Pan's Flute by J.-H. Rosny aîné

Author:J.-H. Rosny aîné
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2019-04-23T00:00:00+00:00

III

In the fourth year of the reign of Thutmose III,15 in spring, the entire valley of Egypt was under arms, full of camps where soldiers were maneuvering. Since Ahmose had attacked the Hyksos, or the Shous,16 in their immense camp at Avaris, the nations had buckled before the kings of Thebes. Amenhotep subdued the land of Kush; Thutmose went as far as the Euphrates; When Hatsheput put a fleet on the Red Sea to seize odorous Arabia, the beauty and the wealth of the earth flowed into the ten thousand cities of the Nile.

The day after the feast at Ankhi’s house, in the plain, Setne was exercising one of the admirable phalanges, armed with the long lances that rendered the Pharaohs invincible at that time. They were equally rapid and persistent; their initial impact overturned everything, and, if attacked by an enemy superior in number, they resisted from the shelter of leather and bronze bucklers imbricated like the scales of a fabulous beasts.

The chief led his troop toward the river three times, at the pace of a charge. Then, diving it in two, he made the halves fight one another. He was full of impetuosity, knew the art of making himself feared without making himself hated, and was skilled in tactics.

Before sending his soldiers back to barracks, he spoke about the imminent war, describing the riches of Asia, and concluded: “Those who know how to fight will avoid death and come back with a booty of gold, silver and precious cloth. The others will leave their remains to rot far from the Sacred Land, Be patient in your labor!”

Those words pleased the warriors; the boldest cheered. The chief dispersed the phalanx, remaining on the drill field alone.

The waters of the Nile would not turn green before June; all the cisterns were dry; on the lugubrious plain, only cacti and aloes grew; all the grass had disappeared; the palm trees extended their suffering little plumes imploringly. But the works of men remained beautiful in the baking atmosphere Thebes of the hundred pylons displayed its magnificent temples, its avenues of fabulous beasts, its little houses of mud and papyrus. All along the river, death showed itself in its harsh and scintillating glory. Old Egypt, drunk on eternity, had heaped up its mummies, hollowed out necropolises, raised the monstrous roofs of pyramids, amorously cleaving, hollowing, sculpting and flowering the savage and divine stone, the indestructible stone...

Marching along the river, Setne soon reached the child soldiers who were drawing bows. Their application was keen, for it was with arrows that they brought down their meals, perched on the crests of walls, on stakes or in trees. For those whose skill was superior the meager repast was divided in portions, with the result that they launched almost as many shots as the unskillful.

Setne paused near the little archers. They reminded him of his natal nome, the brilliant land where he had guided troops of children into the desert. His glory had extended to neighboring villages, for he succeeded in his enterprises.

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