“Is your soul still tormented?” Aaron inquired.
“Not since I saw the burning bush.”
“No one here believes that you talked with Yahweh.”
“When a man knows his mission in life, he’s no longer assailed by doubt. I see the path before me, Aaron.”
“But you’re the only one on it, Moses!”
“It only looks that way. In the end, the elders will see the light.”
“The Hebrews have a good life here in Pi-Ramses. How will you feed them in the desert?”
“God will provide.”
“You’re a born leader, Moses, but you’re on the wrong track. Change your name and the way you look, forget your outlandish plans, and reclaim your place among your people. You’ll live to a ripe old age and be honored as a patriarch.”
“That’s not what fate has in store for me, Aaron.”
“You’re the master of your fate, are you not?”
“Not any longer.”
“Why waste your life when prosperity is within your reach?”
Someone then pounded on the door to Aaron’s house.
“Open up, police!”
Moses smiled.
“You see, Aaron, it’s not up to me.”
“Make a run for it!”
“There isn’t another way out.”
“I’ll cover for you.”
“No, Aaron.”
Moses got up and answered the door himself, to find Serramanna gaping at him.
“So it wasn’t a lie after all. You’re back!” said the hulking Sard.
“Would you care to come in for a bite to eat?”
“A Hebrew turned you in, Moses. A brickmaker who was afraid that having you back in town might mean he’d lose his job. Come with me. I’m taking you to prison.”
“Moses deserves to stand trial,” Aaron intervened.
“He will.”
“Unless you get rid of him before he appears in court.”
Serramanna grabbed Aaron by the collar of his tunic.
“Are you calling me a murderer?”
“You have no right to manhandle me!”
Sobered, the Sard let go. “Of course not. But do you have the right to insult me?”
“If Moses is arrested, he’ll be executed.”
“The law applies to everyone, even Hebrews.”
“Run, Moses! Go back to the desert,” Aaron pleaded.
“You know I’m not going back without you.”
“They’ll never release you from prison.”
“God will help me.”
“Let’s get going,” said Serramanna impatiently. “Don’t make me tie up your hands.”
Hunched in a corner of his cell, Moses watched the sunlight darting between the bars. It sparkled through the thousands of suspended dust particles. It fell on the dirt floor trodden smooth by countless prisoners.
And Moses was filled with the light of the burning bush, the energy of Yahweh’s sacred mountain. His past, his wife and his child, were no longer of consequence. All that counted from now on was the exodus, the Hebrew people’s departure for the Promised Land.
A crazy notion for a man locked up in the main jail in Pi-Ramses, a man who would soon be sentenced to death for premeditated murder, or at the very least to a life of forced labor in a remote penal colony. Despite his trust in Yahweh, Moses felt the occasional glimmer of doubt. How would God go about freeing him and allow him to accomplish his mission?
The Hebrew was dozing off when the sound of distant shouting roused him. The noise grew louder by the minute until it was deafening. The entire city seemed to be in an uproar.
Ramses the Great had returned.
He wasn’t expected for several months, but here he was, as big as life in his chariot behind Victory in Thebes and the Goddess Mut Is Satisfied, festooned in their blue-tipped red plumes. To the right of the chariot loped Fighter, the Nubian lion, watching the curious herd of onlookers strain forward. Ramses was resplendent in his blue headdress, the golden cobra of the uraeus on his forehead, clad in vestments with blue-green wings to place him under the protection of Isis, the falcon goddess.
The infantry sang with one voice the song that was already a tradition: “Ramses’ arm is strong, his heart is valiant. He is a peerless archer, a wall protecting his soldiers, a flame burning his enemies.” He was the chosen son of the divine light. He was the falcon of soaring victories.
Generals, cavalry and infantry officers, army scribes, and rank-and-file soldiers had all donned parade dress to march behind the standard-bearers. As the crowds cheered, the men dreamed of leave and spending their combat pay. The best part of military life was returning home, especially in triumph.
Usually the gardeners decked the main avenue out with flowers, all the way to the temple of Ptah, the god of creation through the Word, and Sekhmet, the terrifying lion goddess with the power to cure or kill. This time they had been caught unawares. The palace chefs sprang into action, grilling geese, sides of beef, slabs of pork, heaping baskets with dried fish, fresh fruits and vegetables. Jars of beer and wine were hustled out of the cellars. Bakers made cakes as fast as they could. Noblemen shook out their finest garments; servant girls perfumed their mistresses’ hair.
At the end of the line marched several hundred prisoners from Canaan, Palestine, Syria, and other eastern lands. Some had their hands trussed behind their backs. Others walked unfettered, women and children at their sides. Their meager possessions had been bundled on the backs of donkeys. All would be registered and assigned to work on temple estates or construction sites. After serving the term of their captivity, they could either become full members of Egyptian society or else return to their own country.
Was this a lasting peace or simply a truce? Had Pharaoh finally crushed the Hittites, or was he only back to regroup his forces? The least informed had the most to say on the subject: the gossip ran that Muwattali was dead, Kadesh had fallen, the Hittite capital was in ruins. No one could wait for the awards ceremony when Ramses and Nefertari would dispense gifts of gold from their window of appearance.
To everyone’s surprise, Ramses drove straight by the palace and headed for the temple of Sekhmet. Only he had noticed the cloud that appeared in the sky, growing rapidly larger and darker. The horses were nervous, the lion growled.
A storm was brewing.
The atmosphere of joy was replaced with fear. If Sekhmet unleashed the wrath of the heavens, wasn’t that a sign that war still loomed and Ramses must once again march off to battle?
The soldiers stopped singing.
All present were keenly aware that Pharaoh was engaged in a new combat. He must appease Sekhmet and keep her from raining plagues and suffering on Egypt.
Ramses dismounted, patted his horses and his lion on the head, then prayed at the entrance to the temple. The cloud had broken into ten clouds, a hundred clouds. The darkening sky was beginning to blot out the sun.
Shaking off the fatigue of the journey, forgetting the prospect of celebrations, the monarch steeled himself for an encounter with the terrible goddess. Only he was able to quell her anger.
Ramses pushed open the huge gilded doors and entered the sanctuary, where he laid down his crown of blue. Then he slowly made his way between the columns of the first hall, went through the door to the inner sanctum, then made for the naos, the holiest part of the temple.
That was when he saw her, aglow in the semi-darkness.
Her long white robe shone like the sun. The scent of her ritual wig was enchanting. Her noble stance was the equal of any temple carving.
Nefertari’s voice rose, smooth as honey. She said the words of worship and appeasement that had been used since the dawn of civilization to turn the awful Sekhmet into her more benign incarnation. Ramses raised his hands, palms upward, toward the statue of the lion-headed woman, and read the magic words on the temple walls.
When the litany was finished, the queen, who had worked her own magic, presented the king wit
h the red crown of lower Egypt, the white crown of upper Egypt, and the scepter of power.
In his twin crowns, the scepter in his right hand, Ramses bowed to acknowledge the positive energy now present within the statue.
When the royal couple emerged from the temple of Sekhmet, sunlight was flooding the Turquoise City. The storm had blown over.
ELEVEN
As soon as the awards ceremony was finished and all the Gold of Valor handed out, Ramses went to visit Homer, the Greek bard who had decided to end his days in Egypt, composing his epics in peace. His comfortable villa near the royal palace was set in a garden, the centerpiece of which was a lemon tree. The old poet feasted his near-blind eyes on it and spent many hours there stroking his long white beard and fashioning verses. Ramses found him, as usual, smoking sage leaves tamped into a pipe bowl made out of an oversize snail shell, and drinking wine flavored with anise and coriander.
The poet rose and leaned on a gnarled walking stick.
“Don’t get up, Homer.”
“When the Pharaoh of Egypt isn’t given a proper greeting, it will be the end of civilization.”
The two men settled into garden chairs.
“Does this passage of mine mean anything to you, Your Majesty? ‘Fight boldly or hold yourself back, the result is similar. The same honor goes to the coward as to the valiant. Is it for naught that my heart has braved so many dangers? Is it for naught that I have risked my life in so many battles?’”
“No, Homer, it doesn’t.”
“Then you’ve come home a victor again.”
“The Hittites have been pushed back within their traditional boundaries. Egypt won’t be invaded.”
“Let’s celebrate, Your Majesty. I’ve just gotten in some remarkable wine.”
Homer’s cook brought out a narrow-necked Cretan wine jar, pouring out a thin stream of a special vintage mixed with sea water (bottled on the night of the summer solstice, with the wind from the north) and aged for three years.
“My account of the battle of Kadesh is finished,” Homer revealed. “Your secretary, Ahmeni, took it down for me and gave the text to the stone carvers.”
“It will be written on the temple walls to proclaim the victory of order over chaos.”
“Alas, Your Majesty, it’s a never-ending battle, with chaos always trying to win the upper hand.”
“That’s why pharaonic rule was instituted. It’s the main support of the law of Ma’at.”
“Then by all means do everything in your power to keep it going. I intend to live a long time yet in your fair land.”
Hector, Homer’s black and white cat, jumped in the poet’s lap and bared its claws against his tunic. “As far as your Pi-Ramses is from the Hittite capital, is it far enough to stay out of harm’s way?”
“As long as the breath of life is within me, I intend to make sure of that.”
“Yes, but how many times will you have to go to war?”
Outside Homer’s dwelling, Ramses found Ahmeni waiting for him. Thinner and paler than usual, his hair ever sparser, the king’s private secretary looked fragile to the point of breaking. A forgotten reed brush was tucked behind his ear.
“I have an urgent matter to discuss with you, Your Majesty.”
“A problem you couldn’t solve while I was away?”
“Nothing like that.”
“May I have a few minutes with my family first?”
“Protocol dictates a certain number of ceremonies and audiences beforehand. I won’t insist on that, but something important has come up.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s back.”
“Do you mean . . .”
“Yes, Moses.”
“Here in Pi-Ramses?”
“You can’t fault Serramanna for arresting him. Leaving Moses at liberty would have been a miscarriage of justice.”
“You’ve put him in prison?”
“We had to.”
“Bring him to me immediately.”
“Impossible, Your Majesty. Pharaoh must not intervene in a criminal case, even when a friend is involved.”
“We have proof of his innocence!”
“It’s indispensable to follow the normal procedures. Unless Pharaoh serves as the prime respecter of Ma’at and of justice, the country will fall apart.”
“You’re a true friend, Ahmeni.”
Young Kha was copying out a famous text that prospective scribes had memorized for generations:
The learned scribes of the early days have made heirs for themselves from the works that they have composed. The writing palette is their loving son. Their books are their pyramids, the reed pen their child, the stone covered with hieroglyphs their wife. Monuments disappear, sand buries plaques with proclamations, but the wise words that they have written will preserve the name of scribes forever. Be a scribe, and carve this thought into your heart: a book is more useful than the most solid wall. It will serve as your temple when you have perished. Your book will keep your name on the lips of men. It will prove more solid than a well-built house.
Kha was not in complete agreement with the author of these maxims. Writing did, of course, survive through the generations, but so did tombs and temples that were the work of master builders. The author of this passage had exaggerated the importance of his profession. Kha vowed that he would become both a scribe and a builder, so as not to limit his horizons.
Since the day when his father had forced him to confront death in the guise of a cobra, Ramses’ eldest son had matured a great deal, leaving childish games behind for good. What fun was a wooden horse on wheels compared to the fascinating mathematical problem he had found in the wonderful papyrus that Nefertari had given him? The scribe Ahmes likened the circle to a square with one side representing 8/9 of its diameter, yielding the geometric value of 3.14. As soon as he was able, Kha planned to study how Egypt’s great monuments were engineered and learn the secrets of the great builders.
“May I interrupt Your Highness’s thoughts for a moment?” came the voice of Meba, the undersecretary of state.
The boy did not look up.
“If you must.”
For some time, the old diplomat had been paying regular calls on the prince. Kha disliked the man’s haughtiness and worldly ways, yet appreciated his culture and knowledge of literature.
“Still at work, Your Highness?”
“What better pastime could there be?”
“A serious comment from one so young! But I can’t say I disagree with you. As a scribe and prince of the blood, you’ll be issuing orders to dozens of servants. Your hands will never touch a pick or plow. You’ll be exempt from manual labor—no heavy lifting for you! You’ll live in a splendid mansion with a stable full of beautiful horses. You’ll have fresh garments to wear every day, made of the finest linen. A comfortable sedan chair will take you around, and your father will dote on you.”
“Plenty of lazy upper-class scribes do live that way, Meba. But I want to be able to read scholarly texts, help write prayers for special occasions, and be allowed to carry offerings in processions.”
“Modest ambitions for a prince, young man.”
“I wouldn’t say so, Meba. I’ll have to work awfully hard.”
“Shouldn’t Ramses’ eldest son be aiming for a somewhat more prominent role in the government?”
“Hieroglyphs are my guide. Have they ever lied?”
Meba was unnerved by the twelve-year-old’s answers. It was like having a conversation with an experienced scribe, self-possessed and immune to flattery.
“There’s more to life than work and discipline.”
“It’s the life I aspire to, Meba. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No, nothing at all.”
“You have an important job yourself, Meba. Does it leave you much time to enjoy yourself?”
The diplomat avoided Kha’s direct gaze.
“I am quite busy, since Egypt’s international policy requires a certain expertise.”
>
“Isn’t my father the one who makes the decisions?”
“Certainly, but my staff and I do all we can to facilitate the process.”
“I’d like to know exactly what you do.”
“It’s quite complex, I’m not sure whether . . .”
“I’ll make every effort to understand.”
Meritamon pranced in, much to the diplomat’s relief. “Are you playing with my big brother?” she inquired.
“No, I came to bring him a present.”
Kha looked up, his interest piqued. “What is it, Meba?”
“A case for your brushes, Your Highness.”
Meba produced a pretty gilded box in the shape of a column. Inside were a dozen reed brushes of various sizes.
“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed the prince, setting the well-worn brush he’d been using down on a stool.
“Can I see?” asked Meritamon.
“Yes, but be careful,” Kha said gravely.
“Can I write with one of them?”
“If you pay close attention and try not to make mistakes.”
Kha gave his sister a scrap of used papyrus and a new brush. She dipped the tip in the ink under the prince’s watchful eye, then slowly began forming hieroglyphs.
Caught up in the task, the two youngsters forgot all about Meba. It was precisely the moment he’d been waiting for.
He palmed Kha’s old brush and stole out of the room.
TWELVE
All night, Iset had dreamed of her first summer with Ramses, the wild nights spent in a reed hut on the edge of Memphis. They had met in secret, without a thought for the future, living for the moment in a blur of desire.
Iset had never had any wish to become Queen of Egypt. The responsibility would crush her. Only Nefertari was equal to the role. But how could she forget Ramses, or the love that still burned in her heart for him? When he was off waging war, she worried terribly. Her spirits drooped, she neglected her appearance, wore any old garments, went without sandals or makeup.
As soon as he came back, the clouds lifted. And Iset’s newfound beauty would have moved the most jaded seducer if he happened upon her, anxious and trembling, in the hall leading from Ramses’ office to his private quarters. When the Pharaoh emerged she would speak to him. No, no, she wouldn’t dare.
Ramses, Volume IV Page 6