“Only a pharaoh thinks like that. You’re just a young commander convincing yourself that one good massacre deserves another.”
“And not sure who will get it this time.”
“Lotus knows a brew that can ward off the evil eye. Come along and try some. You’ll be invincible.”
Seti was somber. He had called Ramses and the other officers to his tent and asked for their recommendations.
“Let’s keep advancing,” said one experienced officer. “We’ll go past the Third Cataract into Irem. A swift strike will do the trick.”
“They might be lying in wait for us,” said a junior man. “The Nubians know we favor moving fast.”
“True,” said Pharaoh. “To avoid a trap, we have to learn the enemy positions. I need volunteers to go under cover of darkness.”
“Risky,” the veteran observed.
Ramses stood up. “I volunteer.”
“So do I,” said the veteran, “and I know three more men as brave as the prince.”
THIRTY-ONE
The prince removed his headdress, his leather vest, his uniform kilt and sandals. For his night mission in the Nubian desert, he would blacken his body with coal and bring only a dagger. Before taking off, he stopped in Setau’s tent.
The snake charmer was boiling down a yellowish liquid; Lotus’s hibiscus brew was red.
“A red-and-black snake crawled under my sleeping mat. What a stroke of luck! Another new specimen, another good harvest. The gods are with us, Ramses! Nubia is a paradise. I wonder how many kinds of snakes live here?”
Finally noticing Ramses’ skin, he took a long look at the prince.
“Where are you going in that disguise?”
“To reconnoiter the rebel camps.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ll head straight south. There’s no way to miss them.”
“Just make sure you come back.”
“I’ll trust my luck.”
Setau nodded. “Try some of Lotus’s brew with us. At least you’ll taste a delicious new drink before the savages get you.”
The red liqueur had a fruity, refreshing taste. Lotus refilled his cup three times.
“In my opinion,” Setau declared, “you’re being foolish.”
“I’m doing my duty.”
“Big words! What if you’re only acting like a daredevil?”
“I’m not, I . . .”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, sure . . .”
“Sit down.”
“I have to go.”
“In this condition?”
“I’m fine, I . . .” Ramses slumped into Setau’s arms. His friend laid him on a reed mat by the fire and left his tent. Although he had been expecting the Pharaoh, Seti’s presence nonetheless impressed him.
“Thank you, Setau.”
“Lotus says it’s a harmless potion. Ramses will be back to normal in the morning. Don’t worry about the scouting mission: Lotus and I will go. She knows this country.”
“What can I do to thank you?”
“Nothing. I only want to keep your son from risking his neck.”
Seti left, and Setau felt a quiet pride. How many men earned Pharaoh’s personal thanks?
A ray of sunshine filtered into the tent, rousing Ramses. For a few minutes, he was in a fog. Then the truth hit. Setau and his Nubian sweetheart had drugged him!
Furious, he ran outside, right into Setau, sitting cross-legged and breakfasting on dried fish.
“Look where you’re going! You almost made me choke.”
“Well, you knocked me out.”
“Knocked some sense into you, I’d say.”
“I had a mission and you interfered.”
“Go and say thank you to Lotus. In fact, a kiss wouldn’t hurt. Last night she scouted the location of the main enemy camp.”
“But she’s one of them!”
“Her relatives were slaughtered in that village.”
“Is she really with us?”
“Are you getting skeptical in your old age? Yes, she’ll be loyal. That’s why she decided to help. The rebels are from a rival tribe and they’re ruining the most prosperous region in Nubia. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself. Go wash, dress, and have breakfast: your father is expecting you.”
The Egyptian force marched off in the direction Lotus indicated, with Ramses in front, perched on the elephant. For the first two hours, the beast walked easily, almost playfully, nibbling branches along the way. Then he grew more intent, staring straight ahead, moving slowly, quietly, light as a feather on his mammoth feet. Suddenly his trunk disappeared into the top of a palm tree, plucked out a Nubian armed with a slingshot, and smashed the lookout against the tree trunk, breaking his back.
Had the man had time to warn the rebel army? Ramses looked back, awaiting Pharaoh’s order. The signal was unequivocal: deployment and attack. The elephant forged ahead.
He had barely pushed through to the other side of the palm grove when Ramses saw them: hundreds of Nubian warriors. They were black as night, with ritual scars on their cheeks and gold hoops in their ears. Their heads were shaved in front and they had feathers stuck into their remaining hair. The soldiers wore spotted fur loincloths, the chiefs white robes with bright red sashes.
There was no opportunity to call for their surrender. As soon as they saw the elephant in the Egyptian army’s vanguard, they grabbed their bows and started firing. Their haste proved fatal; they scattered in all directions, while the Egyptian assault troops advanced in an orderly column, wave after wave.
Seti’s archers picked off the Nubian bowmen. Then the lancers came from behind to attack the slingshot brigade. The Egyptian foot soldiers used their shields to fight off a desperate hatchet charge, then stabbed the rebels.
The survivors threw their arms down in a panic, got to their knees, and begged for mercy. Seti raised his right hand, and the battle ended only a few minutes after it began. The victors tied their captives’ hands behind their backs to lead them away.
The elephant’s battle was not over. He walked to the biggest hut, brushed the roof away, and kicked in the mud walls, exposing two Nubians. One was tall and distinguished-looking, with a wide red sash across his shoulder. The other, shorter man, crouching nervously behind a straw basket, was the one who had speared the elephant’s trunk.
Now he used that trunk to pluck the man like a piece of ripe fruit and hold him in the air for a long moment. The small Nubian shouted and flailed, trying in vain to break the iron grip. The beast set him down. Before he had time to run for his life, a huge foot landed on his head. Unhurriedly, the elephant snuffed out the man who had caused him so much pain.
Ramses addressed the tall Nubian, who had quietly observed the scene, arms crossed.
“Are you their chief ?”
“Indeed I am, and you are very young to be dealing us such a blow.”
“The glory is Pharaoh’s.”
“Ah, your king is here . . . that must be why the medicine men said we couldn’t win. I should have listened.”
“Where are the other tribes involved in the uprising?”
“I’ll give you their positions. I’ll go to them myself and tell them to surrender. Will Pharaoh spare them?”
“Only he can say.”
Seti was relentless, attacking two more rebel camps the same day. Neither of them would heed the captive chief’s advice. As before, the engagements were brief. The Nubians battled disjointedly. At the thought of their sorcerers’ predictions, at the sight of Seti’s blazing eyes, their fighting spirit fled. In their minds, the war was doomed from the start.
At dawn the next day, the remaining tribes laid down their arms. They had heard about the king’s terrifying son, who rode a bull elephant trained to trample Nubians. Nothing could stop Pharaoh’s army.
Seti took six hundred prisoners. Along with them came fifty-four teenage boys, sixty-six girls, and forty-eight small children who would be educated in E
gypt and then sent back to Nubia, bringing with them a culture that complemented their own, championing peace with their powerful neighbor.
The king satisfied himself that the whole province of Irem had been liberated and that the wells seized by the rebels again served the rich farmland. From now on, the viceroy would tour the region at regular intervals to watch for signs of unrest. If the people had complaints about the government, he would listen and try to resolve them. In the case of a serious disagreement, Pharaoh himself would intervene.
Ramses already felt nostalgic; he was sad to be leaving Nubia. He wanted to ask his father for the post of viceroy and was sure he could do the job. When he next saw Seti, however, his father’s expression discouraged him from speaking. Then he told Ramses he planned to leave the current viceroy in place, though under threat of recall at the first sign of trouble.
The elephant’s trunk stroked Ramses’ cheek. Ignoring the pleas of his men, who wanted to see the beast parade through the streets of Memphis, Ramses decided to leave him free to roam. Ramses stroked the newly healed scar. The elephant’s trunk gestured toward the open plains, as if in invitation. But here the prince and the elephant parted ways.
For a while, Ramses stood there, missing his unexpected ally. He would have liked to go with him, discover the grasslands, learn the wisdom of the elephants. But the dream was over, and it was time to go home. The prince swore he would return to Nubia.
The Egyptians broke camp, singing. They had the highest praise for Seti and Ramses, who had turned a treacherous expedition into a resounding triumph. They left no ember of revolt for the natives to rekindle.
Passing some brush, the prince heard a moan. Had some wounded man been left behind by accident?
He parted the branches and found a frightened lion cub, struggling for breath. Its right leg was stiff and swollen; it whimpered feverishly. Ramses lifted the cub and felt its heart pounding erratically. Without treatment, the cub would surely die.
Luckily, Setau’s boat hadn’t left yet. Ramses brought him the patient. His examination left no room for doubt. “Snakebite,” Setau concluded.
“The prognosis?”
“Grim. Look here: three holes, for the two main fangs and a backup, plus twenty-six tooth marks. A cobra. This is a special cub, or it would be dead already.”
“Special?”
“Look at the paws: they’re twice as big as usual. This would have been a giant.”
“Will you try to save it?”
“One thing going for this little fellow: it’s winter. Cobra venom’s less potent at this time of year.”
Setau ground up some snakewood root from the eastern desert and mixed it with wine. He got some down the cub, then crushed the snakewood leaves into powder, mixed it with oil, and rubbed it on the little animal to stimulate its circulation.
On the voyage home, Ramses cared for the lion cub, applying plasters of dampened desert sand and leaves from the castor oil plant. The lion hardly moved now; without its mother’s milk, it was growing weak. Yet it looked up gratefully when the prince petted it, and purred.
“You’ll live,” Ramses promised, “and we’ll be friends.”
THIRTY-TWO
A first, Watcher was wary. Then he inched closer.
Finally the yellow dog timidly sniffed the lion cub, who stared at him in wonder. Though still weak, the cub was ready to play; it pounced on Watcher, nearly crushing him. The dog yelped and got away, but not quickly enough to escape a swat at his hindquarters.
Ramses took the cub by the neck and gave him a thorough lecture. Ears perked, the lion listened. Then the prince checked his dog, found only a scratch, and tried putting the two animals together again. Watcher pawed the lion’s face, somewhat spitefully. Setau called the cub Fighter. It beat a cobra’s venom, he said, which almost always meant certain death. The name would bring him luck, and besides, this cub was strong. Setau wondered aloud: a tame elephant, an oversized lion . . . perhaps Ramses only knew how to think big.
The lion cub and watchdog quickly sized each other up. Fighter became more careful and Watcher teased less. They became fast friends, running and playing to their hearts’ content. After meals, the dog curled up against the cub for a nap.
The court was abuzz with news of Ramses’ exploits. A man who could control an elephant and a lion had magical powers that must be taken seriously. Iset the Fair was truly proud, Shaanar deeply bitter. How could such sophisticated people be so naive? Ramses had been lucky, that was all. No one could communicate with wild animals. One day soon the lion would tear him to pieces.
Nevertheless, the king’s older son deemed it wise to maintain excellent outward relations with his brother. Along with the rest of Egypt, Shaanar applauded Seti for quashing the Nubian revolt, then made sure to stress Ramses’ contribution. He praised Ramses’ military valor and recommended official recognition.
During a banquet for veterans of the Asian campaign, during which Shaanar handed out rewards as the king’s delegate, the heir apparent asked to speak to his brother in private. Ramses waited until the end of the ceremony and the two men repaired to Shaanar’s office, newly redecorated with amazingly lifelike murals of flower beds and flitting butterflies.
“Wonderful, isn’t it? I find I work better in beautiful surroundings. Would you care for some new wine?”
“No, thank you. Official ceremonies wear me down.”
“Me, too, but someone has to do it. Our men need recognition. They risked their lives to protect our country, the same as you did. Outstanding performance in Nubia, after that rough beginning.”
Shaanar had put on more weight. He loved good food, avoided exercise, and was beginning to look like a portly provincial official, old beyond his years.
“Pharaoh ran a masterful campaign. His mere presence was decisive.”
“Of course, of course . . . but having you ride in on an elephant must have helped. I hear you were quite taken with Nubia.”
“Yes, I’d go back.”
“What do you think of the viceroy?”
“Worthless.”
“But Pharaoh let him keep the job.”
“Seti knows what he’s doing.”
“The situation can’t last. The viceroy is bound to have more trouble.”
“Unless he’s learned from experience.”
“Not awfully likely, brother dear. People tend to repeat their mistakes, and the viceroy is no exception, mark my words.”
“Then what will be will be.”
“It could have something to do with what you will be.”
“How so?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’d like to spend time in Nubia, and being appointed viceroy would be perfect. I can help you get the job.”
This was a prospect Ramses had not considered. Shaanar noted his discomfiture.
“You have a valid claim to the post. Having you on the scene would discourage even the thought of further revolt. It would be a chance to serve your country in a setting you love.”
A dream, an impossible dream. Life in the open with his lion and his dog, the Nile, the cliffs, the golden sands . . . the thought was too much.
“You’re joking,” he said finally.
“The king has seen you in action; he’ll listen when I explain why you’re cut out for the job. With the support I can orchestrate, it’s a sure thing.”
“If you say so.”
Shaanar applauded his brother’s good judgment.
In Nubia, Ramses would be out of his way.
Ahsha was bored.
Working at the State Department had grown stale after just a few weeks. Office work had no appeal for him; he needed to be out in the field. Making contacts, talking with people from every walk of life, detecting lies and secrets, important or petty, negotiating obstacles and getting to the heart of the matter—that was what he enjoyed.
Still, there was work to be done here in Memphis. Buckling under as he waited for an opening in Asia, a chance to understand what m
ade Egypt’s enemies tick, Ahsha followed the time-honored diplomatic tradition of snooping. Never asking favors, polite, cultured, discreet, he eased secrets out of senior men who were close-mouthed and suspicious. Little by little, he learned the content of their confidential files without ever having to read them. Careful flattery, judicious compliments, articulate comments, and pertinent questions helped make Ahsha’s reputation at the highest levels of the State Department.
Shaanar heard nothing but good reports on his young contact. Recruiting Ahsha had been a master stroke. During their frequent behind-the-scenes meetings, Ahsha spelled out the latest foreign policy secrets. Shaanar checked the information against his own facts. It was all part of his constant and methodical preparation for the task of ruling.
Since his return from Nubia, Seti seemed tired. Several of his advisers urged moving up Shaanar’s appointment as regent, to ease the burden of power. Since it was a foregone conclusion and there could be no objection, why wait any longer?
Shaanar, however, shrewdly backed off. His youth and inexperience worked against him, he insisted. Pharaoh, in his wisdom, would know the proper timing.
Ahmeni was back on the attack after being laid low by a chest cold. He was ready to show Ramses that the ink investigation was getting somewhere. Overwork had compromised his health, but he returned to his secretarial duties as diligently as ever, apologizing for falling behind. Although Ramses had never said a word, Ahmeni felt guilty. Taking a day off seemed like an unforgivable sin.
“I went through all the waste dumps and I found evidence.”
“Admissible in court?” asked Ramses.
“Two scraps of limestone that fit together perfectly, one with the address of our factory, the other with the name of the owner—chipped, unfortunately, but ending in R. I’m fairly sure it points to your brother.”
In Nubia, Ramses had virtually forgotten the loose ends he had left behind. The groom, the charioteer who had died twice, the counterfeit ink cakes . . . it all seemed so far away and hardly worth worrying about anymore.
Ramses, Volume I Page 17
