The Tales of Ancient Egypt (10 Historical Novels). Georg Ebers
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Bartja, who, in spite of himself, had been pushed into the front row, saw a brilliant procession come out of the temple. The unexpected sight of many faces he had formerly known occupied his attention so much, that he scarcely noticed the loss of his broad-brimmed hat, which had been knocked off in the crowd. From the conversation of two Ionian mercenaries behind him he learnt that the family of Amasis had been to the temple to pray for the dying king.
The procession was headed by richly-decorated priests, either wearing long white robes or pantherskins. They were followed by men holding office at the court, and carrying golden staves, on the ends of which peacocks’ feathers and silver lotus-flowers were fastened, and these by Pastophori, carrying on their shoulders a golden cow, the animal sacred to Isis. When the crowd had bowed down before this sacred symbol, the queen appeared. She was dressed in priestly robes and wore a costly head-dress with the winged disc and the Uraeus. In her left hand she held a sacred golden sistrum, the tones of which were to scare away Typhon, and in her right some lotus-flowers. The wife, daughter and sister of the high-priest followed her, in similar but less splendid ornaments. Then came the heir to the throne, in rich robes of state, as priest and prince; and behind him four young priests in white carrying Tachot, (the daughter of Amasis and Ladice and the pretended sister of Nitetis,) in an open litter. The heat of the day, and the earnestness of her prayers, had given the sick girl a slight color. Her blue eyes, filled with tears, were fixed on the sistrum which her weak, emaciated hands had hardly strength to hold.
A murmur of compassion ran through the crowd; for they loved their dying king, and manifested openly and gladly the sympathy so usually felt for young lives from whom a brilliant future has been snatched by disease. Such was Amasis’ young, fading daughter, who was now being carried past them, and many an eye grew dim as the beautiful invalid came in sight. Tachot seemed to notice this, for she raised her eyes from the sistrum and looked kindly and gratefully at the crowd. Suddenly the color left her face, she turned deadly pale, and the golden sistrum fell on to the stone pavement with a clang, close to Bartja’s feet. He felt that he had been recognized and for one moment thought of hiding himself in the crowd; but only for one moment—his chivalrous feeling gained the day, he darted forward, picked up the sistrum, and forgetting the danger in which he was placing himself, held it out to the princess.
Tachot looked at him earnestly before taking the golden sistrum from his hands, and then said, in a low voice, which only he could understand: “Are you Bartja? Tell me, in your mother’s name—are you Bartja?”
“Yes, I am,” was his answer, in a voice as low as her own, “your friend, Bartja.”
He could not say more, for the priests pushed him back among the crowd. When he was in his old place, he noticed that Tachot, whose bearers had begun to move on again, was looking round at him. The color had come back into her cheeks, and her bright eyes were trying to meet his. He did not avoid them; she threw him a lotus-bud-he stooped to pick it up, and then broke his way through the crowd, for this hasty act had roused their attention.
A quarter of an hour later, he was seated in the boat which was to take him to Sappho and to his wedding. He was quite at ease now about Zopyrus. In Bartja’s eyes his friend was already as good as saved, and in spite of the dangers which threatened himself, he felt strangely calm and happy, he could hardly say why.
Meanwhile the sick princess had been carried home, had had her oppressive ornaments taken off, and her couch carried on to one of the palace-balconies where she liked best to pass the hot summer days, sheltered by broad-leaved plants, and a kind of awning.
From this veranda, she could look down into the great fore-court of the palace, which was planted with trees. To-day it was full of priests, courtiers, generals and governors of provinces. Anxiety and suspense were expressed in every face: Amasis’ last hour was drawing very near.
Tachot could not be seen from below; but listening with feverish eagerness, she could hear much that was said. Now that they had to dread the loss of their king, every one, even the priests, were full of his praises. The wisdom and circumspection of his plans and modes of government, his unwearied industry, the moderation he had always shown, the keenness of his wit, were, each and all, subjects of admiration. “How Egypt has prospered under Amasis’ government!” said a Nomarch. “And what glory he gained for our arms, by the conquest of Cyprus and the war with the Libyans!” cried one of the generals. “How magnificently he embellished our temples, and what great honors he paid to the goddess of Sais!” exclaimed one of the singers of Neith. “And then how gracious and condescending he was!” murmured a courtier. “How cleverly he managed to keep peace with the great powers!” said the secretary of state, and the treasurer, wiping away a tear, cried: “How thoroughly he understood the management of the revenue! Since the reign of Rameses III. the treasury has not been so well filled as now.” “Psamtik comes into a fine inheritance,” lisped the courtier, and the soldier exclaimed, “Yes, but it’s to be feared that he’ll not spend it in a glorious war; he’s too much under the influence of the priests.” “No, you are wrong there,” answered the temple-singer. “For some time past, our lord and master has seemed to disdain the advice of his most faithful servants.” “The successor of such a father will find it difficult to secure universal approbation,” said the Nomarch. “It is not every one who has the intellect, the good fortune and the wisdom of Amasis.” “The gods know that!” murmured the warrior with a sigh.
Tachot’s tears flowed fast. These words were a confirmation of what they had been trying to hide from her: she was to lose her dear father soon.
After she had made this dreadful certainty clear to her own mind, and discovered that it was in vain to beg her attendants to carry her to her dying father, she left off listening to the courtiers below, and began looking at the sistrum which Bartja himself had put into her hand, and which she had brought on to the balcony with her, as if seeking comfort there. And she found what she sought; for it seemed to her as if the sound of its sacred rings bore her away into a smiling, sunny landscape.
That faintness which so often comes over people in decline, had seized her and was sweetening her last hours with pleasant dreams.
The female slaves, who stood round to fan away the flies, said afterwards that Tachot had never looked so lovely.
She had lain about an hour in this state, when her breathing became more difficult, a slight cough made her breast heave, and the bright red blood trickled down from her lips on to her white robe. She awoke, and looked surprised and disappointed on seeing the faces round her. The sight of her mother, however, who came on to the veranda at that moment, brought a smile to her face, and she said, “O mother, I have had such a beautiful dream.”
“Then our visit to the temple has done my dear child good?” asked the queen, trembling at the sight of the blood on the sick girl’s lips.
“Oh, yes, mother, so much! for I saw him again.” Ladice’s glance at the attendants seemed to ask “Has your poor mistress lost her senses?” Tachot understood the look and said, evidently speaking with great difficulty: “You think I am wandering, mother. No, indeed, I really saw and spoke to him. He gave me my sistrum again, and said he was my friend, and then he took my lotus-bud and vanished. Don’t look so distressed and surprised, mother. What I say is really true; it is no dream.—There, you hear, Tentrut saw him too. He must have come to Sais for my sake, and so the child-oracle in the temple-court did not deceive me, after all. And now I don’t feel anything more of my illness; I dreamt I was lying in a field of blooming poppies, as red as the blood of the young lambs that are offered in sacrifice; Bartja was sitting by my side, and Nitetis was kneeling close to us and playing wonderful songs on a Nabla made of ivory. And there was such a lovely sound in the air that I felt as if Horus, the beautiful god of morning, spring, and the resurrection, was kissing me. Yes, mother, I tell you he is coming soon, and when I am well, then—then—ah, mother what is this?... I am dying!”
Ladice knelt down by her child’s bed and pressed her lips in burning kisses on the girl’s eyes as they grew dim in death.
An hour later she was standing by another bedside—her dying husband’s.
Severe suffering had disfigured the king’s features, the cold perspiration