Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  Moses was aghast. “Who’d dare try such a thing?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “You’d have to be hard as stone to attack a mother and child. And insane, to make an attempt on the royal family.”

  “I wonder if there’s a connection to my building a new capital. I’ve ruffled a lot of feathers.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s too big a jump from discontent to murder.”

  “If it turned out a Hebrew was guilty, how would you feel?”

  “A criminal is a criminal, no matter what his background. But I think you’re on the wrong track.”

  “If you learn anything at all, don’t keep it from me.”

  “What? Don’t you trust me?”

  “Would I talk to you this way if I didn’t?”

  “No Hebrew would stoop so low.”

  “I have to be away for several weeks, Moses. Take good care of my capital.”

  “The next time you come, you’ll hardly recognize it. Don’t wait too long, though. We wouldn’t want to postpone the opening ceremonies.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  June brought stifling heat and a round of festivities marking the beginning of Ramses’ second year on the throne. Already more than a year since Seti’s departure for the dome of heaven!

  The royal couple’s boat moored at Gebel el-Silsila, where the great river narrowed. According to tradition, the spirit of the Nile resided here, a genie pharaoh must reawaken for the life-giving waters to rise again.

  After the offering of milk and wine and the ritual prayers, the royal pair entered a chapel carved into the river bluffs. Inside, it was pleasantly cool.

  “Did Dr. Pariamaku speak to you?” Ramses asked Nefertari.

  “He prescribed something new to give me back my energy.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Is he hiding the truth about Meritamon?”

  “No, you can rest easy on her account.”

  “Then what was he supposed to tell me?”

  “Courage is not the good doctor’s greatest virtue.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All right. He said it’s a miracle you survived childbirth this time.”

  A shadow passed over Nefertari’s face. “You’re telling me I can’t have any more children, aren’t you? I’ll never give you a son.”

  “Kha and Meritamon will be the legitimate heirs to the throne.”

  “Ramses should have more children. Many sons. If you want me to step aside, to join a religious order . . .”

  The king clasped his wife to him. “I love you, Nefertari. You’re the light of my life. You were meant to be Queen of Egypt. Our souls are joined for eternity. Nothing and no one can come between us.”

  “Iset will bear your children.”

  “Nefertari . . .”

  “Ramses, listen. It’s meant to be. You’re no ordinary man, you’re Pharaoh.”

  As soon as they arrived in Thebes, the royal couple proceeded to the site where Ramses was to raise his Eternal Temple. The location had grandeur and pulsed with the energy that flowed from the looming Peak—symbol of the West, the afterlife—and the fertile Theban plain.

  “I should never have neglected this project and focused so much on Pi-Ramses,” the king admitted. “My mother’s warning and the threat of black magic opened my eyes. Only a temple of millions of years can shield us from the forces of darkness.”

  Noble and resplendent, Nefertari paced the vast stretch of rock and sand, so sterile in appearance. Like Ramses, she was a child of the sun, never burning, only glowing from its touch. Time froze. She was the founding goddess. Each place her feet touched became holy ground.

  The Great Royal Wife walked out of eternity to claim this sun-baked soil, adding her spiritual signature to her husband’s seal.

  The two men collided on the gangway to the Pharaoh’s ship and stopped dead, face-to-face. Setau was shorter than Serramanna but just as broad of shoulder. Their eyes locked.

  “I was hoping not to find you anywhere near the king, Setau.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “There’s talk of black magic nearly killing the queen and her baby.”

  “Still no idea who was behind it? Some security Ramses has here.”

  “You’re asking for it,” the Sard growled.

  “Be my guest. But watch out for my snakes.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it any way you want. To me, a pirate is a pirate, no matter how you dress him up.”

  “It would save me a lot of time if you’d just confess.”

  “For someone in your position, you’re not very well informed. Haven’t you heard that I saved the princess’s life?”

  “To cover your tracks. You don’t fool me, Setau.”

  “As if you’d be hard to fool.”

  “Make the slightest move in the king’s direction and I’ll bash your skull in.”

  “You talk big, Serramanna.”

  “Try me.”

  “An unprovoked attack on a friend of the king’s would land you in jail.”

  “That’s where you’ll end up.”

  “You’ll beat me to it, Sard. Now get out of my way.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To meet Ramses, at his request, and drive the snakes away from his future temple.”

  “I’m watching you, sorcerer.”

  Setau shoved past Serramanna.

  “Stop spouting foolishness and get back to guarding the king.”

  Ramses spent several hours at the temple of Gurnah, on the West Bank of Thebes, meditating in the chapel dedicated to his father’s perpetual memory. He had brought an offering of grapes, figs, juniper berries, and pine cones. Here Seti’s soul could rest in peace, nourished by the subtle essence of offerings.

  And here Seti had first announced that Ramses would be his successor. At the time, the full weight of his father’s words had not registered. While Seti lived, Ramses moved in a dream, safe in his father’s giant shadow, lost in admiration of a mind that moved like the divine bark through the celestial reaches.

  When the twin crowns of Egypt, one red, one white, had been placed on his head, the sheltered life of the prince regent was instantly replaced with the harsh reality of governing—much harsher than he had ever imagined. On the temple walls, grave and smiling gods brought the sacred to life. Within these walls, a pharaoh’s eternal spirit honored the gods and communed with the Invisible. On the outside were men. Humanity—courageous and craven, upright and hypocritical, generous and greedy. And caught in the middle of these opposing forces was Ramses, entrusted with maintaining the link between gods and men, no matter what his own desires and failings might be.

  Only one year on the throne, but how long since he had ceased to live for himself?

  When Ramses climbed into the chariot with Serramanna at the reins, the sun was low in the sky.

  “Where to, Your Majesty?”

  “The Valley of the Kings.”

  “I had every boat in the fleet searched.”

  “Anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing.”

  The Sard was edgy.

  “Is that really all you have to report, Serramanna?”

  “It is, Your Majesty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s only a feeling I have.”

  “Something to do with black magic?”

  “Feelings don’t count, only facts. Until I have evidence, it would be wrong to name names.”

  “Let’s get moving, then.”

  The horses galloped toward the Valley, the entrance to which was guarded night and day. In the late summer afternoon, the rocky walls were radiating heat absorbed during the day. It was stifling, like riding into the suffocating blaze of an oven.

  Dripping sweat and red with effort, the ranking officer of the guard detachment bowed to the Pharaoh and assured him that no robbers would find their way into Seti’s tomb.

  Ramses directed the chariot
not toward his father’s final resting place but to his own. Their workday finished, the stone carvers were cleaning their tools and arranging them in their baskets. At the unexpected sight of the sovereign, a hush fell. The workmen huddled in back of their foreman, who was finishing his daily log.

  “We’ve finished the corridor into the Hall of Ma’at. May I show you, Your Majesty?”

  “I’ll go alone.”

  Ramses went through the entrance to his tomb and descended a short flight of stairs carved into the rock, symbolizing the sun’s nightly disappearance. The walls of the corridor below were carved with vertical columns of hieroglyphs, prayers that a pharaoh, depicted as youthful for all eternity, addressed to the power of light, saying the litany of its secret names. Next came the secrets of the hours of darkness, the hidden room, the trials the old sun must overcome before it could be reborn with the morning.

  Passing through this vale of darkness, Ramses next encountered his likeness worshiping the gods, alive in the next world as they were on earth. Skillfully drawn, brightly painted, these images preserved the king’s spirit through all eternity.

  On the right was the chariot room with its four pillars. The shaft, carriage, wheels, and other parts of Ramses’ ritual chariot would be stored here, that it might be reassembled in the other world and serve him as he battled the forces of darkness.

  From this point on, the passage narrowed. The walls were decorated with scenes and texts relating to the ritual opening of the mouth and the eyes, carried out on the statue of the risen, transfigured king.

  Then all was rock, barely hewn by the stone carvers’ chisels. It would take them several more months to finish the Hall of Ma’at and the golden chamber where the sarcophagus would be laid to rest.

  Ramses’ death rose up before him, calm and mysterious. No word would be missing from the ritual texts, no scene from the tableau of the afterlife. The young king felt himself move beyond his earthly body, into a world whose laws were beyond any human understanding.

  When the Pharaoh emerged from his tomb, a peaceable night had fallen on the valley of his ancestors.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The Second Prophet of Amon, Doki, hurried from the temple of Amon to the royal palace. The king was here in Thebes and had summoned Karnak’s top officials. The crocodile-faced priest rushed on, cursing his idiot of a secretary. Knee-deep in livestock tallies, the fool had neglected to pass on the Pharaoh’s message. He could go live with the livestock!

  Serramanna frisked Doki and showed him to the Pharaoh’s audience chamber. Across from him, in a chair with arm rests, sat old Nebu, the high priest and First Prophet of Amon. Wizened and slouching, his bad leg propped on a pillow, Nebu took whiffs from a bottle of flower essences.

  “Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I’m only late because—”

  “Don’t mention it. Where’s the Third Prophet?”

  “He’s in charge of the rites of purification at the House of Life and wishes to remain in seclusion.”

  “Granted. What about Bakhen, the Fourth Prophet?”

  “He’s on site at Luxor.”

  “Surely he could take the afternoon off!”

  “They’re raising the obelisks, a delicate operation, I understand. If you want me to send to Luxor . . .”

  “No matter. The high priest is in satisfactory health, I hope?”

  “No,” replied Nebu listlessly. “I can barely get around. Most of my time is spent in the archives. My predecessor didn’t pay much attention to older forms of worship, and I hope to revive them.”

  “And you, Doki? More concerned with affairs of this world?”

  “Someone has to be! Bakhen and I run the temple and its estates—under the guidance of our revered leader, of course.”

  “I may be lame, but there’s nothing wrong with my vision. My young subordinates have come to understand that. The mission the king has given me will be carried out to the fullest. I’ve set high standards.”

  The firmness in his voice startled Ramses. Weary as he might seem, Nebu was clearly in charge.

  “We rejoice in your visit, Majesty. It shows that the creation of your new capital doesn’t mean you’re abandoning Thebes.”

  “That was never my intention, Nebu. What pharaoh worthy of the name would turn his back on the city of Amon, god of victories?”

  “Then why stay away so long?” he asked, almost accusingly.

  “It’s not the high priest of Amon’s place to question government policy.”

  “I agree completely, Majesty, but it is his place, I believe, to concern himself with the future of his temple.”

  “Put your mind at ease, Nebu. The hall at Karnak has the biggest and most beautiful colonnade ever built, does it not?”

  “By Your Majesty’s grace, would you permit an old and unworldly man to inquire as to the true motive for your visit?”

  Ramses smiled. “Which of us is more impatient, Nebu?”

  “You feel the fire of youth, I hear the call of heaven. I can’t waste what little time I have left in idle chatter.”

  The clash left Doki speechless. If Nebu continued to be so defiant, the king was bound to lose his temper.

  “The royal family is in danger,” revealed Ramses. “I’ve come in search of stronger magic to protect us.”

  “Why Thebes?” asked the high priest.

  “Because this is where I’ll build my temple of millions of years—my Eternal Temple.”

  Nebu gripped his cane. “Excellent. But first I suggest you augment your ka, the special power with which you are endowed.”

  “How is that?”

  “By finishing work on the temple of Luxor, where your ka is paramount.”

  “Looking out for your own interests by any chance, Nebu?”

  “Under different circumstances, I might have pleaded my case, but not after what you’ve just told us. Luxor is Karnak’s direct connection to divine power and might—the power you need to maintain.”

  “I’ll make note of your advice, high priest. For now, prepare to officiate at the ground-breaking of my Eternal Temple on the West Bank of Thebes.”

  To ease his feverish excitement, Doki downed several cups of strong beer. His hands shook. Cold sweat ran down his back. He’d suffered so much injustice, but his luck was finally changing!

  He was only Second Prophet of Amon, yet he had just been entrusted with a state secret of the highest importance. Ramses had made a serious error in judgment, and if Doki played his cards right, he might become high priest after all.

  The Eternal Temple . . . an unexpected opportunity, the solution he thought he’d never find. But he had to get control of himself, move slowly and cautiously, not waste one precious second, know what to say and when to say nothing.

  His position at Karnak would allow him to skim commodities destined for the project, simply removing a line here and there from the inventories. Since he was in charge of the scribes who kept the ledgers, the risk was nonexistent.

  Perhaps he was overly optimistic. Was he really capable of embezzlement on such a scale? The high priest and the Pharaoh were no fools. One false move and he’d be done for. Still, it was the chance of a lifetime. A pharaoh built only one Eternal Temple.

  From Karnak to Luxor it was a half-hour’s walk down an avenue of sphinxes. Consulting the archives of the House of Life, where all the secrets of heaven and earth were stored, and reading the books of Thoth, Bakhen had come up with a plan to enlarge Luxor according to Ramses’ stated intentions. Thanks to Nebu’s support, the work had proceeded at a rapid pace. A spacious courtyard adorned with statues of Ramses would be added onto the original temple of Amenhotep III. In front of the elegant pylon gateway, six colossal statues of the new pharaoh would guard the entry, while two towering obelisks would rise toward the heavens, warding off evil forces and protecting the royal ka.

  The richly colored sandstone, the walls covered with electrum, the silver flooring, would combine to make Luxor the finest achievement of
Ramses’ reign. The poles with their banners affirming the holy presence would reach to the stars.

  But the strange events of the last hour had plunged Bakhen into despair. An oversized barge hauling the first obelisk from the Aswan quarries whirled madly in the middle of the Nile, trapped in an uncharted whirlpool. The captain, busy taking soundings from the bow to check for sandbanks, had seen the danger too late. Panic-stricken, the helmsman had lost his grip. At the moment he hit the water, one of the rudders broke. The other jammed and was useless.

  The barge’s spinning had unbalanced the cargo. The shifting obelisk—two hundred tons of solid pink granite—had already snapped several of the ropes that secured it. The rest would soon give way. Soon, the monolith would be flung into the river.

  Bakhen clenched his fists and cried.

  The accident would be the end of his career. He would and should be held responsible for the wreck, the loss of the obelisk, the death of several men. In his haste to see Luxor finished, he, Bakhen, had ordered the barge to sail north before the yearly flood, ignoring the danger to the crew. What made him think he could defy the laws of nature?

  The Fourth Prophet of Amon would gladly have given his life to undo this disaster. But the boat spun faster and faster, the hull creaked and shuddered. The obelisk was a work of art, complete except for the gilding on the pyramidion, to make it glitter in the sunlight. Now its splendor would be wasted on the bottom of the river.

  On the far shore, a man was gesticulating—a whiskered giant with sword and helmet. His shouts were lost in the whipping wind.

  He was yelling at a swimmer, Bakhen finally realized, begging him to turn back. Instead, the man’s rapid strokes brought him closer and closer to the spinning barge. At the risk of drowning in the current or being hit by an oar, the swimmer managed to reach the prow and pull himself along the hull with a dangling rope.

  Then he gripped the jammed rudder, struggling with both hands to free it. With superhuman effort, braced against his heels, the muscles of his arms and chest popping, he dislodged the huge block of wood.