Sting of the Scorpion (9 page)

Ramose followed another corridor that led to the other side of the palace. This corridor was less familiar. There was a blanket of silence over that part of the palace. No one was hurrying. Ramose only passed one servant. At the end of the corridor there was a doorway guarded by two palace guards each holding a long, curved dagger. It was the door to his father’s private quarters.

Ramose thought back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father. Many seasons had passed since he’d left the palace. Before that, in the innocent days when he didn’t know his life was in danger, his father had been away on a campaign in Kush for many months. Before that?

He searched his memory for a time when he had been with his father. He had a picture in his mind of his father hunting hippopotamus by the riverbank. It was a clear picture. Then Ramose realised that all he was remembering was the painting of his father in his own room—or what used to be his room.

The last memory he had of being in his father’s presence was when he had been summoned to these very rooms. His father had lectured him about throwing rotten figs at the kitchen servants. His father had told him it was not the behaviour of a future pharaoh.

Ramose had vague memories of happy times playing with his brothers before they died. He could hear a tinkling laugh and smell a particular combination of perfume and herbs, which he knew belonged to his mother. He had no pictures of her in his memory, though. Now, soldiers with daggers guarded his father’s chamber and he had to think of a way to get past them.

“Don’t loiter in the corridor, boy,” said a voice behind him.

Ramose bowed his head. He didn’t have to look up to know who had spoken. It was a deep growling voice. He would have known Vizier Wersu’s voice anywhere. The vizier had slipped into the corridor and crept up behind Ramose without him realising.

“Fetch me a goblet of wine,” ordered the vizier as he swept noiselessly into the pharaoh’s quarters.

Ramose bowed his head even lower as he turned and went towards the kitchens. He knew the way from his childhood. When he was small he’d liked to go there and watch the bread being made. The servants would make special cakes for him shaped like animals. As he’d gotten older, he’d stopped going there. Instead, he’d sent Heria to return dishes untouched when he’d demanded something bigger, better or entirely different. He still remembered the way to the kitchens, though.

No one questioned him. He tried to stop his hands from shaking as he filled a jar with wine and returned to his father’s quarters. He held the jar before him and the guards lowered their daggers and let him pass.

He entered the pharaoh’s audience hall. It was smaller than the ceremonial western hall, but still impressive. The floor was painted blue to represent a pool covered with lotus pads and flowers. Fish and frogs swam in the water. Painted ducks paddled around the edges. It was beautiful. The columns in this room were more slender and made of wood. Their tops were carved in the shape of lotus buds. On the ceiling, a painting of a huge vulture with its wings spread wide scowled down at Ramose. Its wings must have been ten cubits across. Ramose walked through the hall and into the throne room where the pharaoh’s throne sat on a raised platform. The empty throne glittered with gold and jewels. On the steps leading up to the platform were paintings of foreign captives on their knees, bound together with a rope around their necks. Each time the pharaoh walked up the steps he would tread on his enemies.

Ramose walked through the throne room into the pharaoh’s sitting room. Gold goblets and bowls sat unused on a low table. There was a couch made of ebony with carved legs and arms. The rare wood was usually used only to make small items such as jewellery boxes. The wood in the couch was probably worth more than the gold and jewels that decorated it. Ramose thought back and could only remember a handful of times when he’d been in the room before. He picked up one of the goblets and filled it with wine.

Another doorway led to the pharaoh’s bedchamber. Ramose entered the room. Looking through his fringe he glanced over to the bed. Ramose could not see his father for the crowd of people standing around his bed. He thought for one dreadful moment that his father must have just died. He was wrong. It was a group of priests muttering prayers. Pharaoh’s physician was there as well, mixing a foul-looking brown potion. The vizier was standing to one side.

Only one of the high windows was unshuttered, so the room was dim. With his head bowed low and his heart thudding, Ramose handed the goblet to the vizier. The vizier didn’t even glance at him. Ramose backed away like a good servant, but when the vizier turned his attention back to the bed, Ramose sidestepped into the pharaoh’s robing room.

It was unlikely that Pharaoh would ever be left alone, but Ramose had to hope. He sat in a corner and waited. Even that small, unlit room was lavishly painted. He sat down on a stool and rested his head against a wall painted with a grapevine pattern. The sound of the priests’ chanting made him drowsy. The ceiling was covered with a spiral pattern. He was mesmerised by the swirling shapes. The chanting suddenly stopped and Ramose sat up with a start. Once again, his first thought was that the pharaoh had died. The priests and the doctor filed out. Vizier Wersu followed them. There was no wailing, no sounds of grief. Ramose was relieved to realise that it was only time for the midday meal.

One elderly priest was left to keep watch over the dying pharaoh. He was soon dozing. Ramose crept into the room so that he could see his father. Now he was so close he began to worry. Seeing his dead son appear at his bedside could easily make Pharaoh die of shock. He looked at the figure lying on the bed. What he saw was an old, old man. A man so thin and feeble it was impossible to imagine that he was the most powerful person in Egypt, that he was a god on Earth. The frail body looked nothing like the powerful, erect figure Ramose had just seen in the palace paintings, nothing like the memories he had of his father.

The priest’s head dropped to his chest. Ramose crept to the bed. He thought that his father was sleeping, but when he leant closer, he saw that he was awake.

Ramose looked down at the old man’s face. He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face and fell on the bed sheet. One tear fell on his father’s hand. The hand rustled on the linen sheet like a dried vine leaf.

A pair of pale, watery eyes turned to him. The eyes looked at Ramose blankly.

“It’s me. Ramose, your son. I didn’t die. There was a…misunderstanding. I have travelled. I have learned much.”

Ramose gently took the dried-up hand in his. “Father, I don’t want to alarm you. I know you are ill, but I have to speak to you.”

The eyes stared at him unblinking. His father had no idea who he was.

“Father, I am Ramose. I have come to take my place as your elder son…as your heir.”

The dry, white lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Are you thirsty, Father?” asked Ramose.

He hurried out to the sitting room. The jar of wine he had brought from the kitchens was empty. He poured out a goblet of water instead.

“Here,” he said. “There’s no wine, but the waters of the Nile taste better than wine.”

The old man raised his head a finger-width, but could get no further. Ramose helped him to sit up. He held the goblet to his father’s lips. A few drops of the water trickled into his mouth. His tongue ran along his lips moistening them with the river water. The old man’s eyes found Ramose’s again. He looked at him for a long time.

“Ramose,” he whispered. The words came slowly as if each one was a great effort. “I have looked forward to meeting you and your brothers in the underworld.”

“Yes, Father,” said Ramose, his heart beating fast, tears running down his face. “It’s me, Father. But I’m alive. I’ve been in hiding.”

The old man smiled at his son. He raised his frail hand. Ramose felt the dry skin gently rasp his cheek. Then his father’s eyes closed, his hand dropped to the bed. Ramose felt the body in his arms turn from a living thing to a lifeless shell as the spirit left. He laid his father down gently. His face still held the trace of a smile.

Someone hurried into the room. Ramose didn’t move.

“Ramose,” the person said. “I thought I would find you here.”

It was Keneben.

“My father is mingling with the sun,” said Ramose. “He’s dead.”

“May Amun protect him.”

Keneben touched Ramose’s shoulder. “You can’t stay here, Highness. It is too dangerous.”

Ramose looked up at his tutor. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there in silence at the side of his dead father. It could have been a few seconds or an hour.

“I wanted to tell father about my adventures,” said Ramose softly. “When I was young, he always thought I was foolish. I wanted him to be proud of me.”

“Priest,” said Keneben sharply. “Wake up, Priest. Pharaoh has rested from life.”

The priest woke with a jolt. He looked from the stern face of the tutor to the servant boy weeping silently over the lifeless form of the pharaoh.

“Don’t just sit there, Priest!” said Keneben. “Get the physician.”

The priest tripped on the hem of his robes as he stumbled out of the room.

“Come, Prince Ramose,” said Keneben. “We must plan what to do next.”

“I have to see my sister,” said Ramose. “I have to tell her.”

“Princess Hatshepsut is not in the palace.” Keneben’s voice softened when he spoke of the princess.

“Where is she?”

“She is at the women’s palace.”

“Why isn’t she at father’s side?”

“Queen Mutnofret found it too distressing to be near the pharaoh in his illness. She insisted that the princess go with her.”

The women’s palace was an hour’s journey by boat south of Thebes. Ramose’s sadness was replaced by anger at the mention of the hated queen’s name.

“I have to go to Hatshepsut,” he said, rushing to the door.

“Wait, Highness,” said Keneben, holding out a hand to stop him. “I will send a message to her. She will return immediately.”

“But the new pharaoh must be proclaimed tomorrow at dawn. I have to reveal myself.”

“It is a long time till dawn. We have to keep you safe till then.”

Ramose hesitated at the door.

“Wait until Princess Hatshepsut returns. With her support you will be safe.”

Ramose sighed.

“You must go back to my mother’s house, Highness,” said Keneben. “Your friends are concerned about you.”

The thought of seeing his friends again warmed Ramose’s chilled heart. He turned to his father’s body.

“I don’t want to leave Father alone though. Will you stay with him until the priests return?”

Keneben seemed reluctant to let his young master out of his sight, but eventually agreed to meet Ramose back at his mother’s house.

Ramose walked cautiously through the corridors of the palace. He didn’t want to run into the priests or the vizier. The palace was massive, bigger than many of the towns he had passed through on his travels. He chose a different route to reach the servants’ quarters.

First, he went through a side door in the pharaoh’s audience hall that led to a private courtyard. Then he walked down the narrow path that the gardeners used to reach the courtyard because they were not permitted to walk through the pharaoh’s quarters.

He climbed over a low wall into an open area where the pharaoh’s horses were kept. Beyond the stables was the wing of the palace that used to be known as the princes’ palace. That was where his own room was and where his older brothers’ quarters had been before they died. It was also where the schoolroom was. As Ramose passed the familiar door, he couldn’t resist peering in.

The schoolroom hadn’t changed at all. There were no bright wall paintings there, just plain, whitewashed walls. On one wall, some hieroglyphs had been hastily drawn in charcoal. Ramose recognised Keneben’s handwriting. He often used the walls to demonstrate the correct way to draw a particular hieroglyph. A papyrus was pinned to another wall. Ramose looked closer. It was the one about the benefits of being a scribe, Keneben’s favourite text. There were reed mats on the floor for students to sit on. The only furniture was the graceful chair where Hatshepsut sat. He was pleased to think that his sister had kept up her studies. He was sure that she would be a valuable adviser to him when he became pharaoh.

Ramose was suddenly aware that he wasn’t the only one in the room. He spun round. A young boy was standing in the doorway with an elegant ebony palette and pen box under his arm. When the boy saw Ramose’s face, he dropped the palette and it shattered on the floor.

“Ramose?” said the boy in a faltering voice. “Is that you, Ramose?”

It was Tuthmosis, Ramose’s half-brother, the snivelling son of Queen Mutnofret.

“Are you a ghost?” he said in a frightened voice.

“No,” replied Ramose coldly. “I’m real.”

The boy rushed towards Ramose who stood ready to defend himself. But the boy didn’t attack him, instead he flung his arms around Ramose’s neck.

“You’re still alive!” Tuthmosis said. “I can’t believe it.”

“That’s right.” Ramose pulled the boy away. He was surprised to see a smile on his face. “That’s the end of your scheme.”

“What scheme?” The boy’s brow creased.

“Well, I suppose it’s your mother’s scheme.”

Tuthmosis looked genuinely puzzled.

“I’ve come to take my rightful place as the pharaoh,” Ramose said.

The boy smiled again. “That’s wonderful.”

“Don’t play act with me,” said Ramose angrily.

“Where have you been these past seasons?” continued Tuthmosis. “Mother told me you’d died. Wait till she hears—”

“I know all about the plan to kill me.”

“Who tried to kill you?” asked the prince, grabbing hold of Ramose’s arm.

“You know very well who. Your mother.”

“Don’t be silly, Ramose. Why would she do that?”

“So that you could be the pharaoh.”

The boy laughed. “But I don’t have to be the pharaoh now. You’re here.”

“Don’t you want to be the pharaoh?”