“I have come to believe that the ravishing beauty of Rhadopis is accursed magic,” said the prime minister despondently.
Tahu glared at him sternly. “You did not recite the spell that made this magic, did you?”
Sofkhatep sensed the rebuke in the commander's voice and the color drained out of his face, and he spoke quickly, as one rejecting an accusation. “She was not the first woman….”
“But she was Rhadopis.”
“I was concerned for His Majesty's happiness.”
“And you employed magic for his sake? Alas!”
“Yes, Commander. I understand that I have made a serious mistake. But now something must be done.”
“That is your duty, Your Excellency,” said Tahu, the bitterness still in his voice.
“I am asking your advice.”
“Loyalty reaches its full extent in true and honest counsel.”
“Pharaoh will not accept that anyone broaches the subject of the clergy in his presence.”
“Have you not shared your opinion with Her Majesty the Queen?”
“That is the very route that led Khnumhotep to incur the wrath of His Majesty the King.”
Tahu could think of nothing to say, but Sofkhatep had an idea and, speaking softly, said, “Is there perhaps not some benefit to be gained by arranging a meeting between you and Rhadopis?”
A shiver ran down Tahu's spine once again, and his heart thumped wildly in his breast. The emotions he was trying so hard to conceal almost exploded. “The old man doesn't know what he's saying,” he thought to himself. “He thinks His Majesty is the only one bewitched.”
“Why do you not meet her yourself,” he said to Sofkhatep.
“I think you would be more able than me to reach an understanding with her.”
“I fear that Rhadopis would not be well disposed to me,” he said coolly. “She may think ill of me, and spoil my efforts on Pharaoh's behalf. I think not, Your Excellency.”
Sofkhatep dreaded the thought of confronting Pharaoh with the truth.
Tahu could not stay there any longer. His nerves were in turmoil, and a violent unstoppable emotion tore at his soul. He asked the prime minister's permission to leave and departed as if in a trance, leaving Sofkhatep drowning in a deep chasm of doubt and affliction.
The two queens
Sofkhatep was not the only one whose head was bowed by woe.
The queen had confined herself to her chambers, brooding over the sadness buried deep inside her, the ominous pain, the despair she could voice to no one, reviewing the tragedy of her life with a broken heart, and observing the events that were unfolding in the Valley with sad eyes. She was nothing other than a woman who had lost her heart, or a queen seated uneasily upon her throne. All bonds of affection between her and the king had been broken without hope of communication as long as he remained engulfed in his passion, and as long as she took recourse to her silent pride.
It distressed her to know that the king had become so abstemious in attending to his sublime duties, for love had made him forget everything until all authority rested in the hands of Sofkhatep. She harbored no doubts about the prime minister's loyalty to the throne, but she was angry at the king's recklessness and neglect. She was determined to do something, whatever it might cost her, and she did not waver from her aim. One day, she summoned Sofkhatep and asked him to refer to her in all matters that required the opinion of the king. Thus did she allay some of her anger, and unbeknown to her, greatly relieved the prime minister, who felt a great weight had been lifted from his frail shoulders.
Having made contact with the prime minister, she learned of the latest petitions that the priests had sent from all corners of the kingdom, and she read them with patience and care. She realized immediately that the very highest authorities in the kingdom were united in their word, and she recognized the great danger concealed behind the balanced and prudent wording. Bewildered and distressed, she asked herself what would happen if the priests learned that Pharaoh paid not the slightest attention to their requests. The priesthood was a mighty force: they held sway over the people's hearts and minds, for the populace listened to the clergy in the temples, schools, and universities, and found solace in their morals and teachings, holding them up as ideals. How would events transpire, however, if the people despaired of Pharaoh's favor and lost hope of setting right matters they saw unfolding in a manner unprecedented during all the glorious and proud ages of the eternal past?
There was no doubt that events were becoming dangerously complicated, hurtling toward discord and dissent, threatening to divide the king — slumbering and dreaming on the island of Biga — and his loyal and faithful subjects, while Sofkhatep looked on in dismay, his wisdom and loyalty of no use at all.
The queen felt that something should be done and that leaving events to take their course would bring only trouble and calamity. She would have to wipe from the calm and lovely face of Egypt the decay that was descending upon it and restore its former radiance. What was she to do? The day before, she had hoped to convince her husband of the truth, but there was no hope of going to him again today. She had still not forgotten the cruel blow he had dealt her pride. Sadly, she was determined to have nothing to do with him, and she looked for a new way by which to reach her goal. But then when she thought about her goal she was not sure what it was. Finally she told herself that the most she could hope to gain was for Pharaoh to return to the priests the estates he had seized from them. But how was that to be brought about? The king was irascible, violent, and proud. He would not step down for anyone. He had ordered the confiscation of the lands in a moment of severe anger, but now there was no doubt that things other than anger pressed him to keep the lands in his possession. Anyone who knew the palace of Biga, and the gold the king was lavishing upon it, would be under no illusion as to the expense. It had come to be called the “golden palace of Biga,” and rightly so, such was the amount of objects and furniture crafted from pure gold it contained. If this huge hole that was swallowing up the king's money were stopped, perhaps it would be easier for him to think about returning the temple estates to the clergy. She had no desire to turn the king away from the courtesan of Biga: the idea had never occurred to her, but she wanted to put an end to his extravagance. She sighed and said to herself, “Now our aim is clear: we should find a way to convince the king to renounce his wastefulness, then we can persuade him to restore the lands to their owners. But how are we to persuade the king?” She had tried to put him out of the equation but then she found him every step of the way she considered. She had failed to convince him once already, and neither Sofkhatep nor Tahu had had better luck, for the king was governed by passion and there was no way to reach him. Then the question popped into her mind, “Who can convince the king?” A painful shiver ran down her spine, for the answer came to her immediately. It was awful and painful, but she had known it all along. It was one of the truths that brought back the pain whenever the memory returned, for the Fates had decreed that the person who controlled the king, who controlled his destiny, was her rival, the dancer of Biga, who had condemned her to be forever excluded from Pharaoh's heart. That was the bitter truth and she was loath to accept it, as a person is loath to accept truths such as death, old age, and incurable disease.
The queen was a sad woman, but she was, nevertheless, a great queen with extreme foresight. And though she could put the fact that she was a woman to the back of her mind, she could not forget it altogether, for her heart continued to dwell on her husband the king and the woman who had stolen him from her. As for the fact that she was queen, that she could never put to the back of her mind, nor neglect her duties for a single moment. She was sincerely resolved to save the throne and to maintain its exaltation beyond the reach of whispered mutterings of discontent. She wondered if she had come to this decision through a sense of duty alone, or if there were other motives. Our thoughts are always driven by considerations which revolve around those we love and those we hate, for to them we are drawn by hidden forces as a moth is drawn to the light of a lamp. She had felt at the beginning a desire to see Rhadopis, whom she had heard so much about. But what did that mean? Should she go to the woman to talk to her about the affairs of Egypt? Should Queen Nitocris go to the dancer — who offers herself on the market of love, and speak to the — woman in the name of her alleged love for the king, that she might deter him from his wastefulness, and return him to his duty? What a repulsive thought it was.