Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

Then letters began to pour in from all the temples bearing the signatures of all the priests from all ranks petitioning Pharaoh to review the question of the temple estates. It was a worrying and ominous consensus and it only added to Sofkhatep's woes.

One day Sofkhatep called Tahu to the government house. The commander hurried over. The prime minister pointed to his official chair of office and sighed, “That chair almost makes me dizzy.”

“Your head is too great for that chair to make it dizzy,” said Tahu.

Sofkhatep sighed sadly, “They have drowned me in a flood of petitions.”

“Have you shown them to Pharaoh?” asked the commander with some concern.

“No, Commander. Pharaoh does not allow a single soul to bring up the subject, and it is very rare that I am granted an audience with him. I feel confused and alone.”

The two men — were silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Sofkhatep shook his head in amazement, and said, as if addressing himself, “It is magic, no doubt about it.”

Tahu looked curiously at the prime minister, then suddenly understood what the man meant. A shiver ran down his spine and his face turned pale, but he managed to control his feelings, as he had become used to doing during the recent lean period of his life, and — with a simplicity that required enormous effort, he asked, “What magic do you mean, Your Excellency?”

“Rhadopis,” said Sofkhatep. “Does she not work her magic on Pharaoh? Nay, by the gods, what is — wrong — with His Majesty is clearly magic.”

Tahu's spirit shook at the mention of the — word. It seemed to him that he — was hearing something strange, — whose magical effect touched all his senses and emotions, and almost removed the plug he had stuffed mercilessly into the mouth of his emotions. He clenched his teeth and said, “People say that love is magic, and the magicians say that magic is love.”

“I have come to believe that the ravishing beauty of Rhadopis is accursed magic,” said the prime minister despondently.

Tahu glared at him sternly. “You did not recite the spell that made this magic, did you?”

Sofkhatep sensed the rebuke in the commander's voice and the color drained out of his face, and he spoke quickly, as one rejecting an accusation. “She was not the first woman….”

“But she was Rhadopis.”

“I was concerned for His Majesty's happiness.”

“And you employed magic for his sake? Alas!”

“Yes, Commander. I understand that I have made a serious mistake. But now something must be done.”

“That is your duty, Your Excellency,” said Tahu, the bitterness still in his voice.

“I am asking your advice.”

“Loyalty reaches its full extent in true and honest counsel.”

“Pharaoh will not accept that anyone broaches the subject of the clergy in his presence.”

“Have you not shared your opinion with Her Majesty the Queen?”

“That is the very route that led Khnumhotep to incur the wrath of His Majesty the King.”

Tahu could think of nothing to say, but Sofkhatep had an idea and, speaking softly, said, “Is there perhaps not some benefit to be gained by arranging a meeting between you and Rhadopis?”

A shiver ran down Tahu's spine once again, and his heart thumped wildly in his breast. The emotions he was trying so hard to conceal almost exploded. “The old man doesn't know what he's saying,” he thought to himself. “He thinks His Majesty is the only one bewitched.”

“Why do you not meet her yourself,” he said to Sofkhatep.

“I think you would be more able than me to reach an understanding with her.”

“I fear that Rhadopis would not be well disposed to me,” he said coolly. “She may think ill of me, and spoil my efforts on Pharaoh's behalf. I think not, Your Excellency.”

Sofkhatep dreaded the thought of confronting Pharaoh with the truth.

Tahu could not stay there any longer. His nerves were in turmoil, and a violent unstoppable emotion tore at his soul. He asked the prime minister's permission to leave and departed as if in a trance, leaving Sofkhatep drowning in a deep chasm of doubt and affliction.

The two queens

Sofkhatep was not the only one whose head was bowed by woe.

The queen had confined herself to her chambers, brooding over the sadness buried deep inside her, the ominous pain, the despair she could voice to no one, reviewing the tragedy of her life with a broken heart, and observing the events that were unfolding in the Valley with sad eyes. She was nothing other than a woman who had lost her heart, or a queen seated uneasily upon her throne. All bonds of affection between her and the king had been broken without hope of communication as long as he remained engulfed in his passion, and as long as she took recourse to her silent pride.