The Egyptian (34 page)

Kaptah told me that he mourned long beside my body, believing me to be dead, and he wept also for Minea until his good sense returned to him. Having felt me and found that I was alive, he reflected that he could save me at least though he could do nothing for her. He had seen the bodies of other youths and girls whom Minotauros had slain; the crabs had torn all the flesh from these bones so that they lay smooth and white upon the sandy bed of the sea.

Then he began to be stifled by the smell. When he found that he could not carry both me and the wine jar, he resolutely drank the rest of the wine and threw the empty jar into the water. So greatly fortified was he by this that he succeeded in half dragging, half carrying me back to the copper gates by means of the thread we had unrolled on our way in. After a moment’s reflection he thought it best to roll it up again as he went so as to leave no trace of our visit. It seems that in the light of his torch he noted secret signs on the walls, no doubt set there by Minotauros to help him find his way. Kaptah told me he had thrown the wine jar into the water to give Minotauros something to think about when next he carried out his bloody work.

Day was dawning as he brought me out. He locked the door behind him and put the key back in the priest’s house—for the priest and the guards were still sleeping, drugged with the wine I had mixed for them. Next he took me to a hiding place in a thicket on the bank of a stream. There he bathed my face and rubbed my hands until I came to my senses. I do not remember anything of this either. It seems I was much distracted and unable to speak, and he therefore gave me a sedative drug. I did not return to clear consciousness until much later when we were approaching the city, he leading and supporting me. Thereafter I remember everything.

I recall no suffering, nor did my thoughts turn often to Minea. She was now a remote shade in my soul, as if I had known her in some other life. Instead I reflected that the god of Crete was dead and that the might of Crete would now decline according to the prophecy. I was in no way cast down by this although the Cretans had shown me kindness, and their mirth sparkled like sea spray on the shore. When I came near the city, I was glad to think that those airy, delicate buildings would one day be in flames and that the lecherous cries of women would turn to mortal shrieks, that Minotauros’ mask of gold would be beaten flat and divided among the rest of the spoils, and that nothing would remain of the splendid majesty of Crete. The very island would sink again into the sea from which, with other marvels of the deep, it had once arisen.

I thought also of Minotauros, and without ill will, for Minea’s death had been easy, and she had not had to flee from the monster with every trick her art had taught her; she died before she knew what had befallen her. I reflected that Minotauros was alone in the knowledge that the god was dead and that Crete must fall and I guessed that his secret could be no easy one to bear. I was not sure his task had ever been easy, even in the days when the monster still lived and he sent the flower of his country’s youth into that dark house, month after month, year after year, knowing what happened to them there.

No, I felt no rancor. I sang and laughed like a madman as I walked, leaning upon Kaptah. He easily convinced those of Minea’s friends whom we met that I was still drunk after having awaited her return. They found it natural, seeing that I was a foreigner and too ignorant to know how barbarous it must appear to them to be publicly drunk in the middle of the day. At last he was able to hire a chair, and he took me back to the inn where, having drunk a great quantity of wine, I sank into a long and profound slumber.

When I awoke, my head was cool and clear, and the past remote. I thought again of Minotauros. Should I set forth and slay him? But I knew that it would serve no useful purpose. By telling the truth, I could save the lives of all those who were still to draw lots, or who had already drawn them, for the privilege of entering the house of the god. But I knew that truth is an unsheathed knife in the hands of a child and readily turns against its holder.

As a foreigner, therefore, I felt that the god of Crete was no concern of mine—and Minea was gone. Crabs and crayfish would gnaw at her delicate bones, and she would rest forever on the sandy floors of the sea. I told myself that all had been written in the stars long before the day of my birth, and this brought me consolation. I spoke of it to Kaptah, but he said that I was ill and must rest, and he forbade anyone to see me.

I was greatly vexed with Kaptah at this time, for he persisted in stuffing me with food although I felt no hunger at all and desired only wine. I suffered from a continual and unquenchable thirst and was calmest when I had drunk enough to distort my vision. At such times I became aware that things might not be quite as they seem. For the drinker sees everything double when he has drunk enough. To him this is true vision even while he knows in his heart that it is false. And what is this but the very essence of truth? When with patience and self-mastery I sought to expound this to Kaptah, he would not listen but bade me lie down, close my eyes, and compose myself.

I can now appreciate the severity of my disorder, though I have forgotten my thoughts since the wine tended to confuse me and darken my understanding. Yet I think the good wine saved my reason and helped me through the worst when I had lost Minea forever and with her my faith in the gods and in humanity.

Something in me evaporated in the fumes of the wine. I had felt something like it before when in my boyhood I saw the priest of Ammon spit on the face of the god in the sanctuary and rub it with his sleeve. The river of life was choked and its waters spreading—spreading into a wide lake whose surface was fair, a mirror to the starry heavens. Thrust a staff into it, and the water was clouded and the bottom but slime and corruption.

One morning I awoke in the inn to see Kaptah sitting in a corner of the room weeping silently and rocking his head between his hands. I bowed my head over the wine jar and having drunk said roughly, “What do you weep for, dog?”

It was the first time for many days that I had troubled to speak to him, so weary was I of his foolish solicitude. He raised his head and answered, “A ship is now lying in the harbor ready to sail for Syria, the last, it is said, that will leave before the winter gales set in. That is all I weep for.”

I said to him, “Run away to your ship, then, before I beat you again. At least I shall be spared the sight of your unendurable face and the sound of your everlasting lamentations and complaints.”

Having said this, I was ashamed and pushed away the wine jar. A bitter consolation lay in the thought that there was at least one creature dependent on me, though it was but a runaway slave.

Kaptah said, “Truly, lord, I, also, am weary of your sottishness. The dead are dead and don’t return. Let’s go away from here while we may. Your gold and silver—all that you amassed in the course of your journeys—you have thrown out of the window. With your shaking hands I do not believe that you could effect a single cure; you cannot so much as hold a wine jar. At first I thought it well for you to drink for the sake of your peace of mind; I urged you to do it, continually breaking the seals of new jars—and I drank also myself. Moreover, I boasted to others: See what a master I have! He drinks like a hippopotamus—he drowns both gold and silver in his wine, recklessly, and makes exceedingly merry. Now I boast no longer and am ashamed on my master’s account, for there are limits to everything, and to my mind you exceed them.

“I will never condemn a man who drinks himself into a passion and brawls in the street and gets his head broken. That is a sensible custom, which relieves the mind in many kinds of grief, and I have often done the same. The resulting disorders should be treated prudently with beer and salt fish, after which a man resumes his labor, as the gods have ordained and decency requires. But you drink as if each day were your last, and I fear you wish to soak yourself into your grave. If this is your aim, you would do better to drown in a bath of wine, for this is a speedier method, pleasanter also, and no dishonor.”

I considered his words. I surveyed my hands, which had been those of a healer but which now shook as if they had a will of their own and I were no longer their master. I thought of the knowledge I had accumulated in many lands and saw that excess was foolishness. It was as foolish to eat and drink immoderately as to give way to extremes of joy and sorrow.

Therefore, I said to Kaptah, “Let it be as you say, but know that the matter was already evident, and it is not your words that persuade me. They are as the tedious buzzing of flies in my ear. I shall leave drinking for a time and do not purpose to open another jar. I have brought order among my thoughts and intend to return to Smyrna.”

Kaptah skipped joyfully across the room and went out to arrange for our departure, and on that same day we went aboard. The rowers dipped their oars, and we glided from the harbor, past the scores and hundreds of vessels lying at anchor and past the copper-shielded Cretan warships. Once outside the harbor the men shipped their oars; the captain made sacrifice in his cabin to the sea god and others and gave orders for the hoisting of the sail. The vessel heeled over and sped on her way. Astern of us the island of Crete melted like a blue cloud—a shadow—a dream—and we were alone on the rolling expanse of the ocean.

SO I ripened to manhood, and when I returned to Smyrna, I was no longer young. I had been absent from that city for three years, during which I had acquired knowledge, both good and evil, of many countries. The ocean winds blew the wine fumes from my head, cleared my eyes, and restored strength to my limbs. I ate and drank and behaved like other people, save that I spoke less than they and was even more solitary than before. Solitude is some men’s destiny—a destiny of mature years—but I had been lonely from childhood, a stranger in the world since the reed boat had carried me to the Theban shore. I had no need to adapt myself to loneliness as many must, since from the beginning it was home to me and a refuge in the dark.

But as I stood by the ship’s figurehead amid the green, rolling waters and the wind blew folly from my mind, I saw far off two green eyes like moonlight on the sea; I heard Minea’s spontaneous laughter and watched her dance on a threshing floor beside the roads of Babylon, in her flimsy dress young and slight as a tender reed. And her image was not grievous to me but rather a sweet torment such as a man feels on waking from a dream that is lovelier than life. When I thought of her, I rejoiced at having known her and would not have renounced one hour of her company, knowing that without her there would have been less of myself. The ship’s figurehead was of cold, painted wood, but the face was a woman’s. As I stood beside it with my face to the wind, I felt my manhood strong within me and was aware that there would yet be many women in my life since for a solitary man it is comfortless to lie every night alone. Yet I fancied that to me all these women would be but painted wooden figures and that, when in the darkness I took them to me, I should seek in them only Minea—only the glint of moonlight, the warmth of a slender body, the fragrance of cypress, which would remind me of Minea. Thus, by the figurehead of the ship, I bade her farewell.

My house in Smyrna was still standing though the shutters had been broken open by thieves. They had carried away all that was worth taking of such possessions as I had not entrusted to the safekeeping of the merchants. Since I had been away so long, my neighbors had begun to use the space before my house as rubbish dump and privy, the stench of which was very foul. Rats scuttled over the floor as I entered my rooms and tore the cobwebs from the lintels.

My neighbors were not pleased to see me. They averted their eyes and said to one another, “He is an Egyptian and all evil comes from Egypt.” Therefore I went first to an inn, bidding Kaptah set my house in order so that I could once more live there, and then visited the merchants’ houses where I had placed my funds. After my three years’ traveling I had returned a poor man, for besides my own earnings I had lost what Horemheb had given me, mostly to the priests of Babylon on Minea’s account.

The wealthy shipowners were astonished to see me. Their noses grew even longer than before and they tugged thoughtfully at their beards, for my long absence had encouraged them to think that my wealth was now theirs. Nevertheless, they rendered me strict account, and although certain ships had foundered and I had lost my share in them, yet others had proved exceedingly profitable. When all had been assessed, it appeared that I was now wealthier than I had been at my departure and I need have no concern for my livelihood in Smyrna.

Nevertheless, the owners invited me into their rooms, offered me wine and honey bread, and pulling long faces, they said to me, “Sinuhe the physician! You are our friend, but although we are glad to trade with Egypt, we do not like to see Egyptians making their way in among us. The people murmur and are sorely vexed by the tribute they must pay to Pharaoh. Egyptians have lately been stoned in the streets, dead pigs have been cast into their temples, and our people will not show themselves publicly in their company. You, Sinuhe, are our friend, and we respect you highly for your skill in healing, which we still remember. For this reason we would make all clear to you, that you may act accordingly and with prudence.”

Their words bewildered me since before my departure people had vied with one another for the favor of the Egyptians and invited them to their houses. Just as Syrian customs had been adopted in Thebes, so here in Smyrna men followed the fashion of the Egyptians. Yet Kaptah bore out their words when in high indignation he called at the inn.

“An evil spirit has certainly crept into these people, for they conduct themselves like mad dogs, feigning ignorance of the Egyptian tongue. They threw me out of the tavern where I went to refresh my parched throat when they saw I was Egyptian. They shouted evil words after me and the children showered me with dung. Then I went to another tavern, for my throat was as dry as chaff and I craved the strong Syrian beer. But here I never uttered a sound—a hard thing for me, as you know. However, I was prudent and dipped my reed into my beer with the others in silence, and I listened to what they were saying. They said that Smyrna was once a free city, paying tribute to none, and that they no longer wished their children to be born the bondsmen of Pharaoh. Other Syrian cities were once free also, and therefore all Egyptians should be clubbed and driven forth—this was the duty of every man who loves freedom and is weary of being Pharaoh’s serf. Such was their nonsense, although it is well known that Egypt’s protection is for Syria’s benefit rather than its own. If left to themselves, the cities of Syria would be like wildcats in a sack, rending and tearing at each other, to the great detriment of farming and commerce. These people boasted of their power and spoke of some alliance between all their cities. As an Egyptian I became so sickened with their talk that when the landlord turned his back I went away without paying and snapped my drinking-reed.”