Wrath of Ra, Page 2

  “I’ll dress myself, thank you,” said Ramose, shooing the servants away.

  The servants looked confused by the idea of a royal prince dressing and feeding himself, but they started to back out of the room.

  “Don’t take the food though,” he said, taking the platters from them. “And bring me a sharp blade and a mirror.”

  Ramose couldn’t imagine how he’d ever lived with servants fussing around him all day. He welcomed the lavish breakfast though. He hungrily ate plum cakes and figs and drank pomegranate juice. After he had eaten his fill, he propped up the mirror on the cedar chest and cut off his long hair with the blade.

  When he arrived in his brother’s rooms, Pharaoh had just returned from his early morning duties at the temple. Ramose had been hoping to speak with his brother alone, but the rooms were crowded with servants and officials planning his day.

  “You look like an Egyptian again,” said Tuthmosis, admiring his brother’s haircut.

  “I’d like to meet with the ministers to tell them what I’ve learned in foreign lands.” Ramose smoothed his hair. “I don’t want to frighten them.”

  “I want to hear all about your travels,” said Tuthmosis. He turned to an official. “I’m going to spend the morning with my brother,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, Highness, you have no free time this morning,” said the official, consulting a papyrus scroll. “You are receiving a general recently arrived from Libya in half an hour. You have a meeting with the governor of the Abydos district after that. Then you have your lessons. You are to take your midday meal with the high priest and then you will go to the Temple of Ptah to perform his feast-day ritual.”

  Tuthmosis sighed. “I never have any spare time,” he said sadly. “I’ll see you at the evening meal, Ramose,” he added as the official hurried him out of the door.

  Ramose tried all day to make an appointment with the ministers, but at sunset he still hadn’t managed to pin them down. He suspected they were trying to avoid him. When everyone gathered for the evening meal though, they were not able to escape. Ramose sat next to a group of ministers and unrolled his papyrus. It was ripped and ragged, stained and worn. He asked a servant to remove some of the plates of food on a small table and laid out the papyrus, holding it down at the corners with bowls and goblets. The ministers were paying more attention to the disappearing food than to the papyrus.

  At that moment Tuthmosis entered with his servants and officials. He looked weary, but he smiled when he saw Ramose.

  “I will eat with my brother,” he said.

  Servants hastily dragged his throne down from the platform for him to sit on and held food up for him to eat.

  “So, Ramose, at last I will get to hear about your travels.”

  “I was just about to show the ministers many things that I think will be useful to Egypt. Take for instance—”

  A rustle of linen and a whiff of perfume made everyone’s heads turn. Hatshepsut had entered the hall with her ever-present women. Instead of taking her usual place at the edge of the hall at a distance from everyone else, she sat where she could hear what Ramose was saying.

  Ramose looked at his sister and began again.

  “This is a list of devices that people in other lands use,” he said pointing to his lines of small and untidy writing.

  The ministers peered at the writing with puzzled looks.

  “I see your handwriting hasn’t improved,” commented Hatshepsut.

  “I wrote whenever I got the chance. Sometimes it was on a barge, sometimes on a sled pulled by a camel. It is what I have written that is important, not the neatness of the writing.”

  Tuthmosis was looking worried. He didn’t want his brother and sister to have an unpleasant argument.

  “No one need read it. You tell us all about these things, Ramose.”

  The ministers shifted restlessly on their stools.

  “Egypt has much to teach the barbarian sand-dwellers,” said one, “but they have nothing to teach us.” The other ministers nodded.

  Ramose tried again.

  “Our fathers’ fathers learned how to use horses and build war chariots from their conquerors. Isn’t that right, sister?” he said directly to Hatshepsut. “They learned new skills and practised them until they were better than their masters. Then they used them to defeat their conquerors.”

  The ministers seemed unmoved.

  “We can build chariots that are not meant for war. They have four wheels and can be pulled by oxen.” Ramose enthusiastically pointed to a diagram on his papyrus. “We could use them to carry food to our settlements in the desert. One ox can pull much more weight than it can carry on its back.”

  “We have plenty of oxen,” said Hatshepsut, “and if there aren’t enough oxen, we can use men to carry things.”

  Ramose glared at his sister. He’d been waiting for this opportunity all day and he was determined that she wouldn’t spoil it. He emptied the contents of a small bag onto the table. A handful of shrivelled-up seeds cascaded out.

  “These are the seeds of many plants that we could grow in Egypt,” said Ramose.

  He picked one out.

  “This is the seed of a fruit the colour of the sky at sunset, the colour of carnelian. Its skin is thick, but you can easily peel it off with your fingers. Inside are segments, each one filled with sweet-tasting juice.”

  The ministers looked blankly back at him. Ramose picked up another seed.

  “This one comes from a type of tree that grows in the Islands in the Midst of the Sea. Its fruit is small, black and too bitter to eat, but if they’re salted, they make a tasty morsel to eat with lettuce and cucumber.”

  “I’m not interested in what foreigners eat,” said Hatshepsut. “Egypt provides us with plenty of food. The gods will be offended if we are not content with what they have provided.”

  The ministers muttered and nodded in agreement. The corners of Hatshepsut’s mouth turned up slightly.

  “Next you’ll be telling us how much you admire the barbarians in Kush, whose men dance like women, so I’ve heard.”

  The ministers all laughed at the thought of this bizarre behaviour.

  “Our father knew the only way to deal with foreigners,” Hatshepsut continued. “It was at the point of a sword.”

  Ramose didn’t want to say anything against his dead father. “Father did many great things for Egypt,” he replied.

  “We bring our enemies to their knees and make them bow down before Pharaoh,” continued his sister. “That is how Egypt became great and powerful.”

  She turned to Ramose.

  “If you were truly interested in the welfare of Egypt,” said Hatshepsut, looking at him as if he were an unpleasant insect, “you’d be in Memphis training for military service.”

  “I don’t want to be a soldier.”

  “You should be training to be a great general like our father,” said Hatshepsut. “Instead, you are talking about gardening and concerning yourself with the loads of oxen. You’re more like a servant than a prince.”

  Everyone was looking at him. Ramose felt like a scolded child. Hatshepsut rose and swept out, leaving the hall so quiet you could have heard a feather fall.

  The silence was broken by the entrance of a palace official. He bowed to the pharaoh.

  “The vizier has just arrived, Highness,” he said. “He wishes to report on the situation in Kush.”

  A tall, thin man walked wearily into the hall.

  “Highness,” he said bowing to the young pharaoh. “Life, health, prosperity.”

  The last time Ramose had seen the vizier was almost a year before, when they’d met by chance in the land of Punt. Ramose thought he now looked old and tired.

  “Vizier Wersu, my heart rejoices to see you,” he said, embracing the old man’s bony frame.

  “Prince Ramose, this is a pleasant surprise,” said the vizier. “You look well and healthy.”

  Ramose hadn’t always thought of the vizier a
s his friend. In fact, for a long time he’d been convinced that Wersu had been involved in the plot to kill him. He’d been mistaken though. The vizier had always been watching out for him—Ramose just hadn’t realised it.

  “I haven’t arrived alone,” said the vizier, smiling his crocodile smile.

  Ramose realised that someone else had entered the hall. There was a small dark figure standing in the shadows and veiled by a head-cloth. He moved closer, peering at the half-hidden figure. Bright eyes looked up at him. A dark-skinned face was suddenly split by a huge white smile.

  “Karoya!” said Ramose.

  Karoya came up and flung her arms around Ramose’s neck.

  “It’s so good to see you,” said Ramose. His annoyance over Hatshepsut evaporated and was replaced by delight. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed his friend.

  “You remember Karoya, Pegget,” Ramose said, drawing Karoya out of the shadows and in front of his brother.

  Karoya bowed to the pharaoh.

  “Of course I remember her,” Tuthmosis replied. “What brings you to Thebes, Karoya?”

  Ramose had been about to ask the same question. The last time he had seen Karoya, she was living in her homeland of Kush.

  Karoya’s smile disappeared like a flame dipped in water. “Nothing good, Highness,” she said.

  “The rebellion in Kush has made it unsafe for Karoya to stay in Sai,” said the vizier.

  “Is the situation that bad?” asked Ramose.

  The vizier nodded grimly. “There were only a few rebels to begin with, but their numbers have grown. They have had small victories over Egyptians and these have made them bold.”

  Karoya looked at Ramose. He could only imagine how difficult this was for her. Although she had been captured by Egyptians and made a slave, she had become Ramose’s good friend during his time in exile. Pharaoh had appointed her as a representative of her people as a reward, giving her the title of Pharaoh’s Chief Envoy in Kush. She had been working in the town of Sai for the last two years, representing her people’s case if there was disagreement between the Egyptians and the Kushites.

  “I have come up with a strategy,” said the vizier, “which I hope will bring peace to the land of Kush.”

  Ramose looked at the vizier. “Without further bloodshed?”

  The vizier nodded. “Our soldiers managed to capture the son of one of the rebel leaders who is a Kushite chief.”

  “You’ve brought a prisoner?” asked the young pharaoh excitedly.

  “He isn’t a prisoner,” said the vizier with a grim smile. “He is our guest.”

  “Where is he? I want to meet him.”

  “In good time, Highness.”

  It wasn’t until the next day that Ramose got a chance to talk to Karoya alone. They walked by the river and talked about everything that had happened in their lives since they’d last met. Within half an hour, it was as if they’d never been apart.

  “It’s good to have your company again, Karoya,” said Ramose. “I’ve enjoyed travelling, but I missed my friends.”

  “Have you seen Hapu?”

  “Not yet, I only arrived yesterday. We can go out to the Great Place and visit him.”

  Ramose smiled at Karoya, remembering the time he, Karoya and Hapu, the apprentice painter, had all lived and worked in the desert valley which Ramose’s father had chosen as the place to build his tomb. Without the help and friendship of Karoya and Hapu, Ramose would never have survived his exile.

  “We can take Pegget,” said Ramose. “He’s never been to the Great Place.”

  “We can visit your tomb,” said Karoya smiling. “Leave offerings for your spirit.”

  “My tomb is empty again,” said Ramose. “They have taken the mummy of the young boy who was buried in my place and interred him in his own tomb.”

  They disturbed a flock of ibis, wading in the mud by the river’s edge. The birds took off in front of them.

  “Things must be bad in Kush,” Ramose said, “if Vizier Wersu thinks we have to take hostages.”

  “He’s Pharaoh’s guest, remember,” Karoya said with a wry smile. “Not a prisoner.”

  “He’s a hostage,” replied Ramose. “Vizier Wersu would have threatened the rebel leader with the death of his son if he attacks more Egyptian settlements.”

  “It’s better than waging war on my people.”

  “Does he have a name, this rebel prince?”

  “His name is Kashta.”

  “What is he like?” asked Ramose.

  “He’s angry,” replied Karoya.

  Ramose nodded. “I imagine he’s furious. I would be if someone took me hostage.”

  The friends walked back to the palace. It was time for the evening meal. Ramose brightened. He was happy to be close to his brother, and seeing Karoya again had been a welcome surprise. The food was very good too.

  Ramose was up early the following morning.

  “I’m going to visit our guest from Kush,” he said to Karoya. “Pegget is keen to meet him. Will you come and translate?”

  Karoya nodded. “You won’t find him willing to talk.”

  Ramose shrugged. “My brother is king of all Egypt. I can’t argue with him.”

  The palace didn’t have a prison. It had been built before the days when Egypt was fighting with its neighbours. The rebel had been placed in a small but comfortable room in a wing of the palace where senior servants lived. Two armed guards stood at the door.

  “Pharaoh would like to speak to the prisoner,” Ramose told them.

  The guards bowed as the young pharaoh approached. One of them hurried to unlock the door.

  “Karoya and I will talk to him first,” Ramose told his brother.

  The room was plain and simply furnished with a bed and a chair. Sunlight filtered through grilles high in the walls, lighting worn patterns painted on the floor.

  A dark face glowered at Ramose as he entered the room. Ramose studied the Kushite rebel. He was a young man, not much older than Ramose himself. He was dressed in a clean Egyptian kilt, but he had thick gold rings in his ears. His skin was like Karoya’s, a deep, dark brown like polished wood. His hair was like hers as well, twisting in tight curls all over his head. That was where the similarity with Karoya ended. Where Karoya’s face was more often than not split with a wide smile, Kashta’s mouth was grim and unsmiling.

  “Tell him who I am and that Pharaoh wishes to speak to him,” Ramose said to Karoya.

  Karoya spoke to the rebel in her own language. He spat some words back at Karoya.

  “He doesn’t want to speak to any Egyptian, especially Pharaoh,” she translated.

  “Tell him—”

  The prisoner picked up a plate of food and hurled it towards them with more angry words.

  “It seems he’s not in the mood for visitors,” said Tuthmosis when he saw Ramose come out of the room wiping lentil stew from his kilt.

  “No. Perhaps we could go fishing instead,” said Ramose.

  One of Hatshepsut’s women suddenly appeared in the corridor.

  “Princess Hatshepsut requires Prince Ramose’s presence in the western hall,” she announced.

  “Tell your mistress that I’m busy,” said Ramose.

  “Her highness was definite that she wanted you to attend. Immediately,” the woman said.

  Ramose was annoyed that his sister thought that she could summon him like a slave or a pet dog, but the woman didn’t look like she was going to move out of Ramose’s way until he followed her. Ramose reluctantly made his way to the western hall.

  Hatshepsut was sitting on her favourite chair—the one with the high back and the armrests carved in the shape of jackals. The gold and precious stones inlaid in it glittered in the rays of sun that entered through the high windows. Her women companions were with her as always, but they were sitting to one side.

  Hatshepsut was surrounded instead by the palace ministers and two generals of Pharaoh’s army.

  The men were all l
istening carefully as she pointed to a map spread out on a table before her. Ramose couldn’t quite hear what she was saying, but she seemed to be making suggestions about sending troops to Libya to control an uprising there. She finished speaking before Ramose was close enough to hear clearly.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said.

  The ministers and generals all bowed and started to back out of the hall.

  “I’d like you all to stay,” she said. “There is a matter I want to discuss with Prince Ramose.”

  Ramose had noticed that Hatshepsut never referred to him as her brother any more.

  “A message has arrived from one of the generals who is campaigning in the land of Naharin.” She paused to take a sip of wine from a golden goblet. “Despite my father’s military success in this land, there is unrest.”

  “That’s because we keep forcing Naharini men to join the Egyptian army and sending them away from their homes,” said Ramose. He had been in Naharin, a country on the edge of the Great Green Sea far to the north of Egypt, six months earlier.

  “The barbarians beyond Egypt’s borders must learn to kneel before Pharaoh.”

  “The people of Naharin are not barbarians,” Ramose said angrily. “I spent several weeks there discussing everything from grape cultivation to poetry with one of their leaders.”

  “They have attacked our garrisons.”

  “They are proud people who don’t want to be ruled by foreigners.”

  “So you would prefer a diplomatic settlement with these people?” Hatshepsut said picking a thread from her gown. “Rather than an armed attack on them?”

  “Of course,” replied Ramose. “I’m in favour of any course of action that would avoid bloodshed.”

  The corners of Hatshepsut’s mouth curved up slightly. It was the closest she ever got to smiling. Ramose had no idea what she was about to say, but he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

  “I’m glad Prince Ramose is so fond of the people of Naharin,” she said in a voice like snake venom mixed with honey. “I am proposing an alliance with Naharin. A marriage.” Hatshepsut paused as she took a fig. “A marriage between Princess Tiya, youngest daughter of the ruler of Naharin, and Pharaoh’s brother, Prince Ramose.”