“Is there a connection to your son’s case, Majesty?”
“Unlikely, but who knows? I’m depending on you for answers.”
“Most certainly, Your Highness.”
“Excellent. Now get to work.” The queen withdrew.
The chief’s head throbbed. He wondered dejectedly if magic might not be his only recourse.
Shaanar was in his glory.
Gathered around him in one of the palace rooms of state were scores of merchants from all over the world. Cypriots, Phoenicians, Aegeans, Syrians, Lebanese, Africans, East Asians, and the pale men from the mists of the north had responded to his invitation. Seti’s Egypt had such international influence that being called to his court was considered an honor. Only the Hittites, who increasingly resisted Seti’s overtures, were not represented.
Shaanar firmly believed that international trade was the best hope for humanity. In the ports of Phoenecia, in Byblos or Ugarit, ships from Crete, Africa, and the Far East berthed side by side. Why should Egypt remain isolated in the name of preserving her identity and traditions? Shaanar admired his father, but wished the Pharaoh were more forward-looking. If it was up to him, he would drain the greater part of the Delta and create a series of merchant ports on the Mediterranean. Like his ancestors, Seti was obsessed with keeping the Two Lands intact. Instead of building defenses and increasing the size of the army, wouldn’t it be better to trade with the Hittites, dispensing considerable aid to the most warlike factions, if necessary?
When he ascended to the throne, Shaanar planned to abolish armed confrontation. He hated the army, the generals and soldiers, the limited vision of diehard military men, the will to dominate by force. War was not a lasting means of exercising power; sooner or later conquered nations turned the tables on their conquerors. On the other hand, trapping them in a web of economic forces that only a ruling elite could understand and control was virtually certain to eliminate any attempt at resistance.
Shaanar was grateful that fate had made him the older son and heir apparent. His restless, brash brother posed no threat to his grandiose plans. A worldwide trade network he would run single-handedly, alliances based on economic interest, a united empire where local character and customs would disappear . . . the thought was exhilarating.
What did Egypt matter? It could serve as his base, but would soon be too small for him. The south, mired in tradition, had no future at all. Once Shaanar’s plan succeeded, he would settle in some friendly capital and make it his base of operations.
Foreign merchants were not customarily received at the palace; Shaanar’s invitation was a mark of his interest. He was preparing for his role as Seti’s successor, in the not-too-distant future, he hoped. Convincing Seti to modify his views was no easy task. Still, any ruler respecting the law of Ma’at must bow to the demands of moment. Shaanar was confident that his reasoning was strong.
The reception was an unqualified success. The foreign merchants promised to send Shaanar their craftsmen’s finest vases for his collection, famous throughout the Near East, as far as Crete. He would give almost anything for a perfect piece of pottery with delicate curves and seductive colors. Pride of ownership only heightened his aesthetic pleasure. Alone with his treasures, Shaanar felt a deep satisfaction that no one could take away.
One of his informers approached him as he ended a cordial conversation with an Asian dealer.
“Trouble,” the informer whispered.
“What kind?”
“Your mother isn’t satisfied with the official investigation.”
Shaanar frowned.
“One of those ideas she gets?”
“No, more serious.”
“She wants her own investigation?”
“The chief of palace security is already on it.”
“He’s useless.”
“If his back’s to the wall, he could cause problems.”
“Let him sniff around, then.”
“What if he actually gets somewhere?”
“Quite unlikely.”
“We could warn him off.”
“Who knows how he might react? There’s no reasoning with imbeciles. Besides, the trail is cold.”
“What are your orders?”
“Watch him and report to me.”
The informer disappeared into the crowd and Shaanar returned to his guests. Despite the irritating news, he remained the perfect host.
SEVENTEEN
Day and night, the river patrol controlled traffic in the northern harbor of Memphis. Arrivals and departures were strictly regulated to prevent accidents. Each vessel was identified and made to wait if no berths were available.
The officer in charge of the main canal kept watch almost absentmindedly. At lunchtime, the traffic slowed. From his white, sun-baked tower, the patrolman surveyed the scene, not without satisfaction: the Nile, the canals, the green to the north that marked the start of the Delta. In less than an hour, when the sun began to descend from its zenith, he would go home to the southern suburbs and enjoy a much-needed nap, then play with his children.
His stomach grumbled. He munched on wafer bread stuffed with fresh greens. His work was more tiring than it appeared; it required great powers of concentration.
All at once, a strange apparition.
At first he thought it was a mirage, the summer sunlight at work on dark blue water. Then, forgetting his snack, he fastened his gaze on the incredible little craft threading between two barges laden with wine jars and sacks of grain.
A papyrus rowboat, all right . . . with a champion oarsman going at a furious clip.
These light skiffs were not ordinarily seen outside the watery maze of the Delta. More important, this one was not on his list of the day’s authorized arrivals! The patrolman flashed a mirror signal to the emergency squad.
Three fast boats manned with crack rowers maneuvered to intercept the skiff. Soon two guardsmen escorted Prince Ramses ashore.
Iset the Fair vented her fury.
“Why won’t Ramses see me?”
“I have no idea,” replied Ahmeni, the back of his head still bandaged.
“Is he ill?”
“I hope not.”
“Has he mentioned me?”
“No.”
“You could be a bit more informative, Ahmeni.”
“It’s not in my job description.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“As you like.”
“Can’t you try to be helpful? I’d be glad to reward you for letting me in to see him.”
“My salary is more than adequate.”
The young woman shrugged and left.
Ahmeni was puzzled. Since his return from the Delta, Ramses had shut himself up in his room and refused to talk. He picked at the meals his friend brought in to him, reread the sage Ptah-hotep’s maxims, or stayed out on the terrace gazing at the city and the pyramids of Giza and Saqqara in the distance.
While unable to engage the prince’s interest, Ahmeni still informed him about his latest discoveries in the counterfeit ink case. The scraps of documents found at the deserted factory left no doubt that it belonged to a highly placed person, employing quite a few workers, but beyond that Ahmeni had run into an impenetrable wall of silence.
Watcher had covered his master with sloppy kisses and stayed by his side every minute, afraid of losing Ramses again. Playfully alert or curled up at the prince’s feet, he kept a constant watch. The yellow, floppy-eared dog with the curlicue tail was Ramses’ only confidant.
On New Year’s Eve, Iset lost patience with her lover. Flouting his ban, she joined him on the terrace where he sat deep in thought, the dog at his side. Watcher bared his teeth and growled, ears at attention.
“Call him off!”
Ramses’ icy stare kept her from coming closer.
“What’s going on? Won’t you please speak to me?”
Ramses turned coldly away.
“You have no right to treat me this way. I was ou
t of my mind with worry, I love you, and now you won’t even look at me!”
“Leave me alone.”
Iset fell to her knees. “Is that all you have to say?” Watcher stopped threatening. “What do you want from me, Ramses?”
“Look at the Nile, Iset.”
“May I stand by you?” He said nothing. She inched closer; the dog made no move.
“The star called Sothis is about to appear,” he told her. “Tomorrow, it will rise in the east with the sun to announce the inundation.”
“The same as every year.”
“Don’t you understand that this year will be like no other?”
His serious tone so impressed Iset the Fair that she could not pretend.
“No, I don’t.”
“Look at the Nile.”
She clung tenderly to his arm.
“Don’t be so enigmatic. I’m not your enemy. What happened in the Delta?”
“My father made me see myself for what I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no right to run away; it’s no use hiding.”
“I believe in you, Ramses, whatever your fate may be.”
He stroked her hair softly. She looked at him, speechless: whatever he had gone through on this journey had transformed him. The adolescent was now a man, a man of mesmerizing beauty. She could not take her eyes off him. She was hopelessly in love.
The experts who measured the river waters had picked the exact day the Nile would crest, flooding into Memphis.
The festival was proclaimed; the cry went from street to street, telling how Isis had finally found her dead husband, Osiris, and brought him back to life. Shortly after dawn, the dike to the town’s main canal was opened and the waters coursed mightily through. So that the waters might increase but not destroy, thousands of votive statues of the god Hapi were thrown into the Nile. The manifestation of the Nile’s life-giving inundation, Hapi was depicted as a full-breasted man, with tufts of papyrus in his headdress, carrying trays full of food. Each family would keep a vial of floodwater to guarantee their prosperity through the coming year.
At the palace, everyone grew restless. In less than an hour they would form a procession that Pharaoh would lead to the Nile, where he was to make his ritual offering. And everyone wondered exactly where he would stand in the official hierarchy.
Shaanar paced, asking the chamberlain the same question for the tenth time.
“Has my father assigned my place?”
“Not yet.”
“This is madness. Ask the priest in charge.”
“The king himself will determine the order of the procession.”
“Everyone knows what the order will be!”
“Please forgive me. I have no further information.”
Shaanar smoothed the pleats of his long linen robe and fiddled with his three strands of carnelian beads. He would have preferred something fancier, but dared not outshine his father. The rumors seemed to be true: that Seti meant to make certain changes in protocol, with the queen’s consent. But why hadn’t he been consulted? If his parents excluded him, he must be falling out of favor. Who could be at the bottom of this except his power-hungry brother?
It had been a mistake to underestimate the boy. The lying snake had stabbed him in the back. Tuya listened to Ramses’ lies and influenced her husband.
Yes, that was Ramses’ plan: to move to the head of the procession, appearing directly behind his father and mother at an important public ceremony. To show that he had become the favorite son.
Shaanar demanded an audience with his mother.
Two priestesses had just finished dressing the Great Royal Wife. Her crown was adorned with two tall feathers, a symbol of how she incarnated the breath of life nurturing all of Egypt. The queen’s earthly presence made the dry season end and began the fertile flooding anew.
Shaanar bowed to his mother.
“No one will tell me what I’m doing in the ceremony today,” he said.
“Are you complaining?”
“I think I should be at my father’s side when he makes the offering.”
“That’s entirely up to him.”
“He must have informed you of his decision.”
“Don’t you trust your father’s judgment? You’re usually the first to praise his decisions.”
Shaanar fell silent, regretting that he had appealed to his mother. While always evenhanded, she made him uncomfortable. She seemed able to see right through him.
“Rest assured,” he continued, “that I bow to Pharaoh’s wisdom.”
“Then what cause have you to worry? Seti will act in the best interests of Egypt. That’s the essential thing, don’t you agree?”
To keep his hands and mind occupied, Ramses was copying out one of Ptah-hotep’s maxims on a sheet of papyrus: “If you are a leader giving orders to many, seek each occasion to be efficient, in order for your manner of governing to be free from error.” The prince pondered this idea in his mind as if the long-dead author were addressing him directly.
In less than an hour, a priest would come and assign him a role in the ritual procession. If his instinct was correct, he would take Shaanar’s usual place. There was no reason to suppose Seti wanted to shake up the established order, but why else had the procession’s protocol been shrouded in mystery? Pharaoh must be planning a surprise for the surging crowd on the riverbanks. He would put Ramses where Shaanar usually stood.
No law required the king to name his eldest son as his successor. Not even high birth was necessary. A number of pharaohs and their consorts had come from a modest background, without court connections. Tuya herself had been a penniless girl from the provinces.
Ramses relived his three encounters with his father. None of them had been accidental. Seti had jolted him into an awareness of his true nature, brutally stripping him of all his illusions. Just as a lion was born to be king of the wild, Ramses felt he was destined to rule.
Contrary to his original belief, he was not free to choose. Fate had determined his path in life, and Seti was making sure that he did not stray from it.
Gawkers crowded along the parade route from palace to river. The New Year’s festivities provided one of their few opportunities to see the Pharaoh, his queen, their children, and an array of high government officials.
From the window of his palace suite, Shaanar studied the onlookers who would momentarily witness his shameful ouster. Seti had not even given him a chance to defend himself and explain why Ramses would never make a proper king. The monarch’s judgment was clouded. He would stick to his arbitrary and unjust decision.
It would not be a popular one at court. Shaanar would be able to organize an opposition that Seti could not ignore. The most influential officials were on his side. Let Ramses make a few false moves, and Shaanar would soon have the upper hand again. And if Ramses failed to make his own blunders, he could count on some help from his brother.
The high priest begged the king’s older son to follow him. The procession would soon be under way.
Ramses followed the priest.
The procession stretched from the palace gates to beyond the temple district. The prince was led to the head of the line. After the grand marshal, the royal couple came first. The white-robed temple priests, their shaved heads gleaming, watched Seti’s son advance and noted his magnetic presence. Some people, however, still saw him as an immature, sports-loving youth, destined forever to play second fiddle.
Ramses walked on.
He passed powerful lords and elaborately dressed ladies, inspecting the younger prince on the occasion of his first official appearance. It was no dream. This important New Year’s Day, his father would place him in line for the throne.
The priest suddenly halted.
He escorted Ramses to a spot behind the high priest of Ptah, far behind the royal couple, far behind Shaanar, who stood proudly to the right of his father, still Seti’s designated successor.
EIGHTEEN
For two days, Ramses refused to eat or speak to anyone.
Ahmeni, sensing how deeply disappointed his friend was, stayed in the background like a quiet, helpful shadow. Yes, Ramses had made his first official appearance, and from now on would have a role in various state occasions. Unfortunately, he would hardly be more than a face in the crowd. In everyone’s eyes, Shaanar was still heir to the throne.
Watcher sympathized with his master and stopped demanding his usual walks and play sessions. Having to care for his dog finally brought Ramses out of his self-imposed exile. He called for his pet to be fed, and when Ahmeni brought in a meal for the prince as well, he gave in and ate it.
“I’m a conceited fool, Ahmeni. My father taught me a valuable lesson.”
“Stop torturing yourself.”
“I thought I was smarter than that.”
“Is power so important to you?”
“Not power, but the chance to be what I am. I was so sure I was born to be Pharaoh. All along, my father was showing me why it can never happen. I was blind.”
“Can you accept your destiny?”
“Do I still have one?”
Ahmeni feared for his friend’s sanity. Ramses’ despair was so profound that he might decide to risk his life in breakneck adventures. Only time would ease the disappointment, but patience was not among the prince’s virtues.
“Sary is having a party tonight,” Ahmeni said softly. “Would you go with me?”
“If you want me to.”
Ahmeni tried to contain his delight. Everyday pleasures, he thought, would help Ramses find the road to recovery.
Their childhood teacher and his wife had invited the best younger set to a fishing party, stocking their garden pond for the occasion. Each guest was given a stool and an acacia fishing pole. The biggest catch would be awarded a splendid papyrus relating the adventures of Sinoueh the Sailor, a classic tale enjoyed by generations of cultivated Egyptians.
The young scribe seemed intrigued by this novel entertainment, so Ramses handed his pole over to his friend. Ahmeni didn’t seem to understand that neither his devotion nor Iset’s love could quench the fire that ravaged the prince’s soul. Time would only serve to fan the insatiable flame. It must be fed. No matter what his fate dictated, he would not accept second best. Only two people fascinated him: his father and mother, the king and queen. It was their vision he wished to share, and none other.
Ramses, Volume I Page 9