“Khaemwaset, you do not look well,” he commented in his laconic, cultivated voice. “The physician is always loath to prescribe for himself, is that not so? Take some wine and sharpen your wits, Prince. I am glad to see you.”
Was there reproach in that mellifluous tone? Khaemwaset looked affectionately into the clear, bright eyes ringed in thick kohl. Pharaoh was wearing long jasper-and-gold earrings that swung against his thin neck and almost touched his gold-hung shoulders. The cobra and the vulture of supreme kingship reared over his forehead on the golden band that kept his red linen helmet in place, and his fastidiously hooked nose and delicately thin lips gave Khaemwaset a renewed impression of his father as the mighty hawk god, Horus. He was exquisitely groomed, from his hennaed and ringed hands to his well-clipped toes, and Khaemwaset, watching him seat himself, arrange his flowing linens and place his hands on the desk, admired and was amused by every calculated move.
Ramses was vain, manipulative and still, at the age of sixty-four, undeniably magnetic. “Though you did not dine with me last night,” Pharaoh went on, folding his fingers together one by one, “I know that you were able to complete the small task I requested. Sutekh will get his due again this year. I will command an offering to him in your name, so that he will gaze only upon your deed and not the seditious thought that surely filled your heart as you sealed the subsidy order.”
Now Khaemwaset laughed, and at the sound the officials dutifully laughed also, politely and briefly. “I will dine with you tonight, Mighty Bull,” he promised, sinking into the chair Ramses was indicating, “and as for Mighty Set, well, he has no cause to vent his anger on me. Do we not communicate in the making of my spells?”
Ramses inclined his head. The cobra’s crystal eyes glittered as he did so. “Indeed. And now to work.”
Urhi-Teshub stirred behind Khaemwaset, cleared his throat and came forward. Tehuti-Emheb rattled his pens.
“What is the trouble with the latest negotiations, Father?” Khaemwaset asked.
Ramses rolled his eyes to heaven, fixed the unfortunate Khatti ambassador with a cold stare and waved at his scribe. Khaemwaset turned.
“Hattusil, king of the Khatti, is now requesting that the princess’s dowry be delivered with rather than before her arrival,” Tehuti-Entheb said. “He has been having much pain and soreness in his feet, and consequently the gathering of the dowry is slow. The drought in his land has further interfered with his good intentions.”
“Good intentions,” Ramses broke in with cool sarcasm. “First he promises me the greatest dowry ever paid in his eagerness to ally himself to the most powerful House in the world. Then months go by, and I see nothing. Then I receive a letter from Queen Pudukhepa, not from Hattusil himself mind you, telling me without a shred of apology that part of the palace was burned down”—here he sniffed delicately—“and therefore the first payment is delayed.”
“Majesty,” Urhi-Teshub protested, “I myself was present when the fire broke out. The destruction was terrible! My queen was much tried, seeing my king was away performing ceremonies for the gods, but she did not fail to write to you. Egypt was not forgotten!’ His accent was guttural, his expression pained.
“Perhaps not,” Ramses retorted, “but the fire was a most convenient opportunity to change the terms of the agreement. Now my dear Khatti brother whines of sore feet, as though he himself must sally forth from his citadel and personally chase every goat, every horse. Are there no viziers in his land? No competent stewards? Or must his wife take command of everything?”
The Khatti ambassador was obviously well used to such stinging diatribes. He waited calmly, his hands tucked into his brocade gown, until Ramses had finished. Then he said, “Does Your Majesty perhaps doubt the honesty of his brother? Is he casting aspersions on the king who has kept the Treaty of Kadesh that his illustrious father made before him, in spite of pressures from the Babylonian King Kadashman-Enlil to make a new treaty with him?”
“Kadashman-Enlil is a slippery little weasel,” Ramses muttered, “in spite of our renewed diplomatic relations. And I happen to know, Urhi-Teshub, that your king is in fact squabbling with the Babylonian.” He bit into a honeyand-almond cake, chewed thoughtfully, then dabbled his fingers elegantly in the water bowl. “Why should I trust Hattusil?” he asked grumpily. “He refused my request to revise the treaty and give me more of Syria, and then I heard that he himself is claiming the very portion I wanted.”
“It was Khatti’s portion in the first place, Divine One,” the ambassador responded firmly. “According to the more ancient treaty between the Khatti and your father, the Osiris One Seti, in very clear terms …”