Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  “Not acceptable,” huffed Ahmeni.

  Ramses was so used to his secretary’s constant complaints that sometimes he only half-listened.

  “Not in the least acceptable,” he repeated.

  “What? Are they selling you second-rate papyrus now?”

  “You know that would never pass. But don’t you see what’s happening around you?”

  “Well, Pharaoh is still going strong, my mother and my wife think the world of each other, the country is at peace, Homer is writing his epic . . . what more could we want? Ah, I’ve got it! You’re not yet married!”

  “I have no time for such foolishness. Honestly, don’t you see anything strange?”

  “Honestly, no.”

  “You only have eyes for Nefertari, and who can blame you? It’s a good thing that I still look out for your interests.”

  “It is. So out with it, man!”

  “I’ve been hearing things. Someone is trying to ruin your reputation.”

  “Shaanar?”

  “Your older brother has been unusually quiet these last few months, but somehow the tide of opinion is turning against you.”

  “It’s only talk.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Someday I’ll get rid of those old busybodies at court!”

  “They know it, too,” observed Ahmeni. “That’s why they’ll fight you.”

  “They may gossip in the palace and plot in their plush salons, but they’re too scared to cross me out in the open.”

  “I agree in theory, but I’m still afraid there’s something brewing.”

  “Seti has named his successor. Everything else is speculation.”

  “Do you believe Shaanar has given up?”

  “You just told me how well behaved he’s been.”

  “That’s what bothers me. It’s not at all like him!”

  “You worry too much, old friend. Seti will protect us.”

  “As long as he’s alive,” thought Ahmeni, resolving somehow to make Ramses see the quicksand under their feet.

  FIFTY

  The tiny daughter born to Ramses and Nefertari lived only two months. Lacking an appetite, she faded back into the netherworld. The doctors fretted even more over the young mother. Seti had to channel his energy into her every day for three weeks before she could begin to overcome her grief.

  The prince regent was at his wife’s side constantly. Nefertari never complained. Death was notoriously fond of infants, whatever their station in life. Another child would be born of her love for Ramses.

  Little Kha, on the other hand, was thriving. A wet nurse cared for him while Iset played an increasingly prominent role in Theban society. She listened sympathetically to Dolora and Sary’s grievances, aghast at Ramses’ unfairness. The southern capital shuddered at the thought of the regent’s ascension; he was regarded as a potential despot, flouting the law of Ma’at. Iset tried to protest, but was quickly shouted down. Was the man she loved really a power-hungry tyrant, an inhuman monster?

  Little by little, Shaanar’s proposal crept back into her mind.

  Seti pushed himself harder than ever. When there was an opening in his schedule, he summoned Ramses. Deep in conversation, father and son would stroll in the palace gardens. Seti, who had no taste for writing, transmitted his knowledge orally. Other kings had composed maxims to prepare their successors; he preferred direct transmission, from old mouth to young ear.

  “This knowledge will not be enough,” Seti cautioned. “Think of it as a foot soldier’s shield and sword, to aid in defense and attack. When things are going well for the country, everyone will take credit; when there’s a turn for the worse, it’s all your fault. If you make a mistake, blame no one but yourself and do your best to correct it. The just exercise of power is a constant series of corrections, seeking balance in thought and deed. The time has come, my son, for me to send you out on a mission alone.”

  Ramses tried to feel pleased. He would have preferred to sit listening at his father’s feet for years.

  “A small town in Nubia is challenging the viceroy’s authority. The reports that have reached me are unclear. I want you to go there and decide on a course of action—decide in the name of the Pharaoh.”

  Nubia was as bewitching as ever, to the point that Ramses almost forgot this was not a pleasure trip. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The golden sands and blood-red rocks made him feel as light as the warm breeze rustling the palms. He was tempted to send his soldiers back to Egypt and wander off alone through this sublime country.

  But here was the Viceroy of Nubia bowing before him, still verbose and servile.

  “I trust my reports were informative?”

  “Seti found them confusing.”

  “The situation couldn’t be clearer! There’s a rebellion that must be put down at once.”

  “Have you suffered any losses?”

  “No, but only because I’ve been cautious. I was waiting for you to come.”

  “Why didn’t you make a move, if the matter’s so urgent?”

  The viceroy babbled, “Uh . . . No way of knowing . . . Large numbers . . . Might be—”

  “Take me there,” ordered Ramses.

  “Some light refreshments first?”

  “Let’s go.”

  “In this heat? I thought the end of the day would be a good time—”

  Ramses’ chariot was already off.

  The village slumbered by the Nile, in the shade of a palm grove. Men milked cows, women prepared food, naked children splashed in the river. Underfed dogs were curled up outside the huts.

  The Egyptian forces were posted on the surrounding hilltops, vastly outnumbering the villagers.

  “This is the rebel stronghold?” Ramses asked the viceroy.

  “Don’t be deceived by appearances,” he warned.

  The scouts were positive: no Nubian warriors anywhere in sight.

  “The village chief challenged my authority,” asserted the viceroy. “Without a forceful response, the unrest could spread. Let’s take them by surprise and wipe out the village. That will keep things quiet for a while!”

  A woman had just noticed the Egyptian soldiers. She screamed. The children came running out of the water and ducked back inside the huts with their mothers. The men grabbed bows, arrows, spears, and gathered in the center of the village.

  “See!” exclaimed the viceroy. “Just as I predicted.”

  The chief came forward, proud of bearing, with two ostrich plumes in his hair, a red sash across his chest, and in his right hand a six-foot pike trimmed with streamers.

  “He’s going to attack,” the viceroy warned. “Our archers can take him down!”

  “I’m giving orders here,” Ramses reminded him. “I want nothing done that might be interpreted as a threat.”

  “But . . . what do you have in mind?”

  Ramses took off his helmet, leather vest, and gaiters. Laying down his sword and dagger, he walked calmly down the rocky slope toward the village.

  “Your Majesty!” yelled the viceroy. “Come back, he’ll kill you!”

  The regent continued steadily, his eyes fast on the Nubian chief, who was a man of sixty, thin to the point of emaciation.

  When he waved his pike, Ramses thought he might have miscalculated the risk. But could a Nubian tribal chief pose any more danger than a wild bull?

  “Who are you?”

  “Ramses, son of Seti and Prince Regent of Egypt.”

  The head man lowered his pike. “I’m the chief here.”

  “And you will be as long as you obey the law of Ma’at.”

  “Your viceroy is the one who broke it.”

  “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “What’s fair is fair. I delivered on my promises; the viceroy should, too.”

  “Let me hear your grievances.”

  “He promised us wheat in exchange for our tributes. Where is it?”

  “Where are the tributes?”

 
“Come.”

  The chief walked through the group of warriors. The prince followed. The viceroy, convinced the regent would be killed or taken hostage, covered his face. No one laid a hand on Ramses.

  He inspected the sackfuls of gold dust, the panther skins, plume fans, and ostrich eggs so prized by noble families.

  “If your man won’t keep his word, we’re bound to fight him, even if all of us die. No one can live in a world without honor.”

  “There will be no fight,” Ramses assured him. “The wheat you were promised will be delivered.”

  Shaanar was tempted to accuse Ramses of weakness in dealing with the Nubian rebels, but the viceroy dissuaded him. In the course of a long secret meeting, the viceroy spoke of Ramses’ growing popularity with the military. The soldiers admired his bravery, endurance, and ability to think on his feet. With a leader like him, they feared no enemy. Calling Ramses a coward might reflect badly on Shaanar.

  Pharaoh’s elder son yielded to this line of reasoning. Not controlling the army would be a drawback, of course, but when he became Lord of the Two Lands they would learn to obey him. Brute force alone would never govern Egypt; Shaanar was smug in the knowledge that no ruler could take power without the consent of the court and the high priests, whose support the smooth-tongued Shaanar continued to enlist.

  It was becoming increasingly clear that Ramses was an intrepid and dangerous warrior. As long as Seti held the reins of power, his aggressive nature would remain in check. But afterward, who knew what would happen? Ramses might initiate impulsive attacks that would put the country in peril . . .

  Shaanar further stressed how Seti had reached a truce with the Hittites rather than pressing on and laying siege to their fortress at Kadesh. Could they expect Ramses to be so prudent? Shaanar’s influential friends all hated war. Generals with dreams of glory threatened to upset their comfortable existence.

  Egypt had no need of a conquering hero who might put the Near East to the fire and the sword. Ambassadors and returning couriers reported that the Hittites were pursuing peaceful goals and had given up their designs on Egypt. Consequently, a warrior prince like Ramses was unnecessary, if not downright harmful. If he kept posturing as a commander, he might have to be removed from the scene.

  Shaanar’s arguments were persuasive. He seemed so levelheaded and realistic, and the facts backed him up.

  During a boat trip to the Delta to clinch the future support of two provincial governors, Shaanar found time to meet with Ahsha. His well-appointed cabin was a perfect setting. His cook had prepared them delicacies, his steward had produced an exceptionally fruity vintage white wine.

  As usual, the young diplomat was elegant, if a trifle haughty. His lively eyes were occasionally unsettling, but his smooth voice and calm, even manner were reassuring. If Ahsha proved trustworthy after they overthrew Ramses, he would make an excellent secretary of state. Today, however, he toyed with his food.

  “Is anything wrong with your lunch?” Shaanar inquired.

  “Forgive me. I’m rather preoccupied.”

  “Personal problems?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Trouble at work?”

  “Quite the contrary.”

  “Ramses, then! Ramses is on to us.”

  “I’m sure he isn’t.”

  “Then what has you so worried?”

  “The Hittites.”

  “Reports reaching us in Memphis show them quite thoroughly pacified.”

  “That’s the official story, yes.”

  “And what do you think is wrong with it?”

  “Too naive, unless my superiors are simply trying not to trouble Seti with pessimistic forecasts.”

  “Your version of the facts, then?”

  “The Hittites are no simpleminded savages. They tried to achieve their goals through open confrontation; it didn’t work, so they’re switching strategies.”

  “They’ll buy up more disgruntled princelings and incite them to revolt, in other words.”

  “That’s what the experts on Asia think, yes.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What are you afraid of ?”

  “That they’re working from within to turn our own protectorates against us.”

  “It’s highly unlikely. Seti would crush any serious sedition in a flash.”

  “Seti doesn’t know about it.”

  Given Ahsha’s record for accuracy, Shaanar did not take the young diplomat’s warnings lightly.

  “This time the Hittites want to move carefully. In four or five years, they’ll be ready to spring the trap.”

  “Keep a close watch on the situation and don’t breathe a word to anyone but me.”

  “That’s asking a lot.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be getting plenty in return.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Life was slow in the seaside fishing village. A naval police detachment of fewer than a dozen regulated shipping; it was fairly easy work, with only the occasional northbound Egyptian boat requiring the commander (potbellied and well past sixty) to log its passage. Ships returning from abroad used another branch of the Delta.

  The shore patrol helped the fishermen pull in their nets and keep their boats in trim. They had all the fish they wanted, and on feast days the villagers would share the patrolmen’s biweekly wine ration.

  Dolphin watching was the little community’s favorite entertainment. They never tired of the graceful leaps and excited chases. In the evenings, an old fisherman might recount the legend that told of how the goddess Isis hid her newborn son, Horus, in the rushes of the nearby marshlands, to keep him safe from the avenging Set.

  “A boat, sir.”

  The commander was taking his afternoon nap and did not want to leave the comfort of his reed mat.

  “Have them sign and record the name.”

  “It’s coming from the sea.”

  “You must not have seen right. Look again.”

  “It’s coming this way, for sure.”

  Intrigued, the commander got up. It wasn’t a wine day. Their usual weak beer would never produce such a wild hallucination.

  From the beach, they clearly spied a large ship making straight for the village.

  “It’s not Egyptian . . .”

  No Greek boat was permitted to land here. Pharaoh’s orders were strict: intercept intruders and order them to head west for escort by the royal navy.

  “Suit up,” the commander told his men, who had nearly forgotten how to handle spear, sword, bow, and shield.

  Aboard the strange vessel were swarthy men with curling mustaches, real horns set in their helmets, metal breast-plates, pointed swords, and round shields.

  In the bow stood a giant.

  The Egyptian patrolmen recoiled. “A monster,” one of them whispered. “Only a man,” replied the commander. “Fire!”

  Two arrows flew through the air. One went wide. The other was about to hit the giant’s chest when he slashed it in half with his sword.

  “Over there!” another patrolman shouted. “Another boat!”

  “An invasion,” the commander agreed. “Retreat, men.”

  Ramses was happy.

  It was a daily happiness, strong as the south wind, gentle as the north. Nefertari brought a fullness to each moment, eased his cares, guided his thoughts toward the light. With her at his side, the days were softly radiant. This woman knew how to soothe him without denying the fire that burned in him. She seemed to herald a strange, almost unsettling future—a new order.

  Nefertari surprised him. Her new life could have spoiled her; instead, she assumed the stately elegance of a queen. What destiny would she rule or serve? Nefertari was a mystery. A mystery with an enchanting smile like the goddess Hathor’s in the tomb of his grandfather, the first Ramses.

  Iset the Fair was the earth, Nefertari the heavens. Ramses needed them both, though for Iset he felt only passion and desire.

  Nefertari was h
is beloved.

  Seti contemplated the setting sun. When Ramses came in, the palace was growing dark. The king had not lit a single lamp.

  “An alarming report from the Delta,” he told his son. “My advisers think it’s a minor incident, but I’m convinced they’re wrong.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some pirates attacked a fishing village on the Mediterranean coast. The shore patrol had to retreat, but insist the situation is under control.”

  “Could they be lying?”

  “That’s for you to find out.”

  “Why the suspicion?”

  “These pirates are well-known pillagers. If they make their way inland, terror will follow in their wake.”

  Ramses was indignant. “Is that the kind of security our shore patrol provides?”

  “Those in charge may have underestimated the danger.”

  “I’ll leave within the hour.”

  The king once again looked out at the setting sun. He would have liked to go with his son, glide through the Delta again, sit in command of an army. In this fourteenth year of his reign, however, illness consumed him. Fortunately, the strength that was leaving him was passing into Ramses’ young blood.

  The shore patrol had regrouped about twenty miles inland, at a town on one of the Nile’s lesser branches. Holed up in makeshift fortifications, they awaited aid. When the prince regent and his troops sailed in, they ran out to greet their salvation.

  The portly commander was in the lead. He threw himself in front of Ramses’ chariot.

  “Our full contingent is here, Your Majesty! None dead, none wounded.”

  “On your feet.”

  A chill fell over the joyous little gathering.

  “We weren’t . . . there weren’t enough of us to resist. The pirates . . . we would have been slaughtered.”

  “Tell me their whereabouts.”

  “They’re still on the coast and took another village.”

  “Because of your cowardice!”

  “Your Majesty . . . we were outnumbered.”

  “Out of my way.”

  The commander barely had time to jump aside. The dust obscured his view of the prince’s chariot speeding toward the flagship of the imposing fleet he had brought from Memphis. Back on board, Ramses gave the order to sail due north.