Sting of the Scorpion (11 page)

When he was a spoilt prince who only knew the inside of one palace or another, he had never doubted that he’d make a good pharaoh. Now, after living among ordinary Egyptians, after walking the length of Egypt, he felt decidedly un-royal, certainly not god-like. He knew more about his country and its people than he ever had before, but he’d learned how to be ordinary. What if he wasn’t a good pharaoh? What if he let his people down?

He decided the best place to wait for the ceremony to start was up on the roof. He climbed up the stairs to Tuthmosis’s private place. He peered through the window, cautiously. Far below in the glow of dozens of lamps, people hurried back and forth. Workmen were erecting a raised platform for the throne at one end of the hall. Chairs for officials were being arranged around the platform. Shrines and statues were being carried in. Ramose decided to wait until the perfect moment when he could walk into the hall and declare that it was his right to take his place as the next pharaoh. He pulled the stool over to where he could sit comfortably and have a good view through the window.

He woke with a start when the priests below started chanting. He had meant to stay awake, but somehow he had dozed off. The sky was a warm rosy colour. Ramose realised that the ceremony had already started. He rubbed his eyes and peered in through the window.

The hall was full of people. The government officials, leaders of the army and two chiefs from foreign lands sat on one side. On the other side were priests, many priests. Walking down the aisle, Vizier Wersu led palace officials carrying the standards of the royal ancestors on tall poles. A high priest, with his leopard skin draped over one shoulder, followed behind. The air was thick with incense.

Behind the high priest came Prince Tuthmosis. He was being carried on a chair, not by servants, but on the shoulders of eight government ministers. Servants on either side of him waved ostrich feather fans.

Following the prince were Queen Mutnofret and Princess Hatshepsut. Both were dressed in royal splendour. They wore long dresses. The Queen’s had a pattern of snakes’ heads embroidered on the hem. Hatshepsut’s had a beaded sash. Their jewellery—heavy beaded collars on their shoulders and bracelets on their wrists and upper arms—glittered in the lamplight.

The queen wore a wig on top of which was a golden crown. Hatshepsut’s hair had been braided into hundreds of tiny plaits. Each plait was decorated with rings of gold placed at intervals down its length. She wore a type of crown that Ramose had never seen before. As well as the raised snake’s head, there was also a golden vulture’s head rearing from her forehead. The wings of the vulture, made of hundreds of tiny pieces of jasper and lapis lazuli, draped down on either side of her head. She carried a blue lotus flower.

His sister’s face had lost all of its girlish prettiness. It was still a most beautiful face, but it was also frightening. The dark vulture’s wings gave her a threatening look. Her black-ringed eyes had a strange, hard gloss. He didn’t understand what had happened to his sister. She had loved him, he was sure. What had made her become so cold and hard? Why had she turned against him? Ramose’s eyes filled with tears again as he grieved for his sister’s lost love. He wiped his eyes, then stood up and straightened his kilt. It was time.

All eyes were fixed on the glittering procession which had now reached the foot of the throne. The officials took their places. No one noticed Ramose enter the hall—no one except Vizier Wersu. The vizier’s crocodile eyes were looking right into Ramose’s. He had seen him and he knew who he was. Ramose saw the vizier turn to his men. He felt his courage fail him. It was only for a moment though. No matter what happened he knew he couldn’t turn back now.

The ministers lowered the chair and Tuthmosis stepped down. He knelt before the dual shrines of Upper and Lower Egypt, barefoot and wearing nothing but a simple white kilt. Even from the back of the hall, Ramose could see the young prince shaking with fear and nervousness. The splendid decorations, the standards, the many priests, all dwarfed the small figure. He looked nothing like a pharaoh, nothing like a god. He looked exactly like a frightened little boy.

Two priests, one wearing the falcon mask of Horus, the other wearing the mask of the strange Seth creature, took a crown from each of the shrines—the white crown of Upper Egypt and the red crown of Lower Egypt. Other priests carried the royal crook and flail, symbols of kingship.

Ramose realised with a shock that this ceremony was more than a simple succession to prevent the chaos of Egypt without a pharaoh. This was also the full coronation rushed forward before the old pharaoh was even buried. This had never happened before. If his guess was right, Queen Mutnofret and the vizier were trying to prevent Ramose from having any chance of claiming the throne.

Ramose realised that Wersu was no longer on the stage. He glanced around but couldn’t see him. The high priest stepped forward and spoke.

“Our Pharaoh has ascended to heaven. He is united with the sun.” The priest’s voice echoed around the hall. “Now the sun disc has risen from the land of light, the gods must choose a new pharaoh.”

Ramose was just about to shout out and make his presence known when two things happened. First he saw two faces in the crowd that had been hidden from his view up on the roof. A chill crept over him. The faces belonged to Keneben and Hapu. Keneben was staring adoringly, not at the future pharaoh, but at the figure of Princess Hatshepsut who was sinking gracefully onto an elegant throne-like chair at the side of the platform. Her women arranged the folds of her gown. She slowly raised the blue lotus flower to her nose to inhale its fragrance. Hapu was looking at her as well—not in admiration, but in fear. The words of the oracle came back to Ramose: the blue lotus can hide a bee in its petals. His sister had turned Keneben against him. After his years of loyalty to Ramose, he now supported Tuthmosis. Poor Hapu was powerless against her. Perhaps he too would fall under her spell. The sting of this bee was far worse than the scorpion sting.

The second thing that happened was a faint, hoarse voice behind him calling out his name. Ramose turned. A line of criminals was being led past the hall. Their hands were bound behind them. They were linked together like animals by a rope around their necks, like the figures of the enemies of Egypt painted on steps for the pharaoh to tread on.

There were two Egyptians, each with a hand or an ear cut off, indicating that they had already committed other crimes. There were three Libyans. Ramose recognised them by their beards, their long hair and the bands of leather that crossed their chests. Behind them were four people from Kush, easily recognisable by their black skin. The last one in the line was Karoya. She was staring pleadingly at Ramose. They barely had time to exchange a glance before the other prisoners yanked her along. Stumbling to her knees and struggling to regain her footing, she was dragged off around a corner.

Ramose heard his half-brother speaking in a quavering voice.

“Hear me, mighty Ra. I stand before you, ready to take my father’s place.”

Ramose looked back at the empty passage where Karoya had just stood, dirty and dishevelled, with her dress torn and a look of terror in her eyes. He had a decision to make—a decision that would affect the rest of his life.

More of the oracle’s words came back to him. “A perfect jewel will remain buried in the earth, yet the maid at the millstone holds it out in her hand.” Suddenly, he knew what the oracle had meant. Friendship was more precious than any jewel, more important even than becoming the pharaoh. He ran out of the hall after Karoya. She was a true friend. He had to help her.

Ramose had seen criminals and foreign captives taken away before. They were put in boats and taken somewhere to the south. He didn’t know where. Whether they were imprisoned, enslaved or executed, he had no idea. Such things hadn’t interested him before. He had to get to the palace wharf quickly. He knew every palm-width of the palace better than any servant did because he had access to all the royal apartments. He knew the palace better than any official because as a child he’d wandered through the servants’ quarters and the kitchens. There was no one who knew the palace better than Ramose.

He ran through back corridors to the kitchens where he stole a sharp cutting stone. He crossed forgotten courtyards, scurried across roofs and reached the palace wharf before the guards and their prisoners. A boat was being prepared for sailing. Ramose managed to slip aboard while the boatman was attending to the sail. He hid at the stern beneath one of the rowers’ benches.

It wasn’t long before the guards arrived with their prisoners, swearing at them and pushing them to make them hurry. They seemed to take particular pleasure in pushing and prodding Karoya. Ramose wanted to jump out and attack the guards, but he knew that wouldn’t help. He had to work out a way to get Karoya free, but not end up tied to the chain of prisoners himself.

The captives were pushed on board and the guards undid the cords binding their wrists. The prisoners were to row themselves to whatever punishment awaited them. One guard stayed on board. The other returned to the riverbank and gave the order to cast off. The boatman untied the boat and took his position at the rudder. The guard gave another order and the prisoners began to row. Karoya was sitting on the last bench. Ramose touched her foot. She jumped up with a squeal.

“Sit down, slave girl,” shouted the boatman. “You’ll do your share of the rowing or I’ll toss you over the side.”

Karoya looked at Ramose with eyes like a rabbit about to have its neck broken. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging signal, though he didn’t really have any idea what he was going to do.

Once they had drawn clear of Thebes, the guard sat down and pulled some bread and figs from a bag at his feet. Ramose leapt out. The boatman cried out in surprise and let go of the rudder. Ramose gave him a hefty push and the boatman pitched into the river.

The guard, with his mouth full of bread and a fig in each hand, moved clumsily to unsheathe his dagger. Ramose was quicker. He grasped the handle of the dagger and pulled it out. The guard made a grab for him and Ramose swung the dagger, cutting deep into the guard’s fleshy arm. As the guard cried out and grabbed his arm, Ramose elbowed him in the stomach as hard as he could. The guard tumbled into the fast-flowing waters with an enormous splash.

The prisoners were all staring in astonishment, their oars hanging motionless. The boatman was trying to clamber back over the side. The guard surfaced, spluttering and swearing, and started to splash back towards the boat.

“Row!” shouted Ramose, stamping on the boatman’s fingers so that he let go and fell back into the river. “Row!”

The startled prisoners rowed for all they were worth. When they were clear of the struggling guard and boatman, Ramose made them row to the shore. He cut Karoya free and handed the blade to the nearest captive. He and Karoya jumped ashore and the prisoners rowed off. Ramose hoped they found freedom.

“We have to get back to the palace,” Ramose told Karoya. “The coronation is taking place.”

Karoya didn’t understand what he meant.

“Pharaoh has died. They’re crowning my half-brother this morning—now.”

Ramose turned to run back to the palace and found himself face to face with the vizier.

Vizier Wersu had his ceremonial sceptre in his hand. He raised it above his head ready to use it as a weapon. Ramose remembered the vision in the desert—the vizier hitting him with the Seth statue. Behind him Karoya screamed. The guard that they had pushed overboard had crawled ashore and grabbed her by the ankle. The vizier suddenly rushed forward. He moved fast, like a crocodile striking. The sceptre fell, a bronze blur. Ramose flinched, expecting the sceptre to crash down on his head, but to his surprise, it didn’t. It fell on the guard, knocking him back into the river.

“Come quickly,” the vizier said. “You don’t have much time. The new pharaoh is about to be proclaimed.”

Ramose didn’t move. He stared at the crocodile-faced vizier. Why was his enemy helping him?