Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  Ah, some other expert, thought Hefat, reassured. He’d have no trouble pushing the proposal through.

  “Here’s the man for the job,” announced Kha.

  Dressed in a fine linen robe with broad sleeves, Ramses wore his two famous gold bracelets inlaid with lapis lazuli ducks.

  Pharaoh’s eyes bore into Hefat’s soul, forcing him to back away and bump into shelves piled high with papyrus scrolls.

  “You’ve made a serious mistake,” declared Ramses, “thinking that your technical knowledge would be enough to help you ruin your country. Don’t you know that greed is an incurable disease that can make you blind and deaf? You might want to revise your opinion of how incompetent my government is.”

  “Your Majesty, I beg you—”

  “Don’t bother pleading, Hefat. Your word is worth nothing now. In your behavior I see the mark of Shaanar, the spinelessness that leads a man to destroy himself by betraying Ma’at. Your future is in the hands of the judges now.”

  It was Ahmeni’s timely investigation that had spared the country from a very real danger. The king would have liked to reward his old friend, but such talk only annoyed the aging scribe. A meaningful glance had been enough, and Ahmeni had gone straight back to work.

  And the seasons and days rolled by, simple and happy, until the spring of the fifty-fourth year of the reign of Ramses the Great, when the king consulted his chief physician, Neferet, then ignored her advice. Rejuvenated by his ninth sed-feast, the aged ruler felt the need to tour the Egyptian countryside.

  The month of May saw the return of the hotter weather that soothed the king’s arthritis.

  It was harvest time. Laborers moved through the fields with wooden-handled scythes, cutting the ripe grain high on the stalks. Then the wheat was bundled in sheaves and laden on stalwart donkeys who carried it to the threshers. Building haystacks took skill; the truncated pyramids had to stand for the better part of a year. Two long sticks reinforced the structure.

  As soon as the Pharaoh entered a village, the local dignitaries presented him with offerings of wheat stalks and flowers. Then the monarch would hold court in a gazebo and hear grievances. The scribes took notes and submitted them to Ahmeni, who demanded to read every report written on the trip.

  The king noted that on the whole agriculture was doing well and that there were no ills without remedies, although perfection was unattainable. The grievances were not particularly vehement, with the exception of a bitter farmer from Beni-Hassan.

  “I spend my days taking care of the crops,” he complained, “and my nights fixing tools. My livestock is always getting loose, and I have to round up the animals. And now I have the tax inspector after me, trying to rob me! With his army of vultures he treats me like a thief, hits me when I say I can’t pay, and locks up my wife and children! How could I be happy?”

  Everyone was afraid of how Ramses might react, but he remained impassive.

  “Do you have any other criticism to offer?”

  The farmer was astonished. “No, Your Majesty, no . . .”

  “One of your relatives is a scribe, isn’t he?”

  The man’s face colored. “Yes, but . . .”

  “He taught you a classic text studied in every school, exalting the life of a scribe and denigrating every other profession. You recited it quite well, but do you really suffer from all the ills you’ve just described to me?”

  “Well, my cattle do get loose . . . It causes a lot of trouble.”

  “If you can’t settle your own disputes with your neighbors, call in your village judge. And never suffer injustice, no matter how slight. That’s how you can help Pharaoh rule the country.”

  Ramses inspected several storage facilities and ordered the grain measurers to handle the bushels with care. Then he opened the harvest festival at Karnak, placing the first wheat into one of the granaries on Amon’s great domain. The priests and dignitaries noted that despite his age the Lord of the Two Lands still had a steady hand and a strong arm.

  Bakhen, the First Prophet of Amon, accompanied his illustrious guest down a road where luxuriant fields surrounded a temple, leading to a landing stage. Fatigued, Ramses had agreed to travel by sedan chair.

  Bakhen was the first to spot the shirker dozing beneath a willow tree. He hoped that the king wouldn’t notice, but Ramses’ eyes were still sharp.

  “The man will be punished,” promised the high priest.

  “Just this once, go easy on him. Wasn’t I the one who put willows all over Egypt?”

  “He’ll never know how much he owes you, Majesty.”

  “I’ve sometimes been tempted to do the same—doze off beneath a tree and forget my responsibilities.”

  Not far from the landing, Ramses ordered the bearers to set him down.

  “Your Majesty,” Bakhen said anxiously, “why walk?”

  “Look at that little chapel over there . . . it’s in ruins.”

  A small shrine to the harvest goddess (in the form of a female cobra) had suffered from time and neglect; weeds grew between the crumbling stones.

  “This is a real crime,” said Ramses. “Restore this temple, Bakhen. Make it bigger and install a stone door. Have your Karnak sculptors make a statue of the goddess to stand inside it. The gods made Egypt what it is; we mustn’t neglect them, even in their humblest manifestations.”

  In tribute to the goddess, the Lord of the Two Lands and the high priest of Amon laid wildflowers at the foot of the little shrine. High above them, a falcon soared in circles.

  FIFTY-NINE

  On his way back to the capital, Ramses stopped in Memphis to talk with his son Kha, who had just completed restoration work on the Old Kingdom monuments and improvements to the Apis bulls’ underground sanctuary.

  Waiting for him on the dock he found his chief physician, Neferet, lovely and elegant as ever.

  “How are you feeling, Majesty?”

  “A little tired, and my back hurts, but I’m holding up. What’s wrong, Neferet?”

  “Kha is very ill.”

  “You don’t mean . . .”

  “A disease I’m familiar with, but one I can’t cure. Your son’s heart is worn out. My medicines can’t help him anymore.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the library at the temple of Ptah, with the texts he’s studied so carefully.”

  The king immediately went to be with Kha.

  Approaching sixty, the high priest’s harsh and angular face had become serene. His dark blue eyes shone with the inner peace of one who had prepared all his life to encounter the great beyond. No fear marred his features.

  “Your Majesty! I was hoping so much that I’d see you before I leave . . .”

  Pharaoh took his son’s hand.

  “May Pharaoh permit his humble servant to repose in his shadow, for there is no greater happiness . . . Let me go to the Land of the West and remain close to you. I’ve tried to respect Ma’at always, I’ve executed your orders, fulfilling the missions you’ve given me . . .”

  Kha’s grave voice trailed off gently. Ramses kept it inside him like an inalterable treasure.

  Kha was buried in the underground shrine to the Apis bulls, near the beloved creatures whose animal form hid the expression of divine power. Ramses had placed a golden mask on his mummy and had personally chosen the treasure that would accompany him—furniture, vases, and jewelry, masterpieces created by the temple of Ptah’s craftsmen to last him through all eternity.

  The old king had led the funeral services with surprising vigor, mastering his emotion during the ceremony that opened his son’s eyes and mouth in the next world.

  Merenptah was constantly at his father’s side, ready to help, though Ramses showed no sign of faltering. Yet Ahmeni sensed that his boyhood friend was drawing on his deepest reserves to rise to the occasion and retain an exemplary dignity in the face of this latest tragedy.

  The cover was placed on Kha’s sarcophagus. The tomb was sealed.

  And once he
was out of sight of his courtiers, Ramses wept.

  It was one of those warm, sunny mornings that Ramses loved. He’d let the high priest stand in for him at the rites of day and would see the vizier only later in the morning. To try to forget his pain, the king would go on working as usual, although his energy was beginning to flag.

  But when he tried to get up, his legs remained paralyzed. In his most imperious voice, he called his majordomo.

  A few minutes later, Neferet was at the monarch’s bedside.

  “This time, Your Majesty, you’re going to have to follow my orders.”

  “Don’t ask too much of me, Neferet.”

  “In case you still doubted it, your youth is gone for good and you’ll have to change your behavior.”

  “You’re the most daunting adversary I’ve ever had to face.”

  “Not me, Your Majesty—old age.”

  “Give me your diagnosis, and don’t try to hide anything from me.”

  “You’ll walk again tomorrow, but only using a cane. You’ll limp slightly due to the arthritis in your right hip. I’ll do my best to relieve the pain, but rest is imperative, and you’ll have to slow down. Don’t be surprised if you sometimes feel stiff, as if you can no longer move. It will only be temporary, if you agree to several massages a day. Some nights you’ll have trouble lying down; then liniments may give you some relief. Frequent Faiyum mud baths will complement your oral medications.”

  “Medicine every day? You must think I’m a helpless old man—”

  “I’ve already told you, Your Majesty, that you’re no longer young and you’ll have to stop driving your chariot. But if you do as I say, you can avoid a rapid decline in the state of your health. Daily exercise, such as walking or swimming, will keep you mobile, as long as you don’t overdo it. Your general condition is more than satisfactory for a man who’s never rested in his life.”

  Neferet’s smile comforted Ramses. No enemy had been able to vanquish him, except old age. He remembered how Nefertari’s favorite author, the sage Ptah-hotep, had complained of it. But he had waited until the age of a hundred and ten to write his Maxims! Old age was a curse. The only bright spot was drawing nearer to the loved ones he longed to see again in the fertile fields of the afterlife, where there was no more fatigue.

  “Your weakest point,” added the chief physician, “is your teeth. But I’ll watch them carefully to spare you any risk of infection.”

  Ramses gave in to Neferet’s demands. Within a few weeks he had recovered much of his strength, but he had come to realize that his body, worn out by too many trials and struggles, was only a rusted tool, on the point of breaking.

  Accepting that fact would be his final victory.

  In the hushed darkness of the temple of Set, the terror of the cosmos, Ramses the Great made his ultimate decision.

  Before making it official in the form of a legally binding decree, the Lord of the Two Lands convened the vizier, his cabinet, high-level administrators, and every dignitary in a position of responsibility, except for his son Merenptah, whom he sent on a mission to assess the Delta’s economic viability.

  The king conferred at length with the men and women who continued to build Egypt, day after day. Ahmeni was at his side, providing his ever-valuable notes.

  “You haven’t made many mistakes,” said the king to his private secretary.

  “Have you noticed even one, Your Majesty? If so, please point it out to me!”

  “That’s just my way of saying that I’m satisfied with you.”

  “That may be,” grumbled Ahmeni. “But why did you send your commanding general on such an extensive mission?”

  “Are you trying to make me believe that you haven’t guessed why?”

  Leaning on his cane, Ramses walked down a shady lane with Merenptah at his side.

  “What did you learn in your travels, son?”

  “The tax base in the part of the Delta you asked me to assess is 8,700 taxpayers. Each cattle rancher has 500 head, and I counted 13,080 goatherds, 22,430 poultry raisers, and 3,920 donkey drivers caring for several thousand livestock. The harvests have been excellent, and tax evaders few. As too often happens, the revenue service has been picky. I lectured them about leaving honest folk alone and going after cheaters.”

  “You understand the Delta now, son.”

  “This mission taught me a great deal. Talking with the farmers, I felt the country’s heartbeat.”

  “Are you forgetting the priests, the scribes, the military?”

  “I’ve already spent a great deal of time with such people. I needed direct contact with men and women of the soil.”

  “What do you think of this decree?”

  Ramses handed Merenptah a scroll written in his own hand. His son read it aloud.

  “‘I, Ramses, Pharaoh of Egypt, elevate the prince, Royal Scribe, Keeper of the Seal, and Commander-in-Chief Merenptah to the office of ruler of the Two Lands.’”

  Merenptah gazed at his father, leaning on his cane.

  “Your Majesty . . .”

  “I don’t know how many more years fate will grant me, Merenptah, but the time has come for you to take the throne. I’m following in my father Seti’s footsteps. I’m an old man; you’re in your prime, and you’ve just cleared the final hurdle I set in front of you. You know how to govern, to manage, to fight. Take the future of Egypt in hand, my son.”

  SIXTY

  Twelve years had passed, and Ramses, aged eighty-nine, had reigned over Egypt for sixty-seven years. In keeping with his decree, he had left it in Merenptah’s care. But the king’s youngest son frequently consulted his father, who remained Pharaoh in the eyes of his people.

  The old ruler spent part of the year in Pi-Ramses and the other in Thebes, always in the company of his faithful Ahmeni. Despite his great age and multiple complaints, the king’s private secretary continued to work according to his methods.

  Summer was coming.

  After listening to the tunes his daughter, Meritamon, had composed, Ramses went for his daily walk in the countryside around his Eternal Temple, where he had taken up residence. His cane was now his staunchest ally, for each step was becoming difficult.

  During his fourteenth sed-feast, celebrated the previous year, Ramses had spent a whole night conversing with Setau and Lotus, who had made Nubia a rich and happy province. The robust snake charmer had also somehow grown old, and even lovely Lotus showed the effects of age. How many memories they’d shared, and what thrilling times they’d lived! None of them mentioned the future that they could no longer shape.

  At the edge of the country road an old woman was baking bread in an oven. The tempting odor attracted the king.

  “Would you give me a piece?”

  The housewife’s failing eyesight kept her from recognizing him.

  “Ah, this is a thankless task.”

  “Let me give you something in return. Will this ring be enough?”

  The old woman squinted at the golden ring, polishing it with the hem of her skirt.

  “This would buy me a nice big house! Keep your ring. I’ll just give you a taste of my bread. What kind of man are you, to possess such treasures?”

  The crust was perfectly browned; when he broke it, it tasted of childhood, banishing the pains of old age for an instant.

  “Take the ring,” Ramses told the old woman. “I’ve never had such good bread.”

  Ramses enjoyed spending an hour or two with a potter. He liked watching his hands knead the clay into a jar that would hold water or solid food. It reminded him that the ram-headed god was constantly creating the world and humanity on his potter’s wheel.

  The king and the craftsman never exchanged a word. They listened to the music of the wheel. They silently experienced the mysterious transformation of shapeless material into a useful and pleasing object.

  Summer was coming, and Ramses thought he might leave for the capital, where the heat would be less extreme. Ahmeni never left his airy office; whe
n the king went to look for him, he was surprised not to find him at work.

  For the first time in his long career, not only was Ramses’ private secretary taking a break in the middle of the day, he was even sitting outside, exposing his pale skin to sunburn.

  “Moses is dead,” he said hoarsely.

  “In the homeland he sought for so long?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. He found the place where his people will live in freedom. Our friend succeeded in his long quest. The fire in his soul turned into a land of milk and honey.”

  Moses . . . The man who had helped him build Pi-Ramses, the man whose faith had triumphed over endless years of wandering, the indomitable prophet. Moses, son of Egypt and Ramses’ spiritual brother. Moses, whose dream had become reality.

  The king and his secretary were packed to go. Before the morning was over, they would be sailing north.

  “Come walk with me,” the Pharaoh beckoned.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Isn’t it a splendid day? I’d like to rest under the acacia tree by my Eternal Temple, the one I planted in the second year of my reign.”

  The old ruler’s voice sent a chill down Ahmeni’s spine.

  “We’re set to leave, Your Majesty.”

  “Come, Ahmeni.”

  The tall acacia near the Temple of Millions of Years gleamed in the sun, its leaves rustling lightly in the breeze. How many trees had Ramses planted—acacias and tamarisks, fig, persea, and pomegranate trees, willows and other tall creatures he so dearly loved?

  Old Watcher, the last in a long line of faithful companions, had hoisted himself up to follow his master. Neither he nor Ramses was bothered by the noisy dance of the bees that tirelessly gathered nectar from the bursting acacia blossoms. Their subtle scent delighted both man and dog.

  Ramses sat down with his back to the tree trunk. Watcher curled up at his feet.

  “Do you remember, Ahmeni, what the goddess of the Western acacia says when she welcomes souls to the afterlife?”