Long before the world knew of glass slippers, pumpkin coaches or fairy godmothers, there was a girl, a river, and a golden bird. Our story begins more than 2,000 years ago in the land of Egypt, a place of towering stone temples, shimmering heat, and a great life-giving river called the Nile.
The ancient Egyptians called their land Kemet, the black land, because of the rich dark soil the river left behind each year after the floods. It was a land of deep magic, where the sun was a god who sailed across the sky in a golden boat, and where the movements of birds in the air were read like letters from the heavens.
This particular story is what we call a Greco-Egyptian tale. It was first recorded by an ancient Greek geographer named Strabo, who traveled up the Nile and listened to the stories the people whispered in the shade of the willow trees. It is, perhaps, the oldest version of the Cinderella story ever told, and it begins not with a wave of a magic wand, but with a young girl who was very far from home.
Her name was Rhodopis. In her native Greece, her name meant rosy-cheeked, a reminder of the cool mountain breezes of her childhood. But Rhodopis was no longer in Greece. When she was still very young, she had been captured by pirates, a common and terrible danger in those ancient times, and brought across the wine dark Mediterranean Sea to be sold into servitude.
She had ended up in the northern Delta of Egypt, in a bustling multicultural city called Naucratis, where Greek merchants and Egyptian crafts people lived and worked side by side.
Rhodopis lived in the household of a wealthy master. It was a beautiful estate with white plaster walls that reflected the fierce Egyptian sun, and a garden filled with sweet smelling jasmine and pomegranate trees. But for Rhodopis, it was a place of quiet loneliness.
She looked entirely different from everyone else in the household. The other servant girls had skin the color of warm honey, sleek black hair that fell in heavy braids, and dark almond-shaped eyes. Rhodopis, on the other hand, had skin so pale that the hot Egyptian sun burned it red if she stood in the light for too long. Her hair was a crown of wild, golden red curls that refused to lie flat, and her eyes were the green of a shallow sea.
Because she looked so different, and because she had been born in a foreign land, the other servant girls did not understand her. And as people sometimes do when they encounter someone they do not understand, they chose to be unkind.
"Look at the ghost girl," they would whisper, laughing behind their hands as they ground the grain on flat stones. "She looks like she was carved from salt. If she stays in the rain, she might melt away entirely." They called her the pomegranate because her fair skin flushed so easily in the heat. They made sure she received the heaviest chores, scrubbing the stone floors, carrying the heavy water jars from the river, and washing the linen sheets until her hands were raw and chapped.
Rhodopis did not fight back. She was a quiet girl, dignified and gentle, and she preferred to keep her thoughts to herself. When the teasing became too loud, she would slip away to the edge of the great river. The Nile was her sanctuary. To Rhodopis, the river was not just water. It was a living, breathing companion.
She would sit in the shade of the tall papyrus reeds, watching the green and bronze dragonflies dart across the surface. She made friends with the creatures that lived there. There was a blue kingfisher that would sit on a branch near her, tilting its head as if listening to her secrets. There were the small gray river birds that would hop right onto her knee to peck at the breadcrumbs she saved from her meager meals.
Most surprising of all, there was a great lazy hippopotamus that wallowed in the mud flats nearby. The other girls screamed and ran when they saw the giant beast, but Rhodopis found him comforting. She would speak to him in her soft, musical Greek, and the hippopotamus would blow bubbles of spray from his wide nostrils, as if greeting her in return.
"You do not care that my hair is like straw," she would whisper to the great beast, patting his wet, leathery snout when he ventured close to the bank. "And you do not mind that I turn red in the sun. We are both just trying to find a cool spot in this big, bright world."
In the quiet company of the river and its creatures, Rhodopis found a way to keep her spirit whole. She was a servant in a foreign land, yes, but in her heart, she remained as free as the wind that blew across the Mediterranean.
The master of the estate was an elderly Greek man named Charaxos. He was not a cruel man, but he was very old and very lazy. He spent most of his days sleeping under the cool shade of a great sycamore fig tree in the center of the courtyard, a cup of sweet wine at his elbow and a scroll of poetry in his lap. He left the running of his house entirely to his overseers, who were often harsh and demanding.
Because of this, Charaxos had no idea how hard Rhodopis worked, or how much she was teased by the other girls. But one evening, the heat of the day broke early, replaced by a cool breeze that swept in from the sea. The master woke from his nap, feeling unusually refreshed. The household was quiet. The daily chores were finished, and the other servants had gone to their quarters or into the town to enjoy the twilight.
Rhodopis, thinking she was completely alone in the courtyard, decided to dance. Back in Greece, she had loved to dance. It was a way of remembering the mountains, the cool streams, and the family she had lost. She began to move, slowly at first, and then with a wild, joyful freedom. She did not dance the stately, measured dances of Egypt, where dancers moved with precise, geometric grace.
Rhodopis danced like the wind. She leaped, she spun, her golden red curls flying around her face like a halo of fire. Her bare feet barely seemed to touch the smooth flagstones of the courtyard. She was as light as a feather, as graceful as a swallow dipping over the water.
Charaxos watched her from the shadows of the porch. He was spellbound. He had lived in Egypt for many years, but this dance brought back memories of his own youth in the islands of Greece. He saw the beauty in her movements, but he also noticed something else. He saw her feet. They were bare, calloused and bruised from the rough gravel of the river banks and the hot stones of the courtyard.
It pained him to see such grace paired with such hardship. The next day, a merchant from the northern lands arrived at the estate, his donkeys laden with fine goods to sell. There were silks from the east, perfumes from Arabia, and beautiful ornaments of bronze and silver. Charaxos, remembering the dancing girl, called the merchant over.
"Show me your finest footwear," the old master commanded. The merchant smiled and reached deep into a cedar chest. He pulled out a pair of slippers that made even the old master gasp. They were not ordinary sandals made of woven papyrus or coarse cowhide. They were slippers made of the finest, softest leather, dyed a brilliant, glowing rose red, the color of a pomegranate blossom or a summer sunset.
The soles were made of supple, gilded leather that glinted in the light, and the straps were as soft as silk. "These are fit for a princess," the merchant boasted. "The leather is as soft as a cloud, and the dye will never fade, even if washed in the waters of the Nile."
Charaxos bought them immediately. Later that afternoon, he summoned Rhodopis to the sycamore tree.
The young girl approached timidly, her head bowed, wondering if she was in trouble. But the old master smiled warmly and held out the parcel. "Open it, child," he said softly. Rhodopis untied the linen wrapping. When she saw the rose red slippers, her breath caught in her throat. She had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life.
She looked at her master, her green eyes wide with disbelief. "For me, master?" she whispered. "For you," Charaxos replied, nodding. "I saw you dance last night. A girl who moves like the wind should not have to walk upon the sharp stones with bare feet. Wear them, and let your feet be as happy as your spirit."
Rhodopis thanked him with tears in her eyes. She slipped her feet into the shoes. They fit perfectly, clinging to her arches like a second skin. They were so soft, she felt as though she were walking on air. But the gift did not bring peace to the household. When the other servant girls saw Rhodopis wearing the beautiful rose red slippers, their jealousy burned like a hot desert wind.
"Why should she have slippers of gilded leather?" one girl named Meret muttered, her eyes flashing with anger. "She is a foreigner, a ghost girl. We work twice as hard as she does, yet we wear sandals of rough papyrus."
"She must have cast a spell on the master," another whispered. "She sings to the animals by the river. Perhaps she is a witch."
Rhodopis could feel their cold stares and hear their sharp whispers, so she made a decision. She would not wear her beautiful slippers in the house. She would not flaunt her treasure. Instead, she kept them hidden in a secret hollow of the willow tree near her favorite spot on the river bank. She only put them on when she was alone with the birds and the hippopotamus, dancing on the smooth, damp sand where no one else could see her.
They were her secret joy, a reminder that someone had seen her worth, and that she was still, in some small way, the rosy-cheeked girl of her memories.
The seasons turned, and the time came for the great festival of Memphis. Memphis was the ancient, magnificent capital of Egypt, a city of white walls, towering obelisks, and vast temples dedicated to the gods. Once a year, the Pharaoh Amasis would host a grand festival to honor the gods of the river and the sky.
It was a time of unimaginable wonder. There would be musicians playing harps and lutes, dancers from the southern lands, acrobats who could leap through the air like cats, and tables groaning under the weight of sweet honey cakes, roasted meats, and fresh figs. Best of all, the Pharaoh Amasis would appear in public, sitting upon his golden throne, wearing the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt.
Everyone in the land was allowed to attend, and the excitement in the household of Charaxos was reaching a fever pitch. For days, the other servant girls did nothing but talk of the festival. They spent hours braiding each other's hair, painting their eyes with dark, shimmering kohl, and washing their finest white linen shifts so they would gleam in the festival light.
Rhodopis, too, hoped to go. She had never seen the great city of Memphis, and she longed to hear the music and see the grand temples. But on the morning of the festival, as the household prepared to board the large, flat-bottomed boats that would take them up the river, the head overseer stopped Rhodopis.
"You are not going, girl of salt," he said coldly, his hand on his hip. "Someone must stay behind to guard the house. And look at this pile of laundry. The master's linen must be washed, the grain must be ground for tomorrow's bread, and the garden must be watered. You will stay here and work."
The other girls giggled and whispered as they pushed past her, boarding the boat. "Have a pleasant day with your hippopotamus, Rhodopis," Meret called out mockingly from the deck. "Tell him all about the festival when we return."
Rhodopis stood on the river bank, watching the boats slide into the current. The sound of their laughter and the beating of the festival drums faded into the distance, leaving only the hot, heavy silence of the mid-day sun. For a moment, her dignity wavered. A single tear slipped down her cheek, burning hot against her fair skin.
She felt utterly forgotten, a stranger in a land that would never be her home. But Rhodopis was not a girl to sit and weep for long. She wiped her eyes, lifted her chin, and picked up the heavy basket of dirty linen. "If I must work," she said to herself, "I will do it by the cool water."
She walked down to her favorite spot on the river bank. The afternoon was stiflingly hot, the air thick with the scent of mud and baking earth. Rhodopis set her basket down and walked over to the old willow tree. She reached into the hollow trunk and pulled out her rose red slippers.
Even on this lonely day, the sight of them made her heart lift. She slipped them onto her feet. Just having them on made her feel stronger, as if she were wearing armor of red and gold. She began to wash the linen, stepping into the shallow, muddy water at the river's edge, but she quickly realized that the mud would ruin the delicate gilded soles of her slippers.
She stepped back onto the dry bank, carefully took them off, and placed them side by side on a flat, smooth stone under the shade of the willow tree. "Stay there, my friends," she murmured to the shoes. "Keep cool in the shade." She returned to her work, scrubbing the heavy sheets against the flat rocks, rinsing them in the cool current, and spreading them out on the clean sand to dry in the blazing sun.
To keep her spirits up, she began to sing. She sang an old Greek song about the spring, her voice rising sweet and clear over the quiet waters. Her friend the hippopotamus emerged from the deep water, his ears twitching as he listened to her song. He waddled up onto the mud flat nearby, letting out a contented grunt.
"You see," Rhodopis said to him, smiling through her tiredness, "we have our own festival here. We have the music of the river, the shade of the willow, and the sky above us. We do not need the Pharaoh's court." But the sky, as it turned out, had its own plans.
and vanished. High above the river, where the air was cool and thin, a great falcon was soaring. In ancient Egypt, the falcon was not merely a bird of prey. It was the sacred messenger of Horus, the sun-eyed god of the sky and the protector of the Pharaoh. The Egyptians believed that the falcon's eyes were the sun and the moon, and that nothing on the earth could escape its gaze.
This particular falcon was magnificent. His wings were broad and dark, his chest flecked with gold, and his eyes were as sharp as obsidian glass. He rode the thermal currents of the desert air, looking down at the green ribbon of the Nile, winding through the yellow sands. He saw the boats crawling like beetles toward Memphis. He saw the fishermen casting their nets.
And then, his sharp eyes caught something else, a sudden, brilliant flash of color on the river bank. It was not the green of the papyrus, nor the blue of the water, nor the dull gray of the mud. It was a speck of intense, vibrant crimson, catching the direct rays of the sun. It looked like a drop of liquid fire sitting on a gray stone.
Curious, the falcon tilted his wings and began to spiral downward. Rhodopis was bent over her basket, wringing out a heavy wet sheet, her back to the willow tree. She did not hear the silent approach of the great bird. The falcon descended with breathtaking speed, his shadow sweeping over the sand like a passing cloud.
He hovered for a single heartbeat over the flat stone under the willow tree. With a movement as swift and silent as a thought, his yellow talons reached down.
His claws clasped the soft, rose red leather of one of the slippers. With a powerful beat of his wings, the falcon rose back into the air. The sudden rush of wind and the shadow of the great wings startled Rhodopis. She gasped and dropped the sheet she was holding. She looked up, her eyes wide, just in time to see the magnificent bird ascending into the blue sky.
And there, clutched firmly in his sharp talons, was her rose red slipper. "No!" Rhodopis cried out, her voice filled with sudden panic. "Stop! Please, bring it back!" She ran along the river bank, waving her arms, her heart sinking with every beat of the bird's wings. But the falcon did not look back.
He climbed higher and higher, the rose red slipper dangling from his claws like a bright exotic fruit. Rhodopis watched until her eyes ached from the glare of the sun. The falcon became a tiny speck against the blue. And then, he vanished entirely, flying straight toward the south, toward the great city of Memphis.
Rhodopis slowly walked back to the willow tree. She sank down onto the flat stone, her shoulders shaking. She reached out and picked up the remaining slipper. It felt light and empty in her hands. "Why?" she whispered to the empty air. "Why would a bird want a shoe?"
Her friend the hippopotamus let out a low, mournful sigh from the water, as if sharing her grief.
Rhodopis held the single slipper against her chest. It was her one beautiful thing, her one proof that she was more than just a servant to be mocked and ignored. Now, half of it was gone, carried away into the sky. A single shoe was of no use to anyone. It was nothing but a reminder of what she had lost.
Slowly, she wrapped the remaining slipper in a clean piece of linen and hid it deep within her tunic. She returned to her laundry, her heart heavy, her song silenced. She could not know that the falcon was not a thief, but a messenger, and that her slipper was traveling toward a destiny greater than any she could have ever imagined.
In the great city of Memphis, the festival was in full swing, but the Pharaoh Amasis was not enjoying himself. He sat upon his magnificent throne of carved cedar and gold in the open air courtyard of his palace. The courtyard was a marvel of ancient engineering, surrounded by massive stone columns carved to look like bundles of flowering lotus plants.
The air was thick with the sweet, heavy scent of burning myrrh, and the sound of bronze cymbals and ivory flutes echoed off the high walls. Amasis was a wise and capable ruler, but today, he felt weary. He had spent the morning listening to the long, dry reports of his tax collectors and the endless arguments of his priests.
Now, he was expected to sit and watch the festival dancers. He looked out over the crowd of courtiers, noblemen, and foreign dignitaries, all of them bowing and scraping, trying to win his favor with flattering words. "They care only for my crown," Amasis thought to himself, his hand resting heavily on the arm of his throne. "They see only the Pharaoh, not the man. Is there nothing true left in this land?"
He looked up at the sky, wishing he could be as free as the clouds. Suddenly, a strange hush fell over the crowded courtyard. The music faltered and the dancers stopped mid-leap. The courtiers began to whisper, pointing up at the sky. Amasis looked up. High above the lotus columns, a great falcon was circling.
It was unusual for a wild bird of prey to enter the bustling palace, but this bird showed no fear. It circled lower and lower, its golden flecked chest gleaming in the sun.
"It is the bird of Horus!" the high priest whispered, falling to his knees. "A sign from the gods!" The falcon hovered directly over the Pharaoh's throne. It let out a sharp, piercing cry that echoed through the silent courtyard. Then, it opened its talons. A small bright object fell through the air. It tumbled down, catching the sunlight, turning over and over like a falling star.
It did not land on the stone floor, nor did it hit one of the guards. It landed with a soft, gentle thud, directly in the Pharaoh's lap, right onto his linen robes. Amasis gasped. He did not move for a long moment, staring at the object. It was a slipper, but it was like no slipper he had ever seen in Egypt.
It was tiny, made of leather so soft it seemed to pulse with life, and dyed a brilliant, breathtaking rose red. The sole was gilded with gold leaf, which shimmered against his white robes. It was so small, so delicate, that it seemed as though it must belong to a fairy or a creature made of light. The falcon let out one more cry, wheeled in the air, and flew away, disappearing over the palace walls.
Amasis picked up the slipper. It was warm from the sun, and it carried a faint, sweet scent, the scent of fresh water, papyrus reeds, and a hint of wild jasmine. It did not smell of the dusty streets of Memphis. It smelled of the pure, wild river. The high priest scrambled forward, his face pale. "Your majesty, this is a miracle! The god Horus himself has brought you this, this shoe! What can it mean?"
Amasis held the rose red slipper in the palm of his hand. For the first time in many months, his eyes sparkled with excitement. He felt a sudden, powerful conviction in his heart. This was not a random event. The gods did not send their sacred bird to drop common items into the laps of kings. "It is a decree," Amasis said, his voice ringing out clearly over the silent courtyard.
"The gods have chosen. The woman whose foot this slipper fits, she and she alone shall be my queen." The court erupted into a frenzy of whispers. The noble women in the crowd immediately began to look at their own feet, some of them trying to slip off their heavy sandals to see if they could possibly fit into the tiny red shoe.
"But your majesty," the grand vizier protested. "We do not even know who she is. She could be a foreigner, a peasant, a servant. Surely you should marry the daughter of a great king or a high priest." "The gods do not care for wealth or titles," Amasis replied, his gaze firm. "They have sent me this sign, and I will follow it. Prepare my royal barge. We will search every city, every village, and every home along the banks of the Nile.
We will not rest until we find the woman who wears the rose red slipper."
The search began. The royal barge of the Pharaoh was a sight to behold. It was built of fine cedar wood from Lebanon, with sails of royal purple silk, and oars tipped with gold that flashed in the water. At the bow stood the Pharaoh's herald, holding the rose red slipper upon a cushion of purple velvet.
They traveled north from Memphis, stopping at every town and estate along the river. Wherever the barge docked, the herald would blow a great bronze horn, summoning all the women of the area to the water's edge. It was a time of great hope and great disappointment. Thousands of women lined up, eager to try on the slipper.
Noble daughters in fine linen, priestesses from the temples, and wealthy merchants' wives all tried their best to fit their feet into the shoe. But the slipper was magic in its own way, not because of a spell, but because of its perfect, delicate shape. It would not fit feet that were wide from luxury, nor would it stretch for feet that were swollen from pride.
Some women tried to squeeze their toes inside, crying out in pain. Others tried to force their heels, but the soft leather remained firm, refusing to yield to any foot but its true owner. Eventually, after many weeks, the royal barge sailed into the northern Delta, arriving at the Greek city of Naucratis.
It pulled up to the stone docks near the estate of the old master, Charaxos. The sound of the bronze horn echoed through the jasmine scented gardens, and the household erupted into chaos.
The servant girls, who had returned from the festival of Memphis with stories of the Pharaoh's decree, could not believe their eyes. The royal barge was here. "It is our turn," Meret cried, her heart pounding with excitement. "Maybe one of us is destined to be queen." They ran down to the river bank, pushing and shoving each other to get to the front of the line.
Even the old master, Charaxos, hobbled down to the water, curious to see the Pharaoh's herald. Rhodopis, however, did not join the crowd. When she heard the horn and saw the purple sails of the barge, a great fear seized her. She was a servant, a foreigner. If she stepped forward, would they accuse her of stealing?
Would they laugh at her for even dreaming that she could be the one the Pharaoh sought? She slipped away, hiding herself deep within the thick papyrus reeds near her washing spot. She crouched low, holding her breath, watching the scene from the shadows. On the river bank, the herald stepped off the barge. He sat upon a folding stool of ebony and ivory, holding the rose red slipper.
One by one, the servant girls of Charaxos's estate stepped forward. Meret was first. She sat down, her face flushed with hope, and tried to slide her foot into the slipper. But her foot was wide and strong from years of carrying water jars. She pushed and shoved until her face turned as red as the shoe, but her toes would not go past the opening.
"It is too small," she complained, biting her lip. "The shoe must have shrunk in the sun."
The other girls tried, but with no better luck. One by one, they stepped back, sighing in disappointment, their dreams of royalty vanishing like mist over the river. The herald sighed, looking at his scroll. "Are there no other women in this household?" he asked, his voice tired from weeks of searching.
The head overseer bowed low. "No, my lord, you have seen them all. There are none left." But just then, the great hippopotamus in the river let out a loud, thunderous snort. He splashed his great tail in the water, sending a wave of spray crashing into the papyrus reeds. The splash startled Rhodopis, and she let out a small cry, stepping back.
The dry stalks of the papyrus rustled loudly. The herald's sharp eyes darted toward the sound. "Who is there?" he commanded. "Bring her forward." The overseer frowned. "Oh, that is nobody, my lord. Just a ghost girl, a foreign servant. She does not count. She only washes the linen."
"The Pharaoh's decree says every woman," the herald replied sternly. "Bring her out." Two royal guards stepped into the reeds and gently guided Rhodopis out into the sunlight. She stood before the herald, her head bowed, her golden red curls falling over her face. She was wearing her dusty, faded work shift, and her arms were wet from the river.
The other servant girls began to whisper and snicker. "Look at her," Meret whispered. "She thinks she can be a queen in those rags. How embarrassing."
The herald looked at Rhodopis. He did not see her rags. He saw the quiet dignity in her posture, the grace with which she stood, and the unusual green of her eyes. "Sit, maiden," the herald said gently, pointing to the stool. Rhodopis sat. She reached down and took off her rough papyrus sandal, revealing her slender, pale foot.
The herald knelt before her. He took the rose red slipper from its velvet cushion and held it to her foot. There was no need to push. There was no need to squeeze. The slipper slid onto her foot as smoothly as water flowing into a cup. It fit perfectly, hugging her heel and her toes as if it had been created for her and her alone.
The courtyard fell into a dead, shocked silence. The other servant girls gasped, their eyes wide with utter disbelief. But Rhodopis was not finished. Slowly, she reached into the folds of her faded tunic. She pulled out a small parcel of clean linen, untied it, and revealed the second rose red slipper.
She slipped it onto her other foot. She stood up. There she was, a servant girl in a ragged shift, but on her feet were the twin slippers of rose red and gold, catching the brilliant light of the Egyptian sun. She looked like a queen who had temporarily misplaced her crown. The herald fell to his knees, bowing low.
"The search is ended," he declared, his voice filled with awe. "The gods have spoken. We have found the queen of Egypt."
Rhodopis was led onto the royal barge. She was no longer a servant, no longer the ghost girl of the household. The royal attendants wrapped her in robes of the finest white linen, spun so thin, it looked like mist, and adorned her neck with collars of gold, lapis lazuli, and turquoise. As the barge pulled away from the river bank, the other servant girls stood at the water's edge, watching her go.
They did not mock her now. They looked at her with a mixture of awe and regret, realizing too late that the girl they had teased was the very one the heavens had chosen to honor. Rhodopis did not look at them with anger. As the boat slid into the current, she waved to them. And then she turned her face to the south, toward her new life.
When the barge arrived in Memphis, the Pharaoh Amasis was waiting on the palace steps. When he saw Rhodopis stepping off the boat, wearing the rose red slippers and carrying herself with a quiet, gentle grace, his heart leaped. He did not see a stranger. He saw the answer to his prayers. He saw a woman who had known hardship, but had not let it make her bitter.
A woman whose beauty came from deep within. They were married in a grand ceremony that lasted for seven days and seven nights. The people of Egypt rejoiced, for they loved their new queen, who was known throughout the land for her kindness, her wisdom, and her love for the simple things of the earth.
Rhodopis never forgot her time by the river. Even as queen, she would often walk in the palace gardens, speaking to the birds and watching the river flow, always keeping a warm place in her heart for the creatures that had been her friends when she had no others. And so, the story of Rhodopis became a legend, carried by the winds of time from the banks of the Nile, across the Mediterranean Sea, and down through the centuries, changing shape and form until it became the fairy tale we know today.
But as we leave Rhodopis on her golden throne, let us think about how her journey began. She did not have a fairy godmother to change her rags into a gown, nor a magic spell to protect her. She had only her own nature, her kindness to the creatures of the river, her quiet dignity in the face of unkindness, and her love for the simple joy of dancing.
It makes one wonder about the nature of our own lives. When the falcon of fortune swoops down into our world, what is it that it sees? Is it just a matter of luck that the bird chose her slipper? Was it merely a happy accident of size and shape that made the shoe fit? Or is there something deep within a person, a quiet light, a gentle strength, a willingness to keep dancing even in the dark, that fortune finally notices and brings into the light?
That is a question to keep with you as you close your eyes tonight and let your dreams carry you along the ancient, winding waters of the Nile.