The World's Desire
by
Andrew Lang

Part 5 out of 5



Meriamun; and how he had gone forth to lead the host of Khem. All this
he told her swiftly, hiding naught, while she listened with eager
ears.

"Truly," she said, when all was told, "truly thou art a happy
messenger. Now I forgive him all. Yet has he sworn by the Snake who
should have sworn by the Star, and because of his fault never in this
space of life shall Helen call him Lord. Yet will we follow him, Rei.
Hark! what is that? Again it comes, that long shrill cry as of ghosts
broke loose from Hades."

"It is the Queen," quoth Rei; "the Queen who with all women of Tanis
comes hither to burn thee in thy Shrine. She hath slain Pharaoh, and
now she would slay thee also, and so win the Wanderer to her arms.
Fly, Lady! Fly!"

"Nay, I fly not," said Helen. "Let her come. But do thou, Rei, pass
through the Temple gates and mingle with the crowd. There thou shalt
await my coming, and when I come, draw near, fearing nothing; and
together we will pass down the path of the Wanderer in such fashion as
I shall show thee. Go! go swiftly, and bid those who minister to me
pass out with thee."

Then Rei turned and fled. Without the doors of the Shrine many priests
were gathered.

"Fly! the women of Tanis are upon you!" he cried. "I charge ye to
fly!"

"This old crone is mad," quoth one. "We watch the Hathor, and, come
all the women of the world, we fly not."

"Ye are mad indeed," said Rei, and sped on.

He passed the gates, the gates clashed behind him. He won the outer
space, and hiding in the shadows of the Temple walls, looked forth.
The night was dark, but from every side a thousand lights poured down
towards the Shrine. On they came like lanterns on the waters of Sihor
at the night of the feast of lanterns. Now he could see their host. It
was the host of the women of Tanis, and every woman bore a lighted
torch. They came by tens, by hundreds, and by thousands, and before
them was Meriamun, seated in a golden chariot, and with them were
asses, oxen, and camels, laden with bitumen, wood, and reeds. Now they
gained the gates, and now they crashed them in with battering trees of
palm. The gates fell, the women poured through them. At their head
went Meriamun the Queen. Bidding certain of them stay by her chariot
she passed through, and standing at the inner gates called aloud to
the priests to throw them wide.

"Who art thou who darest come up with fire against the holy Temple of
the Hathor?" asked the guardian of the gates.

"I am Meriamun, the Queen of Khem," she answered, "come with the women
of Tanis to slay the Witch thou guardest. Throw the gates wide, or die
with the Witch."

"If indeed thou art the Queen," answered the priest, "here there sits
a greater Queen than thou. Go back! Go back, Meriamun, who art not
afraid to offer violence to the immortal Gods. Go back! lest the curse
smite thee."

"Draw on! draw on! ye women," cried Meriamun; "draw on, smite down the
gates, and tear these wicked ones limb from limb."

Then the women screamed aloud and battered on the gates with trees, so
that they fell. They fell and the women rushed in madly. They seized
the priests of Hathor and tore them limb from limb as dogs tear a
wolf. Now the Shrine stood before them.

"Touch not the doors," cried Meriamun. "Bring fire and burn the Shrine
with her who dwells therein. Touch not the doors, look not in the
Witch's face, but burn her where she is with fire."

Then the women brought the reeds and the wood, and piled them around
the Shrine to twice the height of a man. They brought ladders also,
and piled the fuel upon the roof of the Shrine till all was covered.
And they poured pitch over the fuel, and then at the word of Meriamun
they cast torches on the pitch and drew back screaming. For a moment
the torches smouldered, then suddenly on every side great tongues of
flame leapt up to heaven. Now the Shrine was wrapped in fire, and yet
they cast fuel on it till none might draw near because of the heat.
Now it burned as a furnace burns, and now the fire reached the fuel on
the roof. It caught, and the Shrine was but a sheet of raging flame
that lit the white-walled city, and the broad face of the waters, as
the sun lights the lands. The alabaster walls of the Shrine turned
whiter yet with heat: they cracked and split till the fabric tottered
to its fall.

"Now there is surely an end of the Witch," cried Meriamun, and the
women screamed an answer to her.

But even as they screamed a great tongue of flame shot out through the
molten doors, ten fathoms length and more, it shot like a spear of
fire. Full in its path stood a group of the burners. It struck them,
it licked them up, and lo! they fell in blackened heaps upon the
ground.

Rei looked down the path of the flame. There, in the doorway whence it
had issued, stood the Golden Hathor, wrapped round with fire, and the
molten metal of the doors crept about her feet. There she stood in the
heart of the fire, but there was no stain of fire on her, nor on her
white robes, nor on her streaming hair; and even through the glow of
the furnace he saw the light of the Red Star at her breast. The flame
licked her form and face, it wrapped itself around her, and curled
through the masses of her hair. But still she stood unharmed, while
the burners shrank back amazed, all save Meriamun the Queen. And as
she stood she sang wild and sweet, and the sound of her singing came
through the roar of the flames and reached the ears of the women, who,
forgetting their rage, clung to one another in fear. Thus she sang--of
that Beauty which men seek in all women, and never find, and of the
eternal war for her sake between the women and the men, which is the
great war of the world. And thus her song ended:

"Will ye bring flame to burn my Shrine
Who am myself a flame,
Bring death to tame this charm of mine
That death can never tame?
Will ye bring fire to harm my head
Who am myself a fire,
Bring vengeance for your Lovers dead
Upon the World's Desire?

Nay, women while the earth endures,
Your loves are not your own.
They love you not, these loves of yours,
/Helen/ they love alone!
My face they seek in every face,
Mine eyes in yours they see,
They do but kneel to you a space,
And rise and follow /me!/"

Then, still singing, she stepped forward from the Shrine, and as she
went the walls fell in, and the roof crashed down upon the ruin and
the flames shot up into the very sky. Helen heeded it not. She looked
not back, but out to the gates beyond. She glanced not at the fierce
blackened faces of the women, nor on the face of Meriamun, who stood
before her, but slowly passed towards the gates. Nor did she go alone,
for with her came a canopy of fire, hedging her round with flame that
burned from nothing. The women saw the wonder and fell down in their
fear, covering their eyes. Meriamun alone fell not, but she too must
cover her eyes because of the glory of Helen and the fierceness of the
flame that wrapped her round.

Now Helen ceased singing, but moved slowly through the courts till she
came to the outer gates. Here by the gates was the chariot of
Meriamun. Then Helen called aloud, and the Queen, who followed, heard
her words:

"Rei," she cried, "draw nigh and have no fear. Draw nigh that I may
pass with thee down that path the Wanderer treads. Draw nigh, and let
us swiftly hence, for the hero's last battle is at hand, and I would
greet him ere he die."

Rei heard her and drew near trembling, tearing from him the woman's
weeds he wore, and showing the priest's garb beneath. And as he came
the fire that wrapped her glory round left her, and passed upward like
a cloak of flame. She stretched out her hand to him, saying:

"Lead me to yonder chariot, Rei, and let us hence."

Then he led her to the chariot, while those who stood by fled in fear.
She mounted the chariot, and he set himself beside her. Then he
grasped the reins and called to the horses, and they bounded forward
and were lost in the night.

But Meriamun cried in her wrath:

"The Witch is gone, gone with my own servant whom she hath led astray.
Bring chariots, and let horsemen come with the chariots, for where she
passes there I will follow, ay, to the end of the world and the coast
of Death."



VII

THE LAST FIGHT OF ODYSSEUS, LAERTES' SON

Now the host of Pharaoh marched forth from On, to do battle with the
Nine-bow barbarians. And before the host marched, the Captains came to
the Wanderer, according to the command of Pharaoh, and placing their
hands in his, swore to do his bidding on the march and in the battle.
They brought him the great black bow of Eurytus, and his keen sword of
bronze, Euryalus' gift, and many a sheaf of arrows, and his heart
rejoiced when he saw the goodly weapon. He took the bow and tried it,
and as he drew the string, once again and for the last time it sang
shrilly of death to be. The Captains heard the Song of the Bow, though
what it said the Wanderer knew alone, for to their ears it came but as
a faint, keen cry, like the cry of one who drowns in the water far
from the kindly earth. But they marvelled much at the wonder, and said
one to another that this man was no mortal, but a God come from the
Under-world.

Then the Wanderer mounted the chariot of bronze that had been made
ready for him, and gave the word to march.

All night the host marched swiftly, and at day-break they camped
beneath the shelter of a long, low hill. But at the sunrise the
Wanderer left the host, climbed the hill with certain of the Captains,
and looked forth. Before him was a great pass in the mountains, ten
furlongs or more in length, and through it ran the road. The sides of
the mountain sloped down to the road, and were strewn with rocks split
by the sun, polished by the sand, and covered over with bush that grew
sparsely, like the hair on the limbs of a man. To the left of the
mountains lay the river Sihor, but none might pass between the
mountain and the river. The Wanderer descended from the hill, and
while the soldiers ate, drove swiftly in his chariot to the further
end of the pass and looked forth again. Here the river curved to the
left, leaving a wide plain, and on the plain he saw the host of the
Nine-bow barbarians, the mightiest host that ever his eyes had looked
upon. They were encamped by nations, and of each nation there was
twenty thousand men, and beyond the glittering camp of the barbarians
he saw the curved ships of the Achæans. They were drawn up on the
beach of the great river, as many a year ago he had seen them drawn up
on the shore that is by Ilios. He looked upon plain and pass, on
mountain and river, and measured the number of the foe. Then his heart
was filled with the lust of battle, and his warlike cunning awoke. For
of all leaders he was the most skilled in the craft of battle, and he
desired that this, his last war, should be the greatest war of all.

Turning his horses' heads, he galloped back to the host of Pharaoh and
mustered them in battle array. It was but a little number as against
the number of the barbarians--twelve thousand spearmen, nine thousand
archers, two thousand horsemen, and three hundred chariots. The
Wanderer passed up and down their ranks, bidding them be of good
courage, for this day they should sweep the barbarians from the land.

As he spoke a hawk flew down from the right, and fell on a heron, and
slew it in mid-air. The host shouted, for the hawk is the Holy Bird of
Ra, and the Wanderer, too, rejoiced in the omen. "Look, men," he
cried; "the Bird of Ra has slain the wandering thief from the waters.
And so shall ye smite the spoilers from the sea."

Then he held counsel with Captains, and certain trusty men were sent
out to the camp of the barbarians. And they were charged to give an
ill report of the host of Pharaoh, and to say that such of it as
remained awaited the barbarian onset behind the shelter of the hill on
the further side of the pass.

Then the Wanderer summoned the Captains of the archers, and bade them
hide all their force among the rocks and thorns on either side of the
mountain pass, and there to wait till he drew the hosts of the foe
into the pass. And with the archers he sent a part of the spearmen,
but the chariots he hid beneath the shelter of the hill on the hither
side of the pass.

Now, when the ambush was set, and all were gone save the horsemen
only, his spies came in and told him that the host of the barbarians
marched from their camp, but that the Achæans marched not, but stopped
by the river to guard the camp and ships. Then the Wanderer bade the
horsemen ride through the pass and stand in the plain beyond, and
there await the foe. But when the hosts of the barbarians charged
them, they must reel before the charge, and at length fly headlong
down the pass as though in fear. And he himself would lead the flight
in his chariot, and where he led there they should follow.

So the horsemen rode through the pass and formed their squadrons on
the plain beyond. Now the foe drew nigh, and a glorious sight it was
to see the midday sun sparkling on their countless spears. Of horsemen
they had no great number, but there were many chariots and swordsmen,
and spearmen, and slingers beyond count. They came on by nations, and
in the centre of the host of each nation sat the king of the nation in
a glorious chariot, with girls and eunuchs, holding fans to fan him
with and awnings of silk to hide him from the sun.

Now the Wanderer hung back behind the squadrons of horsemen as though
in fear. But presently he sent messengers bidding the Captains of the
squadrons to charge the first nation, and fight for a while but
feebly, and then when they saw him turn his horses and gallop through
the pass, to follow after him as though in doubt, but in such fashion
as to draw the foe upon their heels.

This the Captains of the mercenaries did. Once they charged and were
beaten back, then they charged again, but the men made as though they
feared the onset. Now the foe came hard after them, and the Wanderer
turned his chariot and fled through the pass, followed slowly by the
horsemen. And when the hosts of the barbarians saw them turn, they set
up a mighty shout of laughter that rent the skies, and charged after
them.

But the Wanderer looked back and laughed also. Now he was through the
pass followed by the horsemen, and after them swept the hosts of the
barbarians, like a river that has burst its banks. Still the Wanderer
held his hand till the whole pass was choked with the thousands of the
foe, ay, until the half of the first of the nations had passed into
the narrow plain that lay between the hill and the mouth of the pass.
Then, driving apace up the hill, he stood in his chariot and gave the
signal. Lifting his golden shield on high he flashed it thrice, and
all the horsemen shouted aloud. At the first flash, behold, from
behind every rock and bush of the mountain sides arose the helms of
armed men. At the second flash there came a rattling sound of shaken
quivers, and at the third flash of the golden shield, the air was
darkened with the flight of arrows. As the sea-birds on a lonely isle
awake at the cry of the sailor, and wheel by thousands from their
lofty cliffs, so at the third flash of the Wanderer's shield the
arrows of his hidden host rushed downward on the foe, rattling like
hail upon the harness. For awhile they kept their ranks, and pressed
on over the bodies of those that fell. But soon the horses in the
chariots, maddened with wounds, plunged this way and that, breaking
their companies and trampling the soldiers down. Now some strove to
fly forward, and some were fain to fly back, and many an empty chariot
was dragged this way and that, but ever the pitiless rain of shafts
poured down, and men fell by thousands beneath the gale of death. Now
the mighty host of the Nine-bows rolled back, thinned and shattered,
towards the plain, and now the Wanderer cried the word of onset to the
horsemen and to the chariots that drew from behind the shelter of the
hill, and following after him they charged down upon those barbarians
who had passed the ambush, singing the song of Pentaur as they
charged. Among those nigh the mouth of the pass was the king of the
nation of the Libu, a great man, black and terrible to see. The
Wanderer drew his bow, the arrow rushed forth and pierced the king,
and he fell dead in his chariot. Then those of his host who passed the
ambush turned to fly, but the chariot of the Wanderer dashed into
them, and after the chariot came the horsemen, and after the horsemen
the chariots of Pharaoh.

Now all who were left of the broken host rolled back, mad with fear,
while the spearmen of Pharaoh galled them as hunters gall a flying
bull, and the horsemen of Pharaoh trampled them beneath their feet.
Red slaughter raged all down the pass, helms, banners, arrow-points
shone and fell in the stream of the tide of war, but at length the
stony way was clear save for the dead alone. Beyond the pass the plain
was black with flying men, and the fragments of the broken nations
were mixed together as clay and sand are mixed of the potter. Where
now were the hosts of the Nine-bow barbarians? Where now were their
glory and their pride?

The Wanderer gathered his footmen and his chariots and set them in
array again but the horsemen he sent out to smite the flying nations
and wait his coming by the camp; for there were mustering those who
were left of the nations, perchance twenty thousand men, and before
their ships were ranged the dense ranks of the Achæans, shield to
shield, every man in his place.

The Wanderer led his host slowly across the sandy plain, till at
length he halted it two bow-shots from the camp of the barbarians. The
camp was shaped like a bow, and the river Sihor formed its string, and
round it was a deep ditch and beyond the ditch a wall of clay.
Moreover, within the camp and nearer to the shore there was a second
ditch and wall, and behind it were the beaks of the ships and the host
of Aquaiusha, even of his own dear people the Achæans. There were the
old blazons, and the spears that had fought below Troy town. There
were the two lions of Mycenæ, the Centaur of the son of Polypaetas,
son of Pirithous; there were the Swan of Lacedæmon, and the Bull of
the Kings of Crete, the Rose of Rhodes, the Serpent of Athens, and
many another knightly bearing of old friends and kindred dear. And now
they were the blazons of foemen, and the Wanderer warred for a strange
king, and for his own hand, beneath the wings of the Hawk of the
Legion of Ra.

The Wanderer sent heralds forward, calling to those barbarians who
swarmed behind the wall to surrender to the host of Pharaoh, but this,
being entrenched by the river Sihor, they would in nowise do. For they
were mad because of their slaughtered thousands, and moreover they
knew that it is better to die than to live as slaves. This they saw
also, that their host was still as strong as the host of Pharaoh,
which was without the wall, and weary with the heat and stress of
battle and the toil of marching through the desert sands. Now the
Captains of the host of Pharaoh came to the Wanderer, praying him that
he would do no more battle on that day, because the men were weary,
and the horses neighed for food and water.

But he answered them: "I swore to Pharaoh that I would utterly smite
the people of the Nine-bows and drive them down to death, so that the
coasts of Khem may be free of them. Here I may not camp the host,
without food or pasture for the horses, and if I go back, the foe will
gather heart and come on, and with them the fleet of the Achæans, and
no more shall we lure them into ambush, for therein they have learned
a lesson. Nay, get you to your companies. I will go up against the
camp."

Then they bowed and went, for having seen his deeds and his skill and
craft in war, they held him the first of Captains, and dared not say
him nay.

So the Wanderer divided his host into three parts, set it in order of
battle, and moved up against the camp. But he himself went with the
centre part against the gate of the camp, for here there was an
earthen way for chariots, if but the great gates might be passed. And
at a word the threefold host rushed on to the charge. But those within
the walls shot them with spears and arrows, so that many were slain,
and they were rolled back from the wall as a wave is rolled from the
cliff. Again the Wanderer bade them charge on the right and left,
bearing the dead before them as shields, and hurling corpses into the
ditch to fill it. But he himself hung back awhile with the middle
army, watching how the battle went, and waiting till the foe at the
gate should be drawn away.

Now the mercenaries of Pharaoh forced a passage on the right and
thither went many of the barbarians who watched the gate, that they
might drive them back.

Then the Wanderer bade men take out the poles of chariots and follow
him and beat down the gates with the poles. This with much toil and
loss they did, for the archers poured their arrows on the assailants
of the gate. Now at length the gates were down, and the Wanderer
rushed through them with his chariot. But even as he passed the
mercenaries of Pharaoh were driven out from the camp on the right, and
those who led the left attack fled also. The soldiers who should have
followed the Wanderer saw and wavered a little moment, and while they
wavered the companies of the barbarians poured into the gateway and
held it so that none might pass. Now the Wanderer was left alone
within the camp, and back he might not go. But fear came not nigh him,
nay, the joy of battle filled his mighty heart. He cast his shield
upon the brazen floor of the chariot, and cried aloud to the
charioteer, as he loosened the long grey shafts in his quiver.

"Drive on, thou charioteer! Drive on! The jackals leave the lion in
the toils. Drive on! Drive on! and win a glorious death, for thus
should Odysseus die."

So the charioteer, praying to his Gods, lashed the horses with his
scourge, and they sprang forward madly among the foe. And as they
rushed, the great bow rang and sang the swallow string--rung the bow
and sung the string, and the lean shaft drank the blood of a leader of
men. Again the string sang, again the shaft sped forth, and a
barbarian king fell from his chariot as a diver plunges into the sea,
and his teeth bit the sand.

"Dive deep, thou sea-thief!" cried the Wanderer, "thou mayest find
treasures there! Drive on, thou charioteer, so should lions die while
jackals watch."

Now the barbarians looked on the Wanderer and were amazed. For ever
his chariot rushed to and fro, across the mustering ground of the
camp, and ever his grey shafts carried death before them, and ever the
foemen's arrows fell blunted from his golden harness. They looked on
him amazed, they cried aloud that this was the God of War come down to
do battle for Khem, that it was Sutek the Splendid, that it was Baal
in his strength; they fled amain before his glory and his might. For
the Wanderer raged among them like great Rameses Miamun among the
tribes of the Khita; like Monthu, the Lord of Battles, and lo! they
fled before him, their knees gave way, their hearts were turned to
water, he drove them as a herdsman drives the yearling calves.

But now at length a stone from a sling smote the charioteer who
directed the chariot, and sunk in between his eyes, so that he fell
down dead from the chariot. Then the reins flew wide, and the horses
rushed this way and that, having no master. And now a spear pierced
the heart of the horse on the right, so that he fell, and the pole of
the chariot snapped in two. Then the barbarians took heart and turned,
and some of them set on to seize the body of the charioteer, and spoil
his arms. But the Wanderer leaped down and bestrode the corpse with
shield up and spear aloft.

Now among the press of the barbarians there was a stir, as of one
thrusting his way through them to the front. And above the plumes of
their helmets and the tossing of their shields the Wanderer saw the
golden head, unhelmeted, of a man, taller than the tallest there from
the shoulders upwards. Unhelmeted he came and unshielded, with no body
armour. His flesh was very fair and white, and on it were figures
pricked in blue, figures of men and horses, snakes and sea-beasts. The
skin of a white bear was buckled above his shoulder with a golden
clasp, fashioned in the semblance of a boar. His eyes were blue,
fierce and shining, and in his hand he held for a weapon the trunk of
a young pine-tree, in which was hafted a weighty axe-head of rough
unpolished stone.

"Give way!" he cried. "Give place, ye dusky dwarfs, and let a man see
this champion!"

So the barbarians made a circle about the Wanderer and the giant, and
stood silently to watch a great fight.

"Who art thou?" said the mighty man disdainfully, "and whence? Where
is thy city, and thy parents who begat thee?"

"Now I will avow that men call me Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, Laertes'
son, a Prince of the Achæans," said the Wanderer. "And who art thou, I
pray thee, and where is thy native place, for city, I wot, thou hast
none?"

Then the mighty man, swinging his great stone axe in a rhythmic
motion, began to chant a rude lay, and this was the manner of the
singing--

"Laestrygons men
And Cimmerians call us
Born of the land
Of the sunless winter,
Born of the land
Of the nightless summer:
Cityless, we,
Beneath dark pine boughs,
By the sea abiding
Sail o'er the swan's bath.
/Wolf/ am I hight,
The son of Signy,
Son of the were-wolf.
Southwards I sailed,
Sailed with the amber,
Sailed with the foam-wealth.
Among strange peoples,
Winning me wave-flame,[*]
Winning me war-fame,
Winning me women.
Soon shall I slay thee,
Sacker of Cities!"

[*] Gold.

With that, and with a cry, he rushed on the Wanderer, his great axe
swung aloft, to fell him at a blow.

But while the giant had been singing, the Wanderer had shifted his
place a little, so that the red blaze of the setting sun was in his
face. And as the mighty man came on, the Wanderer lifted up his golden
shield and caught the sunlight on it, and flashed it full in the
giant's eyes, so that he was dazzled, and could not see to strike.
Then the Wanderer smote at his naked right arm, and struck it on the
joint of the elbow; with all his force he smote, and the short sword
of Euryalus bit deep, and the arm fell, with the axe in the hand-grip.
But so terrible was the stroke that bronze might not abide it, and the
blade was shattered from the ivory handle.

"Didst thou feel aught, thou Man-eater?" cried Odysseus, jeering, for
he knew from the song of the giant that he was face to face with a
wanderer from an evil race, that of old had smitten his ships and
devoured his men--the Laestrygons of the land of the Midnight Sun, the
Man-eaters.

But the giant caught up his club of pine-tree in his left hand, the
severed right arm still clinging to it. And he gnawed on the handle of
the stone axe with his teeth, and bit the very stone, and his lips
foamed, for a fury came upon him. Roaring aloud, suddenly he smote at
the Wanderer's head, and beat down his shield, and crushed his golden
helm so that he fell on one knee, and all was darkness around him. But
his hands lit on a great stone, for the place where they fought was
the holy place of an ancient temple, old and ruined before King Mena's
day. He grasped the stone with both hands; it was the basalt head of a
fallen statue of a God or a man, of a king long nameless, or of a
forgotten God. With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose,
it was a weight of a chariot's burden, and poising it, he hurled it
straight at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling
his axe, before he smote another blow. But ere ever the stroke fell,
the huge stone struck him full and broke in his breast bone, and he
staggered long, and fell like a tree, and the black blood came up
through his bearded lips, and his life left him.

Then the multitude of the barbarians that stood gazing at the fray
drew yet further back in fear, and the Wanderer laughed like a God at
that old score paid, and at the last great stroke of the hands of the
City-sacker, Odysseus.



VIII

"TILL ODYSSEUS COMES!"

The Wanderer laughed like a God, though he deemed that the end was
near, and the foes within the camp and the friends without looked on
him and wondered.

"Slay him!" cried the foes within, speaking in many tongues. "Slay
him!" they cried, and yet they feared the task, but circled round like
hounds about a mighty boar at bay.

"Spare him!" shouted the host of the Achæans, watching the fray from
far, as they stood behind their inner wall, for as yet they had not
mingled in the battle but stayed by their ships to guard them.

"Rescue!" cried the Captains of Pharaoh without, but none came on to
force the way.

Then of a sudden, as Fate hung upon the turn, a great cry of fear and
wonder rose from the ranks of Pharaoh's host beyond the wall. It
swelled and swelled till at length the cry took the sound of a name--
the sound of the name of /Hathor/.

"The Hathor! the Hathor! See, the Hathor comes!"

The Wanderer turned his head and looked swiftly. A golden chariot sped
down the slope of sand towards the gate of the camp. The milk-white
horses were stained with sweat and splashed with blood. They thundered
on towards the gate down the way that was red with blood, as the
horses of the dawn rush through the blood-red sky. A little man,
withered and old, drove the chariot, leaning forward as he drove, and
by his side stood the Golden Helen. The Red Star blazed upon her
breast, her hair and filmy robes floated on the wind.

She looked up and forth. Now she saw him, Odysseus of Ithaca, her
love, alone, beset with foes, and a cry broke from her. She tore away
the veil that hid her face, and her beauty flashed out upon the sight
of men as the moon flashes from the evening mists. She pointed to the
gate, she stretched out her arms towards the host of Pharaoh, bidding
them look upon her and follow her. Then a shout went up from the host,
and they rushed onwards in the path of the chariot, for where the
Helen leads there men must follow through Life to Death through War to
Peace.

On the chariot rushed to the camp, and after it the host of Pharaoh
followed. The holders of the gate saw the beauty of her who rode in
the chariot; they cried aloud in many tongues that the Goddess of Love
had come to save the God of War. They fled this way and that, or stood
drunken with the sight of beauty, and were dashed down by the horses
and crushed of the chariot wheels. Now she had passed the gates, and
after her poured the host of Pharaoh. Now Rei reined up the horses by
the broken chariot of the Wanderer, and now the Wanderer, with a shout
of joy, had sprung into the chariot of Helen.

"And art thou come to be with me in my last battle?" he whispered in
her ear. "Art thou indeed that Argive Helen whom I love, or am I drunk
with the blood of men and blind with the sheen of spears, and is this
the vision of a man doomed to die?"

"It is no vision, Odysseus, for I am Helen's self," she answered
gently. "I have learned all the truth, and knowing thy fault, count it
but a little thing. Yet because thou didst forget the words of the
immortal Goddess, who, being my foe now and for ever, set this cunning
snare for thee, the doom is on thee, that Helen shall not be thine in
this space of life. For thou fightest in thy last battle, Odysseus.
On! see thy hosts clamour to be led, and there the foe hangs black as
storm and shoots out the lightning of his spears. On, Odysseus, on!
that the doom may be accomplished, and the word of the Ghost
fulfilled!"

Then the Wanderer turned and called to the Captains, and the Captains
called to the soldiers and set them in array, and following the blood-
red Star they rolled down upon the gathered foe as the tide rolls upon
the rocks when the breath of the gale is strong; and as the waters
leap and gather till the rocks are lost in the surge, so the host of
Pharaoh leapt upon the foe and swallowed them up. And ever in the
forefront of the war blazed the Red Star on Helen's breast, and ever
the sound of her singing pierced the din of death.

Now the host of the Nine-bow barbarians was utterly destroyed, and the
host of Pharaoh came up against the wall that was set about the camp
of the Achæans to guard their ships, and at its head came the golden
chariot wherein were the Wanderer and Helen. The Captains of the
Achæans looked wondering from their wall, watching the slaughter of
their allies.

"Now, who is this?" cried a Captain, "who is this clad in golden
armour fashioned like our own, who leads the host of Pharaoh to
victory?"

Then a certain aged leader of men looked forth and answered:

"Such armour I have known indeed, and such a man once wore it. The
armour is fashioned like the armour of Paris, Priam's son--Paris of
Ilios; but Paris hath long been dead."

"And who is she," cried the Captain, "she on whose breast a Red Star
burns, who rides in the chariot of him with the golden armour, whose
shape is the shape of Beauty, and who sings aloud while men go down to
death?"

Then the aged leader of men looked forth again and answered:

"Such a one have I known, indeed; so she was wont to sing, and hers
was such a shape of beauty, and such a Star shone ever on her breast.
Helen of Ilios--Argive Helen it was who wore it--Helen, because of
whose loveliness the world grew dark with death; but long is Helen
dead."

Now the Wanderer glanced from his chariot and saw the crests of the
Achæans and the devices on the shields of men with whose fathers he
had fought beneath the walls of Ilios. He saw and his heart was
stirred within him, so that he wept there in the chariot.

"Alas! for the fate that is on me," he cried, "that I must make my
last battle in the service of a stranger against my own people and the
children of my own dear friends."

"Weep not, Odysseus," said Helen, "for Fate drives thee on--Fate that
is cruel and changeless, and heeds not the loves or hates of men. Weep
not, Odysseys, but go on up against the Achæans, for from among them
thy death comes."

So the Wanderer went on, sick at heart, shooting no shafts and
striking no blow, and after him came the remnant of the host of
Pharaoh. Then he halted the host, and at his bidding Rei drove slowly
down the wall seeking a place to storm it, and as he drove they shot
at the chariot from the wall with spears and slings and arrows. But
not yet was the Wanderer doomed. He took no hurt, nor did any hurt
come to Rei nor to the horses that drew the chariot, and as for Helen,
the shafts of Death knew her and turned aside. Now while they drove
thus Rei told the Wanderer of the death of Pharaoh, of the burning of
the Temple of Hathor, and of the flight of Helen. The Wanderer
hearkened and said but one thing, for in all this he saw the hand of
Fate.

"It is time to make an end, Rei, for soon will Meriamun be seeking us,
and methinks that I have left a trail that she can follow," and he
nodded at the piled-up dead that stretched further than the eye could
reach.

Now they were come over against that spot in the wall where stood the
aged Captain of the Achæans, who had likened the armour of the
Wanderer to the armour of Paris, and the beauty of her at his side to
the beauty of Argive Helen.

The Captain loosed his bow at the chariot, and leaning forward watched
the flight of the shaft. It rushed straight at Helen's breast, then of
a sudden turned aside, harming her not. And as he marvelled she lifted
her face and looked towards him. Then he saw and knew her for that
Helen whom he had seen while he served with Cretan Idomeneus in the
Argive ships, when the leaguer was done and the smoke went up from
burning Ilios.

Again he looked, and lo! on the Wanderer's golden shield he saw the
White Bull, the device of Paris, son of Priam, as ofttimes he had seen
it glitter on the walls of Troy. Then great fear took him, and he
lifted up his hands and cried aloud:

"Fly, ye Achæans! Fly! Back to your curved ships and away from this
accursed land. For yonder in the chariot stands Argive Helen, who is
long dead, and with her Paris, son of Priam, come to wreak the woes of
Ilios on the sons of those who wasted her. Fly, ere the curse smite
you."

Then a great cry of fear rose from the host of the Achæans, as company
called to company that the ghosts of Paris of Ilios and Argive Helen
led the armies of Pharaoh on to victory. A moment they gazed as
frightened sheep gaze upon the creeping wolves, then turning from the
wall, they rushed headlong to their ships.

Behind them came the soldiers of Pharaoh, storming the walls and
tearing at their flanks as wolves tear the flying sheep. Then the
Achæans turned at bay, and a mighty fray raged round the ships, and
the knees of many were loosened. And of the ships, some were burned
and some were left upon the bank. But a remnant of them were pushed
off into the deep water, and hung there on their oars waiting for the
end of the fray.

Now the sun was gone down, so that men could scarce see to slay each
other. The Wanderer stood his chariot on the bank, watching the
battle, for he was weary, and had little mind to swell the slaughter
of the people of his own land.

Now the last ship was pushed off, and at length the great battle was
done. But among those on the ship was a man still young, and the
goodliest and mightiest among all the host of the Achæans. By his own
strength and valour he had held the Egyptians back while his comrades
ran the curved ship down the beach, and the Wanderer, looking on him,
deemed him their hardiest warrior and most worthy of the Achæans.

He stood upon the poop of the ship, and saw the light from the burning
vessels gleam on the Wanderer's golden helm. Then of a sudden he drew
a mighty bow and loosed an arrow charged with death.

"This gift to the Ghost of Paris from Telegonus, son of Circe and of
Odysseus, who was Paris' foe," he cried with a loud voice.

And as he cried it, and as the fateful words struck on the ears of
Odysseus and the ears of Helen, the shaft, pointed by the Gods, rushed
on. It rushed on, it smote the Wanderer with a deadly wound where the
golden body-plate of his harness joined the taslets, and pierced him
through. Then he knew that his fate was accomplished, and that death
came upon him from the water, as the ghost of Tiresias in Hades had
foretold. In his pain, for the last time of all, he let fall his
shield and the black bow of Eurytus. With one hand he clasped the rail
of the chariot and the other he threw about the neck of the Golden
Helen, who bent beneath his weight like a lily before the storm. Then
he also cried aloud in answer:

"Oh, Telegonus, son of Circe, what wickedness hast thou wrought before
the awful Gods that this curse should have been laid upon thee to slay
him who begat thee? Hearken, thou son of Circe, I am not Paris, I am
Odysseus of Ithaca, who begat thee, and thou hast brought my death
upon me from the water, as the Ghost foretold."

When Telegonus heard these words, and knew that he had slain his
father, the famed Odysseus, whom he had sought the whole world
through, he would have cast himself into the river, there to drown,
but those with him held him by strength, and the stream took the
curved ship and floated it away. And thus for the first and last time
did the Gods give it to Telegonus to look upon the face and hear the
voice of his father, Odysseus.

But when the Achæans knew that it was the lost Odysseus who had led
the host of Pharaoh against the armies of the Nine Nations, they
wondered no more at the skill of the ambush and the greatness of the
victory of Pharaoh.



Now the chariots of Meriamun were pursuing, and they splashed through
the blood of men in the pass, and rolled over the bodies of men in the
plain beyond the pass. They came to the camps and found them peopled
with dead, and lit with the lamps of the blazing ships of the
Aquaiusha. Then Meriamun cried aloud:

"Surely Pharaoh grew wise before he died, for there is but one man on
the earth who with so small a force could have won so great a fray. He
hath saved the crown of Khem, and by Osiris he shall wear it."

Now the chariots of Meriamun had passed the camp of the barbarians,
and were come to the inner camp of the Achæans, and the soldiers
shouted as she came driving furiously.

The Wanderer lay dying on the ground, there by the river-bank, and the
light of the burning ships flamed on his golden armour, and on the
Star at Helen's breast.

"Why do the soldiers shout?" he asked, lifting his head from Helen's
breast.

"They shout because Meriamun the Queen is come," Rei answered.

"Let her come," said the Wanderer.

Now Meriamun sprang from her chariot and walked, through the soldiers
who made way, bowing before her royalty, to where the Wanderer lay,
and stood speechless looking on him.

But the Wanderer lifting his head spake faintly:

"Hail! O Queen!" he said, "I have accomplished the charge that Pharaoh
laid upon me. The host of the Nine-bow barbarians is utterly
destroyed, the fleet of the Aquaiusha is burned, or fled, the land of
Khem is free from foes. Where is Pharaoh, that I may make report to
him ere I die?"

"Pharaoh is dead, Odysseus," she answered. "Oh, live on! live on! and
thyself thou shalt be Pharaoh."

"Ay, Meriamun the Queen," answered the Wanderer, "I know all. The
Pharaoh is dead! Thou didst slay Pharaoh, thinking thus to win me for
thy Lord, me, who am won of Death. Heavily shall the blood of Pharaoh
lie upon thee in that land whither I go, Meriamun, and whither thou
must follow swiftly. Thou didst slay Pharaoh, and Helen, who through
thy guile is lost to me, thou wouldst have slain also, but thou
couldst not harm her immortality. And now I die, and this is the end
of all these Loves and Wars and Wanderings. My death has come upon me
from the water."

Meriamun stood speechless, for her heart was torn in two, so that in
her grief she forgot even her rage against Helen and Rei the Priest.

Then Helen spoke. "Thou diest indeed, Odysseus, yet it is but for a
little time, for thou shalt come again and find me waiting."

"Ay, Odysseus," said the Queen, "and I also will come again, and thou
shalt love me then. Oh, now the future opens, and I know the things
that are to be. Beneath the Wings of Truth shall we meet again,
Odysseus."

"There shall we meet again, Odysseus, and there thou shalt draw the
Veil of Truth," said the Helen.

"Yea," quoth the dying Wanderer; "there or otherwhere shall we meet
again, and there and otherwhere love and hate shall lose and win, and
die to arise again. But not yet is the struggle ended that began in
other worlds than this, and shall endure till evil is lost in good,
and darkness swallowed up in light. Bethink thee, Meriamun, of that
vision of thy bridal night, and read its riddle. Lo! I will answer it
with my last breath as the Gods have given me wisdom. When we three
are once more twain, then shall our sin be purged and peace be won,
and the veil be drawn from the face of Truth. Oh, Helen, fare thee
well! I have sinned against thee, I have sworn by the Snake who should
have sworn by the Star, and therefore I have lost thee."

"Thou hast but lost to find again beyond the Gateways of the West,"
she answered low.

Then she bent down, and taking him in her arms, kissed him, whispering
in his ear, and the blood of men that fell ever from the Star upon her
breast, dropped like dew upon his brow, and vanished as it dropped.

And as she whispered of joy to be, and things too holy to be written,
the face of the Wanderer grew bright, like the face of a God.

Then suddenly his head fell back, and he was dead, dead upon the heart
of the World's Desire. For thus was fulfilled the oath of Idalian
Aphrodite, and thus at the last did Odysseus lie in the arms of the
Golden Helen.



Now Meriamun clasped her breast, and her lips turned white with pain.
But Helen rose, and standing at the Wanderer's head looked on
Meriamun, who stood at his feet.

"My sister," said Helen to the Queen; "see now the end of all. He whom
we loved is lost to us, and what hast thou gained? Nay, look not so
fiercely on me. I may not be harmed of thee, as thou hast seen, and
thou mayest not be harmed of me, who would harm none, though ever thou
wilt hate me who hate thee not, and till thou learnest to love me, Sin
shall be thy portion and Bitterness thy comfort."

But Meriamun spoke no word.

Then Helen beckoned to Rei and spake to him, and Rei went weeping to
do her bidding.

Presently he returned again, and with him were soldiers bearing
torches. The soldiers lifted up the body of the Wanderer, and bore it
to a mighty pyre that was built up of the wealth of the barbarians, of
chariots, spears, and the oars of ships, of wondrous fabrics, and
costly furniture. And they laid the Wanderer on the pyre, and on his
breast they laid the black bow of Eurytus.

Then Helen spoke to Rei once more, and Rei took a torch and fired the
pyre so that smoke and flame burst from it. And all the while Meriamun
stood by as one who dreams.

Now the great pyre was a mass of flame, and the golden armour of the
Wanderer shone through the flame, and the black bow twisted and
crumbled in the heat. Then of a sudden Meriamun gave a great cry, and
tearing the snake girdle from her middle hurled it on the flames.

"From fire thou camest, thou Ancient Evil," she said in a dead tongue;
"to fire get thee back again, false counsellor."

But Rei the Priest called aloud in the same tongue:

"An ill deed thou hast done, O Queen, for thou hast taken the Snake to
thy bosom, and where the Snake passes there thou must follow."

Even as he spoke the face of Meriamun grew fixed, and she was drawn
slowly towards the fire, as though by invisible hands. Now she stood
on its very brink, and now with one loud wail she plunged into it and
cast herself at length on the body of the Wanderer.

And as she lay there on the body, behold the Snake awoke in the fire.
It awoke, it grew, it twined itself about the body of Meriamun and the
body of the Wanderer, and lifting its head, it laughed.

Then the fire fell in, and the Wanderer and Meriamun the Queen, and
the Snake that wrapped them round, vanished in the heart of the
flames.

For awhile the Golden Helen stood still, looking on the dying fire.
Then she let her veil fall, and turning, wandered forth into the
desert and the night, singing as she passed.

And so she goes, wandering, wandering, till Odysseus comes again.



Now this is the tale that I, Rei the Priest, have been bidden to set
forth before I lay me down to sleep in my splendid tomb that I have
made ready by Thebes. Let every man read it as he will, and every
woman as the Gods have given her wit.



PALINODE

Thou that of old didst blind Stesichorus,
If e'er, sweet Helen, such a thing befell,
We pray thee of thy grace, be good to us,
Though little in our tale accordeth well
With that thine ancient minstrel had to tell,
Who saw, with sightless eyes grown luminous,
These Ilian sorrows, and who heard the swell
Of ocean round the world ring thunderous,
And thy voice break when knightly Hector fell!

And thou who all these many years hast borne
To see the great webs of the weaving torn
By puny hands of dull, o'er-learned men,
Homer, forgive us that thy hero's star
Once more above sea waves and waves of war,
Must rise, must triumph, and must set again!







 


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