Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

“I worship beauty, Ramses, and you are beauty itself.”

  His hands caressed her all over, taking command. He wanted to give, to take nothing, to warm this young woman with the fire that consumed him. Iset was more than willing. Instinctively, with a sureness that amazed him, Ramses found every hiding place of her pleasure, lingering tenderly despite his growing urgency.

  She was a virgin. So was he. They gave themselves to each other like a gift, their wild desire rekindling all through the balmy night.

  SEVEN

  Watcher was hungry. He licked his sleeping master’s face insistently: rise and shine!

  Ramses sat bolt upright, still in a dream where he lay with a woman, a passionate woman with breasts like delicious apples, lips like reed candy, legs wrapped around him like climbing vines.

  But it was no dream! There was a such a woman—her name was Iset the Fair. They had lain together and learned the meaning of pleasure.

  The dog couldn’t wait for the prince’s head to clear. He yipped and whimpered until Ramses finally got the message and walked him to the palace kitchens. After Watcher cleaned his dish, they went out for a walk.

  The royal stables were kept immaculately clean. The magnificent horses housed there were cared for and trained expertly. Watcher didn’t trust these oversized, unpredictable quadrupeds; he trotted warily at his master’s heels.

  They met a gang of grooms harassing a stable boy who struggled under a basketload of manure. One of them tripped the scapegoat, sending the boy, the basket, and its contents tumbling.

  “Clean it up,” ordered the perpetrator, a thick-faced fellow of fifty.

  The wretched boy turned around and Ramses gasped, “Ahmeni!”

  The prince jumped forward, shoved the groom aside, and helped his quivering friend to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Shaken, his former classmate could only stammer incomprehensibly. A rough hand grasped Ramses’ shoulder.

  “Hey! What makes you think you can mess with us?”

  Elbowing the man’s chest, Ramses sent him sprawling. Furious at losing face, grimacing, the groom rallied his gang.

  “Let’s teach these insolent boys some manners!”

  The yellow dog growled and bared his teeth.

  “Run,” Ramses ordered his friend. Ahmeni sat frozen.

  Six against one: Ramses knew the odds were against him, but as long as the grooms thought he didn’t have a chance, there was a very slight possibility he could fight his way out of this predicament. The biggest one rushed him. Ramses ducked his punch, and before the groom knew what was happening, he was flat on his back. Two more of the assailants also went down with a thud.

  Ramses was glad he had worked so hard with the palace trainers. These men were completely lacking in tactics, relying on brute strength to give them a quick win. Watcher fought alongside his master, nipping at the fourth groom’s ankles, then darting out of his way. Ahmeni’s eyes were closed, tears streaming down his face.

  The grooms regrouped, less confident. Only a nobleman would know such professional moves.

  “Who are you?” the leader demanded sullenly.

  “Why, are you scared, with six against one?” the prince countered.

  The groom flashed a knife at him, snickering.

  “An accident could spoil that pretty face.”

  Ramses had never fought an armed opponent.

  “An accident with witnesses . . . even your little buddy would back us up, to save his hide.”

  The prince kept his eyes glued to the short-bladed knife as the groom traced threatening circles, toying with his victim. Ramses stood still, letting the man dance around him. The dog danced, too.

  “Down, boy.”

  “You love that disgusting beast? A dog that ugly doesn’t deserve to live.”

  “Pick on someone your own size.”

  “Meaning you? You’re dreaming.”

  The blade brushed Ramses’ cheek. He tried to kick the knife out of the groom’s hand, but only managed to swipe his wrist.

  “So, you’re tough. But you’re all alone.” The other grooms pulled out their knives.

  Ramses felt no fear. These bullies had stirred an untapped strength in him, a rage against injustice and cowardice.

  Before the grooms had time to orchestrate their attack, he knocked two of them down, narrowly missing the avenging blades.

  “Stop, men!” cried one of the pack.

  A sedan chair had just come into sight beneath the stable porch. Such a splendid vehicle could be carrying only an important personage, and indeed, snug against the tall backrest, feet on a footrest, forearms on armrests, head in the shade of a parasol, sat a man of twenty, pressing a scented cloth to his forehead. He had a round, almost moon-shaped face, pudgy cheeks, small brown eyes, and thick greedy lips. Overfed, out of shape, the young lord made a heavy burden for his twelve highly paid professional bearers.

  The grooms scattered. Ramses turned toward the sedan chair, while his dog licked Ahmeni’s leg comfortingly.

  “Ramses! In the stables again . . . but then animals are the best company for you.”

  “And what brings you here, Shaanar, if you find it so distasteful?”

  “Inspecting the premises, at Pharaoh’s request. A future ruler needs detailed knowledge of his domain.”

  “Thank heaven you came.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s a matter that needs your attention.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ahmeni, one of the palace scribes, was dragged out here and bullied by six grooms.”

  Shaanar smiled. “Poor Ramses, you never know what’s happening! Hasn’t your friend explained that he works here now?”

  Dumbstruck, the prince turned toward Ahmeni.

  “As an entry-level scribe, he found a mistake in a superior’s text, then went over his head to correct it. When the senior scribe brought a complaint, I decided that an apprenticeship in the stables might be just the thing for this little snip. Hauling manure and fodder will shape him up in no time.”

  “He doesn’t have the strength for it.”

  Shaanar ordered his chair lowered to the ground. His sandal-bearer, the chief body servant, instantly produced a stepladder, slipped sandals on his master’s feet, and helped him down.

  “Let’s take a walk. I need to speak to you in private.” Ramses left his watchdog with Ahmeni.

  The two brothers paced the roofed walkway of a paved inner courtyard. Shaanar hated exposing his fair complexion to the sun.

  How could two men be less alike? Shaanar was short, squat, fleshy, already resembling a dignitary who had spent a little too long on the banquet circuit. Ramses was tall, lithe, and muscular, glowing with youthful energy. The older brother’s voice trilled and gushed, while the younger’s was low and clear. They had nothing in common except for being Pharaoh’s sons.

  “Reinstate Ahmeni,” Ramses demanded.

  “Forget your little friend. We have more urgent matters to discuss. As I understand it, you were supposed to leave town.”

  “No one told me that.”

  “Consider yourself told.”

  “Since when do you give me orders?”

  “You must be forgetting who’s next in line to the throne.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Ramses. Save your energy for wrestling. One day my father and I may find you an active command in the army; defending your country’s interests is a worthy cause. But Memphis is no place for someone like you.”

  “I was just beginning to like it.”

  “If I have to go to our father, I will. You’re only making it harder on yourself. Why not go quietly? I can have everything ready in two or three weeks.”

  “Where does that leave Ahmeni?”

  “I told you to forget the little snitch. Don’t make me say it again! Oh yes—one last thing: leave Iset the Fair alone. She won’t settle for second best.”

  EIGH
T

  Queen Tuya’s day had been trying. With her husband off on an inspection tour of the northeastern border’s defenses, she had granted audiences to the vizier, the exchequer, two provincial leaders, and a scribe from the royal archives. So many pressing problems to attend to, and each deserved her attention.

  Seti was increasingly concerned about disturbances the Hittites were stirring up in some of his Asian and Syro-Palestinian territories. Usually the local rulers simply needed to air their grievances, and a state visit from Pharaoh was enough to smooth ruffled feathers.

  Tuya, the daughter of a charioteer, had neither royal lineage nor noble ancestry, yet her qualities were such that she quickly won the devotion of court and country. Naturally elegant, she had a lofty bearing that enhanced a slender figure, a face with huge almond eyes, intent and piercing, and a thin, straight nose. Like her spouse, she commanded respect and did not tolerate overfamiliarity. Her mission was to maintain and increase the influence of the Egyptian court. Carrying out her duties was crucial to the country’s stature and the people’s welfare.

  At the thought of her next interview, the queen’s fatigue vanished. Ramses, her favorite son, was coming to lunch with her. Although she had chosen the palace pleasure garden as their setting, she still wore her long, gold-hemmed linen robes, a short pleated cape, a necklace with six strands of amethysts, a wig with neatly spaced twists of hair. How she loved to stroll beneath the acacias, willows, and pomegranate trees, along the borders of cornflowers, daisies, and larkspur! There was no more heavenly creation than a garden, where every plant, in every season, sang glory to God. Morning and evening, before she turned to her royal duties, Tuya allowed herself a few minutes in this earthly paradise.

  When Ramses arrived at her side, the queen was astonished. In just a few months, he had grown strikingly handsome. He gave an impression of power. A hint of the adolescent remained, of course, but the carefree child was gone.

  Ramses bowed to his mother.

  “Is a kiss against protocol?”

  He clasped her briefly, amazed at how fragile she seemed.

  “Remember the sycamore you planted when you were three? Come see how it’s flourished.”

  Within moments Tuya realized that the muted anger she felt in her son would not be easily soothed. He was a stranger to this garden, where he had spent countless hours tending the trees.

  “The last few months have been hard for you,” she said.

  “Do you mean my house arrest, or have you heard how I didn’t rope the bull? But none of that matters, really. What bothers me is losing the fight for justice.”

  “You have an official complaint to make, then?”

  “My friend Ahmeni has been falsely accused of insubordination. My brother had him fired as a palace scribe and sentenced to menial labor in the stables. He’s not strong enough for the work. It’s going to kill him.”

  “That’s a serious accusation. You know I won’t deal with unsubstantiated rumors.”

  “Ahmeni wouldn’t lie to me. There’s no one more truthful. Does he have to die because he’s my friend and Shaanar couldn’t make him grovel?”

  “Do you hate your brother?”

  “I don’t even know him.”

  “Do you know he’s afraid of you?”

  “Then how did he have the gall to tell me I have to leave Memphis?”

  “He must not be happy to hear you and Iset are lovers.”

  Ramses stammered, “You already heard?”

  “It’s my job to keep track of you.”

  “Don’t I get any privacy?”

  “In the first place, you’re Pharaoh’s son. And then, Iset may be fair, but she’s not discreet.”

  “Why would she brag about choosing not to be queen?”

  “Probably because she believes in you.”

  “It’s just an affair. My brother can never have her first now.”

  “Is it that simple, Ramses, or do you love the girl?”

  The young man hesitated. “Physically, yes. I want to keep seeing her, but . . .”

  “Are you thinking of marriage?”

  “Marriage!”

  “It’s only natural, my son.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Iset the Fair is a very determined young woman. Now that she’s chosen you, she won’t let go easily.”

  “Wouldn’t Shaanar make a better match for her?”

  “You don’t seem to think so.”

  “Maybe she plans to compare us.”

  “You must think women are ruthless.”

  “After what happened to Ahmeni, how can I trust anyone?”

  “Not even me?”

  Ramses took his mother’s right hand. “I know you will never betray me.”

  “As for your friend, I can think of one solution.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Become a royal scribe. Then you can appoint your own secretary.”

  Ramses could not help but admire Ahmeni’s obstinate refusal to crumble under the physical strain of his punishment. The grooms knew who Ramses was now, and fearing further reprisals they left Ahmeni in peace. One of them even stopped heaping his baskets so full and lent him a hand now and then. Still, Ahmeni grew weaker by the day.

  Royal scribes were chosen by means of a competitive examination, and Ramses had not had time to prepare for it. The test was administered in a courtyard outside the vizier’s offices. Carpenters had been called in to erect wooden posts and drape them with cloth as sunshades.

  Ramses was given no special consideration. Requesting it would be in violation of the law of Ma’at. Ahmeni should have been the one to take the exam. Ahmeni would be better qualified for the job. Still, the prince had to fight for his friend in the only way he knew how.

  An old scribe, leaning on a staff, harangued the fifty young men assembled to compete for the two vacant posts in the kingdom.

  “Gentlemen,” he rumbled, “you’ve had years of school. You want government office. You crave the power attached to it. But has anyone told you what that office entails? You must wear clean linen and spotless sandals. Keep your eyes on your papyrus and your nose to the grindstone. You must steady your hand and curb your tongue. When your head aches from studying, study some more! Obey your superiors and strive to improve in all ways. If you wish to serve mankind, do not shrink from discipline. A monkey can follow commands, a lion can learn to do tricks, but a lazy young scribe is hopeless. The only cure is the rod!” he said with a flourish. “Have at it, gentlemen!”

  Each candidate was given a sycamore palette, thinly coated with plaster. A cavity in the center held the sharpened reeds serving as their pens. They moistened the two cakes of ink, one black, one red. Then every man invoked the great sage Imhotep, patron of scribes, spilling a few drops of ink in his memory.

  For several hours, they had to copy inscriptions, answer grammar and vocabulary questions, solve mathematics and geometry problems, compose a sample letter, and copy out the classics. Several gave up altogether, others lost their concentration. Then came the ultimate test, in the form of riddles.

  The fourth and final one had Ramses stumped. “How does the scribe transform death into life?” That was beyond the wisest scholar! His mind was blank. Missing this one, on top of potential lost points for minor errors, would eliminate him. He thought and thought, but saw no solution.

  He might not become a royal scribe, but he would not stop trying to save Ahmeni. They could go deep in the desert with Setau and his snakes. The constant threat of death was preferable to a life without freedom.

  Out in the courtyard, a baboon scurried down a palm tree and under the awnings, leaping onto Ramses’ shoulders before the proctors had time to intervene. The prince sat quietly as the baboon seemed to whisper a few words in his ear, then disappeared the same way it had come.

  For a few brief seconds, the prince and the sacred animal of the god Thoth, creator of hieroglyphs, had merged into a single being. The human hand was guided by the a
nimal spirit.

  Ramses read the answer he had been given. “The scribe uses his scraper to remove the plaster covered with writing from the palette. A new coat is then applied. Thus, he brings the dead palette back to life, ready to be used again, like new.”

  Ahmeni was so exhausted he could no longer lift a basket. His bones felt ready to break, his neck and shoulders stiffer than a plank. They could beat him if they liked, but he wouldn’t move. It was such a waste. He dimly remembered the prospect of a wonderful future: reading, writing, copying hieroglyphs, following the teachings of the sages, preserving time-honored texts . . . One last time, he tried to hoist his load.

  A strong hand lifted the burden from him.

  “Ramses!”

  “I’d like your opinion of this writing kit.”

  The prince showed his friend a gilded palette carved like a column. Its capital was a lily, the cone-shaped top to be used for buffing inscriptions.

  “Magnificent!”

  “It’s yours, if you can read me the text.”

  “‘May Thoth’s baboon protect the royal scribe, ’” he rattled off. “That’s for beginners!”

  “Then I, Ramses, in my official capacity as royal scribe, hereby engage you, Ahmeni, as my private secretary.”

  NINE

  The reed hut at the far edge of a wheat field, deserted at night, was a perfect hideaway for Iset the Fair and Ramses, with Watcher to stand guard.

  Their young bodies were perfectly in tune. Playful, passionate, tireless, they found hour after hour of pleasure without exchanging a word.

  Tonight, blissfully drowsy, Iset the Fair was humming, head on her lover’s chest.

  “I don’t know why you’re still with me,” Ramses said.

  “Because you’re a royal scribe now.”

  “You could do better.”

  “Better than my prince?” she laughed.

  “You could have the crown prince.”

  Iset made a face.

  “Yes, I’ve considered it . . . but he doesn’t appeal to me. Too fat, too dull, too underhanded. I couldn’t bear to let him touch me. So I decided to love you.”