Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

These last words rang weird and bloody in her ears and she stared in terror at the prime minister's desolate face as a trembling pathetic moan issued from deep in her lungs. Sofkhatep, whose sensitivity had been obliterated by grief, said, “Patience, patience. My lord will arrive borne on a litter, as was his wish. He has been struck by an arrow this perfidious day that dawned a feast and will end with dreadful obsequies.”

She could not bear to linger in the room a moment longer, and she charged into the garden like a slaughtered chicken. But no sooner had she passed through the door than she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes transfixed on the litter being borne toward her by the slaves. As she made way for them she pressed her hands against the top of her head, which reeled from the gruesome sight, and followed them inside as they placed the litter with great care in the center of the room and then withdrew.

Sofkhatep departed immediately after them and the place was left to her and him. She rushed over and knelt by his side, interlocking her fingers and clasping them tightly in a state of hopeless distress. She looked into his grave and slowly dimming eyes, and as she gasped for breath, her shifting glance was drawn toward his stricken chest. She saw the patches of blood and the arrow protruding and she shivered with unspeakable anguish, as she cried out, her voice disjointed with torment and dread, “They have wounded you. Oh, the horror!”

He lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, languid and inanimate. The short journey had drained the last dregs of the strength that was already quickly fading. But when he heard her voice and saw her beloved face, a faint breath of life stirred in him and the shadow of a distant smile passed across his clouded eyes.

She had only ever seen him impassioned and bursting with life like a gusty wind and she almost lost her wits as she beheld him now, like one long since withered and grown old. She cast a burning glance at the arrow that had brought all this about and said as she winced with pain, “Why have they left it in your chest? Should I summon the physician?”

He gathered all his dwindling and scattered strength together and said feebly, “It is no use.”

Madness flashed in her eyes and she rebuked him, “No use, my darling? How can you say that? Does our life together no longer please you?”

With desperate weakness he stretched out his hand until it brushed against her cold palm, and whispered, “It is the truth, Rhadopis. I have come to die here in your arms in this place, which I love more than any place in the world. You must not lament our fortune, rather grant me some cheer.”

“My lord, do you bring me tidings of your own death? What evening hour is this? And I was waiting for it, my darling, with a spirit consumed with yearning, seduced by hope. I hoped you would come bearing me news of victory, and when you came you brought me this arrow. How can I be cheerful?”

He swallowed his saliva with difficulty, as he pleaded with her in a voice that was more like a moan, “Rhadopis, put this pain aside and come nearer to me. I want to look into your lustrous eyes.”

He wanted to see the fresh face radiant with happiness and delight to end his life — with that enchanting image but she was enduring pains no human could endure. She wished she could scream and wail and rant and give vent to her tortured breast, or to seek solace in raving madness or the roasting fires of hell. How could she be cheerful and composed and gaze upon him with that face which he loved and which comforted him more than any other in this world or the next?

Still looking at her longingly, he said, “Those are not your eyes, Rhadopis.”

With grief and sorrow in her voice, she said, “They are my eyes, my lord, but the spring that gives them life and light has dried up.”

“Alas, Rhadopis! Would you not forget your pains this hour just for me? I wish to see the face of my darling Rhadopis, and listen to her sweet voice.”

His request pierced her heart and she could not bear to deprive him of something he wanted in this black hour. With great cruelty to herself, she smoothed the surface of her face and forced a trembling smile to her lips. Without a sound she touched him tenderly as she had touched him when he lay as her lover and a look of contentment appeared on his pale and withered face and his pale lips parted in a smile.