Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  He concluded with the ancient words affirming that this temple was built not for him but for his true master, the law, the beginning and end of every temple in Egypt.

  Bakhen had the sensation he was witnessing a miracle. What had happened here, before the eyes of a privileged few, was beyond human understanding. This space, still empty, already belonged to the gods. The power of Ramses’ ka was palpable.

  “The stela commemorating today’s events is ready,” declared Doki.

  The sculptor in Doki’s hire appeared with a small stone tablet covered with hieroglyphs. The text forever consecrated the site of the Ramesseum. The magical symbols transformed the earth into heaven.

  Setau came forward, holding a blank papyrus and a flask of fresh ink. Doki gave an involuntary jump. This rough-looking character had been given no role in the ceremony!

  Setau wrote on the papyrus, in horizontal lines from right to left, then read his text aloud.

  “May any living mouth be sealed which would speak ill of the Pharaoh or so intend, either night or day. May this temple of millions of years be the magical haven protecting the royal person and shielding him from evil.”

  Doki was sweating profusely. No one had mentioned this magical incantation. Fortunately, it had no effect on his plan.

  Setau rolled up the papyrus and presented the scroll to Ramses. The king affixed his seal to it and placed it at the foot of the tablet, where it would be buried. Now the king’s gaze would come to rest on the hieroglyphs and bring them into existence.

  He whirled around.

  “Who carved these hieroglyphs?”

  The sculptor stepped forward. “I did, Majesty.”

  “Who gave you the text to inscribe on the tablet?”

  “The high priest of Amon himself, Your Majesty.”

  The man prostrated himself, partly out of respect and partly to avoid Ramses’ rising fury. The traditional inscription for the groundbreaking of a temple of millions of years had been modified and distorted, destroying its protective value.

  Nebu! The high priest must be in league with the forces of darkness. He’d sold out to Ramses’ enemies. The Pharaoh felt like smashing the old man’s head in with the ceremonial mallet. But then a strange force seemed to emanate from the newly consecrated ground, a wave of soothing warmth rising up his spinal column, the “tree of life.” A door opened within his heart, changing his outlook. Violence was not the answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nebu make a gesture that confirmed his opinion.

  “Rise, sculptor.” He got to his feet. “Now go find the high priest and bring him to me.”

  Doki gloated. His plan was working perfectly. The old man’s protests would be ineffectual, the punishment merciless, and the office of high priest vacant. This time, the king would call on a man who knew more about running Karnak. He, Doki, was that man.

  The sculptor was well rehearsed. He stopped in front of an old man holding a gilded staff in his right hand, with a golden ring on the middle finger, the two attributes of the high priest of Amon.

  “You’re sure that’s the man who gave you the text for the stela?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you’re a liar.”

  “No, Majesty! I swear it was the high priest in person who—”

  “Sculptor, you’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  Nebu retrieved his ring and staff from the elderly ritualist to whom he had handed them.

  Frantic, the sculptor began to cry out. “Doki! Where are you, Doki! You were the one who told me to go after the high priest of Amon. I knew it was wrong to fool with magic!”

  Doki made a run for it.

  The sculptor went after him, blind with rage, fists flying.

  Doki succumbed to his injuries. The sculptor, accused of assault with intent to kill, falsification of hieroglyphs, bribe-taking, and perjury, would appear before the vizier and be sentenced either to death by suicide or else forced labor in a remote desert prison.

  The day after the incident, at sunset, Ramses placed the correctly reworded commemorative stela with his own hands.

  The groundbreaking was complete. The Eternal Temple was born.

  “Did you suspect Doki?” Ramses asked Nebu.

  “It’s human nature,” replied the high priest. “Satisfaction with one’s lot in life is the exception, unfortunately, not the rule. As the sages so aptly put it, envy is a fatal disease that no physician can cure.”

  “We’ll have to find another Second Prophet.”

  “Are you thinking of Bakhen, Majesty?”

  “Of course.”

  “I won’t oppose your decision, but I’m not sure it’s time yet. You’ve put Bakhen in charge of both the renovations at Luxor and the construction of your Eternal Temple, and that was wise of you. He’s a young man worthy of your trust in him. But don’t overburden him, don’t pull him in too many directions at once. When the time is right, he can move up through the hierarchy.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Replace Doki with an old man like me, preoccupied with priestly duties. That way the temple of Amon at Karnak will no longer be a source of worry for you.”

  “Good idea. You can choose him yourself. Have you taken a look at the plans for the Ramesseum?”

  “My life has been a long and happy one, with only one regret: that I won’t live long enough to see your Eternal Temple finished.”

  “Who knows, Nebu?”

  “My bones ache, Majesty, my eyes are growing dim, I’m hard of hearing, and I have trouble staying awake these days. The end is near, I can feel it.”

  “I thought sages lived to be a hundred and ten.”

  “I’ve been blessed in my life. I don’t mind if death wants to take me and share my good fortune with others.”

  “You see pretty clearly, I’d say. If you hadn’t handed your staff and your ring to the ritualist, what would have happened?”

  “Needless to speculate, Majesty. Ma’at was watching over us.”

  Ramses looked out over the expanse where his temple of millions of years would be built. His Eternal Temple.

  “I see a grandiose building, Nebu, a temple of granite, sandstone, and basalt. The pylons touch the sky. The doors are gilded bronze. Trees shade the sparkling ponds. The granaries are full of wheat, the treasury full of gold and silver, precious stones, and rare vases. Living statues fill the courtyards and chapels. A rampart stands guard over all these wonders. At sunrise and sunset, the two of us go up to the roof terrace and survey this slice of eternity. Three spirits will live forever in this temple: my father’s, my mother’s, and my wife, Nefertari’s.”

  “You’re forgetting the fourth one, which should be the first: yourself, Ramses.”

  The Great Royal Wife approached the king. Her hands cupped an acacia seedling.

  Ramses knelt and planted it as Nefertari sparingly watered.

  “Take care of this tree for us, Nebu. It will grow with my temple. Let us pray that the gods let me come to rest one day in its peaceful shade, forgetting the world of men. That the Lady of the West will show herself in the leafy branches, then bend down and take me by the hand.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Moses stretched out on his sycamore bed.

  It had been an exhausting day. Fifty minor incidents, two injuries at the palace, rations delivered late to the third barracks site, a thousand reject bricks to haul away. Nothing out of the ordinary, just an accumulation of headaches that slowly wore him down.

  The old questions began to plague him. Building this new capital was a joy, but raising temples to several different divinities, including the evil Set, seemed an offense to the One God. His work on Pi-Ramses meant contributing to the greater glory of a pharaoh who would only perpetuate the old ways.

  In a corner of the room, near the window, someone moved.

  “Who goes there?”

  “A friend.”

  A gaunt figure with a hawklike face stepped out of the shadows and moved through the
flickering lamplight.

  “Ofir!”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Moses sat up. “I’m tired and I want to sleep. Come see me on the site tomorrow. I’ll try to find time for you.”

  “I’m in danger, my friend.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You know why! Because I believe in One God, the savior of humanity. The God your people worship in secret, the God who will one day reign supreme, replacing false idols. And Egypt is where it must start.”

  “Are you forgetting that Ramses is Pharaoh?”

  “Ramses is a tyrant, obsessed with his own power. He cares nothing for religion.”

  “You’d better not discount his power. Ramses is my friend, and I’m building his capital.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty, but you’re being torn in two, Moses, and you know it. In your heart, you reject this pharaoh’s supremacy. You long for the rule of the One True God.”

  “You’re raving, Ofir.”

  The Libyan stared hard into his eyes. “Be honest with yourself, Moses.”

  “Do you think you know me better than I know myself?”

  “Why not? We recognize the same fundamental error and share the same ideal. If we join forces, we can transform this country and the future of its inhabitants. Like it or not, Moses, you’ve become the leader of the Hebrews. With you in charge, the factional fighting has ceased. They’ve become a people.”

  “The Hebrews are subject to Pharaoh’s authority, not mine.”

  “I refuse to accept his authority, and so do you.”

  “You’re wrong. I know my place.”

  “Your place is at the head of your people, guiding them toward the truth. Mine is to bolster Lita, the legitimate heir of Akhenaton, and reinstate the supremacy of the One True God.”

  “Stop your ranting, Ofir. Inciting a revolt against Pharaoh can only lead to disaster.”

  “Do you know of any other means to our end? Or don’t you think the truth is worth fighting for?”

  “You and Lita, all alone? It’s laughable.”

  “It’s not just the two of us anymore.”

  Moses raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Since the last time we met,” Ofir informed him, “the situation has changed considerably. The movement is larger and far more ambitious than you can imagine. Ramses isn’t as invincible as he seems, and unfortunately for him, not as all-powerful as he thinks. A good part of the country’s elite will follow us once you blaze the trail, Moses.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because you’re a proven leader. Lita has to remain in the background until it’s time for her to take the throne. I’m the keeper of the flame, not a man of influence. We need your voice to make our ideas heard.”

  “I wonder who you really are, Ofir.”

  “A simple believer, like Akhenaton, convinced that the One God will rule all nations, once proud Egypt bends to His will.”

  “Madness,” thought Moses. “I shouldn’t have let him get started.” And yet the man’s words held a strange fascination. Ofir gave voice to his own repressed and highly subversive thoughts.

  “It can never happen,” said Moses.

  “Time is on our side,” Ofir reassured him. “Take charge of the Hebrews, give them a country, let them acknowledge the Supreme Being. Lita will govern Egypt, we’ll be your ally. Our alliance will foster the truth that will sweep the world.”

  “It’s only a dream.”

  “I’m no dreamer, and neither are you.”

  “Ramses is my friend, I tell you, and he rules with an iron fist.”

  “No, Moses, he’s not your friend, but your worst enemy—the enemy of what you know to be the truth.”

  “Get out of my room, Ofir.”

  “Think over what I’ve said and prepare for action. It won’t be long before we join forces.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Moses.”

  The Hebrew spent a sleepless night.

  Ofir’s words swept through his mind like a tidal wave, washing away all his fears and objections. Whether or not he was ready to admit it, this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

  Side by side, the Pharaoh’s dog and pet lion were licking chicken carcasses clean as Ramses and Nefertari sat entwined beneath a palm tree, admiring the scenery. With some difficulty, the king had convinced Serramanna to let them leave Thebes for a day in the country, bringing Fighter and Watcher as bodyguards.

  The news from Memphis was excellent. Little Meritamon was thriving on her nurse’s milk. Her brother, Kha, flourished under the watchful eyes of Nedjem, the agriculture secretary. Iset the Fair had been delighted to learn of the princess’s safe birth and sent warm congratulations to Nefertari.

  The late evening sun shone gold on Nefertari’s silken skin. The sound of a flute drifted through the soft air. Cowherds sang as they rounded up their cattle; heavily laden donkeys lumbered homeward. In the west, the sun glowed orange, while above Thebes the Peak turned red.

  The hard day gave way to the tender night. How beautiful Egypt was, resplendent in her golds and greens, the silver Nile and the blazing sunset. How beautiful Nefertari was, in her sheer linen dress. An intoxicating scent wafted from her recumbent body. Her expression was grave and peaceful, a noble window on her luminous soul.

  “Do I deserve you?” asked Ramses.

  “What a strange question.”

  “Sometimes you seem so far above all the sound and the fury . . .”

  “Haven’t I done my job?”

  “Oh, yes, you do everything perfectly, as if you’d been a queen all your life. I love you and admire you, Nefertari.”

  Their lips met, warm and vibrant.

  “I’d made up my mind not to marry,” she confessed, “and to live in a cloister. It wasn’t that I didn’t like men, but they all seemed driven by ambition. Sooner or later it made them small and weak. But you were beyond ambition, for fate had chosen your path in life. I admire you and love you, Ramses.”

  They both knew that they thought as one and that nothing would ever come between them. Conceiving the plan for the Eternal Temple had been their first magical act as royal couple, the source of an adventure that only death would end, and then only outwardly.

  “But I’ll have to keep reminding you of your duty,” she added.

  “Which one?”

  “To have sons.”

  “I already have one.”

  “You need more. If your life is long, you may outlive some of them.”

  “Why couldn’t our daughter succeed me?”

  “According to the astrologers, her nature has a contemplative bent, just like Kha’s.”

  “That might be a good attribute in a ruler.”

  “Depending on circumstances. Tonight our country is perfectly serene, but what will tomorrow bring?”

  The sound of a horse’s hooves shattered the quiet. Serramanna leapt to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  “Forgive the disturbance, Majesty. Emergency dispatch.”

  Ramses skimmed the papyrus the Sard handed him.

  “A report from the commanding general at Elephantine,” he explained to the queen. “Nubian rebels have attacked a convoy carrying gold for our principal temples.”

  “Any dead?”

  “A couple of dozen. Even more injured.”

  “Was it just robbery or the start of an uprising?”

  “No one knows yet.”

  Shaken, Ramses began to pace. The lion and dog, sensing their master’s mood, sidled up to him.

  The king said the words the Great Royal Wife was dreading.

  “I’ll leave at once. Pharaoh must set his own house in order. In my absence, Nefertari, you will govern Egypt.”

  FIFTY

  Pharaoh’s war fleet was made up of roughly twenty boats with bow and stern curving upward from the water. A broad sail was lashed to the single sturdy mast. In the center was a huge cabin for crew and troops. The smal
ler forward cabin housed the captain.

  Aboard the flagship, Ramses had personally checked the port and starboard rudders. A covered pen had been built for his pets. The dog snuggled up between the lion’s front paws, replete from their frequent feedings.

  Sailing up the Nile to Nubia, Ramses felt a renewed fascination with the barren, green-flecked hills, the bright blue sky, and the thin band of lush growth the river carved through the desert. It was a land of fire, unforgiving and yet beyond all conflict, like his soul.

  Swallows, crested cranes, and pink flamingos flew over the fleet, while high in the palm trees baboons whooped at their passage. The soldiers spent their time gambling, drinking wine, and dozing in shady corners, as if they were on a pleasure cruise.

  Their arrival in the land of Kush, beyond the Second Cataract, was a rude awakening. The men disembarked in silence, pitching their tents on the desolate shore and building a palisade. Then they awaited Pharaoh’s orders.

  A few hours later, the Viceroy of Nubia and his military escort reported to the monarch, seated on his traveling throne of gilded cedar.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” asked Ramses.

  “We have the situation well in hand, Majesty.”

  “I asked for an explanation.”

  The Viceroy of Nubia had grown quite stout. He dabbed at his forehead with a white cloth.

  “A deplorable incident, to be sure, but we mustn’t blow things out of proportion.”

  “An entire shipment of gold lost, soldiers and miners slaughtered—doesn’t that justify my intervention?”

  “The message that was sent to you may have been somewhat alarmist, but of course we’re honored by your presence.”

  “My father pacified Nubia and entrusted you with preserving the peace. Now your laxness and dawdling have compromised it once again.”

  “It was fate, Majesty, fate!”

  “You’re the Viceroy of Nubia, royal standard-bearer, superintendent of the southern desert region, head of a royal cavalry division, and you dare speak to me of fate!”