Ramses, Volume II

by Christian Jacq

  “I checked,” a shattered Ahmeni informed them, “and the same mistake is on statues and tablets like this one all over town. It’s deliberate, Ramses!”

  “Who could have done such a thing?”

  “The high priest of Amon and his stone carvers. They handled all the inscriptions for your coronation. If you hadn’t seen for yourself, you’d never have believed me.”

  While the general meaning of the proclamations was unchanged, the altered royal name was definitely a serious matter.

  “Call in the stone carvers,” ordered Ramses, “and have the inscriptions fixed.”

  “Aren’t you going to prosecute the ones who did it wrong in the first place?”

  “They were only following orders.”

  “The high priest of Amon is ill; that’s why he hasn’t come to pay his respects to you.”

  “Do you have any proof that he’s behind this? I can’t afford to offend an important religious leader without due cause.”

  “All the evidence points to him!”

  “You know better than to trust circumstantial evidence, Ahmeni.”

  “We can’t let him get away with it. No matter how rich and powerful he is, he’s still beholden to you.”

  “Compile a list of his assets for me, will you?”

  Romay had no complaints about his new duties. After revamping maintenance procedures and appointing a new staff, he had tackled the royal menagerie, consisting of three wild cats, two gazelles, a hyena, and two gray cranes.

  One animal remained beyond his control, however. Watcher, the Pharaoh’s yellow-gold dog, was in the annoying habit of snacking on fish from the royal pond. Since the king’s pet lion was his partner in crime, there was no way to stop their daily expeditions.

  Early in the morning, Romay had helped Ahmeni haul in a heavy crate of papyrus. He wondered where the puny young scribe, who barely ate and slept only three or four hours a night, found so much energy. He spent the greater part of his days at his desk poring over papers, never showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

  Ahmeni conferred with Ramses while Romay went on his daily tour of the kitchen, contending that Pharaoh’s health, and therefore the health of the entire nation, depended on the quality of his food.

  Ahmeni unrolled several papyrus scrolls on low tables.

  “Here’s the information on Karnak,” he said with a hint of pride.

  “Was it hard to gather?”

  “Yes and no. The temple administrators weren’t particularly happy to see me or answer my questions, but they didn’t stand in my way when I checked their figures.”

  “And is Karnak as rich as we thought?”

  “Richer. Eighty thousand employees, forty-six building sites on its outlying properties, four hundred fifty gardens, orchards, and vineyards, four hundred twenty thousand head of livestock, ninety boats, and sixty-five settlements of various sizes directly dependent on the largest religious establishment in Egypt. The high priest commands a veritable army of scribes and farmworkers. Factor in the property belonging to the god Amon, which the clergy controls, and the total is six million head of cattle and as many goats, twelve million donkeys, eight million mules, and fowl also numbering in the millions.”

  “Amon is the god of victory and the protector of the empire.”

  “There’s no denying that, but his clergy are only men. Managing such enormous wealth exposes them to overwhelming temptations. I didn’t have time to investigate any further, but the situation worries me.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “The powers that be are anxious for Your Majesty to head north again. Otherwise, you’re upsetting the status quo. All they want is to fatten their coffers and keep Karnak growing like a state within a state, until the day the high priest of Amon proclaims himself king of the south and secedes from the union.

  “That would mean the death of Egypt, Ahmeni.”

  “And misery for the people.”

  “I’d need hard evidence, proof that there’s been skimming. I can’t face the high priest of Amon unless I have my facts straight.”

  “Leave it to me, Ramses.”

  Serramanna did not rest easy. Ever since Menelaus’s bungled coup, he was aware that Ramses’ life was in danger. The Greeks may have left the country, but the threat remained.

  He kept a close eye on what he considered the trouble spots in Thebes: the military base, palace police headquarters, the barracks for the guard detachment. If a revolt was in the making, it would come from one of those places. The colossal Sard trusted his pirate’s instincts, remaining wary of enlisted men and officers alike. In a number of instances, he had owed his survival to striking the first blow.

  Despite his size, Serramanna moved like a cat. He liked to eavesdrop and observe from the shadows. No matter how hot it was, he wore a metal breastplate. In his belt he carried a dagger and a short, sharp-tipped sword. A frizzy mustache and sideburns made his massive face even more frightening; he used this to his advantage.

  Career army officers, most of whom came from a wealthy background, hated Serramanna and wondered why Ramses had put such a lout in charge of the guardsmen. The Sard blithely ignored them. He didn’t care about popularity. It wouldn’t help him be the best fighter serving a good leader.

  And Ramses was a good leader, captain of an enormous ship on a treacherous and adventure-filled course.

  In short, his job was everything a Sardinian pirate could have wished for, and he was determined to keep it. He enjoyed a mammoth villa, fine food, and Egyptian beauties with breasts round as love apples, but these were not enough to satisfy him. Nothing could replace the thrill of proving himself in combat.

  The palace guard was rotated the first, eleventh, and twenty-first of each month. They received their food and wine rations and were paid in grain. Each time the troops were relieved, Serramanna looked the new men over carefully before he assigned them. Any lapse in discipline, any slackening, resulted in a flogging and immediate dismissal.

  The Sard walked slowly down the single row of soldiers. He stopped in front of a fair-haired boy who seemed slightly nervous.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “A village in the Delta, sir.”

  “Your favorite weapon?”

  “The sword.”

  “Have a drink, soldier. You look thirsty.”

  Serramanna handed the fair-haired boy a flask of anise-flavored wine. He took two quick swallows.

  “I’ll post you in the hallway to the royal office. Your job is keeping everyone out of there during the last watch of the night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Serramanna had the men present arms, checked their uniforms, exchanged a few words with other soldiers, then sent them on their way.

  The architects who designed the palace had set windows high in the walls so that cool air could circulate through the corridors on hot summer nights.

  Everything was quiet. Outside, the frogs sang their courting songs.

  Serramanna crept down the tiled hallway leading to Ramses’ office. As he had suspected, the boy from the Delta was not at his post.

  Instead, he was fiddling with the latch on the office door. The Sard reached out one broad hand and lifted him by the scruff of the neck.

  “A Greek, eh? Only a Greek could drink anise wine without flinching. Which faction do you belong to, my lad? One of Menelaus’s leftovers, or part of some new plot? Answer me!”

  The fair-haired boy twitched briefly, but made no sound.

  Feeling the Greek go limp, the bodyguard put him down. He flopped on the floor like a rag doll. Without meaning to, Serramanna had broken the boy’s neck.

  SIXTEEN

  Written reports were not Serramanna’s province. He simply stated the facts to Ahmeni, who put them down on papyrus and alerted Ramses. No one knew anything about the young Greek, who had been recruited on the strength of his sword handling. His brutal death made it impossible to trace the real instigator, but the king, more grate
ful than ever for Serramanna’s vigilance, refrained from reprimanding his bodyguard.

  This time, the object of the break-in was not the Pharaoh but his office, meaning affairs of state. Someone wanted confidential documents and information about the new king’s future policies.

  Menelaus’s attack had been motivated by revenge; this incident was far murkier. Who had hired the young Greek to slink through the shadows and compromise Ramses at the beginning of his reign? Of course, there was Shaanar, who had been strangely quiet since the coronation. Could he be working behind the scenes, much more effectively than in the past?

  Romay bowed to the king. “Majesty, your visitor has arrived.”

  “Show him to the garden pavilion.”

  Ramses wore only a simple white kilt and a single piece of jewelry, the gold bracelet on his right wrist. He collected his thoughts for a few moments, aware that the fate of Egypt would hinge on the interview he was about to conduct.

  The elegant wooden pavilion stood in the shade of a willow tree. A low table was spread with silvery green grapes and fresh figs. Cups of light, refreshing beer would be ideal in the summer heat.

  The high priest of Amon sat in an armchair with plump cushions and a matching footstool, resplendent in his wig, linen robe, bib necklace of pearls and lapis lazuli, silver bangles.

  As soon as he saw his sovereign, the high priest rose and bowed to him.

  “I trust you’re quite comfortable,” Ramses said.

  “Your Majesty, I thank you for considering an old man’s health.”

  “You’re not feeling well?”

  “At my age . . . well, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I was beginning to think we’d never meet.”

  “Heavens, no, Your Majesty. For one thing, I was confined to my bed for a time. For another, I hoped to bring the viziers of the north and the south along with me, and the Viceroy of Nubia.”

  “What a delegation! Did they reject your proposal?”

  “At first, no; later they did.”

  “What made them change their minds?”

  “They’re high-ranking officials . . . they do not wish to displease Your Majesty. Still, their presence would have given my words added weight.”

  “If your cause is just, you have nothing to fear.”

  “Do you think it is?”

  “Let me decide that, with Ma’at to guide me.”

  “I’m worried, Majesty.”

  “What can I do to ease your mind?”

  “You asked for an accounting of Karnak’s riches.”

  “And I got it.”

  “What do you conclude?”

  “That you’re a remarkable administrator.”

  “Should I take that as criticism?”

  “Certainly not. Our ancestors taught, did they not, that spiritual and material welfare go hand in hand? Pharaoh endows Karnak, and you make it prosper.”

  “I still sense criticism in your tone, Your Majesty.”

  “Confusion, nothing more. Why don’t we discuss your concerns instead?”

  “It’s rumored that Karnak’s wealth and glory offend Your Majesty, and you wish to redistribute some of its privileges.”

  “Where have you heard this?”

  “Here and there.”

  “And you believe these rumors?”

  “When rumors are persistent, they may contain the germ of truth.”

  “If so, what do you think of the idea?”

  “That Your Majesty would be well advised to preserve the status quo. That the wisest course would be following in your esteemed father’s footsteps.”

  “Unfortunately, his reign was cut short before he had time to enact a great many necessary reforms.”

  “Karnak needs no reforms.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “Then my worries were justified.”

  “Perhaps mine are, too.”

  “Yours? Your Majesty, I . . .”

  “Is the high priest of Amon still Pharaoh’s faithful servant?”

  The prelate averted his eyes. To regain his composure, he ate a fig and drank some beer. The king was as direct in his questioning as he was unpretentious in dress, and the clergyman had been unprepared for either. However, the young pharaoh was careful not to push him, allowing him time to gather his wits.

  “How can you doubt my loyalty, Majesty?” he said at length.

  “Because of Ahmeni’s investigation.”

  “That sniveling little scribe, that sneak, that rat, that—”

  “Ahmeni is my friend, and his only ambition is serving Egypt. I take any insult to him as a personal affront.”

  “Forgive me, Majesty,” stammered the priest. “But his methods . . .”

  “Did he use undue force?”

  “No, but he wouldn’t let go. Worse than a jackal devouring its kill!”

  “He’s conscientious and thorough.”

  “But surely he found nothing wrong?”

  Ramses looked the high priest square in the face. “Surely?”

  Again, the prelate looked away.

  “Egypt and everything in it belongs to the pharaoh, does it not?” asked Ramses.

  “According to the legacy of the gods,” intoned the priest.

  “But the pharaoh may grant land to men who have proved themselves worthy.”

  “According to custom.”

  “Is the high priest of Amon authorized to act in Pharaoh’s stead?”

  “The high priest acts as his delegate at Karnak.”

  “With certain limitations, if I may refresh your memory.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “You’ve deeded land to secular individuals, putting them in your debt. Military officers, for instance, whose loyalty to me might then be compromised. Perhaps you need an army to defend your private domain?”

  “Mere circumstance, Majesty! You can’t be thinking—”

  “There are three major cult centers in Egypt. Heliopolis is the holy city of Ra, the god of light. Memphis worships Ptah, the patron of arts and sciences. Thebes is the home of Amon, the hidden god. My father strove to maintain them in harmony. Your policies, however, have thrown them out of balance, giving Thebes a disproportionate importance.”

  “Majesty! Would you see Amon slighted?”

  “Never. Amon’s worldly representative is the one I question. As of today, I suspend you from your administrative responsibilities so that you may concentrate on religious devotions.”

  The prelate struggled to his feet.

  “You know very well I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my duties are secular as well as religious, exactly like yours.”

  “Karnak belongs to Pharaoh.”

  “That much is clear, but the temple can’t run itself.”

  “I’ll appoint an administrator.”

  “And bypass the ones I have in place? Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. Turning the priesthood of Amon against you would be most unwise.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Just advice from an experienced leader to a young monarch.”

  “Do you think I’ll follow it?”

  “Support from the right quarters is critical to any king’s survival. Of course, as your faithful servant I plan to follow your orders, whatever they may be.”

  Though visibly weary, the high priest seemed on surer footing.

  “Don’t fight a losing battle, Your Majesty. You’re new at this; you think you can change things overnight, but it can’t be done. The gods are slow to forgive. Remember what happened when Akhenaton turned his back on Thebes.”

  “Your net is tightly woven,” Ramses told him, “but a falcon’s beak can tear holes in it.”

  “Such a waste of energy! You belong in Memphis, not here. Egypt needs your strength to push back the enemies from our borders. Let me take care of Thebes, and I’ll be behind you.”

  “I’ll think it over.”

  The high priest smi
led. “I knew you’d listen to reason. If you have the intelligence to match your spirit, you’ll be a great pharaoh, Ramses.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Each and every Theban notable had only one thing in mind: pleading his cause face-to-face with the new king. Ramses was an unknown quantity, aligned with no particular faction; who knew what unpleasant surprises he might have in store for even the best-connected courtiers? But to meet with the Pharaoh, one had to get past Ahmeni, who refused to let anyone waste his own time, much less Ramses’. Then there was the little matter of Serramanna’s insistence on frisking each visitor!

  Ramses canceled the rest of the morning’s appointments, including the dikes inspector Ahmeni had recommended. Well, let Ahmeni take care of him. The king needed to consult with the Great Royal Wife.

  After a refreshing dip, they sat on the edge of the pool, their naked bodies basking in the sun that filtered through the sycamores. The palace gardens were more beautiful than ever since Nedjem had been named to the Department of Agriculture.

  “I finally met with the high priest of Amon this morning,” Ramses confessed.

  “Any headway?”

  “None at all. He’s forcing me to choose between caving in to him or declaring open warfare.”

  “What does he want you to do?”

  “Leave Karnak as the most powerful temple in Egypt. He’ll rule the south and let me keep the north.”

  “Out of the question.”

  Ramses looked at Nefertari in amazement. “I was certain you’d preach moderation!”

  “If moderation leads to the country’s ruin, it’s no longer a virtue. The high priest wants to protect his own interests with no concern for the general welfare. He even presumes to dictate to the pharaoh. If you give in, everything Seti left you will be destroyed.”

  Nefertari spoke calmly, in her soft, soothing voice, yet her views were clear and firm.

  “Meeting him head-on will be dangerous,” Ramses told her.

  “You have to take a stand, or you’ll be seen as a weak ruler. The high priest of Amon will lead the opposition; we can be sure of that.”