluse was wont to recognize her step from afar, and to be looking
out for her from his window when she went to visit him; but to-day he
heard her not, for he was stepping again and again up and down the few
paces which the small size of his tiny cell allowed him to traverse.
He could reflect best when he walked up and down, and he thought
and thought again, for he had heard all that was known in the temple
regarding Irene’s disappearance; and he would, he must rescue her--but
the more he tormented his brain the more clearly he saw that every
attempt to snatch the kidnapped girl from the powerful robber must in
fact be vain.
“And it must not, it shall not be!” he had cried, stamping his great
foot, a few minutes before Klea reached his cell; but as soon as he was
aware of her presence he made an effort to appear quite easy, and cried
out with the vehemence which characterized him even in less momentous
circumstances:
“We must consider, we must reflect, we must puzzle our brains, for the
gods have been napping this morning, and we must be doubly wide-awake.
Irene--our little Irene--and who would have thought it yesterday! It is
a good-for-nothing, unspeakably base knave’s trick--and now, what can
we do to snatch the prey from the gluttonous monster, the savage wild
beast, before he can devour our child, our pet little one?
“Often and often I have been provoked at my own stupidity, but never,
never have I felt so stupid, such a godforsaken blockhead as I do now.
When I try to consider I feel as if that heavy shutter had been nailed
clown on my head. Have you had any ideas? I have not one which would not
disgrace the veriest ass--not a single one.”
“Then you know everything?” asked Klea, “even that it is probably our
father’s enemy, Eulaeus, who has treacherously decoyed the poor child to
go away with him?”
“Yes, Yes!” cried Serapion, “wherever there is some scoundrel’s trick
to be played he must have a finger in the pie, as sure as there must
be meal for bread to be made. But it is a new thing to me that on this
occasion he should be Euergetes’ tool. Old Philammon told me all about
it. Just now the messenger came back from Memphis, and brought a paltry
scrap of papyrus on which some wretched scribbler had written in the
name of Philometer, that nothing was known of Irene at court, and
complaining deeply that Asclepiodorus had not hesitated to play
an underhand game with the king. So they have no idea whatever of
voluntarily releasing our child.”
“Then I shall proceed to do my duty,” said Klea resolutely. “I shall go
to Memphis, and fetch my sister.”
The anchorite stared at the girl in horror, exclaiming: “That is folly,
madness, suicide! Do you want to throw two victims into his jaws instead
of one?”
“I can protect myself, and as regards Irene, I will claim the queen’s
assistance. She is a woman, and will never suffer--”
“What is there in this world that she will not suffer if it can procure
her profit or pleasure? Who knows what delightful thing Euergetes may
not have promised her in return for our little maid? No, by Serapis! no,
Cleopatra will not help you, but--and that is a good idea--there is one
who will to a certainty. We must apply to the Roman Publius Scipio, and
he will have no difficulty in succeeding.”
“From him,” exclaimed Klea, coloring scarlet, “I will accept neither
good nor evil; I do not know him, and I do not want to know him.”
“Child, child!” interrupted the recluse with grave chiding. “Does your
pride then so far outweigh your love, your duty, and concern for Irene?
What, in the name of all the gods, has Publius done to you that you
avoid him more anxiously than if he were covered with leprosy? There
is a limit to all things, and now--aye, indeed--I must out with it come
what may, for this is not the time to pretend to be blind when I see
with both eyes what is going on--your heart is full of the Roman, and
draws you to him; but you are an honest girl, and, in order to remain
so, you fly from him because you distrust yourself, and do not know what
might happen if he were to tell you that he too has been hit by one of
Eros’ darts. You may turn red and white, and look at me as if I were
your enemy, and talking contemptible nonsense. I have seen many strange
things, but I never saw any one before you who was a coward out of sheer
courage, and yet of all the women I know there is not one to whom fear
is less known than my bold and resolute Klea. The road is a hard one
that you must take, but only cover your poor little heart with a coat
of mail, and venture in all confidence to meet the Roman, who is an
excellent good fellow. No doubt it will be hard to you to crave a boon,
but ought you to shrink from those few steps over sharp stones? Our poor
child is standing on the edge of the abyss; if you do not arrive at the
right time, and speak the right words to the only person who is able to
help in this matter, she will be thrust into the foul bog and sink in
it, because her brave sister was frightened at--herself!”
Klea had cast down her eyes as the anchorite addressed her thus; she
stood for some time frowning at the ground in silence, but at last she
said, with quivering lips and as gloomily as if she were pronouncing a
sentence on herself.
“Then I will ask the Roman to assist me; but how can I get to him?”
“Ah!--now my Klea is her father’s daughter once more,” answered
Serapion, stretching out both his arms towards her from the little
window of his cell; and then he went on: “I can make the painful path
somewhat smoother for you. My brother Glaucus, who is commander of the
civic guard in the palace, you already know; I will give you a few
words of recommendation to him, and also, to lighten your task, a little
letter to Publius Scipio, which shall contain a short account of the
matter in hand. If Publius wishes to speak with you yourself go to him
and trust him, but still more trust yourself.
“Now go, and when you have once more filled the water-jars come back
to me, and fetch the letters. The sooner you can go the better, for it
would be well that you should leave the path through the desert behind
you before nightfall, for in the dark there are often dangerous tramps
about. You will find a friendly welcome at my sister Leukippa’s; she
lives in the toll-house by the great harbor--show her this ring and she
will give you a bed, and, if the gods are merciful, one for Irene too.”
“Thank you, father,” said Klea, but she said no more, and then left him
with a rapid step.
Serapion looked lovingly after her; then he took two wooden tablets
faced with wax out of his chest, and, with a metal style, he wrote on
one a short letter to his brother, and on the other a longer one to the
Roman, which ran as follows:
“Serapion, the recluse of Serapis, to Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica,
the Roman.
“Serapion greets Publius Scipio, and acquaints him that Irene, the
younger sister of Klea, the water-bearer, has disappeared from this
temple, and, as Serapion suspects, by the wiles of the epistolographer
Eulaeus, whom we both know, and who seems to have acted under the orders
of King Ptolemy Euergetes. Seek to discover where Irene can be. Save her
if thou canst from her ravishers, and conduct her back to this temple or
deliver her in Memphis into the hands of my sister Leukippa, the wife
of the overseer of the harbor, named Hipparchus, who dwells in the
toll-house. May Serapis preserve thee and thine.”
The recluse had just finished his letters when Klea returned to him. The
girl hid them in the folds of the bosom of her robe, said farewell to
her friend, and remained quite grave and collected, while Serapion, with
tears in his eyes, stroked her hair, gave her his parting blessing,
and finally even hung round her neck an amulet for good luck, that
his mother had worn--it was an eye in rock-crystal with a protective
inscription. Then, without any further delay, she set out towards the
temple gate, which, in obedience to the commands of the high priest, was
now locked. The gate-keeper--little Philo’s father--sat close by on a
stone bench, keeping guard. In a friendly tone Klea asked him to open
the gate; but the anxious official would not immediately comply with
her request, but reminded her of Asclepiodorus’ strict injunctions, and
informed her that the great Roman had demanded admission to the temple
about three hours since, but had been refused by the high-priest’s
special orders. He had asked too for her, and had promised to return on
the morrow.
The hot blood flew to Klea’s face and eyes as she heard this news. Could
Publius no more cease to think of her than she of him? Had Serapion
guessed rightly? “The darts of Eros”--the recluse’s phrase flashed
through her mind, and struck her heart as if it were itself a winged
arrow; it frightened her and yet she liked it, but only for one brief
instant, for the utmost distrust of her own weakness came over her
again directly, and she told herself with a shudder that she was on the
high-road to follow up and seek out the importunate stranger.
All the horrors of her undertaking stood vividly before her, and if she
had now retraced her steps she would not have been without an excuse to
offer to her own conscience, since the temple-gate was closed, and might
not be opened to any one, not even to her.
For a moment she felt a certain satisfaction in this flattering
reflection, but as she thought again of Irene her resolve was once more
confirmed, and going closer up to the gate-keeper she said with great
determination:
“Open the gate to me without delay; you know that I am not accustomed
to do or to desire anything wrong. I beg of you to push back the bolt at
once.”
The man to whom Klea had done many kindnesses, and whom Imhotep had that
very day told that she was the good spirit of his house, and that he
ought to venerate her as a divinity--obeyed her orders, though with some
doubt and hesitation. The heavy bolt flew back, the brazen gate opened,
the water-bearer stepped out, flung a dark veil over her head, and set
out on her walk.