Ramses, Volume I

by Christian Jacq

  Furious with the pirates, furious with the bumbling shore patrol, the prince drove his rowers mercilessly. His intensity spread like wildfire through the fleet, already eager to reestablish order on Egypt’s maritime border.

  Ramses charged toward whatever lay ahead.

  The pirates, camping in their two captive villages, were debating how to proceed: whether to try and extend their control of the coast or sail away with their booty and plan their return.

  Ramses surprised them as they grilled fish for lunch. Vastly outnumbered, the pirates still managed a spirited defense. The giant alone fought off twenty foot soldiers before he was finally captured.

  More than half of the pirates were dead, their ship was burning, yet their enormous captain refused to bow his head to Ramses.

  “Your name?”

  “Serramanna.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Sardinia. You beat me, but other boats from my island will avenge me. They’ll come by the dozen, and you won’t be able to stop them. We want Egypt’s riches, and we shall have them.”

  “Your own country isn’t enough for you?”

  “The Sards live to conquer. Your miserable soldiers won’t last long against us.”

  Shocked by the pirate’s insolence, one guard raised his hatchet above the giant’s head.

  “Back off!” ordered Ramses, turning toward his soldiers. “Which one of you will face this barbarian singlehanded?”

  Not one volunteer came forward. Serramanna snorted with laughter.

  “You’re no warriors!”

  “What are you after?” Ramses asked the giant. The question caught him off guard.

  “Gold and jewels, of course! And women, the finest wine, a house and land—”

  “If I offer you all that and more, will you agree to become my personal bodyguard?”

  The giant’s eyes grew so wide they nearly engulfed his face.

  “Kill me, but never laugh at me!”

  “The true warrior thinks on his feet. Which will it be: serve me or die?”

  “Untie me!” Two foot soldiers nervously freed his wrists.

  Ramses was tall, but Serramanna stood a head taller. He strode forward. The archers took aim. If the giant rushed Ramses and overpowered him, would it be possible to shoot the pirate without harming Seti’s son?

  The Sard wanted to kill him; Ramses saw it in his eyes. Yet he stood there, arms crossed, seemingly unconcerned. The giant could sense no trace of fear in the prince.

  Serramanna bent one knee to the ground and bowed his head.

  “At your command,” he said.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Memphis society was scandalized. Hadn’t they given enough valiant sons to the army? Weren’t their own boys quite capable of protecting the regent’s person? Seeing a veritable barbarian in charge of his royal guardsmen was a shocking insult to the nobility, even if it was generally agreed that Serramanna, in his Sardinian garb, made quite an effective deterrent. And yes, the rest of his crew had been convicted of piracy and sent to the mines, but did that mean their captain should hold a post of honor? If he stabbed Ramses in the back, it would only be what the regent had coming.

  Shaanar rejoiced in this latest blunder. Ramses’ outlandish decision proved he put might over right. What was more, he shunned banquets and receptions in favor of endless horseback rides in the desert, intensive training in archery and sword fighting, and dangerous play sessions with his lion.

  Serramanna became his special partner. They traded fighting techniques, armed and unarmed, and found a middle course between strength and agility. The Egyptian guard troops placed under the giant’s command issued no complaints. They also underwent the intensive training that made them part of the military elite, housed and fed in the best of conditions.

  Ramses kept his promises. Serramanna became the proprietor of an eight-room villa with a well and a pleasure garden. His cellar overflowed with amphorae of vintage wine, his bed with willing beauties who were fascinated by the foreigner’s size.

  Serramanna kept his helmet, breastplate, pointed sword, and round shield, but surrendered his allegiance to Sardinia. At home he had been poor, an outcast. Here he was rich and respected. He was infinitely grateful to Ramses, who first of all spared his life, then gave him the life he had always dreamed of. Anyone who tried to lay a hand on the regent would have to answer to his bodyguard.

  In Year Fourteen of Seti’s reign, the floods did not look promising. The meager rise in the Nile’s water level could mean famine. As soon as the king received confirmation from the experts in Aswan, who measured the river and consulted their centuries of records, he summoned Ramses. Pharaoh ignored his growing fatigue and took his son to Gebel el-Silsila, where the riverbanks met; according to ancient tradition, that was where the flood arose, where the goddess Hapi’s energy flowed from twin caves, giving rise to pure, life-giving water.

  To restore harmony, Seti made an offering to the river: fifty-four jars of milk, three hundred loaves of white bread, seventy cakes, twenty-eight crocks of honey, twenty-eight baskets of grapes, twenty-four of figs, twenty-eight of dates, pomegranates, ziziphus, and persea fruit, as well as cucumbers, beans, ceramic figurines, forty-eight jars of incense, gold, silver, copper, alabaster, and cakes shaped like a calf, goose, crocodile, and hippopotamus.

  Three days later, the water level rose, but remained inadequate. Now there was only the slimmest hope.

  The House of Life in Heliopolis was the oldest place of learning in Egypt. It was a repository for scrolls that held the mysteries of heaven and earth: secret rituals, maps of the heavens, royal annals, prophecy, mythology, medical and surgical research, mathematical and geometric treatises, keys to the interpretation of dreams, hieroglyph dictionaries, works on architecture, sculpture, painting, inventories of ritual objects used in religious ceremonies, calendars of feast days, books of magic spells, books of wisdom compiled by the ancients, and texts on “transformation into light” that served as guidebooks to the netherworld.

  “For a pharaoh,” declared Seti, “no place is more important. When you’re assailed by doubts, come here and consult the archives. The House of Life is Egypt’s past, present, and future. Immerse yourself in its teachings, and as I have seen, you will also see.”

  Seti asked the director of the House of Life, an old priest completely cloistered from the outside world, to bring him the Book of the Nile. A younger priest carried out his order. He looked familiar.

  “Bakhen? Is that you?”

  “At your service, Prince Regent.”

  “What happened to the royal stables?”

  “For many years I’ve been serving as a lay priest. When I turned twenty-one, I gave up my secular role.”

  Bakhen looked much the same, except that his square, unprepossessing face, clean-shaven now, looked gentler. With his stocky build, bulging biceps, and deep, husky voice, Bakhen hardly resembled a classical scholar. He unrolled the papyrus on the table in front of them and withdrew.

  “Keep an eye on that man,” counseled Seti. “In a few weeks, he will leave for Thebes and serve in the temple of Amon at Karnak. Your paths will cross again.”

  The king studied the venerable document, the work of a Third Dynasty pharaoh more than thirteen hundred years earlier. In contact with the spirit of the Nile, he gave instructions on how to appease the river when the waters were too low.

  Seti found the solution: the ceremonial offering made at Gebel el-Silsila must be repeated at Aswan, Thebes, and Memphis.

  On his return from this long journey, Seti was exhausted. When messengers arrived reporting that the inundation would be nearly normal, he ordered the provincial governors to take special care in checking the dikes and reservoirs. A national disaster had been averted, but now it was essential to conserve every drop of river water.

  Each morning Pharaoh, frail and hollow-cheeked, conferred with Ramses and spoke to him of Ma’at, the goddess of justice, often represented as a slender
woman, or sometimes as the Feather of Righteousness directing birds in flight. However fragile in appearance, Ma’at alone had the strength to hold the world together. Only if her divine rule was followed would the sun shine, the wheat grow, the weak be protected from the strong, cooperation and respect guide the daily life of Egypt. Of all a pharaoh’s accomplishments, the first and foremost was to live by the principle of Ma’at.

  His words nourished Ramses’s soul. The prince dared not inquire about his father’s health, aware that he was moving toward another plane of existence and transmitting its energy to his son. Intent on absorbing all he could, Ramses deserted Nefertari, Ahmeni, and their friends. Pharaoh’s voice became his world.

  Nefertari encouraged him. With the help of Ahmeni, she handled his daily affairs, freeing Ramses to be Seti’s servant and heir to his inner strength.

  The latest information left no room for doubt: Seti’s illness was advancing quickly. Choking back his tears, Shaanar spread the dreadful news at court and sent messages to the high priest of Amon and the provincial governors. The doctors still hoped to prolong the king’s life, but feared the final crisis was approaching. Worse than the prospect of Pharaoh’s death was the catastrophe that would follow, namely Ramses’ coronation.

  Shaanar alerted his supporters. Naturally, he would try to convince his brother that he was unfit to wield the scepter, but would Ramses listen to reason? For the safety of the country, they might have to resort to other methods, steps that were, admittedly, of questionable legality, yet that represented the only hope of keeping a young warlord from bringing Egypt to ruin.

  His rationale was well received as moderate and realistic by the court. Everyone hoped that Seti’s reign would last for years, but braced themselves for the worst.

  Menelaus’ Greek soldiers, posing as shopkeepers, sharpened their swords. At their king’s order, they would snap into action as a militia. The surprise would increase their effectiveness: no one expected these law-abiding, assimilated foreigners to take part in a coup. As the day grew nearer, Menelaus was itching for a fight. He could hardly wait to swing his heavy sword, puncture chests and bellies, whack off arms and legs, bash skulls, with the same abandon as on the battlefields of Troy. Then he would head for home with Helen and make her pay for her insolence and infidelity.

  Shaanar was optimistic. His support was broad and deep, his strategy diversified. He saw only one possible hitch: Serramanna. When Ramses appointed the Sardinian giant as head of his royal bodyguard, he unwittingly parried one of his brother’s master strokes. The Greek officer whom Shaanar had planted in the guard regiment would never be able to get past Serramanna. The solution was painfully obvious: Menelaus must murder the Sard. He would hardly be missed.

  Everything was in place. All Shaanar had to do now was wait for Seti’s passing and give the signal.

  “Your father can’t see you this morning,” Tuya said sadly.

  “Is he worse?”

  “They’ve decided not to proceed with surgery. He’s been given a strong sedative made from mandrake.” Tuya maintained her remarkable dignity, but the pain was evident in every word she spoke.

  “Tell me the truth. Is there any hope left?”

  “I don’t think so. His system is too weak. Your father had so much energy but he should never have worked so hard. Still, how can you convince a pharaoh not to give his all for his people?”

  Seeing the tears in his mother’s eyes, Ramses hugged her tight.

  “Seti does not fear death. His eternal dwelling is finished, he is ready to appear before Osiris and his judges. When Seti’s soul is weighed, he has nothing to fear from the monster who devours those who betray Ma’at. In our earthly rites, that will be my verdict.”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Prepare yourself, my son. Prepare yourself to keep your father’s name alive through all eternity, to follow in the footsteps of your ancestors, and to confront the unknown forms your destiny will take.”

  Setau and Lotus started work at nightfall. The floodwaters had receded from the lowlands, the landscape looked the same as before. Poor as it was this year, the inundation still had a purifying effect, drowning countless rodents and reptiles in their burrows. The survivors were the toughest and most resourceful specimens. Late-summer venom was therefore the choicest.

  The snake hunter had set his sights on a familiar area of the desert where huge and deadly cobras lived. Setau approached the den of the largest snake he had sighted before the flood—an imperturbable creature. Lotus walked barefoot behind him; despite her experience and cool head, Setau insisted on being the first to confront any risk. She carried a forked stick, a cloth sack, and a vial. Pinning a snake and milking its venom were her routine tasks.

  A full moon shone on the desert. It agitated the snakes and drove them to the limits of their territory. Setau chanted in a low voice, accentuating the low notes that attracted cobras. He spotted the entrance to the den, an opening between two flat rocks. Wavy tracks in the sand told him an enormous cobra had recently been here.

  Setau sat down, still chanting under his breath. The cobra was late.

  Lotus suddenly dove headlong to the ground. In a blur, Setau saw her wrestling the black cobra he had been planning to trap. The brief struggle ended when his wife stuffed the serpent into her sack.

  “He was coming at you from behind,” she explained.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Setau asserted. “If snakes are losing their senses, it’s a bad sign. A very bad sign.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  For we will not have any respite, however short it may be, until the hour when the night comes to separate us and calm our zeal. Under the heavy shield that protects the body, our chest will be drenched in sweat; the hand will linger on the sword’s hilt,’” declaimed Homer.

  “Are these new verses another warning from you?” asked Ramses.

  “My Iliad deals strictly with the past.”

  “It doesn’t foretell the future?”

  “Egypt has grown on me. I’d hate to see it heading for destruction.”

  “Why are you so concerned?”

  “I keep up with my fellow Greeks here, and lately they seem on edge. You’d swear they were about to storm Troy again.”

  “Do you know anything more?”

  “I’m only a blind old poet, son.”

  Helen thanked Tuya for granting her an audience at such a difficult time. Yet the Great Royal Wife’s face bore no trace of suffering beneath its subtle makeup.

  “I don’t know how . . .”

  “Words are useless, Helen.”

  “I am sincerely sorry, and I pray to the gods for your husband’s recovery.”

  “Many thanks. I, too, have called on the unseen.”

  “I also pray because I am worried, Majesty.”

  “What troubles you, my dear?”

  “The change in my husband’s spirits. He’s been so discontent until lately. Now he’s acting smug. He must think he’s taking me home soon.”

  “Even if Seti leaves us, you will be protected.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be.”

  “Menelaus is my guest. He has no power over you.”

  “I want to stay here, in this palace, working with you!”

  “Calm down, Helen. Nothing can harm you.”

  Despite the queen’s reassurances, Helen feared her vindictive husband. He must have thought of some way to spirit her out of Egypt. Seti’s imminent death would provide the perfect occasion. Helen decided to follow her husband’s movements. Why, Tuya’s life might even be in danger! When Menelaus failed to get what he wanted, he turned violent. His anger had been held in check too long.

  Ahmeni read the letter Dolora had written to Ramses.

  Beloved brother,

  My husband and I are concerned for your health, even more than for that of our revered father, Pharaoh Seti, whom we understand to be gravely ill. Is this not the time for forgiveness? My place is in Mem
phis. I know you can find it in the goodness of your heart to pardon my husband’s offense and allow him to stand by my side as we pay our respects to Seti and Tuya. Let us comfort one another in our hour of need. Let our family heal. Let us put the past behind us. Sary joins me in hoping for a prompt and merciful reply.

  “Read it once more to me, slowly,” requested the prince regent.

  Nervously, Ahmeni complied. “It doesn’t deserve an answer,” he muttered.

  “Take a new papyrus.”

  “Should we give in?”

  “Dolora is my sister, Ahmeni.”

  “She wasn’t so upset when I nearly died, but then I’m not a member of the royal family.”

  “You’re awfully bitter.”

  “And you’re too softhearted. Those two will only try to double-cross you.”

  “I want you to take a letter, Ahmeni.”

  “My wrist is sore. Wouldn’t it be more personal in your own handwriting?”

  “Please take this down.”

  Livid, Ahmeni gripped his reed pen.

  “It will be short, I promise. ‘Under no circumstances may you return to Memphis, unless you intend to appear in court. Furthermore, you will refrain from any contact whatsoever with Pharaoh,’” he dictated.

  The scribe’s pen flew across the clean papyrus.

  Iset the Fair spent hours consoling Dolora. Ramses’ reply to her plea for mercy was scathing. In his sister’s opinion, the prince’s stubbornness, hot temper, and hard heart did not bode well for his lesser wife and young son.

  It was painfully clear that Shaanar had been right: Ramses was power-hungry, spreading misery in his wake. Despite her deep affection for him, Iset had no choice but to align herself with the opposing camp. So must his own sister.