Uarda : a Romance of Ancient Egypt — Volume 09 by Georg Ebers (best novels of all time .TXT) 📕

the king; and the Pharaoh listened with eager attention as Pentaur sang:—[A literal translation of the ancient Egyptian poem called "The Epos of Pentaur"]

         "Then the king stood forth, and, radiant with courage,
          He looked like the Sun-god armed and eager for battle.
          The noble steeds that bore him into the struggle
          'Victory to Thebes' was the name of one, and the other
          Was called 'contented Nura'—were foaled in the stables
          Of him we call 'the elect,' 'the beloved of Amon,'
          'Lord of truth,' the chosen vicar of Ra.

          Up sprang the king and threw himself on the foe,
          The swaying ranks of the contemptible Cheta.
          He stood alone-alone, and no man with him.
          As thus the king stood forth all eyes were upon him,
          And soon he was enmeshed by men and horses,
          And by the enemy's chariots: two thousand five hundred.
          The foe behind hemmed him in and enclosed him.
          Dense the array of the contemptible Cheta,
          Dense the swarm of warriors out of Arad,
          Dense the Mysian host, the Pisidian legions.
          Every chariot carried three bold warriors,
          All his foes, and all allied like brothers.

         "Not a prince is with me, not a captain,
          Not an archer, none to guide my horses!
          Fled the riders! fled my troops and horse
          By my side not one is now left standing."
          Thus the king, and raised his voice in prayer.
          "Great father Amon, I have known Thee well.
          And can the father thus forget his son?
          Have I in any deed forgotten Thee?
          Have I done aught without Thy high behest
          Or moved or staid against Thy sovereign will?
          Great am I—mighty are Egyptian kings
          But in the sight of Thy commanding might,
          Small as the chieftain of a wandering tribe.
          Immortal Lord, crush Thou this unclean people;
          Break Thou their necks, annihilate the heathen.

          And I—have I not brought Thee many victims,
          And filled Thy temple with the captive folk?
          And for thy presence built a dwelling place
          That shall endure for countless years to come?
          Thy garners overflow with gifts from me.
          I offered Thee the world to swell Thy glory,
          And thirty thousand mighty steers have shed
          Their smoking blood on fragrant cedar piles.
          Tall gateways, flag-decked masts, I raised to Thee,
          And obelisks from Abu I have brought,
          And built Thee temples of eternal stone.
          For Thee my ships have brought across the sea
          The tribute of the nations. This I did—
          When were such things done in the former time?

          For dark the fate of him who would rebel
          Against Thee: though Thy sway is just and mild.
          My father, Amon—as an earthly son
          His earthly father—so I call on Thee.
          Look down from heaven on me, beset by foes,
          By heathen foes—the folk that know Thee not.
          The nations have combined against Thy son;
          I stand alone—alone, and no man with me.
          My foot and horse are fled, I called aloud
          And no one heard—in vain I called to them.
          And yet I say: the sheltering care of Amon
          Is better succor than a million men,
          Or than ten thousand knights, or than a thousand
          Brothers and sons though gathered into one.
          And yet I say: the bulwarks raised by men
          However strong, compared to Thy great works
          Are but vain shadows, and no human aid
          Avails against the foe—but Thy strong hand.
          The counsel of Thy lips shall guide my way;
          I have obeyed whenever Thou hast ruled;
          I call on Thee—and, with my fame, Thy glory
          Shall fill the world, from farthest east to west."

          Yea, his cry rang forth even far as Hermonthis,
          And Amon himself appeared at his call; and gave him
          His hand and shouted in triumph, saying to the Pharaoh:
          "Help is at hand, O Rameses. I will uphold thee—
          I thy father am he who now is thy succor,
          Bearing thee in my hands. For stronger and readier
          I than a hundred thousand mortal retainers;
          I am the Lord of victory loving valor?
          I rejoice in the brave and give them good counsel,
          And he whom I counsel certainly shall not miscarry."

          Then like Menth, with his right he scattered the arrows,
          And with his left he swung his deadly weapon,
          Felling the foe—as his foes are felled by Baal.
          The chariots were broken and the drivers scattered,
          Then was the foe overthrown before his horses.
          None found a hand to fight: they could not shoot
          Nor dared they hurl the spear but fled at his coming
          Headlong into the river."

     [I have availed myself of the help of Prof. Lushington's translation
     in "Records of the past," edited by Dr. S. Birch. Translator.]

A silence as of the grave reigned in the vast hall, Rameses fixed his eyes on the poet, as though he would engrave his features on his very soul, and compare them with those of another which had dwelt there unforgotten since the day of Kadesh. Beyond a doubt his preserver stood before him.

Seized by a sudden impulse, he interrupted the poet in the midst of his stirring song, and cried out to the assembled guests:

"Pay honor to this man! for the Divinity chose to appear under his form to save your king when he 'alone, and no man with him,' struggled with a thousand."

"Hail to Pentaur!" rang through the hall from the vast assembly, and Nefert rose and gave the poet the bunch of flowers she had been wearing on her bosom.

The king nodded approval, and looked enquiringly at his daughter; Bent- Anat's eyes met his with a glance of intelligence, and with all the simplicity of an impulsive child, she took from her head the wreath that had decorated her beautiful hair, went up to Pentaur, and crowned him with it, as it was customary for a bride to crown her lover before the wedding.

Rameses observed his daughter's action with some surprise, and the guests responded to it with loud cheering.

The king looked gravely at Bent-Anat and the young priest; the eyes of all the company were eagerly fixed on the princess and the poet. The king seemed to have forgotten the presence of strangers, and to be wholly absorbed in thought, but by degrees a change came over his face, it cleared, as a landscape is cleared from the morning mists under the influence of the spring sunshine. When he looked up again his glance was bright and satisfied, and Bent-Anat knew what it promised when it lingered lovingly first on her, and then on her friend, whose head was still graced by the wreath that had crowned hers.

At last Rameses turned from the lovers, and said to the guests:

"It is past midnight, and I will now leave you. To-morrow evening I bid you all—and you especially, Pentaur—to be my guests in this banqueting hall. Once more fill your cups, and let us empty them—to a long time of peace after the victory which, by the help of the Gods, we have won. And at the same time let us express our thanks to my friend Ani, who has entertained us so magnificently, and who has so faithfully and zealously administered the affairs of the kingdom during my absence."

The company pledged the king, who warmly shook hands with the Regent, and then, escorted by his wandbearers and lords in waiting, quitted the hall, after he had signed to Mena, Ameni, and the ladies to follow him.

Nefert greeted her husband, but she immediately parted from the royal party, as she had yielded to the urgent entreaty of Katuti that she should for this night go to her mother, to whom she had so much to tell, instead of remaining with the princess. Her mother's chariot soon took her to her tent.

Rameses dismissed his attendants in the ante-room of his apartments; when they were alone he turned to Bent-Anat and said affectionately.

"What was in your mind when you laid your wreath on the poet's brow?"

"What is in every maiden's mind when she does the like," replied Bent-
Anat with trustful frankness.

"And your father?" asked the king.

"My father knows that I will obey him even if he demands of me the hardest thing—the sacrifice of all my—happiness; but I believe that he —that you love me fondly, and I do not forget the hour in which you said to me that now my mother was dead you would be father and mother both to me, and you would try to understand me as she certainly would have understood me. But what need between us of so many words. I love Pentaur—with a love that is not of yesterday—with the first perfect love of my heart and he has proved himself worthy of that high honor. But were he ever so humble, the hand of your daughter has the power to raise him above every prince in the land."

"It has such power, and you shall exercise it," cried the king. "You have been true and faithful to yourself, while your father and protector left you to yourself. In you I love the image of your mother, and I learned from her that a true woman's heart can find the right path better than a man's wisdom. Now go to rest, and to-morrow morning put on a fresh wreath, for you will have need of it, my noble daughter."

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