Chapter III: The Sherd of Amenartas

On the day preceding Leo’s twenty-fifth birthday we both
journeyed to London, and extracted the mysterious chest from the
bank where I had deposited it twenty years before. It was, I
remember, brought up by the same clerk who had taken it down. He
perfectly remembered having hidden it away. Had he not done so,
he said, he should have had difficulty in finding it, it was so
covered up with cobwebs.

In the evening we returned with our precious burden to Cambridge,
and I think that we might both of us have given away all the
sleep we got that night and not have been much the poorer. At
daybreak Leo arrived in my room in a dressing-gown, and suggested
that we should at once proceed to business. I scouted the idea as
showing an unworthy curiosity. The chest had waited twenty years,
I said, so it could very well continue to wait until after
breakfast. Accordingly at nine—an unusually sharp nine—we
breakfasted; and so occupied was I with my own thoughts that I
regret to state that I put a piece of bacon into Leo’s tea in
mistake for a lump of sugar. Job, too, to whom the contagion of
excitement had, of course, spread, managed to break the handle
off my Sèvres china tea-cup, the identical one I believe that
Marat had been drinking from just before he was stabbed in his
bath.

At last, however, breakfast was cleared away, and Job, at my
request, fetched the chest, and placed it upon the table in a
somewhat gingerly fashion, as though he mistrusted it. Then he
prepared to leave the room.

“Stop a moment, Job,” I said. “If Mr. Leo has no objection, I
should prefer to have an independent witness to this business,
who can be relied upon to hold his tongue unless he is asked to
speak.”

“Certainly, Uncle Horace,” answered Leo; for I had brought him up
to call me uncle—though he varied the appellation somewhat
disrespectfully by calling me “old fellow,” or even “my avuncular
relative.”

Job touched his head, not having a hat on.

“Lock the door, Job,” I said, “and bring me my despatch-box.”

He obeyed, and from the box I took the keys that poor Vincey,
Leo’s father, had given me on the night of his death. There were
three of them; the largest a comparatively modern key, the second
an exceedingly ancient one, and the third entirely unlike
anything of the sort that we had ever seen before, being
fashioned apparently from a strip of solid silver, with a bar
placed across to serve as a handle, and leaving some nicks cut in
the edge of the bar. It was more like a model of an antediluvian
railway key than anything else.

“Now are you both ready?” I said, as people do when they are
going to fire a mine. There was no answer, so I took the big key,
rubbed some salad oil into the wards, and after one or two bad
shots, for my hands were shaking, managed to fit it, and shoot
the lock. Leo bent over and caught the massive lid in both his
hands, and with an effort, for the hinges had rusted, forced it
back. Its removal revealed another case covered with dust. This
we extracted from the iron chest without any difficulty, and
removed the accumulated filth of years from it with a
clothes-brush.

It was, or appeared to be, of ebony, or some such close-grained
black wood, and was bound in every direction with flat bands of
iron. Its antiquity must have been extreme, for the dense heavy
wood was in parts actually commencing to crumble from age.

“Now for it,” I said, inserting the second key.

Job and Leo bent forward in breathless silence. The key turned,
and I flung back the lid, and uttered an exclamation, and no
wonder, for inside the ebony case was a magnificent silver
casket, about twelve inches square by eight high. It appeared to
be of Egyptian workmanship, and the four legs were formed of
Sphinxes, and the dome-shaped cover was also surmounted by a
Sphinx. The casket was of course much tarnished and dinted with
age, but otherwise in fairly sound condition.

I drew it out and set it on the table, and then, in the midst of
the most perfect silence, I inserted the strange-looking silver
key, and pressed this way and that until at last the lock
yielded, and the casket stood before us. It was filled to the
brim with some brown shredded material, more like vegetable fibre
than paper, the nature of which I have never been able to
discover. This I carefully removed to the depth of some three
inches, when I came to a letter enclosed in an ordinary
modern-looking envelope, and addressed in the handwriting of my
dead friend Vincey.

“_To my son Leo, should he live to open this casket._”

I handed the letter to Leo, who glanced at the envelope, and then
put it down upon the table, making a motion to me to go on
emptying the casket.

The next thing that I found was a parchment carefully rolled up.
I unrolled it, and seeing that it was also in Vincey’s
handwriting, and headed, “Translation of the Uncial Greek Writing
on the Potsherd,” put it down by the letter. Then followed
another ancient roll of parchment, that had become yellow and
crinkled with the passage of years. This I also unrolled. It was
likewise a translation of the same Greek original, but into
black-letter Latin, which at the first glance from the style and
character appeared to me to date from somewhere about the
beginning of the sixteenth century. Immediately beneath this roll
was something hard and heavy, wrapped up in yellow linen, and
reposing upon another layer of the fibrous material. Slowly and
carefully we unrolled the linen, exposing to view a very large
but undoubtedly ancient potsherd of a dirty yellow colour! This
potsherd had in my judgment, once been a part of an ordinary
amphora of medium size. For the rest, it measured ten and a half
inches in length by seven in width, was about a quarter of an
inch thick, and densely covered on the convex side that lay
towards the bottom of the box with writing in the later uncial
Greek character, faded here and there, but for the most part
perfectly legible, the inscription having evidently been executed
with the greatest care, and by means of a reed pen, such as the
ancients often used. I must not forget to mention that in some
remote age this wonderful fragment had been broken in two, and
rejoined by means of cement and eight long rivets. Also there
were numerous inscriptions on the inner side, but these were of
the most erratic character, and had clearly been made by
different hands and in many different ages, and of them, together
with the writings on the parchments, I shall have to speak
presently.

FACSIMILE OF THE SHERD OF AMENARTAS

One 1/2 size

Greatest length of the original 10½ inches
Greatest breadth 7 inches
Weight 1lb 5½ oz

FACSIMILE OF THE SHERD OF AMENARTAS

One 1/2 size

“Is there anything more?” asked Leo, in a kind of excited
whisper.

I groped about, and produced something hard, done up in a little
linen bag. Out of the bag we took first a very beautiful
miniature done upon ivory, and secondly, a small
chocolate-coloured composition _scarabæus_, marked thus:—

symbols which, we have since ascertained, mean “Suten se Ra,”
which is being translated the “Royal Son of Ra or the Sun.” The
miniature was a picture of Leo’s Greek mother—a lovely, dark-eyed
creature. On the back of it was written, in poor Vincey’s
handwriting, “My beloved wife.”

“That is all,” I said.

“Very well,” answered Leo, putting down the miniature, at which
he had been gazing affectionately; “and now let us read the
letter,” and without further ado he broke the seal, and read
aloud as follows:—

“My Son Leo,—When you open this, if you ever live to do so, you
will have attained to manhood, and I shall have been long enough
dead to be absolutely forgotten by nearly all who knew me. Yet in
reading it remember that I have been, and for anything you know
may still be, and that in it, through this link of pen and paper,
I stretch out my hand to you across the gulf of death, and my
voice speaks to you from the silence of the grave. Though I am
dead, and no memory of me remains in your mind, yet am I with you
in this hour that you read. Since your birth to this day I have
scarcely seen your face. Forgive me this. Your life supplanted
the life of one whom I loved better than women are often loved,
and the bitterness of it endureth yet. Had I lived I should in
time have conquered this foolish feeling, but I am not destined
to live. My sufferings, physical and mental, are more than I can
bear, and when such small arrangements as I have to make for your
future well-being are completed it is my intention to put a
period to them. May God forgive me if I do wrong. At the best I
could not live more than another year.”

“So he killed himself,” I exclaimed. “I thought so.”

“And now,” Leo went on, without replying, “enough of myself. What
has to be said belongs to you who live, not to me, who am dead,
and almost as much forgotten as though I had never been. Holly,
my friend (to whom, if he will accept the trust, it is my
intention to confide you), will have told you something of the
extraordinary antiquity of your race. In the contents of this
casket you will find sufficient to prove it. The strange legend
that you will find inscribed by your remote ancestress upon the
potsherd was communicated to me by my father on his deathbed, and
took a strong hold in my imagination. When I was only nineteen
years of age I determined, as, to his misfortune, did one of our
ancestors about the time of Elizabeth, to investigate its truth.
Into all that befell me I cannot enter now. But this I saw with
my own eyes. On the coast of Africa, in a hitherto unexplored
region, some distance to the north of where the Zambesi falls
into the sea, there is a headland, at the extremity of which a
peak towers up, shaped like the head of a negro, similar to that
of which the writing speaks. I landed there, and learnt from a
wandering native, who had been cast out by his people because of
some crime which he had committed, that far inland are great
mountains, shaped like cups, and caves surrounded by measureless
swamps. I learnt also that the people there speak a dialect of
Arabic, and are ruled over by a _beautiful white woman_ who is
seldom seen by them, but who is reported to have power over all
things living and dead. Two days after I had ascertained this the
man died of fever contracted in crossing the swamps, and I was
forced by want of provisions and by symptoms of an illness which
afterwards prostrated me to take to my dhow again.

“Of the adventures that befell me after this I need not now
speak. I was wrecked upon the coast of Madagascar, and rescued
some months afterwards by an English ship that brought me to
Aden, whence I started for England, intending to prosecute my
search as soon as I had made sufficient preparations. On my way I
stopped in Greece, and there, for ‘Omnia vincit amor,’ I met your
beloved mother, and married her, and there you were born and she
died. Then it was that my last illness seized me, and I returned
hither to die. But still I hoped against hope, and set myself to
work to learn Arabic, with the intention, should I ever get
better, of returning to the coast of Africa, and solving the
mystery of which the tradition has lived so many centuries in our
family. But I have not got better, and, so far as I am concerned,
the story is at an end.

“For you, however, my son, it is not at an end, and to you I hand
on these the results of my labour, together with the hereditary
proofs of its origin. It is my intention to provide that they
shall not be put into your hands until you have reached an age
when you will be able to judge for yourself whether or no you
will choose to investigate what, if it is true, must be the
greatest mystery in the world, or to put it by as an idle fable,
originating in the first place in a woman’s disordered brain.

“I do not believe that it is a fable; I believe that if it can
only be re-discovered there is a spot where the vital forces of
the world visibly exist. Life exists; why therefore should not
the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also? But I have no
wish to prejudice your mind about the matter. Read and judge for
yourself. If you are inclined to undertake the search, I have so
provided that you will not lack for means. If, on the other hand,
you are satisfied that the whole thing is a chimera, then, I
adjure you, destroy the potsherd and the writings, and let a
cause of troubling be removed from our race for ever. Perhaps
that will be wisest. The unknown is generally taken to be
terrible, not as the proverb would infer, from the inherent
superstition of man, but because it so often _is_ terrible. He
who would tamper with the vast and secret forces that animate the
world may well fall a victim to them. And if the end were
attained, if at last you emerged from the trial ever beautiful
and ever young, defying time and evil, and lifted above the
natural decay of flesh and intellect, who shall say that the
awesome change would prove a happy one? Choose, my son, and may
the Power who rules all things, and who says ‘thus far shalt thou
go, and thus much shalt thou learn,’ direct the choice to your
own happiness and the happiness of the world, which, in the event
of your success, you would one day certainly rule by the pure
force of accumulated experience.— Farewell!”

Thus the letter, which was unsigned and undated, abruptly ended.

“What do you make of that, Uncle Holly,” said Leo, with a sort of
gasp, as he replaced it on the table. “We have been looking for a
mystery, and we certainly seem to have found one.”

“What do I make of it? Why, that your poor dear father was off
his head, of course,” I answered, testily. “I guessed as much
that night, twenty years ago, when he came into my room. You see
he evidently hurried his own end, poor man. It is absolute
balderdash.”

“That’s it, sir!” said Job, solemnly. Job was a most
matter-of-fact specimen of a matter-of-fact class.

“Well, let’s see what the potsherd has to say, at any rate,” said
Leo, taking up the translation in his father’s writing, and
commencing to read:—

“_I, Amenartas, of the Royal House of the Pharaohs of Egypt, wife of Kallikrates (the Beautiful in Strength), a Priest of Isis whom the gods cherish and the demons obey, being about to die, to my little son Tisisthenes (the Mighty Avenger). I fled with thy father from Egypt in the days of Nectanebes,_[1] _causing him through love to break the vows that he had vowed. We fled southward, across the waters, and we wandered for twice twelve moons on the coast of Libya (Africa) that looks towards the rising sun, where by a river is a great rock carven like the head of an Ethiopian. Four days on the water from the mouth of a mighty river were we cast away, and some were drowned and some died of sickness. But us wild men took through wastes and marshes, where the sea fowl hid the sky, bearing us ten days’ journey till we came to a hollow mountain, where a great city had been and fallen, and where there are caves of which no man hath seen the end; and they brought us to the Queen of the people who place pots upon the heads of strangers, who is a magician having a knowledge of all things, and life and loveliness that does not die. And she cast eyes of love upon thy father, Kallikrates, and would have slain me, and taken him to husband, but he loved me and feared her, and would not. Then did she take us, and lead us by terrible ways, by means of dark magic, to where the great pit is, in the mouth of which the old philosopher lay dead, and showed to us the rolling Pillar of Life that dies not, whereof the voice is as the voice of thunder; and she did stand in the flames, and come forth unharmed, and yet more beautiful. Then did she swear to make thy father undying even as she is, if he would but slay me, and give himself to her, for me she could not slay because of the magic of my own people that I have, and that prevailed thus far against her. And he held his hand before his eyes to hide her beauty, and would not. Then in her rage did she smite him by her magic, and he died; but she wept over him, and bore him thence with lamentations: and being afraid, me she sent to the mouth of the great river where the ships come, and I was carried far away on the ships where I gave thee birth, and hither to Athens I came at last after many wanderings. Now I say to thee, my son, Tisisthenes, seek out the woman, and learn the secret of Life, and if thou mayest find a way slay her, because of thy father Kallikrates; and if thou dost fear or fail, this I say to all thy seed who come after thee, till at last a brave man be found among them who shall bathe in the fire and sit in the place of the Pharaohs. I speak of those things, that though they be past belief, yet I have known, and I lie not._”

[1] Nekht-nebf, or Nectanebo II., the last native Pharaoh of Egypt, fled from Ochus to Ethiopia, B.C. 339.—Editor.

“May the Lord forgive her for that,” groaned Job, who had been
listening to this marvellous composition with his mouth open.

As for myself, I said nothing: my first idea being that my poor
friend, being demented, had composed the whole thing, though it
scarcely seemed likely that such a story could have been invented
by anybody. It was too original. To solve my doubts I took up the
potsherd and began to read the close uncial Greek writing on it;
and very good Greek of the period it is, considering that it came
from the pen of an Egyptian born. Here is an exact transcript of
it:—

ΑΜΕΝΑΡΤΑΣΤΟΥΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΟΥΓΕΝΟΥΣΤΟΥΑΙΓΥΠΤΙΟΥΗΤΟΥΚΑΛΛΙΚΡΑΤΟΥΣΙΣΙΔΟΣΙΕΡΕΩΣΗΝΟ ΙΜΕΝΘΕΟΙΤΡΕΦΟΥΣΙΤΑΔΕΔΑΙΜΟΝΙΑΥΠΟΤΑΣΣΕΤΑΙΗΔΗΤΕΛΕΥΤΩΣΑΤΙΣΙΣΘΕΝΕΙΤΩΠΑΙΔΙΕΠ ΙΣΤΕΛΛΕΙΤΑΔΕΣΥΝΕΦΥΓΟΝΓΑΡΠΟΤΕΕΚΤΗΣΑΙΓΥΠΤΙΑΣΕΠΙΝΕΚΤΑΝΕΒΟΥΜΕΤΑΤΟΥΣΟΥΠΑΤΡΟ ΣΔΙΑΤΟΝΕΡΩΤΑΤΟΝΕΜΟΝΕΠΙΟΡΚΗΣΑΝΤΟΣΦΥΓΟΝΤΕΣΔΕΠΡΟΣΝΟΤΟΝΔΙΑΠΟΝΤΙΟΙΚΑΙΚΔΜΗΝΑ ΣΚΑΤΑΤΑΠΑΡΑΘΑΛΑΣΣΙΑΤΗΣΛΙΒΥΗΣΤΑΠΡΟΣΗΛΙΟΥΑΝΑΤΟΛΑΣΠΛΑΝΗΘΕΝΤΕΣΕΝΘΑΠΕΡΠΕΤΡΑ ΤΙΣΜΕΓΑΛΗΓΛΥΠΤΟΝΟΜΟΙΩΜΑΑΙΘΙΟΠΟΣΚΕΦΑΛΗΣΕΙΤΑΗΜΕΡΑΣΔΑΠΟΣΤΟΜΑΤΟΣΠΟΤΑΜΟΥΜΕΓ ΑΛΟΥΕΚΠΕΣΟΝΤΕΣΟΙΜΕΝΚΑΤΕΠΟΝΤΙΣΘΗΜΕΝΟΙΔΕΝΟΣΩΙΑΠΕΘΑΝΟΜΕΝΤΕΛΟΣΔΕΥΠΑΓΡΙΩΝΑΝ ΘΡΩΠΩΝΕΦΕΡΟΜΕΘΑΔΙΑΕΛΕΩΝΤΕΚΑΙΤΕΝΑΓΕΩΝΕΝΘΑΠΕΡΠΤΗΝΩΝΠΛΗΘΟΣΑΠΟΚΡΥΠΤΕΙΤΟΝΟΥ ΡΑΝΟΝΗΜΕΡΑΣΙΕΩΣΗΛΘΟΜΕΝΕΙΣΚΟΙΛΟΝΤΙΟΡΟΣΕΝΘΑΠΟΤΕΜΕΓΑΛΗΜΕΝΠΟΛΙΣΗΝΑΝΤΡΑΔΕΑΠ ΕΙΡΟΝΑΗΓΑΓΟΝΔΕΩΣΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΝΤΗΝΤΩΝΞΕΝΟΥΣΧΥΤΡΑΙΣΣΤΕΦΑΝΟΥΝΤΩΝΗΤΙΣΜΑΓΕΙΑΜΕΝΕ ΧΡΗΤΟΕΠΙΣΤΗΜΗΔΕΠΑΝΤΩΝΚΑΙΔΗΚΑΙΚΑΛΛΟΣΚΑΙΡΩΜΗΝΑΓΗΡΩΣΗΝΗΔΕΚΑΛΛΙΚΡΑΤΟΥΣΤΟΥΣ ΟΥΠΑΤΡΟΣΕΡΑΣΘΕΙΣΑΤΟΜΕΝΠΡΩΤΟΝΣΥΝΟΙΚΕΙΝΕΒΟΥΛΕΤΟΕΜΕΔΕΑΝΕΛΕΙΝΕΠΕΙΤΑΩΣΟΥΚΑΝ ΕΠΕΙΘΕΝΕΜΕΓΑΡΥΠΕΡΕΦΙΛΕΙΚΑΙΤΗΝΞΕΝΗΝΕΦΟΒΕΙΤΟΑΠΗΓΑΓΕΝΗΜΑΣΥΠΟΜΑΓΕΙΑΣΚΑΘΟΔΟ ΥΣΣΦΑΛΕΡΑΣΕΝΘΑΤΟΒΑΡΑΘΡΟΝΤΟΜΕΓΑΟΥΚΑΤΑΣΤΟΜΑΕΚΕΙΤΟΟΓΕΡΩΝΟΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΟΣΤΕΘΝΕΩΣ ΑΦΙΚΟΜΕΝΟΙΣΔΕΔΕΙΞΕΦΩΣΤΟΥΒΙΟΥΕΥΘΥΟΙΟΝΚΙΟΝΑΕΛΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΟΝΦΩΝΗΝΙΕΝΤΑΚΑΘΑΠΕΡΒ ΡΟΝΤΗΣΕΙΤΑΔΙΑΠΥΡΟΣΒΕΒΗΚΥΙΑΑΒΛΑΒΗΣΚΑΙΕΤΙΚΑΛΛΙΩΝΑΥΤΗΕΑΥΤΗΣΕΞΕΦΑΝΗΕΚΔΕΤΟΥ ΤΩΝΩΜΟΣΕΚΑΙΤΟΝΣΟΝΠΑΤΕΡΑΑΘΑΝΑΤΟΝΑΠΟΔΕΙΞΕΙΝΕΙΣΥΝΟΙΚΕΙΝΟΙΒΟΥΛΟΙΤΟΕΜΕΔΕΑΝΕ ΛΕΙΝΟΥΓΑΡΟΥΝΑΥΤΗΑΝΕΛΕΙΝΙΣΧΥΕΝΥΠΟΤΩΝΗΜΕΔΑΠΩΝΗΝΚΑΙΑΥΤΗΕΧΩΜΑΓΕΙΑΣΟΔΟΥΔΕΝΤ ΙΜΑΛΛΟΝΗΘΕΛΕΤΩΧΕΙΡΕΤΩΝΟΜΜΑΤΩΝΠΡΟΙΣΧΩΝΙΝΑΔΗΤΟΤΗΣΓΥΝΑΙΚΟΣΚΑΛΛΟΣΜΗΟΡΩΗΕΠΕ ΙΤΑΟΡΓΙΣΘΕΙΣΑΚΑΤΕΓΟΗΤΕΥΣΕΜΕΝΑΥΤΟΝΑΠΟΛΟΜΕΝΟΝΜΕΝΤΟΙΚΛΑΟΥΣΑΚΑΙΟΔΥΡΟΜΕΝΗΕΚ ΕΙΘΕΝΑΠΗΝΕΓΚΕΝΕΜΕΔΕΦΟΒΩΙΑΦΗΚΕΝΕΙΣΣΤΟΜΑΤΟΥΜΕΓΑΛΟΥΠΟΤΑΜΟΥΤΟΥΝΑΥΣΙΠΟΡΟΥΠΟ ΡΡΩΔΕΝΑΥΣΙΝΕΦΩΝΠΕΡΠΛΕΟΥΣΑΕΤΕΚΟΝΣΕΑΠΟΠΛΕΥΣΑΣΑΜΟΛΙΣΠΟΤΕΔΕΥΡΟΑΘΗΝΑΖΕΚΑΤΗΓ ΑΓΟΜΗΝΣΥΔΕΩΤΙΣΙΣΘΕΝΕΣΩΝΕΠΙΣΤΕΛΛΩΜΗΟΛΙΓΩΡΕΙΔΕΙΓΑΡΤΗΝΓΥΝΑΙΚΑΑΝΑΖΗΤΕΙΝΗΝΠ ΩΣΤΟΤΟΥΒΙΟΥΜΥΣΤΗΡΙΟΝΑΝΕΥΡΗΣΚΑΙΑΝΑΙΡΕΙΝΗΝΠΟΥΠΑΡΑΣΧΗΔΙΑΤΟΝΣΟΝΠΑΤΕΡΑΚΑΛΛΙ ΚΡΑΤΗΝΕΙΔΕΦΟΒΟΥΜΕΝΟΣΗΔΙΑΑΛΛΟΤΙΑΥΤΟΣΛΕΙΠΕΙΤΟΥΕΡΓΟΥΠΑΣΙΤΟΙΣΥΣΤΕΡΟΝΑΥΤΟΤΟ ΥΤΟΕΠΙΣΤΕΛΛΩΕΩΣΠΟΤΕΑΓΑΘΟΣΤΙΣΓΕΝΟΜΕΝΟΣΤΩΠΥΡΙΛΟΥΣΑΣΘΑΙΤΟΛΜΗΣΕΙΚΑΙΤΑΑΡΙΣΤ ΕΙΑΕΧΩΝΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΑΙΤΩΝΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝΑΠΙΣΤΑΜΕΝΔΗΤΑΤΟΙΑΥΤΑΛΕΓΩΟΜΩΣΔΕΑΑΥΤΗΕΓΝΩΚΑΟ ΥΚΕΨΕΥΣΑΜΗΝ

For general convenience in reading, I have here accurately transcribed this inscription into the cursive character.

Ἀμενάρτας, τοῦ βασικοῦ γένους τοῦ Αἰγυπτίου, ἡ τοῦ Καλλικράτους Ἴσιδος ἱερέως, ἣν οἱ μὲν θεοὶ τρέφουσι τὰ δὲ δαιμονια ὑποτάσσεται, ἤδη τελευτῶσα Τισισθένει τῷ παιδὶ ἐπιστέλλει τάδε· συνέφυγον γάρ ποτε ἐκ τῆς Αἰγυπτίας ἐπὶ Νεκτανέβου μετὰ τοῦ σοῦ πατρός, διὰ τὸν ἔρωτα τὸν ἐμὸν ἐπιορκήσαντος. φυγόντες δὲ πρὸς νότον διαπόντιοι καὶ κʹδʹ μῆνας κατὰ τὰ παραθαλάσσια τῆς Αιβύης τὰ πρός ἡλίου ἀνατολὰς πλανηθέντες, ἔνθαπερ πέτρα τις μελάλη, γλυπτὸν ὁμοίωμα Αἰθίοπος κεφαλῆς, εἶτα ἡμέρας δʹ ἀπὸ στόματος ποταμοῦ μεγάλου ἐκπεσόντες, οἱ μέν κατεποντίσθημεν, οἱ δὲ νόσῳ ἀπεθάνομεν· τέλος δὲ ὑπ᾽ ἀλρίων ἀνθρώπων ἐφερόμεθα διὰ ἐλέων τε καὶ τεναλέων ἔνθαπερ πτηνῶν πλῆθος ἀποκρύπτει τὸν οὐρανὸν, ἡμέρας ί, ἕως ἤλθομεν εἰς κοῖλόν τι ὄρος, ἔνθα ποτὲ μεγάλη μὲν πόλις ἦν, ἄντρα δὲ ἀπείρονα· ἤγαγον δὲ ὡς βασίλειαν τὴν τῶν ξένους χύτραις στεφανούντων, ἥτις μαλεία μὲν ἐχρῆτο ἐπιστήμη δὲ πάντων καὶ δὴ καὶ κάλλός καὶ ῥώμην ἀλήρως ἦν· ἡ δὲ Καλλικράτους τοῦ πατρὸς ἐρασθεῖδα τὸ μὲν πρῶτον συνοικεῖν ἐβούλετο ἐμὲ δὲ ἀνελεῖν· ἔπειτα, ὡς οὐκ ἀνέπειθεν, ἐμὲ γὰρ ὑπερεφίλει καὶ τὴν ξένην ἐφοβεῖτο, ἀπήγαγεν ἡμᾶς ὑπὸ μαγείας καθʹ ὁδοὺς σφαλερὰς ἔνθα τὸ βάραθρον τὸ μέγα, οὗ κατὰ στόμα ἔκειτο ὁ γέρων ὁ φιλόσοφος τεθνεώς, ἀφικομένοις δʹ ἔδειξε φῶς τοῦ βίου εὐθύ, οἷον κίονα ἑλισσόμενον φώνην ἱέντα καθάπερ βροντῆς, εἶτα διὰ πυρὸς βεβηκυῖα ἀβλαβὴς καὶ ἔτι καλλίων αὐτὴ ἑαυτῆς ἐξεφάνη. ἐκ δὲ τούτων ὤμοσε καὶ τὸν σὸν πατέρα ἀθάνατον ἀποδείξειν, εἰ συνοικεῖν οἱ βούλοιτο ἐμὲ δε ὰνελεῖν, οὐ γὰρ οὖν αὐτὴ ἀνελεῖν ἴσχυεν ὑπὸ τῶν ἡμεδαπῶν ἣν καὶ αὐτὴ ἔχω μαγείας. ὁ δʹ οὐδέν τι μᾶλλον ἤθελε, τὼ χεῖρε τῶν ὀμμάτων προίσχων ἵνα δὴ τὸ τῆς γυναικὸς κάλλος μὴ ὁρῴη· ἔπειτα ὀργισθεῖσα κατεγοήτευσε μὲν αὐτόν, ἀπολόμενον μέντοι κλάουσα καὶ ὀδυρμένη ἐκεῖθεν ἀπήνεγκεν, ἐμὲ δὲ φόβῳ ἀφῆκεν εἰς στόμα τοῦ μεγάλου ποταμοῦ τοῦ ναυσιπόρου, πόδδω δὲ ναυσίν, ἐφʹ ὧνπερ πλέουσα ἔτεκόν σε, ἀποπλεύσασα μόλις ποτὲ δεῦρο Ἀθηνάζε κατηγαγόν. σὺ δέ, ὦ Τισίσθενες, ὧν ἐπιστέλλω μὴ ὀλιγώρει· δεῖ γὰρ τῆν γυναῖκα ἀναζητεῖν ἤν πως τῦ βίου μυστήριον ἀνεύρῃς, καὶ ἀναιρεῖν, ἤν που παρασχῇ, διὰ τὸν πατέρα Καλλικράτους. εἐ δὲ φοβούμενος ἢ διὰ ἄλλο τι αὐτὸς λείπει τοῦ ἔργου, πᾶσι τοῖς ὕστερον αὐτὸ τοῦτο ἐπιστέλλω, ἕως ποτὲ ἀγαθός τις γενόμενος τῷ πυρὶ λούσασθαι τολμήσει καὶ τὰ ἀριστεῖα ἔχων βασιλεῦσαι τῶν ἀνθρώπων· ἄπιστα μὲν δὴ τὰ τοιαῦτα λέγω, ὅμως δὲ ἃ αὐτὴ ἔγνωκα οὐκ ἐψευσάμην.

The English translation was, as I discovered on further
investigation, and as the reader may easily see by comparison,
both accurate and elegant.

Besides the uncial writing on the convex side of the sherd at the top, painted in dull red, on what had once been the lip of the amphora, was the cartouche already mentioned as being on the _scarabæus_, which we had also found in the casket. The hieroglyphics or symbols, however, were reversed, just as though they had been pressed on wax. Whether this was the cartouche of the original Kallikrates,[2] or of some Prince or Pharaoh from whom his wife Amenartas was descended, I am not sure, nor can I tell if it was drawn upon the sherd at the same time that the uncial Greek was inscribed, or copied on more recently from the Scarab by some other member of the family. Nor was this all. At the foot of the writing, painted in the same dull red, was the faint outline of a somewhat rude drawing of the head and shoulders of a Sphinx wearing two feathers, symbols of majesty, which, though common enough upon the effigies of sacred bulls and gods, I have never before met with on a Sphinx.

[2] The cartouche, if it be a true cartouche, cannot have been that of Kallikrates, as Mr. Holly suggests. Kallikrates was a priest and not entitled to a cartouche, which was the prerogative of Egyptian royalty, though he might have inscribed his name or title upon an _oval_.—Editor.

Also on the right-hand side of this surface of the sherd, painted
obliquely in red on the space not covered by the uncial
characters, and signed in blue paint, was the following quaint
inscription:—

IN EARTH AND SKIE AND SEA
STRANGE THYNGES THER BE.
HOC FECIT
DOROTHEA VINCEY.

Perfectly bewildered, I turned the relic over. It was covered
from top to bottom with notes and signatures in Greek, Latin, and
English. The first in uncial Greek was by Tisisthenes, the son to
whom the writing was addressed. It was, “I could not go.
Tisisthenes to his son, Kallikrates.” Here it is in fac-simile
with its cursive equivalent:—

ΟΥΚΑΝΔΥΝΑΙΜΗΝΠΟΡΕΥΕϹΘΑΙΤΙϹΙϹΘΕΝΗϹΚΑΛΛΙΚΡΑΤΕΙΤΩΙΠΑΙΔΙ οὐκ ἂν δυναίμην πορεύεσθαι. Τισισθένης Καλλικράτει τῷ παιδί.

This Kallikrates (probably, in the Greek fashion, so named after
his grandfather) evidently made some attempt to start on the
quest, for his entry written in very faint and almost illegible
uncial is, “I ceased from my going, the gods being against me.
Kallikrates to his son.” Here it is also:—

ΤΩΝΘΕΩΝΑΝΤΙΣΤΑΝΤΩΝΕΠΑΥΣΑΜΗΝΤΗΣΠΟΡΕΙΑΣΑΛΛΙΚΡΑΤΗΣΤΩΙΠΑΙΔΙ τῶν θεῶν ἀντιστάντων ἐπαυσάμην τῆς πορείας. Καλλικράτης τῷ παιδί.

Between these two ancient writings, the second of which was
inscribed upside down and was so faint and worn that, had it not
been for the transcript of it executed by Vincey, I should
scarcely have been able to read it, since, owing to its having
been written on that portion of the tile which had, in the course
of ages, undergone the most handling, it was nearly rubbed
out—was the bold, modern-looking signature of one Lionel Vincey,
“Ætate sua 17,” which was written thereon, I think, by Leo’s
grandfather. To the right of this were the initials “J. B. V.,”
and below came a variety of Greek signatures, in uncial and
cursive character, and what appeared to be some carelessly
executed repetitions of the sentence τῷ παιδί (to my son),
showing that the relic was religiously passed on from generation
to generation.

The next legible thing after the Greek signatures was the word
“Romae, A.U.C.,” showing that the family had now migrated to
Rome. Unfortunately, however, with the exception of its
termination (evi) the date of their settlement there is for ever
lost, for just where it had been placed a piece of the potsherd
is broken away.

Then followed twelve Latin signatures, jotted about here and
there, wherever there was a space upon the tile suitable to their
inscription. These signatures, with three exceptions only, ended
with the name “Vindex” or “the Avenger,” which seems to have been
adopted by the family after its migration to Rome as a kind of
equivalent to the Greek “Tisisthenes,” which also means an
avenger. Ultimately, as might be expected, this Latin cognomen of
Vindex was transformed first into De Vincey, and then into the
plain, modern Vincey. It is very curious to observe how the idea
of revenge, inspired by an Egyptian who lived before the time of
Christ, is thus, as it were, embalmed in an English family name.

A few of the Roman names inscribed upon the sherd I have actually
since found mentioned in history and other records. They were, if
I remember right,

MVSSIVS. VINDEX SEX. VARIVS MARVLLVS C. FVFIDIVS. C. F. VINDEX

and

LABERIA POMPEIANA. CONIVX. MACRINI. VINDICIS

this last being, of course, the name of a Roman lady.

The following list, however, comprises all the Latin names upon
the sherd:—