Close behind Serramanna, Ramses’ chariot headed for the Valley of the Kings. Despite the early hour, the day was already torrid. Nefertari rode serene, though mindful of the heat. A damp cloth around her neck, as well as a parasol, helped keep her cool in the blazing valley.
Before returning to Memphis, Ramses wished to see his father’s tomb once more and pray before the sarcophagus, known as “master of life” because deep inside this golden chamber Seti’s soul lived on.
The two chariots came to a halt in front of the narrow entrance to the Valley. Ramses helped Nefertari down, while Serramanna, despite the security measures already in place, had a look around. Even here, he did not rest easy. The Sard inspected the guard detachment controlling access to the Valley and noted nothing amiss in their behavior.
To Nefertari’s surprise, Ramses did not head straight for the tombs of Seti and his father, Ramses I, which sat side by side. Instead, he veered to the right, toward a site where workmen hacked at the rock, swept up the chips, and carted them away.
A master builder from the company of Deir el-Medina had his scrolls spread over several blocks of polished stone. He bowed to the royal pair.
“This is where I’m building my tomb,” Ramses informed his wife.
“So soon?”
“In the very first year of his reign, a pharaoh must see work begun on his house of eternity.”
The veil of sadness that had fallen over Nefertari’s face now lifted. “Death is our constant companion,” she agreed. “Being prepared can only ease the passage.”
“Does this seem like a good spot to you?”
The queen turned slowly around, as if taking possession of the place, sounding out the rock and the depths of the earth. Then she stood very still, eyes shut tight.
“It will be your resting place,” she affirmed.
Ramses held her close.
“Even though Ma’at requires that your body must lie in the Valley of the Queens, the two of us will never be separated,” he told her. “Your tomb will be the most beautiful ever created in this hallowed land. The story of our love will be told through the centuries.”
The Valley’s powerful spell and the grave import of the moment forged a new link between the king and queen. The stone carvers, quarrymen, and master builder sensed its luminous intensity. They were a man and a woman in love; above and beyond that, they were a pharaoh and his consort, whose life and death bore the stamp of the eternal.
The day’s work had been interrupted, the tools fell silent. Each workman felt mysteriously connected to the royal pair, without whom the Nile would stop flowing, no fish would leap in its currents, no birds would fly, the breath of life would desert humanity.
Ramses and Nefertari broke from their embrace, still holding each other’s gaze. They had just crossed the threshold into a marriage of true minds.
As the men began to swing their picks once more, Ramses approached the master builder.
“Show me your plans,” the king ordered, then studied the drawings.
“The first corridor needs to be longer. Add a forechamber with four pillars. Go deeper into the rock here and open out the Hall of Ma’at.”
Taking the brush the master builder held out to him, the king sketched his modifications in red, specifying the required dimensions.
“Starting from the Hall of Ma’at, we’ll angle right into a short, narrow passageway leading to the golden chamber, with eight pillars. The sarcophagus will lie in the center. Put in several radiating chapels for the funerary furnishings. What do you think?”
“Technically, it’s quite feasible, Majesty.”
“Let me know immediately if you run into problems during construction.”
“My job is to make sure there aren’t any.”
The royal couple and their escorts left the Valley of the Kings and turned back toward the Nile. Since the king had not informed Serramanna of their destination, the bodyguard scanned the surrounding hilltops carefully. Ramses was by nature so audacious that keeping him safe was virtually impossible. One day his luck was bound to run out.
At the edge of the cultivation, the royal chariot took a sharp right, passing in front of the nobility’s necropolis and the funerary temple of Tuthmosis III, the illustrious pharaoh who had pacified Asia and assured Egyptian domination throughout the Near East and beyond.
Ramses stopped at an empty spot at the edge of the desert, not far from the workmen’s settlement. Serramanna immediately ordered his men to fan out; a potential attacker could be lurking in the wheat fields to their rear.
“What do you think of this place, Nefertari?”
The lithe and elegant young queen had taken off her sandals, the better to gauge the energy coming from the earth. Her bare feet trod lightly on the burning sand as she paced, circled, and came to rest on a flat stone in the shade of a palm tree.
“Power dwells here, exactly like the power within your heart.”
Ramses knelt and gently massaged his queen’s delicate feet.
“Yesterday,” she confessed, “I had a strange, almost frightening sensation.”
“Can you describe it?”
“You were lying safe inside a sort of stone shell. Someone was tying to break the stone, to remove the protection and destroy you.”
“Did it work?”
“My spirit clashed with the dark force and overcame it. The stone remained intact.”
“A bad dream?”
“No, I was awake. I saw it, far away, but real, so real . . .”
“Are you better now?”
“Not completely. I still feel uneasy, as if someone is hiding in the shadows, out of reach, intent on hurting you.”
“I have countless enemies, Nefertari, is it any wonder? They’d stoop to anything. Either I never do anything that would put me in danger—meaning nothing at all—or I simply go about my business. I choose to go forward.”
“Then it’s my duty to protect you.”
“Serramanna takes care of that.”
“He’ll counter any physical attacks on you, but what about the invisible ones? That will be my role, Ramses. My love will surround you with a wall no evil can penetrate. But it’s not enough. We need more . . .”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something to preserve your name and your life for good.”
“It will be born here, on the soil your bare feet have trodden. I know you’ve seen it, a massive guardian with a body of stone, a soul made of everything that endures. On this spot I’ll build my Eternal Temple, the Ramesseum. I want us to conceive it together, like our child.”
THIRTY
Serramanna groomed his whiskers, put on perfumed oils, dressed in a purple tunic with a flared collar, and checked his haircut in a mirror. Considering what he planned to say to Ramses, he needed to look respectable, like someone whose opinion counted. He had hesitated long enough. His suspicions had grown so strong that he had to get them off his chest.
He approached the king in his dressing room. Ramses would be receptive when it was bright and early.
“You’re looking smart,” said Ramses. “Don’t tell me you’re quitting as captain of my bodyguard to become a haberdasher!”
“I thought . . .”
“You thought that considering the delicate nature of your business, you’d better put a good face on it?”
“Who told you?”
“Just a guess.”
“I’m right, Majesty!” blurted the Sard.
“You do have a way with words, Serramanna. Now explain yourself.”
“The scorpion that was supposed to put you out of commission . . . someone planted it in your room.”
“Obviously. Go on.”
“It bothered me to have that happen, so I investigated.”
“And you don’t like what you found.”
“No, Your Majesty, I don’t.”
“Are you afraid, Serramanna?”
The color drained from the Sard’s broad face
. Anyone but the Pharaoh of Egypt would have earned a punch in the mouth for such an insult.
“I’m responsible for your security, Majesty. You don’t always make it easy.”
“Are you saying I’m unpredictable?”
“If you could slow down a bit . . .”
“You’d be bored.”
“Even when I was a pirate, I liked to do a good job.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Passive protection is no problem, but am I allowed to go any further?”
“Out with it, man.”
“I suspect someone close to you. Whoever sneaked in the scorpion had to know the location of your cabin.”
“That could be any number of people.”
“Possibly, but my instincts tell me I’m close to fingering a suspect.”
“Fingering?”
“Well, I have my methods.”
“Justice is the basis of Egyptian society, my friend. As the first servant of the law of Ma’at, Pharaoh is not above the law.”
“In other words, I’ll receive no official order to proceed.”
“Wouldn’t it only get in the way?”
“I understand,” said Serramanna with a gleam in his eyes.
“I’m not sure you do, Serramanna. Follow your instincts, but take care. I won’t have you roughing people up. Official order or no, I consider myself responsible for your actions.”
“No one will get hurt.”
“Give me your word.”
“Do you trust a pirate?”
“A man of courage knows how to keep his word.”
“When I say ‘hurt,’ I mean . . .”
“Give it, Serramanna.”
“All right, Your Majesty. You have my word.”
A spotless palace was one of Romay’s obsessions. As Ramses’ new chief steward, he was responsible for the king’s personal comfort. The sweepers, floor scrubbers, and other cleaning personnel were busy as bees under the direction of a finicky scribe who hoped to bolster his position by pleasing Romay. He checked every job and was quick to threaten salary cuts for substandard performance.
Night was falling when the scribe left the sparkling-clean palace. Tired and thirsty, he made haste toward a tavern where they served his favorite beer. As he passed through a narrow street packed with laden donkeys, he was grabbed by the collar of his tunic and dragged backward into a darkened shop. The door slammed shut behind him. Frightened out of his wits, the palace official did not even cry out.
Two enormous hands gripped his neck.
“You’re going to talk, scum!”
“Let go! You’re choking me.”
Serramanna loosened his grip.
“You follow the boss man’s orders, eh?”
“Boss man?”
“Romay, the chief steward?”
“You can’t fault my work.”
“Romay hates Ramses, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know. No, no, I don’t think so. And I’m the king’s faithful servant!”
“Romay is a scorpion fancier, I hear.”
“Scorpions? He’s scared to death of them.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, it’s the truth, I swear!”
“You’ve seen him handle scorpions.”
“Never!”
The Sard began to have doubts. Usually, this method yielded excellent results. The man did appear to be telling the truth.
“Are you looking for someone who handles scorpions?” the scribe ventured.
“You know of someone?”
“A friend of the king’s called Setau . . . he lives for his snakes and scorpions. They say he even speaks their language and they obey him.”
“Where can I find this Setau?”
“He has a laboratory in the desert outside Memphis. His wife is a Nubian sorceress, as strange as he is.”
Serramanna released his captive, who rubbed his neck and breathed deeply.
“Can I go now?”
The Sard shooed him away. “Wait,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, not at all.”
“Go, but never tell anyone we spoke, unless you’d like to test my grip again.”
The scribe bolted into the darkness. Serramanna walked calmly out of the shop and headed in the opposite direction.
His instincts had pointed toward Romay. After his sudden promotion, the steward was in the ideal position to harm the king. He was also the type of man Serramanna mistrusted; a jovial facade often cloaked ruthless ambition. Still, he might as well admit he’d been wrong about Romay, since the mistake had provided him with an interesting prospect.
Interesting, but tricky. Ramses held friendship sacred. Going after Setau would be risky, especially considering his defense capabilities. Nevertheless, Serramanna was honor-bound to follow every lead. As soon as they returned to Memphis, he would pay very special attention to this unconventional couple who lived on such easy terms with reptiles.
“I’ve received no complaints about you,” noted Ramses a few days later.
“I’ve kept my promise, Majesty,” Serramanna asserted.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Sure as can be.”
“Any results?”
“Not yet.”
“No new developments?”
“Only one false lead.”
“But you haven’t given up, I take it.”
“My job is to protect you . . . within the limits of the law, of course.”
“Is there anything you’re neglecting to mention, Serramanna?”
“Do you think I’d be able to, Majesty?”
“Who knows what a pirate might do?”
“A former pirate. I like my new life too much to take needless risks.”
Ramses’ eyes narrowed. “Your prime suspect wasn’t the right one, but you want to keep trying.”
Serramanna nodded evasively.
“For the time being, you’ll have to call off the investigation.”
The giant Sard was crestfallen. “I was careful, just as I promised . . .”
“Not because of anything you’ve done—but because tomorrow we’re leaving for Memphis.”
THIRTY-ONE
Romay was swamped with preparations for moving the court from Thebes to Memphis. Not a single society lady must miss her pot of rouge, not a single gentleman must want for a comfortable chair. Meals on board ship must be the same high quality as in any royal palace. Ramses’ dog and lion must enjoy a plentiful and varied diet. Then there was the cook who had fallen ill, the washerman who was late, the weaver who had mixed up the towel order . . .
But Ramses had spoken, and Romay would obey. He had expected to spend his life refining his prize recipes. Now he was struck with admiration for this demanding and ambitious young pharaoh. Yes, Ramses was hard on his entourage. He could appear intolerant, and burned with a fire that might singe those who ventured too near. But he was as fascinating as the falcon with wings outspread, protecting the sky. Romay wanted to prove himself to his king, even at the expense of his own peace of mind.
The steward, personally carrying a basket of fresh figs, arrived at the gangway to the royal flagship. Serramanna blocked his path.
“Mandatory search.”
“I’m His Majesty’s steward!”
“Mandatory search,” repeated the bodyguard.
“Are you trying to provoke an incident?”
“Are you trying to hide something?”
Romay looked shaken. “What do you mean?”
“Are you or aren’t you?” growled Serramanna.
“I think you’ve finally gone off the deep end, Sard. All right, if you’re so security-conscious, take this basket to the king yourself. I have a thousand other things to do.”
Serramanna lifted the white cloth covering the basket. The figs were gorgeous, but what evil might they conceal? One by one, he gingerly lifted out each piece of fruit and set it aside, fully expecting to see a scorpion�
�s deadly tail darting out at him.
When the basket was empty, there was nothing to do but refill it, taking care not to bruise the perfectly ripened fruit.
Iset the Fair was lovelier than ever.
She bowed to Ramses, weak-kneed as any young noblewoman newly presented at court.
Firmly and tenderly, he helped her up.
“You weren’t always such a fragile flower.”
“No, Majesty,” she acquiesced, her face grave, almost anxious, but her eyes smiling.
“Is something worrying you?”
“May I speak confidentially?”
They sat side by side on low chairs. “I can spare a few minutes,” said the king.
“That’s all?”
“My time is no longer my own, Iset. I have more work than there are hours in the day, which is as it should be.”
“You’re moving the court to Memphis.”
“Correct.”
“I’ve received no directive . . . am I to go with you or stay here in Thebes?”
“Do you understand the reason for my silence?”
“I’ve been trying to.”
“The decision is up to you, Iset.”
“Why?”
“I love Nefertari.”
“You love me, too, don’t you?”
“You ought to hate me.”
“You rule an empire, but can you see into a woman’s heart? Nefertari is special, unique, and I know it. But no one can stop me from loving you—not you, not your wife, not even the gods—no matter what place you give me in your life. Why shouldn’t a lesser wife glean every scrap of happiness she can? Seeing you, talking to you, sharing a few stolen moments of your day, is all that keeps me going. Why should I have to give it up?”
“Then you’ve already made up your mind.”
“Yes. I’m coming to Memphis with the court.”
Forty or more boats sailed from Thebes to the cheers of the ever-growing crowd that Ramses and Nefertari attracted. The new high priest had assumed control without incident, the mayor and vizier retained their positions. The court had thrown elaborate banquets. The people rejoiced because the Nile had risen sufficiently to guarantee their continued prosperity.
Romay allowed himself a rare break in his activities. Everything on board the flagship was perfectly under control, unless you counted Serramanna. The Sard seemed to have some grudge against him. An unannounced search of every cabin and each crew member was his latest move. Someday the lummox would be cut down to size, and no one would mind. His lack of respect for social position had already earned him an impressive number of enemies. Only the king’s support kept him in his job. But would he last?
Ramses, Volume II Page 15
