~ by Kai McWhirter

The Egyptians were a nation of long-term thinkers, less concerned than the Greeks about the here and now, so it was unsurprising, Eumaeon thought to himself, that they should build the dwellings of this life from mud-brick while reserving the finest stone for their eternal dwellings. 

From the deck of the barge that lazily glided down the Nile, he watched transfixed as the sun’s rays were deflected from the dazzlingly white surface of the greatest of all the pyramids. The impressive man-made mountain had risen majestically over the Nile valley for aeons, and on a clear day such as this, it could be seen from miles around. This was the third time in Eumaeon’s life he had been privileged enough to see the ancient king’s tomb. It was rare for the people of Naucratis, the Greek colony in the Nile delta where Eumaeon had lived for most of his youth, to venture south into the heart of the kingdom. But Eumaeon was no ordinary Greek colonist. He was charged with the sacred duty of defending his sovereign, the Pharaoh of Egypt, and that meant accompanying the Pharaoh on his occasional tours of the kingdom.

“Eumaeon,” a familiar voice called. It was his superior, Thyestes, an older man with flecks of grey in his dark hair, a thick beard, and a plethora of scars marking the length of his powerfully muscled arms. 

“You often spoke of their size, but I never imagined anything like this,” Thyestes said as he stood by Eumaeon’s side. 

It suddenly occurred to Eumaeon that this was likely the first time Thyestes would have seen the pyramids. The grizzled mercenary had only been in the Pharaoh’s service for a few years. He had previously never wandered farther south than Cyprus, where Eumaeon was born and had spent his earliest years. Those days had faded out of the young soldier’s memories, and today his only recallable experiences outside Egypt had been on campaign in Libya and the Levant. 

“Is it true that they were built by giants? Ordinary men surely couldn’t have achieved such things.”

“No, Thyestes,” responded Eumaeon. “At least not according to Ankhtify. He laughed when I asked him if the pyramids were built by men of normal stature or by giants.”

Thyestes’ expression soured. “You mean your friend, the priest? You should not put too much stock in his words.”

Eumaeon knew his fellow Greeks considered it odd that he had formed friendships with many native Egyptians. Those born in the Greek homeland especially still tended to think of the Egyptians as barbarians. Most didn’t even bother to learn the language. Eumaeon, though, had always been burdened with an insatiable curiosity. Beyond that, he felt an affinity with the land which he had grown up in. To his surprise, as he glanced at Thyestes’ eyes and saw the Spartan’s gaze still fixed on the monumental tombs before him, he felt an odd sense of satisfaction. It was strange that he should experience some sense of national pride at Thyestes’ bewilderment when it wasn’t his ancestors who had built the pyramids. No Egyptian by blood would consider him anything other than Greek. And yet, the casual denigration of the culture of Egypt by his comrades had always bothered him, as if he and his people were being demeaned by extension, owing to their decision to dwell amongst barbarians.

“You didn’t believe the pyramids were as vast as I had told you they were either, Thyestes,” said Eumaeon. “Perhaps you should suspend your doubt.”

With that, the conversation ended.

The great temple complex of the god Zeus – called Amun by the Egyptians – in Thebes was named Ipet-isut, ‘The Most Perfect of Places’. It was here that the king’s daughter, Nitiqret was to be installed as High Priestess and Divine Adoratrice of Amun. 

Eumaeon’s friend Ankhtify was an acolyte of Athena (Neith to the Egyptians), chief goddess of the capital city of Saïs. Despite the rivalry that existed among the cults of the many gods worshipped here in Egypt, Ankhtify had always insisted with pride that this temple was the greatest and the most holy, not only in Egypt but in the entire world. 

Now that the royal barge had arrived at the docks of Thebes, and Eumaeon finally had the opportunity to lay his eyes upon the temple, it was difficult for him not to concede that Ankhtify had been right. The great pylons, standing as sentinels on either side of the gateway to the spiritual sanctum and decorated with vivid frescoes in the classically Egyptian style, stood out above the rest of the ancient city. 

By the docks, crowds of Thebans waited behind a thin line of armed guards, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monarch and their new High Priestess. Before them stood a delegation of priests and important officials, dressed in loose tunics and kilts of white linen. A few wore leopard or other expensive animal skins over their undergarments, a mark of high status. Others accessorised with jewellery, glass, gold and precious stones. Sweltering in the heat of Upper Egypt, Eumaeon envied them as he looked down from the bow of the boat. He and the other Greek guards were dressed in the manner of hoplite warriors, for warfare in the colder climates of the far north.

There was a quiet thud as the ship made contact with the dock, and the ramp was lowered. In the middle of the deck, the Pharaoh Ahmose arose from his canopied throne as an honour guard assembled to escort him to the shore. His daughter was disembarking from a second ship, less grand in scale, slightly downstream. The Pharaoh was a glittering figure, resplendent in gold and jewels. His cloak was made of lion skin, his neck adorned with a brilliant collar of faïence glass beads. He wore the gold-and-blue striped nemes headdress, and a golden cobra reared protectively above his forehead. The king’s countenance was regal and detached. He was considered quite handsome, with high cheekbones, full lips and mahogany-coloured eyes that spoke of intelligence. His face was slightly plump, years of good living having eroded the outline of his chin. Thyestes and another Greek accompanied the king as he disembarked from the barge. As one, the welcome delegation fell to their knees before the god-king. Across the Nile, the sun was descending below the horizon, causing the monarch to cast a long shadow over his prostrating subjects. 

That night, Eumaeon was assigned to guard the Pharaoh at the feast being thrown in his and his daughter’s honour by the governor of Thebes. The present God’s Wife of Amun, the most important figure in the cult of Amun – above even the High Priest or Priestess – was in attendance along with most of the city’s elite. This was clearly a social event of the highest importance, as the moon shone brightly above and the city below glittered with the light of a thousand torches. Course after exotic course was served at the Pharaoh’s table, and sweetly perfumed wine flowed seemingly without end. Presiding over it all, beside the Pharaoh himself, Princess Nitiqret was a vision of beauty; dark-skinned, tall and slender, her every movement was graceful. She had the intensely intelligent eyes of her father, highlighted by the kohl make-up she applied around them, a well-proportioned nose and a slightly elongate but well-defined face, framed by a black wig, atop of which a cone of perfumed wax slowly melted to release its fragrance. She smiled serenely and spoke easily, with the confidence of one born for high office. There was music and dancing; the beautiful female dancers did not fail to draw appreciative leers from the Pharaoh’s guards, or from the gathered guests. Even the priests seemed decidedly impious that night. Eumaeon’s mind, though, was adrift in a sea of thought. He paid little attention to the evening’s entertainment. Instead, his mind replayed an episode from earlier that evening, before the feast, when he had been resting in the quarters set aside by the governor for the Pharaoh’s armed escorts. 

Eumaeon had been breaking his fast with a little bread and wine, knowing he would not have the opportunity to eat later, when he was disturbed by another Greek whom he didn’t know well. The man, or more accurately boy, claimed to have been looking for him at the behest of the commander of the king’s Greek mercenaries, Thyestes. 

“You are Eumaeon, yes?” he asked. Eumaeon confirmed that it was so. “Thyestes wanted to see you.”

“About what?”

“You know why. You were supposed to polish his sword and have it with him ahead of the governor’s banquet –”

Understanding dawned on Eumaeon, and he interrupted the overeager young soldier. “You have the wrong Eumaeon; there are two of us in the king’s service. Eumaeon of Elis is Thyestes’ apprentice. It is he who was charged with polishing Thyestes’ armaments.”

The boy paled, realising he was addressing a hoplite of higher standing. He glanced nervously at a group of other soldiers watching impassively from the far corner of the room.

“Oh. Then…you must be Eumaeon the Egyptian. I’m sorry, sir, I just asked Lycus which cell Eumaeon was in and –” The boy’s spluttered apology went unheard. 

“Did you say Eumaeon the Egyptian?” asked Eumaeon. “Is that the name which others call me by in the company?”

“Yes, sir,” responded the soldier in a tone of slow-dawning surprise. “I assumed you knew. That’s why I didn’t recognise you – you look Greek.”

“I am Greek. We’re speaking in Greek. And Eumaeon is a Greek name, you know.”

“Of…course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, sir. Please forgive….”

“There’s no need to beg forgiveness, soldier. Do you know why I am called that?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t.”

“I see. Thank you, soldier. I think Eumaeon went to give Thyestes his sword a little while ago.”

“Thank you, Master Eumaeon,” replied the young boy before quickly making himself absent.

 Eumaeon heard low laughter from across the room, but his own countenance was grim. Was his nickname amongst the Greeks a sign that he was viewed as an outsider amongst them – or worse, even a traitor? 

“What troubles you, Eumaeon?” asked his fellow guard, Castor, drawing him from his remembrance.

Eumaeon turned to his right and saw the other man leaning against a brightly decorated column. His face was half cloaked in shadow so that only one of his bright blue eyes was clearly visible. He was youthful, paler than Eumaeon with a prominent chin and the beginnings of a near-black beard to match his hair.

“What makes you think I’m troubled?” Eumaeon answered indignantly. 

Castor sighed softly in response. “Your demeanour, the look on your face, the fact that you haven’t spoken to me once this evening or so much as smiled at the governor’s splendid entertainments… Shall I go on?”

“You read too much into too little, Castor,” replied Eumaeon. He diverted his eyes from the man’s knowing stare, tracing the elegant lotus flower design of the column’s capital. The influence of the Nile river was everywhere in the Egyptians’ design, a reflection of its central role in sustaining their civilisation. 

But Castor was unwilling to let the matter go, whether out of genuine concern for his friend’s state of mind or a simple desire for conversation. “Are you pining for your priest friend?”

“Pining? For Ankhtify? You have the wrong impression of our relationship, Castor.”

“Oh? Then why have I seen him run his hand through your hair, Eumaeon?”

Eumaeon could not stifle his laughter; he was somewhat glad he didn’t, when he saw the startled look on Castor’s face. Clearly, he’d caught the Corinthian off-guard with his response. Had he really thought that he’d rumbled some sort of illicit relationship?

“You know that the Egyptians shave all hair from the body, Castor, and wear wigs upon their heads. The first time Ankhtify and I spoke, he was so startled that a Greek would not only speak the Egyptian tongue so fluently but show interest in speaking to an acolyte of the Egyptian priesthood that he tugged my hair as a joke and told me that it was only because I was not wearing a wig that he knew I was really Greek and not an Egyptian. Now he does so every time we meet. He says that he will know that I have become a full Egyptian on the day that my hair comes off and it becomes clear that I am wearing a wig.”

Castor chuckled in response to Eumaeon’s anecdote, but his mirth faded as he noticed consternation return to Eumaeon’s features. “There really is something bothering you, Eumaeon. Why not lighten your heart and share your troubles?”

“Castor, do you know that the Greek men in the Pharaoh’s employ call me ‘Eumaeon the Egyptian’?”

“Only since the Athenian boy entered Pharaoh’s service. Is that what bothers you? I always assumed that you knew.”

“I only found out earlier today, from a young soldier. He was looking for the other Eumaeon, and confused us…but that doesn’t matter. What I want to know is… well, do the others in the company… feel that I am not one of them? That I’m… too Egyptian?”

Castor blinked and frowned slightly. “Eumaeon,” he replied, “you are well-liked in the company. By Egyptians and Greeks alike. You shouldn’t be so concerned over something as trivial as a nickname.”

“But it does concern me,” protested Eumaeon. “I don’t want my own people to view me as an outsider, whether they like me or not. Why else would I be called ‘the Egyptian’ if I was not seen as such? It can’t be simply because I was born in Naucratis. If that were the case, then surely they would name me Eumaeon of Naucratis or even Eumaeon of Egypt. ‘The Egyptian’ can imply only that I am… not really Greek. I’ve always suspected Thyestes looked down on me because I don’t come from the homeland, but I never thought there was anything more to it than that. Now I wonder if it’s not just Thyestes, but all of you who view me as more Egyptian than Greek.”

Pushing himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, Castor took a few steps forward and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Eumaeon,” he said, “it’s not like that at all. No one doubts your loyalty to your heritage. Thyestes might look down on you for being born in the colonies, but that’s Thyestes – he’s proud of being Spartan, he thinks much of his city’s military tradition. I don’t think he has a favourable view of other homeland Greeks either. As for the rest of us… I don’t think anyone sees you as an outsider. It wasn’t any of us that gave you the nickname, anyway. It was the Pharaoh.”

Incredulous, Eumaeon immediately looked Castor in the eye. “The Pharaoh? That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe His Majesty is even aware of my existence.”

“Of course he is, Eumaeon. You may be young, but you’ve been in the king’s service for longer than almost anyone, and you are the only man in the Greek company who speaks Egyptian fluently. The king always refers to you as ‘the Egyptian,’ and that’s why the rest of us began to do so. The nickname wasn’t given because we thought you’d rejected your Greek heritage, Eumaeon. It was given because the King of Egypt himself considers you an honorary Egyptian.”

Eumaeon was taken aback. “Really? The Pharaoh… thinks that highly of me?”

“He probably thinks you’re the only civilised one of us. You probably are, even by Greek standards. I suspect most of the men barely know how to read.”

“Is it not possible that the king himself is… mocking me?”

“Why would he mock you when he always speaks of you in high regard? I doubt he ever mentions me at all when I’m not around, or even that he could distinguish me from the next man.”

Feeling oddly affected, Eumaeon glanced across the room to where his sovereign was talking with the beautiful Princess Nitiqret. His comments drew a laugh from his daughter, which she muffled with an elegant hand.

“Thank you, Castor,” he told his friend. “I feel as if a load has been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Glad that I could help, friend,” Castor replied. “Now lighten up and enjoy the party. What do you think? Do I have a chance with the dancer on the far left?”

On the following day, Eumaeon participated in the long procession from the governor’s residence to the great temple of Amun, guarding the litter that carried the princess. The people of Thebes lined the streets to welcome the new High Priestess, cheering and waving enthusiastically. The Pharaoh was a man of the people who had risen to power, ironically enough, by rallying the Egyptians against his predecessor’s dependence on Greek mercenaries and advisors to maintain his rule. It had not prevented the new king from employing many Greeks himself, mindful of their reputation as soldiers and the importance of Egypt’s trading relationship with the city-states, but he had carefully balanced the Greeks in his employ with native-born Egyptians, in order to keep the trust of his proud nation.

The avenue leading up to the great temple was lined with sphinxes in the Egyptian style, their visages overlooking the procession with millennia-old expressions of serenity. At the boundary of the sacred ground of the temple, beyond which Eumaeon could not go, the procession stopped, and the High Priestess elect dismounted from her litter. Eumaeon stepped aside as a group of priests devoted to the worship of Amun appeared to lead Nitiqret into the holy grounds of Ipet-isut, wherein her solemn initiation as High Priestess and Divine Adoratrice would be carried out.

As Nitiqret passed through the portal between the mundane world and the sacred, Eumaeon glanced away to the west, towards the waters of the Nile. It was still morning, and the sun had not yet reached its highest point in the dome of the sky. A gentle breeze blew from the north, swaying the date palms in the temple gardens. Here he was, at the heart of Egypt, the oldest of all the kingdoms in the world. These rituals and ceremonies had been practised here ever since the sun’s first journey, and he thought that they would almost certainly continue until it set for a final time over the great desert to the west. The thought was both humbling and comforting. Eumaeon was Greek by blood, and would always be proud of his people; but Egypt, eternal, unchanging and ever-reliable, was his home.