The dancers decided to try their luck with the prince again. Was it true that he planned to marry Iset the Fair? Even so, a prince was supposed to have a bigger heart than other men, with room . . . Ramses turned his back on their teasing and took a seat beside Nefertari.
“My sitting here probably bothers you.”
Disarmed by his frankness, she gazed at him anxiously.
“Excuse the intrusion, but you seemed so alone.”
“I was only thinking.”
“Is there something on your mind?”
“We have to write an essay on one of Ptah-hotep’s maxims.”
“My favorite sage! Which one will you choose?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“What are you studying here, Nefertari?”
“Floral design. I love arranging flowers for the gods and I hope to spend most of my time in the temple.”
“An austere existence for a young girl.”
“I like meditation. It gives me strength. The sacred writings say that silence makes the soul grow like a flowering tree.”
The dance instructor was rounding up her students; they had to change before grammar class. Nefertari stood to go.
“Wait . . . may I ask you a favor?”
“The teachers are strict, they don’t like us to be late.”
“Tell me which maxim you’ve chosen.”
Her smile would have melted the most hardened warrior.
“‘A perfect word is rarer than green stone, yet the servant girl grinding wheat at the millstone may possess it.’”
Airy and luminous, she vanished.
TWENTY
Ramses stayed another week at the Merur harem without finding a chance to see Nefertari again. Moses’ efficiency was rewarded with extra assignments, leaving him little time to spend with his friend. However, the talks they did have were a source of strength for them both, and they vowed to keep a keen edge on their heightened consciousness.
The news that Seti’s younger son was visiting quickly spread through the harem. Elderly noblewomen asked to speak with him; some, it was clear, had tired all their earlier listeners. Any number of instructors and administrators had requests for him. The head of the harem showed him every consideration, hoping Ramses would put in a good word with his father. It became a major undertaking to find a quiet corner where he could sit and read. Feeling like a prisoner in paradise, he gathered his bag, his reed mat and walking stick, and left without a word to anyone. Moses would understand.
Watcher had been eating too much, as usual. A few days of walking would get him back in shape.
The chief of palace security was exhausted. In his entire career he had never worked so hard, running all over town, arranging meetings with bureaucrats, checking and rechecking facts, then calling some of his contacts in for further questioning and threatening them with the direst consequences.
Had there really been pressure to close the investigation, or had the wheels of bureaucracy simply ground to a halt? It was hard to tell. He had definitely received some veiled threats himself, but there was no way to trace them to their source. At any rate, he had more to fear from the queen than from the most ruthless politician or businessman.
When he was sure that despite every effort he had come up against a brick wall, he appeared before Queen Tuya.
“Your Majesty, rest assured of my complete dedication.”
“I’m more interested in results.”
“You asked me to find the truth, whatever it might be.”
“I did.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, because—”
“Let me be the judge. The facts, please.”
The security chief hesitated. “Allow me to point out that my responsibility—” A look from the queen cut short his attempt to give himself credit. “The truth can be difficult to hear, Your Majesty.”
“I’m listening.”
He swallowed hard.
“Well, I have two catastrophes to report.”
Ahmeni carefully copied out the decrees that were a standard part of the royal scribe’s duties. Although miffed at Ramses’ failure to confide in him, he knew the prince would be back. He continued to do his job as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
When Watcher came bounding into his lap and slathered his cheek with soft, moist kisses, Ahmeni forgot his hurt feelings and greeted Ramses enthusiastically.
“I was sure I’d find your office empty,” the prince confessed.
“Who would take care of business, then?”
“I don’t think I would have put up with being deserted like that.”
“No, and you wouldn’t have to. The gods gave us different roles in life, and I accept mine.”
“Ahmeni, forgive me.”
“I swore I’d be your faithful servant, and I’ll keep my word. I don’t want demons from hell to slit my throat! So you see, I’m only thinking of myself. How was your trip?”
Ramses told him about the harem, Moses, Setau, but skipped his brief encounter with Nefertari—a moment of grace he stored in his mind like a jewel.
“You came back just in time,” Ahmeni informed him. “The queen wants to see you as soon as possible and Ahsha has asked us to dinner.”
Ahsha showed them through the official residence the Foreign Service had just assigned him, in the center of town, not far from the State Department. Young as he was, he already had the polish of a seasoned diplomat. Impeccably groomed, he wore the latest Memphis fashion, simple in cut but bold in color. His natural elegance was underscored with a newfound self-assurance. Ahsha was obviously on his way.
“You seem to be doing well,” Ramses remarked.
“I was in the right place at the right time. My report on the Trojan War turned out to be dead accurate.”
“Just what did you conclude?”
“That the Trojans are headed for defeat. I disagree with the theory that Agamemnon will show mercy; we can expect mass destruction and slaughter. However, Egypt will not take sides in the conflict. It would serve no purpose for us to get involved.”
“True. Seti’s goal is to keep the country at peace.”
“That’s exactly why he’s so worried.”
Ramses and Ahmeni blurted out in unison: “Do you mean war?”
“The Hittites are making trouble again.”
In Year One of his reign, Seti had found himself with a Bedouin uprising on his hands. Incited by the Hittites, they had invaded Palestine and proclaimed an independent kingdom. Bloody factional fighting ensued. Once it settled down, Pharaoh led a campaign to pacify Canaan, annex southern Syria, and check on the Phoenician ports. During Year Three, Egypt had come close to direct confrontation with the Hittites, but the opposing forces had both held their positions and then retreated to their bases.
“What do you know for sure?” Ramses asked Ahsha.
“It’s classified information. You may be a royal scribe, but you don’t work for the State Department.”
With his right index finger, Ahsha smoothed his impeccably trimmed little mustache. Ramses thought he might even be serious, until he saw the teasing in his friend’s bright eyes.
“The Hittites are causing us trouble in Syria,” Ahsha informed them. “Certain Phoenecian princes, for a tidy consideration, are willing to take their side. The king’s military advisers recommend a rapid strike, and the last I heard, Seti agreed with them.”
“Will you be sent on the expedition?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter? Not enough friends in high places?”
“Not exactly.” Ahsha’s fine face tensed slightly, as if Ramses had finally gone too far. “I’ve been given another mission.”
“What kind?”
“I can’t say, and this time I mean it.”
“A secret mission!” exclaimed Ahmeni. “Fascinating, but won’t it be dangerous?”
“I serve my country.”
“You really can’t tell us?”
&nb
sp; “I’m leaving for the south. Don’t ask me anything more.”
Watcher knew when he was being spoiled: a lavish meal, served in the queen’s private garden. He licked Tuya gently to show his gratitude. Ramses chewed impatiently on a twig.
“He’s a good dog. You’re lucky to have him, son. Care for him well.”
“You wanted to see me, so, here I am.”
“How was your stay in Merur?”
“You always know everything!”
“I’m supposed to be Pharaoh’s eyes and ears.”
“Do you have news for me?”
“The chief of security did much better than I thought. We’ve made progress, but the news isn’t good. The chariot driver is dead. His body was found in a deserted barn south of the city.”
“How did he end up there?”
“There are no reliable witnesses. And as far as the ink scam goes, we’re no closer to identifying the owner. The scroll where his deed was registered is missing from the archives.”
“Someone paid to have it removed, you’re suggesting.”
“Yes. Someone rich and powerful enough to buy silence.”
“Government corruption makes me sick. We can’t turn our backs on this!”
“Do you think that I intend to?”
“Mother!”
“I’m happy with your reaction,” she said warmly. “Never accept injustice.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“The chief of security has reached an impasse. It’s in my hands now.”
“Tell me what I can do to help you. Anything.”
“You’ll go that far for the truth?” The queen’s smile was ironic and indulgent.
“I can’t even find the truth that’s inside of me.” Ramses was afraid to say more and risk looking ridiculous to his mother.
“A real man does more than hope. He acts.”
“Even when fate works against him?”
“Then he has to change his fate. If he can’t, he should lower his sights and not blame others.”
“Suppose Shaanar is our mastermind.”
The queen’s face clouded with sadness. “That’s a horrible thought.”
“But I can’t get it out of my mind, and neither can you.”
“You’re my sons, and I love you both. You may not have much in common, you may both be too ambitious, but even so, who can imagine your brother would stoop so low?”
Ramses was shaken. His urge to rule had blinded him to the point of suspecting the most sinister plots.
“My friend Ahsha hears rumors of war.”
“He’s well informed.”
“Does my father plan to fight the Hittites?”
“He may be forced to.”
“I want to go with him and fight for my country.”
TWENTY-ONE
In Shaanar’s wing of the palace, the atmosphere was leaden. His staff and attachés walked on eggshells, following every rule to the letter. No laughter or conversation broke the tension.
The news had come down late that morning: two elite regiments were being mobilized for a quick response. In plain terms, war against the Hittites! Shaanar was appalled. This would compromise the trade relations he was just beginning to establish and the healthy rewards he envisioned.
A senseless confrontation would result in a climate of uncertainty that was bad for business. Like too many of his predecessors, Seti was heading into a quagmire. The same outdated obsession with defending the empire, flexing Egypt’s muscle—such a waste of resources! Shaanar had not yet succeeded in undermining the king’s war council. He had planned to expose them for what they were, a bunch of shortsighted old hawks with delusions of grandeur. If this expedition failed, Shaanar would get rid of them for good.
With Pharaoh, his prime minister, and his chief of staff at the front, who would be left to run the country? Queen Tuya, of course. Lately she consulted less frequently with her older son, it was true, and they sometimes had words; still, the affection between them was real. The time had come to clear the air. Tuya would understand his views; furthermore, she could influence Seti to delay declaring war. Shaanar requested he be worked into her busy schedule as soon as possible.
Tuya granted him an afternoon audience in her reception rooms.
“Such an official setting, Mother dear!”
“Something tells me that this is no private matter.”
“You’re right, as usual. Where did you get your sixth sense?”
“Flattery doesn’t work on mothers.”
“All right. I’ve come to ask how you feel about war.”
“I don’t like it. Who does?”
“My father’s decision seems a bit precipitous.”
“Do you believe he would ever act on impulse?”
“Of course not, but the circumstances . . . the Hittites . . .”
“Shaanar, do you like new clothes?”
“Of course,” he murmured, on unsure ground. “You know I—”
“Come with me.”
Tuya led her son to a side room. On a low table lay a wig with long panels of wavy hair, a shirt with full sleeves, an ankle-length skirt, pleated and fringed, and a broad sash to tie it all together.
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful tailoring.”
“This is your uniform. Your father has chosen you as standard-bearer, his right hand in the Syrian campaign.”
Shaanar blanched.
The king’s standard-bearer carried a staff carved with a ram’s head, one of the symbols of Amon, the god of victory. Pharaoh’s elder son would therefore be in the front ranks, next to his father, and ride into battle with him.
Ramses fumed.
What was keeping Ahmeni? He was supposed to be back with the decree listing the names of Seti’s war party. The prince was eager to see where he figured in it. Rank was not what he wanted, only the chance to fight.
“You’re finally back! Where’s the list?”
Ahmeni hung his head.
“What’s the matter?”
“Read it yourself.”
By royal decree, Shaanar was named standard-bearer, to ride at the right hand of Pharaoh. Ramses’ name was nowhere to be found.
Every barracks in Memphis was on war alert. The next morning, the infantry and charioteers would start for Syria, with the king himself in command.
Ramses hung around headquarters all day long. When his father left the council room, at nightfall, the prince dared approach him.
“May I beg a favor, Highness?”
“Speak.”
“I want to go with you.”
“My decree is final.”
“I don’t care about being an officer. I only want a chance to destroy the enemy.”
“Then my decision was correct.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s pointless to wish for something unrealistic. To win a war, you must know how to fight. That’s not the case with you, Ramses.”
Once he recovered from his frustration and disappointment, Shaanar was not displeased with his new assignment, a fine addition to his string of honors. Furthermore, a future pharaoh was required to prove himself in battle, a tradition since the days of the First Dynasty. A king must be able to defend his territory and resist invasion. However deplorable Shaanar considered this, the people viewed it as essential. Shaanar therefore bowed to necessity. The situation seemed almost amusing when he spotted Ramses staring longingly as the vanguard marched by.
The army going off to war, like any exceptional event, was cause for celebration. A holiday was declared and any potential worry for the troops was drowned in beer. It was virtually certain that Seti would return victorious.
Despite his newfound status, Shaanar was uneasy. In battle, even the best-prepared soldier could be caught off guard. Imagining himself wounded or disabled made him feel sick. At the front, his first concern would be self-preservation. Danger could be left for the professionals.
Once again,
luck was with him. During this campaign he would have the chance to talk with his father and plan for the future. That prospect made it worth the effort, no matter how trying it might prove to leave behind the comforts of palace life.
Ramses’ disappointment was an excellent send-off.
The provincial recruits annoyed Bakhen. When war was imminent, volunteers signed up in droves, dreaming of feats of danger and foreign lands. But this bunch of backward peasants would never make it past the outskirts of Memphis. They would soon head back to their fields. As chief inspector of the royal stables, Bakhen was also in charge of training new soldiers.
He was exceptionally strong, with a short beard outlining his square jaw. All the volunteers obeyed when he ordered them to lift a sack full of stones, hoist it over their right shoulders, and run around the barracks until he told them to stop.
The process of elimination was harsh and swift. Few of them knew how to pace themselves. Panting, the dropouts put down their sacks. Bakhen waited until fifty or so were left before he stopped them.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. One recruit looked familiar, a head or more taller than the other runners, and far less winded.
“Prince Ramses! You don’t belong here.”
“I want to complete basic training and get my certificate.”
“But . . . you don’t need one! All you’d have to do is—”
“I don’t think that’s fair, and neither do you. A sheet of papyrus doesn’t make a soldier.”
Caught unawares, Bakhen twisted the leather band accentuating the size of his biceps.
“This is tricky . . .”
“You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Me, afraid? Get back there with the others.”
For three interminable days, Bakhen pushed the men to the outer limits of their endurance. Twenty made the cut. Ramses was one of them.
On the fourth day, they were introduced to weapons: bludgeons, swords, and shields. After a brief explanation of their use, Bakhen let the young men start sparring.
When one of them got his arm hurt, Ramses laid his sword on the ground. The others followed suit.
Ramses, Volume I Page 11