Читать книгу The Tales of Ancient Egypt (10 Historical Novels) - Георг Эберс - Страница 30

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Prexaspes, the king’s messenger, and one of the highest officials at court, had brought Gaumata, Mandane’s lover, whose likeness to Bartja was really most wonderful, to Babylon, sick and wounded as he was. He was now awaiting his sentence in a dungeon, while Boges, the man who had led him into crime, was nowhere to be found, notwithstanding all the efforts of the police. His escape had been rendered possible by the trap-door in the hanging-gardens, and greatly assisted by the enormous crowds assembled in the streets.

Immense treasures were found in his house. Chests of gold and jewels, which his position had enabled him to obtain with great ease, were restored to the royal treasury. Cambyses, however, would gladly have given ten times as much treasure to secure possession of the traitor.

To Phaedime’s despair the king ordered all the inhabitants of the harem, except his mother, Atossa and the dying Nitetis, to be removed to Susa, two days after the accused had been declared innocent. Several eunuchs of rank were deposed from their offices. The entire caste was to suffer for the sins of him who had escaped punishment.

Oropastes, who had already entered on his duties as regent of the kingdom, and had clearly proved his non-participation in the crime of which his brother had been proved guilty, bestowed the vacant places exclusively on the Magi. The demonstration made by the people in favor of Bartja did not come to the king’s ears until the crowd had long dispersed. Still, occupied as he was, almost entirely, by his anxiety for Nitetis, he caused exact information of this illegal manifestation to be furnished him, and ordered the ringleaders to be severely punished. He fancied it was a proof that Bartja had been trying to gain favor with the people, and Cambyses would perhaps have shown his displeasure by some open act, if a better impulse had not told him that he, not Bartja, was the brother who stood in need of forgiveness. In spite of this, however, he could not get rid of the feeling that Bartja, had been, though innocent, the cause of the sad events which had just happened, nor of his wish to get him out of the way as far as might be; and he therefore gave a ready consent to his brother’s wish to start at once for Naukratis.

Bartja took a tender farewell of his mother and sister, and started two days after his liberation. He was accompanied by Gyges, Zopyrus, and a numerous retinue charged with splendid presents from Cambyses for Sappho. Darius remained behind, kept back by his love for Atossa. The day too was not far distant, when, by his father’s wish, he was to marry Artystone, the daughter of Gobryas.

Bartja parted from his friend with a heavy heart, advising him to be very prudent with regard to Atossa. The secret had been confided to Kassandane, and she had promised to take Darius’ part with the king.

If any one might venture to raise his eyes to the daughter of Cyrus, assuredly it was the son of Hystaspes; he was closely connected by marriage with the royal family, belonged like Cambyses to the Pasargadae, and his family was a younger branch of the reigning dynasty. His father called himself the highest noble in the realm, and as such, governed the province of Persia proper, the mother-country, to which this enormous world-empire and its ruler owed their origin. Should the family of Cyrus become extinct, the descendants of Hystaspes would have a well-grounded right to the Persian throne. Darius therefore, apart from his personal advantages, was a fitting claimant for Atossa’s hand. And yet no one dared to ask the king’s consent. In the gloomy state of mind into which he had been brought by the late events, it was likely that he might refuse it, and such an answer would have to be regarded as irrevocable. So Bartja was obliged to leave Persia in anxiety about the future of these two who were very dear to him.

Croesus promised to act as mediator in this case also, and before Bartja left, made him acquainted with Phanes.

The youth had heard such a pleasant account of the Athenian from Sappho, that he met him with great cordiality, and soon won the fancy of the older and more experienced man, who gave him many a useful hint, and a letter to Theopompus, the Milesian, at Naukratis. Phanes concluded by asking for a private interview.

Bartja returned to his friends looking grave and thoughtful; soon, however, he forgot his cause of anxiety and joked merrily with them over a farewell cup. Before he mounted his horse the next morning, Nebenchari asked to be allowed an audience. He was admitted, and begged Bartja to take the charge of a large written roll for king Amasis. It contained a detailed account of Nitetis’ sufferings, ending with these words: “Thus the unhappy victim of your ambitious plans will end her life in a few hours by poison, to the use of which she was driven by despair. The arbitrary caprices of the mighty can efface all happiness from the life of a human creature, just as we wipe a picture from the tablet with a sponge. Your servant Nebenchari is pining in a foreign land, deprived of home and property, and the wretched daughter of a king of Egypt dies a miserable and lingering death by her own hand. Her body will be torn to pieces by dogs and vultures, after the manner of the Persians. Woe unto them who rob the innocent of happiness here and of rest beyond the grave!”

Bartja had not been told the contents of this letter, but promised to take it with him; he then, amid the joyful shouts of the people, set up outside the city-gate the stones which, according to a Persian superstition, were to secure him a prosperous journey, and left Babylon.

Nebenchari, meanwhile, prepared to return to his post by Nitetis’ dying-bed.

Just as he reached the brazen gates between the harem-gardens and the courts of the large palace, an old man in white robes came up to him. The sight seemed to fill Nebenchari with terror; he started as if the gaunt old man had been a ghost. Seeing, however, a friendly and familiar smile on the face of the other, he quickened his steps, and, holding out his hand with a heartiness for which none of his Persian acquaintances would have given him credit, exclaimed in Egyptian: “Can I believe my eyes? You in Persia, old Hib? I should as soon have expected the sky to fall as to have the pleasure of seeing you on the Euphrates. But now, in the name of Osiris, tell me what can have induced you, you old ibis, to leave your warm nest on the Nile and set out on such a long journey eastward.”

While Nebenchari was speaking, the old man listened in a bowing posture, with his arms hanging down by his side, and when he had finished, looked up into his face with indescribable joy, touched his breast with trembling fingers, and then, falling on the right knee, laying one hand on his heart and raising the other to heaven, cried: “Thanks be unto thee, great Isis, for protecting the wanderer and permitting him to see his master once more in health and safety. Ah, child, how anxious I have been! I expected to find you as wasted and thin as a convict from the quarries; I thought you would have been grieving and unhappy, and here you are as well, and handsome and portly as ever. If poor old Hib had been in your place he would have been dead long ago.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that, old fellow. I did not leave home of my own will either, nor without many a heartache. These foreigners are all the children of Seth. The good and gracious gods are only to be found in Egypt on the shores of the sacred, blessed Nile.”

“I don’t know much about its being so blessed,” muttered the old man.

“You frighten me, father Hib. What has happened then?”

“Happened! Things have come to a pretty pass there, and you’ll hear of it soon enough. Do you think I should have left house and grandchildren at my age,—going on for eighty,—like any Greek or Phoenician vagabond, and come out among these godless foreigners (the gods blast and destroy them!), if I could possibly have staid on in Egypt?”

“But tell me what it’s all about.”

“Some other time, some other time. Now you must take me to your own house, and I won’t stir out of it as long as we are in this land of Typhon.”

The old man said this with so much emphasis, that Nebenchiari could not help smiling and saying: “Have they treated you so very badly then, old man?”

“Pestilence and Khamsin!” blustered the old man.

[The south-west wind, which does so much injury to the crops in the

Nile valley. It is known to us as the Simoom, the wind so perilous

to travellers in the desert.]

“There’s not a more good-for-nothing Typhon’s brood on the face of the earth than these Persians. I only wonder they’re not all red-haired and leprous. Ah, child, two whole days I have been in this hell already, and all that time I was obliged to live among these blasphemers. They said no one could see you; you were never allowed to leave Nitetis’ sick-bed. Poor child! I always said this marriage with a foreigner would come to no good, and it serves Amasis right if his children give him trouble. His conduct to you alone deserves that.”

“For shame, old man!”

“Nonsense, one must speak one’s mind sometimes. I hate a king, who comes from nobody knows where. Why, when he was a poor boy he used to steal your father’s nuts, and wrench the name-plates off the house-doors. I saw he was a good-for-nothing fellow then. It’s a shame that such people should be allowed to....”

“Gently, gently, old man. We are not all made of the same stuff, and if there was such a little difference between you and Amasis as boys, it, is your own fault that, now you are old men, he has outstripped you so far.

“My father and grandfather were both servants in the temple, and of course I followed in their footsteps.”

“Quite right; it is the law of caste, and by that rule, Amasis ought never to have become anything higher than a poor army-captain at most.”

“It is not every one who’s got such an easy conscience as this upstart fellow.”

“There you are again! For shame, Hib! As long as I can remember, and that is nearly half a century, every other word with you has been an abusive one. When I was a child your ill-temper was vented on me, and now the king has the benefit of it.”

“Serves him right! All, if you only knew all! It’s now seven months since ...”

“I can’t stop to listen to you now. At the rising of the seven stars I will send a slave to take you to my rooms. Till then you must stay in your present lodging, for I must go to my patient.”

“You must?—Very well,—then go and leave poor old Hib here to die. I can’t possibly live another hour among these creatures.”

“What would you have me do then?”

“Let me live with you as long as we are in Persia.”

“Have they treated you so very roughly?”

“I should think they had indeed. It is loathsome to think of. They forced me to eat out of the same pot with them and cut my bread with the same knife. An infamous Persian, who had lived many years in Egypt, and travelled here with us, had given them a list of all the things and actions, which we consider unclean. They took away my knife when I was going to shave myself. A good-for-nothing wench kissed me on the forehead, before I could prevent it. There, you needn’t laugh; it will be a month at least before I can get purified from all these pollutions. I took an emetic, and when that at last began to take effect, they all mocked and sneered at me. But that was not all. A cursed cook-boy nearly beat a sacred kitten to death before my very eyes. Then an ointment-mixer, who had heard that I was your servant, made that godless Bubares ask me whether I could cure diseases of the eye too. I said yes, because you know in sixty years it’s rather hard if one can’t pick up something from one’s master. Bubares was interpreter between us, and the shameful fellow told him to say that he was very much disturbed about a dreadful disease in his eyes. I asked what it was, and received for answer that he could not tell one thing from another in the dark!”

“You should have told him that the best remedy for that was to light a candle.”

“Oh, I hate the rascals! Another hour among them will be the death of me!”

“I am sure you behaved oddly enough among these foreigners,” said Nebenchiari smiling, “you must have made them laugh at you, for the Persians are generally very polite, well-behaved people. Try them again, only once. I shall be very glad to take you in this evening, but I can’t possibly do it before.”

“It is as I thought! He’s altered too, like everybody else! Osiris is dead and Seth rules the world again.”

“Farewell! When the seven stars rise, our old Ethiopian slave, Nebununf, will wait for you here.”

“Nebununf, that old rogue? I never want to see him again.”

“Yes, the very same.”

“Him—well it’s a good thing, when people stay as they were. To be sure I know some people who can’t say so much of themselves, and who instead of minding their own business, pretend to heal inward diseases, and when a faithful old servant...”

“Hold your tongue, and wait patiently till evening.” These last words were spoken seriously, and produced the desired impression. The old man made another obeisance, and before his master left him, said: “I came here under the protection of Phanes, the former commander of the Greek mercenaries. He wishes very much to speak with you.”

“That is his concern. He can come to me.”

“You never leave that sick girl, whose eyes are as sound as...”

“Hib!”

“For all I care she may have a cataract in both. May Phanes come to you this evening?”

“I wished to be alone with you.”

“So did I; but the Greek seems to be in a great hurry, and he knows nearly everything that I have to tell you.”

“Have you been gossiping then?”

“No—not exactly—but...”

“I always thought you were a man to be trusted.”

“So I was. But this Greek knows already a great deal of what I know, and the rest...”

“Well?”

“The rest he got out of me, I hardly know how myself. If I did not wear this amulet against an evil eye, I should have been obliged...”

“Yes, yes, I know the Athenian—I can forgive you. I should like him to come with you this evening. But I see the sun is already high in the heavens. I have no time to lose. Tell me in a few words what has happened.”

“I thought this evening...”

“No, I must have at least a general idea of what has happened before I see the Athenian. Be brief.”

“You have been robbed!”

“Is that all?”

“Is not that enough?”

“Answer me. Is that all?”

“Yes!”

“Then farewell.”

“But Nebenchari!”

The physician did not even hear this exclamation; the gates of the harem had already closed behind him.

When the Pleiades had risen, Nebenchari was to be found seated alone in one of the magnificent rooms assigned to his use on the eastern side of the palace, near to Kassandane’s apartments. The friendly manner in which he had welcomed his old servant had given place to the serious expression which his face usually wore, and which had led the cheerful Persians to call him a morose and gloomy man.

Nebenchari was an Egyptian priest through and through; a member of that caste which never indulged in a jest, and never for a moment forgot to be dignified and solemn before the public; but when among their relations and their colleagues completely threw off this self-imposed restraint, and gave way at times even to exuberant mirth.

Though he had known Phanes in Sais, he received him with cold politeness, and, after the first greeting was ended, told Hib to leave them alone.

“I have come to you,” said the Athenian, “to speak about some very important affairs.”

“With which I am already acquainted,” was the Egyptian’s curt reply.

“I am inclined to doubt that,” said Phanes with an incredulous smile.

“You have been driven out of Egypt, persecuted and insulted by Psamtik, and you have come to Persia to enlist Cambyses as an instrument of revenge against my country.”

“You are mistaken. I have nothing against your country, but all the more against Amasis and his house. In Egypt the state and the king are one, as you very well know.”

“On the contrary, my own observations have led me to think that the priests considered themselves one with the state.”

“In that case you are better informed than I, who have always looked on the kings of Egypt as absolute. So they are; but only in proportion as they know how to emancipate themselves from the influence of your caste.—Amasis himself submits to the priests now.”

“Strange intelligence!”

“With which, however, you have already long been made acquainted.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“Certainly it is. And I know with still greater certainty that once—you hear me—once, he succeeded in bending the will of these rulers of his to his own.”

“I very seldom hear news from home, and do not understand what you are speaking of.”

“There I believe you, for if you knew what I meant and could stand there quietly without clenching your fist, you would be no better than a dog who only whimpers when he’s kicked and licks the hand that torments him.”

The physician turned pale. “I know that Amasis has injured and insulted me,” he said, “but at the same time I must tell you that revenge is far too sweet a morsel to be shared with a stranger.”

“Well said! As to my own revenge, however, I can only compare it to a vineyard where the grapes are so plentiful, that I am not able to gather them all myself.”

“And you have come hither to hire good laborers.”

“Quite right, and I do not even yet give up the hope of securing you to take a share in my vintage.”

“You are mistaken. My work is already done. The gods themselves have taken it in hand. Amasis has been severely enough punished for banishing me from country, friends and pupils into this unclean land.”

“You mean by his blindness perhaps?”

“Possibly.”

“Then you have not heard that Petammon, one of your colleagues, has succeeded in cutting the skin, which covered the pupil of the eye and so restoring Amasis’ sight?”

The Egyptian started and ground his teeth; recovered his presence of mind, however, in a moment, and answered: “Then the gods have punished the father through the children.”

“In what way? Psamtik suits his father’s present mood very well. It is true that Tachot is ill, but she prays and sacrifices with her father all the more for that; and as to Nitetis, you and I both know that her death will not touch him very closely.”

“I really do not understand you.”

“Of course not, so long as you fancy that I believe your beautiful patient to be Amasis’ daughter.”

The Egyptian started again, but Phanes went on without appearing to notice his emotion: “I know more than you suppose. Nitetis is the daughter of Hophra, Amasis’ dethroned predecessor. Amasis brought her up as his own child-first, in order to make the Egyptians believe that Hophra had died childless; secondly, in order to deprive her of her rights to the throne; for you know women are allowed to govern on the Nile.”

“These are mere suppositions.”

“For which, however, I can bring irrefragable proofs. Among the papers which your old servant Hib brought with him in a small box, there must be some letters from a certain Sonnophre, a celebrated accoucheur, your own father, which...”

[To judge from the pictures on the monuments and from the 1st Chap.

of Exodus, it would seem that in ancient, as in modern Egypt,

midwives were usually called in to assist at the birth of children;

but it is also certain, that in difficult cases physicians were

employed also. In the hieratic medical papyrus in Berlin, women are

often spoken of as assisting at such times. In the medical Papyrus

Ebers certain portions are devoted to diseases peculiar to women.

“There were special rooms set aside in private houses for the birth

of children, as symbolical ones were reserved in the temples. These

chambers were called meschen, and from them was derived the name

given to midwives, to meschennu.]

“If that be the case, those letters are my property, and I have not the slightest intention of giving them up; besides which you might search Persia from one end to the other without finding any one who could decipher my father’s writing.”

“Pardon me, if I point out one or two errors into which you have fallen. First, this box is at present in my hands, and though I am generally accustomed to respect the rights of property, I must assure you that, in the present instance, I shall not return the box until its contents have served my purpose. Secondly, the gods have so ordained, that just at this moment there is a man in Babylon who can read every kind of writing known to the Egyptian priests. Do you perhaps happen to know the name of Onuphis?”

For the third time the Egyptian turned pale. “Are you certain,” he said, “that this man is still among the living?”

“I spoke to him myself yesterday. He was formerly, you know, high-priest at Heliopolis, and was initiated into all your mysteries there. My wise countryman, Pythagoras of Samos, came to Egypt, and after submitting to some of your ceremonies, was allowed to attend the lessons given in the schools for priests. His remarkable talents won the love of the great Onuphis and he taught him all the Egyptian mysteries, which Pythagoras afterwards turned to account for the benefit of mankind. My delightful friend Rhodopis and I are proud of having been his pupils. When the rest of your caste heard that Onuphis had betrayed the sacred mysteries, the ecclesiastical judges determined on his death. This was to be caused by a poison extracted from peach-kernels. The condemned man, however, heard of their machinations, and fled to Naukratis, where he found a safe asylum in the house of Rhodopis, whom he had heard highly praised by Pythagoras, and whose dwelling was rendered inviolable by the king’s letter. Here he met Antimenidas the brother of the poet Alcarus of Lesbos, who, having been banished by Pittakus, the wise ruler of Mitylene, had gone to Babylon, and there taken service in the army of Nebuchadnezzar, the King of Assyria. Antimenidas gave him letters to the Chaldians. Onuphis travelled to the Euphrates, settled there, and was obliged to seek for some means of earning his daily bread, as he had left Egypt a poor man. He is now supporting himself in his old age, by the assistance which his superior knowledge enables him to render the Chaldoeans in their astronomical observations from the tower of Bel. Onuphis is nearly eighty, but his mind is as clear as ever, and when I saw him yesterday and asked him to help me, his eyes brightened as he promised to do so. Your father was one of his judges, but he bears you no malice and sends you a greeting.”

Nebenchari’s eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the ground during this tale. When Phanes had finished, he gave him a penetrating look and said: “Where are my papers?”

“They are in Onuphis’ hands. He is looking among them for the document I want.”

“I expected to hear that. Be so good as to tell me what the box is like, which Hib thought proper to bring over to Persia?”

“It is a small ebony trunk, with an exquisitely-carved lid. In the centre is a winged beetle, and on the four corners...”

“That contains nothing but a few of my father’s notices and memorandums,” said Nebenchari, drawing a deep breath of relief.

“They will very likely be sufficient for my purpose. I do not know whether you have heard, that I stand as high as possible in Cambyses’ favor.”

“So much the better for you. I can assure you, however, that the paper. which would have been most useful to you have all been left behind in Egypt.”

“They were in a large chest made of sycamore-wood and painted in colors.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because—now listen well to what I am going to say, Nebenchari—because I can tell you (I do not swear, for our great master Pythagoras forbade oaths), that this very chest, with all it contained, was burnt in the grove of the temple of Neith, in Sais, by order of the king.”

Phanes spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable, and the words seemed to strike the Egyptian like so many flashes of lightning. His quiet coolness and deliberation gave way to violent emotion; his cheeks glowed and his eyes flashed. But only for one single minute; then the strong emotion seemed to freeze, his burning cheeks grew pale. “You are trying to make me hate my friends, in order to gain me as your ally,” he said, coldly and calmly. “I know you Greeks very well. You are so intriguing and artful, that there is no lie, no fraud, too base, if it will only help to gain your purpose.”

“You judge me and my countrymen in true Egyptian fashion; that is, they are foreigners, and therefore must be bad men. But this time your suspicions happen to be misplaced. Send for old Hib; he will tell you whether I am right or not.”

Nebenchari’s face darkened, as Hib came into the room.

“Come nearer,” said he in a commanding tone to the old man.

Hib obeyed with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Tell me, have you taken a bribe from this man? Yes or no? I must know the truth; it can influence my future for good or evil. You are an old and faithful servant, to whom I owe a great deal, and so I will forgive you if you were taken in by his artifices, but I must know the truth. I conjure you to tell me by the souls of your fathers gone to Osiris!”

The old man’s sallow face turned ashy pale as he heard these words. He gulped and wheezed some time before he could find an answer, and at last, after choking down the tears which had forced their way to his eyes, said, in a half-angry, half-whining tone: “Didn’t I say so? they’ve bewitched him, they’ve ruined him in this wicked land. Whatever a man would do himself, he thinks others are capable of. Aye, you may look as angry as you like; it matters but little to me. What can it matter indeed to an old man, who has served the same family faithfully and honestly for sixty years, if they call him at last a rogue, a knave, a traitor, nay even a murderer, if it should take their fancy.”

And the scalding tears flowed down over the old man’s cheeks, sorely against his will.

The easily-moved Phanes clapped him on the shoulder and said, turning to Nebenchari: “Hib is a faithful fellow. I give you leave to call me a rascal, if he has taken one single obolus from me.”

The physician did not need Phanes’ assurance; he had known his old servant too well and too long not to be able to read his simple, open features, on which his innocence was written as clearly as in the pages of an open book. “I did not mean to reproach you, old Hib,” he said kindly, coming up to him. “How can any one be so angry at a simple question?”

“Perhaps you expect me to be pleased at such a shameful suspicion?”

“No, not that; but at all events now you can tell me what has happened at our house since I left.”

“A pretty story that is! Why only to think of it makes my mouth as bitter, as if I were chewing wormwood.”

“You said I had been robbed.”

“Yes indeed: no one was ever so robbed before. There would have been some comfort if the knaves had belonged to the thieves’ caste, for then we should have got the best part of our property back again, and should not after all have been worse off than many another; but when...”

[The cunning son of the architect, who robbed the treasure-house of

Rhampsinitus was, according to Herodotus, (II. 120), severely

punished; but in Diod. I. 80. we see that when thieves acknowledged

themselves to the authorities to be such, they were not punished,

though a strict watch was set over them. According to Diodorus,

there was a president of the thieves’ caste, from whom the stolen

goods could be reclaimed on relinquishment of a fourth part of the

same. This strange rule possibly owed its rise to the law, which

compelled every Egyptian to appear once in each year before the

authorities of his district and give an account of his means of

subsistence. Those who made false statements were punished with

death. Diod. I. 77. Thus no one who valued his life could escape

the watchful eye of the police, and the thief sacrificed the best

part of his gains in order to save his life.]

“Keep to the point, for my time is limited.”

“You need not tell me that; I see old Hib can’t do anything right here in Persia. Well, be it so, you’re master; you must give orders; I am only the servant, I must obey. I won’t forget it. Well, as I was saying, it was just at the time when the great Persian embassy came over to Sais to fetch Nitetis, and made everybody stare at them as if they were monsters or prodigies, that this shameful thing happened. I was sitting on the mosquito-tower just as the sun was setting, playing with my little grandson, my Baner’s eldest boy—he’s a fine strapping little lad now, wonderfully sharp and strong for his age. The rogue was just telling me how his father, the Egyptians do that when their wives leave the children too much alone—had hidden his mother’s shoes, and I was laughing heartily, because my Baner won’t let any of the little ones live with me, she always says I spoil them, and so I was glad she should have the trick played her—when all of a sudden there was such a loud knocking at the house-door, that I thought there must be a fire and let the child drop off my lap. Down the stairs I ran, three steps at a time, as fast as my long legs would carry me, and unbarred the door. Before I had time to ask them what they wanted, a whole crowd of temple-servants and policemen—there must have been at least fifteen of them—forced their way into the house. Pichi,—you know, that impudent fellow from the temple of Neith,—pushed me back, barred the door inside and told the police to put me in fetters if I refused to obey him. Of course I got angry and did not use very civil words to them—you know that’s my way when I’m put out—and what does that bit of a fellow do—by our god Thoth, the protector of knowledge who must know all, I’m speaking the truth—but order them to bind my hands, forbid me—me, old Hib—to speak, and then tell me that he had been told by the high-priest to order me five-and-twenty strokes, if I refused to do his bidding. He showed me the high-priest’s ring, and so I knew there was nothing for it but to obey the villain, whether I would or no. And what was his modest demand? Why, nothing less than to give him all the written papers you had left behind. But old Hib is not quite so stupid as to let himself be caught in that way, though some people, who ought to know better, do fancy he can be bribed and is no better than the son of an ass. What did I do then? I pretended to be quite crushed into submission by the sight of the signet-ring, begged Pichi as politely as I could to unfasten my hands, and told him I would fetch the keys. They loosened the cords, I flew up the stairs five steps at a time, burst open the door of your sleeping-room, pushed my little grandson, who was standing by it, into the room and barred it within. Thanks to my long legs, the others were so far behind that I had time to get hold of the black box which you had told me to take so much care of, put it into the child’s arms, lift him through the window on to the balcony which runs round the house towards the inner court, and tell him to put it at once into the pigeon-house. Then I opened the door as if nothing had happened, told Pichi the child had had a knife in his mouth, and that that was the reason I had run upstairs in such a hurry, and had put him out on the balcony to punish him. That brother of a hippopotamus was easily taken in, and then he made me show him over the house. First they found the great sycamore-chest which you had told me to take great care of too, then the papyrus-rolls on your writing-table, and so by degrees every written paper in the house. They made no distinction, but put all together into the great chest and carried it downstairs; the little black box, however, lay safe enough in the pigeon-house. My grandchild is the sharpest boy in all Sais!

“When I saw them really carrying the chest downstairs, all the anger I’d been trying so hard to keep down burst out again. I told the impudent fellows I would accuse them before the magistrates, nay, even before the king if necessary, and if those confounded Persians, who were having the city shown them, had not come up just then and made everybody stare at them, I could have roused the crowd to take my side. The same evening I went to my son-in-law-he is employed in the temple of Neith too, you know,—and begged him to make every effort to find out what had become of the papers. The good fellow has never forgotten the handsome dowry you gave my Baner when he married her, and in three days he came and told me he had seen your beautiful chest and all the rolls it contained burnt to ashes. I was so angry that I fell ill of the jaundice, but that did not hinder me from sending in a written accusation to the magistrates. The wretches,—I suppose only because they were priests too,—refused to take any notice of me or my complaint. Then I sent in a petition to the king, and was turned away there too with the shameful threat, that I should be considered guilty of high treason if I mentioned the papers again. I valued my tongue too much to take any further steps, but the ground burnt under my feet; I could not stay in Egypt, I wanted to see you, tell you what they had done to you, and call on you, who are more powerful than your poor servant, to revenge yourself. And besides, I wanted to see the black box safe in your hands, lest they should take that from me too. And so, old man as I am, with a sad heart I left my home and my grandchildren to go forth into this foreign Typhon’s land. Ah, the little lad was too sharp! As I was kissing him, he said: ‘Stay with us, grandfather. If the foreigners make you unclean, they won’t let me kiss you any more.’ Baner sends you a hearty greeting, and my son-in-law told me to say he had found out that Psamtik, the crown-prince, and your rival, Petammon, had been the sole causes of this execrable deed. I could not make up my mind to trust myself on that Typhon’s sea, so I travelled with an Arabian trading caravan as far as Tadmor,—[Palmyra]—the Phoenician palm-tree station in the wilderness, and then on to Carchemish, on the Euphrates, with merchants from Sidon. The roads from Sardis and from Phoenicia meet there, and, as I was sitting very weary in the little wood before the station, a traveller arrived with the royal post-horses, and I saw at once that it was the former commander of the Greek mercenaries.”

“And I,” interrupted Phanes, “recognized just as soon in you, the longest and most quarrelsome old fellow that had ever come across my path. Oh, how often I’ve laughed to see you scolding the children, as they ran after you in the street whenever you appeared behind your master with the medicine-chest. The minute I saw you too I remembered a joke which the king once made in his own way, as you were both passing by. ‘The old man,’ he said, reminds me of a fierce old owl followed by a flight of small teasing birds, and Nebenchari looks as if he had a scolding wife, who will some day or other reward him for healing other people’s eyes by scratching out his own!’”

“Shameful!” said the old man, and burst into a flood of execrations.

Nebenchari had been listening to his servant’s tale in silence and thought. He had changed color from time to time and on hearing that the papers which had cost him so many nights of hard work had been burnt, his fists clenched and he shivered as if seized by biting frost. Not one of his movements escaped the Athenian. He understood human nature; he knew that a jest is often much harder to bear than a grave affront, and therefore seized this opportunity to repeat the inconsiderate joke which Amasis had, it is true, allowed himself to make in one of his merry moods. Phanes had calculated rightly, and had the pleasure of seeing, that as he uttered the last words Nebenchari pressed his hand on a rose which lay on the table before him, and crushed it to pieces. The Greek suppressed a smile of satisfaction, and did not even raise his eyes from the ground, but continued speaking: “Well, now we must bring the travelling adventures of good old Hib to a close. I invited him to share my carriage. At first he refused to sit on the same cushion with such a godless foreigner, as I am, gave in, however, at last, had a good opportunity at the last station of showing the world how many clever processes of manipulation he had learnt from you and your father, in his treatment of Oropastes’ wounded brother; he reached Babylon at last safe and sound, and there, as we could not get sight of you, owing to the melancholy poisoning of your country-woman, I succeeded in obtaining him a lodging in the royal palace itself. The rest you knew already.”

Nebenchari bowed assent and gave Hib a sign to leave the room, which the old man obeyed, grumbling and scolding in a low tone as he departed. When the door had closed on him, Nebenchari, the man whose calling was to heal, drew nearer to the soldier Phanes, and said: “I am afraid we cannot be allies after all, Greek.”

“Why not?”

“Because I fear, that your revenge will prove far too mild when compared with that which I feel bound to inflict.”

“On that head there is no need for solicitude,” answered the Athenian. “May I call you my ally then?”

“Yes,” answered the other; “but only on one condition.”

“And that is—?”

“That you will procure me an opportunity of seeing our vengeance with my own eyes.”

“That is as much as to say you are willing to accompany Cambyses’ army to Egypt?”

“Certainly I am; and when I see my enemies pining in disgrace and misery I will cry unto them, ‘Ah ha, ye cowards, the poor despised and exiled physician, Nebenchari, has brought this wretchedness upon you!’ Oh, my books, my books! They made up to me for my lost wife and child. Hundreds were to have learnt from them how to deliver the blind from the dark night in which he lives, and to preserve to the seeing the sweetest gift of the gods, the greatest beauty of the human countenance, the receptacle of light, the seeing eye. Now that my books are burnt I have lived in vain; the wretches have burnt me in burning my works. O my books, my books!” And he sobbed aloud in his agony. Phanes came up and took his band, saying: “The Egyptians have struck you, my friend, but me they have maltreated and abused—thieves have broken into your granaries, but my hearth and home have been burnt to ashes by incendiaries. Do you know, man, what I have had to suffer at their hands? In persecuting me, and driving me out of Egypt, they only did what they had a right to do; by their law I was a condemned man; and I could have forgiven all they did to me personally, for I loved Amasis, as a man loves his friend. The wretch knew that, and yet he suffered them to commit a monstrous, an incredible act—an act that a man’s brain refuses to take in. They stole like wolves by night into a helpless woman’s house—they seized my children, a girl and boy, the pride, the joy and comfort of my homeless, wandering life. And how think you, did they treat them? The girl they kept in confinement, on the pretext that by so doing they should prevent me from betraying Egypt to Cambyses. But the boy—my beautiful, gentle boy—my only son—has been murdered by Psamtik’s orders, and possibly with the knowledge of Amasis. My heart was withered and shrunk with exile and sorrow, but I feel that it expands—it beats more joyfully now that there is a hope of vengeance.”

Nebenchari’s sullen but burning glance met the flashing eye of the Athenian as he finished his tale; he gave him his hand and said: “We are allies.”

The Greek clasped the offered hand and answered: “Our first point now is to make sure of the king’s favor.”

“I will restore Kassandane’s sight.”

“Is that in your power?”

“The operation which removed Amasis’ blindness was my own discovery. Petammon stole it from my burnt papers.”

“Why did you not exert your skill earlier?”

“Because I am not accustomed to bestow presents on my enemies.”

Phanes shuddered slightly at these words, recovered himself, however, in a moment, and said: “And I am certain of the king’s favor too. The Massagetan envoys have gone home to-day; peace has been granted them and....”

While he was speaking the door was burst open and one of Kassandane’s eunuchs rushed into the room crying: “The Princess Nitetis is dying! Follow me at once, there is not a moment to lose.”

The physician made a parting sign to his confederate, and followed the eunuch to the dying-bed of the royal bride.