Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  “To the kitchens, then.”

  Butchers, bakers, pastry chefs, brewers, vegetable peelers, makers of preserved foods—Romay, the palace chef, commanded a small army of specialized workers, jealously guarding their turf and highly particular about their schedules. Jolly, round-cheeked, slow-moving Romay never worried about his multiple chins and bulging belly. He’d do something about his weight when he retired. For now, he concentrated on ruling his domain with an iron fist, preparing delicious and flawless meals, keeping the peace among his staff of prima donnas. A stickler for cleanliness and fresh ingredients, Romay personally tasted each dish that left his kitchens. Whether or not Pharaoh and the members of his court were in Thebes, the chef never settled for less than perfection.

  When the chief steward appeared with a young man in tow, impressively built and dressed in an immaculate white kilt, Romay groaned inwardly. Mr. Big must be planning to saddle him with yet another useless worker in exchange for some favor from the boy’s family.

  “Hello there, Romay! I want to introduce you—”

  “I can guess who he is.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be bowing?”

  “That’s rich!” guffawed Romay, hands on ample hips. “Why would I bow to this young buck? First let’s find out if he can even wash dishes.”

  Flustered, the steward faced the king. “I beg your pardon . . .”

  “I can wash dishes,” Ramses said. “Do you know how to cook?”

  “Cook? I’m the palace chef! And who do you think you are?”

  “Ramses, Pharaoh of Egypt.”

  Romay froze, convinced his career was over. Then he crisply removed his leather apron, folded it, and laid it on a low table. Insulting the king was a punishable offense, if it ended up in court.

  “What’s on the menu for lunch?” asked Ramses.

  “Quail,” Romay managed. “Roast quail. Nile perch with herb sauce. Fig puree. Honey cakes.”

  “Tempting, but will it taste as good as it sounds?”

  “I stake my reputation on it!” Romay protested.

  “Your reputation means nothing to me. Let me try some food.”

  “I’ll have the staff prepare the dining room,” the steward said unctuously.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll eat right here.”

  Ramses lunched heartily as the steward looked on in dismay.

  “Excellent,” he pronounced. “Do you have a name, chef?”

  “Romay, Your Majesty.”

  “Romay. ‘Man.’ It fits. All right, Romay, you’re my new chief steward, cup bearer, and director of royal kitchens throughout the land. Follow me, I have a few questions for you.”

  Stunned, the former chief steward stammered, “Your Majesty? Pardon me, but where will I . . .”

  “I have no use for inefficiency and pettiness. There’s always a shortage of dishwashers, though.”

  The king and Romay ambled beneath a portico.

  “You’ll report to my private secretary, Ahmeni. He looks frail and doesn’t much care what he eats, but he’s a tireless worker. More than that, he’s the most faithful friend I could ever hope to have.”

  “I was trained as a cook,” Romay said bluntly. “Are you sure I’m ready for this much responsibility?”

  “My father taught me to judge men according to my instincts. If I’m wrong, I have only myself to blame. I’m looking for loyalty. Do you think I’ll find it at court?”

  “To tell the truth . . .”

  “Do, Romay. That’s all I ask.”

  “Then I can say that Your Majesty’s court is the biggest collection of hypocrites and back-stabbers in the entire kingdom. In fact, they seem to think they own the place. Your father kept them in line, but as soon as he was gone they started showing their true colors, like desert flowers after a downpour.”

  “They hate me, don’t they?”

  “That’s the least of it.”

  “What do they hope will happen?”

  “That you’ll trip yourself up before long.”

  “If you’re with me, Romay, I demand your loyalty.”

  “What do your instincts tell you?”

  “A good cook isn’t thin. A talented chef has everyone trying to steal his recipes. Rumors fly through his kitchen and he has to sort through them with the same care he takes in selecting ingredients. What are the main factions I have to deal with?”

  “Almost the whole court is against you. The general opinion is that anyone would suffer in comparison to a pharaoh of Seti’s stature. They see you as a transitional figure until a serious contender appears.”

  “Will you risk leaving your own little kingdom here to run my households?”

  Romay smiled broadly. “There’s more to life than feeling comfortable. As long as I still get to cook, I’d be willing to try. But I do have one reservation.”

  “Tell me.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty, you don’t stand a chance.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re young and inexperienced. You’ll have the high priest of Amon and a host of government insiders trying to make you their puppet. The odds are bad.”

  “A pharaoh doesn’t wield much power, according to you.”

  “Of course he does. That’s why everyone wants to take a shot at him. What chance does one man have against an army?”

  “Pharaoh is supposed to be endowed with the might of the bull.”

  “Not even a wild bull can move mountains, Your Majesty.”

  “Am I to understand that you’re advising me to abdicate, on the day of my coronation?”

  “If you let the powers that be take charge, who will even notice, and who could blame you?”

  “You, Romay?”

  “I’m only the best cook in the country. What I think isn’t important.”

  “You’re chief steward now, aren’t you?”

  “Would you listen, Majesty, if I offered some advice?”

  “It all depends on what it is.”

  “Never let yourself be served food or drink that’s less than the best. It’s the beginning of the end. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I should get to work. Starting here in Thebes there’s a great deal to be done.”

  Ramses had made no mistake. Romay was the man for the job.

  Relieved, he headed for the palace garden.

  FOURTEEN

  Nefertari tried her hardest not to cry.

  What she most feared had finally come to pass. As a girl, she had dreamed of a quiet, cloistered life; now she had become public property. Immediately after the coronation, she had been separated from Ramses to make her first round of appearances as his consort, visiting the temples, schools, and weavers’ guilds she officially sponsored.

  Tuya introduced Nefertari to the managers of the queen’s various estates, directors of the harems where young women were educated, scribes in charge of administering her affairs, tax collectors, priests and priestesses who would perform daily rites in her name as “the spouse of God,” protectress of the creative principle.

  For several days, Nefertari kept up a grueling pace, meeting hundreds of people, finding the right thing to say to each of them, smiling constantly, never showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

  Each morning a hairdresser, makeup artist, manicurist, and pedicurist worked to make her even lovelier than the day before. The good of Egypt depended as much on her charm as her husband’s power. No queen could be more beautiful than Nefertari in her elegant, red-belted linen gown.

  She lay exhausted on a narrow bed, unable to face the evening’s banquet or the thought of being presented with more jars of perfumed unguents.

  Tuya’s slight figure moved toward her through the gathering dusk.

  “Are you ill, Nefertari?”

  “I haven’t the strength to go on.”

  Seti’s widow sat on the edge of the bed and took the young queen’s right hand between her own two hands.

  “I know what you’re going through. It w
as the same for me. Two things will help: a special tonic and the magnetizing force Ramses inherited from his father.”

  “I wasn’t meant to be queen.”

  “Do you love Ramses?”

  “More than myself.”

  “Then you’ll stand by him. He wed a queen, and a queen will fight at his side.”

  “What if he chose the wrong woman?”

  “He didn’t. Don’t you think there were times when I felt as tired and discouraged as you are now? The demands placed on a Great Royal Wife are beyond any woman. So it has always been, and so it should be.”

  “Didn’t you want to give up?”

  “A dozen times, a hundred times a day, at first. I begged Seti to take someone else as his chief consort and let me become his lesser wife. His answer was always the same: he took me in his arms and comforted me, yet did nothing to ease my workload.”

  “If I can’t perform my duties, how can I be worthy of Ramses’ faith in me?”

  “Good, Nefertari. You take nothing for granted. Now listen. I’m not going to say this twice.”

  The young queen’s eyes filled with uncertainty. Tuya’s clear gaze locked on hers.

  “You’re Queen of Egypt, Nefertari. It’s a life sentence. Don’t fight your destiny. Swim with the current, become one with the river.”

  In less than three days, Ahmeni and Romay had streamlined the government of Thebes, following Ramses’ directives. He had met with a wide range of officials, from the mayor to the head ferryman. Due to its distance from Memphis and the fact that Seti had taken up near-permanent residence in the north, the southern capital had grown increasingly independent. The high priest of Amon, with the force of his temple’s immense wealth behind him, was beginning to consider himself a king in his own right. Ramses’ meetings with local officials made him aware of how dangerous the situation was. Unless he acted quickly, upper and lower Egypt could split into two different, even opposing, countries, and the division would lead to disaster.

  From the beginning, Ahmeni and Romay worked well together. Physical and mental opposites, their differences complemented each other. They shared a deep respect for Ramses as well as the conviction he was heading in the right direction. Turning a deaf ear to hidebound courtiers, they forged ahead with their sweeping reforms, making any number of unexpected personnel changes with the king’s approval.

  Two weeks after the coronation, Thebes was in an uproar. Some officials had predicted the new pharaoh would prove incompetent. Others saw him as a playboy prince, simply uninterested in matters of state. Yet Ramses had spent his days in the palace, holding meetings and issuing decrees with all the vigor and authority of his father.

  Ramses waited for the inevitable reaction, but it never came. Thebes seemed stunned into silence.

  Summoned by the king, the vizier of the south was deferential, noting His Majesty’s directives with assurances that they would be carried out at once.

  Ramses did not share in Ahmeni’s boyish excitement or Romay’s amused satisfaction. His enemies may have been taken by surprise, but they were far from defeated. They would regroup and come back at him stronger than ever. Open confrontation would have been more to his taste than their insidious plotting, but he would have to learn to deal with intrigue.

  Just before sunset he always walked the paths of the palace garden, as twenty-odd workers began watering the trees and flower beds in the cool of the evening. On his left trotted Watcher, the yellow dog, with blue flowers ringing his red collar; on his right loped Fighter, the gigantic lion. And at the entrance to the garden was Serramanna, the Sardinian captain of the royal guardsmen, sitting beneath an arbor, alert and prepared.

  Ramses felt an intense affection for the sycamores, pomegranates, perseas, figs, and other trees that made the garden a paradise and a comfort to his soul. He wished all of Egypt could be like this haven where a wealth of essences lived in harmony.

  One evening, Ramses was planting a sycamore seedling, mounding soil around the sapling and carefully adding water.

  “Your Majesty should wait half an hour, then give it another jug of water, almost drop by drop.”

  He looked up to see a gardener of indeterminate age. The back of his neck showed a healing ulcer where the weight of his yoke rested. Two heavy earthenware water jugs hung from either end of it.

  “Wise advice,” Ramses told him. “What’s your name, gardener?”

  “Nedjem.”

  “‘The mild one. ’ Tell me, Nedjem, are you married?”

  “Married to this garden, you might say. The trees, plants, and flowers are my family, my ancestors and descendants. The sycamore you just planted will outlive you, even if you spend a hundred and ten years on earth, the ideal life span of a wise man.”

  “I must not be so special, then,” said Ramses with a smile.

  “It can’t be easy to be a king and be wise. The human race is too perverse and devious.”

  “You’re a member of it. Don’t you share those faults?”

  “I dare not say, Majesty.”

  “Have you trained any of the younger men?”

  “That’s up to the superintendent, not me.”

  “Is he a better gardener than you?”

  “How would I know? He never comes here.”

  “Do you think the tree population is adequate in Egypt?”

  “It’s the only population that can never be too large.”

  “I agree.”

  “A tree is a gift,” the gardener said emphatically. “During its lifetime, it offers us shade, flowers, and fruit; after its death comes wood. Thanks to trees, we eat, we build, we feel blessed when the soft north wind fans us through the branches. I dream of a country of trees where the only other inhabitants are birds and the souls of the dead.”

  “I intend to have trees planted in every province,” revealed Ramses. “Every village square will have a patch of shade where the generations can meet and the young can listen to the wisdom of their elders.”

  “May the gods smile upon your work, Majesty. No government program could be more useful.”

  “Will you help me implement it?”

  “How could I . . . ?”

  “The Agriculture Department is full of hardworking scribes. To steer them in the right direction, I need a man who loves nature and knows its secrets.”

  “I’m only a gardener, Majesty, a—”

  “You have the makings of an excellent secretary. Come to my office tomorrow and ask to see Ahmeni. He’ll know what I want you to do and help you get started.”

  Ramses went on his way, leaving Nedjem amazed and stunned. At the edge of the huge garden, between two fig trees, the king thought he saw a slim, white figure. Had a goddess just appeared in this magical spot?

  He hurried toward the apparition.

  In the soft glow of sunset he made out dark hair and a long white gown. How could a woman be so beautiful, at once aloof and enticing?

  “Nefertari . . .”

  She ran into his arms. “I managed to slip away,” she confessed. “Your mother agreed to stand in for me at the lute concert tonight. Have you forgotten me yet?”

  “Your mouth is a lotus bud, your lips cast magic spells, and I have a crazy desire to kiss you.”

  Their kiss renewed them. Clinging together, their promise was reborn.

  “I’m a wild bird you’ve trapped in the net of your hair,” said Ramses. “You’re a garden with the fragrance of a thousand different flowers, you make me feel drunk . . .”

  Nefertari let down her hair as Ramses slipped the straps of her linen dress off her shoulders. In the warmth of a peaceful, sweet-smelling summer night, they came together.

  FIFTEEN

  The first ray of sunlight woke Ramses. He stroked his sleeping wife’s delicious back and kissed her on the neck. Without opening her eyes, she twined around him, fitting her body to his powerful frame.

  “I’m so happy.”

  “Happiness is what you are, Nefertari.”<
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  “Let’s never stay apart so long again.”

  “It’s not something we can control.”

  “Won’t our lives ever be our own?”

  Ramses held her tight.

  “You aren’t answering,” she said.

  “Because you know the answer, Nefertari. You’re the Great Royal Wife, and I’m Pharaoh. We can’t escape that fact, even in our dreams.”

  Ramses rose and walked to the window, looking out over the Theban countryside, lush green in the summer sun.

  “I love you, Nefertari, but I’m wed to my country as well. I have to keep this land fertile and prosperous. When Egypt calls, I must not ignore it.”

  “Is there so much left to do?”

  “More than I thought. I forgot I would have to govern men, not merely a country. A few weeks is all it would take to overturn the law of Ma’at and undo the work of Seti and all our ancestors. Harmony is the most fragile of treasures. If I relax my vigilance, Egypt will soon be awash in evil and horror.”

  Nefertari crossed to meet him, pressing her naked body to his. The merest touch of her scented skin told him their understanding was complete.

  Sharp raps sounded at the bedchamber door. Before they answered, it flew open, and a wild-eyed Ahmeni entered. As soon as he noticed the queen, he looked away.

  “It’s serious, Ramses, very serious.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early to come bursting in like this?”

  “Come with me. There isn’t a moment to spare.”

  “No time to wash and have some breakfast?”

  “Not this morning.”

  Ramses always took Ahmeni at his word, especially when his usually levelheaded friend was as flustered as this.

  The king drove his own two-horse chariot. The one behind him carried Serramanna and a bowman. The ride made Ahmeni queasy, but he was glad Ramses drove so fast. They came to a halt in front of one of the gates to the temple of Karnak, hopped down, and studied the stela covered with hieroglyphs any literate passerby would be able to read.

  “Look,” said Ahmeni. “There, the third line down.”

  The drawing of three animal pelts, signifying birth and designating Ramses as the Son of Light, was incorrect. The error robbed the inscription of its protective magic and damaged the Pharaoh’s identity.