Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  For the time being, he checked all visitors to the palace himself. The Great Royal Wife had urged him to screen them carefully and to feel free to use his sword if threatened.

  Hearing distant shouts, Serramanna hurried toward the entryway.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “This one was trying to force his way in,” replied a guard, gesturing toward a tall, broad-shouldered man with flowing hair.

  “Who are you?” challenged Serramanna.

  “Moses the Hebrew, royal construction supervisor and friend of the prince.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Ramses will see me.”

  “Not unless I say so.”

  “Is he in seclusion?”

  “Security measures. State the reason for your visit.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Then you’d better leave and steer clear of here, or I’ll have you thrown in jail.”

  It took no fewer than four guards to restrain Moses.

  “Tell Ramses I’m here, or he’ll have your hide!”

  “You don’t scare me, mister.”

  “Listen, you big lug! My friend is expecting me. Go ask Ramses.”

  Years as a pirate captain and scores of fierce battles had honed Serramanna’s ability to read situations. Despite this Hebrew’s muscle and swagger, he seemed to be on the level.

  Ramses greeted his boyhood friend with a hug.

  “Is this a palace or a fortress?” Moses asked.

  “My mother and my wife, Ahmeni and Serramanna all fear the worst.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “An attempt on my life.”

  The regent’s audience chamber looked out on the gardens. In the doorway, his huge pet lion dozed, with Watcher, the yellow dog, curled between his front paws.

  “With them to guard you, you ought to feel safe enough.”

  “Nefertari is convinced that Shaanar still thinks he should be king.”

  “A coup before your father’s laid to rest? Hardly his style. He likes to set things in motion and watch from the background.”

  “He’s running out of time.”

  “You’re right. But he won’t risk a confrontation.”

  “God willing. It could only bring harm to Egypt. What do you hear at Karnak?”

  “Opinion is running against you.”

  Moses had been running Seti’s vast construction site at Karnak, where the royal architects had been instructed to add a huge hall of columns to the temple. The Pharaoh’s death had brought the work to a halt.

  “Whose opinion?”

  “The priesthood of Amon, some nobles, the vizier of the south . . . Your sister, Dolora, and her husband, Sary, have stirred them up. They didn’t take kindly to being exiled from Memphis.”

  “Sary tried to have me killed and nearly did have Ahmeni eliminated. Fine behavior from our old teacher! He and my sister could have faced much stiffer consequences than being sent to Thebes.”

  “The southern sun did nothing to dry up their poison. You should have banished them from Egypt once and for all.”

  “Dolora is my sister. Sary practically raised me.”

  “Should a king have different standards for his relatives?”

  Ramses was hurt to the quick. “I’m not king yet, Moses.”

  “I still think you should have taken them to court.”

  “If the two of them pull any more tricks, I’ll show no mercy.”

  “I wish I believed you. You don’t realize how ruthless your enemies can be.”

  “Right now I’m grieving for my father.”

  “And forgetting your duty to your country. If Seti is looking down from heaven, do you think he approves of your passivity?”

  If Moses weren’t his best friend, Ramses would have hit him.

  “You want me to be hard and impersonal?”

  “You’ve suffered a great loss, but keep your eyes open. Shaanar approached me, even knowing how close to you I am. He tried to turn me against you. Does that give you some sense of the danger you’re in?”

  Ramses was speechless.

  “You’re facing a tough opponent,” Moses continued. “Wake up, friend.”

  THREE

  Memphis, where the Nile Valley began branching out into the Delta, was the country’s economic capital. Now it slumbered. In the harbor, called “Safe Journey,” merchant ships stayed in their moorings. For the seventy-day mourning period, trade was suspended, and the nobles refrained from entertaining.

  Seti’s death had sent the town into a state of shock. His reign had brought increased prosperity, but the most prominent businessmen feared a weaker pharaoh would reverse the trend. A pharaoh less firm in defending Egypt’s interests—and who could be as strong as Seti? Shaanar, his elder son, would run the country capably, but in his waning days Seti had designated the young and fiery Ramses, who seemed more like a dashing playboy than a head of state. The most clear-sighted of leaders can make mistakes, and Memphis quietly agreed with Thebes that Seti might have chosen the wrong son to succeed him.

  Shaanar restlessly paced Meba’s parlor. A fit-looking man of sixty with broad, appealing features, Meba was Seti’s longtime secretary of state. He had secretly worked against Ramses, supporting Shaanar, whose political and economic views more closely resembled his own. Opening the Mediterranean and Asian markets, strengthening commercial ties, was the wave of the future, even if it meant forgetting a few traditional principles. After all, he felt, the arms trade was preferable to armed conflict.

  “Is he going to show up?” asked Shaanar.

  “He’s in our camp, rest assured.”

  “That could change any moment. You can’t trust a bully.”

  Seti’s older son was short and heavyset, with a round face and plump cheeks. His thick, sensual lips betrayed his love of good food, and his dark, beady eyes were perpetually agitated. He avoided the sun and all forms of exertion. A cultivated voice failed to mask his uneven temper.

  Shaanar was a pacifist for financial reasons. Egypt’s economic isolationism was folly, in his opinion. Treason was a term for moralizers without a nose for profit. Ramses was too old-fashioned to understand business. No matter how you looked at it, he didn’t deserve to be king. It was easy for Shaanar to rationalize the coup he would soon be orchestrating: Egypt would thank him for it.

  First, though, he still needed his most important ally.

  “A drink,” Shaanar demanded.

  Meba served his illustrious guest a cup of cool beer.

  “We never should have included him,” said the prince.

  “I’m sure he’s still with us. Don’t forget how eager he is to get home.”

  Finally, the secretary of state’s doorman announced the long-awaited caller.

  Blond, sharp-eyed Menelaus, son of Atreus and King of Sparta, was lucky in war. He wore the breastplate, back armor, and wide belt with golden buckles that had served him well in Greece’s victory over Troy. With his fleet in tatters, he had sought refuge in Egypt. Now his wife, Helen, refused to leave the land of the pharaohs, fearing bitter treatment from her husband once they reached home. Since Queen Tuya had taken Helen under her wing, Menelaus was unable to strong-arm his wife. Fortunately for him, Shaanar had stepped in to enlist his cooperation in overthrowing Ramses, promising to hand over Helen in return.

  The moment Shaanar became Pharaoh, Menelaus would take Helen back to Greece.

  For several months, his troops had settled in, the officers joining the Egyptian army, the soldiers and sailors finding ways to make a living, all seemingly content with their good fortune. In reality, they anxiously awaited their commander’s order to spring into action, like a new and improved Trojan Horse.

  The Greek eyed Meba suspiciously. “Tell him to leave,” he ordered Shaanar. “You and I talk, no one else.”

  “The secretary of state is one of us.”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Shaanar waved t
he older man out of the room.

  “Where do we stand?” asked Menelaus.

  “It’s time.”

  “Are you sure? This infernal mummification takes so long I’m beginning to wonder about you people.”

  “We need to act before my father’s mummy is laid in his tomb.”

  “My men are ready.”

  “I don’t want any unnecessary violence or . . .”

  “Out with it, man! You Egyptians are afraid of a good fight. We Greeks kept after the Trojans for years until we destroyed them. If you want Ramses dead, say so. My sword will do the rest.”

  “Ramses is my brother, and sometimes deceit is more effective than brute force.”

  “They go hand in hand. And who are you to be lecturing me on strategy?”

  “You need to win Helen back.”

  “Helen!” he spat. “The woman makes me sick, but I can’t go home without her.”

  “Then let’s try my plan.”

  “Fill me in.”

  Shaanar smiled. Luck was with him this time. With the Greek’s help, it would work. “Only two things stand in our way: the lion and Serramanna. Two solutions: poison and a sneak attack from inside. Your men kidnap Ramses and we hide him until you’re ready to take him off to Greece.”

  “Why not just kill him?”

  “I don’t want blood on my hands when I take the throne. The official story will be that Ramses renounced his claim and decided to see the world. Unfortunately, a tragic accident will occur during his travels.”

  “What about Helen?”

  “Once I’m crowned, my mother will have to obey my orders and release her. If Tuya resists, she’ll be placed under house arrest in a temple.”

  Menelaus nodded. “Not bad, for an Egyptian. Do you have the poison on hand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Our man in Ramses’ guard troops is one of my best officers. He’ll have no trouble slitting Serramanna’s throat while he sleeps. Name the day, Prince.”

  “It won’t be long. I have business in Thebes. As soon as I’m back, we’ll strike.”

  To Helen, freedom was an unexpected bonus, and she enjoyed every moment of it. In a light, nectar-scented dress, with a veil on her head to protect her from the sun, her life in Tuya’s household was a waking dream. She had somehow slipped out from under her bullying lowlife of a husband. “Evil bitch,” he told his men to call her.

  Tuya and her daughter-in-law, Nefertari, had given Helen friendship and employment. It was a pleasure to live in a country where women were not forced to live as prisoners in their homes, even if that home was a palace.

  Was Helen truly to blame for thousands of Greek and Trojan casualties? She had never wanted the long years of frenzied killing, yet somehow she had been tried and convicted without ever having the chance to defend herself. Here in Memphis no one condemned her. She wove, she listened to music and played it, she swam in the palace pools and strolled in the endlessly delightful gardens. The clash of weapons grew distant, yielding to birdsong.

  Several times a day, fair-skinned Helen prayed for her dream to continue. Her only wish was to leave her past, her country, and her husband behind.

  On a sandy path lined by persea trees, she spotted a dead crane. Walking closer, she saw that the bird’s handsome body had been torn open. Helen knelt and examined the entrails; her gift for prophecy had been acknowledged by both the Greeks and the Trojans.

  It was a long while before she struggled to her feet. What she read in the crane’s shattered body appalled her.

  FOUR

  Thebes, the southern capital, was home to the cult of Amon, the god credited with helping to drive out the Hyksos, a cruel, barbarian Asiatic people who had occupied the country several centuries earlier. Since Egypt’s liberation, every pharaoh for generations had paid tribute to Amon and further embellished his temple at Karnak until it had become the largest and richest of cult centers, a sort of state within the state. The high priest of Amon acted more the powerful government leader than clergyman.

  Upon his arrival in Thebes, Shaanar immediately requested an audience with the high priest. The two men talked in the shade of an arbor dripping with wisteria and honeysuckle. A cooling breeze blew from the sacred lake nearby.

  “You came without an entourage?” the high priest asked in wonder.

  “Very few people are aware I’m here.”

  “I see . . . we need to keep it quiet.”

  “Are you still opposed to Ramses?”

  “More firmly than ever. He’s too young and hotheaded to be Pharaoh. He’ll go overboard. Seti made a mistake designating him.”

  “Will you go along with me?”

  “Where would you rank the temple of Amon, if you wore the crown?”

  “At the top of the list, naturally.”

  “Your father had other ideas. He favored Heliopolis and Memphis. Karnak must no longer be second best; that’s all I ask.”

  “Then don’t ask Ramses.”

  “What do you have in mind, Shaanar?”

  “We need to act, and act quickly.”

  “In other words, before Seti’s funeral rites.”

  “Yes. It’s our last chance.”

  What Shaanar did not know was that the high priest of Amon was seriously ill. His doctor told him he had only months, perhaps weeks, to live. A speedy resolution would be a final blessing from the gods. Before he died, he would see Ramses deposed and Karnak saved.

  “I cannot condone violence,” the high priest decreed. “Amon gave us peace; which must be preserved.”

  “I agree completely. Unfit as he may be to rule, Ramses is my brother, and I hold him dear. I have never for one second intended him any harm.”

  “What are your plans for him?”

  “He’s an energetic young person, in love with adventure and the open road. An extended trip abroad will be a welcome prospect once he’s freed from his crushing responsibilities. When he returns, his firsthand observations will be extremely valuable.”

  “I would also like to see your mother remain as your close adviser.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Be faithful to Amon, my son, and your future will be assured.”

  Shaanar bowed deferentially. This gullible old prelate was a godsend.

  Dolora, Ramses’ older sister, rubbed soothing unguents into her oily skin. Plain, gangly, bored since birth, she hated Thebes, hated the south. A princess belonged in Memphis, in the thick of court gossip.

  Thebes was tiresome. High society had welcomed her with open arms, of course, and showered her with invitations; she was, after all, a member of the royal family. But Memphis set the fashion, and besides, her husband was sinking into a deep depression. Affable, paunchy Sary had been Ramses’ tutor, then head of the Kap, the royal academy where Egypt’s top students were sent. His talents were wasted here, and it was all her brother’s fault.

  Yes, Sary had come up with a less than successful scheme to have Ramses killed. And yes, she, Dolora, had thrown her lot in with Shaanar. Yes, they had both made mistakes. Even so, shouldn’t Ramses grant them his pardon, now that Seti had died?

  Revenge was the only possible response to his cruelty. Ramses’ luck would turn eventually, and when it did, she and Sary would be ready. Meanwhile, she kept up her skin-care regime while her husband read or dozed.

  Shaanar’s unannounced arrival was like a blast of cold water.

  “My dear brother!” exclaimed Dolora, kissing him. “Bearing glad tidings, I hope!”

  “Possibly.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense!” Sary demanded.

  “I’m going to be king.”

  “Our day is coming soon, then?”

  “Come back to Memphis with me. I’ll find a place for you until we dispose of Ramses.”

  Dolora blanched. “Dispose of him, you say?”

  “Don’t worry, little sister. I’m only sending him on a grand tour.”

  “Will you have a job for
me?” asked Sary. “Something important?”

  “You’ve made it just a bit awkward,” replied Shaanar, “but I can use a man of your intelligence. Be loyal to me and the sky’s the limit.”

  “You have my word, Shaanar.”

  Iset the Fair was biding her time. Before she gave birth to their son, Ramses had sent her to Thebes; now she was raising her beloved Kha in the royal palace. A striking young woman with green eyes, a small, straight nose, and finely drawn lips, she was energetic, vivacious, Ramses’ first lover and now his lesser wife.

  Lesser wife . . . hard to accept the title, harder still the status. Yet Iset found it impossible to be jealous of Nefertari, so lovely, gentle, and serious, who, even with the title of queen, still seemed devoid of worldly ambition.

  It would have been easier if she were consumed with hate, if she could lash out at the two of them, but she still loved the man who had given her so much happiness and pleasure, the man to whom she had given his firstborn son.

  Iset cared nothing for power and prestige. She loved Ramses for himself, his intensity and verve. The pain of living apart from him was sometimes unbearable. Why didn’t he realize how much it hurt her?

  Soon Ramses would be king and come to see her only rarely, briefly. Each time, she knew, she would give in to her love for him. If only she could meet someone else—but other men paled in comparison to Ramses.

  When her majordomo announced Shaanar, Iset was amazed. What was Seti’s older son doing in Thebes before the funeral?

  He was shown into a room with narrow slits of windows high in the walls, letting in fresh air but little direct sunlight.

  “You look magnificent, Iset.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I know you don’t care for me, but I also know you’re intelligent enough to look out for your own best interests. I think you have the makings of a Great Royal Wife.”

  “Too bad Ramses doesn’t share your opinion.”

  “What if it weren’t up to him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My brother isn’t a complete fool. He finally sees that he’s not fit to govern Egypt.”