Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

“Djedef, when one talks about love, you don't ask about the time and the place!”

“Who is she?”

He said with reverence, as though intoning the name of Isis, “Mana, daughter of Kamadi in the Office of the Treasury.”

“And what will you do?”

“I will marry her.”

Djedef wondered, in a dreamy voice, “Is this how things change?”

“And even faster than that,” said Nafa. ‘An arrow and its victim — and what is the bird to do?”

Truly, love is an awesome thing. Djedef knew art, the teachings of the sages, and the sword. As for love, this was a new mystery indeed. And how could it not be a mystery, if it could do in one instant what Bisharu and he were unable to do in years! Meanwhile, he sensed his own passion flaring and his spirit wandering in far distant valleys.

“A happy Fate has willed that I be successful in my life as an artist, and Lord Fani invited me to decorate his reception hall. Some of my pictures were valued at ten pieces of gold — though I refuse to sell them. Look at this little one!”

Puzzled, Djedef turned toward where Nafa was pointing, and saw the miniature image of a peasant girl on the banks of the Nile, the horizons of evening tinged with the hues of sunset. As though awakened by the beauty of this picture that drew him from the valleys of his dreams, he approached it slowly, until he came to — within an arm's length of it. Nafa saw his amazement and could not have been more pleased.

“Do you not see it as a picture rich in both color and shadow? Look at the Nile, and the horizons!” he exclaimed.

Djedef answered in an otherworldly voice, “Just ask me to look at the peasant girl!”

Contemplating her picture, Nafa said, “The brush has immortalized the flow of the Nile, which has such dignity.”

But Djedef interjected, without paying any attention to what the artist was saying, “By the gods… such a soft, supple body, as slender and upright as a lance!”

“Look at the fields, and at the bent-over crops, whose direction shows…” said Nafa.

As though he didn't hear his brother at all, Djedef muttered: “How gorgeous this bronze face is, like the moon!”

“… that the wind was blowing from the south!” continued Nafa.

“How beautiful these two dark eyes — they have such a divine expression!”

“Joy isn't all there is in this picture. Notice also the sunset — only the gods know how much effort I put into drawing and tinting it,” said Nafa.

Djedef looked at him with a mad enthusiasm. “She's alive, O Nafa — I can almost hear her murmuring. How can you live with her under one roof?”

Nafa rubbed his hands happily. “For her sake, I turned down ten pieces of pure gold,” he said.

“This painting will never be sold.”

“And why is that?” asked Nafa.

“This picture is mine, even if I should pay for it with my life!”

Nafa said, laughing, “O age seventeen! You're like a blazing fire, a leaping flame. You give life and womanly qualities to stones, colors, and water. You passionately adore illusions and imaginings, and turn dreams into actualities… and you've brought us all the tortures of hell!”

The boy blushed, and fell silent. Nafa took pity on his exasperation, and said, “I am at your command, O Soldier.”

“You must never part with this picture, O Nafa,” said Djedef imploringly.

Nafa strode over to the picture, and lifting it from its place, presented it to his brother, saying, “Dear Djedef, she's yours.”

Djedef held it gently with his hands, as though he were clasping his own heart, then said like one obliged to be grateful, “Thank you, Nafa!”

Nafa sat down contented. As for Djedef, he stuck to his place without budging, absorbed in the face of the divine peasant girl.

At length he said, “How does the creative imagination captivate one so?”

“She's not a creature of imagination,” said Nafa, calmly.

The youth's heart quaked as he asked with desire, “Do you mean that the possessor of this form moves among the living?”

“Yes,” Nafa answered.

“Is… is she like your image of her?”

“She is even more beautiful, perhaps.”

“Nafa!” shouted Djedef.

The artist grinned, as the enraptured young man interrogated him, “Do you know her?”

“I have seen her at times on the banks of the Nile,” he replied.

“Where?”

“North of Memphis,” said Nafa.

“Does she always go there?”

“She used to go in the late afternoon with her sisters, and they would sit down and play and then disappear with the setting sun. I used to take my place hidden behind a sycamore fig tree — I could hardly wait for them to arrive!”

“Are they still going there?” asked Djedef.

“I don't know,” replied Nafa. “I stopped following their movements when I had completed my picture.”

Djedef looked at him doubtfully. “How could you?” he said.

“This is a beauty that I worship, but which I do not love.”

Djedef, paying no attention to what Nafa was saying, asked him, “In what place did you see her?”

“North of the Temple of Apis.”

“Do you think that she still goes there?” Djedef queried.

“And what, O Officer, prompts your question?”