Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

The good-hearted inspector wanted to reassure her when he said, “Pharaoh does not forget his faithful servants. His mercy covers the victims and the martyrs alike. Listen to me: our lord the king has ordered that houses be built for the families of laborers who meet their fate in the course of their work. They were built on the slope of the plateau, and many women and children dwell within them, whom the monarch provides with a monthly stipend. His will has decreed the selection of men from among their relatives to serve in the guards. Do you have a male relation that you would like to have appointed to watch over the workmen?”

“There is no one for me in the world but this child,” replied Zaya, tearfully.

“You two will live in a clean room,” he said, “and you will not know the humiliation of being questioned about it.”

And so Zaya left the office of the pyramid's inspector a wretched widow, weeping for her husband's misfortune — and her own.

8

The houses that Pharaoh ordered built for the families of the martyred workmen were located outside the White Walls of Memphis, east of the Sacred Plateau. They were of modest size, with two stories, four spacious rooms on each level. Zaya and her child dwelt in one of these chambers. She grew accustomed to living among these widows and bereaved mothers and children, some of whom went on mourning their dead without ceasing. Others’ wounds had healed, time having treated their sorrows. As a group, they were busy. Everyone had something to do: the young boys fetched water for the workmen, while the women sold them cooked food and beer. The wretched quarter was transformed into a burgeoning, low-priced bazaar filled with the bustle of ceaseless construction that announced its future as a prosperous town.

Zaya had spent her first days in her new home in constant sorrow, weeping for her lost husband. Her grief did not lessen, no matter what material blessings or sympathy she received that Bisharu, inspector of the pyramid, gave her. What a pity! For if only those suffering from loss would remember that Death is a void that effaces memory, and that the sorrows of the living vanish at the same speed with which the dead themselves disappear, how much toil and torment they could avoid for themselves! Yet, she grew stronger as the hardships of life made her forget the bitterness of death. But because of all the grumbling in her new home, after a few months she became convinced that it was not the right place for her or her son. Seeing no way out, however, she endured it in silence.

During these months, Inspector Bisharu visited her a number of times, whenever he went to these residences to check on their conditions. In fact, he visited many widows, but showed Zaya a distinctive degree of warmth and compassion. Though it is doubtful that others were less unfortunate than Zaya, none had hot, honey-colored eyes like Zaya's, nor a lithe, slender form like hers. Reflecting on his interest, Zaya said to herself, “What a fine man! True, he's short and fat, with coarse features, and at least forty years old or more — but he's so good-hearted, and so deeply loving as well!” With her secret eye she saw that when he looked at her supple figure his heavy eyelids fluttered and his thick lips shook. He became humble in place of his old arrogance, and when she traded pleasantries with him, he would be nailed where he stood like a boar impaled on a pike.

Her ambitions awakened, she unsheathed her secret weapon to conquer the great inspector. This happened when she took the opportunity of his presence to bewail her loneliness and gloom in her unhappy home.

“Perhaps I would be more useful, sir, in some other place, for I served a long time in the mansion of one of the good families of On,” she told him. “I have great experience in the work of female servants.”

The inspector's eyelids ceased trembling. “I understand, Zaya,” he said, looking greedily at the gorgeous widow. “You don't complain out of indolence, yet — since you're used to the luxury of grander houses — your existence here must be dreadful.”

The sly one essayed a coquettish smile, as she exposed the beautiful face of Djedef. “Will this place do for so lovely a child?”

“No,” said the inspector. “Nor for you, Zaya.”

Blushing, she let her eyelids drop until their lashes touched the hollows of her cheeks.

“I have the palace that you desire,” the man said, “and — just perhaps — the palace desires you, too.”

“I await but a sign, sire.”

“My wife has died, leaving me two sons. I have four slave girls — would you, Zaya, be the fifth?”