by Brad Geagley
Semerket could not conceal his disappointment. “Then you weren’t the one to actually see the boy?”
Elibar shook his head.
“Is he still alive? Did the man indicate—?”
“He only said that he was very sick—that he suffered from some kind of head injury.”
“Did he mention where Rami might be found?”
“Well, there I can be of more help to you. He told me he met the boy on the outskirts of Babylon, at an oasis near a ruined estate. The man used a stick to draw an outline of Etemenanki in the dust, making a circle around it—”
Semerket canted his head, not sure that he had heard correctly, “Etemenanki, my lord?”
Elibar paused in his narrative. “The devil Bel-Marduk’s abode, yes—the ziggurat at Babylon’s center. The man took a stick and—”
The word caught Semerket by surprise, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Devil?”
Bel-Marduk was the Babylonians’ name for the god that Egyptians called Amun-Ra. Never before had Semerket heard the father of the universe referred to as a devil, and he felt almost superstitiously affronted by Elibar’s casual blasphemy. Quickly he made the holy sign in the air.
Pharaoh spoke from his seat. “Elibar worships a nameless god of the desert, one so jealous it considers all other gods to be demons or devils or frauds. Pay no attention to my cousin, for his religion is simply another family sickness I must endure.”
Elibar smiled indulgently; it was obvious that theirs was an argument both cousins had waged amiably for many years. The Canaanite continued to speak.
“As I say, the man drew the outline of the ziggurat in the sand. Then he made a circle around it—this I took to be the walls of the city. Two wavy lines on either side of it were, of course, the Tigris and Euphrates. Then he took the stick and pointed to the upper left of Etemenanki, outside the circle but between the rivers. I assume he meant that your Rami could be found to the northwest of Babylon, on the river plain.”
“Did the caravan master tell you if…if there was a woman with him?”
“He said there were many women—many men, too—but unfortunately they had all been massacred by bandits.”
Semerket abruptly felt light-headed, as if his legs had somehow disconnected from his body. Black crowded the edges of his vision.
“Get him a chair!” Pharaoh ordered, and the servants scrambled to obey.
“No,” said Semerket. Sternly he forced himself to breathe regularly, to stand erect. After an imperceptible moment, he turned again to Elibar. “And these Isins,” he managed to ask, “who or what are they?”
It was not Elibar but Pharaoh who answered. “A native tribe in Babylonia. Egypt has very cordial relations with them, for my father felt they had a fair chance of becoming the next rulers. Of course, that was before the Elamites invaded.”
Semerket nodded. “And Menef—who is that? It’s an Egyptian name, isn’t it?”
Pharaoh nodded. “He is our ambassador, appointed by my father before he died.” He looked at Semerket with an odd expression. “I’ve already sent a special dispatch to him, directing that he help you find your friends when you arrive.”
It was a moment before Ramses’ words penetrated Semerket’s clouded and anxious mind. He raised his head, surprised.
Ramses nodded, confirming his previous words. “I have named you my special envoy to their new Elamite king, and have also prepared documents of manumission for your friends. Your wife and the boy may return to Egypt whenever they wish.”
To Semerket’s surprise, he saw that guilt laced Ramses’ expression—a quality rarely found in a Pharaoh.
“I should have freed them after my father died.” Ramses sighed. “It was the only reward you ever asked. But with the trials…my father’s burial…I thought the matter would keep. I was mistaken. My only hope is that they’re still alive to enjoy their freedom.”
Sensing Semerket’s discomfiture, Ramses continued to speak. “When Elibar returns to Canaan, you shall go north with him under his protection. It’s only a short journey to Babylon from where his family resides.”
“May I ask—” Semerket had to swallow before he could speak further. “May I ask when Lord Elibar will be leaving?”
“The day after tomorrow,” Elibar answered, “at dawn. A royal galley will take us to Pi-Ramesse, and from there we sail on the Big Green to Tyre, on one of my own ships.”
There was nothing more to say. Stretching forth his arms at knee level, Semerket began to back out of the room. There were a thousand preparations to make before he could depart. But Pharaoh held up his hand, preventing him from going. “Semerket and I must now speak privately,” he announced curtly.
Without asking the nature of this private business, Elibar raised his fingers to his lips and made the gesture of kissing the earth. “A hundred years,” he said, uttering the traditional blessing to Pharaoh as he backed from the room.
As the rest of the servants melted into the shadows, Ramses wrenched himself from his chair. “Follow me,” he told Semerket.
Ramses seized an oil lamp to light the windowless and winding halls of Djamet. Soon they came to a far door, which the guards pulled open. Within the room, an immense model of a new city was set upon trestles. The length and breadth of it took almost the entire chamber.
“Look at it, Semerket.” Pharaoh gazed lovingly on the model. “The new capital of Egypt. My engineers tell me it will be the greatest project since the pyramids—the legacy of Ramses the Fourth.”
Semerket knelt to inspect the model. Miniature temples, causeways, palaces, workshops—all were laid out in meticulous detail. He could even see the rounded ovens in the temple bakeries. Pharaoh’s architects had thought of everything, down to the new capital’s last alleyway and square.
“It will take generations to complete,” Semerket said, mentally calculating the city’s phenomenal size.
Ramses looked at him so piercingly that Semerket felt the color rising in his face. Pharaoh suddenly went to the door and peered into the hallway in both directions. He dismissed the guards that waited outside, telling them to post themselves further away. Satisfied that no one loitered in the corridor, he motioned for Semerket to come closer.
Pharaoh brought his lips close to Semerket’s ear, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. “My physicians tell me that I will live a hundred years or more,” he said, “but that only means they’re not sure how long I will live at all. The priests have cast my horoscope, but it’s so vague it might mean anything. I’ve sacrificed to every god and goddess in the land—I’ve given them new garments of rare silk, and gifts of gold and ivory to their priests. Yet still the gods do not help me.” Again he looked around, as if searching for spies. “And this is the other reason why you must go to Babylon, Semerket, a secret reason. There is something you must do for me, for Egypt, when you arrive there.” Once more, Pharaoh looked about the room, squinting into the shadows.
Semerket stared at Ramses, waiting.
“In Babylon, you will go to their new king Kutir. You will offer my greetings, and extend Egypt’s official recognition of his rule. You will tell him I stand ready to assist him with arms and gold to strengthen his dominion over the country.”
Semerket allowed his black eyes to glitter. “And the price for Egypt’s support?”
Pharaoh’s gaze took on a dreamy look. “Babylon’s god Bel-Marduk must make a state visit to Egypt. When he arrives, I will take the idol’s golden hand in mine and gaze into his eyes, for it’s said that doing so will drive out my every demon and pain.”
Suddenly Ramses began to cough again, and his glance filled with incipient terror. “Time, Semerket,” he pleaded when he could catch his breath. “Bring the idol back to me, that I can see this new city rise in the Delta, greater than any other. Death is in me, Semerket. I can feel it gnawing at my vitals like a rat at the grain.”
Semerket’s eyes grew wide.
Pharaoh’s hands gripped his
shoulder. “My son is only six years old. If I die, the priests of Amun will appoint regents to rule for him. And who will they be?”
Semerket considered quickly. Tutors? The child’s mother? These had been the traditional choices in the past. But such persons, however close to the prince, would not be enough protection in these uncertain times. The priests would certainly favor the appointment of stronger, abler men from the royal family—
“Tiya’s sons,” Semerket said instantly.
Pharaoh nodded grimly. “Exactly. My half-brothers, sons of that murderess who killed my father. How long will my own son last, then, do you think? Such a small matter to arrange some ‘wasting disease’ for him. Like father, like son, they will say, dead of the same ailment.” Ramses’ fingers dug so hard into Semerket’s flesh that his nails left crescents. “And after my son, who next will they turn their eyes upon?”
Semerket knew the answer to that question, too—they would seek the one who had exposed the conspiracy hatched by their mother and brother, the one who had brought their own side of the royal family into so much disgrace.
“Me,” Semerket breathed.
“You—to begin with! And after you’re dead, none of your family will be safe. Do you understand why I chose you for this task? You have as much to lose as I.”
Semerket swallowed. He saw clearly that it was not only Pharaoh who needed the years the idol could bring; he needed them himself—at least enough time for Pharaoh’s son to become a man. Though he had little faith in the curative powers of foreign idols, he had no choice but to believe with his king in the magic of Bel-Marduk’s statue; it seemed their only chance.
“Yes,” Semerket said firmly. “I’ll bring this god back to you.”
WHEN HE HAD ARRIVED earlier at Djamet, the temple had not yet fully wakened. But as Semerket came through the door that connected the palace with the temple proper, he saw that the halls and sanctuaries now teemed with priests, singers, nobles, and guards. He cursed silently, knowing what was ahead. As he passed through the hall of soaring columns, he heard them whisper his name nervously as he passed, sounding to him like the flutter of quail wings. “Semerket…Semerket!” They probably imagined that he and Pharaoh conferred about plans to hunt down any remaining conspirators, many of whom still roamed these very halls.
Semerket felt his heart sinking, for in the group of people clustered at the doorway was Prince Mayatum. The youngest son of Queen Tiya, half-brother to Pharaoh, Mayatum would be one of the regents for Pharaoh’s son should the unthinkable occur. Though Mayatum wore a priest’s vestments, being the prelate who governed the city of On, he exuded the oleaginous superiority common to all of Tiya’s brood.
Semerket tried to hurry past the prince and out to the Great Pylons beyond, keeping to the walls. Whatever they had to say to one another could not be pleasant, for Semerket had presided over the execution of his older brother, Prince Pentwere. In fact, Semerket had been the one who had conveyed the white silken rope to the prince, with which he had then hanged himself. As for the princes’ witch of a mother, Queen Tiya, whose plotting had been responsible for the entire tragedy, she had disappeared from the royal palace, spirited away under cover to some unknown destination. Some said that she had become the victim of Ramses III’s final act of vengeance. Whatever had happened to her, her scheming had proved treacherous for everyone, and Semerket had no wish to confront the prince and reopen the wounds. But Mayatum, alerted by a servant, turned just as Semerket was passing and hailed him.
“Why, isn’t it Semerket?” he called out warmly. “How fares the great hero of Egypt, the man who saved my father…almost?”
Though the words the prince used were flattering, Semerket still sensed an insult in them. He kept his head lowered, staring at the black basalt tiles.
“I am well, Highness,” he said.
“I take it you’ve been meeting with my brother?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“And how is his health today?” The prince’s loud words seemed somehow too caring, too concerned. “Is his cough any better? Not spitting up more blood, is he?”
Semerket kept his voice low, answering obliquely. “Pharaoh’s health will improve, no doubt, upon seeing your highness again.”
Mayatum flicked his whisk of horsehair at an imaginary fly. “I’ve been out of the country, you know, meeting with our allies in the East. Very secret, you know. Very hush-hush. In fact, I’m on my way to make my report to Pharaoh now.”
Semerket felt his tongue withering in his head. What did the prince expect him to say? Semerket was nothing to him, beneath his notice. “I’m…I’m sure the king will be anxious to hear what you have to say,” he muttered.
“Oh, ho!” Mayatum smiled. “So you’re dismissing me, are you? You were always so direct, Semerket, so honest. Some said to a fault, but never I.”
The prince dismissed Semerket with a wave of his flywhisk, turning his back on him with seeming indifference.
Semerket left the temple quickly, almost running to where the ferrymen congregated at the docks. Ever since the trials, he had dreaded meeting any of Tiya’s remaining sons. It could have gone worse, he supposed. Perhaps the prince had concluded that it would be best to leave old hostilities behind and endure the shrifts a new reign had imposed on them both.
As Semerket crossed the Nile again to Eastern Thebes, he stood at the prow of his boat. The sky above the city was afloat with streamers that soared from a thousand crystal-topped spires. From Amun’s Great Temple, the distant voices of the temple chorus pricked his ears with familiar psalm.
Every part of him was electric with anticipation. Yes, the news he had received from Babylon was devastating, and the secret of Pharaoh’s declining health was worse. But the thing he had dreaded for so long had appeared to him at last. He knew the worst, its shape and size, and its power over him was gone. Now he could do something about it.
He knew in his heart that Naia was not dead; he was absolutely convinced that she waited for him just beyond the eastern horizon. Nothing could prevent him from bringing his wife and Rami back to Egypt. Semerket felt the warm winds on his face blowing from the east, and in them was the scent of Babylon.
THE CREW TOOK UP the ship’s anchor stone at the first reddening blush of sunrise. Shakily, Semerket thrust his head over the thatched gunwales. His stomach clenched. The only thing he could see in any direction was the vast heaving ocean that the sailors called the Big Green. No land. No birds. Only the endless swells.
Semerket pulled himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily with the motion of the ship. He was in time to see the sailors unlash the single huge sail, painted in bright red and yellow squares. As it billowed outward with a sudden, lethal snap, the ship lurched forward so quickly that Semerket, already off-balance, fell backward onto the deck.
“At least the ship’s moving again,” he thought sourly.
On the previous day, the crew had not been allowed to ply their oars, for it was the Sabbath of Elibar’s strange and only god. Even food was forbidden them. Not that Semerket could eat. For almost the entire three days of the voyage, he had been so sick he thought he was going to die. Strangely, he seemed to be the only one aboard affected by the malady. If he survived, he vowed to himself, he would never again sail abroad on this salt sea, no matter how much time it might save him.
The ship began its relentless pitching and tossing as it skimmed across the white-topped waves, assisted by the ten pairs of rowers. Semerket felt his guts twist again into painful knots. The captain must have seen his beleaguered expression, for he came aft and bent down to speak reassuringly to him.
“Now, now, sir,” the captain said, “no need for that face. Coastal waters soon and we’ll be moored in Tyre by nightfall.”
Semerket nodded, unable to speak, and attempted once more to stand. This time he was successful. He looked in the direction of the ship’s prow and saw that Elibar and his four sons had already gathered around the bronze cooking brazier.
Elibar saw him standing, and cheerfully hailed him from the fore-deck. “Can you manage something to eat today, Semerket?” he asked in Egyptian. “We’ve slaughtered a sheep to break the fast.”
Semerket shook his head weakly. In response, he heard the low snickers of Elibar’s sons, who had joined them in Egypt’s northern capital of Pi-Ramesse where they had been visiting their aunt Ese, Pharaoh’s mother. Though the youngest of them was still beardless, they were all strong, competent men, tall in stature and hard in appearance. Their eyes were the bright and piercing bronze of hawks, and their skin darkened from weeks spent herding their father’s immense flocks of sheep. They had been quick to tell Semerket that though their ancestors had settled in Canaan, they considered themselves members of the Habiru tribe—or tribes (Semerket gathered there were more than one). Their country was a new one called Israel, or perhaps it was Judea; they conversed so rapidly in their strangely accented Egyptian that Semerket was unsure. Whatever its name, it seemed to be a nation where there were no kings, but rather judges, ruling by the consent of their fierce desert god.
