Commander Mheb said, “Our higher goal is to liberate the motherland from the Herdsmen's rule and clear them from its territory. The Lord has granted us this, so there is no need for us to prolong the period of abasement of our own volition.”
Ahmose Ebana said, “We shall purchase the life of thirty thousand captives at the price of Princess Amenridis and a handful of Herdsmen.”
The king listened closely to his men and said, “Your opinion is sound. However, I think that the envoy of Apophis should wait a little longer so that he does not think that our haste to agree to a peaceful solution comes from weakness or weariness with the struggle.”
The men left the ship and the king was alone. Despite all the reasons he had to rejoice, he was despondent and ill at ease. His struggle had been crowned with outright victory, his mighty enemy had knelt to him, and tomorrow Apophis would load his belongings and flee to the deserts from which his people came, in submission to irreversible Fate. So — why — was it that he could not rejoice? Or why was it that his joy was not pure and complete? The critical moment had come, the moment of farewell forever. Even before this moment, he had been truly despairing, though she was there, on the small ship. What would he do tomorrow should he return to the palace of Thebes, while she was taken to the heart of the unknown desert? Could he let her go without fortifying himself with a look of farewell from her? “No!” responded his heart, and smashing the shackles of resignation and pride he rose and left the cabin, whence he took a boat to the captive princess's ship, saying to himself, “Whatever reception she gives me, I will find something to say.” He climbed up to the ship and went to the chamber, where the guards saluted him and opened the door. Heart beating, he crossed the threshold and cast a look around the small, simple chamber. He found the captive sitting in the center of the room on a divan. She seemed not to have been expecting his return, for astonishment and reproach showed on her lovely visage. Ahmose examined her with a deep look and found her as beautiful as ever, her features just as they had been on the day when they were engraved on his heart on the deck of the royal vessel. He bit his lip and said to her, “Good morning, Princess.”
She looked up at him with eyes that still held their astonishment and seemed not to know what to reply. The king did not wait long but said in a quiet voice and an inexpressive tone, “Today you are released, Princess.”
Her face indicated that she had understood nothing, so he said again, “Do you not hear what I say? Today you are released, free. Your captivity is at an end, Princess, and you have a right to go free.”
Her astonishment increased and hope appeared in her eyes. She said impatiently, “Is it true what you say? Is it true what you say?”
“What I say is an accomplished fact.”
Her face lit up and her cheeks reddened. Then she hesitated for a second and enquired, “But how can that be?”
“Aha! I read your eager hopes in your eyes. Are you not hoping that your father's victory is the reason for your regaining your liberty? That is what I read. But it is his defeat, alas, that has put an end to your enslavement.”
She was tongue-tied and said not a word. He informed her briefly of her father's envoys’ proposals and what had been agreed. Then he said, “And soon you will be taken to your father and journey with him wherever he journeys. So this is a blessed day for us.”
Shades of sorrow enshrouded her face, her features froze, and she looked away. Ahmose asked her, “Do you find your sorrow at the defeat greater than your joy at your release?”
She replied, “It behooves you not to gloat over me, for we shall leave your country as honorable people, just as we lived in it.”
Ahmose said with visible disquiet, “I am not gloating over you, Princess. We ourselves have tasted the bitterness of defeat and these long wars have taught us to acknowledge your courage and bravery.”
Comforted, she said, “I thank you, King.”
For the first time, he heard her speak in tones empty of anger and pride. Affected, he said to her, smiling sadly, “I see that you call me ‘King,’ Princess.”
Turning her eyes away, she replied, “Because you are the king of this valley, without any to share it with you. I, however, shall never be called ‘Princess’ after today.”
The king was even more affected, for he had not expected her unyieldingness to soften in this way. He had thought that she would become yet more arrogant in defeat. He said sadly, “Princess, the experiences of this world are a register of pleasure and pain. You have experienced life in its sweetness and bitterness and you still have a future.”
With amazing serenity she said, “Indeed, we have a future, behind the mirages of the unknown desert and we shall meet our fate with courage.”
Silence reigned. Their eyes met and he read in hers purity and gentleness. He remembered the lady of the cabin, who saved his life and fed him the nectar of love and tenderness. It was as though he were seeing her for the first time since then and, his heart shaking violently, he said earnestly and sadly, “Soon we will be parted and you will not care. But I shall always remember that you — were uncivil and harsh — with me.”
Sadness showed in her eyes and her mouth parted in a slight smile as she said, “King, you know little about us. We are a people who find death easier to bear than abasement.”
“I never wanted to abase you. But I was deluded by hope, misled by my misplaced confidence in a standing that I believed I had in your heart.”
She said in a low voice, “Would it not be abasement for me to open my arms to my captor and my father's enemy?”
He replied bitterly, “Love knows nothing of such logic.”
She took refuge in silence. Then, as though persuaded by his words, she murmured in a low voice that he did not hear, “I blame only myself.” Her eyes took on a faraway look and with a sudden motion she stretched out her hand to her bed pillow and took out from beneath it the necklace with the emerald heart and put it around her neck calmly and submissively. His eyes followed her, unbelieving. Then he threw himself at her side, unable to contain himself longer, encircled her neck with his arm and drew her madly and violently to his chest. She offered him no resistance but said sadly, “Beware. It is too late.”
The pressure of his arms around her increased and he said in a trembling voice, “Amenridis, how can you bring yourself to say that? How can I discover my happiness only when it is about to disappear? No, I will not let you go.”
She gazed at him with sympathy and pity and asked him, “What will you do?”
“I shall keep you at my side.”
“Don't you know what my staying with you means? Will you sacrifice thirty thousand captives of your people and many more of your soldiers?”
He frowned, his eyes darkened, and he murmured as though speaking to himself, “My father and grandfather were martyred for my people and I have given them my life. Will they begrudge my heart its happiness?”
She shook her head sadly and said gently, “Listen to me, Isfmis — let me call you by that dear name, because it is the first name I have loved in my life. There is no escape from parting. We shall part. We shall part. You will never agree to sacrifice thirty thousand of your people, whom you love, and I shall never agree to the massacre of my father and my people. So let each one of us bear his lot of pain.”
He looked at her distractedly, as though he could not bear that his only lot in love should be the acceptance of parting and pain, and said to her hopefully, “Amenridis, don't rush to despair, and shun thoughts of parting. Hearing the word pass so easily over your tongue brings back the madness to my blood. Amenridis, let me knock on all doors, even that of your father. Why should I not ask him for your hand?”