Scroll of Saqqara(21)

Khaemwaset sighed inwardly. Urhi-Teshub had made a tactical error in mentioning Seti. Ramses’ father was a sore point with him. Seti had been a man of taste and vision. His monuments and his greatest work, the temple of Osiris at Abydos, displayed artistry of such fineness and beauty that one caught one’s breath at the sight of it. But worse, Seti had succeeded in his wars where Ramses, in spite of his protestations to the contrary, had failed rather ignominiously. Khaemwaset listened to the two men wrangling back and forth, and thoughtfully sipped his wine. When he was ready he broke in, careful to interrupt the ambassador, not his father.

“I do not see the point of all this,” he said firmly. “We are here to bring the marriage negotiations to a successful close, and with all respect, Urhi-Teshub, if you wish to discuss the matter of the validity of old treaties you might arrange another time.” The ambassador bowed and smiled, obviously relieved. Khaemwaset turned his attention to Ramses who was pettishly, though gracefully, playing with his wine cup. “Our own ambassador Huy is in Hattusas,” he reminded him. “Send a message to the effect that we are willing to receive the dowry at the same time as the princess, providing Huy personally makes sure all gifts are present at the time of departure. Hattusil cannot be blamed for fires and illness, only for tardiness.”

“He boasted too long and too loud,” Ramses remarked. “I suggest that we request a five percent increase in the amount paid, to compensate us for all these delays. After all, tribute is definitely due to us.” He cast a wily, sidelong glance at Khaemwaset. “I am not sure that the princess is worth the strain these negotiations are placing upon my royal heart. I might just decide to break them off and marry another Babylonian instead.”

“Hattusil himself might do the same if we put unnecessary pressure on him,” Khaemwaset objected. “We are talking about a dowry, Father, not tribute, as you well know. Give the Khatti king the benefit of the doubt, but make it clear that he is expected to fulfil his bargain completely. You do not wish to appear greedy and grasping, do you?”

“I want what is due to me,” Ramses said emphatically. He sat back, his stooped shoulders curved over the weight of gold and silver on his chest and his braceleted arms loose along the carved lions’ spines of the chair. “Oh very well. Tehuti-Emheb, write the damned letter to Huy and one to Hattusil expressing my displeasure at the delay and my suspicion that he is simply too poor to make good his boast, but tell him that I will magnanimously wait for the fruition of these extremely trying negotiations.”

“His Majesty spoke in haste,” Khaemwaset said deliberately to the scribe. “Leave out His Majesty’s suspicion.” The man nodded and bent over his palette. Ramses chuckled. “This meeting is over,” he pronounced. “Out, all of you. Khaemwaset, you stay” The ambassador bowed and together with the scribe, backed down the long hall and out the doors. Ramses did not wait for them to disappear. He got up and beckoned Khaemwaset. “Call your steward for your medicine bag,” he ordered. “Ashahebsed, do it for him. Come into the inner room Khaemwaset, and examine me. My chest pains me sometimes when I breathe, and I have breathlessness occasionally. I need a potion for fatigue also.” He did not wait for his son’s acknowledgement, but strode away. Khaemwaset followed. His father’s condition was not reversible, but he had never dared to tell Ramses so, even though he knew that Pharaoh would blithely ignore his words. He was convinced that he would indeed live forever.





3

Praise to Thoth …

the Moon beautiful in his rising …

he who sifts evidence,

who makes the evil deed rise up against the doer,

who judges all men.


BY THE TIME Khaemwaset had examined his father, found no change in his condition and prescribed an innocuous elixir for his fatigue, the afternoon was far advanced. He was tired himself, more from the strain of the negotiations than from any physical activity. His horoscope, which he as a magician cast for himself and the rest of the family at the beginning of each month, warned him that the last third of this day would be portentous, either extremely lucky or dismally unlucky, depending on his own actions. The ambivalence of the prediction annoyed him, and he thought of it again as he made his way back to his apartments to sleep until dinner-time. He often enjoyed Pharaoh’s great feasts. Guests from all over the world were invariably present and included fellow scholars, magicians and physicians with whom he could talk and argue. But today the horoscope’s odd pronouncement would lurk behind any congenial contact he might make.