Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  “Decided?”

  “Some souls are made to give love, some to take it. I’ll never belong to a man. Not even a king can own me. I’ve chosen you, Ramses, and you will choose me. We’re two of a kind.”

  Senses still reeling from his sleepless night with Iset the Fair, Ramses was taking the back way to his scribe’s residence when Ahmeni bustled out of an office and over the iris beds to intercept him.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m tired, Ahmeni, can’t it wait?”

  “No, it’s too important.”

  “Then at least get me something to drink.”

  “Milk, freshly baked bread, dates, and honey—the royal breakfast is served. But first you should know that the royal scribe, along with his personal assistant, is kindly requested to attend a reception at the palace tonight.”

  “You mean . . . at my father’s?”

  “The one and only.”

  “An invitation from Pharaoh! Or is this another one of your pranks, Ahmeni?”

  “Relaying important news is one of your assistant’s duties.”

  “A royal reception . . .”

  Ramses longed to meet his father again; as a royal scribe, he would not be allotted much time. What would he say? Should he protest, demand explanations, question the Pharaoh’s treatment, ask what was expected of the younger son, what plans Seti might have for him? Each word would have to be weighed.

  “One more thing,” Ahmeni said, frowning.

  “Go ahead.”

  “A shipment of ink cakes came in yesterday, and I found two that were unacceptable, even though they had the seal of quality. I always feel I should check all our new supplies. Now I know I should. It’s inexcusable. I’m calling for an investigation in your name.”

  “Aren’t you blowing this out of proportion?”

  “A royal scribe sets the national standard.”

  “As you see fit, Ahmeni. Now can I get some sleep?”

  Sary was paying a courtesy call on his former pupil. Granted, Ramses had no further need of a tutor. Admittedly, Sary had played no part in coaching the prince to first place in the highly competitive royal scribe examination. Nevertheless, the prince’s coup reflected favorably on his teacher. As the newly appointed director of the Kap, he was set for life.

  “I must admit you amazed me, Ramses, but don’t let it go to your head. You righted a wrong and rescued Ahmeni; isn’t that enough?”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You asked me once to advise you behind the scenes, help you tell your friends from your enemies. The only true friend I see is Ahmeni. Others resent your success, but that won’t hurt you, provided you get out of Memphis and settle in the south.”

  “You sound like my brother.”

  Sary was momentarily nonplussed. “Don’t read too much into things, Ramses. But stay away from the palace. This reception is not for you.”

  “I am a royal scribe, am I not?”

  “Believe me, your presence there will be neither welcome nor wise.”

  “And if I choose to attend?”

  “You’ll still be a royal scribe . . . but without a posting. Don’t cross Shaanar. If you do, you’re your own worst enemy.”

  Sixteen hundred sacks of wheat and as many of other grains had been brought to the royal palace. Thousands of fancy cakes and rolls would be baked; sweet beer and oasis-grown wine would flow. Thanks to the Pharaoh’s efficient stewards, by the time the first star appeared in the night sky, the guests at the reception would enjoy the best the palace had to offer.

  Ramses was among the first to arrive at the monumental gates to the palace complex, flanked night and day by the Pharaoh’s private guard. The sentries knew Seti’s younger son by sight, yet still checked his credentials before allowing him entry to the vast, almost forested, garden. An artificial lake reflected the ancient acacias. Here and there were tables laden with baskets of bread and sweets, stands with floral arrangements. Cup-bearers poured wine and beer into alabaster goblets.

  The prince fixated on the central building, where he knew royal audiences always took place. The rooms were covered with shiny ceramics; visitors marveled at the play of colors. Before he was sent to the royal academy, Ramses had played in the private suites and even ventured as far as the steps to the throne room, though not without a sound scolding from his nursemaid, the one who had suckled him until he was three years old. He still remembered his glimpse of Pharaoh’s throne, its base carved with scenes showing Ma’at, the essence of truth and harmony.

  Ramses had hoped that the royal scribes would be allowed inside the palace, but it was obviously not to be. Seti would simply have the guests gather in a vast courtyard, then appear in a window and give a short speech reiterating the scope and importance of their duties and responsibilities.

  How could he manage to speak to his father privately? The king had been known to mingle briefly with his subjects and greet a few of the most notable. He, Ramses, had achieved a perfect score on the scribe’s examination; he alone solved the final riddle. He would not be amiss in approaching Seti to ask why the king ignored him. If he was really meant to leave Memphis for some obscure post in the provinces, he wanted to hear it directly from Pharaoh.

  All around him the royal scribes, their families, and a host of courtiers who never missed important parties were drinking, eating, and making small talk. Ramses tried the heady oasis-grown wine, then the strong beer. Draining his goblet, he noticed a couple seated on a stone bench tucked under an archway.

  A couple consisting of his brother, Shaanar, and Iset the Fair.

  Ramses strode their way.

  “You told me you’d made up your mind, my sweet. Is this how you show it?”

  Iset was stunned, but Shaanar remained cool.

  “You forget your manners, dear brother; have I no right to converse with a lady?”

  “If that’s what you call her.”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  Cheeks aflame, Iset the Fair fled the brothers, leaving them face-to-face.

  “I can’t put up with much more, Ramses. You are no longer needed in Memphis.”

  “I am a royal scribe.”

  “Brag all you want, but there will never be a post for you without my approval.”

  “Your friend Sary warned me.”

  “Sary is only trying to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Just stay away from Iset.”

  “How dare you try to intimidate me!”

  “If I’m nothing, then I have nothing to lose.”

  Shaanar backed down. “Brother, you’re right,” he said in his silkiest voice. “No one should have to share a woman’s affections. But let’s leave the choice up to her now, shall we?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then go enjoy the party.”

  “When will the king be addressing us?” Ramses asked.

  “Oh, hadn’t you heard? Pharaoh has left on a military inspection tour of the northern borders. He asked me to host this reception. And since you scored the highest on the latest exam, I’ve arranged a special reward for you: a hunt in the desert.”

  Shaanar walked off.

  Vexed, Ramses downed another goblet of wine. So he was not to see his father after all. Shaanar had lured him here only to put him in his place. Drinking more than was sensible, Ramses kept to himself. Snatches of the other guests’ chatter only served to annoy him. In a daze, he collided with an elegant-looking scribe.

  “Ramses! Delighted to see you again.”

  “Ahsha! Still here in Memphis?”

  “I leave for the north tomorrow. The latest reports say the Trojan War is all but ended. The Greek barbarians wore down Priam’s defenses, and rumor has it that Achilles has killed Hector. My first diplomatic mission will be to determine whether our intelligence is accurate. And you, old friend—a major post in the offing?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Everyone talks about the scribe competition. Some less than k
indly, I may say.”

  “I’ll learn to live with that.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to go abroad? Oh, forgive me; I forgot that you’re getting married. Soon, isn’t it? Sorry I’ll be away, but I do wish you all the best.”

  Then an ambassador commandeered Ahsha; the fledgling diplomat’s mission was already under way.

  Ramses was suddenly aware of his creeping intoxication; he was like a broken rudder, a house with a shaky foundation. Livid, he flung the goblet away, swearing to never again indulge in such unfit behavior.

  TEN

  The hunting party left at dawn for the western desert. Ramses had left his dog in the care of Ahmeni, who was still intent on tracing the second-rate ink cakes.

  From the safety of his sedan chair, Shaanar saw the hunters off. He would not venture into the desert, content with offering a parting invocation: “May the gods protect these brave souls and bless their efforts with plentiful game.”

  The procession of light chariots rode out. Ramses’ was teamed with an army-veteran driver. It was a joy to be back in the desert where the ibex, bubalis, oryx, leopard, lion, panther, stag, ostrich, gazelle, hyena, and fox roamed free.

  The master of the hunt had left nothing to chance. Well-trained dogs followed the chariots, some of which were laden with provisions and jugs of water. There were even tents in case the pursuit of some special quarry kept them out past dark. The hunters were equipped with lassos, new bows, and a large supply of arrows.

  “Do you like killing or catching?” the driver asked.

  “Catching,” answered Ramses.

  “All right then, you use the rope and I’ll take the bow. Killing is a tool for survival. No hunter escapes it. I know who you are, son of Seti; but facing danger makes us equals.”

  “Incorrect.”

  “You think you’re so superior?”

  “No, you are, because of your experience. This is my first hunt.”

  The former charioteer shrugged.

  “Enough talk. Look sharp and let me know if you spot any prey.”

  The veteran paid no attention when a panic-stricken fox and then a jerboa ran by. He left them for the other teams. Soon, the cluster of hunters scattered.

  The prince sighted a herd of gazelles.

  “Good work!” his companion cried, already hot on their trail.

  Three stragglers, old or sick, became separated from the herd and bolted toward a nearby gully, where a wadi flowed in the rainy season.

  The chariot stopped.

  “Time to walk now.”

  “Why?”

  “Too rocky here. Wheel damage.”

  “But the gazelles will outrun us!”

  “Don’t think so. I know this place. They’ll head for a cave, and then we’ll get them.”

  So they marched, for over three hours, intent on stalking, indifferent to the weight of their weapons and gear. When the heat grew too intense, they stopped to eat in the shade of a stone outcropping where succulents grew.

  “Tired?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re a desert man. Either it knocks you flat or it gives you wings, and hot sand will do it for you every time.”

  Pieces of rock broke loose and tumbled down to join the gravel in the riverbed. It was hard to picture this dry red land with a life-giving river, trees and fields. The desert was the other world present in the heart of the human one. Ramses sensed how precarious his existence was. At the same time, he felt the power that nature stirred in the soul of the silent listener. God had created the desert to make man stop and hearken to the voice of the secret fire.

  The charioteer checked the flint-tipped arrows. Two fletches with rounded edges weighted the opposite end of the shaft.

  “Not the best, but we’ll make do.”

  “How far to the cave?”

  “An hour, give or take. Want to turn back?”

  “Let’s get going.”

  Not a snake, not a scorpion, no living thing seemed to dwell in this desolation. They had probably burrowed in the sand or beneath a rock, to come out only in the cool of evening.

  “My left leg is bothering me,” said Ramses’ companion. “An old war wound. We may need to stop and rest.”

  When night fell, the man was still in pain.

  “Sleep,” he told Ramses. “This leg will keep me awake. If I start to nod off, I’ll wake you.”

  First came a pleasant warmth. Then the sun left the gentle dawn behind and it was scorching. Emerging victorious from its nightly combat with the shadows and the life-devouring dragon, it grew too bright for mere mortals.

  Ramses awoke.

  His hunting companion had disappeared. The prince was alone—without food, water, or weapon, and several hours’ walk from his point of departure. He set off without delay, at a steady pace, husbanding his strength.

  The man had deserted him, assuming he’d never survive the forced march back. Who had put him up to this? Who would want to pass premeditated murder off as a hunting accident? Everyone knew the prince was impulsive, the story would go. In pursuit of his prey, he had lost all caution, and now he was lost in the wilderness.

  Shaanar—it had to be his sneaking, spiteful brother. Ramses refused to leave Memphis, so Shaanar sent him to cross the river of death. Boiling with rage, Ramses vowed not to make that journey. Instead, he unerringly retraced his path to the meeting place, advancing relentlessly as a conqueror.

  A gazelle ran swiftly by, soon followed by an ibex with long, backward-curving horns that studied him thoroughly before it bolted. The animals must be heading for a watering place the prince’s companion had neglected to point out. He could choose between staying on track and dying of thirst, or putting his trust in the animals.

  He opted for the animals.

  By the time he had spotted ibexes, gazelles, oryxes, and a thirty-foot tree in the distance, he was telling himself he should always follow his instincts. The tree had gray bark and a tangle of branches blooming with fragrant yellow-green flowers. This was the Egyptian balanites, bearing thin-skinned oval fruit up to three inches long, so sweet that hunters called it the “desert date.” It also prickled with long, green-tipped thorns. In the shelter of its shade lay one of those mysterious springs that gushed from the desert with the god Set’s blessing.

  Leaning against the tree trunk, a man sat and ate bread.

  Ramses moved closer and recognized him: the leader of the gang of grooms that had bullied Ahmeni.

  “May the gods be with you, my prince. Are you lost, by any chance?”

  With his dry lips, parched tongue, and burning brow, Ramses had eyes only for the water skin on the ground by this hairy, stubble-faced creature’s left leg.

  “You’re thirsty? What a shame. Nice, cool water, but too precious to waste on a dead man.”

  Only ten paces between Ramses and his salvation.

  “You had to show me which one of us was a prince. You got away, and now all the stable boys laugh at me.”

  “I know you didn’t plan this. Who’s in back of it?”

  A twisted smile. “For once I was glad to oblige. When your hunting partner offered me five cows and ten lengths of linen to finish you off, I didn’t think twice. I knew you’d come here. Going back the same way you came with no water would have been suicide. You thought the gazelle and the ibis would save your life, but they only made you my trophy.”

  The groom rose, flashing his knife.

  Ramses sized up his opponent. He probably expected more fancy wrestling moves. Instead, he was facing an unarmed, exhausted teenager, desperately thirsty, in no shape to use technique against a much stronger and armed attacker.

  Which left brute strength as the prince’s only choice.

  With an angry whoop, releasing all his energy, Ramses rushed at the groom. The man swung wide with his knife, then fell heavily backward into the prickly desert date tree, the thorns piercing his flesh like so many daggers.

  The hunters could not complain. Their
live catch included an ibex, two gazelles, and an oryx now being guided by the horns. More or less resigned, the herd moved forward when their bellies were gently prodded. One man had a baby gazelle slung over his back, another held a terrified rabbit by the ears. There was a hyena lashed to boards that rested on two helpers’ shoulders. A dog nipped and jumped from below in vain. Most of the specimens would be delivered to experts for observation and training. The hyena would be force-fed; its fatty liver was considered a delicacy, and although the process was full of pitfalls, some breeders still kept trying. Other animals were tagged for temples. They would be offered to the gods, then consumed by humans.

  The hunters had all regrouped at their point of departure, with the exception of Prince Ramses and his driver. The scribe in charge of the expedition made anxious inquiries. Waiting was out of the question. A chariot should be dispatched to search for them, but in which direction? If anything happened to the prince, it could mean the end of his career. Ramses might not have the brightest future in store for him, but his disappearance would not go unnoticed.

  The scribe and two hunters stayed behind until midafternoon, while the rest of the party hurried back to the valley with the game, alerting the desert patrol as they went.

  Fidgeting, the scribe composed a report on a plaster tablet, scraped it off, began again, then gave up. There was no hiding behind official language. No matter how carefully he phrased it, two men had gone missing, and one was the king’s younger son.

  Then he thought he spied a silhouette moving slowly through the noonday sunlight. Optical illusions were commonplace in the desert, so he asked the two hunters to have a look. They agreed that it seemed to be a human walking in their direction.

  Step by step, the outline grew clearer. Ramses had survived.

  ELEVEN

  Shaanar relaxed as two highly skilled palace-trained cosmetologists gave him a manicure and pedicure. Seti’s older son always took pains with his toilet. As a public figure and the future sovereign of a rich and powerful country, he was required to look his best at all times. He felt that refinement in personal appearance was the hallmark of a civilization that prized cleanliness and good grooming. He also enjoyed being pampered like a precious statue, massaged with perfumed oils, before his hairdresser took over.