Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  “But Sary has always been a scribe, an academic. He can’t do manual labor!”

  “Remember the teachings of the sages, Dolora. The hand and the mind must work together, or men turn evil. Now hurry and report to your new assignments, both of you. There’s work to be done.”

  Leaving the palace, Dolora breathed a sigh of relief. Just as Shaanar had predicted, she and Sary had escaped the worst. Having just come to power, still in the sway of his mother and his wife, Ramses was inclined to be merciful.

  Being forced to work was a real punishment to her, but less harsh than house arrest in some desert outpost or exile in the wilds of Nubia. As for Sary, his pride would suffer, but considering he could have been sentenced to death for treason, becoming a brickmaker was better than the alternative.

  Their disgrace would be short-lived. Dolora’s lies had enhanced Shaanar’s credibility as a supportive and respectful brother to the king. Ramses, preoccupied with his new responsibilities, would believe that his old enemies, including his brother and sister, had finally fallen in line.

  Moses was overjoyed to be back at Karnak. Once the period of mourning for Seti was over, Ramses decided to continue work on his father’s great hypostyle hall, where Moses’ work gangs were raising more than a hundred columns. The young Hebrew had a powerful build, broad shoulders, flowing hair, a full beard on his craggy face. He also had the respect and affection of his crew of stonecutters and hieroglyph carvers.

  Moses had refused the post as master builder that Ramses offered him, not feeling equal to such responsibility. He could coordinate a project and motivate workers, yes, but draw architectural plans like the expert company at Deir el-Medina, no. He wouldn’t be ready for that without more on-the-job training, more firsthand knowledge of construction materials.

  The rough working conditions and physical labor helped tame his soul. Every night, tossing in bed as sleep refused to come, Moses tried to understand why his mind was so troubled. He was living in prosperous times in a prosperous country, had a promising career, and was one of the Pharaoh’s closest friends. He could have any woman he wanted, earned a good living . . . No matter how many blessings he counted, it was no use. Why did he always feel incomplete, why was he so restless and unhappy?

  In the morning, he found relief in the bustle of the work site, the clang of mallet and chisel, the sight of huge blocks of stone sliding along a moistened track on wooden sledges, the constant alertness to danger, the slow satisfaction of raising a column.

  Work was usually halted in the hot summer months, but Seti’s death and Ramses’ coronation had changed that. Moses had come up with a plan after consulting with the leaders of the various work gangs from Deir el-Medina, as well as the master builder, who explained his drawings in detail. Each day two sessions would be scheduled, the first from dawn to mid-morning, the second from late afternoon to nightfall, to keep the men out of the heat of day and allow them to rest. Furthermore, awnings would be rigged to provide some shade.

  Moses had just passed the guard post at the entry to the hall of columns when the head stonecutter approached him.

  “No one can work under these conditions,” the man said flatly.

  “Come on, the heat isn’t that bad yet.”

  “It’s not the heat. I’m talking about the brickmakers building the scaffolding for us. It’s their new head man.”

  “New? Do I know him?”

  “His name is Sary. Married to the Pharaoh’s sister, Dolora. That’s why he thinks he can do as he pleases!”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “It’s too rough for him out here, so he only wants his gang to report every other day, but without the afternoon break or any extra water. Does he think he can treat his men like slaves? This is Egypt, not somewhere in Greece or Hittite territory. I stand by the brickmakers!”

  “I don’t blame you. Where can I find this Sary?”

  “Sitting in the shade,” the man said, gesturing toward the foremen’s tent.

  Sary seemed a different man. The affable, portly professor he had known was now almost gaunt, sharp-featured, jumpy. He alternately fiddled with a copper band on his left wrist, almost falling off now, and rubbed ointment into the big toe of his right foot, which was gnarled with arthritis. The only sign of his former station in life was an elegant white linen robe, the customary dress of successful scribes.

  Reclining against a pile of cushions, Sary was sipping cool beer. He glanced up absently when Moses entered the tent.

  “Why, hello, Sary! What brings you here?”

  “Hello, Moses. I didn’t realize you were still stuck in Karnak! This place is fine for the Pharaoh’s relatives, but I thought he’d do better by a friend like you.”

  “I have no complaints.”

  “Ramses ought to promote you.”

  “Seeing a monument like this go up is already my dream job.”

  “Ha! It’s more like a nightmare: the heat, the dust, the sweat and toil, the awful noise, and even worse, rubbing elbows with illiterate laborers . . . You’re wasting your talents, Moses.”

  “Seti entrusted me with a mission. I plan to accomplish it.”

  “A noble attitude. But when you get fed up, you’ll change your tune.”

  “And what are you contributing to Karnak?”

  A scowl darkened Sary’s face.

  “Running the brickyard . . . now there’s a plum assignment.”

  “The brickmakers are solid, respectable men. I’d take them over a bunch of self-indulgent scribes any day!”

  “You were educated as a scribe, Moses.”

  “I wasn’t taught to look down on others.”

  “Are you lecturing me, by any chance?”

  “Look, Sary, I set the schedule here. It’s the same in the brickyard as anywhere else, and I want you to follow it.”

  “I run my own department.”

  “All foremen answer to me.”

  “You’ll have to make an exception.”

  “All right. If you won’t follow the rules, I’ll notify the master builder, who’ll take the issue to the vizier, and he’ll go to Ramses.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s the usual procedure in a case of insubordination at a royal construction site.”

  “You enjoy having the upper hand, don’t you?”

  “My only goal is to keep this project running as smoothly as possible.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” sneered Sary.

  “We’re in this together,” Moses told him. “Without cooperation, we’ll never finish.”

  “Ramses will drop you, just like he’s humiliated me.”

  “Listen, Sary. Get your brickmakers to work on the scaffolding, give them the midday break they’re entitled to, and make sure they have plenty of water.”

  TWENTY

  The wine was exceptional, the beef tasty, and the bean puree pleasantly spicy. “Say what you will about Shaanar,” thought Meba, “he certainly knows how to entertain.”

  “Is everything to your liking?” asked Ramses’ older brother.

  “Simply wonderful! My dear fellow, you have the finest kitchen in Egypt.”

  Despite his long years as secretary of state, Meba was not merely being diplomatic. Shaanar treated his guests to the very best.

  “Don’t the king’s politics strike you as inconsistent?” asked the veteran cabinet member.

  “He’s not an easy man to understand.”

  This veiled criticism satisfied Meba. His broad, kindly face had begun to show signs of strain. How could he be sure that Shaanar had not gone over to Ramses’ side? Doing so would help keep the peace and safeguard the prince’s rank. Still, the words he had just spoken seemed to prove the opposite.

  “I can hardly approve of this new rash of appointments, turning excellent civil servants out of their offices and relegating them to lesser positions.”

  “I quite agree, Meba.”

  “Naming a gardener to Agriculture, w
hat a farce! It makes me wonder what on earth Ramses plans to do with my department.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you today.”

  Meba squared his shoulders and adjusted the costly wig he wore year-round, even in the hottest weather.

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Let me give you all the details so that you can appreciate my situation. Yesterday, Ramses sent for me, out of the blue. I had to drop everything and head to the palace, where I was made to wait for over an hour.”

  “Weren’t you . . . concerned?”

  “I admit I was. His Sardinian even frisked me, over my protestations.”

  “You, the king’s brother! Has it come to that?”

  “I’m afraid so, Meba.”

  “Did you complain to the king?”

  “They wouldn’t let me. Apparently his security takes precedence over family feeling.”

  “Seti would never have stood for it!”

  “Unfortunately, Seti is no longer with us.”

  “Men come and go, institutions remain. A prince of your stature must one day rise to the highest office.”

  “It’s in the hands of the gods, Meba.”

  “Weren’t you going to tell me about my department?”

  “I’m coming to that. Now there I was, trembling with shame and indignation after the bodyguard searched me, when in walked Ramses, telling me he was naming me secretary of state!”

  Meba blanched. “You, in my job? It’s beyond comprehension!”

  “You’ll understand better when you hear he plans to monitor my every move. He wouldn’t be able to control you, Meba, but I’ll make a perfect figurehead. Our allies will be honored that Ramses cares enough about foreign policy to appoint his own brother to the State Department. They won’t realize I’m only his puppet.”

  Meba was crestfallen. “So much for me . . .”

  “And for me, despite appearances.”

  “This king is a monster.”

  “As other men of rank will soon discover. That’s why we mustn’t allow ourselves to be too discouraged.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “What would you rather do, retire or help me keep fighting?”

  “I can make trouble for Ramses.”

  “Pretend to step aside gracefully and wait for my instructions.”

  “Ramses had better watch out. Heading the State Department will give you plenty of opportunities, even with his operatives in place.”

  “You’re still sharp, old friend. Now why don’t you explain how you’ve kept the department running so smoothly all these years?

  Meba was more than willing. Shaanar had neglected to mention Ramses’ other major miscalculation: appointing Ahsha as his right-hand man. His pact with Ramses’ friend must remain his most closely guarded secret.

  Holding Lita by the hand, Ofir the Sorcerer walked slowly down the main street of the city of the Horizon of Aton, the abandoned capital where the heretic pharaoh Akhenaton had reigned with his wife, Nefertiti. The buildings were intact, but through the open doors and windows, sand blew in from the desert.

  The Horizon of Aton had been a ghost town for more than fifty years. After Akhenaton’s death, the court had abandoned his grandiose Middle Egyptian capital and returned to Thebes, Amon’s cult center some three hundred miles to the south. Akhenaton’s worship of the One God Aton, the golden orb, was repudiated in favor of more traditional beliefs

  In Ofir’s opinion, Akhenaton had not gone far enough. Sun worship was a travesty: God was beyond any representation, any symbol. God dwelt in the heavens, man on earth. Egyptians believed that their gods walked the earth; they rejected the notion of a single god. Therefore Egypt must be destroyed.

  Ofir was descended from one of Akhenaton’s advisers, a Libyan who had spent countless hours with the king, transcribing his mystic poems. He had later circulated them throughout the Near East, even among the inhabitants of the Sinai peninsula, particularly the Hebrews.

  General Horemheb had ordered the execution of Ofir’s great-grandfather, branding him a dangerous agitator and practitioner of black magic who had led Akhenaton astray and distracted him from kingly duties. When Akhenaton’s son-in-law and successor, Tutankhamon, died young, General Horemheb took over, later appointing an old army crony to succeed him: Ramses I.

  It was true that Ofir’s great-grandfather had been working to avenge the humiliation his people had suffered, to undermine Egypt, to take advantage of Akhenaton’s failing health, convincing him to abandon any semblance of a defense policy. And he had very nearly succeeded.

  Today, Ofir was the torch bearer. He had inherited his great-grandfather’s magical lore and talent for sorcery, as well as the hatred for Egypt that fueled his destructive fury. Bringing Egypt to its knees meant defeating the Pharaoh—defeating Ramses.

  Lita stared blankly, yet Ofir continued to describe each public building, each private residence, the shops and craft establishments, the menagerie where Akhenaton had housed his collection of rare animals. They had already spent hours wandering through the empty palace where the king and Nefertiti had played with their six daughters, one of whom was Lita’s grandmother.

  On this new visit, Ofir noted Lita to be more attentive, as if her interest in the outside world was finally awakening. She lingered in Akhenaton and Nefertiti’s bedchamber, slumped over an empty cradle, and wept.

  When her tears were spent, Ofir took her by the hand and led her to a sculptor’s workshop. In crates lay plaster heads of women, models for more permanent works in stone.

  The sorcerer began pulling them out, one after the other.

  Suddenly, Lita reached out for a statue, stroking its sublimely beautiful face. “Nefertiti,” she murmured.

  Then her hand darted toward another, smaller head, with remarkably delicate features.

  “Merit-Aton, ‘Beloved of Aton,’ my grandmother. And her sister . . . and her other sisters . . . my lost family! I’ve finally found my family.”

  Lita clutched the plaster heads to her chest. One tumbled out of her grip and shattered on the floor.

  Ofir braced himself for an outburst, but Lita stood mute and rigid. Then she dashed the rest of the heads against a wall and ground the pieces beneath her feet.

  “The past is dying. Let me finish it off,” she said with her vacant stare.

  “No,” objected the sorcerer. “The past never dies. Your grandmother and mother were persecuted because they believed in Aton. But I found you, Lita. I rescued you from exile and certain death.”

  “It’s true, I remember now . . . My grandmother and mother are buried out there in the hills, and I should have joined them long ago. But you’ve been like a father to me.”

  “The time for revenge is at hand, Lita. What you suffered as a child was caused by Seti. Seti is dead, but he left his son to oppress us. Ramses must be humbled. You must punish him.”

  “I want to walk through my city,” said Lita.

  This time she was eager to touch the gates of temples, the doors of houses, as if taking possession of the empty town. At sunset, she climbed onto the terrace of Nefertiti’s palace and contemplated her ghostly domain.

  “My soul is empty, Ofir. Your thoughts will fill it.”

  “I want you to be queen, Lita, so that you can restore the One God to his rightful place.”

  “Words, Ofir. Only words. Hatred is what drives you. I can feel it. You’re evil inside.”

  “Are you refusing to help me?”

  “My soul is empty. You’ve filled it with your desire to do harm. You’ve patiently molded me into an avenger. Now I’m ready to fight for your revenge and mine, to cut like a sword.”

  Ofir knelt and thanked God for answering his prayers.

  TWENTY-ONE

  There was entertainment in the Theban tavern: a troupe of dancers, enticing Egyptian girls from the Delta, and lissome ebony-skinned Nubians. Moses looked on in fascination from his table at the back of
the room, sipping a cup of palm wine. After a hard day’s work, marked by two near-accidents, he felt the need to be alone in a noisy crowd, to be surrounded by people yet remain aloof.

  Not far away sat an unusual couple.

  The young woman was blond, voluptuous, attractive. The man, much older, had a disturbing countenance: gaunt, with jutting cheekbones, a prominent nose, very thin lips, a strong chin, he looked like a bird of prey. In the din, Moses could not overhear their conversation. He heard only meaningless snatches of the man’s droning bass.

  The Nubians were pulling patrons in to join in the fun. A tipsy middle-aged man laid a hand on the blonde’s right shoulder, asking her to dance. Startled, she batted him away. When the man persisted, her hawk-faced companion extended his right arm and the drunk was instantly blasted back a good five paces, as if he’d been punched. Muttering an apology, he slunk away.

  The gesture had been swift and unobtrusive, but Moses knew he’d seen correctly. This remarkable-looking character seemed to be gifted with extraordinary powers.

  When the pair left the tavern, Moses tailed them. They walked toward the southern edge of Thebes, disappearing among the workmen’s hovels, cramped lanes of single-story dwellings. For a moment he thought he’d lost them. Then he heard the man’s firm footsteps.

  This late at night, the streets were deserted. A dog barked. Bats swooped. The farther Moses went, the more curious he grew. He glimpsed the couple threading their way through humble dwellings that would soon be razed to make way for new construction. The neighborhood was uninhabited.

  The woman opened a door with a loud creak rending the still of the night. The man was nowhere in sight.

  Moses hesitated.

  Should he go in and question her, ask who they were, what they were doing here? He realized how ludicrous he would seem, with no connection to the police and no business mixing in other people’s private lives. What evil genius had inspired him to shadow them? Furious with himself, he wheeled—to find the hawk-faced man directly in his path.