Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  Muffled shouts suddenly disturbed the peace in Shaanar’s spacious quarters. He opened his eyes.

  “What’s going on? I do not allow—”

  Ramses burst into the luxurious bathroom.

  “The truth, Shaanar. I want it and I want it now.”

  The heir apparent dismissed his manicurist and pedicurist. “Calm down, dear brother. What truth might you have in mind?”

  “Did you try to have me killed?”

  “You must be dreaming! The very idea . . .”

  “Two paid killers, working in tandem . . . one’s dead now, the other one missing.”

  “Please explain yourself. And may I point out that I am, after all, your brother?”

  “If you’re guilty, I’ll find out.”

  “Guilty? Choose your words carefully, Ramses.”

  “You sent me on a hunt in the desert, and someone laid a trap for me.”

  Shaanar took Ramses by the shoulders.

  “I’m the first to admit we’re very different, and there’s no love lost between us. But does that mean we should work against each other, instead of facing reality and accepting what our destiny dictates? I want you out of Memphis, it’s true. It’s true I don’t believe you’d fit in at court. All the same, I have never intended you any harm, and I despise violence. Please believe me: I am not your enemy.”

  Ahmeni had always been particular about his scribe’s equipment, cleaning the water pot and brushes twice if he cleaned them once, smoothing his palette to a perfect surface, changing scrapers and erasers as soon as they failed to meet his standards. As he was secretary to a royal scribe, his supply budget was liberal, yet he continued to use the costly papyrus sparingly and composed rough drafts on scraps of limestone. In an empty turtle shell, he hand-ground his own mineral pigments to make the brightest red and the deepest black.

  When Ramses returned from the hunt after all the others, Ahmeni was overjoyed. “I knew you were safe and sound! If not, I’d sense it. And I haven’t been wasting my time while you were gone. The case of the second-rate ink is moving forward.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “That we belong to a complex branch of the public service, with many different departments and plenty of susceptible officials. Your name and title opened doors for me. You may not be popular, but you’re respected.”

  The prince’s curiosity was piqued. “Details, please.”

  “Ink cakes are an essential commodity in our country. Without ink cakes, no ink; without ink, no writing; without writing, no civilization.”

  “And no scribes,” Ramses teased.

  “As I assumed, ink production is highly regulated. Each cake of ink is inspected and stamped before it leaves the warehouse. In theory, inferior product could never turn up in a top-quality shipment.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “Something awfully fishy is going on.”

  “Or else you’ve been working too hard and it’s starting to show.”

  Ahmeni pouted like an infant. “You don’t take me seriously!”

  “I was forced to kill a man out in the desert. It was his life or mine.” Ramses related his tragic adventure in detail. Ahmeni hung his head.

  “No wonder you think I’m silly, getting all worked up over ink cakes . . . The gods protected you! They’ll always be with you, Ramses.”

  “Let’s hope they’re paying attention.”

  The reed hut was snug in the mild night air. Frogs croaked in the nearby canal. Ramses had decided to wait up all night for Iset the Fair. If she failed to appear, it would be over between them. Again and again he saw himself fight for his life, knocking the groom into the vicious thorns of the desert date tree. Conscious thought had played no part in his actions. A firestorm had swept through him, leaving him ten times stronger. Was it a fire from some mysterious world, the desert power of Set, his father’s namesake?

  Until that moment, Ramses had believed he could control his own fate, defying gods and men, victorious in any combat. But he had forgotten the price to be paid in a fight, the stark fact of death. He had carried death like a sickness; he had transmitted it. He felt no regret, yet wondered whether the incident marked the end of his dreams or the frontier of an unknown country.

  A stray dog barked. Someone was approaching the hut in stealth.

  Perhaps he was being foolish. As long as the dead groom’s partner in crime, the chariot driver, was still at large, Ramses’ life was in danger. Perhaps the driver had tailed him here. Probably he was armed. It was the perfect spot for a surprise attack.

  Ramses sensed the intruder’s presence, without being able to see him or judge his precise location. He could have described each gesture, the length of each silent stride. As soon as the shadow approached the door to the hut, the prince sprang, pinning the intruder to the ground.

  “What a welcome!”

  “Iset! Why were you sneaking up on me?”

  “Remember our agreement? Rule number one: be discreet.”

  She tightened her grip on her lover, his desire already perceptible.

  “Please, continue your attack.”

  “Have you made up your mind for good?”

  “The fact that I’m here should tell you something.”

  “Are you going to keep seeing Shaanar?”

  “Are you going to stop talking?”

  She wore a loose tunic with nothing underneath, and offered herself to him with abandon. Iset was madly in love, to the point of forgetting she once planned to be queen of Egypt. It was more than physical attraction; Ramses had an inner power even he did not fully grasp. That power was what she found so utterly fascinating. She could no longer think straight. What would he do with her? Slowly destroy her? The throne would go to Shaanar, but already he seemed so pompous, so boring. Iset the Fair would never grow old and dull before her time. She was too fond of being young and in love.

  The dawn found them still intertwined. Unexpectedly tender, Ramses stroked his mistress’s hair.

  “They say you killed a man in the desert.”

  “Someone sent him to kill me.”

  “But why?”

  “For revenge.”

  “Did he know you’re the king’s son?”

  “He knew, but he’d been paid too well for that to matter. The driver I was teamed with set it up.”

  Iset the Fair sat bolt upright. “Have they brought him in?” she asked anxiously.

  “Not yet. The police took my statement; there’s a warrant out.”

  “And what if . . .”

  “Someone’s plotting against me? Shaanar denies it. He honestly seemed shocked.”

  “Watch out, though. He’s a clever one.”

  “Maybe you like them smart. Are you sure I’m the one you want?”

  She kissed him with all the fierceness and rising heat of the sun.

  Ahmeni’s office was deserted. He had not even left a note. Ramses was convinced his secretary would never rest until he found the source of the second-rate ink. Obstinate, obsessive about his writing materials, he took the breach in quality as a personal affront and would stop at nothing until the case was solved and the perpetrators indicted. It was no use telling him not to overdo it. Though frail in body, Ahmeni had surprising reserves of energy to fuel his determination.

  Ramses went to see the chief of police. Unfortunately, the investigation had proved fruitless. The sinister chariot driver had disappeared. The trail was cold. The prince’s irritation showed, although the police official assured him no effort was being spared.

  Disappointed, Ramses decided to be his own detective. He knew the Memphis army base contained a maintenance center for chariots. As a royal scribe, he asked to see his counterpart who kept the log of chariots used in war and for hunting; the precious vehicles were carefully tracked. Ramses gave a detailed description of the missing charioteer, hoping the man had worked here.

  The official referred him to the chief inspector of the royal stables, named Bakhen. />
  The man was examining a gray horse, too young for the yoke, and lecturing the sorry-faced driver. Bakhen looked about twenty, strongly built, with rough-hewn features and a short beard outlining his square jaw. He wore two copper bands around his bulging biceps. A gravelly voice added to the threat in his words.

  When the misguided driver departed, Bakhen stroked the gray horse. It gazed at him gratefully. Ramses approached.

  “Bakhen? I’m Prince Ramses.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I need some information.”

  “Try the police.”

  “They couldn’t help me. Maybe you can.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “I’m looking for a driver.”

  “I only work with horses and vehicles.”

  “He’s a wanted man.”

  “What do I care?”

  “You won’t help identify a criminal?”

  Bakhen glared at Ramses. “Trying to hang an accessory charge on me? Prince or no, you’d better clear out of here.”

  “I’m not going to beg.”

  Bakhen burst out laughing.

  “You don’t give up easy, do you?”

  “You know something and I’m going to get it out of you.”

  “Some nerve, too.”

  A horse whinnied. Bakhen ran to a stall where a splendid dark brown stallion was bucking wildly against a tether.

  “Easy, boy. Easy, now.” Bakhen’s voice seemed to soothe the animal. The horse even let him come near. A beauty, Ramses thought.

  “What’s his name?”

  “The God Amon Decreed His Valiance. My favorite horse.”

  The answer had come not from Bakhen but from a voice at the prince’s back, a voice that sent shivers down his spine.

  Ramses turned and made a deep bow to his father, the Pharaoh Seti.

  TWELVE

  We’re leaving, Ramses.”

  The prince could hardly believe his ears, nor could he ask his father to repeat those three magic words. His happiness was so intense his head swam.

  Seti went to his horse, who was perfectly calm now. He untied the tether, led the stallion to a light chariot, and saw it hitched. At the main barracks door, the monarch’s personal sentries stood alert.

  The prince hopped in the chariot and stood to his father’s left.

  “Take the reins.”

  Proud as a conqueror, Ramses drove to the launch where Pharaoh’s fleet was making ready to sail southward.

  Ramses had no chance to tell Ahmeni he was leaving, and what would Iset the Fair think when he didn’t appear for their secret meetings? But his qualms paled against the thrill of sailing on a royal ship, moving briskly with a strong tailwind.

  As the expedition’s official scribe, Ramses was to write a report and keep the ship’s log down to the last detail. Captivated by the changing countryside, he found a great deal to record. It was nearly five hundred miles from Memphis to Gebel el-Silsila, their destination. The seventeen-day voyage was full of wonders for Ramses: the glistening river, the lush floodplain, the peaceful hilltop villages. Egypt was his for the taking, immutable, brimming with life, able to transcend its most humble forms.

  Once on board, Ramses did not see his father again. The days flowed as quickly as a single hour, the ship’s log growing thicker. In this sixth year of Seti’s reign, a thousand soldiers, stonecutters, and sailors were to land at Gebel el-Silsila, the country’s main site of sandstone quarrying. Here the Nile, forced between steep, narrow banks, was boiling with rapids, the cause of frequent wrecks and drownings.

  From the prow of his ship, Seti oversaw the expedition. Unit leaders supervised the unloading of crates full of tools and food supplies. The workers sang and bantered, but the pace was unrelenting.

  Before the end of the day, a royal messenger announced that His Majesty would reward each worker with five pounds of bread per day, one bunch of vegetables, one portion each of cooked meat, sesame oil, honey, figs, grapes, dried fish, and wine, plus two sacks of grain per month. Extra rations would help the men to work their hardest.

  The stonecutters made short trenches, then extracted blocks of sandstone one by one from the mother lode. There was no room for improvisation in their work. The unit leaders scouted and marked the veins of stone for the cutters. For the biggest blocks, the stone was notched and wedges of hard, dry wood were hammered in and moistened, causing the wood to expand and fracture the stone.

  Some blocks were sent directly to on-site stonemasons; others were lowered down steep channels to the river landing and hauled on barges to the appropriate temple construction project. Ramses roamed the work site. Would he ever find words to describe this beehive of activity? How could he keep an accurate record of the expedition’s production? Determined to be efficient, he examined each step in the operation, familiarized himself with the workers without interrupting their toil, learned the men’s rough language, studied the tricks of their trade. When they put him to the test, he cut his first block of stone with a skill that surprised his detractors. The prince had long since abandoned his fine linen garments for a rough leather apron. He did not mind the heat or the sweat. He liked the quarry better than the court. The men were genuine, the stone kept them honest. Ramses left behind his life of ease.

  His decision was made. He would remain with the quarrymen, learn their trade, live their life. Far from the artifice of city life, he would find his strength harvesting blocks of sandstone for the gods.

  This must be the message Seti was trying to send him: never mind your pampered childhood, your sheltered upbringing; discover your true nature in the stone and unforgiving southern sun. It had been a mistake to conclude that the encounter with the bull meant Seti intended to groom him for power. Now his father had shattered his illusions and shown him his true capacities.

  Ramses had no desire to live as a courtier, caught up in comfortable habits. Shaanar would be much better playing that part. His mind at ease, Ramses slept on the ship’s bridge, lost in the stars.

  The previous day had been a productive one, but now the quarry was unnaturally quiet. Usually the men began work in the cool of daybreak. Where were the unit leaders, why weren’t they calling the roll?

  Yielding to the quarry’s magic, the prince explored the silent walkways between gray slabs of sandstone. By now they were imprinted in his mind. This landscape would remain with him forever. He was deep in thought when he heard the ring of hammers.

  Navigating the maze, Ramses watched for marks identifying the various units’ territory. He was eager to turn in his scribe’s kit, pick up a mallet, live with these hardworking men, share their ups and downs, forget that he ever belonged to the idle rich.

  At the far end of the quarry, carved in the rock, was a chapel. To the left of the doorway stood a stela, an inscribed stone tablet. This one offered a prayer to the rising sun. Before it stood Pharaoh Seti, arms raised, palms open, celebrating the rebirth of the light just beginning to bathe the quarry.

  Ramses knelt and listened.

  When the prayer was finished, Seti turned to his son.

  “What are you seeking in this place?”

  “My path in life.”

  “Four perfect feats distinguished the creator,” Pharaoh declared. “He gave birth to the four winds, so that each living thing may breathe. He made water and the yearly flood for the benefit of rich and poor alike. He made each man the same as his neighbor. Finally, he stamped the human heart with the memory of the West and the great beyond, so that sacrifices would be made to the unseen. But men have trespassed against the creator. Some attempt to debase the world he has made. Are you one of those?”

  “I . . . I killed a man.”

  “Is the meaning of life to destroy life?”

  “It was self-defense. A force came to guide me.”

  “Then own up to what you did and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I want to find the real culprit.”

  “Don’t waste your tim
e on foolishness. Are you prepared to make a holy sacrifice?”

  The prince nodded.

  Seti ducked inside the chapel and reappeared with a yellow dog in his arms.

  “Watcher!” Ramses beamed.

  “This is your dog, then.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Take a rock and smash his head in. Offer him up to the spirit of this quarry. You will be cleansed of your offense.”

  Pharaoh released the dog. It ran straight for Ramses, smothering him with kisses.

  “Father . . .”

  “Now.”

  Watcher begged to be petted.

  “I won’t.”

  “You dare to defy me?”

  “I wish to join this company of quarrymen and never return to the palace.”

  “You’d give up your title over a dog?”

  “He trusts me. I owe him my protection.”

  “Follow me.”

  Seti, Ramses, and Watcher climbed up a narrow hillside trail to a craggy overlook.

  “If you had killed your dog, you would have been the vilest of destroyers. Your choice has brought you to the next stage in your journey.”

  Ramses was overjoyed.

  “I’ll prove myself here!”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I don’t mind hard work.”

  “Quarries like this one provide eternal life for our civilization. A king must visit frequently and check that the work is done correctly. The gods must dwell forever in beauty. To work with the quarrymen is to study the art of government. Stone and wood make no allowances. Pharaoh is the creation of Egypt, Pharaoh never stops creating Egypt. Building temples, the pride of the people, is the greatest act of love.”

  Each of Seti’s words was a blaze of light expanding Ramses’ mind. Ramses was a thirsty traveler, his father a cool, fresh spring.

  “Then I do belong here.”

  “No, my son. Gebel el-Silsila is only a sandstone quarry. You have yet to experience granite, alabaster, limestone. There is no rest for you, no trade where you can settle. It is time to return to the north.”