Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

The boat righted itself and stopped for a few seconds, parallel to shore. The wind was right for the helmsman to steer it out of the whirlpool. Soon the oarsmen were able to help.

  The moment the barge reached the shore dozens of stone carvers and laborers ran up to unload the giant pillar.

  The daring swimmer appeared at the top of the gangway, and Bakhen knew him at once. Ramses, the King of Egypt, had risked his life to save the obelisk.

  FORTY-SIX

  On six meals a day, Shaanar was ballooning. Whenever he lost all hope of winning the throne and finally taking revenge on Ramses, he ate. Food made him feel better, helped him forget about his brother’s burgeoning new capital and flagrant popularity. Even Ahsha failed to raise his spirits, convincing as his arguments seemed. Power would take its toll on Ramses, he argued; the honeymoon would soon be over, his path would be strewn with obstacles . . . yet Ahsha had nothing concrete to back up his claims. The Hittites were strangely inactive, daunted by the young monarch’s miraculous debut.

  In short, things were going from bad to worse.

  Shaanar was gnawing on a plump goose drumstick when his steward announced Meba, the former secretary of state whom the prince had replaced, laying all the blame for the switch on Ramses.

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “He’s insisting.”

  “Send him away.”

  “He claims he has important information concerning you.”

  The former department head was not one to exaggerate; his entire career had been built on proceeding with caution.

  “All right, then.”

  Meba was the same as ever: a broad, reassuring face, a pontificating manner, a droning voice. A high government official who had felt he was set for life and could never imagine what had really caused his dismissal.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Shaanar.”

  “Always a pleasure, old friend. May I offer you anything to eat or drink?”

  “Water would do very nicely.”

  “You haven’t given up wine and beer, now, have you?”

  “Since I left the department, I’ve suffered from dreadful headaches.”

  “So terribly unfair of my brother to force you out. Perhaps in time I can find a place for you.”

  “Ramses isn’t the type to go back on his decisions. And look how far he’s come in one short year!”

  Shaanar bit into a goose wing.

  “I was quite resigned,” the former diplomat admitted, “until your sister, Dolora, introduced me to someone quite unusual.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “A Libyan named Ofir.”

  “Never heard of the fellow.”

  “He’s in hiding.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he’s protecting a girl by the name of Lita.”

  “What kind of story is this?”

  “According to Ofir, Lita is the direct descendant of Akhenaton.”

  “But all his descendants are dead!”

  “And what if it’s true?”

  “Ramses would banish her on the spot.”

  “Your sister has fallen in with them and other believers in Aton, the One God replacing all others. In Thebes they had quite an extensive membership.”

  “I hope you’re not joining! No good can come of this foolishness. Ramses represents the dynasty that put an end to Akhenaton’s experiment, and condemns it still.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Simply meeting with this Ofir made me nervous. But in retrospect, I think he could be the key to defeating Ramses.”

  “A Libyan who lives on the run?”

  “Ofir has a certain advantage: he’s a sorcerer.”

  “There are hundreds in Egypt.”

  “How many of them would be able to cast a spell over Nefertari and her baby daughter?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Dolora is convinced that Ofir is a wise man and Lita is destined to be queen. Since she’s asked me to head her movement, your sister tells me everything. Ofir is a master of black magic, determined to break through the royal couple’s magical defenses.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  “Once you’ve seen him, you’ll believe it. But that’s not all, Shaanar. Have you given any thought to Moses?”

  “No . . . Why Moses?”

  “In many respects, Akhenaton’s beliefs parallel those of the Hebrews. I’ve heard rumors that the Pharaoh’s oldest friend is obsessed with the concept of a single god. That he’s disenchanted with our civilization.”

  Shaanar studied Meba attentively. “What are you getting at?”

  “I think you should encourage Ofir to practice his magic, and introduce him to Moses.”

  “You’re leaving out the girl. Akhenaton’s heir . . . that bothers me.”

  “Me, too, but will it matter?” Meba countered. “Let’s convince Ofir that we believe in Aton and back his Lita. Once the sorcerer has undermined Ramses’ health and recruited Moses, we’ll get rid of the Libyan and his princess.”

  “An interesting plan, old friend.”

  “I’m counting on you to improve it.”

  “What’s in this for you?”

  “I want my job back. The Foreign Service was my life. I miss receiving ambassadors, hosting state dinners, holding secret talks with foreign dignitaries, nurturing relationships, setting traps, juggling protocol . . . It’s hard to understand unless you’ve been part of it for as long as I was. When you become king, appoint me to my old position.”

  “I’ll take it under consideration. You intrigue me, Meba.”

  The old diplomat beamed. “If it’s not too much trouble, I might take some of that wine you offered me. My headache is gone.”

  Bakhen, the Fourth Prophet of Amon, prostrated himself before his pharaoh.

  “I have no excuse to offer, Majesty. I take complete responsibility for my failure.”

  “What failure?”

  “The obelisk could have sunk, we almost lost the crew . . .”

  “Your nightmares mean nothing, Bakhen. Only reality counts.”

  “It doesn’t undo my carelessness.”

  “It’s not like you, I agree. What were you thinking?”

  “I wanted Luxor to be your masterpiece.”

  “Did you think I’d settle for only one jewel in my crown? Rise, Bakhen.”

  The former soldier was burly as ever. He looked more like an athlete than a holy man.

  “You were fortunate, Bakhen, and I like the men around me to be lucky. There’s magic in knowing how to stay out of harm’s way.”

  “If you hadn’t been there . . .”

  “You were even able to make me appear! Nice trick. In fact, it’s one for the royal annals.”

  Bakhen was afraid some terrible punishment would be pronounced after these ironic remarks. Instead, Ramses turned his piercing gaze toward the barge. The gigantic pillar was being unloaded without further incident.

  “It really is a splendid obelisk. When will the other one be ready?”

  “By the end of September, I hope.”

  “The hieroglyph carvers had better get busy!”

  “Aswan is hotter than here, and in the quarries—”

  “Excuses, excuses! Go to Aswan yourself and see that the work’s done on schedule. And what about the colossal statues?”

  “The sculptors have found the perfect sandstone at Gebel el-Silsila.”

  “Get them moving, too. Send someone today to make sure they’re not wasting a minute. Why isn’t the courtyard finished?”

  “We’re going as fast as we can, Your Majesty!”

  “Wrong, Bakhen. When you’re building a home for the Pharaoh’s ka, a refuge for the creative force that keeps the universe in motion, you can’t behave like a simple foreman, quibbling over technique, unsure of your materials. Your mind has to meet the stone like a bolt of lightning for the temple to spring from the ground. You’ve been slow and lazy: that’s your real mistake.”

  Dumbstruck, Ba
khen was unable to protest.

  “When Luxor is finished, my ka will prosper. It’s energy I need. Find more workmen—the best available.”

  “Some of them were assigned to your site in the Valley of the Kings.”

  “Bring them back here. My tomb can wait. One more thing I want you to take care of: my Eternal Temple on the West Bank. I need to start on it as soon as possible—another safeguard.”

  “You’re planning . . .”

  “A colossal complex, a temple so powerful its magic will repel adversity.”

  “But Luxor, Your Majesty.”

  “There’s also Pi-Ramses, an entire new city. Call forth the sculptors from every province and weed out all but the best.”

  “Majesty, there are only so many hours in a day!”

  “Make time, Bakhen. That’s what I do.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Doki met the sculptor in a tavern in Thebes where neither of them was known. They sat in the darkest corner, near a noisy bunch of Libyan laborers.

  “I got your message and here I am,” said the sculptor. “Why all the mystery?”

  Wearing a wig that sat low on his forehead and covered his ears, Doki was unrecognizable.

  “Have you mentioned this meeting to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Not even your wife?”

  “I’m single.”

  “Your girlfriend, then?”

  “I don’t see her until tomorrow night.”

  “Give me back my letter.”

  The sculptor handed the papyrus scroll to Doki, who tore it to shreds.

  “In case we can’t reach an agreement,” he explained, “there should be no evidence that we were ever in contact.”

  The sculptor, a broad-backed and forthright fellow, took a dim view of this.

  “I’ve hired out to Karnak before with no complaints, but no one ever made me sneak into a tavern and listen to mumbo jumbo.”

  “I’ll get to the point, then. How would you like to be rich?”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No. I can offer you a quick way to make a fortune, but it does involve risk.”

  “What kind of risk?”

  “Before I tell you, we have to agree on something.”

  “Go on.”

  “If you turn me down, you get out of town for good.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Perhaps we should leave it at that,” said Doki, rising.

  “All right, I agree. Don’t go.”

  “Do you swear on the Pharaoh’s life and the wrath of the goddess of silence?”

  “I do.”

  Giving one’s word was considered magic, a commitment of one’s entire being. Breaking it caused a person’s ka to flee, weakening the spirit.

  “All I’m asking is for you to carve hieroglyphs on a stela,” Doki revealed.

  “That’s what I do for a living! Why all the mystery?”

  “You’ll see when the time comes.”

  “About the payment . . .”

  “Thirty dairy cows, a hundred sheep, ten fattened steers, a light boat, twenty pairs of sandals, furniture, and a horse.”

  The sculptor was stunned. “All for a simple stela?”

  “Yes.”

  “Only a fool would say no. You’re on!”

  The two men shook hands.

  “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow at dawn, on the West Bank.”

  Meba had invited Shaanar to a country villa belonging to one of his former staffers. The former secretary of state and the king’s older brother arrived by different routes, two hours apart. Shaanar had elected not to inform Ahsha of the meeting.

  “Your sorcerer is late,” complained Shaanar.

  “He promised he’d be here.”

  “I’m not used to waiting. If he doesn’t show up soon . . .”

  Ofir made his entrance, accompanied by Lita.

  Shaanar’s irritation vanished. He stared in fascination at this disturbing stranger. Gaunt, with high cheekbones, a hooked nose, thin lips, the Libyan was like a vulture about to devour its prey. The girl had a blank, hangdog look about her.

  “You do us a great honor,” declared Ofir in a deep voice that sent a chill down Shaanar’s spine. “We hardly dared to hope for such a favor.”

  “My friend Meba told me about you.”

  “Aton be praised.”

  “That’s one name I wish you wouldn’t mention.”

  “I’ve devoted my life to pursuing Lita’s claim to the throne. The fact that you’re willing to meet with me must mean that you acknowledge it.”

  “Quite right, Ofir, but aren’t you ignoring one major obstacle—Ramses himself?”

  “On the contrary. The current pharaoh is endowed with exceptional force of character and breadth of vision. A tremendous challenge. Breaking down his defenses is bound to be difficult. However, I do have a few secret weapons.”

  “If you’re caught practicing black magic, you face the death penalty.”

  “Ramses and his dynasty have tried to wipe out the memory of Akhenaton. If I fight him, I fight to the finish.”

  “Then it’s no use preaching moderation.”

  “No,” Ofir said firmly.

  “Let me tell you about my brother. He’s a violent man, determined and uncompromising. If he finds a movement to resurrect Aton, he’ll crush it in a minute.”

  “That’s why we need to attack him from behind.”

  “Good plan, but hard to execute.”

  “My magic will eat away at him like acid.”

  “What if we had an undercover agent? I’m thinking of someone in his inner circle.”

  The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed to an inscrutable slit, like a cat’s.

  “Yes,” thought Shaanar. “I’ve hooked him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Moses. An old school friend of Ramses’, the Hebrew he put in charge of building his capital. If you can convince him to help you, I’ll sign on.”

  For the commanding general at the southern outpost of Elephantine, it was the good life. Since Seti’s pacification campaign a few years earlier, led by the Pharaoh in person, the Nubian provinces under Egyptian control were quiet as well as profitable.

  The southern frontier was well guarded. No Nubian tribe would have dreamed of attacking or even protesting against the line of fortifications. Nubia belonged to Egypt for good. Tribal chieftains sent their sons north to be educated. They returned as loyal subjects of the pharaoh, under the guidance of the Viceroy of Nubia, who was appointed directly by the king. While the thought of living abroad was painful to native Egyptians, the post was highly sought after because of the considerable privileges attached to it.

  Still, the general wouldn’t want to trade places. Elephantine was so tranquil, the climate was wonderful, and besides, he’d been born here. The garrison trained at dawn, then reported to the quarry, overseeing the docks where granite was loaded on northbound barges. His fighting days were far behind him—the further the better.

  Since his appointment to the garrison, the general had become a customs official. His men inspected shipments from the deep south and calculated tariffs. His headquarters was cluttered with government documents, but he’d rather face a mountain of papyrus any day than a fierce band of Nubian warriors.

  In a short while he’d take a quick boat trip down the Nile to check the fortifications from the river. He always enjoyed it, with the soft breeze, the lush banks, the scenic cliffs. Smiling, he thought ahead to his dinner engagement with the young widow he was tenderly consoling.

  A strange sound startled him: footsteps, running.

  “Urgent message. From Nubia. Sir,” panted his lieutenant.

  “Which detachment?”

  “Desert patrol.”

  “The gold mines?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did the courier tell you?”

  “A serious matter.”

  In other words, the scroll couldn’t be to
ssed on the piles of papyrus and wait a few days. He lifted the seal, unrolled it, and skimmed it with growing alarm.

  “It’s a fake. A joke!”

  “No, sir. You can talk to the messenger.”

  “Attack,” he read, incredulous. “Nubian rebels . . . Convoy carrying gold to Egypt!”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The new moon had just risen.

  Bare-chested, Ramses wore a wig and an Old Kingdom kilt. The queen was dressed in a long, form-fitting white dress. In place of a crown, she had the seven-pointed star of the goddess Sechat, whom she represented in the evening’s ritual. The cornerstone of the Ramesseum, the Pharaoh’s Eternal Temple, was being laid.

  Ramses thought of the time he had spent in the quarries of Gebel el-Silsila, working mallet and chisel right alongside the stone cutters. He remembered how he had wanted to stay there, and how his father showed him he was dreaming.

  Twenty ritualists from the temple of Karnak assisted the royal couple, with three of the Four Prophets presiding: Nebu, Doki, and Bakhen. The next day two architects would descend on the site with their work gangs.

  The complex would be vast—five hectares, Ramses had decreed. Room for the temple itself, as well as numerous annexes, including a library, storerooms, and a garden. This holy city, economically self-sufficient, would nurture and celebrate the supernatural power present within the Pharaoh.

  Stunned by the scope of the project, Bakhen refused to dwell on what lay ahead, focusing his attention on the king and queen performing the ceremony. After marking the symbolic corners of the future temple, they pounded in stakes and stretched a cord around them, invoking the memory of Imhotep, father of architecture, builder of the first pyramid.

  Then Pharaoh dug a section of the foundation with a hoe and laid within small bars of gold and silver, amulets, and miniature tools, which he covered with sand. With a sure hand, he laid the first cornerstone with a lever, then molded a brick. His example would give rise to the temple, its floors, walls, ceilings. Next came the ritual purification: Ramses walked around the temple site scattering incense, known as “That Which Makes Divine.”

  Bakhen held up a wooden model of the monumental entrance. Blessing it, the king was opening the mouth of his Eternal Temple, bringing it to life. Henceforth the Word was in it. Ramses struck the door twelve times with the white club called “She Who Illuminates,” summoning the presence of the gods. He lit a lamp, showing the way to the inner sanctuary where the Invisible would reside.