Pharaoh’s recently completed City of the Sun stretched at some length along both sides of the Nile, about sixty miles north of the ancient city of Siut, sacred to the Wolf-god.

To-day, fronting its white quay, a fleet of barges swung idly at anchor. From the high poop of one, a large temple-barge by its decoration, Merira, High Priest of Aton, was about to disembark. At the landward end of its gangplank, which had been stretched to the well-built limestone wall of the quay, a knot of white-robed priests of Aton bowed a fawning welcome to their portly brother hierophant. Sixteen stalwart lay-brothers stood expectantly beside the dignitary’s hooded-chair. Soon, Merira, High Priest of Aton, high above the gleaming heads of his chanting followers, vanished down the avenue of criosphinxes which led toward the massive pylons of the imposing Aton Temple.

Parallel with the well-planted gardens and vineyards of the Temple of the Sun ran the northern wall of Pharaoh’s new palace. The southern wall divided it from the gardens which hedged in the home of the General Mei, a favorite of Pharaoh. Both the grounds about the Aton Temple, the palace, villa, and library of Pharaoh and the house of Mei, ran backward from the Nile bank to the first rise of the low hills to the east.

Pharaoh’s gardens, both of villa, library and palace, were already thickly planted with the rarest of native trees and vines, but myrrh, sandalwood, dÔm-palm and young Lebanus cedar from the terraces, might be seen both in the gardens of the monarch and in those of his favorites.

At this moment the huge limestone palace glowed in the heat of midafternoon like a piece of painted ivory. The sun’s rays turned to fire the gold caps of the lofty cedar flag-posts which towered above the walls.

At the end of a long avenue of young acacias one could distinguish the archers-of-the-guard, as they paced to and fro before the palace gates. A pair of Syrian horses, harnessed to a light chariot, pawed the sandstone flagging before the entrance-pylon, or reared high in air, did the iron-wristed katana show the least sign of relaxing his grip upon the gilded reins.

Queen Noferith was about to visit the hillset tomb of one of her daughters, who had died shortly after the royal family had taken up its residence in the new city. The royal-nurse, Thuya, and the three sisters of the dead Princess, were already well on their way to the tomb, bearing offerings of food, flowers and cosmetics for the use of the ka.

Within the interior of the palace, Pharaoh was busily engaged with that corpulent official, the chief-scribe, Enei. At the moment Enei was squatting cross-legged among the reeds and water-fowl painted upon the stucco floor of the room. Upon his kilted knees lay the open sheet of a long leather-roll already closely written in red and black with lines of deftly inscribed hieratic.

Enei held a long reed pen in one hand; two others stuck out behind his elephantine ears. He had been occupied all morning transcribing from Pharaoh’s own lips the “Hymn to Aton,” which for weeks had engrossed his fanatical master.

Famine and pestilence at home, revolt in Nubia, new mutterings of trouble along the Asiatic frontier, one and all had to give place now to the completion of this Sun-hymn, and the ritual of the Aton cult.

The ritual had already been chanted in the Temple of the Sun. Indeed, it had been intoned for the first time in a little chapel erected among the now well-nigh deserted temples of Amen at Karnak. Here was bitter hearing for the exiled priest of Amen!

Pharaoh was extremely anxious to hear the High Priest Merira chant his “Hymn to the Sun,” a composition which Pharaoh had written for the express use of the Priests of the Temple of Aton. In order to finish the hymn Pharaoh had shut himself up in his library with orders that on no account should he be disturbed. Ambassadors, envoys, nobles of the empire, spies and messengers, all must wait who sought an audience of the engrossed monarch.

But a few moments before, Pentu, Chief Court Physician, had backed from his master’s presence, loaded down with chains and bracelets of gold.

Pentu had gained some real or fancied ascendancy over Enei the Scribe in a heated argument as to a probable connection between the sun-god Ra of Heliopolis, Aton, and Adon, the Syrian God of Fertility. Pentu’s bald head glistened like the mirror clasped in the hand of his waiting daughter. Pentu’s broad smile widened, if indeed that might be, as his waiting servants hurled themselves into the dust at sight of his gleaming decorations, those “gifts which the king bestows.”

“What stiff campaign hath earned such rich rewards?” asks the travel-worn Rabba, messenger of Ribaddi, one of Egypt’s vassals in Asia.

“Peace, peace, soldier! Hold thy tongue, fit but to frighten lousy Sand-dwellers! Hast thou not heard? Egypt hath done with war! Corn grows upon our spearshafts, boys swim in our shields; our curved swords cut wheat and spelt, our slings kill reed-birds. The ‘gifts of Majesty’ now reach priests, poets and potters. Breath of Ra—ahem—Aton, I should have said, a soldier now must stand aside that shaven-headed sucklings from the new religious school may pass! Amemet seize me! Five hours’ waiting is enough for me! Honors to thy son’s son,” and the officer passes out.

Some three hours later, Ribaddi’s urgent call for assistance, that small clay tablet upon whose safe and speedy deliverance into the hands of the Egyptian king hung the fate of Syria, Ribaddi’s last despairing cry for help, still rested in its metal tube about the impatient Rabba’s neck.

Tired of his long vigil, Rabba had addressed a few somewhat pointed remarks in the direction of the painted ceiling, but intended for the large ears of Seneb the Court Usher. As a not unnatural sequel, another moment found him on the wrong side of the palace door.

From the threshold of the courtyard two giggling pages made the infuriated Rabba mock bows and salutations in the Syrian manner.

Thereafter, Rabba wandered aimlessly about and finally disappeared behind the deep red curtains which blew in and out of Thethi’s tavern-door.

The following morning, Rabba awoke to find himself seated upon the edge of a wine-stained couch. In one hand he clasped a faded spray of mimosa. He pulled a chaplet of dried and blackened lotus-flowers from his aching head. Not a bar remained about his arms, not a strand of beads flashed upon his massive chest. Neith, a full-lipped Theban dancer, had them all!

Rabba’s hand went to his throat hesitatingly, despairingly. The case that had held his master’s message, his credentials and his master’s seal, all had vanished with that velvet-eyed traitress.

Ten days ago should the precious letter have been added to the thousands of clay tablets which lined the alcoves of Pharaoh’s library and registry. Ten days ago, Rabba the Messenger should have been well on his way back to Gebal, his hillset station, with Pharaoh’s reply.

Alas! At the moment, Ribaddi’s devoted city lay a mass of smouldering ruins, in the midst of which were scattered the ashes of Ribaddi, Pharaoh’s most loyal vassal, his family, and those of the entire squadron of Baal, to which the unhappy Rabba himself belonged. Feeling that the Egyptian monarch had lulled himself into a sense of security, the hosts of the Khabiri and Hittites, headed by Rimur of Charchemish and the kings of Kadesh and Megiddo, had suddenly swooped upon the territory of Pharaoh’s Syrian vassal, Ribaddi the Loyal.