Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  Since returning from his last mysterious journey, the prince had changed. He had become more somber, often slipping away to meditate in silence. Ahmeni left him alone except to present a daily account of his activities. As a royal scribe and commanding officer, the prince had a number of administrative responsibilities, which his private secretary easily dealt with.

  At least, on the river journey to Thebes, Ahmeni would not have to deal with Iset the Fair. Every single day that Ramses was gone, she had come to insist he give her information that he simply did not possess. Since he was immune to her charms, their exchanges often became rather heated. When Ramses returned and Iset demanded the head of his private secretary, the prince had unceremoniously dismissed her and the couple had not spoken for several days. The pretty young noblewoman seemed to have a hard time digesting the fact that Ramses was always loyal to his friends.

  In his cramped cabin, Ahmeni composed letters for Ramses to stamp with his private seal. The prince came to sit on a reed mat beside the scribe.

  “How can you stay out in the hot sun like that?” Ahmeni exclaimed. “In less than an hour, I’d be fried.”

  “The sun and I understand each other. I worship him, he nourishes me. Why don’t you take a break and enjoy the scenery?”

  “Sitting around makes me sick. And I must say your last trip didn’t seem to do you much good.”

  “Is that a complaint?”

  “You keep to yourself these days.”

  “It could be your influence.”

  “Don’t make fun of me. Just go ahead and keep your secret.”

  “All right. I do have a secret.”

  “So you won’t confide in me anymore.”

  “In fact, you’re the only one who might understand what I can’t explain.”

  “Your father initiated you into the mysteries of Osiris?” Ahmeni asked, wide-eyed.

  “No, but he took me to meet his ancestors . . . all his ancestors.”

  Ramses’ tone was so serious as he said those words that the young scribe was flooded with emotion. He realized that the experience must have been a turning point in the prince’s life. He could not help blurting out the question: “Has Pharaoh changed his mind about you?”

  “I don’t know, but he changed me. I faced the god Set with him.”

  Ahmeni shivered.

  “And you’re . . . alive!”

  “Touch me.”

  “If it were anyone else claiming to meet Set, I wouldn’t believe him. With you, it’s different.”

  Haltingly, Ahmeni reached for Ramses’ hand, squeezed it, and sighed in relief. “So you didn’t turn into an evil spirit . . .”

  “Who can be sure?”

  “I can. You don’t look anything like Iset!”

  “Don’t be too hard on her.”

  “She tried to have me fired.”

  “Did I let her?”

  “Just don’t expect me to be nice to her.”

  “Perhaps you’re the one who needs a little more company.”

  “Women are dangerous. I prefer my work. And you should be thinking about your role in the festival of Opet. You’re to march in the first third of the procession, wearing a new linen robe, very fine, so be careful not to tear it. Stand up straight and walk slowly.”

  “You’re asking a lot of me.”

  “A trifle for someone in touch with the power of Set.”

  With Canaan and Syro-Palestine pacified, Galilee and Lebanon subjugated, the Bedouins and Nubians defeated, the Hittites contained beyond Orontes, there was no shadow over Egypt and Thebes. The most powerful country on earth had reasserted its control on both the northern and southern fronts. In the eight years of his reign, Seti had established himself as a great pharaoh, to be venerated by future generations.

  Court gossip maintained that Seti’s eternal home in the Valley of the Kings would be the largest and most beautiful ever built. Several architects were also at work at Karnak, where the Pharaoh was personally directing a huge construction project. There was nothing but praise for the West Bank temple at Gurnah, where the cult of Set, his ka or spiritual essence, would be celebrated for all eternity.

  The more restive elements now admitted that the sovereign had been correct not to launch a risky war against the Hittites; it was wiser to channel the country’s resources into building places of worship, testaments in stone to the divine presence. However, as Shaanar pointed out to his business contacts, the potential for developing trade relations was being neglected during this period of truce, and the best guarantee of future peace was international commerce.

  Many aristocrats and officials looked forward to the day when Shaanar came to power, for he was like them. Seti’s austerity and secretive ways were unpopular; some resented the extent to which he kept his own counsel. Shaanar was more open. Charming, pleasant, he knew how to make all parties to a discussion come away satisfied, telling each and every one what they wanted to hear. For Shaanar, the festival of Opet would be a perfect opportunity to extend his influence, winning over the high priest of Amon and his coterie.

  The fact that Ramses would be at the festival was irksome. However, Shaanar’s worst fears had not been confirmed; after Seti’s incomprehensible refusal to appoint Ramses Viceroy of Nubia, Pharaoh had done nothing to enhance the status of his younger son. Like so many other royal offspring, Ramses was enjoying a life of wealth and ease.

  It had been a mistake to fear Ramses and consider him a rival. His energy and physical presence were only a front: he had no breadth of vision. It would not even be necessary to have him appointed to Nubia, which might prove too great a responsibility. Shaanar would think of some honorary post, lieutenant in the charioteers, perhaps. Ramses would have the finest mounts and take charge of a troop of thick-witted horsemen, while Iset the Fair sighed over her rich prince’s bulging muscles.

  No, the danger lay elsewhere. How could he convince Seti to spend more time in the temples and concentrate less on affairs of state? The king might insist on his prerogatives and interfere with his co-regent’s initiatives. Shaanar would have to sweet-talk his father and steer him gently toward a life of meditation. Then, cultivating his contacts in the world of commerce, Shaanar would gradually take over. There would be no direct confrontation; Seti would simply be immobilized in the web of influence his son slowly wove.

  He must also neutralize his sister, Dolora. Talkative, nosy, and fickle, she would be of no use whatsoever in his future plan. In fact, she would resent being left out and might go so far as to plot against him with several wealthy and therefore indispensable courtiers. Shaanar had considered offering Dolora a huge villa, livestock, and an army of servants, but she would never be satisfied. Like him, she had a taste for intrigue. No swamp was big enough for two crocodiles, and he knew he was stronger than his sister.

  Iset the Fair tried on her fifth dress of the morning. It was no better than the first four. Too long, too full, not enough pleats . . . Irritated, she ordered her chambermaid to find another dressmaker. For the banquet marking the close of the festivities, she had to find something special—special enough to make Shaanar feel envious and Ramses excited.

  Her hairdresser came in, panting.

  “Hurry, hurry, my lady. Let me do your hair and put on a dress wig.”

  “Why all the rush?”

  “There’s a ceremony this morning at the temple of Gurnah, on the West Bank.”

  “What? The opening rites are tomorrow. I haven’t heard about this.”

  “But there is something going on. The whole town’s in an uproar. We have to hurry.”

  Vexed, Iset had to settle for a simple dress and plain wig that did nothing to accent her youth and beauty, but she could not afford to pass up this added event.

  The temple of Gurnah, once it was finished, would be consecrated to the cult of Seti’s immortal spirit, when he had returned to the ocean of energy after his brief incarnation in human form. Sculptors were still completing the inner sanctum, where t
he king was represented performing traditional religious rites. Nobles and dignitaries had flocked to the main facade, gathered in a huge open courtyard that would soon become a covered colonnade. Despite the early hour, most of them carried portable rectangular parasols to ward off the hot sun. Amused, Ramses observed these important personalities parading their elaborate outfits: long dresses, puffy-sleeved tunics, and black wigs made them look stiff and uncomfortable. As soon as Seti appeared, however, they would stop strutting and begin to grovel.

  The best-informed courtiers insisted that the king, after celebrating the morning rites at Karnak, was coming here to make a special offering to the god Amon in the room where his bark would be kept. Seti would pray for the strength of his ka and the continuation of his life force. That was the reason for this delay, which was physically very trying for the older members of the audience. Seti often lacked the human touch. Shaanar vowed he would do better, exploiting everyone’s weaknesses to his best advantage.

  A priest, his head shaven, wearing a plain white robe, emerged from inside the temple. Using a long staff, he made his way through the crowd. The guests stepped aside, wondering what would come next at this strange and unanticipated ceremony.

  The priest stopped in front of Ramses.

  “Follow me, Prince.”

  Many women remarked on Ramses’ looks and presence as he passed. Iset nearly swooned in admiration. Shaanar smiled. So this was it: his plan had worked after all, and his brother would be named Viceroy of Nubia before the feast of Opet. In no time, Ramses would be far, far away.

  Perplexed, Ramses stepped inside the temple, following his guide toward the left side of the building.

  The cedar door swung shut behind them and the guide placed the prince between two columns, opposite three darkened chapels. From the central chapel came a deep voice, belonging to Seti.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Ramses, son of the Pharaoh Seti.”

  “In this secret place, untouched by the profane, we celebrate the eternal presence of Ramses, our ancestor and the founder of our dynasty. Carved in these walls, his likeness will live forever. Will you undertake to honor the cult of Ramses and venerate his memory?”

  “I will.”

  “I speak as Amon, the hidden god. My son, come forward.”

  The chapel was illuminated.

  Seated on thrones were Pharaoh Seti and Queen Tuya. He wore the crown of Amon, with its signature of two tall plumes; she wore the white crown of his consort, Mut. They were king and queen; they were god and goddess. Ramses was their son and their divine offspring, completing the sacred trinity.

  Confused, the young man could not fathom this myth come to life, a myth whose meaning was revealed only in the Holy of Holies. He knelt before the two enthroned beings, discovering that they were far more than his father and mother.

  “My beloved son,” declared Seti, “receive the light from me.”

  Pharaoh laid his hands on Ramses’ head; the Great Royal Wife did the same.

  At once, the prince felt a gentle warmth that eased away his nervousness and tension, filling him with an unknown energy that penetrated every fiber of his being. From now on, he would be nurtured by the spirit of the royal couple.

  A hush fell when Seti appeared in the temple doorway, with Ramses on his right. Pharaoh wore the double headdress symbolizing the union of upper and lower Egypt; on Ramses’ head sat a simple crown.

  Shaanar was jolted awake. The Viceroy of Nubia wore no crown. There must be some mistake. This was madness!

  “I appoint my son to join me on the throne,” declared Seti in his deep and powerful voice, “so that I may witness his achievement in my lifetime. I name him co-regent of the kingdom. From this day forward, he will take part in all my decisions. He will learn to govern the country, to keep it united and strong. He will be at the head of the people and care more for them than for himself. He will fight enemies from within and without, enforcing the law of Ma’at by protecting the weak from the strong. I so proclaim, for great is the love I bear toward Ramses, son of light.”

  Shaanar pinched himself. It was only a bad dream. Seti would retract his decree. Ramses would shy away from a responsibility too overwhelming for a boy of sixteen . . . But then the high priest, at a nod from Pharaoh, fastened a golden uraeus on Ramses’ crown. The royal insignia bore a cobra ready to strike at the enemies, seen or unseen, of Egypt’s new regent and future pharaoh.

  The brief ceremony was over. Cheers rose high in the luminous sky above Thebes.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Ahmeni was checking the protocol directives. On the procession from Karnak to Luxor, Ramses would be placed between two old dignitaries and must take care not to rush them. Keeping a slow and solemn pace would be taxing for the prince.

  Ramses walked into the office, leaving the door open behind him. A draft swept in, causing Ahmeni to sneeze.

  “Close the door after you,” Ahmeni demanded crossly. “Other people can catch colds, even if you never do.”

  “Sorry,” said Ramses. “But is that any way to address the co-regent of the kingdom of Egypt?”

  The young scribe stared at his friend, wide-eyed. “What regent?”

  “Unless I was dreaming, that’s what my father just named me, in a special ceremony with the whole court in attendance.”

  “Tell me you’re joking!”

  “I accept your congratulations.”

  “Regent, oh my goodness . . . just think of the work!”

  “Your job description is about to get longer, my friend. My first official act is to name you my sandal-bearer. That way you won’t be able to leave me and I’ll profit from your advice.”

  In a daze, Ahmeni’s slight figure slumped forward in his chair. “Sandal-bearer and private secretary . . . what do the gods have against a poor young scribe like me?”

  “Check the protocol again before tomorrow, will you? I’m not in the middle of the procession anymore.”

  “Let me see him at once!” Iset the Fair demanded sharply.

  “Quite impossible,” answered Ahmeni, polishing a fine pair of white leather sandals for Ramses to wear during the upcoming ceremonies.

  “This time you know where he is, at least.”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me!”

  “It won’t do you any good.”

  “I’ll decide that!”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “A miserable little scribe has nothing to say about that!”

  Ahmeni set the sandals down on a reed mat.

  “A miserable scribe is what you call the prince regent’s private secretary and sandal-bearer? Please be a bit more civil, my good woman; Ramses wouldn’t think highly of you for abusing me.”

  Iset the Fair came close to slapping him, but checked herself. The impudent boy was right. The high esteem in which the prince regent held him made Ahmeni an official personage she could no longer heap with scorn. Grudgingly, she changed her tone.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me where the regent can be reached?”

  “As I was trying to tell you, it can’t be done. The king has taken him to Karnak, where they will spend the night in meditation before leading the procession to Luxor in the morning.”

  Iset left, feeling chastened. Now that a miracle had happened, would Ramses slip out of her grasp? No, she loved him and he loved her. Her instinct had steered her correctly, away from Shaanar and close to the new prince regent. Next she would be Great Royal Wife and Queen of Egypt!

  The thought sent a sudden chill through her. Thinking of Tuya, she realized what a great responsibility that meant. She clung to Ramses not out of ambition, but passion. She was mad about the man, not the reigning prince.

  Ramses as heir apparent—was it a miracle or a curse?

  In the uproar following Seti’s proclamation, Shaanar had seen his sister, Dolora, and her husband, Sary, elbow their way to the front of the crowd of well-wishers surging forward t
o congratulate the new regent. Still too stunned to react, Shaanar’s supporters had not openly sworn allegiance to Ramses, but he knew their defection was only a matter of time.

  He was obviously beaten, obviously out of the running. It was time for a gesture of conciliation. What more could he expect from Ramses than some honorary post with no real power?

  Shaanar would pay lip service, but no more. He would not give up. The future might have a few more surprises in store, and Ramses wasn’t Pharaoh yet. In the country’s history more than one regent had died before the reigning monarch who had chosen him. Seti’s strong constitution meant he might live for years, delegating only a tiny portion of his powers, leaving his regent hanging. Shaanar would be able to push him over the brink, steer him into fatal errors.

  In truth, nothing was lost.

  “Moses!” exclaimed Ramses, finding his friend on Seti’s vast construction site at Karnak. The Hebrew left the team of stonecutters he was directing and came to greet the new prince regent.

  “I bow to you, Prince—”

  “Get up, Moses.”

  They congratulated each other, glad of this unexpected meeting.

  “The first site you’ve managed?” Ramses asked.

  “The second. I learned brickmaking and stonecutting techniques on the West Bank, then was sent here. Seti wants to build a huge colonnade with papyrus flowers carved in the capitals, alternating with lotus buds. The walls will be like mountainsides with murals of Egypt’s glories. There’s never been anything like it.”

  “You’re proud of your project.”

  “A temple must be the embodiment of all the wonders of creation. Yes, I love this work. I think I’ve found my calling.”

  Seti joined the two young men and spelled out his plans for the temple. The covered colonnade built by Amenhotep III, with sixty-foot columns, no longer suited the grandeur of Karnak. He pictured a dense forest of pillars pierced with light from strategically placed windows. When the hall was completed, it would be a place of perpetual worship, with the gods and Pharaoh carved into the column shafts. The stone would contain the primeval light, the source of Egypt’s nourishment. Moses raised some technical questions about stress and support; the king referred him to a master builder from “the place of truth,” Deir el-Medina, the West Bank village where trade secrets were handed down from generation to generation of workmen.