Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  The quarrying operation was carefully organized. Teams of granite cutters identified the best blocks, tested and approached them respectfully. Their work must be perfect; Egypt’s survival depended on it. Their hands gave birth to temples sheltering the forces of creation, statues containing the souls of the resurrected.

  Each pharaoh took a personal interest in the quarries and the working conditions that prevailed in them. The team leaders were happy to see Seti again and meet the prince regent, who seemed more like his father every day. They did not even know Shaanar by name.

  Seti called the head quarryman. Stocky, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, thick-fingered, Aper bowed low before the king, wondering whether he had come to praise or criticize.

  “The quarry seems quiet.”

  “Everything is in order, Majesty.”

  “Not what you claimed in your letter.”

  “My letter?”

  “Do you deny that you wrote to me?”

  “Writing . . . not my strong point. Don’t do it often, and I usually hire a scribe.”

  “Then you didn’t alert me to a conflict between the workmen and soldiers?”

  “Uh . . . there’s a little friction, but we work things out.”

  “And the foremen?”

  “We respect one another. They’re not city folk; they’re men who’ve come up through the ranks. They’ve worked with their hands and they know the trade. If one of them gets big ideas, we take him down a peg.” Aper rubbed his hands together, ready to deal with any abuse of authority.

  “And the main site—isn’t it nearly quarried out?”

  The head stonecutter gaped. “Uh . . . who told you?”

  “Is it the truth?”

  “More or less . . . good blocks are getting harder to find, we have to dig deeper; in two or three years, we’ll need to move on. If you already know that, you’re a mind reader.”

  “Show me the section we’re talking about.”

  Aper led Seti and Ramses to the top of a small hill with a view of nearly the whole operation.

  “There, to your left,” he said, pointing. “We’re having trouble cutting an obelisk.”

  “Let us have silence,” demanded Seti.

  Ramses saw his father’s face change. He stared at the rock walls with an extraordinary intensity, as if seeing inside them, as if his flesh were turning to granite. An almost unbearable heat seemed to blast from Seti. Gaping, the quarryman backed away. Ramses stayed at the king’s side, trying, like him, to see beyond outward appearances. His mind collided with solid rock; he felt a blow to the solar plexus, but stubbornly tried again. Ignoring the pain, he eventually pictured the different veins of stone. They seemed to surge up out of the earth, reaching toward the air and sun, taking on a specific form, then solidifying into pink granite, sprinkled with stars.

  “Leave the main site,” ordered Seti, “and move toward the right. Dig wide. We’ll find enough granite for decades to come.”

  Aper hurried to the spot the Pharaoh had indicated. His pick broke off an unpromising chunk of dark and worthless gangue. Digging deeper, he found that Seti was not mistaken: a beautiful and unusual new shade of granite came to light.

  “You saw it, too, Ramses. Keep at it, look into the heart of stone, and you will know.”

  In less than fifteen minutes, news of Pharaoh’s miracle had spread through the quarry, the dockyard, the town. It meant continued life for the quarrying operation and guaranteed prosperity for Aswan.

  “Aper didn’t write that letter,” Ramses concluded. “What do you think is behind it?”

  “I wasn’t lured here to relocate the quarry,” Seti agreed. “Whoever sent the letter had something else in mind, I’m sure.”

  “But what?”

  Perplexed, the king and his son headed down the narrow path carved in the hillside. Seti, surefooted, walked in front.

  A low rumble caught Ramses’ attention. As he turned to look, two small rocks bounced down the hillside like panicked gazelles, grazing his leg. They were followed by a shower of stone, then a huge block of granite hurtling toward them. Blinded by a cloud of dust, Ramses yelled, “Move, Father!” The young man jumped aside and stumbled.

  Seti’s strong grip pulled him clear. The granite careened down the hill. Shouts rang out. Quarrymen and stonecutters spotted a man on the run.

  “That’s him, over there! He pushed the block!” Aper cried. They were after him.

  Aper caught up with the man, stopping him cold with a blow to the back of the head. Unfortunately, the head quarryman underestimated his strength: a dead body was all he had to show the Pharaoh.

  “Who is he?” asked Seti.

  “I don’t know,” answered Aper. “Not from the quarry.”

  The Aswan police had no trouble identifying the corpse: a boatman who hauled pottery, a childless widower.

  “You were the target, Ramses,” his father told him. “But death had not written your name on that block of stone.”

  “Will you grant me the right to find out who’s responsible?”

  “I insist on it.”

  “Good. I know the perfect investigator.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Ahmeni was apprehensive and overjoyed.

  He was apprehensive after hearing Ramses’ account of his narrow escape from a dreadful death, the latest in a string of attempts on his life. He was overjoyed because the crown prince had just produced a remarkable piece of evidence: the letter sent to lure Seti to Aswan.

  “Beautifully written,” he noted. “Someone upper-class, cultured, accustomed to composing letters.”

  “So Pharaoh knew that it didn’t come from a quarry foreman and that there was something behind it?”

  “In my opinion, they were targeting both of you. Accidents have been known to happen in quarries.”

  “Will you help me investigate?”

  “Of course. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I have a confession to make. I never gave up trying to find the owner of the counterfeit ink factory. I wanted to find proof that Shaanar was behind it, but I couldn’t. Now you’re offering me something better.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Did they learn anything more about the boatman?”

  “No. There’s no way to trace whoever hired him.”

  “A real snake. We should get Setau to help us.”

  “Why don’t we?” asked Ramses.

  “I confess: I already asked him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Since it concerns your safety, he agreed to lend me a hand.”

  Shaanar was not at all fond of the south. The heat was oppressive and no one seemed to care what was going on in the world. The huge temple at Karnak, however, was such a rich and influential economic entity that no claimant to the throne could fail to curry the high priest’s favor. Shaanar had paid a courtesy call on the priest, during which they exchanged no more than platitudes. Still, it was gratifying to feel no ill will from this important religious leader, who observed political power struggles from a distance and would throw his support behind the strongest candidate when the time came. The fact he offered nothing positive about Ramses was an encouraging sign.

  Shaanar asked to be allowed to spend some time in meditation at the temple, a retreat from public life. His request was granted. A priest’s cell was not his idea of adequate lodging, but he would put up with it to achieve his goal of meeting with Moses.

  During a break at the work site, he found the Hebrew examining a column. It was carved with scenes depicting worship of the divine eye, which represented every means of apprehending the world.

  “Marvelous work! You’re a gifted builder.”

  Moses, leaner and tougher than ever, glanced at the man who spoke to him, noting his flabbiness with distaste.

  “I’m learning my trade. Any credit goes to the architects.”

  “Don’t be so modest.”

  “I have no use for flattery.”


  “I don’t think you care much for me.”

  “I hope it’s mutual.”

  “I came to Karnak to gather my thoughts and find some peace. Having Ramses named prince regent was a shock, I can tell you, but I’ll have to come to terms with reality. The quiet here is a help.”

  “I’m so glad for you.”

  “Don’t be blinded by your friendship for Ramses. My brother does not have good intentions. If you love order and justice, you’d better stay alert.”

  “Are you questioning Seti’s decision?”

  “My father is an exceptional man, but everyone makes mistakes. I’ve lost any claim to the throne, and I don’t regret it. My new position is satisfying. But what will happen if Egypt falls into the hands of someone inexperienced and power-hungry?”

  “What exactly are your intentions, Shaanar?”

  “Just to let you know what’s going on. I see great things in your future. Backing Ramses could be a disastrous error. By the time he comes to power, he’ll have alienated everyone. You’ll be forgotten.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Let’s take matters into our own hands.”

  “And make you the next pharaoh, I suppose.”

  “I have no personal ambition.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Then you’re mistaken. Serving my country is my only goal.”

  “Your gods can hear you, Shaanar. You know how they hate lies.”

  “Egypt is run by men, not gods. I rely on your support, Moses. Together we can make it work.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. Now leave me alone.”

  “You’ll regret this.”

  “I don’t want to raise my voice or my fists in this holy place, but if you like, we can continue the discussion outside.”

  “That won’t be necessary. But remember my warning. One day you’ll thank me.”

  Moses’ angry face kept Shaanar from going any further. As he had feared, his mission was a failure. The Hebrew would be much harder to win over than Ahsha. But even Moses must have his weaknesses. Time would tell.

  Dolora shoved Ahmeni rudely aside, rushing into her younger brother’s office like an ill wind.

  Ramses, sitting cross-legged on a reed mat, was copying over one of Seti’s decrees on forestry.

  “Aren’t you ever going to do anything?” Dolora screamed.

  “I’m doing something right now, dear sister. May I ask why you’re calling?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about!”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “Sary is still waiting for his new appointment.”

  “See Pharaoh about that.”

  “He says he can’t give family members an unfair advantage! Of all the—”

  “The subject is closed, then.”

  Dolora grew even more furious. “This decision is what’s unfair! My husband deserves a promotion, and as regent you should name him to oversee the granaries!”

  “Would a regent go against Pharaoh’s wishes?”

  “Don’t behave like a coward.”

  “I won’t commit high treason.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Please calm down.”

  “Give us what we deserve.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You act so incorruptible, Ramses, but everyone needs friends. Watch out or you’ll lose the few you have!”

  “Dolora, you’re usually so amiable.”

  “I thought Shaanar was bad. You’re ten times worse! Why won’t you help me?”

  “Be content with what you have, Dolora. The gods hate greed.”

  “Spare me your outdated morals,” she said, storming out.

  Majestic sycamores grew in the garden of Iset the Fair’s family mansion. The young woman basked in their refreshing shade, while Ramses transplanted young shoots in the loamy, well-worked soil. Above, the leaves rustled in a light north wind. This was the tree of the goddess Hathor. Its green branches were outstretched to the netherworld, offering shelter and sustenance to the souls of the just, wrapping them in the divine fragrance that charmed the master of eternity.

  Iset picked lotus flowers and tucked them in her hair.

  “Would you care for some grapes?”

  “In twenty years, another tall sycamore will make this garden even more pleasant.”

  “In twenty years, I’ll be old.”

  Ramses looked at her attentively. “Keep taking care of yourself, and you’ll look even better than you do now.”

  “Will I finally be married to the man I love?”

  “I’m no fortune-teller.”

  She slapped him on the chest with a flower. “I hear you had a close call in the quarry at Aswan.”

  “With Seti to protect me, I’m invulnerable.”

  “But it was another attempt on your life.”

  “Don’t worry. This time we’ll find out who did it.”

  She took off her wig, undid her long hair and let it spill over Ramses, her warm lips covering him with kisses.

  “Is it so complicated to be happy?”

  “If you know how, go ahead.”

  “All I want is to be with you. When will you understand that?”

  “Any moment now.”

  Clinging together, they rolled to one side. Iset welcomed her lover’s desire like a blessing.

  Papyrus production was a major economic activity. The price varied according to the length and quality of rolls. Some, bearing passages from The Book of Coming Forth by Day (also known as The Book of the Dead), was destined for tombs; some was sent to schools and universities; most was reserved for government use. Without papyrus, it would be impossible to run the country.

  Seti had given the crown prince responsibility for inspecting papyrus production at regular intervals and making sure it was fairly distributed. Each sector complained of receiving inadequate supplies and pointed a finger at greedy competitors.

  Ramses had uncovered excess consumption by Shaanar’s scribes. Hoping to correct the situation, he called his brother in for a talk.

  Shaanar seemed in excellent spirits. “If there’s anything at all I can do for you, Ramses, let me know.”

  “Do your scribes report directly to you?”

  “Yes, but I can’t say I watch them too closely.”

  “For instance, how do you purchase papyrus?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “In fact, for no apparent reason your scribes have consistently requisitioned large quantities of first-quality papyrus.”

  “I like to use the finest writing materials, but I admit that stockpiling is an unfair practice. Whoever is responsible will be severely punished.”

  No arguing, even admitting he was in the wrong: Shaanar’s reaction surprised the regent.

  “Absolutely the right approach,” declared Shaanar. “A new broom sweeps clean, as they say. Not even the slightest government corruption should be tolerated. I’m sure I can be of help to you in the matter: as chief of protocol, I keep a close watch on what’s happening at court, and I can detect irregularities. Merely reporting them won’t be enough; seeing them rectified is indispensable.”

  Ramses wondered if this could really be his older brother talking. Which benevolent god had turned the crafty courtier into a seeker of justice?

  “I gladly accept your proposal.”

  “Nothing could please me more than working hand in hand with you! I’ll start by putting my own house in order; then we’ll get to work on the rest of the kingdom.”

  “Are things as bad as all that?”

  “Seti is a great ruler, whose name will go down in history, but he can’t be everywhere and do everything. Let’s say you’re a nobleman, like your father and grandfather before you. It’s easy to take more than your due, trampling the rights of others, without even realizing it. As regent, you can put an end to this laxity. I know I’ve overstepped my bounds in the past, but those days are over. We’re brothe
rs, Pharaoh has given each of us his rightful place. We must live according to that truth.”

  “Is this a truce or an armistice?”

  “A peace agreement, signed, sealed, and delivered,” Shaanar affirmed. “We’ve had our conflicts, and each of us has been partly responsible for them. Brother against brother no longer makes sense. You’re the regent, I’m chief of protocol. Let’s work together for the good of the country.”

  When Shaanar left, Ramses was troubled. Was he just changing strategy in order to lay another trap, or could he possibly be sincere?

  FORTY

  Pharaoh’s advisory body met immediately after the morning rites. The sun beat down; shade was at a premium. Overweight courtiers sweated copiously, calling to be fanned each time they moved.

  Fortunately, the king’s audience chamber was well designed for the heat, with high windows allowing cool air to circulate. Unconcerned with fashion, the king wore only a simple white robe, while several ministers were elaborately dressed. The vizier, the high priests of Memphis and Heliopolis, and the chief of the desert patrol had been called to this special session.

  Ramses, seated at his father’s right, observed them. The fearful, the nervous, the vain, the levelheaded . . . so many different types of men were gathered together here, under the supreme authority of the Pharaoh. Without him, they might have torn each other apart.

  “The chief of the desert patrol has some bad news for us,” Seti revealed. “We’ll hear him first.”

  The police chief, in his early sixties, had worked his way up to the top of his profession. Calm, competent, he knew every turn in every desert trail, both east and west of the Nile, and maintained security for the caravans and mining convoys that crossed the vast empty spaces. No higher office tempted him; he looked forward to a quiet retirement on his property at Aswan. He was rarely asked to address such a high-level gathering, which made his audience all the more attentive.

  “The gold-mining expedition that left a month ago for the eastern desert has disappeared,” he began.

  A long silence greeted his blunt and horrifying statement. Set himself could not have left them more thunderstruck. The high priest of Ptah asked for the floor, and the king granted it, according to council ritual. No member spoke otherwise, and there were never interruptions. No matter how grave the subject under discussion was, one voice was heard at a time. The search for a just solution began with respect for the views of others.