Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  “Any precise indications?”

  “Not yet. Just speculation on my part.”

  “You see, Ahsha, my brother is a good representative, the perfect host at receptions and banquets. Foreign ambassadors will be charmed by his speeches. Who knows, he may even begin to believe his own rhetoric! But he can’t be effective if the temptation to work against me is too strong. I’m not convinced by his sudden change in attitude, and that’s where you come in.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I’m appointing you chief of the Secret Service. As you know, that means you’ll be in charge of a courier network connecting the entire kingdom, including every document that leaves Shaanar’s hands.”

  “Are you ordering me to spy on him?”

  “That will be one of your duties.”

  “Won’t Shaanar suspect me?”

  “I’ve warned him that his every move will be watched. That may help keep him honest.”

  “What if he finds a way around me?”

  “You’re too good to let that happen, my friend.”

  Approaching the sacred site of Abydos, Ramses felt heartsick. Everything here spoke to him of his father, the namesake of Set, the Destroyer, who slew his brother, Osiris. As an act of conciliation, Seti had built a magnificent sanctuary where the mysteries of Osiris’s death and resurrection were celebrated. Ramses and Nefertari had been initiated into these mysteries, imprinting on their souls the certainty of eternal life, the promise of which they must in turn communicate to their people.

  The banks of the canal leading to the temple landing were completely empty. Yes, this was holy ground; yes, Osiris’s resurrection was a solemn celebration; all the same, the absence of a welcoming party took the royal entourage by surprise.

  Serramanna was the first one off the ship, sword in hand and flanked by his fellow guardsmen. “I smell trouble,” muttered the Sard.

  Ramses was close behind. In the distance, behind a row of tall acacias, stood the temple of Osiris.

  “Careful, now,” warned Serramanna. “Let me have a look around first.”

  Sedition at Abydos? The king could hardly credit such a sacrilege.

  “The chariots,” he ordered. “I’ll take the lead.”

  “But Majesty . . .”

  He realized it would be futile to protest. Providing security for such an unreasonable monarch was a virtually impossible task.

  The royal chariot drove briskly toward the temple enclosure. To Ramses’ amazement, the outer gateway was open. Alighting, he entered the open-air forecourt.

  The temple facade was covered with scaffolding. On the ground lay a statue of his father depicted as Osiris. Here and there, tools lay scattered. Not a workman was in sight.

  In shock, the Pharaoh entered the sanctuary. No offerings on the altars, no priest reciting the daily rites.

  The temple had evidently been abandoned.

  Ramses emerged and hailed Serramanna, standing at attention by the gate.

  “Go find the men in charge of the construction.”

  Relieved, the giant Sard sprang into action.

  The young Pharaoh’s anger blazed hot as the bright blue sky over Abydos. Serramanna and his men had rounded up the priests, administrators, temple personnel, and construction workers who were supposed to keep the temple running and in good order. Each of them bowed, bent his knee, and touched his nose to the ground, terror-stricken by the monarch’s ringing voice as he lectured them on their laziness and negligence.

  Ramses accepted no excuse. It was no use claiming that Seti’s death had interrupted the temple’s normal operation. If so, every crisis would cause them to panic and effectively shut down an important religious establishment.

  Yet the harsh punishment they feared as he spoke was not forthcoming. The new ruler merely required them to double their offerings to his late father’s ka. He ordered them to lay out an orchard, plant additional trees, gild the temple doors, return to their construction work and finish the statues, resume the daily rites. He announced that a bark would be built for use in the celebration of the mysteries of Osiris. The farmers working on temple lands would no longer pay shares to the government and the temple itself would receive generous grants, providing that it was never again allowed to fall into such a sorry state.

  The men of Abydos filed silently out of the forecourt, thankful for the king’s leniency and vowing not to provoke his anger a second time.

  His fury spent, Ramses entered the central chapel, representing the heavens, where a secret light shone in the darkness. He communed with his father’s soul, now one with the stars, as the bark of the sun continued its eternal voyage.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Shaanar was jubilant.

  Not because of the near miss with the scorpion; he had never really expected Sary’s latest scheme to work. The king’s old tutor was too blind with hatred to think straight. Cutting Ramses down to size would be no easy task, Shaanar realized. Yet experience had taught him that even the strictest security measures could be breached.

  No, Shaanar was jubilant because Ahsha, at the end of a very successful dinner party, had just told him a fabulous bit of news. In the stern of Shaanar’s ship, they could have a private conversation. The few guests still on deck had been drinking heavily, and the ship’s physician was attending a high government official whose vomiting had captured the attention of the rest of the partygoers.

  “Head of the Secret Service . . . I must be dreaming!”

  “Effective immediately.”

  “And spying on me is part of your job, I suppose?”

  “Exactly.”

  “To all appearances, then, I’ll have no real freedom of movement and only be nominally in charge.”

  “That’s how Ramses sees it.”

  “Then he’ll be completely in the dark, Ahsha! I’ll play my role to the hilt. And you, it seems, will become the king’s chief adviser on Hittite policy?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Does our agreement still suit you?”

  “More than ever. I’m convinced that Ramses will be a tyrant. He’s completely self-absorbed. His vanity will lead the country to ruin.”

  “My sentiments exactly. But will you back me all the way?”

  “My position is firm.”

  “Why do you dislike Ramses so much, Ahsha?”

  “Because he’s Ramses.”

  Set in the lush green countryside, the temple of Dendera was a blend of divine and earthly beauty, a hymn of praise to Hathor, the goddess of love and joy. Tall sycamores planted around the enclosure shaded the main temple and its outbuildings, including the famous school of music and dance. As patroness of Hathor’s priestesses, Nefertari had looked forward to this stop on the tour, hoping for a few hours of meditation within the closed sanctuary. After the incident at Abydos, the royal fleet had been forced to sail southward, but the queen refused to skip Dendera.

  Ramses seemed lost in thought. “Is something on your mind?” Nefertari asked her husband.

  “I’m thinking about the new high priest of Amon. Ahmeni prepared briefs on the likely candidates, but none of them has exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Have you consulted with your mother?”

  “She agrees with me. Seti passed them over in the first place; they’re hoping I’ll forget that.”

  As Nefertari studied the images of Hathor’s face, stunningly beautiful in stone, a strange glow suddenly illuminated her gaze.

  “Nefertari . . .”

  Lost in her vision, she did not respond. Ramses took her hand, fearing she would leave him forever, transported to heaven by the sweet-faced goddess of love, until she sighed and nestled against him.

  “I was far, far away . . . In a sea of light with a voice that sang to me.”

  “What did it say?”

  “To forget the official candidates. We’ll need to find the new high priest all by ourselves.”

  “I scarcely have time for that.”

/>   “Listen for the voices from on high, like every pharaoh since the dawn of time.”

  Attending the concert held in their honor, Nefertari listened blissfully as the women sang and danced in the temple garden. Ramses, however, seethed with impatience. Would he have to wait for a miracle to find a high priest of Amon untainted by personal ambition?

  He wished he could return to the ship to talk it over with Ahmeni, but was obliged to tour the temple complex, the workshops and warehouses. Everything was as beautiful as it was orderly.

  Ramses finally found solace by the shores of the sacred lake. The serene water, the lovely beds of irises and cornflowers, the soft tread of priestesses coming to carry water for the evening rites, would have soothed the most troubled spirit.

  Nearby, an old man was pulling weeds and tucking them into a sack. His gestures were slow but precise. On one bent knee, he kept his back turned to the king and queen. His irreverence could have earned him a reprimand, but he was so absorbed in his task that the king let the old man go about his work.

  “Your flowers are wonderful,” Nefertari told the gardener after a while.

  “I say nice things to them,” he replied gruffly. “If I don’t, they grow crooked.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too.”

  “Oh? A pretty girl like you, digging around in the dirt?”

  “I enjoy working in the garden, when my schedule permits.”

  “How busy can you be?”

  “My work is rather time-consuming.”

  “Are you a priestess?”

  “For one thing.”

  “Forgive me, madam. I don’t mean to pry. You share my love of flowers; that’s all I need to know.”

  The old man grimaced in pain. “My bad knee . . . sometimes it’s hard for me to get back up.”

  Ramses reached out an arm to help him.

  “Thank you, Prince. You are a prince, aren’t you?”

  “Does the high priest of Dendera force a man of your years to do manual labor?”

  “He does.”

  “They say he’s old and cranky, in poor health, unable to travel.”

  “So he is. Do you love flowers, like the pretty lady?”

  “Planting trees is my favorite pastime. Could you tell me where I can find the high priest, old man? I’d like a word with him.”

  “What about?”

  “I wonder why he isn’t attending the conclave at Karnak that’s helping to choose a replacement for the high priest of Amon.”

  “And if you were to leave an old servant of the gods alone with his flowers?”

  By now Ramses was certain that the high priest of Dendera was none other than this old gardener. “I hardly think a bad knee would be enough to stop the head of Dendera from boarding a ship for Thebes.”

  “There’s also the frozen shoulder, the aching back, the—”

  “Is the high priest of Dendera unhappy with his lot, perchance?”

  “On the contrary, Majesty. His only wish is to live out his days in peace within these temple walls.”

  “What if Pharaoh asked him personally to attend the conclave, to give his fellow prelates the benefit of his experience and insight?”

  “If our young Pharaoh is already wise in the ways of men, he would spare a tired old servant. Now would Your Majesty kindly hand me that cane on the garden wall?”

  The king did as he was asked.

  “See for yourself, my lord, how lame poor Nebu is. Why force him out of his beautiful garden?”

  “As high priest of Dendera, will you at least consent to give your king some advice?”

  “At my age, the less said, the better.”

  “Not according to the sage Ptah-hotep, whose maxims have guided us since the age of the pyramids. I value your wisdom. Could you please tell me who you consider most qualified to become the new high priest of Amon?”

  “I’ve spent my whole life in Dendera and never set foot in Thebes. I’m really in no position to answer. Excuse me, Your Majesty, but it’s almost my bedtime.”

  Ramses and Nefertari spent part of the night on the flat roof of the temple. Thousands of souls glimmered in the night sky; the undying celestial bodies revolved around the Pole Star, at the axis of the Visible and the Invisible.

  Then the royal couple withdrew into a palace with windows overlooking the countryside. Although their rooms were small and the furnishings rustic, for the short time before the first birdsong their chamber was a paradise. Nefertari had fallen asleep in Ramses’ arms. They shared their dream of happiness.

  After performing the morning rites, eating a copious breakfast, and bathing in the pool adjoining the palace, Ramses and Nefertari prepared to depart. The assembled clergy saluted them. All of a sudden, Ramses veered off from the procession and slipped into the garden, skirting the sacred lake.

  Nebu was on his knees, casting a critical eye on the grouping of marigolds and larkspur he had just planted.

  “How did you like the queen, Nebu?”

  “What do you expect me to say, Majesty? She’s the soul of beauty and intelligence.”

  “So her opinion would count with you.”

  “Her opinion on what?”

  “I hate to take you away from your garden, but you need to come to Thebes with us, at the special request of the queen.”

  “But what on earth would I do there, Majesty?”

  “Become the high priest at Karnak.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When the royal fleet docked at Karnak, lighting up the waters of the Nile, all of Thebes was bubbling with excitement. What was the meaning of the Pharaoh’s unannounced return? Contradictory rumors spread like wildfire. Some were certain the king planned to cut the temple staff and reduce Thebes to the rank of a sleepy provincial capital. Others claimed Ramses had fallen sick and was returning to die with his face toward the Peak of the West. The young Pharaoh’s star had risen much too fast. Now the gods were taking their revenge.

  Raia, the Hittite agent, fretted and fumed. He no longer seemed to have the inside track. Thanks to his network of trade contacts, including shopkeepers in the major population centers as well as traveling merchants, he had been able to track Ramses’ progress along the Nile without ever leaving Thebes. Yet he had no explanation for the king’s precipitous return. Ramses had stopped at Abydos according to schedule, but then instead of continuing north he had backtracked, stopping briefly in Dendera.

  Ramses was hard to figure. He acted on the spur of the moment, without confiding in advisers whose loose lips would have provided grist for the Syrian’s mill. Raia foresaw a whole new set of challenges. Ramses would make a formidable adversary, and Shaanar would be hard pressed to outmaneuver him. If open conflict ensued, the king might prove much more dangerous than Raia had calculated. It would never do now to wait and see. His first step must be a quick and decisive move to eliminate any weak links in his chain of informants.

  In a blue crown and long, pleated linen robe, scepter in hand, Ramses was truly majestic. A hush fell when he entered the hall where the conclave was in progress.

  “Have you come up with a name for me?” he asked.

  “Majesty,” declared the high priest of Heliopolis, “our deliberations continue.”

  “As of this moment, they’re finished. Allow me to present the new high priest of Amon at Karnak.”

  An old man shuffled into the hall, leaning on his cane.

  “Nebu!” exclaimed the high priest of Sais. “I thought you were too ill to travel!”

  “I am, but Ramses performed a miracle.”

  “At your age,” protested the Second Prophet of Amon, “you should be thinking about retirement. The administration of Karnak and Luxor is a daunting responsibility!”

  “I quite agree, but the Pharaoh’s will must be done.”

  “My decree is already written in stone,” revealed Ramses. “Tablets will soon go up proclaiming Nebu’s appointment. Do any of you consider him unfit to fill this position?”

&nb
sp; There were no objections.

  Ramses gave Nebu a golden ring and a staff of electrum, an alloy of gold and silver, as symbols of his office.

  “I hereby name you high priest of Amon. The treasury and granaries of this great domain are now beneath your seal. As guardian of Amon’s temples and estates, be scrupulous, honest, and vigilant. Work not for your own advancement but to increase the divine ka. Amon can fathom the human soul, read each person’s mind and heart. If Amon is well satisfied, he will keep you at the head of his clergy, granting you long life and a happy old age. Do you swear to respect the law of Ma’at and fulfill your duties?”

  “I swear on the Pharaoh’s life,” declared Nebu, bowing to Ramses.

  The Second and Third Prophets of Amon were furious and humiliated. Not only had Ramses saddled them with a prelate who would be at his beck and call, he had also named a complete unknown, Bakhen, as Fourth Prophet. This young zealot would back up the doddering high priest and become the real master of Karnak. The temple’s independence would be compromised for years to come.

  The two dignitaries no longer saw any way to maintain control over the richest domain in Egypt. Squeezed between Nebu and Bakhen, they would sooner or later be forced to resign, prematurely ending their careers. In their confusion, they groped for an ally. Shaanar immediately came to mind, but now that the king’s older brother was a cabinet member, he might be singing a different tune.

  Since he had nothing to lose, however, the Second Prophet arranged to meet Shaanar as the representative of all Karnak’s clergy members unhappy with Ramses’ decision. They met in an open summer house by a fish pond. A servant offered the Prophet a cup of carob juice and discreetly withdrew. Shaanar rolled up the papyrus he was studying.

  “You look familiar.”

  “My name is Doki. I’m the Second Prophet of Amon.”

  The little man appealed to Shaanar. With his shaved head, narrow forehead, bulging eyes, long nose, and pointed chin, he resembled a crocodile.