Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  THIRTEEN

  In his spacious office, Ahmeni was sorting his notes. A number of low-level bureaucrats had opened up to him, more or less willingly, with satisfying results. A sleuth at heart, Ahmeni sensed he was homing in on the truth. There was no doubt someone was running a profitable scam. When he found out exactly who, his pursuit would be merciless.

  As he finished his summary, Iset the Fair barged into Ramses’ residence, forcing the door to his secretary’s office.

  Ahmeni stood up, feeling awkward around this self-assured young beauty.

  “Where is Ramses?” she bluntly inquired.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself, but that’s the truth.”

  “I hear Ramses tells you everything.”

  “We’re close, but he left without warning.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible!”

  “I wish I could make you feel better, but I can’t tell a lie.”

  “You don’t seem very concerned for him.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Because you know where he is and you just aren’t telling me!”

  “I’m telling you I don’t know.”

  “You depend on him for your living.”

  “Ramses will be back soon, mark my word. If anything had happened to him, I’d sense it. We’re joined for life. That’s why I don’t feel worried.”

  “Of all the . . .”

  “He’s coming back.”

  Vague and contradictory rumors circulated at court. Some claimed Seti had exiled Ramses in the south. Others said the prince had been sent to inspect the dikes in preparation for the annual flood. Iset the Fair was beside herself. She had never been treated this way. The first night he failed to appear at their hideaway, Iset thought he was playing a joke on her. She called his name over and over. A sudden chorus of toads and lizards, stray dogs and cats responded. Panic-stricken, she fled into the night.

  Her insolent young prince had made her feel so stupid . . . and so concerned for him. If Ahmeni really didn’t know Ramses’ whereabouts, the prince could be in danger.

  One person, only one, knew what had really happened.

  Shaanar was finishing lunch. The roasted quail was heavenly.

  “Why, Iset! What a pleasure to see you. Some dessert, perhaps? Not to brag, but my chef’s fig puree is really the best in town.”

  “Where is Ramses hiding?”

  “My dear lady, how would I know?”

  “I thought you made it your business to know all the latest developments.”

  Shaanar smiled admiringly. “Touché!”

  “Please tell me.”

  “Sit down and have some figs with me. You won’t regret it.”

  The young woman chose a comfortable chair with a green seat cushion.

  “Fate has put us in a unique position. No use denying it, don’t you agree?”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Iset replied.

  “You and I get along so well. You ought to think twice before you commit to my brother. My dear, consider your future.”

  “What would you know of my future?”

  “With me it could be wonderful.”

  Iset the Fair took a good look at Shaanar. He tried to appear elegant, attractive, self-assured, already playing the king. Yet he had none of Ramses’ charisma.

  “Would you really like to know where my brother is?”

  “Very much.”

  “I’m afraid it may be upsetting.”

  “I’ll take a chance.”

  “If you were mine, I would never neglect you like this.”

  “I’m fine on my own.”

  Shaanar sighed.

  “Ramses signed on as a scribe with the Gebel el-Silsila sandstone mining project. A job for a minor bureaucrat, requiring him to spend months in the south rubbing elbows with quarrymen. My father has once again demonstrated what a good judge of character he is; he put my brother in his place. Now would you like to discuss our prospects?”

  “Shaanar, I feel weak, I . . .”

  “I warned you.” He rose and took her right hand.

  His touch disgusted her. Yes, Ramses was apparently in disfavor. Yes, Shaanar would be Pharaoh, and the woman who shared his life would bask in glory. Scores of well-bred young women were dying to marry him.

  She struggled free of his grip, shouting “Leave me alone!”

  “Don’t settle for less than you deserve, Iset.”

  “I love Ramses.”

  “Who cares about love? It’s no concern of mine, and you’d soon find it doesn’t matter. All I ask of you is to be beautiful, bear me a son, and serve as my consort. Turning me down would be madness.”

  “Then I’ve gone mad.”

  Shaanar reached out to her. “Don’t leave, Iset. Or else . . .”

  “Or else?”

  Shaanar’s round face loomed menacingly.

  “I’d hate for us to be enemies. Let me appeal to your intelligence.”

  “Goodbye, Shaanar. Follow your own path. Mine is already laid out.”

  Memphis was a noisy, bustling city and a busy shipping hub. Commercial traffic was closely regulated, with an army of scribes to record the cargoes. Among the storehouses along the docks was one exclusively for office supplies, including dozens of cakes of pigment.

  Ahmeni, as private secretary to the Pharaoh’s younger son, was allowed free entry. He inspected the finest quality ink, but without results.

  His slight stature was an advantage in navigating narrow streets crowded with shoppers and donkeys laden with fruit, vegetables, or sacks of grain. He ranged as far as the temple of Ptah, recently enlarged by Seti. In front of the vast colonnade stood colossal pink granite statues of god-kings. The young scribe loved the old capital. Founded by Menes, unifier of the north and south, it reminded him of a chalice prized by the goddess of gold. The lotus-covered lakes, the flowers on every corner delighted the senses. A wonderful place to relax in some leafy retreat and admire the Nile. But he was not here for pleasure. Skirting the munitions depots, Ahmeni made his way to the door of a small factory supplying ink for the city’s finest schools.

  He was given an icy reception, but Ramses’ name got him into the workroom. One of the pigment grinders, nearing retirement age, was most cooperative. It bothered him that some newer manufacturers had lowered standards, yet retained the status of royal purveyors. Ahmeni eventually got him to part with an address on the north side of town, beyond the limits of the ancient white-walled citadel.

  The young scribe avoided the teeming quays and crossed Ankh-taoui, “Life of Two Lands.”* Passing an army barracks, he ventured into a densely populated outlying area of the city. Low multifamily dwellings stood next to imposing mansions; craftsmen’s shops abounded. After several false starts, he got directions from women out sweeping their stoops and visiting with neighbors. Ignoring his fatigue, Ahmeni doggedly pursued the latest lead in the case of the ink scam.

  A hairy, club-wielding man of forty stood guard at the door to the factory.

  “Hello, there. May I come in?”

  “Employees only.”

  “You might want to make an exception. I’m private secretary to a royal scribe.”

  “On your way, young man.”

  “The scribe in question is Ramses, the son of Seti.”

  “The shop is closed.”

  “Then it’s the perfect time for me to look around.”

  “Against company policy.”

  “If I look around now, I won’t have to come back with a warrant.”

  “Get lost.”

  Ahmeni wished he weren’t such a weakling. Ramses would have had no trouble tossing this lout into the nearest canal. Still, there had to be a way . . .

  He saluted the guard, pretended to leave, then climbed a ladder to the roof of a granary near the back of the building. Once night fell, he lowered himself through the skylight. He examined the company’s stock in the ligh
t of an oil lamp he found on a shelf. There were two rows of ink cakes, each one stamped with the official seal of inspection. The first row was a disappointment: all top quality. The second, however, contained cakes that were too small, too light, uneven in color. Ahmeni chose one at random and wrote a quick sample, enough to convince him he had found the scene of the crime.

  In his triumph, the young scribe did not register the footsteps. The guard whacked him over the head, slung the limp body over his shoulders, and threw it in the nearest communal dump, where waste was burned each day just before dawn.

  That would show the little snoop. He’d never talk now.

  FOURTEEN

  The garbageman’s small daughter rubbed the sleep from her eyes as her father led her slowly through the hushed backstreets of the far north side. He had to finish his rounds before dawn, setting fire to the rubbish in communal dumps maintained between blocks of houses. A daily schedule of waste disposal was one of the government’s strictest health measures. The work was repetitive, but the pay was good and he felt he was making a useful contribution to society.

  On this block lived two families who were easily the biggest slobs on his route. Several warnings had not had the least effect; there would have to be a citation. Grumbling about the failings of mankind, he picked up the rag doll his little girl had dropped and soothed the child. When he was done, they would eat a hearty breakfast and then nap in the shade of a tamarisk. Their favorite spot was the park by the goddess Neith’s temple.

  Luckily, the dump was less full than usual. The garbageman set his torch to several spots so the fire would start quickly.

  “Daddy, I want that big doll.”

  “What, sweetheart?”

  “That big dolly over there.”

  The little girl pointed through the smoke to where a human arm stuck out of the refuse.

  “I want it, Daddy.”

  Alarmed, the garbageman jumped into the enclosure, hoping his feet wouldn’t burn.

  An arm . . . the arm of a young man! He carefully lifted the unconscious form. The back of the head was crusted with blood.

  On the return voyage, Ramses had not seen his father. His log would be quite complete and his entire report would be entered in the royal annals of the important events in Year Six of the reign of Seti. Putting aside his writing kit and scribe’s clothing, he also spent time with the crew and shared in their work, learning to tie knots, raise sails, even man the rudder. Above all, he studied the wind, a manifestation of the mysterious god Amon, puffing out sails and guiding ships to safe haven: the invisible made clear, yet still invisible.

  The ship’s captain played along, since the king’s son forgot his position and refused the privileges of rank. He set him to the thousand and one tasks that make up a sailor’s life. Ramses didn’t balk, but swabbed the deck and rowed with the best of them. Sailing north required a thorough knowledge of river currents and a stout-hearted crew. Feeling the boat glide over the water, working with the water to achieve the best possible speed, was an intense pleasure.

  The expedition’s return was cause for celebration. Spectators crammed the banks of Memphis’s main harbor, tellingly named “Safe Journey.” As soon as their feet touched the pier, the sailors were greeted with garlands of flowers and cups of cool beer. There was ceremonial dancing in their honor, praises sung to their courage and the goodness of the river that guided them.

  Graceful hands slipped a garland of blue flowers around Ramses’ neck. “Will this be sufficient reward for a prince?” asked Iset the Fair mischievously.

  Ramses made no attempt to escape. “You must be furious,” he told her. He took her in his arms; she pretended to resist.

  “I’m just supposed to forget that you left without any notice?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Surely you could have found some way to let me know.”

  “Pharaoh said jump; I jumped.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “My father took me with him to Gebel el-Silsila. Believe me, it was no exile.”

  Iset the Fair snuggled closer. “Sailing for days and days . . . how you must have talked!”

  “It was no pleasure cruise. I worked as a scribe, a stonecutter, and a sailor.”

  “Why did he want you to go?”

  “Only he knows the reason.”

  “I saw your brother. He told me you were finished, headed for a second-rate government post in the south.”

  “My brother thinks everything is second-rate, except for himself.”

  “But you’ve come back now, and I’m yours.”

  “You have the looks and brains to be a queen.”

  “Shaanar still wants me to marry him.”

  “What’s stopping you? You’re not very likely to get a better offer.”

  “I have a better lover. I can’t live without you now.”

  “The future . . .”

  “I’m only interested in the present. My parents are in the country, the house is empty . . . doesn’t that sound more inviting than a reed hut?”

  He shared Iset’s longing, but was it love? Ramses found no answer. For now the physical passion was enough, the intoxicating sensation of their bodies merging, swirling sublimely into one. Iset’s caresses aroused him again and again. It was so hard to leave her, naked and languid, her arms pulling him back when he tried to slip away!

  For the first time, Iset the Fair had mentioned marriage. Ramses bridled; as much as he enjoyed her company, he was not prepared for anything more permanent. They might be young, but they were of marriageable age. There could be no objection to their union. Still, Ramses did not feel it was time. Confident that she would win him over, Iset did not protest. The more she got to know her prince, the more she believed in him. She listened to instinct rather than reason. Anyone with so much love to give was an irreplaceable treasure.

  Ramses made his way to the center of town, near the palace complex. Ahmeni must be expecting him any moment, eager to report on his case.

  An armed policeman guarded the entrance to Ramses’ residence.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Are you Prince Ramses?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Your secretary has met with an accident. Police matter, I’m afraid.”

  Ramses ran straight to his friend’s bedside.

  Ahmeni lay still, his head bandaged, a nurse attending him. “Quiet,” she ordered Ramses. “He’s sleeping.” She ushered the prince out of the room.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was left for dead in a garbage dump on the north side of town.”

  “Will he live?”

  “The doctors think so.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “A few words, nothing that made any sense. The painkillers make him very drowsy.”

  Ramses went to see the assistant chief of police, who was busy inspecting the southern precincts. The official deeply regretted he was unable to furnish any information. An investigation at the crime scene turned up no witnesses. Intensive questioning had not resulted in a single lead. Just like Ramses’ missing charioteer, the attacker had disappeared, perhaps even fled the country.

  He got home just in time to see Ahmeni regain consciousness. His bandaged face lit up at the sight of his friend.

  “You’re back! I knew you’d come back!” His voice was shaky, but clear.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I found it, Ramses, I found it!”

  “Too bad you almost lost your life in the process.”

  “I’ve got a good hard head, though, see?”

  “Who hit you?”

  “Most likely the guard in the place where I found the counterfeit ink cakes.”

  “So you really did solve your mystery.”

  Ahmeni’s face glowed with pride.

  “Tell me how to get there,” said Ramses.

  “It’s dangerous. Take the police with you.”

  “Don’t worry, and rest now.
The sooner you’re back on your feet, the sooner we’ll work on the case together.”

  Following Ahmeni’s directions, Ramses easily found the factory in question. Three hours past sunrise, and not a soul inside. Intrigued, the prince had a look around the neighborhood, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The small ink factory appeared to be abandoned.

  To make sure, Ramses stayed around until evening. There was plenty of activity in the neighborhood, but no one left or entered the scene of the crime.

  He questioned a water bearer serving the nearby shops.

  “Do you know that building?”

  “They make ink there.”

  “Why is it closed?”

  “No one’s shown up for a week. Kind of strange.”

  “Has the owner been by?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Who ran the business, then?”

  “We never saw a boss there, only workers.”

  “What about customers?”

  “Never paid attention.” The water bearer moved on.

  Ramses decided to borrow Ahmeni’s method. He climbed up to the granary room and crossed to the ink factory.

  Within seconds, he saw that the workroom was deserted.

  Along with the other royal scribes, Ramses had been called to the temple of Ptah, the god who created the world through the word. Each scribe appeared before the high priest and gave a succinct accounting of his recent activities. The master reminded them that they should have respect for words as their raw material and model their speech on the teachings of the sages.

  When the ceremony was over, Sary congratulated his former student.

  “I’m proud to have been your guardian. In spite of what your detractors say, you seem to be following the path of knowledge. Never stop learning, and you will become a man of consequence.”

  “Is that more important than being a man of truth?”

  Sary was affronted. “I thought you were finally settling down, but maybe the rumors I hear are true.”