The Yoke. Elizabeth Miller
face faded.
The Pharaoh settled back into his seat and his brow cleared as if the problem had been settled. But suddenly he sat up.
"What have I profited by this council? Shall I take the army or leave it distributed over Egypt?" He stopped abruptly and turned to the crown prince. "Help us, my Rameses," he said in a softer tone. "We had well-nigh forgotten thee."
Rameses raised himself from the back of his cathedra, against which he lounged, and moved a step forward.
"A word, my father," he said calmly. "Thy perplexity hath not been untangled for thee, nor even a thread pulled which shall start it raveling. The priesthood can kill Mesu," he said to Loi, "and it will do them no hurt. And thou, my father, canst countenance it and seem no worse than any other monarch that loved his throne. Thus ye will decapitate the monster. But there be creatures in the desert which, losing one head, grow another. Mesu is not of such exalted or supernatural villainy that they can not fill his place. Wilt thou execute Israel one by one as it raises up a leader against thee? Nay; and wilt thou play the barbarian and put two and a half million at once to the sword?"
The trio looked uncomfortable, none more so than the Pharaoh. The prince went on mercilessly.
"Are the Hebrews warriors? Wouldst thou go against a host of trowel-wielding slaves with an army that levels lances only against free-born men? And yet, wilt thou wait till all Israel shall crowd into thy presence and defy thee before thou actest? And again, wilt thou descend on them with arms now when they may with Justice cry 'What have we done to thee?' Thou art beset, my father."
The Pharaoh opened his lips as if to answer, but the level eye of the prince silenced him.
"Thou hast not fathomed the Hebrew's capabilities, my father," Rameses continued. "In him is a wealth, a power, a magnificence that thy fathers and mine built up for thee, and the time is ripe for the garnering of thy profit. What monarch of the sister nations hath two and a half millions of hereditary slaves—not tributary folk nor prisoners of war—but slaves that are his as his cattle and his flocks are his? What monarch before thee had them? None anywhere, at any time. Thou art rich in bond-people beyond any monarch since the gods reigned."
The chagrin died on the Pharaoh's face and he wore an expectant look.
The prince continued in even tones.
"By use, they have fitted themselves to the limits laid upon them by the great Rameses. The feeble have died and the frames of the sturdy have become like brass. They have bred like beetles in the Nile mud for numbers. Ignorant of their value, thou hast been indifferent to their existence. Forgetting them was pampering them. They have lived on the bounty of Egypt for four hundred years and, save for the wise inflictions of a year or two by the older Pharaohs, they have flourished unmolested. How they repay thee, thou seest by this writing. Now, by the gods, turn the face of a master upon them. Remove the soft driver, Atsu, and put one in his stead who is worthy the office. Tickle them to alacrity and obedience with the lash—yoke them—load them—fill thy canals, thy quarries, thy mines with them—" He broke off and moved forward a step squarely facing the Pharaoh.
"Thou hast thine artist—that demi-god Mentu, in whom there is supernatural genius for architecture as well as sculpture. Make him thy murket[2] as well, and with him dost thou know what thou canst do with these slaves? Thou canst rear Karnak in every herdsman's village; thou canst carve the twin of Ipsambul in every rock-front that faces the Nile; thou canst erect a pyramid tomb for thee that shall make an infant of Khufu; thou canst build a highway from Syene to Tanis and line it with sisters of the Sphinx; thou canst write the name of Meneptah above every other name on the world's monuments and it shall endure as long as stone and bronze shall last and tradition go on from lip to lip!"
The prince paused abruptly. Meneptah was on his feet, almost in tears at the contemplation of his pictured greatness.
"Mark ye!" the prince began again. His arm shot out and fell and the flash of its jewels made it look like a bolt of lightning. "I would not fall heir to Israel—and if these things are done in thy lifetime I must build my monuments with prisoners of war!"
The old hierarch, who had been nervously rubbing the arm of his chair during the last of the prince's speech, broke the dead silence with an awed whisper.
"Ah, then spake the Incomparable Pharaoh!"
Meneptah put out his hand, smiling.
"No more. The way is shown, I follow, O my Rameses!"
[1] Osiris—the great god of Egypt, was overcome by Set, his body divided and scattered over the valley of the Nile. Isis, wife of Osiris, gathered up the remains and buried them at This or Abydos.
[2] Murket—the royal architect, an exalted office usually held by princes of the realm.
CHAPTER VI
THE LADY MIRIAM
Meanwhile the scribe of the "double house of life," and the son of the royal sculptor were taking comfort on the palace-top beneath the subdued light of a hooded lamp.
The pair had spoken of all Memphis and its gossip; had given account of themselves and had caught up with the present time in the succession of events.
"Hotep, at thy lofty notch of favor, one must have the wisdom of Toth," Kenkenes observed, adding with a laugh, "mark thou, I have compared thee with no mortal."
Hotep shook his head.
"Nay, any man may fill my position so he but knows when to hold his tongue and what to say when he wags it."
"O, aye," the sculptor admitted in good-natured irony. "Those be simple qualifications and easy to combine."
The scribe smiled.
"Mine is no arduous labor now. During my years of apprenticeship I was sorely put to it, but now I have only to wait upon the king and look to it that mine underlings are not idle. If another war should come—if any manner of difficulty should arise in matters of state, I doubt not mine would be a heavy lot."
The young man spoke of war and fellowship with a monarch as if he had been a lady's page and gossiped of fans and new perfumes.
Kenkenes looked at him with a full realization of the incongruity of the youth of the man and the weight of the office that was his.
But at close range the scribe's face was young only in feature and tint. He was born of an Egyptian and a Danaid, and the blond alien mother had impressed her own characteristics very strongly on her son.
He had a plump figure with handsome curves, waving, chestnut hair and a fair complexion. Nose and forehead were in line. The eyes were of that type of gray that varies in shade with the mental state. His temper displayed itself only in their sudden hardening into the hue of steel; content and happiness made them blue. They were always steady and comprehending, so that whoever entered his presence for the first time said to himself: "Here is a man that discovers my very soul."
Whatever other blunder Meneptah might have made, he had redeemed himself in the wisdom he displayed in choosing his scribe. Kenkenes had been led to ask how Hotep had come to his place.
"My superior, Pinem, died without a son," the scribe had explained; "and as my record was clean, and the princes had ever been my patrons, the Pharaoh exalted me to the scribeship."
Kenkenes had then set down a mark in favor of the princes.
"I doubt not," the scribe observed at last, "that my time of ease is short-lived."
The sculptor looked at him with inquiry in his eyes.
"When sedition arises and defies the Pharaoh in his audience chamber," Hotep went on, "it has reached the stage of a single alternative—success or death. Dost know the Lady Miriam?"
"The