Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  “The answer depends on Pharaoh.”

  “Putting me off, are you?”

  “No, telling the truth.”

  “Good. I’m a warrior and I’ve killed men before. I’ll wager you haven’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  Menelaus’s small dark eyes glinted with anger.

  “If you were one of my subjects, I’d cut you down to size.”

  “Lucky for me I’m Egyptian.”

  Menelaus and Ramses locked eyes. The King of Sparta was first to look away.

  “I’ll wait on board for my answer.”

  Ramses’ negative recommendation did not meet with unanimous approval at the limited council session. Certainly Menelaus and the remnants of his armed forces posed no immediate or future threat to Egypt, but still, he was a king and deserved to be treated accordingly. Ramses listened but remained unconvinced. The man was a roughneck solider, a bloodthirsty Spartan warrior hell-bent on pillaging and razing cities. Offering hospitality to such an outlaw did not seem appropriate.

  The secretary of state, Meba, departed from his habitual reserve. “The regent’s stance seems dangerous to me,” he said. “Menelaus must not be turned away lightly. Our foreign policy is based on maintaining good relations with many countries, large and small, to discourage potential alliances against us.”

  “The Greek is a scoundrel,” declared Ramses. “You can tell from his eyes.”

  Meba, a fine-looking man of sixty with a broad, reassuring face and soft voice, smiled indulgently at the prince. “Diplomacy cannot have its basis in feelings; at times we’re forced to deal with people we dislike.”

  “Menelaus will betray us,” continued Ramses. “He is not a man of his word.”

  “The regent’s youth may incline him to make snap judgments,” protested Meba. “Menelaus is a Greek; we know them to be sly. Perhaps he hasn’t told the whole truth. We must proceed slowly and find out what is behind this visit.”

  “We will invite Menelaus and his wife to dinner at the palace,” declared Seti. “Their behavior will dictate our response.”

  Menelaus presented the Pharaoh with beautifully worked metal vessels and bows made from a combination of woods, which had proved most effective in warfare with the Trojans. The Spartan officers wore boots, colored skirts with geometric trim, flowing waist-length hair.

  Nectar wafted from Helen’s green dress and the white veil that covered her face. She sat at Tuya’s left, while Menelaus was to the right of Seti. Pharaoh’s stern face inhibited the visitor; Meba carried the conversation. Oasis wine loosened the Spartan’s tongue to the point where he lamented the long years spent besieging Troy, related his exploits, extolled his friend Odysseus, deplored the cruelty of the gods, and vaunted the charms of the homeland he so longed to see again. The secretary of state, who spoke flawless Greek, seemed swayed by his guest’s jeremiad.

  “Why do you hide your face?” Tuya asked Helen in her own language.

  “Because no one can bear to see it. So many brave men have died because of my face! When Paris, the Trojan prince, kidnapped me, I never dreamed that his rash act would lead to ten years of bloodshed. A hundred times I wished I could be blown away by the wind or washed out to sea. Too much misery . . . I’ve caused too much misery.”

  “But now you’re free, aren’t you?”

  Beneath the white veil, a pathetic smile. “Menelaus won’t forgive me.”

  “Time will ease your pain, now that you’re back together.”

  “It’s worse than that . . .”

  Tuya let Helen keep her grave silence. She would speak if she wished.

  “I hate my husband,” said the beautiful white-skinned woman.

  “A passing resentment?”

  “No, I’ve never loved him. I hoped against hope that Troy would win. Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, Helen?”

  “Please let me stay here as long as you can. I dread my return to Sparta.”

  Shaanar, as chief of protocol, had cautiously placed Ramses at a distance from Menelaus. The regent’s dinner partner was a man with a white beard flowing from his lined, craggy face. He ate slowly and seasoned all his food with olive oil.

  “The key to good health, my prince!”

  “My name is Ramses.”

  “Mine is Homer.”

  “Are you a general?”

  “No, a poet. My eyesight is bad, but my memory is excellent.”

  “A poet, with a brute like Menelaus?”

  “I happened to hear he was sailing for Egypt, the land of wisdom and letters. After all my roaming, I’d like to settle here and work in peace.”

  “Menelaus won’t be here long, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Does your opinion count?”

  “It should. I’m the Pharaoh’s co-regent.”

  “You’re so young. Why do you hate Greeks?”

  “I was talking about Menelaus, not you, sir. Where would you plan to stay?”

  “Somewhere more comfortable than a boat! It’s cramped, my gear is stowed belowdecks, and I can’t stand sailors. The howling wind and the waves don’t inspire me, either.”

  “Would you accept my help?”

  “Your Greek is good.”

  “A friend of mine taught me, mostly. He speaks every language; now he’s a diplomat.”

  “Do you like poetry?”

  “I’ll introduce you to our great authors.”

  “If we share the same tastes, we may get along after all.”

  The secretary of state relayed Pharaoh’s decision to Shaanar: Menelaus had been granted permission to stay in Egypt. His fleet would be repaired, he would live in a centrally located Memphis mansion, his troops would be placed under Egyptian command and must adhere to the strictest discipline.

  Pharaoh’s older son was appointed to show the Spartan king around Memphis. Day after tiring day, Shaanar tried to give Menelaus a rudimentary understanding of Egyptian culture, but his efforts were frustrated by the Greek’s indifference, so marked that it bordered on rudeness.

  Architecture, on the other hand, excited him. He could not conceal his amazement when they visited temples.

  “First-rate forts! It must not be easy to storm those walls.”

  “They’re dwelling places for our divinities,” Shaanar explained.

  “Warrior gods?”

  “No, Ptah is the patron of all the arts, the creative urge. Hathor is the goddess of joy and music.”

  “Why do they need such thick walls around them?”

  “The sacred cults are placed in the hands of experts who shelter and feed the divine energy. No one may enter the enclosed sanctuary without first being initiated into certain mysteries.”

  “In other words, as the King of Sparta, son of Zeus, and conqueror of Troy, I have no right to pass through those golden doors.”

  “Correct. Though on feast days, with Pharaoh’s permission, you might be allowed in the outer courtyard.”

  “And what secret rites would I witness?”

  “The great offering to the god who resides in the temple and enriches the earth with divine energy.”

  “Humph!”

  Shaanar showed infinite patience. Although Menelaus was rather crude of manner and speech, he felt a certain bond with this shrewd-eyed stranger. His intuition told him that unfailing courtesy would wear down the Greek’s defenses.

  Menelaus returned again and again to his ten years of warfare, ending in Troy’s defeat. He deplored the cruel fate of his allies who fell to the enemy, criticized Helen, hoped that Homer soon would write of the Greeks’ high deeds and be sure to show him in a good light.

  Shaanar tried to learn exactly how Troy fell. Menelaus described fierce engagements, feats of bravery from Achilles and the other heroes, their firm resolve not to leave without Helen.

  “In such a long war,” hinted Shaanar, “surely your strategy must have included a trick or two.”

  Hesitant at first, Menelaus opened up to
him. “Odysseus hit on the idea of building a big wooden horse and hiding our soldiers inside it. The Trojans were foolish enough to let it through their gates, and we were able to launch a surprise attack within their own walls.”

  “I’m sure Odysseus didn’t think of it all alone.”

  “We discussed it together, but . . .”

  “He was only interpreting your thoughts, I’m sure of it.”

  Menelaus puffed with pride. “Yes, it’s quite possible he was.”

  Shaanar spent the greater part of his time cementing his friendship with the Spartan king. He had a strategy in mind as well—a new way to eliminate Ramses and regain his rightful place as sole heir to the throne of Egypt.

  FORTY-FOUR

  In his garden, beneath the grape arbor, Shaanar entertained Menelaus in the manner befitting his royalty. The Greek admired the dark green leaves and the laden vines, feasting on the plump blue-black fruit before their meal was served. Pigeon stew, roast beef, quails with honey, delicately seasoned pork chops, and pork kidneys delighted his palate. He never tired of watching the scantily clad young women who played lovely tunes on their woodwinds and strings.

  “Egypt is quite a country,” he admitted. “Better than the battlefield.”

  “Is the residence we chose for you acceptable?”

  “Acceptable? It’s a palace! When I get home, I’ll have my architects build me one just like it.”

  “The servants?”

  “Very attentive.”

  At the Spartan’s request, a granite tub had been installed in the mansion. He had it filled with warm water and soaked there endlessly. His steward judged the process unhygienic and enervating; like his fellow Egyptians, he preferred showers. But he followed Shaanar’s instructions, and had a masseuse come daily to rub the Greek hero’s scar-covered body with oils.

  “But those slave girls of yours aren’t very cooperative,” he complained to Shaanar. “At home, they’d never make such a fuss. After I bathe, they pleasure me in whichever way I choose.”

  “There are no slaves in Egypt,” Shaanar explained. “These women are paid workers.”

  “No slaves? We could teach you a thing or two, then.”

  “Yes, Egypt needs men of your stature.”

  Menelaus pushed aside his alabaster dish of honeyed quail. Shaanar’s remark had ruined his appetite.

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “Egypt is a rich and powerful country, but we might benefit from a more forward-looking government.”

  “The way I understand it, Pharaoh is the government, and you’re his son.”

  “That makes me proud, but not necessarily blind.”

  “Seti is an impressive figure. Not even Agamemnon had as much authority. If you’re plotting against him, give up. You’ll never win. He has supernatural powers. I’m no coward, but I’m afraid to look him in the eye.”

  “Who said anything about a plot? The entire population worships Seti, but he is also a man and no longer in the best of health, apparently.”

  “Isn’t that why he named a regent? He’s grooming his successor.”

  “If Ramses comes to power, Egypt is done for. My brother is incompetent.”

  “But if you oppose him, it would mean going against your father’s wishes.”

  “Ramses has the Pharaoh fooled. If you side with me, your future will be assured.”

  “My future is sailing home as fast as I can! Yes, Egypt is richer than I ever thought possible, but I’m a guest here, not a ruler. Forget your crazy schemes, my friend.”

  Nefertari had taken Helen to see the harem at Merur; the golden-haired beauty was enthralled with the splendors of Egypt. Bruised and weary, she once again had moments of joy, walking in gardens and listening to music. The refined climate of Tuya’s household had been a balm to her spirit over the past few weeks. The latest news, however, had plunged her into despair again: two Greek ships were already seaworthy. She would soon be leaving.

  Sitting by a pond where blue lotus flowers drifted, Helen gave in to her tears.

  “Forgive me, Nefertari.”

  “When you go home, won’t you be a queen again?”

  “Menelaus will keep up appearances. The great warrior, who destroyed a city, burned and slaughtered to win his wife back and avenge the stain on his honor. For me, it will be a living hell. Death would be easier.”

  Nefertari said no empty words of comfort. Instead, she taught Helen to weave. Helen took to it immediately, spending her days by the looms, picking the brains of more experienced weavers. Soon she was designing her own luxury fabrics. Her nimble touch won the admiration of the professionals. The craft took her mind off Troy, Menelaus, and the inevitable return to Sparta, until the evening when Queen Tuya’s sedan chair was borne through the harem gates.

  Helen ran to her room and threw herself, sobbing, onto the bed. The fact that the Great Royal Wife had arrived meant the end of a happy interlude that would be her last. She regretted not having the strength to kill herself.

  Gently, Nefertari tried to rouse her.

  “The queen is asking for you.”

  “Don’t make me go.”

  “Tuya must not be kept waiting.”

  Helen yielded. Once again, she was not mistress of her destiny.

  Menelaus was unprepared for the skill of the Egyptian shipbuilders. The rumor that Pharaoh’s boats could sail for months at a time seemed plausible, given the speed with which the Memphis naval yard had reconditioned the Greek fleet. He had seen huge barges that could carry an entire obelisk, clippers and warships he would not care to meet in battle. Egyptian defense forces more than lived up to the stories about them.

  Well, no need to suffer by comparison. He was going home! This stop in Egypt had allowed him to regain his usual energy. His soldiers had received medical attention and an improved diet. Now the boats were ready to sail.

  Marching briskly, Menelaus headed to the Great Royal Wife’s residence, where Helen had been staying since her return from Merur. Nefertari showed him in.

  He found his wife wearing an Egyptian-style linen gown with shoulder straps. She looked almost indecent. Fortunately, no local Paris would think of kidnapping her. It would be strictly against pharaonic law, and furthermore the women here seemed much more independent than they were in Greece. They were not confined to their quarters, but walked about freely, their faces uncovered; they resisted men and even held government posts. Erroneous ways, and one import Menelaus would be sure not to take back to Greece.

  When her husband walked in, Helen, her attention focused on her loom, neglected to stand.

  “It’s me, Helen.”

  “I know.”

  “Is that all the greeting I get?”

  “How should I greet you?”

  “But . . . I am your husband and your master!”

  “The only master here is Pharaoh.”

  “We’re leaving for Sparta.”

  “I still have a long way to go on this fabric.”

  “Get up and come with me.”

  “I’m not going with you, Menelaus.”

  The Greek king lunged at his wife, trying to drag her by the wrist. The dagger that she brandished forced him to back away.

  “Don’t attack me, or I’ll call for help. In Egypt, rape is punishable by death.”

  “You are my wife! You belong to me!”

  “Queen Tuya has put me in charge of her weavers. It’s an honor that I intend to live up to. My shop will make the fabrics worn by all the noblewomen of Egypt. When I’m tired of it, we can leave. If you can’t wait that long, don’t let me keep you.”

  Menelaus had broken two swords and three lances over the millstone at his mansion. The baker and the other servants were so alarmed that they were ready to fetch the police when Shaanar stepped in. Pharaoh’s older son kept a careful distance until the Greek’s fury was spent. When the hero’s sword arm finally grew tired, Shaanar brought him a cup of strong beer.

  The king of Spar
ta gulped it down and sat heavily on the millstone.

  “The bitch! Up to the same old tricks again.”

  “I understand your anger, but it serves no purpose. Helen is free to choose where she lives.”

  “Free! A culture that gives so much freedom to women deserves to perish!”

  “Will you stay in Memphis?”

  “Do I have any choice? If I go back to Sparta without Helen, I’ll be a laughingstock. My people won’t respect me and one of my faithful officers will slit my throat while I’m sleeping. I must have that woman!”

  “The job Tuya’s given her is no mere token; the queen has a very high opinion of your wife.”

  “My wife. Damn her!” He pounded his fist on the millstone.

  “It’s no use lamenting. You and I have better things to do.”

  The Greek listened closely.

  “If I become Pharaoh, I’ll deliver Helen to you.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Help me get rid of Ramses.”

  “Seti could live to be a hundred!”

  “Nine years on the throne have begun to take their toll, and constant work has undermined his health. Our preparations, though, will take time. Once the throne is officially vacant, while the country is in mourning, we must be ready to move, strike hard and fast.”

  Menelaus slumped forward. “How long will we have to wait?”

  “Our luck will turn, believe me. In the meantime, there’s plenty to be done behind the scenes.”

  Leaning on Ramses, Homer explored his new surroundings, a tidy villa set in a garden, only a block or so from the regent’s wing of the palace. A cook, a chambermaid, and a gardener formed the poet’s staff. His sole requests were a good supply of olive oil and some full-bodied wine, with anise and coriander to spice it.

  Nearly blind, Homer bent close to each tree, each flower. He seemed to sense something missing. Ramses worried that he might not find his quarters adequate, fine and new though they were. Suddenly, the poet halted, inhaling deeply.