Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  The steward smoothed the already perfect bed linens, steadied the armchairs, rechecked the table settings, and bustled up to the bridge with a skin of cool water for the king’s pets to share as they lay on their shaded platform.

  From one of the windows of Nefertari’s spacious cabin, Ramses observed the steward, amused and pleased.

  “I’ve finally found a steward who thinks it’s more than an honorary position,” he commented. “Quite an accomplishment, in my book.”

  A hint of fatigue dulled his wife’s habitual glow. Ramses sat down on the bed and held her to him.

  “Serramanna would hardly agree with you. He and Romay have taken a dislike to each other.”

  The king was astounded. “Why on earth . . .”

  “Serramanna seems to suspect him of something.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Don’t you trust him, either?”

  “He hasn’t been with us long.”

  “But I’ve given him his chance to shine.”

  “After a while, he’ll forget that.”

  “You’re pessimistic today.”

  “I hope Romay proves me wrong.”

  “Have you any reason to doubt his loyalty?”

  “No, it’s only that Serramanna makes me wonder.”

  “You know how I count on your opinion . . .”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “No one can be indifferent to you, Ramses. They’re either for you or against you. Your power is too much for some people.”

  The king stretched out on his back. Nefertari snuggled against him.

  “My father’s power was certainly greater than mine.”

  “You’re the same, but different. Seti imposed his authority without having to say a single word. His force was hidden. You’re like a fire, a raging river. You blaze a trail without a thought for the difficulties ahead.”

  “I have a plan, Nefertari, an important new plan.”

  “Only one?” she teased.

  “This one is really big. Ever since the coronation, I’ve had a vision. It can’t be denied, and if my plan succeeds, it will change the face of Egypt.”

  Nefertari soothed her husband’s forehead. “Can you call it a plan, or is it still a dream?”

  “I can make my dream a reality, but I’m waiting for a sign.”

  “I thought you were sure.”

  “I am, but I can’t move ahead without the gods’ approval.”

  “Do you want to keep it a secret?”

  “Just putting it into words seems daring at this stage, but as Great Royal Wife, you should be the first to know.”

  Ramses explained and Nefertari listened. Yes, the plan was important, almost too important for words.

  “You’re wise to wait for a sign,” she concluded. “I’ll help you look for it.”

  “If it doesn’t come . . .”

  “A sign will come, if we know how to read it properly.”

  Ramses sat up and looked at his queen, who was hailed Beauty Among Beauties throughout the land. She was the womanly ideal of ancient love songs, with limbs of porcelain and turquoise, her slender body as restful as heavenly waters.

  The king gently laid his ear on his wife’s firm stomach.

  “Do you feel our child growing?”

  “This one will be strong, I promise you.”

  One of the straps of Nefertari’s dress had slipped off her shoulder to reveal the swell of her bosom. Ramses bit the gauzy linen, baring his wife’s sublime breasts. In her eyes he saw the flow of the celestial Nile, the well of desire, the magic of two bodies joined in a love without limits.

  THIRTY-TWO

  For the first time since his coronation, Ramses set foot in his father’s office in Memphis. Bare white walls, three high barred windows, one large table, a straight-backed armchair for the king and chairs with woven seats for visitors, a chest for papyrus.

  Intense emotion choked him.

  Seti’s spirit still moved in this austere study where he had spent so many days and nights at work, governing Egypt, keeping his country secure and happy. The room spoke to Ramses not of death, but of an invincible spirit.

  Tradition dictated that each new pharaoh should build his own home, create his own surroundings. Ramses was expected to order this building pulled down. And such had been his intention, until he stepped inside the space once more.

  From one of the windows, Ramses could see the inner courtyard where the royal chariot was housed. Then he touched the desk, opened the chest containing blank papyrus, and sat on the straight-backed chair.

  Seti’s soul did not turn him away.

  The son had succeeded the father, the father accepted the son as Lord of the Two Lands. Ramses would keep the office intact and work here whenever he was residing in Memphis. It would stay plain as he found it, a precious reminder of the essential.

  On the table sat two springy twigs from an acacia tree, lashed together at the bottom. This was the diviner’s rod Seti had used to find water when their expedition was lost in the desert. It had marked a turning point in Ramses’ education in the art of kingship. Seti had shown him that Pharaoh must master the elements, the very mystery of creation. Pharaoh must go to the heart of all matter and draw on its hidden powers.

  For Pharaoh was more than a head of state. He was also a conduit to the Invisible.

  With his age-stiffened fingers, Homer packed his mixture of sage leaves into the bowl of his pipe, an oversized snail shell that was finally seasoned to his satisfaction. Between two puffs, he treated himself to a sip of full-bodied wine, flavored with anise and coriander. Thus was the old Greek poet enjoying the cool of evening, in a comfortable armchair beneath his beloved lemon tree, when the maid announced a visit from the king.

  As Ramses came into his limited view, Homer was astonished at how regal he had become. The poet struggled to his feet.

  “Please don’t get up.”

  “Majesty, how you’ve changed!”

  “Majesty? Aren’t we becoming high-toned!”

  “You’ve been crowned king of Egypt. A monarch of your bearing commands respect. I can tell that you’re not the hotheaded young man I used to lecture . . . though I hope Pharaoh still listens to me.”

  “I’m happy to see you continue in good health. Do your living conditions still suit you?”

  “The maid is finally used to me, the gardener is quiet, the cook is a treasure, and the scribe who takes down my verses seems to approve of them. What more could I ask?”

  Hector, the black and white cat, jumped into the poet’s lap and began to purr.

  As was his habit, Homer had rubbed his whole body with olive oil. Nothing could be more healthful or smell better, according to him.

  “Making progress with your poem?”

  “Listen to how I have Zeus address the immortals: ‘Attach a golden cord to the sky, and when I have a mind to pull, I can drag up all the earth and sea, tie it around the horn of Olympus, and leave this world dangling in the air. ’ Not too bad, eh?”

  “In other words, I’m new on the throne and Egypt is up in the air.”

  “How would I know, sitting here in my garden?”

  “Your muse and the servants’ gossip should keep you well enough informed.”

  Homer scratched his white beard. “Could be . . . the reclusive life is not without its convenient aspects. It was time you returned to Memphis, Ramses.”

  “I had a tricky situation to resolve first.”

  “Finding a high priest of Amon who won’t work against your interests . . . tough, but you pulled it off. Choosing an old and unworldly man showed unusual political savvy for one so young.”

  “I chose him on merit.”

  “Why not? The point is for him to obey you.”

  “If conflict between the north and south broke out, Egypt would be ruined.”

  “A strange country, but so endearing. I’m getting so used to your customs I’ve even start
ed to drink my wine plain on occasion.”

  “Are you taking care of yourself?”

  “There must be two doctors for every Egyptian, I swear! A dentist, an ophthalmologist, and a general practitioner have all made house calls. They’ve given me so many potions I can’t begin to remember them. Though I admit the eye-drops have helped a bit with my vision. If I’d had them in Greece, I might not have lost so much of my sight. I won’t go home now . . . too much fighting, too many factions, too many warlords and princelings mired in their rivalries. To write, I need peace and quiet. Concentrate on building one great nation, Majesty.”

  “My father undertook to do so.”

  “Here’s a phrase of mine: ‘What good are heartrending sobs, since the gods have condemned all men to a life of sorrow?’ You can’t escape the common lot, and yet your role is to be placed beyond the suffering mass of humanity. The fact that there is a pharaoh, that there have been for centuries, allows your people to believe in happiness, experience it, and even to share it.”

  Ramses smiled. “You’re beginning to undertand the mysteries of Egypt.”

  “Don’t waste time pining for your father, and don’t try to imitate him. Only become what he was: irreplaceable.”

  Ramses and Nefertari had celebrated rites in every temple in Memphis and recognized the high priest for his excellent administration of the city’s famous art schools, where the finest sculptors in Egypt trained and worked.

  The dreaded moment had now arrived when the king and queen must pose for these same sculptors. Enthroned, with their heavy crowns and scepters, they were required to sit motionless for hours on end while the sculptors, “those who give life,” captured the royal couple in stone, forever young. Nefertari bore the ordeal with dignity, while Ramses grew increasingly restless. On the second day, unable to spend a moment more away from work, he called for Ahmeni.

  “The inundation?”

  “Fair,” answered his private secretary. “The farmers were hoping for more, but the reservoir foremen are hopeful. The water supply will be adequate.”

  “How is my Agriculture appointee making out?”

  “He leaves the administrative details to me and never sets foot in his office. He travels from field to field, farm to farm, solving all kinds of practical problems day in and day out. It’s not what you’d expect from a department head, but . . .”

  “He’s on the right track. Are the farmworkers complaining?”

  “The harvest was good, the granaries are full.”

  “Livestock?”

  “Numbers on the rise, according to the latest tallies. No reports from the field on new diseases.”

  “And my darling brother’s department?”

  “Shaanar is a model cabinet member. He met with his staff, praised you to the high heavens, and asked that they all give their best for Egypt. He’s taking his position very seriously, starts early in the morning, consults with his advisers, does his homework, and defers to Ahsha. Your brother is becoming a credit to your government!”

  “Are you serious, Ahmeni?”

  “The State Department is no laughing matter.”

  “Have you been to see Shaanar?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did he treat you?”

  “Courteously. He didn’t object in the least when I asked him to furnish me with a weekly report of his activities.”

  “Surprising. He should have shown you the door.”

  “He’s playing the part so well that he’s even convinced himself. As long as you can keep tabs on him, I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Keep him in line for me, will you?”

  “I’ve already seen to that, Majesty.”

  Ramses got up, set the scepters and crown on his throne, and dismissed the sculptor in mid-sketch. Relieved, Nefertari followed his lead.

  “Posing is torture,” the king confessed. “If anyone had told me how awful it was, I never would have consented. Fortunately, this likeness will be the only one we sit for.”

  “Every station in life has its share of hardships. Your Majesty must never shirk his duties.”

  “Watch out, Ahmeni. They may raise a statue to you if you become a sage.”

  “No chance of that, with the pace you have me keep.”

  Ramses drew closer to his friend. “What do you think of Romay, my new chief steward?”

  “A good man, but tormented.”

  “How so?

  “Obsessed with the smallest detail in his quest for perfection.”

  “He’s like you, then.”

  Ahmeni folded his arms. “Anything wrong with that?” he asked crossly.

  “I want to know if Romay’s behavior appears at all unusual to you.”

  “Quite the opposite. If you had a hundred Romays, then I could rest easy. Is there some problem with him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You have nothing to fear from Romay. If Your Majesty is finished with me, I need to get back to the office.”

  Nefertari tenderly took her husband’s arm.

  “Ahmeni is a rock.”

  “He’s a one-man government.”

  “You spoke of a sign. Have you seen it?”

  “No, darling.”

  “I feel it coming.”

  “What form will it take?” asked Ramses.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s heading for us like a horse at full gallop.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  In early September, the floodwaters spread until Egypt resembled an immense lake from which the occasional hilltop village emerged. Those who did not seek work at one of Pharaoh’s construction sites devoted their time to relaxation and boat travel. Well sheltered on hillocks, livestock fattened on forage. On estates the laborers fished in the fields they had only lately tilled.

  At the southern tip of the Delta, just above Memphis, the Nile stretched for nearly fifteen miles. On the northern fringe, it was ten times wider, pushing out into the sea.

  Papyrus and lotus plants grew dense, as if the country were reverting to the days before man walked the earth. The water’s benediction purified the earth, drowned vermin, and spread the fertile silt that gave the land its abundance.

  Every morning since mid-May a technician had descended the stairs to the Memphis Nilometer. The cubit ruler carved into its walls provided accurate records of the yearly inundation and a means of calculating the rate of the river’s rise. At this time of year, the waters begin to recede almost imperceptibly until the level drops markedly toward the end of September.

  The Memphis Nilometer was a kind of square well built of stone blocks. The technician climbed carefully, afraid of slipping. In his left hand, he carried a wooden tablet and the fish bone he used as a writing instrument. With his right, he braced himself against the wall.

  His foot touched water.

  Amazed, he stopped dead and studied the marks on the wall. His eyes must be playing tricks on him! He checked, checked again, then turned and ran up the stairs.

  The canal district supervisor for the Memphis region raised unbelieving eyes to the Nilometer technician.

  “These figures can’t be correct.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but I double-checked again today. There’s no doubt about it.”

  “Are you sure what month it is?”

  “The first part of September, I know!”

  “You’ve been a reliable worker, set to move up a grade at your next evaluation. Because of your record, I’ll agree to forget this incident, provided that you resubmit the report after rectifying your error.”

  “There’s been no error.”

  “Are you going to force me to take disciplinary measures?”

  “Check for yourself, sir, please.”

  The technician’s steady confidence unnerved his superior.

  “You know as well as I do that these measurements are impossible!”

  “I can’t say I understand, but there you have it . . . The exact same measurement, recorded two days i
n a row.”

  The two men went together to check the Nilometer.

  Afterward, the district supervisor could no longer deny that something out of the ordinary was taking place: instead of receding, the Nile was rising for the second time that year.

  Sixteen cubits, the ideal water level. Sixteen cubits, or “perfect joy.”

  The news swept the country fast as a speeding jackal, causing an uproar. Ramses, in the first year of his reign, had performed a miracle! The reservoirs would be filled to the brim, the next season’s crops irrigated throughout the dry months. The Two Lands would know the best of times, thanks to this royal magic.

  Thus Ramses took Seti’s place in his subjects’ hearts. The new pharaoh was beneficent, endowed with supernatural powers, able to control the inundation and banish the specter of famine.

  Shaanar was in a rage. How could people be so backward! They insisted on attributing a natural phenomenon to magic. The September flooding was highly unusual, of course, even incredible, as no Nilometer station in Egypt had records of any such occurrence. But Ramses had nothing to do with it! Even so, in every town and village the new pharaoh was being feted and his name praised to the heavens. After all, he was destined to equal the gods . . .

  The king’s older brother canceled his appointments and gave his entire department a day off in celebration, following the lead of his fellow cabinet members. Doing otherwise would be a tactical error.

  Why did Ramses have all the luck? In the space of a few hours, his popularity had surpassed Seti’s. A number of his adversaries caved in, deciding it would be hopeless to oppose him. Instead of forging ahead, Shaanar must proceed more cautiously than ever, slowly weaving his web.

  His persistence would pay off in the long run. Fortune was notoriously fickle, and when Ramses’ luck ran out, Shaanar would make his move. Until then, he would choose his weapons. He would have to strike accurately and hard.