Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

“What do you think you’re doing?” roared Bakhen. “Get back to work, or clear out of here!”

  The recruits did as told. Anyone slow or clumsy was dismissed. Out of the original contingent, only twelve would continue to train as professional soldiers.

  Ramses was still in the running, his enthusiasm unflagging through the next ten days of drills.

  “I need an officer,” Bakhen announced on the eleventh morning.

  All but one of the trainees showed equal ability in handling an acacia bow that could shoot an arrow fifty yards in open fire.

  Pleasantly surprised, Bakhen produced a much taller bow, its front reinforced with horn, then placed a copper ingot a hundred and fifty yards from the archers.

  “Take this bow and pierce the target.”

  Most of them barely managed to bend the bow. Two shot the arrow, but fell far short of the target.

  Ramses was last in line; like his fellow recruits, he was allowed three tries. Bakhen eyed him ironically.

  “A prince should never become a laughingstock. Better archers than you have already failed the test.”

  Intent, Ramses focused on the target until nothing else existed.

  Bending the bow took a major effort. His muscles aching, Ramses pulled the ox-tendon bowstring.

  His first shot landed to the left of the target. Bakhen snorted.

  Ramses exhaled. Without drawing a new breath, he sent the second arrow sailing right over the copper ingot.

  “Last chance,” Bakhen reminded him.

  The prince closed his eyes for more than a minute and visualized the target, convincing himself it was not so far away, that he was becoming the arrow, that all the arrow wanted was to enter the heart of the ingot.

  The third shot was a deliverance. The arrow whizzed through the air like an angry hornet and went straight through the target.

  His comrades cheered. Ramses handed the longbow back to Bakhen.

  “I’ve added one more test,” the instructor announced. “Hand-to-hand combat, with me.”

  “Is that standard procedure?”

  “It’s my procedure.”

  “Give me my officer’s certificate.”

  “First fight me and show you’re a match for a real soldier.”

  Ramses was taller than Bakhen, but lighter and much less experienced. He would have to rely on lightning reflexes. The instructor attacked without warning. The prince dodged him, but Bakhen’s fist grazed his shoulder. Five times running, the instructor hit thin air. Incensed, he finally grabbed his opponent’s left leg and knocked him down. Ramses broke loose with a kick to Bakhen’s face and a quick chop to the back of his neck.

  Ramses thought the fight was over, but Bakhen was not about to give up so easily. He staggered to his feet and rammed his head into the prince’s chest.

  Iset the Fair daubed her lover’s torso with a salve so effective the pain was becoming bearable.

  “I have the healer’s touch, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d say I was stupid.”

  “The brute could have killed you.”

  “He was doing his job. I thought I had him. At the front, I’d be dead.”

  Iset rubbed him more gently, reaching lower. “I’m so glad you didn’t go! I think war is evil.”

  “A necessary evil, sometimes.”

  “Forget about fighting and war. Wouldn’t you rather have me?”

  Supple as a lotus stem, she wrapped her body around her lover’s.

  “You have no idea how much I love you.”

  Ramses made no attempt to resist the pleasure she offered. But something else gave him greater happiness, something he hadn’t mentioned to Iset: the officer’s certificate on his desk.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The army’s return was marked with celebrations. The palace had anxiously followed dispatches from the front. The Lebanese rebels held out only a few days, after which they swore eternal allegiance to Egypt and pledged to be Pharaoh’s faithful subjects. In return for his lenience, Seti had demanded a large quantity of top-grade cedar, to raise new masts in front of temples and build several sacred barks for ceremonial use. The princes of Lebanon unanimously proclaimed that Pharaoh was the incarnation of Ra, the divine light, who gave them life.

  Because he had moved so swiftly, Seti was able to enter Syria without encountering resistance. The Hittite king, Muwattali, had not had time to muster troops and decided to observe things from a distance. Unprepared for a siege, the walled city of Kadesh, symbol of Hittite power, had opened its gates to the Egyptian forces. Seti, to his generals’ surprise, had settled for placing a stela in the heart of Kadesh instead of razing the fortress. The military was quick to second-guess this unconventional tactic and speculate about its long-range consequences.

  As soon as the Egyptian army was out of sight, Muwattali dispatched a large contingent and regained control of Kadesh.

  Then came negotiations. To avoid a bloody confrontation, the two sovereigns agreed through their ambassadors that the Hittites would stop inciting unrest in Lebanon and the Phoenician ports, and Egypt would refrain from attacking Kadesh or its surrounding territory. Peace was concluded. Precarious, to be sure, but still peace.

  As heir apparent and now as commander, Shaanar presided at a banquet for more than a thousand people, offering the finest food, vintage wine from Year Two of Seti’s reign, and the stirring spectacle of naked young girls who danced to the music of flute and harp.

  The king made only a brief appearance, letting his elder son bask in the glory of a successful mission. As Kap alumni on the rise, Moses and Ahmeni had been invited. So had Setau, decked out in a sparkling robe lent by Ramses.

  Ahmeni, single-minded as ever, mixed with Memphis city fathers, steering the conversation toward recent factory closings. Despite his persistence, he learned nothing new.

  Setau was hustled away by Shaanar’s head steward. A snake was loose in the milk locker. Setau found a likely chink in the wall, stuffed heads of garlic inside, and plugged it with a dead fish. The poor creature would never come out again. The steward’s relief was short-lived, since Setau had taken an instant dislike to him. When he accidentally freed a red-and-white reptile with fangs set deep in the upper jaw, Shaanar’s assistant took off like a rabbit. “Moron,” thought Setau. “Anyone can see this species is perfectly harmless.”

  Moses, attractive and manly, was surrounded by young women, as usual. Most of them wished they could talk to Ramses, but Iset was guarding him jealously. The group of classmates were making a fine reputation for themselves: Moses seemed destined for an important administrative position and Ramses’ courage would win him a command in the army, since there was no place for him at court.

  The two friends slipped out between dances and met in the garden, beneath a persea tree.

  “Did you hear Shaanar’s speech?” asked Moses.

  “No. Iset wasn’t interested.”

  “Your older brother openly proclaims himself the true victor in this campaign. Thanks to him, Egyptian losses were kept to a minimum, and diplomacy, not warfare, won the day. Moreover, he insinuates that Seti is growing older, worn out by his responsibilities, and should soon be ready to appoint a regent. Shaanar has already outlined his program: pro-trade, anti-war, economic cooperation with Egypt’s worst enemies.”

  “He’s disgusting.”

  “Not an appealing character, I grant you, but his plans do merit consideration.”

  “Reach out a hand to the Hittites, Moses, and they’ll cut off your arm.”

  “War is no solution.”

  “Shaanar will leave Egypt a second-rate, bankrupt power. The land of the pharaohs is in a class by itself. When we let our guard down, the Asian invaders came. It took all we had to uproot them and send them packing. If we lower our defenses, we’ll be exterminated.”

  Ramses’ vehemence surprised his friend.

  “Spoken like a leader, I admit, but is that the right direction?”

  “The only one that will kee
p our territory intact and protect the home of the gods.”

  “The gods . . . do the gods exist?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Before he had time to reply, a flock of girls surrounded him and Ramses, asking all sorts of questions about their future plans. Iset promptly came to her lover’s rescue.

  “Your brother cornered me,” she confessed.

  “What did he want?”

  “He still thinks I should marry him. Ask anyone at court, he says, anyone close to the government—it won’t be long before Seti names him as regent. I can be the Great Royal Wife, he tells me.”

  A strange sensation washed over Ramses. He was suddenly transported to Merur, contemplating a serious young girl as she copied out Ptah-hotep’s maxims by lamplight. Iset the Fair was alarmed by the look on his face.

  “Are you ill?”

  “You know very well that I’ve never been sick in my life.”

  “You seemed so far away.”

  “I was thinking. So did you accept his proposal?”

  “I’ve given my answer.”

  “Congratulations. You’ll be my queen, I’ll be your humble servant.”

  She pummeled his chest; he grasped her wrists.

  “I love you, Ramses. I want to spend my life with you. How can I make you understand that?”

  “Before I can become a husband and father, I need a clearer vision of my future. Give me time, Iset.”

  In the fragrant night, silence was slowly gathering. The musicians and dancers had left, along with the older courtiers. Here and there, in the vast palace gardens, information was being exchanged and sorry plots hatched—classic Memphis one-upmanship.

  From the kitchens, a cry shattered the quiet.

  Ramses was first on the scene. He found Shaanar’s head steward armed with a poker, beating a cringing old servant. The prince put the attacker in a stranglehold. When he dropped his weapon, the old man fled, huddling behind the other dishwashers.

  Moses ran in. “Stop, Ramses. You’ll kill him!”

  The prince loosened his hold. The steward, red-faced, choked and gasped for breath. “That old man is only a Hittite prisoner,” he said hoarsely. “He has to be taught to follow orders!”

  “Is that how you treat your workers?”

  “Only Hittites.”

  Shaanar, so richly attired he outdid his most elegant guests, dispersed the crowd now gathering in the kitchen. “Move along now. I’ll take care of this.”

  Ramses grabbed the steward by the hair and shoved him to the floor.

  “I accuse this coward of torture.”

  “Come, come, dear brother. Don’t get carried away! My steward can be a bit strict, but after all . . .”

  “I’ll bring charges and testify in court.”

  “And I thought you hated Hittites!”

  “This old man is no threat to us. He’s a palace servant and deserves fair treatment, according the law of Ma’at.”

  “No speeches, please! Let it drop, and I’ll owe you a favor.”

  “I’ll testify, too,” declared Moses. “We don’t need your bargains.”

  “Let’s not let things get out of hand,” soothed Shaanar.

  “Take the steward,” Ramses told Moses, “and hand him over to our friend Setau. Tomorrow I’ll request a special hearing.”

  “That’s illegal confinement!”

  “Do you plan to appear in court with your steward?”

  Shaanar caved in: too many reliable witnesses . . . better not be involved in a losing battle. The steward would merely be sentenced to exile in a desert oasis.

  “I won’t stand in the way of justice,” he concluded blithely.

  “Justice for all,” Ramses countered.

  “That’s what I meant,” hissed Shaanar.

  “If this is how you plan to govern the country, I’ll lead the opposition.”

  “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

  “I’m stating facts. Complete disregard for others is apparently part of your grand design.”

  “That’s going too far, Ramses. You owe me respect.”

  “I owe respect to the Lord of the Two Lands. Still Seti, the last I heard.”

  “Go ahead. Mock me, while you have the chance. Tomorrow you’ll have to obey me.”

  “Tomorrow is a long way off.”

  “That leaves you time to hang yourself with your own rope.”

  “Are you planning to treat me like a Hittite prisoner?”

  Exasperated, Shaanar stomped off.

  “Your brother is a dangerous man,” observed Moses. “Do you really need to challenge him like that?”

  “I’m not afraid of him. Now explain what you meant by asking me if the gods exist.”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that strange thoughts run through my mind and tear me apart. Until I can figure out what they mean, I’ll have no peace.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ahmeni refused to give up. His status as private secretary to Ramses, the royal scribe, opened doors for him, and once inside he knew how to make friends. Contacts in several government departments were soon helping him find information. He was able to check the list of ink manufacturers and the names of their owners. As Queen Tuya had discovered earlier, the documents concerning the suspect factory had mysteriously disappeared.

  At an impasse, Ahmeni hit on a different, less direct method: identifying merchants who dealt with the royal scribes and referring to the lists of property in their names, hoping that this would lead back to the north-side factory. Days of tedious research ended in utter frustration.

  Only one approach remained: a systematic search of the waste dumps, beginning with the one where he had nearly died. Before committing important documents to papyrus, a conscientious scribe wrote a draft on a scrap of limestone. Eventually it would be discarded in a pit with the thousands of others used in official business.

  There was no guarantee that such a draft existed for the deed to the abandoned factory. Nevertheless, Ahmeni began devoting two hours a day to the search, refusing to consider the odds of succeeding.

  Iset the Fair disapproved of Moses. The brooding Hebrew was a bad influence; each time he visited, Ramses grew moody. Her solution was to lead the prince on a dizzying round of social events, while avoiding any further mention of marriage. Before he knew what was happening, the prince was bouncing from one mansion, garden party, society ball to the next, like any idle young nobleman, leaving his private secretary in charge of business.

  Egypt was a dream come true, a garden of delights, a bountiful mother. There was a wealth of happiness to be found in the shade of a palm tree, the honeyed flesh of a date, the sighing wind, the beauty of the lotus and scent of the lily. Add to all that the passion of a woman in love, and you approached perfection.

  Iset thought she had finally won Ramses’ heart and mind. His spirits were high, his verve was matchless. In and out of bed, they rode on a wave of pleasure. Watcher concentrated on educating his palate with the help of some of the city’s finest chefs.

  It seemed as though Seti’s two sons were set on their respective paths: Shaanar would be a statesman, Ramses a social lion. Iset the Fair was quite content with this arrangement.

  One morning, she woke to find Ramses missing. Without even doing her face, she ran anxiously out to the garden and called her lover. When there was no answer, she grew frantic. Finally she found him, sitting near the well, meditating by a bed of irises.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You gave me such a fright. I can tell something’s on your mind,” she said, kneeling beside him.

  “I’m not cut out for the life you want me to live.”

  “That can’t be. Look how happy we are!”

  “It’s not the kind of happiness I need.”

  “Don’t ask too much of life; it will turn against you.”

  “When it does, I’ll be ready.”

  “Is pride a virtue?”

  “If it means you demand the
best from yourself, then yes. I need to have a talk with my father.”

  Since the truce with the Hittites, the Pharaoh was no longer under fire. There was general agreement that Seti had been wise to avoid a wider war with an uncertain outcome, even if the odds seemed to favor the Egyptian army.

  Shaanar’s propaganda campaign had failed to convince anyone other than himself that he had played a decisive role in the conflict. According to the ranking officers, the king’s son had excelled at watching from the sidelines.

  Pharaoh listened and worked.

  He listened to his advisers, a few of whom were honest, carefully weighing information, separating the wheat from the chaff, and never deciding in haste.

  He worked in his vast office in the main palace, with light coming from three tall barred windows. The walls were white and bare, the furnishings simple and austere: a broad table, a straight-backed armchair for the monarch and woven rush seats for his visitors, a cabinet for his papyrus documents.

  Here, in solitude and silence, the Lord of the Two Lands set the course of the world’s most powerful nation, trying to steer it according to the law of Ma’at, the incarnation of universal order.

  The silence was suddenly broken by shouts from the inner courtyard where the king and his councilors stationed their chariots.

  From one of his office windows, the king could see that a horse had just been spooked and had broken the rope to its hitching post. Now it was galloping around the yard and kicking wildly at anyone in its path. It knocked down a guard, then an elderly scribe who had been too slow in taking cover.

  As the animal caught its breath, Ramses ran out from behind a pillar, jumped on its back, and pulled hard on the reins. The bucking horse reared again and again in a vain attempt to throw the rider. Beaten, the animal snorted, strained, then quieted.

  Ramses jumped off. A soldier from the royal guardsmen came up to him.

  “Your father wishes to see you.”

  For the first time, the prince was admitted into the Pharaoh’s office. Its spareness surprised him. Instead of the regal luxury he expected, the room was almost bare and utterly plain. The king was seated, studying a papyrus scroll.