“Bakhen? We meet again.”
The priest turned to the man who had greeted him, dressed as a simple “pure priest.”
“Ramses . . .”
“When I joined the army and you were my combat instructor, we fought. More or less to a draw, as I recall.”
Bakhen bowed. “My past is no longer a part of me, Majesty. Today I belong to Karnak.”
The former chief inspector of the royal stables and renowned cavalryman still had his rugged, square-jawed face, harsh voice, and forbidding manner; otherwise, he was very much the priest.
“Does Karnak belong to the crown?” asked Ramses. “What kind of question is that?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Bakhen, but I need to know whether you’re a friend or foe.”
“Why would I oppose Pharaoh?”
“The high priest of Amon is battling me, or didn’t you know?”
“Power politics . . .”
“Don’t skirt the issue, Bakhen. There isn’t room for two masters in this country.”
The cavalry veteran was taken aback. “I’ve just finished my novitiate and I . . .”
“If you’re my friend, Bakhen, you must join me in this fight.”
“What can I do?”
“Like every other temple in the land, Karnak should be an example of rectitude. If that were not the case, what would your reaction be?”
“I’d haul in the wrongdoers and tan their hides, just like I did with my horses!”
“That’s how you can help me, Bakhen. Bring me proof that no one here is disregarding the law of Ma’at.”
Ramses left him, taking the path around the sacred lake as calmly as the other pure priests who had come to fill their vessels with holy water.
Bakhen was unable to reach an immediate decision. Karnak had become his home, his world. Still, he thought, doing Pharaoh’s bidding was the highest calling of all.
In Thebes, the Syrian merchant Raia had acquired three fine market stalls in the center of town. Cooks from noble families bought his specialty meats, while their mistresses fought over his latest Asian vases.
Since the end of the official mourning period, business had picked up again. Courteous, enjoying an excellent rep- utation, Raia had a faithful and growing clientele. He paid his employees well and praised them lavishly, so they always spoke highly of him.
After seeing his barber out, the merchant stroked his newly trimmed goatee and set to work on his ledgers. His staff was instructed not to disturb him for any reason.
Raia mopped his brow. The summer heat was hard on him. Even worse was the setback he had just suffered. The young Greek he hired had failed to break into Ramses’ office and report on which matters were receiving the new king’s attention. A predictable enough outcome; however, the Syrian’s main objective had been to test Ramses’ secu- rity. Unfortunately, his and Serramanna’s measures appeared highly effective. Obtaining accurate information
would not be easy, although bribery was always a viable alternative.
The merchant pressed an ear to his office door. He heard nothing in the antechamber; no one was spying on him. Just to be sure, he hopped on a stool and peered through a tiny hole in the partition.
Reassured, he entered the storeroom full of small alabaster vases from southern Syria, an ally of Egypt’s. His ladies were especially fond of these, so Raia displayed only one at a time to whet their appetite. He searched for the one with a tiny red dot beneath the lip. Inside was an oblong fragment of wood with the vase’s dimensions and price marked on it.
The code was easy to decipher, and the message from his Hittite employers was clear: oppose Ramses and back Shaanar.
“Beautiful piece,” cooed Shaanar, stroking the vase that Raia was showing him, in full view of the upper-crust clien- tele that would never dare outbid the king’s older brother.
“The work of an old craftsman who’ll take his secrets to the grave with him,” said Raia.
“I can offer you six high-yielding dairy cows, an ebony bed, eight chairs, twenty pairs of sandals, and a bronze mirror.”
The merchant bowed. “A most generous offer, Your Highness. Would you do me the honor of affixing your seal to my ledger?”
Raia steered the prince toward his office, where they could conclude matters in private.
“I have excellent news,” he said once the door was shut. “Our foreign friends are most receptive to your plan and would like to back you.”
“Under what conditions?” “No conditions, no restrictions.” “It sounds too good to be true.”
“We’ll discuss the details later. For the moment, we have an agreement in principle. Consider this an important vic- tory. Congratulations, sir: I feel as if I’m talking with Egypt’s next pharaoh, no matter how long the road we may have to travel.”
For Shaanar, it was a heady sensation. This secret alliance with the Hittites was as effective and dangerous as a deadly poison. He must determine how it could be used to destroy Ramses without harming himself or compromising Egypt’s strength. It was like walking a tightrope across a precipice. He knew he could do it.
“What will you reply?” asked Raia.
“Send my thanks and tell them I’m hard at work . . . as the newly appointed secretary of state.”
“A cabinet post!” said Raia, clearly astonished. “Under close supervision.”
“My friends and I will count on you to make the most of the situation.”
“What your friends should do is make incursions into the weaker Egyptian protectorates, buy up princes and tribes Egypt thinks it controls, and spread as many false rumors as possible.”
“For instance?”
“Oh, imminent territorial conquests, total annexation of Syria, invasion of Lebanese ports, low morale among the Egyptian troops in the territories . . . We’ll heat up Ramses’ cool head.”
“Allow me to express my admiration.”
“I’m full of ideas, Raia. Your friends won’t regret their decision to work with me.”
“Perhaps it’s forward of me to hope that my own rec- ommendations may have played some part?”
“On top of the official payment for the vase, there will be a sack of Nubian gold.”
Shaanar returned to the front of the shop. A man of his rank would never linger in a merchant’s office, no matter how well known his penchant for exotic vases.
Should he tell Ahsha about this secret alliance with Egypt’s major enemy? No, he quickly intuited. It was better if the right hand never knew what the left hand was doing.
In the sultry shade of a sycamore, Queen Mother Tuya was chronicling her late husband’s reign, commemorating the essential dates in a blessed era of peace and prosperity for Egypt. Seti’s every thought, every deed was fresh in her mind. She had been attuned to his hopes and fears. She trea- sured the memory of the intimate moments when their souls had communed.
In this slight, frail woman, Seti lived on.
Watching Ramses come near her, Tuya saw the stamp of his father’s authority. The new pharaoh was all of a piece, without the inconsistencies that plague most men. Like an obelisk, he seemed able to withstand the strongest tempest. His youth and strength added to the impression of invul- nerability.
Ramses kissed his mother’s hands and sat down on her right.
“You write all day long.”
“Even all night. Would you forgive me if I left anything out? You look worried, son.”
Tuya could always read his mood in a minute.
“The high priest of Amon is challenging my authority.” “Seti saw it coming. Sooner or later, the clash was inevitable.”
“What would my father have done?”
“You know perfectly well. There’s only one possible course of action.”
“Nefertari said as much.”
“She’s the Queen of Egypt, and like every queen, guardian of the law of Ma’at.”
“You don’t preach moderation?”
“When the possibility of secession exists, there’s no room for compromise.”
“Dismissing a high priest of Amon will have serious repercussions.”
“Only one of you can rule the country. Which will it be?”
T
he donkeys followed their leader through the gates of the temple enclosure. The old one’s hooves knew every step from the weaving workshops to the temple storerooms. He held the others to a steady, dignified pace.It was a full shipment. Bakhen had been sent to help another priest with the receiving. Each length of linen, to be used for vestments, was supposed to be tagged with a number and entered in a ledger with a note on its origin and quality.
“Good stuff,” said Bakhen’s co-worker, a foxy-faced little man. “Been here at Karnak long?”
“A few months.”
“You like the life here?” “It’s what I expected.”
“What do you do on the outside?” “Nothing. I’m a full-fledged priest now.”
“I serve two months at a time, then go back to town. Work as a ferry inspector, but not as hard as here! The pace is killing.”
“That’s for me to know. Listen, I’ll pick out the first- quality material. You log the rest.”
When each donkey was unloaded, warehouse workers carefully laid the linen on a cloth-covered sledge. Bakhen inspected it and made entries on a wooden writing board, including the date of delivery. It seemed to him that his fellow receiver was not as busy as he claimed. The greater part of his time was spent glancing furtively in all direc- tions.
“I’m thirsty,” he said. “Care for a drink?” “Gladly.”
The foxy little lay priest left the storeroom. He’d set his log on the back of the lead donkey, where Bakhen could see it. There were only scribbled approximations of hiero- glyphs, nothing to do with shipments of first-quality linen. When the lay priest returned, his water skin full of cool liquid, Bakhen was already back at work.
“Here, take some . . . making us work in this heat is inhuman, anyhow.”
“I don’t hear the donkeys complaining.” “Very funny.”
“Almost quitting time for you, isn’t it?”
“I wish! The cloth still has to be routed for shelving.” “What do we do with our receiving logs?”
“Give me yours, and I’ll turn it in with mine at the main office.”
“Is that far from here?” “It’s a hike, but not too bad.”
“You’re senior to me. Why not let me do the walking?” “Oh, no. They wouldn’t know you at the office.” “Then I ought to introduce myself.”
“You don’t know the routine, and they don’t like wasting time.”
“I’ll have to learn eventually.”
“Thanks for the offer, but all the same, you’d better leave it to me.”
The man seemed disconcerted. He moved away so that Bakhen couldn’t see what he was recording in his log.
“Writer’s cramp?” Bakhen inquired. “No, I’m fine.”
“Just one thing: do you even know how to write?” The lay priest turned indignantly toward Bakhen. “Why do you ask?”
“I saw your log book there, on the donkey’s back.” “Nosy, aren’t you?”
“Who wouldn’t be, with how little work you’ve been doing? If you want, I’ll fill out the log for you. Otherwise, you’re going to have trouble at the office.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Bakhen.” “Is there something I’m missing?”
“Oh, all right. You want me to cut you in. I can under- stand that, but still, your first day on the job?”
“What’s the deal?”
The foxy little man came closer and spoke in a confi- dential tone. “The temple is rich, the richest in Egypt. Priests are paid nothing. We have to manage. Karnak will never miss a length of linen here and there. Go for the quality, find regular customers, and you make out very well. See?”
“Is the office staff in on it, too?”
“Just one scribe and two warehouse foremen. Since the linen we take is never logged, there’s no way to trace it. A pretty good setup, eh?”
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” “It’s foolproof.”
“Even if they did, no one would get excited, believe me. Now tell me how much of a cut you want.”
“The same as the scribe, or whoever gets the best deal.” “You’ve got nerve! I think we can work together. In a few years we’ll both have a nice little nest egg and we won’t have to work our tails off. How about finishing up this shipment?”
Bakhen nodded and went back to work.
Nefertari laid her head on Ramses’ shoulder as the sun- rise flooded their bedroom with light. Both of them vener- ated this daily miracle, this renewed victory over darkness. Celebrating the morning rites, they associated themselves with the solar bark’s journey through the realms of dark- ness, the gods’ nightly battle with the monster intent on destroying all of creation.
“I need your magic, Nefertari. This won’t be an easy day.” “So your mother agrees with me about Karnak?” “Sometimes I have the feeling you’re in league with her.” “We do see things the same way,” she admitted with a smile.
“The two of you have convinced me. Today I plan to dis- miss the high priest of Amon.”
“Why did you wait this long?” “I needed proof of mismanagement.” “And you got it?”
“I put Bakhen on the case. My old combat instructor turned priest. He uncovered a ring of warehouse workers skimming linen and reselling it. That means the high priest is either corrupt himself or no longer knows what goes on at Karnak. In either case, he needs to be replaced.”
“Is Bakhen trustworthy?”
“He’s young, but devoted to Karnak. What he uncovered disturbed him deeply. He knew he was honor-bound to report the wrongdoing he witnessed, yet I practically had to drag it out of him. Bakhen would never inform on others for the sake of his own advancement.”
“When will you be seeing the high priest?”
“First thing this morning. I’m sure he’ll deny any involvement and claim I’m accusing him falsely.”
“Why are you so hesitant?”
“I’m afraid he’ll retaliate by interfering with food redis- tribution. That’s the price I’ll have to pay for avoiding civil war.”
Her husband’s grave tone impressed Nefertari. This was no tyrant locked in a power struggle with a rival, but a pharaoh willing to take huge risks to preserve the unity of the Two Lands.
“I have a confession to make,” she said dreamily.
“You knew more than you were telling me about Karnak?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Then my mother is using you as her messenger.” “Wrong again.”
“Does it have anything to do with the high priest’s dis- missal?”
“No, though it may affect the future of the kingdom.” “How long do you plan to keep me in suspense?” “A few more months. Ramses, I’m pregnant.”
He sheltered Nefertari gently in his strong arms. “The best doctors in the country will be at your side every moment.”
“How can I keep from worrying? I want our child, but your life and health mean even more to me.”
“I’ll have the best possible care.”
“Suppose I order you to cut back on your public appear- ances?”
“No. I’m your partner, remember?”
Ramses was growing restless. By now the high priest was so late that his conduct bordered on an insult. What pos- sible excuse could he offer? If he’d gotten wind of Bakhen’s revelations, he was probably trying to stall the investigation, destroying evidence and discharging ringleaders and wit- nesses—tactics that would ultimately backfire.
As the sun reached its zenith, the Fourth Prophet of Amon requested an audience. The king admitted him at once.
“Where is the First Prophet and High Priest of Amon?” he demanded.
A
conclave was held by order of the Pharaoh. In atten- dance were the Second, Third, and Fourth Prophets of Amon at Karnak, as well as the high priests and priestesses of the nation’s other major cult centers. The only ones failing to heed the call were the prelates of Dendera and Athribis, the former being too old and infirm to travel, the latter too ill to leave his residence in the Delta. They were represented by two delegates with full voting powers.This distinguished company met in a hall of Tuthmosis III’s complex at Karnak, the pharaoh of whom it was said “His Monument Shines like the Sun.” Here the high priests of Amon were ordained, here they received instruction in their duties.
“I need to consult with you,” declared Ramses, “to choose the new head of this great institution.”
There was a murmur of approval. Perhaps this young pharaoh was not as impulsive as some claimed!
“I thought by rights the Second Prophet assumed his functions,” offered the high priest of Memphis.
“May I encourage Your Majesty not to rule seniority out entirely?” chimed in the Third Prophet of Amon. “In the secular domain, it is no doubt possible to fill high positions from the outside, but that would be a mistake where Karnak is concerned. A man of experience, a man of honor—”
“Honor! Since you bring it up, were you aware that employees have been stealing temple property within these very walls?”
An astonished rumble greeted the king’s revelation. “The culprits have been arrested and sentenced to work as weavers, since their crime was reselling linen. They will never again set foot inside a temple.”
“Our late prelate . . . was he implicated in the affair?” “Apparently not, but you can understand why I’m hesi- tant to appoint one of his assistants.”
A stunned silence greeted the Pharaoh’s remarks. “Does Your Majesty have a name to put forward?” asked the high priest of Heliopolis.
“I expect this conclave to propose a serious candidate.” “How much time do we have?”
“According to custom, it is now my duty to visit a cer- tain number of towns and temples, accompanied by the queen and select members of the court. Upon my return, you will inform me of the outcome of your deliberations.”
Before leaving on the tour of Egypt that was a tradi- tional part of the first year of a pharaoh’s reign, Ramses vis- ited the temple of Gurnah, on the West Bank of Thebes. Here Seti’s ka was maintained in perpetuity. Each day, spe- cially trained mortuary priests placed offerings of meat,
bread, fruits, and vegetables on the altars and recited litanies to safeguard the immortal presence of the late king’s soul.
The king contemplated one of the reliefs that depicted his father, forever young, addressing the gods. Ramses implored Seti’s spirit to come out of the stone, burst forth from the walls, and surround him with all the force of an