# While Egypt Slept

Extracted from The New Age magazine, vol. 18, pp. 531-535. An earlier version of "The Greek" from Afterglow, with notable differences.
WHILE EGYPT SLEPT
By M. S. Buck
UPON the roof of a little house near the western bank of the Nile, Petronius and Thersites, reclining upon cushions, enjoyed the cooling breezes of the evening. Below and around them lay the city. Under the magic light of the moon, sailing the seas above the earth, all objects were bathed in a mellow radiance which mercifully blended all tints into one, save where the heavy, sombre shadows lay. Here and there, a torch twinkled among the boats, lying like black shadows upon the river. A soft wind blew from the west, carrying with it, now and then, the mournful cry of a beast, hunting far out in the desert.
Petronius was speaking.
"Yesterday," he said, "I was walking at the edge of the cultivated ground. It was the hour of sunset. Tem-Harmachis, as the Egyptians say, blazing like an altar flame, touched the line of the western mountain. A dark purple shadow lay over the entrances to the tombs of the kings where, they say, the untold wealth of countless ages lies concealed. The city, extended like a mighty picture on each side of the silent river, sparkled and glowed like a city afire. It was superb. Not even upon the seven hills have I seen a spectacle richer in splendor. Thousands upon thousands of white walls caught up the light, reflecting it in a riot of blinding colors.
"At the west of the city, the great temple of Amon shone like a magnificent jewel in a setting of innumerable light points reflected from an army of sphinxes. The great red granite obelisks of the first Thothmes, themselves bright as bloody javelins, upreared their motionless height against the sky. And above them, the pillar of Hatshepsu towered in indescribable grandeur. The city was overwhelmed with color, extravagant, prodigious, through which, like a broad ribbon, lay the shimmering placidity of Sihor. All that was ugly, misshapen, unhappy, was hidden beneath the glory of that setting sun. It was a picture indeed.
"Before such majesty, I felt like a miserable worm upon the earth, so I turned away at last and saw, not a dozen paces distant, a girl walking toward me.
"She was a young girl who could not have seen more than eighteen years. She was clad all in white linen, a vestment whose long, straight folds barely cleared the ground. Her cheeks were clear and light, almost too light for an Egyptian, and holding a delicate pallor like the cheeks of an unhappy child. Her eyes were dark with a depth I could not measure; her lips were neither full nor thin, but red as the blossom of the desert rose. And her raised arms were full of flowers—innumerable flowers of all colors—which she held carefully against her breast.
"I have seen many women, friend, and many virgins of all countries, but never before did such Olympic fairness pass before my eyes. In comparison with her, the sweetest Venus, hewn from the whitest marble, would look only like an ugly daughter of the south. In an instant I was mad, and, without stopping to think, I stepped squarely in her path.
"She stopped short and raised her eyes to mine. Did I mention her eyes? Seen closely, their mysterious depths multiplied upon themselves. They were marvelous, they were immortal. One could lose one's self in such eyes. Then she spoke, in Greek: 'Well?' I answered: 'Ah! I was right! The voice completes the illusion. Tell me, maiden, art thou not Aphrodite, whom thou callest Athor, upon the earth? Verily, I believe thou art.' Her lips quivered in a smile, instantly suppressed. 'Nay, I am a priestess of Amon. Thou shouldst know this by my vestments, and shouldst not make me pause in my way. But thou art a stranger, and so I pardon thee.' I saw that she wished to pass, for she was annoyed. A slight flush, fair as the dawn, appeared upon her cheeks and crept up over her temples. She bit her lip. But I could not let her go so easily, and I found another question to ask: 'And is that thy temple yonder, that shines so gloriously in the sunlight?' 'The temple of Amon, yes.' 'And these sweet flowers, are they for the altars?' 'Surely.' She hesitated, then: 'Are they not beautiful?' There was but one reply for me: 'Doubly so.' But it frightened her; she glanced at me, and her color deepened. Beneath the ardor in my eyes, her own wavered and fell. Then she looked about her, uneasily. 'I—I may not stay and talk. It is forbidden.' She paused, then: 'I am sorry,' she said, softly, and stepped past me toward the city.
"For a long time, I stood motionless watching this girl, like a little white flower, move across the fields and finally disappear among the houses in the direction of the temple. And, friend, she carried my desire with the flowers in her arms. Thou knowest me, what I have been, what I am. I am a soldier, and my life has been a soldier's life. Yet I swear that, in all my existence, never have I desired as I desire now. I want this maiden for mine own. She is a child, a mere child, innocent, unworldly, sleeping. Yet what possibilities, what joys, lie hidden within that body, sweet as the flowers she bore in her arms! And yet—she is a priestess, and I fear the gods. See this scar upon my forehead, and know that it shows a punishment for a sacrifice neglected before a battle, while I was under Octavius. But these gods of Egypt—discredited, forsaken—have they, also, a like or a greater power?"
Thersites sprang to his feet and touched his friend upon the shoulder.
"Look, friend," said he, raising an arm toward the sky, "to where yon cold sphere, destined to gaze forever upon the loves of all the world, sweeps in silent majesty across the heavens. Dost think, thou, that the gods who could guide this silvery orb, the stars, the sun, need, here upon the earth, the hands of one fair child? And even though they did, would the skies fall, the mountains shake, the seas dry up, if thou shouldst take her for thyself, to fill, alone, completely, all thy need? Did not the vandal horde, descending like a swollen flood, beat down the temple doors in Rome itself? What was it to the gods? Did not Egypt herself, beloved of the immortals, sink like a frightened slave beneath the mighty blows of Rome at Actium? What was it to the gods? They have their work to do, fair friend, and thou hast thine. Thou lovest. It is enough. Thou, thou, who couldst have, in Rome, a thousand loves without even the asking: wilt thou be balked, now, and kept from the desire of thy heart, by a few gray-bearded priests? Zeus! If thou dost play the craven in this, my friend, I will seek the girl for myself!"
Petronius shrugged helplessly.
"It is beyond thee, doubtless," he remarked, "to know that the girl is purer than all the purity of the world cast in one body. I saw it in her eyes. And, Gods! I saw the flame which sprang up when I kissed her."
"When you kissed her!"
"Yes. I went to the temple today, pretending to look around. I met her alone in the inner hall, and I—kissed her!"
Thersites, with a laugh, clapped his friend upon the shoulder.
"It is enough. She is thine. Go after her this night. Carry her away, if need be. Bring her here and I will hide her until thou sailest, three days hence. Be a man!"
Petronius rose to his feet, determined at last.
"Thou art right," he said. "I will go. But if I come not by tomorrow, come thou after me. Farewell."
"Farewell. The true immortals go with thee."
Thersites, leaning over the parapet, watched him depart and then turned, sighing gently.
"Love," he murmured, "is a delusion. Poor friend! it is not love but irresolved desire which tormenteth him so sorely. That which we have, we want not; while desire for that which we have not consumeth us as a flame. As for me—" He laughed softly. Crobyle, a slave girl, his present idol, had appeared upon the terrace. "As for me, I desire only that which I have. It is simpler, and it is quite as pleasant."
Among the houses, the night was more intense and held, still, a lingering trace of the heat of the day.
As the Roman strode forward, his sandals on the pavement awoke echoes along the deserted streets. At the avenue of the sphinxes he paused and, stooping over, unlaced the thongs and removed his footgear which he suspended from his belt.
Like a thief, now, slinking in the shadow of the monstrous images, he approached the door of the temple. It was closed. He ascended the steps and extended his arm. The door moved; it was not barred. His breath hissed through his teeth. Slowly, with infinite care, he opened the ponderous barrier, slipped inside, and closed it after him.
Before him, the darkness, heavy with the silence of the night, lay as though hiding an unknown world. Anything, everything, might lie before him, unseen. The silence was profound. He advanced cautiously, feeling his way from pillar to pillar, and stood at last beyond the door of the inner chamber.
All around him, in the gloom, columns arose, thickly, like the innumerable tree trunks of a mighty forest. Some stones had fallen from the roof, and the moonlight, striking through, diffused about the chamber, lighting obscurely the colored sculptures on the pillars. The air was cool and sweet, bearing a faint, intangible odor of incense.
Petronius had marked, that day, the cells of the priestesses, and now he advanced cautiously toward the line of small doors.
"Ah!"
He stopped short, stifling an exclamation. Down the maze of columns, a sigh floated—the echo of a distant sob. He listened intently. Somewhere, at the other end of the chamber, a woman was weeping. If it should be the one for whom he searched! What fortune, if he could find her so far from her companions!
Returning to the middle aisle of the chamber, he crept cautiously down the rows of columns in the direction of the sounds. His outstretched hand met a wall—a door. He paused to listen.
"Ah, thou mighty one! See how I weep before thee in sorrow and in penitence! What was I to do? Then, too, he was so fair. Ah!"
Petronius's heart bounded. She was there—and thinking of him! "Oh fortunate one!" He opened the door, silently stepped inside, closed it after him, and stood in the sanctuary of Amon.
At first he saw nothing. Then, gradually, the walls defined themselves—the altar—the moonlight, filtering through a few cracks in the roof, revealed, dimly, like a deep shadow, the great bulk of the god raised upon a square platform of granite. Like a huge enigma, it stood, imperturbable, surrounded with all the unsolved mystery of coutless ages. Amon!
Before the god, a patch of white ray upon the stones of the floor.
"If thou wouldst be a god of mercy, give him to me. Thou seest, I am too young to serve thee truly, O thou silent one! How can I be cold, like thee, when I am full of love? Ah!"
Gently, in the shadow, the Roman rustled his cloak. The white figure shook convulsively, half arose, shrank against the altar and, turning, saw him standing there.
Petronius heard the beating of his heart.
"Fear not, beloved. It is indeed I."
"Ah! Ah!"
"I am coming to thee."
The girl trembled closer against the stone. Petronius drew near and bent down above her. Her face was hidden in her hands. At his touch, she stifled a scream.
Then, slowly, she lowered her hands and raised her eyes to his. Her face appeared less white in the gloom.
She seemed to realize, gradually, for the first time, that a very man, not a spirit, stood before her.
"Is—is it indeed thou?"
Petronius uttered a sigh of relief and swept the great beads of perspiration from his forehead. He knelt beside her on the stones and drew her, half resisting and still frightened, into his arms.
"It is indeed I, beloved. In answer to thy very call I come. And I have come for thee, sweetest rose in all the world. Listen: in three days I sail for Rome. Come with me to the dwelling of my friend, Thersites. We will hide thee safely, though all Egypt search. And, in Rome, thou wilt taste that life of love and delight for which thy soul so longs, and which Rome, and I, alone can give. Yes, thou mayest drink of it even to the dregs, if it pleases thee. For I love thee above all things, and I know not even thy name."
The girl clung to him, sobbing wildly.
"Ah! merciless gods! I cannot, I dare not! I am afraid!"
"But why? Lo, didst thou not call for me before thy god, and did I not come? Is he so weak, indeed, that he must suffer at the loss of a single vestal? Dost think my love but a passing fancy?"
"No! I do not know! No!"
"Then thou dost fear thy god. See, then, here before his very eyes, I hold thee in my arms, and he moves not. See, then, before his very eyes, I kiss thee."
A sigh echoed through the chamber.
Slowly, softly, one arm about the maiden, Petronius approached the door, stretched out his hand, pushed. The door did not move. He pushed harder. The door did not move. Releasing the girl, he raised both hands, he applied his shoulder. The door did not move.
A shriek, full, clear, terrible, rang through the chamber.
The Roman, his skin prickling, turned. The girl lay groveling upon the stone floor. Fear gripping his heart, he knelt down, tried to draw her into his arms. She struggled like a wild thing.
"I knew it! I knew it! We are lost! We are lost! O mighty Amon!'"
Her voice, shrill with terror, echoed horribly through the heavy air of the chamber. At last she lay in his arms, silent, then panting, her eyes staring before her toward where the monstrous shadow of the image stood, inscrutable and brooding.
Petronius began to think, quickly, for the moments were precious. They were trapped. It was useless to shout. Thersites would not expect them before the morning.
Suddenly she became convulsed. Her eyes opened wide with terror. She threw up an arm, one finger extended stiffly in the direction of the god.
"Look! Look!" she shrieked. "Ah!"
Her teeth clenched. Her lower lip, caught between them, loosed a thin stream of blood which trickled out upon her chin and fell in slow drops upon her robe. Petronius raised his head.
A single clear ray of moonlight, from a chink in the roof, fell like a tiny shaft of brilliance upon the smiling lips of the outraged god.
The Roman gasped. Then, with a supreme effort, staggered to his feet, and shrank against the closed doors, his short sword gleaming in his hand, his face white and set. The girl lay silent upon the floor, her hands outstretched grotesquely, her figure angular and without beauty. The silence was absolute save for the man's sonorous breathing.
He turned his face toward the doors. He would hew them down. They could not take a Roman soldier so.
Then, suddenly, without warning, he was struck heavily in the back, and crashed forward against the wall. The sword flew from his hand and clattered upon the stones. For a moment, all was chaos. Then he felt, for the first time, a great icy tremor, somewhere within him. He became acutely conscious of a horrible agony. He gasped, but choked in a flood of warm blood which poured up through his throat. Stupidly, he took a step backward and held up before his eyes his hands, warm and red. A crimson film shot over his eyes. He took another step—another—another—another—then stumbled and, with a great choking cry, crashed his length upon the floor.
There was a sound of drawn bolts. The doors opened quietly and a flood of fresh, pure air swept into the chamber. An old priest, all his face save his eyes muffled in the folds of his robe, entered slowly, followed by a few other priests.
The old man touched Petronius with his toe.
"Take him away," he said, simply.
Then he turned toward where the priestess lay silent, outstretched on the stones. Long he stood there, looking down at her. And his eyes grew dim and moist so that he could see no longer. Then, at last, he spoke, quietly, tranquil once more.
"Love," he said, "is a delusion. It is not love but irresolved desire which tormenteth so sorely. That which we have, we want not; while desire for that which we have not consumeth us as a flame. As for me—" He sighed, softly. "As for me—" He raised his arms, slowly, toward the silent, watching god.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1959, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 64 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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