“My performance has been flawless, I can assure you, Majesty. But it’s too big a job for one man: meeting with village mayors, making sure the granaries are stocked, checking the—”
“What about gold production?”
“Mining and shipping are under my close supervision, Majesty.”
“Is that why you let the convoy go unescorted?”
“How could I know that a handful of madmen was on the loose?”
“I thought that was part of your job.”
“I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Take me to the scene of the attack.”
“It’s on the gold route, a barren and lonely spot. It won’t tell you anything.”
“Who were these rebels?”
“Some miserable tribe. They probably primed themselves with drink.”
“Have you searched for the perpetrators?”
“Nubia is a very large province, Majesty, and my troop levels have been cut.”
“In other words, no serious investigation has been attempted.”
“Only Your Majesty could order a military sweep.”
“That’s all, Viceroy.”
“Shall I help Your Majesty hunt down the rebels?”
“Just tell me the truth: is Nubia prepared to rise up in support of them?”
“Well, it’s unlikely, but—”
“Is the rebellion already under way, then?”
“No, Majesty, but there does seem to be some unrest. That’s why we really were hoping you’d come to help us.”
“Drink up,” Setau told Ramses.
“Can’t I get along without it?”
“Yes, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. Serramanna can’t do a thing to guard you from snakes.”
The king drank the dangerous brew made from nettle extracts and diluted cobra blood. Setau gave him regular doses to build up his immunity to snakebite. At least he could eliminate one risk along the gold road.
“Thanks for bringing us along. I love it here, and Lotus is glad to be home. Just imagine the specimens we’ll find!”
“It’s no vacation, Setau. Nubian warriors have earned their fierce reputation.”
“Why not let the poor devils have their gold, and quiet things down?”
“They committed robbery and murder. No one can flout the law of Ma’at with impunity.”
“Nothing can change your mind, I suppose.”
“No, nothing.”
“Have you considered your personal safety?”
“This mission isn’t one I can delegate.”
“Tell your men to take special care. Snake venom is strongest at this time of year. They need to use asafetida. The odor of the gum resin will repel some reptiles. If anyone is bitten, send for me at once. Lotus and I will be sleeping in our wagon.”
The expeditionary force marched along the rocky trail, led by a scout, then Serramanna and Ramses on surefooted horses. Next came oxen pulling wagons, donkeys laden with weapons and water gourds, and finally the foot soldiers.
The Nubian scout was convinced that the rebels were still close by the site of the attack. Nearby was an oasis, the perfect place to stash their loot until they attempted to trade it.
According to the map supplied by the viceroy, the gold route was studded with wells, and reports from the Nubian mines had indicated no recent problem with the water supply. They could advance without fear through the heart of the desert.
The scout was surprised to encounter a decomposing donkey. Usually the convoy leaders selected only the healthiest animals for their long marches.
As they neared the first water stop, the men’s spirits rose. To quench their thirst, refill their gourds, sleep in the shade of their cloth shelters . . . from the top officers down, every soldier was looking forward to the same prospect. Since night would fall in three hours or less, the king would certainly make camp here.
When the scout reached the well, a chill ran through him despite the torrid heat. He ran back to Ramses.
“Majesty! The well is dry.”
The Pharaoh’s troops did not have enough water to survive a march back to their point of departure. The only choice was marching forward, in hope of making it to the next well. But since the provincial government’s information had proved unreliable, it might mean the next well would be just as dry.
“We could leave the main road,” suggested the scout, “and branch out to the right toward the rebels’ oasis. Between here and there is a well they might use on their raids.”
“Rest until dusk,” ordered Ramses. “Then we’ll head off again.”
“A night march is dangerous, Majesty! Snakes, the potential for ambush . . .”
“It’s our only option.”
Ramses was reminded of an earlier expedition, with his father. Their soldiers had faced an identical situation—local insurgents poisoning the wells on the gold route. In his heart of hearts, he admitted that this time he’d underestimated the danger. He knew from experience that a simple peacekeeping mission could end in disaster.
The king addressed his men, telling them the truth. They were worried, but the more experienced soldiers kept up the morale. Pharaoh was their leader, and Pharaoh was a miracle worker, they told their comrades.
Despite the risks, the foot soldiers enjoyed the night march. The rear guard, more alert than ever, would counter surprise attacks. The scout would keep them from stumbling into danger. With the full moon, he could see far into the distance.
Ramses thought of Nefertari. If he failed to return, the burden of ruling Egypt would fall on her. Kha and Meritamon were too young to take the throne. Factional fighting would resume, more desperate than ever for having been temporarily quelled.
Then, without warning, Serramanna’s horse reared, throwing him to the rocky ground. Stunned, he rolled down a sandy slope and came to rest in a gulch not visible from the trail.
A curious sound, like heavy breathing, caught his attention.
Just in front of him, a viper rasped, threatened and ready to strike.
Serramanna had lost his sword in the fall. Unarmed, all he could do was back away, avoiding any sudden movements. But the hissing viper, slithering sidewise, blocked his path.
He tried to stand, but the pain in his right ankle stopped him. Unable to run, he’d be easy prey.
“Away from me, snake! I promised I’d die by the sword!”
The hissing viper inched closer. Serramanna threw sand in its face, making it even more furious. The moment it was about to dart out at him, a forked stick pinned the snake to the ground.
“Nice shot!” Setau said in self-congratulation. “One chance in ten I’d make it.” He grabbed the snake by the neck, its tail thrashing wildly.
“What a beauty. Light blue, dark blue, and green . . . a lovely specimen, don’t you agree? Luckily for you, the hissing carries and it’s pretty easy to recognize.”
“I suppose I should thank you.”
“The bite of this viper causes local swelling. Then the whole limb is affected and begins to hemorrhage. That’s all. Only a small amount of venom, but very toxic. With a strong heart, you might survive it. Honestly, this snake isn’t half as dangerous as it looks.”
FIFTY-ONE
Setau plastered Serramanna’s sprained ankle with herbs, then applied linen dressings soaked in salve to reduce the swelling. In a few hours, it would be fine. Suspicious, the Sard wondered if the snake charmer might not have masterminded the whole incident to make himself look like a hero, innocent of any wrongdoing and a true friend to Ramses. However, Setau had made no attempt to capitalize on the rescue, which spoke well of him.
At dawn, they stopped to rest until mid-afternoon. Then the march resumed. There was still enough water for man and beast, but soon it would have to be rationed. Despite the men’s fatigue and anxiety, Ramses stepped up the pace and exhorted the rear guard to continuing vigilance. The insurgents would never attack head-on; they would try for the advantage of surprise.
In the ranks, there was no more joking or talk of home. In time, the men fell silent.
“There it is,” announced the scout, pointing.
Puny weeds, a circle of parched stones, a wooden frame to hold the weight of a large water skin hanging from a frayed rope: the well. Their only salvation.
The scout and Serramanna ran forward. For a long moment they peered down, then slowly straightened. The Sard shook his head.
“The place has been dry for ages. We’re all going to die of thirst. No one’s been able to find a permanent water source. We’ll have to fill our skins in the great beyond.”
Ramses called the men together and told them the situation was serious. By the next day, their water would be gone. They could neither advance nor retreat.
Several soldiers threw down their weapons.
“Pick those up,” ordered Ramses.
“What’s the use,” asked an officer, “if the desert is going to get us?”
“We’ve come here to reestablish order, and we won’t leave until we’ve done so.”
“How can our dead bodies fight the Nubians?”
“My father once found himself in a similar situation,” said Ramses, “and he saved his men.”
“Then why don’t you save us, too?”
“Take shelter from the sun and water the animals.”
The king turned his back on his army and faced the desert. Setau came to join him.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I’ll walk until I find water.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I have to do as my father taught me.”
“Stay here with us.”
“A pharaoh doesn’t surrender so easily. I won’t wait for death to come to me.”
Serramanna approached them. “Majesty . . .”
“Don’t let the men panic and keep up the watch, day and night. They need to remember they’re under threat of attack.”
“I can’t let you go off alone into this desert. As your chief of security . . .”
“Keep my army safe for me.”
“Hurry back. Your troops need a general.”
As the foot soldiers looked on in horror, the king walked away from the dried-up well and into the red desert. Reaching a rocky butte, he scaled it easily, surveying the desolate scene from the top.
Like his father, he needed to probe the earth’s hidden secrets, find the veins of water that sprang from the ocean of energy, flowed through the rock, and filled the heart of the mountains. Ramses’ solar plexus ached, his vision blurred, his body burned as if consumed with fever.
He took the divining rod tied to the sash of his kilt, the same wand his father had used to see into the earth. Its magic, he knew, would still work, but where should he even start looking in all this sand?
A voice spoke within the king’s body, a voice from beyond this earth, a voice deep as Seti’s. The pain in his solar plexus grew so intense that he was forced to walk slowly down the cliff. He no longer felt the burning heat of day. His heartbeat slowed like a desert animal’s.
The sand and rocks changed shape and color. Ramses’ gaze gradually penetrated the layers of sand; his fingers gripped the two pliable acacia branches bound together with linen thread.
The rod quivered, paused, went dead. He walked and the voice grew more distant. He retraced his steps, going left, the direction of death. The voice came, louder. The rod twitched. Ramses bumped into a huge pink granite boulder, lost in the sea of stone.
The force from the earth tore the rod straight out of his hands.
He had found water.
Parched, sunburned, sore, the soldiers rolled away the boulder and dug where the king told them. Fifteen feet down, they hit water. Their cheers reached the sky.
Ramses had them sink a series of wells, linked by an underground gallery, a technique he had picked up on his last desert expedition. In this way, he could not only save his army, but provide for future irrigation over a fairly wide area.
“Can you see the gardens already?” asked Setau.
“That will be our greatest gift to Nubia,” answered the king.
“I thought we were here to put down an insurrection,” protested Serramanna.
“We are.”
“Then why do you have your soldiers digging ditches?”
“It’s often part of their mission, according to our custom.”
“Pirates don’t try to be fishermen.” He sniffed. “If we’re attacked, will we be prepared to defend ourselves?”
“I thought I put you in charge of our security.”
While the soldiers completed their project, Setau and Lotus were busy trapping snakes, outstanding in both variety and size. They milked a quantity of priceless venom.
Serramanna uneasily stepped up the scheduled watches and also instituted barracks-style training. The men seemed to have forgotten the stolen gold and the rebel threat. Their pharaoh worked wonders, and soon he’d be leading them home.
“Amateurs,” scoffed the ex-pirate.
Many Egyptian soldiers were temporary recruits who soon reverted to the laborers or farmers they really were. They had never experienced the heat, blood, and death of combat. There was no better training for war than being a pirate, always on the alert and ready to dispatch any enemy with a ready weapon. Discouraged, Serramanna made no attempt to teach the men some of the more vicious attacks and surprise defenses he knew. These greenhorns would never learn to fight.
Yet he had the feeling that the Nubian rebels were not far off and for the past two days or more had been sneaking up on the Egyptian camp, spying. Ramses’ pet lion and dog also sensed a hostile presence. They grew agitated, slept less, prowled around sniffing the air.
If the Nubians were anything like some of the pirates he had known, the Egyptian forces were doomed.
The new capital of Egypt was going up at an astonishing rate, but Moses no longer saw it. To him, Pi-Ramses was now a foreign place, full of false gods and men deluded into meaningless beliefs.
Faithful to his promise, he kept the work moving along. Yet everyone noticed how short his temper was becoming, especially when he dealt with the Egyptian foremen. His complaints about their strictness were usually unfounded. Moses spent more and more time with his Hebrew brethren, discussing their people’s future with small groups of men each evening. Many were satisfied with their life in Egypt and felt no urge to go in search of an independent homeland. The risk seemed too great.
Moses kept after them, stressing their faith in a single god, their unique culture, the need to throw off the Egyptian yoke and reject false idols. He changed a few minds, but many more remained closed to him. Still, Moses was recognized as a leader who had done them a world of good. No one took his opinion lightly.
Ramses’ old friend was living on less and less sleep. His waking dream was of a fertile land where the god he cherished would reign supreme, a land the Hebrews would govern on their own, defending its borders as their most prized possession.
At last he understood the nature of the fire consuming his soul for so many years now. He could name this unquenchable desire; he could see the truth and lead his people toward it. He knew, and was filled with dread. Would Ramses accept such heresy, such a challenge to his power? Moses would have to convince him, make him see the light.
Memories flooded his mind. Ramses was far more than an old playmate. He was a true friend, who burned with a different version of the fire that consumed Moses. He would never take part in a coup against Ramses. He would meet him face-to-face and win him over. No matter how impossible that might seem, Moses was confident.
For God was with him.
FIFTY-TWO
The Nubian rebels had half-shaved heads, hoop earrings, broad noses, ritual scars on their cheeks, beaded necklaces, and panther-skin loincloths. They encircled the Egyptian encampment while most of Ramses’ soldiers dozed in the afternoon heat. Their huge acacia bows launched a number of successful hits before the Egyp
tians could muster a response.
What kept the rebel chief from giving the order to attack was the sight of a small band of men, also armed with sturdy bows, behind a palisade of shields and palm fronds. In the lead was Serramanna, who had been expecting them. His handpicked archers would have a clear shot into the Nubian ranks, as the Nubian chief could see. The advantage was his, but even so . . .
Time stood still. No one moved a muscle.
The rebel chief ’s lieutenant advised him to start shooting and take down as many of the enemy as possible, while a few fleet warriors stormed the palisade. But the chief had been in a battle or two, and didn’t like the look of Serramanna. The hairy giant might well have a trick or two up his sleeve. He didn’t look like the other Egyptians they’d encountered. His hunter’s instincts warned him to be careful.
When Ramses emerged from his tent, all eyes were upon him. In a close-fitting, flaring blue crown, a short-sleeved, tucked linen tunic, and gold-trimmed kilt with a bull’s tail dangling from the sash, the Pharaoh held a shepherd’s crook in his right hand, a sign of his magical powers. He clutched the end of it to his chest.
Behind him marched Setau, carrying the king’s white sandals. He thought of Ahmeni, the king’s official sandal-bearer, and almost smiled despite the tenseness of the situation. How amazed their friend would be to see him decked out in wig and white loincloth, clean-shaven, exactly like a seasoned courtier except for the odd-looking sack suspended from his waist.
As the Egyptian soldiers looked on nervously, Pharaoh and Setau walked to the edge of the camp, stopping less than a hundred paces from the Nubians.
“I am Ramses, Pharaoh of Egypt. Who is your head man?”
“I am,” said the chief, stepping forward.
Two feathers stuck in his red headband, muscles bulging, the rebel chief held a light spear trimmed with ostrich plumes.
“If you’re no coward, come here.”
The lieutenant made a sign of disapproval. But neither Ramses nor his sandal-bearer was armed, while he had his spear and his adviser a double-edged dagger. The chief glanced over at Serramanna.
Ramses, Volume II Page 25
