Cries rose from the street. Shaanar thought there must be a scuffle, but the noise grew louder until it was almost deafening. The whole city was cheering! The secretary of state climbed the few steps to his building’s roof terrace.
The spectacle that greeted him, along with thousands of his countrymen, turned him to stone.
A huge blue bird, something like a heron, was circling the skies of Memphis.
“The phoenix,” thought Shaanar. “It can’t be . . . the phoenix is back?” He struggled in vain to rid himself of the foolish notion, eyes fixed on the soaring bird. Legend had it that the phoenix returned from the netherworld to announce an exceptional ruler and herald the beginning of a new era.
A bedtime story, a priestly fantasy, a tall tale for the simple folk! Yet there it was, a splendid blue creature circling wide over Memphis, as if touring the city before choosing a new direction.
If he were an archer, Shaanar would have shot the bird down to prove that it was only a migrating waterfowl, confused and disoriented. Order a soldier to do it? None of them would obey him and people would think he was mad. The entire city breathed as one, watching the phoenix. Suddenly, a hush fell.
Shaanar took heart. They knew, of course! If the blue bird really was the phoenix, it would do more than fly over Memphis. According to legend, it would have a precise destination. When the heron departed, it would take the crowd’s delusion along with it. The people would stop believing in his brother’s second miracle and perhaps even reassess the first one.
Ramses’ luck was already deserting him! The odd baby cried. Then there was silence.
The huge blue bird soared on. In the clear air, the graceful movement of its wings could be heard, like the rustling of cloth. The people’s joy gave way to disappointment. They’d missed the chance of a lifetime. This must not be the phoenix, appearing only once every fifteen centuries, but some poor dazed heron separated from its flock and hopelessly lost.
Relieved, Shaanar went back to his office. This showed how right he was never to heed old wives’ tales. No bird, no man could live through the ages. No phoenix flew in to mark a pharaoh with greatness. Still, there was a lesson to be learned from the incident: knowing how to manipulate public opinion was crucial. People craved dreams in the same way they needed food. Not every ruler was born to be popular, but he could create a consensus by carefully fostering illusions.
The shouts rang out once more.
An angry, frustrated crowd, Shaanar surmised. He heard Ramses’ name. Perhaps not in all honor and glory . . .
Back on the terrace, he was astonished to see the crowd exploding as the phoenix landed atop the city’s greatest monument, the sacred obelisk.
Insane with rage, Shaanar conceded that the gods were indeed proclaiming a new era. The age of Ramses.
“Not one sign, but two,” Nefertari concluded. “The second inundation, and now the phoenix. Could there be a better beginning?”
Ramses was reading the stack of reports that had just reached him. The Nile’s unprecedented return to the ideal water level was a blessing for Egypt. And the entire population of Memphis had beheld the huge blue bird perched on the tip of the great obelisk at the temple of Heliopolis, a ray of sun preserved in sacred stone. There the phoenix remained, contemplating the chosen land of the gods after such a long absence in the great beyond.
“You look puzzled,” observed the queen.
“Such powerful omens, it’s enough to make anyone wonder.”
“You think they’re a warning?”
“No, Nefertari. I think they mean I should go ahead and not concern myself with doubters or stumbling blocks.”
“Then it’s time to set your plan in motion.”
He took her in his arms. “According to the Nile and the phoenix.”
A breathless Ahmeni burst into the audience chamber.
“The superior . . . of the House of Life . . . He wants to talk to you.”
“Show him in.”
“Serramanna is trying to frisk him . . . He’ll cause a scandal!”
Ramses hurried toward the antechamber, where a robust man of sixty, with a priest’s shaved head and white robe, faced off with the colossal Sard decked out in helmet and breastplate, sword in hand.
The superior bowed to Pharaoh. Serramanna noted that Ramses seemed less than pleased.
“No exceptions,” grumbled the giant. “Otherwise I can’t vouch for your security.”
“What brings you here?” the king inquired of the priest.
“An urgent request from the House of Life, Majesty. You’re needed there.”
THIRTY-FOUR
When Seti first brought Ramses to Heliopolis, it was to undergo an ordeal on which his future hinged. Today he entered as a pharaoh, passing through the gateway to the great temple of Ra, vast as Amon’s cult center at Karnak.
On this holy ground, with its own canal, stood a complex of buildings: the shrine of the sacred stone, the sanctuary of Atum, the creator, in the shade of a sycamore; the chapel of the willow with the dynastic list carved into its trunk; the memorial chapel of Djoser, builder of the step pyramid at Saqqara.
Heliopolis was a place of enchantment. Garden paths, lined with stone niches holding statues of the gods, led through stands of acacia, willows, and tamarisks. Orchards and olive groves thrived. Beekeepers harvested rich loads of honey, dairymen husbanded high-yielding milk cows, craftsmen trained in the temple workshops. And all included a hundred villages contributing to the upkeep of Heliopolis, which were in turn protected by the temple.
Here the lore of the ancients had been handed down and codified in rituals. A long oral tradition of mythology continued. Scholars, ritualists, magicians transmitted their knowledge in silence and secret.
The superior of the House of Life at Heliopolis, which served as the model for all other institutions of religious learning in Egypt, had grown unaccustomed to the world outside.
“Your father often spent time among us,” he now revealed to Ramses. “His fondest wish was to enter a religious order, although he knew it could never come true. You, Majesty, are young, bursting with energy and ambition. But will you live up to the name you bear?”
Ramses controlled his anger with some difficulty.
“Have you any cause to doubt it?”
“Heaven will answer in my place. Follow me.”
“Is that an order?”
“You’re lord of all you survey, and I am your servant.”
The superior of the House of Life did not lower his eyes. Ramses had faced tough adversaries since becoming Pharaoh, but none as formidable as this.
“Follow me, please.”
“Show me the way.”
The superior walked in a measured pace toward the sanctuary of the primordial stone, from which an obelisk covered with hieroglyphs rose. Atop it sat the phoenix, perfectly still.
“Could I ask you to take a good look at this bird, Majesty?”
The midday sun was so dazzling that the phoenix was lost in a blur.
“Is your intention to blind me?”
“I leave that up to you, Majesty.”
“Do you expect a king to act on a dare?”
“If it’s in his nature.”
“Explain the reason for your attitude.”
“The name you bear, Majesty, is the basis of your legitimacy. Until now, it’s been only a name. Will it remain so, or will you lay claim to it, no matter what risk that entails?”
Ramses looked straight at the sun.
The golden disk did not burn his eyes. He saw the phoenix rise, flap its wings, and move heavenward. Still the young monarch’s gaze remained fastened on the shining orb that ruled the day.
“You are truly Ramses, Ra-Begot-Him, Son of Light. May your reign proclaim the victory over darkness.”
The young king understood that he would never have anything to fear from the sun. He was its earthly incarnation; it was his source of energy.
Without another word, th
e superior made his way toward an oblong building with high, thick walls. This was the House of Life proper. In its center was the mound where the divine stone lay hidden, covered with a ram’s fleece. Alchemists used it to perform transmutations, and pieces of it were buried with the initiates to aid in their passage from death to resurrection.
The superior showed the king into a huge library where works on astronomy and astrology, prophecies and royal annals were preserved.
“According to our annals,” declared the superior, “the phoenix was last seen in Heliopolis fourteen hundred and sixty-one years ago. Its appearance in Year One of your reign coincides with the intersection of two astronomical calendars: the fixed-year calendar, which loses a day every four years, and the real-year calendar, which loses a half-day a year. At the exact moment you ascended to the throne, these two cosmic cycles came together. A stela will be erected to mark the event, if you so desire.”
“What lesson am I to draw from your revelations?”
“That chance does not exist, Majesty, and that your destiny belongs to the gods.”
A miraculous September flood, the return of the phoenix, a new era . . . it was all too much for Shaanar. Dazed and forlorn, he put up a brave front at the ceremonies organized in Ramses’ honor. Every sign pointed to the dawn of a new age under this young ruler. The gods had clearly chosen him to govern the Two Lands, preserve their union, enhance their prestige.
Only Serramanna was out of sorts. Maintaining security for the king was harder every day. Dignitaries traveled in packs to shake his hand, it seemed. Even worse, Pharaoh rode his open chariot through the main streets of Memphis, to the cheers of his people. Drunk on his own popularity, he refused the safety measures his guard captain recommended.
As if exposing himself to urban dangers were not enough, the king also ventured into the countryside, most of which lay under the floodwaters. Peasants repaired their tools and plows, stocked granaries, while children learned to swim with floats. Overhead flew cranes with red and black beaks. Herds of belligerent hippos lazed in the muddy river. Allowing himself only two or three hours of sleep a night, Ramses visited a staggering number of villages. He earned the loyalty of provincial administrators and mayors, and gained the trust of the common folk.
When he returned to Memphis, the inundation was beginning to recede and farmers prepared for sowing.
“You don’t even look tired,” remarked Nefertari.
“What could be tiring about mingling with my people? But you, my darling, are you all right?”
“There’s nothing I can put my finger on . . .”
“What do the doctors say?”
“They put me on bed rest.”
“Then why aren’t you in your bed?”
“With you away, I had to—”
“I won’t leave Memphis again until you deliver.”
“And your secret project?”
Ramses frowned. “Perhaps just one short trip, with your permission.”
The queen smiled. “Your wish is my command.”
“Egypt is so beautiful, Nefertari. My travels have made me realize how dazzling it is, the miracle child of water and sunlight, the epitome of Horus’s strength and Hathor’s beauty. We must devote our every waking moment to this country. You and I are meant not to govern, but to serve her.”
“I believed that once.”
“What do you mean?”
“Service is the noblest of human achievements. Only by serving a higher goal can we find fulfillment. Hem, ‘the servant,’ is such a lovely word. It encompasses everyone from the seasonal construction worker or day laborer all the way up to Pharoah, the most powerful man in the land, the servant of the gods and of his people. Since the coronation, though, I see things differently. Neither one of us can simply serve. We must also direct, guide, steer the helm that keeps the ship of state on a steady course. No one else can do that for us.”
The king grew somber.
“I felt the weight of that responsibility when my father died. I was so used to having someone who could guide, give advice, take charge. With him around, no problem was insurmountable, no misfortune without recourse.”
“And that’s what your people expect from you.”
“I looked straight into the sun and it didn’t burn my eyes.”
“The sun is within you, Ramses. It gives life, it makes all things grow, but it can also be deadly if it’s too strong.”
“The desert sun is strong, but there’s life in the desert.”
“The desert is the netherworld on earth. It’s not for human habitation, except for eternal dwellings that will outlast the ages. A pharaoh’s greatest temptation is to immerse his thought in the desert, leaving behind the world of men.”
“My father was a man of the desert.”
“As every pharaoh should be, but he must also look toward the Valley and see it flourish.”
Ramses and Nefertari fell silent in the still of the evening, as sunset gilded the single obelisk towering over Heliopolis.
THIRTY-FIVE
Once the windows in Ramses’ bedchamber went dark, Serramanna left the palace, first making sure that his handpicked guards were at their posts. Jumping on the back of a superb black horse, he galloped through Memphis in the direction of the desert.
Egyptians did not like to go abroad at night. In the absence of the sun, demons were liable to creep out of their lairs and attack unwary travelers. The hulking Sardinian scoffed at these superstitions. He could hold his own against a horde of monsters. When his mind was made up, he was unstoppable.
Serramanna had hoped Setau would show up at court for the celebrations in Ramses’ honor, but true to his eccentric reputation, the snake handler stayed home. In the course of his continuing investigation of the scorpion incident, the Sard learned that no one liked Setau. They feared his evil spells and loathed his reptilian companions, while forced to acknowledge he was doing a booming business. Selling venom for pharmaceutical purposes was beginning to make him a fortune.
Though not giving up on Romay, Serramanna had to admit that Setau made an excellent suspect. Suppose that he was staying out of sight because he didn’t dare face Ramses since planting the scorpion? His reclusiveness was practically an admission of guilt.
Serramanna needed to see Setau in person. The ex-pirate was used to sizing up his opponents. He owed his survival to his ability to read them, so before he could make his move, he needed a good look at Setau. And since the man was hiding, he would have to flush him out.
As cropland gave way to desert, Serramanna dismounted and tethered his horse to the trunk of a fig tree, whispering a few words of reassurance in the animal’s ear. Then he walked noiselessly toward Setau’s complex. There was barely a crescent of moon, but the night was clear. A laughing hyena troubled him not in the least. It reminded him of boarding a ship by surprise.
The laboratory was lighted. What if Setau took some extra persuading? He’d promised Ramses to go easy, but if there were extenuating circumstances . . . He cautiously hunched down, skirted a rise, and approached the building from the rear.
His back to the wall, the Sard listened.
Low moans issued from the laboratory. Was the snake charmer torturing some poor wretch? Serramanna scrambled to a slit in the wall and peeked inside. Pots, jars, filters, caged snakes and scorpions, knives of various sizes, baskets . . . all kinds of equipment littered the shelves and workbenches.
On the floor lay a couple in a naked embrace. A beautiful black woman groaned in pleasure, her slender body arching. Her swarthy, square-jawed partner was stocky and virile.
The Sard looked away. While he freely indulged his own taste for women, he was no voyeur. Yet this woman’s beauty had stirred him. Interrupting such passionate lovemaking would be criminal, so he resigned himself to waiting. Spent, Setau would be easier to interrogate.
He smiled to himself thinking of the Memphis belle he’d be meeting for dinner the following evening. According to her be
st friend, she liked big, strong men.
A strange sound to his left caught his attention.
The Sard looked around to see a huge cobra ready to strike—one opponent he’d rather not face. He backed away, bumped into the wall, and froze. A second cobra stood in his way.
“Get away, you monsters!”
The giant’s dagger had no effect on the snakes. If he did kill one of them, he realized, the other one would attack him.
“What’s going on here?”
Naked, carrying a torch, Setau inspected the intruder. “You came to rob my laboratory. Good thing my watchdogs are always on the alert. Unfortunately for you, their bite is definitely worse than my bark.”
“You can’t get away with murder, Setau!”
“So you know my name. No matter, you’re a burglar caught redhanded, waving a dagger. The judge will rule that it was self-defense.”
“I’m Serramanna, the captain of Ramses’ bodyguard.”
“I thought I recognized you. Why do you need to steal from me?”
“I wanted to see you, have a look at your place, that’s all.”
“At this time of night? Not only are you interrupting me and my wife, you’re lying through your teeth.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Why this sudden wish to see me?”
“Security reasons.”
“What does that mean?”
“My job is to protect the king.”
“You think I’m a threat to Ramses?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think it—why else spy on me?”
“I have to check every lead.”
The two cobras inched closer to the Sard. Setau’s eyes blazed with fury.
“Call them off.”
“Are pirates afraid to die?”
“That way, yes.”
“Get away from me, Serramanna, and never show your face here again. Next time I’ll let them at you.”
Ramses, Volume II Page 17