When The Pyramids Are Dust
By Darth Kyrie
"Let the Ambassador from Priam, King of Troy, approach the Pharaoh." Atop a cushion on the floor, the scribe wrote hastily onto his wax tablet as an armored Greek approached the royal throne. Ascending the dais and bowing, the ambassador unrolled a shining red cloth. It glimmered in the green torchlight that illuminated the cavernous hall, spilling like lifeblood onto the black marble, until the last of its shimmering folds came to rest against dainty, bare toes ensconced in golden sandals.
Nefretiri, Queen of Egypt, Great Royal Wife, Lady of the Two Lands, Mistress of Upper and Lower Egypt, She For Whom the Sun Shines studied the offering with rapt attention. Her green gaze glittering in harmony with the dazzling cloth, the thin shadows of faint wrinkles crinkling in the corners of her kohl-lined eyes. Her lips, dyed with red ochre shone like rich wine as they opened in reply,
"Our thanks to Priam. It is fabulous indeed." She leaned forwards, headdress clinking, cloth of gold whispering against her skin, "It shimmers like the Nile. How is it made?"
"No one knows, great Queen." The ambassador spared a glance for the form on the other throne before hastily continuing, "It is spun on the looms of the gods. They call it silk." Queen Nefretiri bent down to catch the silk between her immaculate fingers, drawing the river of red into her golden lap.
"The gods are inventive weavers, don't you think?" She offered the silk to the throne beside hers. Sitting stiff and stone-like, the Pharaoh of Egypt, Lord of the Two Lands, Ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, beloved of Amun-Ra, Golden Horus, Conqueror of the Hittites, Conqueror of the Nubians, Conqueror of the Libyans, Moses sat in silence. The entreaties of his wife fell on disinterested ears; the shine of the blood-red cloth invisible to his hard, blue eyes. Eyes that remained fixed on the face of a black marble colossus near the far door.
Pursing her painted lips, Nefretiri returned her attention to the Greek ambassador,
"We accept this token of Priam, and will need more time to select a suitable gift for you to bring him on your return." She straightened, uncrossing her shapely ankles, "You may stay here, in the palace, Ambassador. Our hospitality will remain open to you as long as you visit Egypt."
"Thank you, great Queen." The Greek backed away, perhaps too hastily, "And you great Pharaoh. I await your pleasure." Giving one last exaggerated bow the Greek withdrew. The hall was silent again except for the scratching of the scribe's stylus. The breathing of the guards and nobles. The crackle of the green flames.
Again, Nefretiri's eyes strayed towards the unmoving form of her husband, then to the statue that held his gaze,
"No more audiences today." She turned to address the majordomo, "the Pharaoh is tired." Lips drawn thin, the man protested, "But, My Queen, the governor…"
"Will wait until tomorrow," she snapped,
"No," the Pharaoh spoke, war-callused fingers tightening on the arms of his marble throne, muscles tautening beneath robes of linen and byssus, heavy brows drawing together beneath the shadow of the twin crowns of Egypt, "I will see the governor of Goshen."
"My Pharaoh," Nefretiri began to protest as the guards led the governor into the room,
"Silence." The Pharaoh stood, throwing his wife's grasping hand off his wrist with an impatient shake, "I am Pharaoh. My will is law in Egypt. I will speak to the governor of Goshen. Alone." He glared around at the scribe who had ceased scribbling and looked up in askance. "Go. All of you." The guards and nobles, the majordomo, the scribe scurried to obey, leaving the hall empty of all but three, "You too, Nefretiri." He stared her down, blue eyes as unyielding as sapphires and cold as a tomb.
Fury flashed in the chastised queen's face before she turned on her heel and marched, glittering and jingling with every footfall, up the stone steps and out of the throne room, crimson silk trailing after her, twitching in her hand like an enraged asp before vanishing from sight.
"Great One," greeted Joshua, Governor of Goshen, as he stood before the throne of Egypt,
"Governor," the Pharaoh responded, "How fare you?"
"I fare well, Mighty One." Joshua, bowed, though not nearly as low as the Greek Ambassador had,
"And Liliah?" Pharaoh inquired, a little life rising into his stern features,
"She is well." Joshua looked down at his feet, "Great One-"
"You have come to ask again why I do not free the Hebrews from their bondage." The Pharaoh's attention had become fixed once again on the imperious face of the black marble statue as it stared across the hall with sightless eyes.
"Yes, Moses. I do." A fiery light shone in Joshua's face, brighter than the green flames of the braziers and sconces, brighter than the steel-blue cast of the Pharaoh's gaze,
"Not yet, Joshua," Moses replied, his voice sinking into weariness as he looked away from the statue's scrutiny, "Egypt is not yet ready. The nobles, the priests, the people they are not prepared to welcome slaves. Our economy would not be able to handle the strain. And the Hebrews themselves…" He rubbed at his neck, turning back towards the black throne, "They are a people unused to freedom."
"One cannot get used to that which one has never known." Joshua replied firmly, placing one foot in the dais, "Make them free and they will learn to be so."
"And risk widespread anarchy?" Moses turned back to Joshua, "Risk bloodshed and chaos in this Empire that has stood for four hundred years?"
"An Empire built on the backs of slaves," Joshua declared, "A glorious kingdom born from the sweat and blood of the Hebrews. My blood. Your blood."
"I am no Hebrew."
"No, Pharaoh," Joshua's voice rose, bitter as poison, "You may share the blood of Aaron. The blood of Amram. The blood of Levi. The blood of Abraham. But in your breast beats the heart of an Egyptian. The heart of a Sethi. The hard heart of a Ramses. You are no Hebrew."
"Remember to whom you speak, Governor." The Pharaoh's hands clenched at his sides, his rich cape glittering in the dim light, "I have been a benefactor to you. Did I not rescue Liliah from the clutches of the Lord Baka? Did I not spare your life? Did I not free you and give you wealth and power, the stewardship of Goshen?"
"I would rather you have let me die in the copper mines of Sinai than be here, now, to see what has become of you," Joshua whispered fiercely. "That the LORD might have struck me down before I beheld your rule, False Deliverer." Moses waved his hand in dismissal,
"Go back to your wife, Joshua." The Pharaoh strode to the far steps, "Return to your people." Joshua stood unmoving, eyes still burning. "Return and be patient. I will free the Hebrews as I have promised. But not now. Not yet. The time is not right."
"So it was written," Joshua murmured as Pharaoh Moses strode from the room, cape trailing. The former stonecutter's shoulders slumped in sorrow, "But will it be done?"
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The new crescent moon, crown of Thoth, rose cold and white over Egypt, shining down upon the pyramids, upon limestone palaces and marble temples, shining down upon the white-gold faces of sphinxes and pharaohs, kings and gods, shining down on the smooth surface of the Nile, shining down on the brick pits and threshing floors and slave-huts of Goshen. The stars shone in the crown of the night and the gentle darkness robed all in forgetfulness. Egypt slept under the night's embrace, from the lowest Hebrew slave to the highest of the high priests of Amun-Ra.
But inside the royal boudoir, forgetfulness did not reign. Quiet moans of anguish cut through the cool night air, cut through the draperies of linen, through the gentle burble of ornamental fountains and the music of ropes of glass beads fluttering against bronze mirrors. No scent of sandalwood or myrrh or sound of sistrum or lyre could drown the feeling of ill-ease that permeated the chamber of Pharaoh. The spirits of the unhappy dead seemed sunk into the very stone of the palace.
Alone in his grand bed, hewn from cedars and gilded with gold, supported by the carved paws of a lion, the Pharaoh Moses tossed and turned, his struggles causing the linen sheets to slip from his heaving chest. Sweat beaded on his brow and his fingers twitched as he moaned. The servants slept unawares, as did Queen Nefretiri– alone, in her own half-empty bed, in her own wing of the palace. The guards stood in silence, none daring to wake Pharaoh.
The black stone face of Sethi bore down upon Moses, granite lips and onyx eyes opened in an anguished death mask,
"Why my sister's son? Why did you betray me?"
"Sethi, I-" Moses threw himself down and covered his face as a howling wind tore the crowns of Egypt from his head,
"I set you before my own son, before your brother. I trusted you with the rule of Egypt." Sethi's ghost started to crumble, dust leaking from cracking rock, raining down on Moses, "I gave you the hand of the crown princess, and all that time, all those many months that I lay dying you lied to me!"
"Great Sethi." Moses raised his eyes to the specter, blinking through dust, "I wished to-to spare you, to spare Egypt. I have done all as you would have wanted, I conquered your enemies, raised temples to your glory, I-I keep the slaves in bondage and shore up the wealth of Egypt." The colossus showed no pity,
"Son of slaves," it howled, "Deceiver, betrayer, you stole the throne of Egypt like a plunderer in the night. You and your brother tore at my kingdom like jackals tear at dead flesh. And now that you have devoured all you plead with me 'I love you, Father. Love me, Father. Forgive me, Father'." The statue's unyielding hand came down, knocking Moses to the ground, shredding away his royal robes until he was clad only in a torn Hebrew cloth. "You have brought shame to my fathers. You are no son of mine. I never wish to see your lying face again!"
"Sethi!" Moses cried as the granite hand began to squeeze the life from his body, "Please, Sethi...Father...I never wanted your king...dom…"
The Pharaoh jolted awake, lungs gasping, hands clutching at his chest to relieve the crushing, phantom pain of Sethi's grasp. It had been a dream. The same dream. The dream that plagued him. The dream that had driven Nefretiri and her loathsome serpent's charms from his bed, that had driven the brotherhood of Joshua and Aaron from his heart. The dream that haunted Moses's waking hours as surely as it haunted his sleep.
Moses cast off the last of the sheets and retrieved his robe, running shaking hands along his stubbly head. Pouring water from an enameled jug into a nearby basin he cupped some of the cold liquid in his hands, splashing it up to his brow. Running a cloth over his face, Moses blinked the last traces of sleep from his eyes, before seizing a nearby hammer and striking the gong that hung upon the chamber wall,
"My chariot!" He commanded the frazzled servant who rushed in, "I will drive to Avaris." The servant bowed and withdrew. Others quickly replaced him, hurrying to dress the Lord of the Two Lands.
The Pharaoh's chariot was ready in the courtyard in minutes, surrounded by the chariots of his guards, his escort. Their black horses snorted and stamped in impatience in the blue moonlight and shied and whickered as the men mounted.
Queen Nefretiri, black hair flowing free, vermillion silk wrapped around her half-dressed form watched them from her balcony. Her soft and perfumed hands resting lightly on her belly where grew the son of kings and queens, but not of Moses. A child born not of love, but of hatred, envy, and broken faith. Above her hands, inside her pale breast, beat a broken heart cleansed of foolish ideas of undying love and filled instead with bitterness and scheming. If Moses could not be content with her, she would find companionship elsewhere. If he could not be content with the throne of Egypt, she would raise a son who would be. Her son would not ignore kings as they knelt at his feet. He would crush their necks under his heel and laugh while they choked.
The Queen of Egypt watched with begrudging green eyes as the chariots galloped into the darkness, the Pharaoh himself leading the rush towards Avaris to the north, to the Temple of Sokar.
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The priests of Sokar, Lord of the Lower World greeted Pharaoh with astonished haste. Moses brushed them aside, leaving his guards to deal with the god's worshippers as he descended into the catacombs beneath their temple, into the necropolis where darkness ruled.
Pharaoh strode through winding halls and corridors, dark cape whipping around corners as he descended, occasionally passing silent guards who stood to attention in their shadowy vestibules. They saluted as he passed but he paid them no mind. His steps carried him down, down, down, deep below the Temple of Sokar, beneath the city of Avaris.
Moses halted at last in a narrow hallway lined with torches, standing before an ancient statue of the temple's patron, the falcon-headed god of death. As in his dream-vision of Sethi's colossus, small cracks had begun to appear in Sokar's granite face, tiny spider-lines of decay fracturing the god's cruel beak and scarring his lifeless eyes.
Pharaoh turned his head away, moving to a small door on the statue's left. Drawing from a purse at his belt a key that had no duplicate, he unlocked the heavy door and stepped inside the chamber beyond, drawing the door closed behind him. Lamplight splashed across the gray stone of the dungeon, illuminating golden trim and bronzed trinkets. Papyri spilled out over cedar tables and rich fabrics swathed a bed, footstools, chairs...and the body of the man sitting squarely in the only sliver of moonlight to grace the room, pouring down from an air shaft cut through the many cubits of rock,
"Come to gloat again, My Brother?" Asked Ramses who would have been Pharaoh of Egypt, back turned to the door, eyes fixed resolutely on the tiny slice of sky that penetrated his prison, "Or have you finally decided to be rid of me?"
"I will not kill you, Ramses." Moses retreaded the steps of the old argument, "Not as you would have killed me. I am not like you."
"No." Ramses looked away from the moonlight, "You are not."
"You made yourself my enemy," Moses reminded him, hands clenching, "You would have destroyed me completely. Erased me, until none in Egypt would have dared to speak my name. I do not glory in your defeat as you would have gloried in mine. I have shown you more mercy than you deserve."
"Mercy?" Ramses stood, dark robes swirling as he turned to face the Pharaoh, "Moses, Moses, Moses, lie to Egypt, lie to the priests, lie to the slaves, but do not lie to yourself! You kept me from my kingdom, from the love of my father, from my fame, from my queen, from my very freedom, and now you keep me from a prince's welcome in the kingdom of the dead? And this you call 'mercy'? I rot in this stone prison while you sit on the throne of Egypt." Ramses eyes glinted like flint, his barely tanned skin the skin of a ghost in the lamplight, "Do not pretend it is not exactly what you wanted."
"I never wanted the throne of Egypt, Ramses," Moses replied quietly, "I wanted Egypt to be strong. I wanted Nefretiri to marry the one she loved. I wanted us to be at peace." The Pharaoh lowered his gaze, "I wanted Sethi to be proud."
"Sethi is dead." Ramses waved a hand dismissively, "And I cannot speak for him. You look for answers, Moses? You look for absolution? Look to the gods, to the sky, to the mountains, do not come to the imprisoned. Or the dead." Ramses leaned against the nearest table, head bowed, "The dead reply only with silence." Moses unclenched his fists and sat in the nearest chair. With one hand, he tugged a linen sheet aside to reveal a board of Hounds and Jackals, each piece in their proper place. A game never started. Unchanged and unmoved for years. One of the jackals was missing its head,
"I read about your victory against the Libyans," Ramses continued after a long pause, "Truly you have made Egypt great." His fingers twitched, "But does your queen not mourn? To have you so seldom at her side?"
"Nefretiri cares only for power," Moses reached out to touch the decapitated jackal, "For fame and wealth. She yearns only to have kings kneel at her feet and to see her son sit upon a throne."
"Hmph," Ramses turned to face Moses again, "That the son of a queen and the son of a son of slaves should one day sit on the throne of Egypt?" He smiled grimly, "The gods have truly forsaken this land...if ever they cared to visit in the first place." Moses's head had snapped up at the mention of slaves, "You are surprised, my 'brother'?" Ramses sneered, "I had my spies all over Goshen, searching for the Deliverer. You think that none could have brought me word of Prince Moses, dressed as a slave and living in a Hebrew hovel?"
"You knew that I was Hebrew?" Moses spoke slowly, "Why did you not tell Sethi?"
"By the time I had pieced together the tale of your lineage you were his appointed heir," Rameses's lips drew into a thin line, "And my father lay already upon his deathbed. Do you think me such a poor son, Hebrew, that I would poison his last breath with tales of your treachery?"
"It was not treachery," Moses forced out, "It was-"
"Call it what you will," Ramses dismissed, "The past is forgotten."
"It is not forgotten," The Pharaoh answered,
"No," Ramses conceded, "But it would be easier that way, would it not?" He grabbed a nearby chair, sweeping the papyri on its seat to the floor and turning it to face Moses before sitting, "Now. What is the name of this son of slaves who will sit upon your throne?"
"He is not yet born." Moses replied, "Though he may be a daughter. Or no son of mine at all." Moses raised his gaze to the moonlight, "Nefretiri…"
"Ah." Ramses may have tried for smugness but all he managed was a dry acceptance, "I told her once, you know." He examined his nails, "That I would not bend to her. That she would never be allowed to do the things to me that she would do to you, Moses."
"There are many things you would not have allowed, Ramses." Moses replied, "You would allow no mercy for enemies. No pity for the weak. No freedom for the slaves."
"Oh," Rameses's head tilted, "So the slaves are now free?" Moses looked away, "I thought not." Ramses stood again, straightening the scrolls on the table, "You may be of Hebrew blood, Pharaoh, but you are no Deliverer."
"In a different life, perhaps." Moses nodded slowly,
"In an Egypt where truths were not drowned," Ramses added, "In an Egypt where gods were more than silent stone...and thrones bore only the sons of kings. But that Egypt exists no more, if it ever did."
"You will not be here forever, Ramses." Pharaoh Moses spoke, standing and moving for the door, "Nor will you die. I only need more time to be sure you cannot raise rebellion against me, and I shall set you free." Ramses face radiated cold fury as he snatched up a golden chalice from the table and heaved it at the door. It collided with the stone with a mighty crack and fell down dented,
"Go, Hebrew!" He hissed at Moses, "Go back and lie to yourself, to your enslaved people, to your treacherous queen—but do not lie to me, pretended brother. I have neither the patience nor the weakness of heart to tolerate it. Go! And trouble me no more." Moses exited swiftly, slamming the heavy door shut behind him and locking it tightly. At the sound of the key sliding into place Ramses proud shoulders slumped and his eyes rose again to contemplate the moonlight streaming in from above.
In the hall, Moses's cape trailed after him, throwing wild shadows in the torchlight as he strode to the dungeon steps. Pharaoh returned to his stolen kingdom. Sokar, dread lord of darkness sat in silence, unspeaking. But another hairline fracture, born from the slamming of Rameses's prison door, lanced across his face and up his forehead till it bisected the sun disk that crowned the falcon-god's head. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the thin crown of stone toppled, fell, and shattered into dust on the dungeon floor.
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Author's Note:
This story resulted from a simple 'what if?'
In The Ten Commandments, Moses rejected Nefretiri's offer to return immediately to the palace and rule Egypt, instead opting to pay a 'visit' to Lord Baka, the master builder...and ultimately embark upon his heroic destiny as a prophet of the LORD (and give his brother Ramses the leverage he needed to become Pharaoh). But what if he hadn't? What if Moses had let his love for Nefretiri and Sethi overpower his thirst for justice...?
Disclaimer:
I am in no way affiliated with Cecil B. DeMille or Paramount Pictures and I am in no way profiting from this work of fiction, which is intended purely as entertainment. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of either my imagination of the imaginations of Aeneas MacKenzie, Jesse L. Lasky Jr., Jack Gariss, Fredric M. Frank, Dorothy Clarke Wilson, Joseph Holt Ingraham, Arthur Eustace Southon, etc. and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.