by Howard Fast
It was on one such occasion, walking through the gardens, that Moses found his way barred by three of the sons of Ramses. He knew them well, and one in particular he knew even better; but even concerning Ramses-em-Seti, his indifference overcame his distaste, and he made to walk around them. They shifted their position to bar his way again, and one of them said,
“Who walks so proudly must have other areas of pride as well.”
“Not necessarily,” Ramses-em-Seti pointed out, “for I have thrown my spittle in his face without wounding his pride.”
“Your spittle,” said the third, “is probably sweeter than what he is used to. Do you perfume your mouth, my brother?”
“Always.”
“I wonder whether his mother did?” the first one said.
All of this Moses listened to stolidly, only a trifle puzzled that his own irritation did not give way to anger. They had insulted him and now they were insulting his mother. He found himself unmoved.
“His mother was powerful,” Ramses-em-Sed observed. “He was a prince of Egypt while his mother lived.”
“But he’s still a prince of Egypt. Notice his clothes, his bearing, his pride.”
“And his justice?”
“Ah, his justice. A quality I can’t see. But his pride is apparent.”
“Do you think so?”
“Obviously.”
Ramses-em-Seti leaned forward and expectorated full in Moses’ face, angry himself now and crying out, “Does your pride survive that?”
Wiping his face with the back of his hand, Moses answered coolly, “You’re not very inventive in your insults. What do you expect from all this, divine cousin?”
“I expect to fight you and kill you.”
“I don’t particularly care to fight you,” Moses shrugged, “and though I despise you more than you could possibly understand, I have no desire to kill any of you.”
“I don’t see that your desire has much to do with it now,” said the first one, Re-em-Opet by name, the short, stout, squint-eyed result of the God Ramses’ brief passion for a Libyan dwarf. “The act is done. My brother has only to tell it, and we witness it. You can hide in your chamber then, but no more walk in the palace or the gardens or the streets of the city.”
Ramses-em-Seti nodded. “Gossip has it that you were dragged out of the water. Being wet in any case, we’ll call you Spittle-Moses. It will last.”
“We have appointed the place and time,” said the third one. “The old pyramid in the date palms. Do you know where it is?”
“Of course he knows, said the first one.
“At moonrise tonight. Choose any hand weapons,” said the third.
“Armour, if you wish,” the second.
They were deeply serious now, and having said this, they turned and marched away. For a while Moses stood where he was, and then he went to a bench in the shade of a fig tree and seated himself, staring moodily at the blazing, sun-drenched colours of the garden. But as he sat there his mood changed, and the more he recalled the pompous manner of Re-em-Opet, the more amused he became. Suddenly, for the first time since his mother’s death, he found himself chuckling with laughter; and chuckling, reaching and picking figs and eating them, he considered the matter. When he had considered enough, he got up and went to seek Seti-Hop.
Moses found him finally in a little sunken garden, where the old man lay naked in the blazing sun, trying to soak the arthritis out of his aching joints. It was more than a year, perhaps two years, since Moses had seen the old warrior, and the prince was startled to see how small and shrivelled the man looked. In Moses’ childhood, when SetiHop had taught him and his cousins the art of war, he had seemed a large man—larger for his bronze helmet that he wore so often as a mark of his authority. Now he was so skinny and small that Moses could have taken him up in his arms without difficulty.
When Moses appeared, it seemed that Seti-Hop was asleep, and so he sat on a bench to wait. But then the old man opened his eyes, squinted, shaded them to peer at Moses, and rolled over.
“Don’t get up, please, Seti-Hop,” Moses said.
“Eh?” The old man lay on one elbow, watching Moses. “Greetings, Prince of Egypt. I mourn your loss. I should have come to call, but I don’t interfere with palace politics, and anyway, I’m nobody.”
“You’re my friend, Seti-Hop,” Moses said. “I count my friends on the fingers of one hand.”
“Oh, am I?”
“I think so. I need a friend now. The Prince Ramsesem-Seti insulted me, my mother and my origin. He also spat in my face.”
Now Seti-Hop sat up and looked at Moses shrewdly. “He did that once before, as I remember. Does he make a habit of spitting at his betters?”
“Evidently. This time, he has a purpose. He challenged me to fight him and announced he will kill me. He set the time tonight at moonrise at the old pyramid in the grove.”
“Fight you? The damned fool,” Seti-Hop yawned.
“Well, that’s what he has his heart set on.”
“Tell him to go and lick a sacred cat’s ass, Prince of Egypt.”
“I suppose I could, but then he’ll make life in Egypt difficult. He can’t go on spitting in my face and insulting me, can he?”
“I don’t know,” the old soldier shrugged. “I’m not of noble blood, so I’ve never had those problems. Anyway, the God Ramses won’t have fratricide among his sons. Buy the bastard off, you’re rich enough.” And when Moses smiled, he added, “I talk as I please, Prince of Egypt. I’m old enough and dry enough to be a mummy now. I suppose you’re going to fight him?”
“I don’t see what else I can do.”
“What weapons?”
“Hand arms, he said. I imagine he’ll use that long, iron sword of Haiti that he makes so much of.”
“And you, Prince of Egypt?”
“I’ll use the Kushite stave, Seti-Hop. And I won’t kill him.” Moses reached over and touched the old man’s arm. “And incidentally, I am not one of the God Ramses’ sons—remember that. Now will you come with me tonight?”
“No doubt I’ll pay for it.” Seti-Hop grinned. “And I’ll get worse from my wife than you’ll ever get from the prince. But I’ll come. Don’t let him spit at you again, Prince of Egypt. It’s a nasty habit.”
[19]
THE FIGHT WAS shorter even than Moses expected.
When he and Seti-Hop arrived on horseback at the old pyramid, a broken ruin no more than twenty feet high, with a clear space on flat ground in front of it, a considerable company were already present. Apparently, the sons of the God Ramses had no compunctions about the business, nor did they appear concerned over the consequences. At least a dozen brothers of various ages had come to witness the fight, bringing with them bread and wine and fruit, as well as their current ladies and sisters of favour. They lay about on linen coverlets, spread at the foot of the pyramid, and some of the younger ones had climbed the pyramid for better position. Slaves held torches to add to the moonlight, and a slave was completing the arming of Ramses-em-Seti, strapping on a bronze breastplate. Then he stood in breast-plate, helm and armplates, a round bronze shield on one arm, his long iron sword in hand.
Moses and Seti-Hop dismounted, the old soldier thrusting the six-foot-long, black-ebony stave into the soft ground, while he and Moses dropped their cloaks. Grinning at Ramses-em-Seti, the old man muttered,
“Look at that, Moses, a prudent, carefully-protected man, to carve your gizzard.”
And he continued to grin as they walked forward, Moses naked to a loincloth, contemptuous in his manner as well as in his dress and arms. It was not only for agility and ease that he had come without arms, but very much because he expected that his cousin would be armed from head to foot. He had been nervous but not afraid, and now, seeing the sprawling representation of regal blood, stuffing their mouths with food or making love or drinking wine, sharpening their wit with clever aphorisms that they underlined with significant glances in his direction, his uneasiness t
urned to disdain. Until now he had regarded his cousins with the same objective acceptance of existence that he exercised toward the palace. They were there—as they had always been. But now, suddenly, his mood changed to profound disgust. Better to be of the blood of the slave people, he told himself; and, as he looked at them, he understood that he had never seen them before. His face, from contempt and amusement, set in anger and bitterness; and Seti-Hop, seeing this, nodded with relief. He knew of no substitute for hatred in a death fight. Seti-Hop then handed Moses the black stave, which he hefted and then let rest against his neck while he spat on his hands and rubbed them dry.
Meanwhile, Seti-Hop walked forward and cried out, “Now see me, O Princes of Egypt, for you know me. I am old Seti-Hop, master-at-arms, and I trained the God Ramses to use a sword and chariot before any of you sucked your mother’s milk. This is a fight of godly blood, and it’s a cursed shame that such a thing should be. But things were done that can’t be recalled, so fight you must. If blood is drawn, it will be no fight to the death—but end there!” And when the brothers began to shout in protest, his hard, cold voice quieted them.
“Not with me, young sirs—not with me. There isn’t one of you I don’t remember from when he crawled, and it was I who taught you to fight. I’ll have no murder done here tonight—and by all the gods in Egypt, go to the God-King if you dare!”
“Then if you want no murder done, Seti-Hop,” one of the older brothers called out, “tell that nameless dirt to put away his stick and arm himself!”
“I tell the prince of Egypt nothing. He chose his weapon, as your brother did, and if he chooses to die, that is his affair and so much the sooner an end to this nonsense. And let no one interfere, for if I am armed only with a dagger, I’ve used it for half a century and used it well. I give you my word that, princes of Egypt or no, I’ll hamstring anyone who dares enter this fight after it begins. If you want to limp your life through, disregard me.” He looked questioningly from face to face, but no one challenged him. The moon was above the trees now, and the little glade turned to silver, the silver rippling over the vine- and moss-covered pyramid—giving the scene an unearthly and gripping enchantment that even the royal brothers felt, quelling and quieting them. They were caught too by the picturesque and momentary immobility of the fighters—Ramses-em-Seti, broad-shouldered; his hunched, tense back bound over with great layers of muscle, like the broad back of his father, his armour glistening with moonlight and throwing off the leaping reflection of the torches—and Moses, taller, leaner; his strength hidden in the linear growth of bone and muscle; his brown body alert without tension; both his hands holding the stave at arm’s length and loosely in front of him.
“I whistle to fight,” said, Seti-Hop, “and I whistle to stop. May the gods help either of you if you disobey me. Ready now!”
He put his fingers to his mouth and blew a wild, piercing whistle. Moses crouched just a little, balancing on the balls of his feet, one foot forward and both spread wide. Ramses-em-Seti swung his long Hittite sword high, put his shield in guard, and leaped at Moses, quick to end the fight in one clean blow that would cleave his seemingly defenceless cousin’s skull in two. As he came in, Moses crouched a little more deeply, threw up the ebony stave—ten pounds of wood as thick as his wrist—and caught and parried the sword stroke upon it. The same motion allowed him to strike Ramses-em-Seti a glancing blow on the side that threw the prince off balance and gave Moses an instant in which to shorten his grasp on the stave and use it as a pole-axe. The great weight of the stave speeded Moses in the arc, a continuation of the first motion, a round, terrible blow in which he put all his strength and which sent the stave whipping into the other’s bronze shield. The shield folded in like a thin copper plate, and above the crash of wood on metal came the clean, ugly sound of the prince’s arm snapping. He screamed as he staggered back, spun, and then fell headlong on the ground; but he had kept his sword in his grasp, and as he attempted to rise with it, Moses brought down his stave again, crushing hand and wrist in one awful blow. Through the wild-animal-like screaming of Ramses-em-Seti, the piercing whistle of SetiHop sounded, for the second blow was given even as he raised his hand to his mouth, and the whole fight had lasted no more than a few seconds.
Dragging his stave, Moses deliberately turned his back and went to where he had dropped his cloak. As he did so, Re-em-Opet leaped to the screaming prince, scooped up his sword, and swung it over his head. At Seti-Hop’s roar of anger, Moses spun around, saw the sword and swung at it with his stave, breaking the blow and knocking it out of Rem-em-Opet’s hand. His fury exploded in him, like a spring released, and dropping the stave, he seized the prince by his fat neck and thigh, swung him overhead with a demonic surge of strength, and cast him across the glade like a sack of wheat. Re-em-Opet landed on his broad behind, howled with indignation and pain, and rolled over on hands and knees to rise. As he did so, Seti-Hop, dagger in hand, leaped at him and slashed both buttocks open. Then he wiped his knife on the cool grass, slipped it into its scabbard, and walked over to Moses. Then they put on their cloaks and Seti-Hop turned to face the royal brothers. Not one of them had moved; they sat frozen in silence and horror, while the glade rang with the anguished screams of the prince whose arm and hand were broken and the whining pain of the other prince, who had been hamstrung.
Seti-Hop and Moses went to where a slave held their horses, mounted and rode off. For a time they rode in silence, but then Seti-Hop said, with some admiration,
“You’re a quick man and a terrible one, O Prince of Egypt. It comes as a shock in a quiet lad.”
“Did you think he would kill me?” Moses asked, still trembling with the effort and anger, his robe soaked with sweat.
“Who knew? One doesn’t know in a fight. He thought he would. Anyway, it made a good night’s work and I think you wiped out the insult. However, one of your cousins will never be able to use his hand again, and the other will limp through his life. He deserved that.”
“I’ll survive it somehow,” Moses muttered. “But what about you, Seti-Hop?”
“What about me? Do you think me an utter fool, Prince of Egypt?”
“No. And I didn’t say so.”
“Of course not, and you don’t live to my age in a place like the Great House without common sense. I went to the God Ramses tonight before I came here, and he specified the rules of the fight. I explained that the odds were long against your dying, but he took them. And don’t look at me as if I betrayed you, Prince of Egypt. I think I saved your life.”
[20]
STRANGELY—OR PERHAPS not so strangely—the fight at the pyramid remained a secret. Moses confided in no one, for aside from Neph, there was no one for him to confide in, and Neph was away at this time; Seti-Hop had long experience in keeping his silence, and evidently the royal brothers and sisters had decided that the affair brought them no credit and the less said about it, the better. The two wounded princes were confined to their chambers under the care of physicians—who were equally adept at silence-and so for three days, Moses moved about as if nothing had happened.
There was, however, a difference of degree; for now no member of the royal family spoke to him, nodded at him, or smiled at him; they went out of their way to avoid him, so he was forced to conclude that at least some inkling of what had happened at the pyramid had seeped out. And at the end of the three days, he was summoned to the throne room at the order of the God Ramses.
Eight years had passed since the God-King last had spoken to him, and for a child growing to manhood, eight years is an incredibly long time. During those eight years he had seen Ramses many times, but never closely, never to speak to him, never to be noticed by him. It struck Moses as strange indeed that while he himself had grown to manhood, the God Ramses seemed changed not at all.
Once again, as eight years ago, Moses was dressed in the best that a prince, of Egypt might wear—golden collars and golden bracelets, jewelled bracelets and jewelled headbands. Once again
the pomp and ceremony, the blaze of colour and people, of mosaic and tapestry impressed him; once again he lay upon his breast, his check against the God-King’s foot until he was bidden to rise; and once again, all others in the great chamber stood away so that Ramses might not be overheard.
Yet it was different. The mighty audience chamber had become merely a large room. The decorations seemed to verge on the garish and tasteless. The hieroglyphic tale of Ramses’ mighty feats in the war against Hatti was studded with obvious lies. And the god was only a man—a man whom Moses hated, and feared, too.
Yet Ramses was no less at ease, and he smiled as he told Moses to step back, the better to look at him. His look was keen and searching, and his dark eyes fixed themselves upon Moses’ so intently that the young man had to drop his own gaze. Then Ramses nodded and told Moses to come close to him, observing that this had become necessary since a good many priests had taken to practicing hearing the way an archer practises with his bow. Then he said,
“Well, Moses, you are a likely-looking young man. How old are you now?”
“Eighteen years, sacred god.”
“Don’t call me by that ridiculous title. Call me father. And stop thinking that I killed your mother and get the murder out of your heart.”
“Yes, my father,” Moses answered flatly.
“A little more warmth, Moses, and a little more wit and understanding. A fool doesn’t rule an empire like mine as long as I have, and the worst mistake you can make is to consider me a fool. Your mother was sick, very sick, and the pain she suffered is not to be understood by anyone so free of pain as you. Try to understand that I loved your mother.”