Ramses, Volume IV Read online

  “A military courier to see you,” announced one of his assistants.

  “Show him in.”

  The exhausted-looking soldier was covered with dust.

  “I bring a message from Pharaoh.”

  “Show it to me.”

  Ahmeni identified Ramses’ seal. Despite his weak lungs, he took off for the palace at a run.

  Queen Nefertari had been conferring with the vizier, the chief steward, the scribe in charge of the royal accounts, a priestly delegate, the Keeper of Secrets, the superior of the House of Life, a chief judge, the head of the Treasury, the director of the granaries, and various other high officials in search of precise directives. None of them wished to make a move without the approval of the Great Royal Wife, who was governing in her husband’s absence. Fortunately, Ahmeni was there to guide her, and Tuya, her mother-in-law, was always available with sound advice.

  Indescribably beautiful, with lustrous black hair, blue-green eyes, and the luminous face of a goddess, Nefertari shouldered the lonely burden of power. As a girl, she had trained as a temple musician and was fond of studying the ancient texts. A cloistered life had been all she aspired to—until Ramses’ love transformed her from a shy maiden into a queen, unswerving in her devotion to duty.

  Simply running her own household demanded a great deal of work. The queen’s household was a thousand-year-old institution encompassing a boarding school for outstanding young women, both native and foreign-born. Girls were also trained in the arts and crafts. There were skilled weavers, as well as workshops that turned out jewelry, mirrors, vases, fans, sandals, and religious objects. Nefertari’s staff included priestesses, scribes, stewards of the queen’s estates, workers and peasants. She made an effort to become acquainted with the key people from each sector. Her aim in life was to avoid error and injustice.

  These were difficult days, with Ramses risking his life to keep Egypt safe from a Hittite invasion. She knew she must try harder than ever to hold the country on course, no matter how great an effort it required.

  “Ahmeni!” she greeted the panting secretary. “Is there news?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. A messenger just brought this scroll from the front.”

  The queen had not moved into Ramses’ office, which remained empty, waiting for his return. Her headquarters was a vast room adorned with light blue tiling. It looked out on the garden where Watcher, the king’s old dog, slept at the foot of an acacia tree.

  Nefertari broke the seal on the dispatch and read the cursive text, signed by Ramses himself.

  No smile lit the queen’s grave face.

  “He’s trying to reassure me,” she said flatly.

  “Has nothing been accomplished?”

  “Oh, yes. Canaan is back in our hands. The turncoat governor was killed.”

  “I’d call that a victory!” said Ahmeni with enthusiasm.

  “The king is continuing north.”

  “Why are you so sad?”

  “Because he’ll go back to Kadesh, no matter how great the risk. First he’ll try to free Ahsha, putting his life on the line for his friend. What if his luck runs out?”

  “His magic never will.”

  “How would Egypt survive without him?”

  “First of all, Your Majesty, you are the Great Royal Wife, and you know perfectly well how to run the country. Besides, Ramses will come back. I’m sure of it.”

  In the hallway, the sound of hurrying footsteps drew nearer. When the knock came at the door, Ahmeni answered.

  A midwife burst in, all aflutter. “Your Majesty . . . the Lady Iset is in labor. She’s asking for you.”

  Iset the Fair had saucy green eyes, a small nose and delicate mouth—an inordinately attractive face, under normal circumstances. Even in pain, her charm was undiminished, and it was possible to see why she had been the love of Ramses’ youth. Iset often dreamed of a rustic hut at the edge of a wheat field outside of Memphis and the long-ago nights of that first summer she had shared with her handsome prince.

  Then Ramses met Nefertari, and Nefertari became the queen of his heart. Iset, being neither jealous nor ambitious by nature, had stepped aside. It was plain that neither she nor anyone else could rival Nefertari; Iset the Fair accepted the role of secondary wife. Though his power frightened her, nothing could change the love that Iset felt for Ramses.

  In a long-ago moment of weakness, she had almost let Shaanar talk her into backing one of his plots, but in the end her loyal heart won out. Her true claim to glory had been bearing Ramses’ firstborn son, the exceptionally gifted Kha.

  Nefertari, meanwhile, had lost her first daughter, then nearly died giving birth to her second, Meritamon. Knowing she could have no more children, she had insisted that Ramses let his secondary wife give him another son, many more if possible. At first he agreed, reuniting with a joyful Iset, but soon he came up with the idea of selecting “royal children” from all levels of society, bringing a hundred-odd talented boys and girls to the palace for their education. Their number would symbolize the royal pair’s fertility and eliminate any question of succession should Ramses outlive the children of his body.

  Still, the reunion with Iset had produced the desired effect, and she was thrilled. She had done the traditional test, mixing her urine with wheat and barley. The barley had sprouted; she would have a boy.

  Now Nefertari found her friend squatting, supported by four midwives, known as “The Gentle Ones” or “The Firm-Fingered Women.” The ritual words had been chanted to banish evil spirits from the birth chamber. Incense and potions helped ease the pain of childbirth.

  Iset felt the small life inside her preparing to leave the peaceful waters where it had been growing for the past nine months.

  The tender touch of a hand and the scent of lilies and jasmine made Iset the Fair feel she had entered a heavenly garden where all pain would cease. Turning her head to one side, she saw that Nefertari was standing in for one of the midwives. She held a damp cloth to Iset’s forehead.

  “Your Majesty . . . I was afraid you wouldn’t have time for me.”

  “You called me, so here I am.”

  “Have you had news of the king?”

  “Good news, Iset. Ramses has taken Canaan and will soon have the other provinces back in hand. The Hittites are going to be sorry.”

  “When is he coming home?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be eager to see his child.”

  “Our child . . . will you welcome it?”

  “I’ll love this child as much as my own daughter, or your son Kha.”

  “I was so afraid you might . . .”

  “We’re in this together, Iset. Now on with the battle.”

  Suddenly the pain grew more intense, and as Iset cried out, the lead midwife sprang into action.

  Laboring, Iset wished she could escape from the fire tearing through her belly. She wished she could fall into the deepest sleep, stop struggling, and dream of Ramses . . . but Nefertari was right. She must fight her way through this great mystery that had claimed her body.

  Nefertari caught the baby, cradling it as a midwife cut the cord. For a moment, Iset swooned.

  “Is it a boy?” she asked at last.

  “Yes, it is. A fine, big boy, Iset.”

  FIVE

  Kha, the son of Ramses and Iset the Fair, was copying the maxims of Ptah-hotep onto blank papyrus. Centuries earlier, the sage had distilled the wisdom of his hundred and ten years into these writings. Though Kha himself was only ten, he rarely indulged in child’s play and spent his time studying, despite gentle reprimands from Nedjem, the agriculture secretary who supervised his education. Nedjem would have liked him to be more well-rounded, yet the boy’s intellectual capacities were astounding. Kha learned quickly, retained everything, and already wrote like an experienced scribe.

  Nearby, pretty little Meritamon, the daughter of Ramses and Nefertari, was playing the harp. At the age of six, she displayed a remarkable gift for music as well as a genuine sens
e of style. As he wrote his hieroglyphs, Kha like to hear his sister pluck melodies and sing old ballads. She was the breathtaking image of her mother. Watcher, the king’s old dog, sighed happily, resting his head on her feet.

  When the queen came into the garden, Kha dropped his brush and Meritamon stopped playing. The two excited youngsters ran to greet her.

  Nefertari kissed them.

  “Everything went well, and Iset has a baby boy.”

  “You and my father have probably picked out a name for him.”

  “So you think we think of everything?”

  “Yes, because you’re the king and queen.”

  “Your little brother will be called Merenptah, ‘Beloved of the Ptah,’ the god of the creative urge and patron of architects.”

  Dolora, Ramses’ sister, was a tall and perpetually weary brunette, always doctoring her oily complexion with unguents. After an idle youth, she had found inspiration in Ofir, the Libyan sorcerer. He had converted her to the heretic king Akhenaton’s radical belief in a single god. Admittedly, Ofir had been forced to commit murder in order to safeguard his freedom. Still, Dolora supported him and had vowed to help his cause, no matter what it cost her.

  On the advice of the sorcerer, who had remained in Egypt but had gone underground, Dolora had returned to the palace and lied her way back into Ramses’ good graces. The sorcerer had kidnapped her, she claimed. He had used her to cover his own escape from the country. Dolora loudly proclaimed her relief at escaping the worst and being back with her family.

  Had Ramses believed her story? On his orders, Dolora was required to remain at court in Pi-Ramses—exactly as she had hoped. Before long she would be funneling information to Ofir. Unfortunately, with Ramses gone to wage war in the northern protectorates, she had not been able to make further headway with the king.

  Dolora spared no effort to win over Nefertari, knowing how much influence she had with her husband. As soon as the queen left the council chamber where she had been meeting with canal superintendents, Dolora approached her, bowing low.

  “Your Majesty, may I help you see to Iset?”

  “What exactly do you have in mind, Dolora?”

  “Supervising her staff, purifying her room each day, using soap made from the bark and fruit of the desert date to wash the mother and infant, cleansing every object in her household with a mixture of ashes and soda . . . and I’ve put together a cosmetic kit for Iset with pots of rouge, flasks of flower essences, kohl and applicators. She needs to stay beautiful, doesn’t she?”

  “She’ll appreciate you thoughtfulness.”

  “If she lets me, I’ll do her makeup myself.”

  Nefertari and Dolora walked a short way down a corridor with murals of lilies, cornflowers, and mandrake.

  “I hear the baby is splendid.”

  “Merenptah will be a strong and healthy man.”

  “Yesterday I wanted to spend time with Kha and Meritamon, but I wasn’t allowed to. It pained me deeply, Your Majesty.”

  “Those are Ramses’ orders, and mine as well, Dolora.”

  “How much longer will everyone mistrust me?”

  “Is it any wonder? Your escapade with that sorcerer, your ties to Shaanar . . .”

  “Haven’t I had my share of unhappiness, Your Majesty? My husband was killed by Moses, that cursed Ofir tried to brainwash me, Shaanar always treated me with the utmost contempt. And everyone blames me! A quiet life is all I aspire to now. It would mean so much to me if only my family were closer. I admit that I’ve made mistakes, serious mistakes, but will I always be branded a criminal?”

  “You plotted against Pharaoh, didn’t you, Dolora?”

  The gangly woman knelt before the queen. “I was the slave of evil men,” she pleaded, “and I was prone to their influence. That’s all over now. I wish to live on my own, at the palace, as Ramses has ordained. I want to forget the past. Will I ever be pardoned?”

  Nefertari was shaken. “Go care for Iset, Dolora. Make her beautiful again.”

  Meba, the chief assistant to the secretary of state, arrived to see Ahmeni. A career diplomat, scion of a rich diplomatic family, Meba was by nature haughty and condescending. He was proud of belonging to a superior class of people, people with wealth and power. He disdained lesser mortals. It had come as a shock when Shaanar, the king’s older brother, had summarily replaced him as secretary of state some years earlier. Shunted aside, he began to believe he would never regain center stage, until the day a Hittite agent recruited him.

  Treason? Everything happened so quickly that Meba never thought of it that way. He plunged into double-dealing, making the most of his connections. Before long he was back at the State Department, apparently delighted to be working in a lesser capacity. Ahsha’s former boss now posed as his faithful second in command. Sharp as he was, even the new young secretary of state had been fooled by Meba’s act. He was flattered to have an experienced assistant who had once been Shaanar’s right-hand man.

  Since Ofir, the head of the Hittite intelligence network in Egypt, had gone underground, Meba had been waiting for orders that never came. He welcomed the silence, using the interval to consolidate his contacts at the department and in high society. He also took care to spread his message: he’d been the victim of grave injustice; Ahsha was brilliant, but perhaps too intellectual to make a good director. Meba was so occupied that he began to forget he’d sold out to the Hittites.

  Munching on a dried fig, Ahmeni was composing a letter of remonstrance to the granary superintendents and reading an appeal from a provincial chief concerning a shortage of firewood.

  “What’s going on, Meba?”

  The diplomat detested the crude little scribe. “Perhaps you’re too busy to meet with me?” he inquired urbanely.

  “I can spare a moment, if you keep it brief.”

  “While Ramses is gone, I presume you’re the one in charge?”

  “If you have any cause for unhappiness, request an audience with the queen. Her Majesty personally reviews all my decisions.”

  “Let’s not play games. The queen will only send me back to you.”

  “What seems to be the matter?”

  “The lack of clear directives. My secretary has been detained abroad, the king is away at war, and my department is racked by doubt and uncertainty.”

  “Wait until Ramses and Ahsha come back.”

  “And what if . . .”

  “If they don’t come back?”

  “A dreadful prospect, but mustn’t it be faced?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “You’re sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll wait, then.”

  “It’s your best course of action, Meba.”

  Serramanna had led a remarkable life. Born in Sardinia, he grew to be a giant and was a notorious pirate captain when his path crossed Ramses’. The prince spared his life, and the pirate became the head of the royal bodyguard. Just prior to the battle of Kadesh, Ahmeni had suspected the Sard of treason and threw him in jail. Soon realizing his error, the scribe worked hard to clear Serramanna’s name and make amends.

  The Sard would rather be battling beside the king, bashing and hacking away at Hittites. But Pharaoh had ordered him to remain behind and provide security for the royal family. Serramanna threw himself into the role with all the gusto he had once displayed commandeering rich merchant vessels in the Mediterranean.

  In the giant’s eyes, Ramses was the most formidable warlord he’d ever met, and Nefertari the most beautiful, most inaccessible woman. The royal couple was such a daily source of wonder that serving them had become his life. Well-compensated, enjoying the pleasures of the table as well as the splendid examples of womanhood Egypt had to offer, he was perfectly willing to sacrifice his life for the good of this magical realm.

  There was one cloud on the horizon, however. His hunter’s instinct wouldn’t let him rest. Something told him that Dolora’s reappearance at court posed a threat to
Ramses and Nefertari. He saw the king’s sister as unstable and dishonest. Although he couldn’t prove it, Serramanna sensed that she was still in league with her mysterious sorcerer.

  The Sard had been investigating the identity of the blond woman whose body had been found in the abandoned villa where he had finally tracked the sorcerer—a villa belonging to Ramses’ treacherous brother, Shaanar.

  Now Shaanar had gone missing in the desert and Dolora had only the flimsiest of explanations to offer regarding the murdered woman. He was ready to concede that the blonde had merely been the sorcerer’s medium, but Dolora’s claim that she knew nothing more about the woman was preposterous. She was hiding something, playing the victim to cover up important facts. But since Dolora had wormed her way back into Nefertari’s good graces, Serramanna needed more than premonitions to build a case against her.

  A successful pirate is a stubborn man. The sea will be empty for days on end before any prey appears. Presuming, of course, that he’d picked the right area to sweep. That was why he’d put out feelers in Memphis as well as Pi-Ramses, sending his sleuths through the city with an accurate sketch of the blond victim.

  Someone, somewhere, was bound to talk.

  SIX

  Halfway between Memphis and Thebes stood the ruins of the City of the Horizon of Aton, once the proud capital of the heretic pharaoh Akhenaton. Now, some hundred years later, the palaces, mansions, workshops, and craftsmen’s dwellings all lay empty. The temples were silent, the streets deserted. Markets and alleyways bustled with life no longer. Akhenaton and Nefertiti’s ghostly chariot rolled down a sand-swept avenue.

  On this desolate site in the vast Nile floodplain, nestled against a backdrop of cliffs, Akhenaton had raised a city to the solar orb he worshiped as the One True God.

  Not a soul ever visited the place. After the discredited pharaoh’s death, the population had returned to Thebes, taking everything of worth, emptying the temples and archives. Here and there were pieces of pottery, or a half-finished bust of Nefertiti in some sculptor’s workshop.