Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  His father was never far from his mind.

  Perhaps they would not meet again and he would have to make do with his memories and the image of a peerless pharaoh. After Seti had released the bull, he let his son take charge of the chariot, then after a few seconds yanked the reins away without a word. Ramses had not dared question him. Spending time with Seti, no matter how briefly, was a privilege.

  Becoming pharaoh? The question seemed pointless now. He had let his imagination run away with him, as usual.

  Still, Seti had made him face the bull, an ancient rite of passage now fallen into disuse. And Seti did not take such things lightly.

  Instead of giving in to idle conjecture, Ramses had decided to fill the gaps in his knowledge and try to emulate Ahmeni. No matter what work he did in the future, it would require more than courage and spirit. Each pharaoh, including Seti, had first been trained as a scribe.

  Pharaoh! He could not get the thought out of his mind, no matter how he tried.

  Sary informed him that his name was hardly mentioned in court circles, even negatively. He was beneath notice now that rumor had him headed for a plush exile in some provincial capital.

  Ramses made no comment. He steered the subject back toward the sacred triangle used for temple walls or the correct proportions for a building based on the law of Ma’at, the frail and marvelous goddess of harmony and truth.

  The boy who loved to ride, swim, and fight forgot about the world outside as a delighted Sary molded him into a scholar. In a few more years this former truant would make a learned professor! Ramses’ crime and his punishment had finally set him straight.

  On the final evening of his house arrest, the prince and Sary dined on the schoolhouse roof. Seated on reed mats, they drank cool beer, ate dried fish and spicy beans.

  “Ramses, congratulations. You’ve made remarkable progress.”

  “Yes, but do I have a job?”

  The tutor shifted uneasily.

  “Well . . . you’ve worked like a demon. You need to give your mind a rest.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “How can I put it? You have your position as a member of the royal family.”

  “Can’t I also have a post with the government?”

  Sary avoided the prince’s eyes.

  “For the moment, no.”

  “Who says so this time?”

  “Your father, King Seti.”

  FIVE

  A promise is a promise,” said Setau.

  “Is it really you?”

  Setau looked different. Unshaven, without a wig, dressed in an antelope-skin tunic covered with pockets, he bore little resemblance to a top university graduate. He had almost been turned away from the palace before one of the guards finally recognized him.

  “What’s happened to you?”

  “I’m doing my job and I’m keeping my word.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see . . . unless you’re too scared. You can always back out of your promise, you know.”

  Ramses’ eyes blazed. “Let’s go.”

  Perched on donkeys, they made their way through the city, rode south along a canal, then branched out into the desert, headed toward an old burial ground. It was Ramses’ first trip outside the lush valley and into this disturbing world where the laws of man held no sway.

  “Tonight’s the full moon!” said Setau, his eyes dancing eagerly. “All the snakes will come out.”

  The donkeys were following a path the prince would never have been able to pick out. At a steady, surefooted pace, they headed deep into the deserted cemetery.

  They had left behind the blue Nile, the green fields; here, as far as the eye could see, stretched sand, silence, and wind. Ramses felt in his bones why in the temple priests called the desert “Set’s red land.” Set, the god of thunder and cosmic fire, had burnt this desolate soil, but had also cleansed the human race of time and corruption. He had inspired the eternal dwelling places where mummies never decomposed.

  Ramses took a breath of the bracing air. Pharaoh was the master of this red land just as he ruled the rich black earth that gave Egypt so much food. He must know the desert’s secrets, use its strength, channel its power.

  “We can still turn back, if you want to,” Setau told him.

  “Let’s hope that night comes soon,” said Ramses.

  A snake with a reddish back and yellow belly darted past Ramses and slithered between two rocks.

  “Harmless,” Setau said. “Hundreds of them live around deserted tombs. In the daytime, they sleep inside. Follow me.”

  The young friends went down a steep slope with a ruined monument at the bottom. Ramses hung back.

  “No mummies in here; it’s cool and dry inside, you’ll see. Nothing to be afraid of.” Setau lit an oil lamp.

  Ramses found himself in a sort of grotto with rough-hewn walls and ceiling; perhaps the tomb had never been occupied. The snake charmer had brought in several low tables where he had arranged a whetstone, bronze razor, wooden comb, gourd, writing boards, scribe’s kit, and pot after pot of creams and unguents. Jars held ingredients used in remedies: asphalt, brass filings, lead oxide, red ocher, alum, clay, and a variety of dried plants, including bryony, white sweet clover, castor oil, valerian.

  In the gathering dusk, the sun turned orange. The desert was a sea of gold rippling with veils of sand that skipped from dune to dune.

  “Take off your clothes,” Setau demanded. When the prince had stripped, his friend coated him with a thick puree of onions and water. “Snakes can’t stand the smell,” he explained. “By the way, did you mention where you’re going to be working?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “A prince without a job? Must be another favor from Sary.”

  “No, an order from my father.”

  “So he wasn’t impressed with the way you handled that bull.”

  Ramses had tried to deny the obvious, although it would explain why he was being shunted aside.

  “Forget the court. It’s all political deals and back-stabbing. Come out here and work with me. Snakes can be dangerous, but at least they never lie.”

  Ramses was shaken. Why hadn’t his father told him the truth? It had all been a sham, leaving him without another chance to prove himself.

  “Now for the real test, Ramses. To be immune to snakebite, you have to drink an antidote made from nettle tubers. It’s dangerous—slows the circulation, sometimes even shuts it down. If you vomit, you’re dead. I wouldn’t try this on Ahmeni, but you should be strong enough to handle it. Then most snakes’ venom won’t do a thing to you.”

  “Most? You mean not all?”

  “The biggest species require a daily injection of a small amount of cobra blood. If you turn professional, you’ll have to try it. Here, drink this.”

  The taste was horrible. His blood ran cold and he wanted to gag.

  “Hold on now.”

  He had to get rid of the pain in his stomach, get rid of it, lie down and sleep . . . Setau was gripping his wrist. “Don’t give in, open your eyes!”

  Ramses fought the feeling. Setau had never bested him in a wrestling match. His stomach calmed, the cold sensation abated.

  “You’re strong all right, but you’ll never be a king.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you trusted me. I could have poisoned you.”

  “You’re my friend.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “I only trust snakes. They never betray their nature. With men, it’s different. They spend their lives cheating and trying to get away with it.”

  “And you?”

  “I chose the desert.”

  “If I’d really been in danger, you would have saved me.”

  “Put on your tunic and let’s get going. You’re not as stupid as you seem.”

  Night in the desert was a feast, so full of wonders that not even the sinister laughter of hyenas
, the howling of jackals, or the thousand and one eerie sounds could trouble Ramses. Set’s red land was full of ghostly voices. The valley had its own enchantments, but here he sensed the power of the other world.

  True power . . . maybe it did lie deep in the haunted solitude of Setau’s desert home.

  Around them, soft hissing. Setau was in the lead, striking the ground with a long staff. He walked toward a heap of stones the bright moonlight transformed into a spirit fortress. Following his guide, Ramses had no sense of danger; besides, he had the little pouches of first-aid remedies that Setau had strung on his belt.

  He stopped at the foot of the stone heap.

  “My master lives here,” Setau revealed. “He may not come out; he’s afraid of strangers. Let’s wait awhile and pray.”

  The young men sat cross-legged. The prince felt light, almost airborne, inhaling the sweet desert darkness. The star-studded night was his classroom now.

  A lithe and elegant outline appeared in the center of the stone heap. A gleaming black cobra, almost as long as a man, came out of its lair and reared majestically, wreathed in a silvery aura of moonlight. Its head shook rhythmically, ready to strike.

  Setau stepped forward. The black cobra hissed. The snake charmer motioned Ramses to move closer.

  Intrigued, the reptile swayed from side to side. Which intruder to strike first?

  Taking two steps forward, Setau was only a few feet from the cobra. Ramses followed.

  “You are the master of the night. You make the earth bear fruit,” Setau intoned slowly, enunciating each syllable. He repeated the chant at least ten times, urging Ramses to do the same. The melodic words seemed to calm the snake. Twice it reared up to strike but stopped short of Setau’s face. When he put his hand on the snake’s head, it froze. Ramses thought he could see the eyes glint red.

  “Your turn, Prince.”

  He reached out. The cobra struck.

  Ramses felt the touch of the fangs. Repelled by the onion mixture, the snake did not bite down.

  “Put your hand on his head.”

  He held it there without flinching. The cobra seemed to back down. His outstretched fingers touched the black snake’s hood. For a few moments, the master of the night submitted to the king’s son.

  Setau pulled Ramses backward. The cobra’s strike faded in the distance.

  “You should have ended it sooner, friend. Don’t forget that the forces of darkness are never vanquished. You’ve seen the uraeus on Pharaoh’s crown, the sign of the cobra protecting Egypt. If the snake had struck again, then where would we be?”

  Ramses let out a long breath and gazed at the stars.

  “You may be careless, but at least you’re lucky,” Setau told him. “There’s no antidote for a cobra bite.”

  SIX

  Ramses scrambled up on the fragile raft of lashed papyrus sheaves. It would never last the whole slate of ten swimming races he had organized. His name had attracted a small battalion of challengers, all the more eager to beat him since a bevy of Memphis beauties cheered from the canal banks. For luck, the contestants wore amulets around their necks: a frog, an ox leg, a magic eye. Ramses, naked, wore no talisman, yet he outswam them all.

  Most of the swimmers showed off for one woman or another. Seti’s younger son competed only for himself, to prove he could still reach beyond the limit of his strength and be first to tag the opposite bank.

  Ramses finished five lengths in front of his nearest competitor and wasn’t even out of breath. Smoldering, the other swimmers murmured congratulations. They watched their step around the prince. Life was not easy for a second son, soon to be packed off to a token post in the south.

  A pretty brunette, around his own age and already voluptuous, approached to offer him a strip of cloth.

  “The wind is cool. Use this to dry yourself.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Inviting green eyes lit her oval face, with a small, straight nose and curving lips. Graceful, lively, and poised, she wore an expression of mischief along with a filmy linen dress of the finest quality. In her headband, a lotus flower.

  “You ought to. No matter how strong you are, it’s easy to catch cold.”

  “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

  “My name is Iset,” she continued. “I’m having a few friends over tonight. Would you care to join us?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, the invitation’s open.” Smiling, she walked away without a backward glance.

  Sary dozed beneath the tall sycamore shading his garden. Ramses paced in front of his sister, Dolora, who was stretched out on a lounge chair. She was a plain woman interested only in her own comfort and well-being. Her husband’s prospects would guarantee her a life of ease, free from everyday concerns. Tall and ungainly, perpetually exhausted, endlessly pampering her bad complexion, Ramses’ sister prided herself on knowing all there was to know about life at court.

  “You really should stop by more often, my dear.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Oh? That’s not what I heard.”

  “Ask your husband.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t come here just for the pleasure of seeing me . . .”

  “No. I need some advice.”

  Dolora was delighted, knowing how Ramses hated to ask for help.

  “Ask away. I’ll answer if it’s within my power.”

  “Do you know a girl named Iset?”

  “Describe her.”

  Ramses complied.

  “Iset the Fair!” His sister frowned. “Quite the temptress. Only fifteen, and already beating admirers away from her door. The most beautiful woman in Memphis, some people claim.”

  “Her parents?”

  “Rich and socially prominent, with palace connections that go back generations. So you’re Iset’s latest catch?”

  “She’s asked me to a party.”

  “Join the crowd. Every night is a party for Iset. Are you going?”

  “She has some nerve.”

  “Because she took the initiative? Don’t be so old-fashioned, little brother. Iset the Fair finds you to her liking, it’s as simple as that.”

  “A young unmarried woman shouldn’t—”

  “Why not? We’re in Egypt; we don’t have to live like backward barbarians. I wouldn’t recommend Iset as a wife, but—”

  “Be quiet, Dolora.”

  “Don’t you want to hear more about her?”

  “Thank you, dear sister. I’ve had quite enough of your expert advice.”

  “Just one more thing. It’s time you got out of Memphis.”

  “Why the warning?”

  “You no longer count here. Stay much longer and you’ll wither on the vine. In the provinces, though, they’ll respect you. But don’t plan on taking Iset the Fair along for company; she doesn’t like underdogs. I’ve been told that our brother, the future pharaoh, finds her quite attractive. Get away from her as fast as you can, and stay away, unless you plan to die young.”

  It was no ordinary gathering. Several well-bred young ladies were giving a dance recital. Their wealthy parents had underwritten years of professional lessons. Ramses had come late, not wanting to dine, and now, without wishing it, he found himself in the front row of the sizable audience.

  The twelve dancers had chosen a vast lotus pond as their torchlit backdrop. Wearing pearl-studded netting beneath short tunics, triple-braided wigs, strands of beads and lapis lazuli bracelets, the young women swayed suggestively. Supple and moving in unison to a delectably languid beat, they bent to embrace invisible partners. No one in the audience moved a muscle.

  Suddenly, the dancers discarded their wigs, tunics, and netting. Hair in a strict chignon, bare-breasted, clad in a wisp of kilt, they each tapped their right foot, then executed a breathtaking back flip, perfectly timed. Arching and bowing gracefully, they performed more acrobatic feats, all equally spectacular.

  Four young women came
forward, as the others sang and clapped to the beat. To the timeless melody, the soloists depicted the four winds. Iset the Fair was the north wind, bringing sweet relief to torrid summer nights. She outshone her partners, obviously satisfied to be the center of attention.

  Ramses could not take his eyes off her. Yes, she was magnificent, the most beautiful woman there. She played her body like an instrument, moving with a sort of detachment, as if watching herself, unashamedly. For the first time, Ramses wanted to take a woman in his arms.

  As soon as the recital was over, he made his way through the crowd to the back of the garden and sat near the donkey pen.

  Iset the Fair was toying with him, intending all along to marry his brother. She was only tempting him with what he would never have. For all his dreams of grandeur, he was sinking lower and lower. He must stop the downward spiral, sweep his demons out of the way. The provinces? Fine. He would find some way, any way, to prove his worth. If he failed, he could always work with Setau, handling the most dangerous snakes.

  “Is something troubling you?” Iset the Fair had approached without a sound and now stood smiling at him.

  “Just thinking.”

  “You must think deep thoughts. All the guests have left; my parents and the servants have retired for the night.”

  Ramses had lost track of time. Flustered, he rose. “Please forgive me. I’ll leave at once.”

  “No need,” said Iset. “You add something to the garden.”

  Her hair loose, her breasts still exposed, her green eyes filling him with a disturbing warmth, she blocked his exit.

  “Aren’t you engaged to my brother?”

  “Do princes believe everything they hear? I plan to choose for myself, and it won’t be your brother. It’s you I want, here and now.”

  “I’m not sure I qualify as a prince.”

  “Make love to me.”

  Together, they unfastened their flimsy garments.