Pandion had lost all conception of time; he had forgotten that they had journeyed not more than twenty thousand cubits from the well; he had forgotten everything except that he must hold on to the shoulders of the man in front and keep step with those plodding ahead. About halfway to the well they heard voices in front of them that sounded unusually loud: Akhmi and the twenty-seven men who had gone with him were hurrying to meet them, carrying rags steeped in water and two old gourd bottles they had found at the well.
The men mustered strength enough to refuse the water and propose to Akhmi that he go back to those who had remained at the scene of the catastrophe.
Superhuman efforts were needed to keep going as far as the well; their strength grew less with every step, nevertheless the men allowed the water-carriers to pass in silence and continued to plod on.
A wavering black haze spread before the eyes of the stumbling people; some of them fell, but encouraged by the others and supported by their stronger comrades they continued on their way. The fifty-five men could not remember the last hour of their journey — they walked on almost unconsciously, their legs continuing their slow, stumbling movements. But reach their goal they did; the water revived them, refreshed their bodies and enabled their congealed blood to soften their dried muscles.
No sooner had the travellers fully recovered than they remembered those left behind. Following the example of the first party they went back, carrying rags, dripping with water — the source of life — to those wandering in the desert. This help was invaluable because it came in time. The sun had risen. The last group of those still alive was given strength by the water brought by the Libyans. The people had halted amidst the sand-dunes and could not muster strength enough to continue their way despite all persuasion, urging and even threats. The wet rags enabled them to keep going for another hour which proved sufficient to reach the well.
In this way another thirty-one men reached the water; altogether a hundred and fourteen were saved, less than half the number that had set out into the desert two days before. The weakest had perished during the first day’s desert march arid now the awful catastrophe had taken toll of the best and strongest fighters. The future seemed more indefinite than before. The forced inactivity was depressing; there was no strength left to continue the planned journey; weapons had been abandoned in the place where the sand-storm had overtaken them. If the insurgents had had food they could have recuperated much more easily, but the last remnants had been distributed the night before and there was nothing left.
The sun was blazing in the clear unclouded sky and those who had remained at the scene of the catastrophe, even if there had been a faint flicker of life in them, had by now, no doubt, perished.
The survivors hid in the gully between the rocks where the day before they had lain together with those who were no longer amongst the living. As on the previous day the people awaited sundown, but although the heat of the day had died down and night had already fallen, they still waited, hoping that the cool night air would enable the weaker men to continue their struggle with the desert that stood between them and their native land.
This last hope, however, was fated never to be fulfilled.
As night drew on the runaways felt that they could continue their way slowly forward and were about to set. out when suddenly they heard the distant braying of an ass and the barking of dogs. For a time they hoped it might be a merchant caravan or the party of a tax-collector, but soon, however, horsemen appeared in the semi-darkness of the plain. The well-known cry of “A’atu!” resounded over the desert. There was nowhere to flee to, they had no weapons to fight with and hiding was useless — the sharp-eared dogs would soon find them. Some of the insurgents sank to the ground, their last ounce of strength gone; others dashed about aimlessly amongst the rocks. Some of them tore their hair in desperation. One of the Libyans, still a young man, groaned plaintively and tears filled his eyes. The Amu and the Heriusha stood with bowed heads and clenched teeth. Several of the men began involuntarily to run away but were immediately halted by the dogs.
The more self-restrained stood still where they were, as though in a trance, their minds, however, actively seeking ways of salvation. The soldiers of the Black Land were fortunate in their chase — they had caught up with the runaways at a moment when they were very weak. If they had retained but half of their former energy many of them would have preferred death to a second captivity. Their vitality, however, had been sapped and the runaways did not offer any resistance to the soldiers approaching with drawn bows. The struggle for freedom was over — those who slept their eternal sleep amidst the abandoned weapons were a thousand times more fortunate than the survivors.
Worn out, all hope of liberty gone, the slaves became submissive and indifferent to their fate.
Very soon the hundred and fourteen men, their hands bound behind their backs and chained together by their necks in parties of ten, straggled back across the desert to the east under the blows of whips. A few of the soldiers visited the scene of the catastrophe to make sure there were none left alive there.
The pursuers expected a reward for every slave they brought back — only this saved the runaways from a horrible death. Not one of them died on the awful journey back when they dragged along tied together, lashed by whips and without food. The caravan moved slowly, keeping to the road and avoiding the sands.
Pandion dragged along, never daring to look at his companions, and unreceptive to outside impressions. Even the blows of the whip could not arouse him from his state of torpor. The only thing he remembered of the journey back to slavery was the moment when they reached the Nile, near the city of Abydos. The Captain of the escort halted the party to examine the wharf where a barge should have awaited the captives. The prisoners were huddled together on the crest of the descent into the valley, some of them sank to the ground. The morning breeze brought with it the smell of fresh water.
Pandion, who had remained on his feet, suddenly noticed pretty, delicately blue flowers on the very edge of the desert. They swayed on their long stems spreading a fine aroma all around and Pandion felt that this was a last gift sent to him from his lost liberty.
The young Hellene’s lips, cracked and bleeding, quivered and uncertain weak sounds escaped his throat. Kidogo, who had been watching his friend with some alarm during halts — he was chained to a different group during the march — turned to listen.
“… Blue.” He heard only the last word and Pandion again sank into a coma.
The runaways were freed of their bonds and driven on to the barge that was to take them to the suburbs of the capital. Here they were kept in prison as particularly dangerous and persistent rebels and would inevitably be sent to the gold mines.
The prison was a huge hole dug in hard, dry ground, faced with brick and roofed by a number of steep vaults. Four narrow slits cut in the roof served as windows and the entrance was a sloping trap-door in the roof through which food and water were lowered.
The constant gloom of the prison proved a mercy to the runaways: many of them had inflamed eyes caused by the terribly harsh light of the desert, and had they remained in the sunlight they would undoubtedly have lost their sight.
But how tormenting was their captivity in a dark, stinking hole after a few days of liberty!
The captives were completely cut off from the world and nobody cared what they felt or experienced.
Despite the hopelessness of their position, however, they again began to hope for something as soon as they had begun to recover from the effects of their awful journey.