Chapter Ten

Rameses

In truth? I didn't know what to think of Moses' return. The old memories of brimstone and fire, and the death of the first-born throughout Egypt flashed in my head as soon as I knew who he was. The old remembrances—so filled with agony, fury, and grief—exploded before my mind, in such a vivid manner that all I could do was send him outside with the guard. I did not wish to kill him—I did not wish for his death at all—but the shock had been too much. Still, I remained suspicious—why had he come back?

If it's not to free slaves, and not to bring another command from his God, then was it to see if I yet lived?

I strode back to my throne, snatching up my crook, gripping it in both hands as I looked back at Gershom. Poor man looked in quite a state—pale and shaking with perspiration glittering on his forehead. I turned to the nearest servant.

"Fetch a cup of wine," I ordered, "and give it to the Hebrew's son."

"You…you don't need to…" the youngster said.

"You need something to relax," I insisted, "and a sip of wine will do it for you."

He eyed me sceptically, but accepted the wine from a servant. He stared at the goblet, as though he'd never seen one before.

"Drink it," I insisted, "It's not poisoned."

The goblet shook in his hand, but he nodded thanks anyway.

"So," I continued, as he took a cautious sip, "tell me your name, and of your family back in the desert."

"G…Gershom," he stammered, "I have a younger brother."

"So you're a first-born? No sisters?"

He shook his head. "No sisters."

"My mother, Tzipporah, remains at home," Gershom continued, "She is worried for myself and for father."

As she might well be, considering I was after Hebrew blood last time we saw each other. Including…

"Naturally," I agreed, "but I will tell you now—your father will not be executed."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Why?"

He was my brother, that's why.

"Because you and your brother will not then lose a father, and your mother a husband."

He didn't have anything to say to that, but by the way colour had returned to his cheeks and the goblet had stopped slopping, his anxiety had seemed to have eased.

"Your Majesty, why am I alive?"

No parent ever deserves to lose their child, and nor a brother his brother.

"You have done nothing wrong," I explained, "You are innocent of any wrongdoing, at least here in Egypt."

He exhaled a sigh of relief, but his expression remained neutral, as though cautious to reveal anything of what he truly felt. Seeing that he looked more relaxed and not as pale, I asked the question that I truly wanted answered.

"So Gershom, tell me the truth. Why had you and Moses come to Egypt?"

"We have said it before," Gershom explained, "For years, I have wanted to see Egypt—"

"Why?" I interrupted, "For all Moses had known, Egypt was in ruins."

"Yes, but then his God revealed that Egypt had been restored, and that you still lived. He…for twenty years…" Gershom paused, "…had believed you perished in the Red Sea with your soldiers."

He had believed me dead and Egypt destroyed beyond measure.

After allowing the words to sink in, I said lightly, "It must have been a shock to hear I was still alive, and Egypt restored."

"I believe so," Gershom conceded, "And I believe this was what truly spurned him to come to Egypt. To see it again for himself, but also to show me his childhood hometown."

"Anything else?"

Gershom looked away, biting his lip. He raised his other hand to hold the goblet as well.

"The truth, Gershom. I have no slaves for him to liberate."

"You have said before." Gershom raised the goblet, draining the rest of the wine, handing it back to a waiting servant, "I would not be surprised if father had wanted to see you again."

There. He said it.

I leaned back, but did not allow myself to slouch, "And that is all?"

"Yes," Gershom said, his voice louder, "It is all the truth, believe me."

"I believe you," I said, "And how do you find Egypt?"

"I don't think it is the same as he remembered it," Gershom said as he accepted his refilled goblet from the servant, "He has told many stories to me of his time here. This place holds great nostalgia for him."

And memories, I added, of his adopted family at the palace.

"But…he has told me of how he had returned from Midian to confront you," Gershom continued before I could ask anything else, "I say he did it all wrong."

His voice rang out into the hall, threading into the listening crowds, who recoiled in surprise at his sudden show of confidence. Even I was taken aback, my very heart speechless. It took a moment to recover myself in the face of such a blunt statement about his own father.

"A bold claim, Gershom," I commented, "He did it all wrong?"

"He was right to free us, the Hebrews, his God's people. But he did everything else wrong."

Why does he tell me this? Is it to 'prove' he has not come to liberate?

I had a feeling that whatever he wanted to say was not privy to the ears of the crowds. Standing up, I raised my arms to silence the multitude.

"Pharaoh wishes to take leave to speak with the Hebrew," I proclaimed, "The Prince Regent shall attend to you for now."

Out of the shadows stepped my only other living son—the other being Khaemwaset—ready to attend to the people. Isetnofret, my second Great Royal Wife after Nefertari died, stayed at his side to guide his words and actions.

"Gershom, follow me," I said.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere where no one can overhear us."

I led the youngster to the adjoining room where another throne sat. It was the same room where Pharaoh Seti had reprimanded me and Moses decades ago for destroying a temple during a chariot race. It was the same place where Moses had revealed he'd come only to free the Hebrews. I retained my crown and crook and flail, still the image of a Pharaoh. I settled down on the chair, back straight, and the crook and flail in my hands.

"Gershom, tell me why you believe your father was wrong."

His eyes moved to look at my crook and flail, his forehead creasing as though thinking.

"Is that it?" he asked.

"Is what it?"

His hand moved up, but thinking better of it, returned it to his side. "Is that the ring?"

I looked down, turning my hand to see the blue scarab ring—the same one I had given to Moses—then had it returned.

"Yes," I confirmed, "Why?"

Gershom straightened his back, his neutral expression slipping into something resembling annoyance.

"He was wrong to return your gift—I have a brother, and I know I would not be happy if he returned anything I had gifted to him."

He is a bold young man to say such things about his father to a stranger as powerful as myself.

"Did you tell him this?"

Gershom shook his head, "He had told me of other things, and I had tried to tell him how he could have done things differently."

There was no denying it—he had truly sparked my interest in what he had to say. It took a brave son to challenge his father, and especially if that father was someone such as Moses.

"Go on. Tell me all that he has told you on the journey."

Gershom explained how Moses had spoken of what had happened in Egypt twenty years ago, and how he had confronted me with the Hebrew God's command.

"I'd thought how I'd feel if my own brother returned after many years, only to admit he had returned for some other reason, and not to me," Gershom revealed, "I do not know how I would react, but I know this—I would be upset and angry."

As was I.

"A very accurate reaction," I agreed.

"I asked father if he had thought about the economy and who could be used instead of slaves," Gershom continued, his voice growing stronger—rather as Moses' did when he spoke for the Hebrews, "I suggested if he'd thought of the farmers during the inundation. Father has told me of the Nile River's yearly flooding."

He thinks well, this one. Who did he get it from?

"He had not the understanding of the cost of a workforce," Gershom continued, "Father was only a shepherd after all."

To my own surprise, I laughed out loud, though only a short burst of mirth.

"Only a shepherd?" I echoed, disbelieving, "He liberated over six hundred thousand Hebrews, and you tell me he's only a shepherd?"

Gershom looked down at his feet, appearing abashed.

"I am the Morning and the Evening Star," I said, "and even as a proclaimed god on Earth, I will not deny he is a leader. I cannot say he is a mere shepherd. Carry on, Gershom."

With the same confident, unwavering voice, he continued his story, or at least of what he had been told by Moses. He stopped short when he finally reached the tenth plague.

"I…" he faltered, "I do not know what to say of this."

I eased my back on the back of the chair, "It was a terrible plague," I agreed, "not one I will forget soon."

Gershom inhaled deeply, "I don't know if I ought to tell you what I told him should have happened. I fear causing His Majesty offense."

"Say what you have to say, and I will decide whether to take offense."

Plainly not wanting to go on with his words, he continued, "I asked father of the necessity of it being all the first-born of Egypt. I asked him if Pharaoh—you—would have let his people go had only your first-born died."

An innocent child would still die! But…would I have let the people go?

"I even dared suggest that God should have—" he gasped, eyes wide as he stared up at me, "Your Majesty, I do not dare say. It will be treason."

"Treason?"

He shook his head, "I will not say, but father's response was the same nonetheless."

"What was it?"

Now Gershom's eyes took on a saddened expression, "Father said that he had felt he did not know his own brother anymore."

A stunned silence from me met his words.

I would have said the same for Moses.

"Your Majesty," Gershom addressed me, "Would…would you have let his people go had only your first-born died?"

Would I? Would I have been so distracted by grief I would…yes.

"I believe I would have," I confessed.

Gershom's face looked even sadder. "I remember back at home, every Passover—that is, when we remember the liberation of our people—when the festivities were near an end, father would always slip away. He confessed to me it was to pray for all those who had perished. Twenty years on, Pharaoh, and he still mourned."

Twenty years…

I took a deep breath. "The memories are still there for your father?"

"He grieved that night."

"What?"

"On the night of the death of the first-born. Father…" Gershom inhaled a shuddering breath, "Father told me…he had never wept as he had that night. Alone."

My grip loosened on my crook and flail, my mind reeling from what he had just said.

He'd wept that same night, I thought, the same night I gathered my army to kill the Hebrews. All the Hebrews, including…including Moses.

There. I had just admitted it to myself. I would have killed the man who regretted the plagues on Egypt. I would have killed the man I called brother—who still called me brother.

Gershom is sincere, but I must hear it from Moses himself.

I stood up, straightening my posture. "Stay here, Gershom."

He stared back, looking worried, "Why?"

"I have heard enough from you," I said, wishing it didn't sound so blunt, "Now I must hear it from Moses."

"Are you going to speak to him here as well?"

"Yes," I confirmed, "Wait here. I will call in the guard to bring Moses to us."

Within swift time, the guard had brought in Moses, but I had told the guard to stay out. He protested, but no one disagrees with Pharaoh. He shot a look of pure hatred at Moses before slamming the doors shut like a child having a tantrum.

In the room, Gershom made swift steps to his father's side, an arm around his shoulders. It was clear that the father and son were close. Moses—now with grey hair and beard rather than brown—still clung onto his staff, yet I noticed he leaned on it slightly. His eyes locked with mine for mere seconds, before looking away, head bowed. Yet, even despite his being transformed by the last twenty years, I knew he was the same man who had destroyed Egypt, upset the balance of Ma'at and tradition—but was he truly regretful as Gershom hinted?

Remember, my thoughts warned, this is the man who destroyed your homeland.

Nevertheless, my initial rage—borne of what, shock? Memories?—had rapidly cooled in the face of Gershom's tales of the journey and what Moses had told him. If Gershom was right…then how could forgiveness be possible, even despite the death of my first-born son being partially Moses' fault?

"So Moses," I began, returning to the hard voice I had used when I first met him not an hour before, "Gershom has told me many things, especially of your journey here and what you have told him."

Moses grew very still, with his trembling staff the only moving part of him.

"Gershom has told me you gave him more questions than answers."

Moses lifted his head to look at me. "He has many, Pharaoh."

"I am sure he did," I remarked, "Gershom has struck me as an inquisitive young man."

I could tell with just a quick glance at Gershom that the youngster was trying to hold back a grin from the compliment.

"You haven't heard as many questions from him as I have," Moses said ruefully, his eyes moving to look at Gershom with the smallest of smiles.

"He has expressed that you could have gone about freeing the Hebrews another way," I informed, "I believe he has a point."

"I asked father, did he think of the economy and traditions?" Gershom blurted out before Moses could say anything, "The upholding of Ma'at, to keep a balance. How a whole nation wouldn't change its beliefs overnight."

Moses waved a hand at Gershom as though to stop him, "Gershom, let me talk…"

But the youngster went on, "How he had not considered the twenty-three years you'd thought him dead, and your father's words so many years ago."

Seti's long-ago words slapped my heart: one weak link can break the chain of a mighty dynasty…

"Gershom, please," Moses insisted, "I'll talk—I am the responsible one, not you."

"But father—"

"Enough. I know Ra—pharaoh."

He almost said my name.

"You are not known to him." Moses finished.

"He is now," I pointed out, "And I have spoken to him, and I will speak with you, Moses. Gershom has told me you slip away during the yearly remembrances of the plague of the first-born, and as a child, had not understood why you were so adamant for him not to see your face at those times."

Moses heaved a great sigh. "Because in the dark, he would not see."

Moses cut his sentence short, staring at his sandals. His other hand moved to grip the staff too.

"He wouldn't see?" I repeated.

Another long silence, before a shaky inhalation as Moses raised his eyes to meet mine.

"The loss of so many."

Gershom looked taken aback, staring at his father.

Does Moses feel guilt for the past?

"You mean the lives of innocent children?" I demanded, still playing the role of Pharaoh, "You speak of lives destroyed all by your God's hand!"

"I know," Moses stated.

"'I know' won't bring them back!" I snapped, feeling some of the old anger coming back. "It will not ease the horror from those who survived! It will not take away the mass graves. Walk out a door, and you see at least one. It will never bring back my first-born whom died thanks to you."

Moses sighed, "I accept all responsibility."

Just as he accepted all responsibility for getting me in trouble, I recalled, and then he would get me out of trouble…

Not allowing my heart's truth to show, I leaned back on the chair, folding my arms.

"Oh, now you do?" I demanded, "Took you long enough!"

"He didn't want to be your foe," Gershom supplied, "He only—"

"I've heard it before," I interrupted, "To free your people. Did you think you could walk out with them just like that?" I snapped my fingers. "Did you think of the economy?"

"It wasn't about the economy—" Moses began.

"Yes it was," I argued, unfolding my arms and standing up, "you did not understand—the traditions—maybe you forgot—what about Ma'at? The order of things!"

"I was not thinking at the time," Moses said, knuckles white as he gripped his staff.

"Damn right you weren't!"

"All I could think—"

"Did you care, Moses?" I demanded, conscious of the blue ring pressing into my finger, "Did you only return for your people?"

Moses fidgeted with his staff, "I did care."

"Only for the Hebrews! You didn't care I'd missed you—thought you dead—twenty-three years! You did not ask about father, nor mother, and nor of all that you had missed here in your absence! Only for the Hebrew slaves!"

Moses' shoulders sagged, head bowed as if in regret.

"Even your own son, Gershom, has admitted thoughts similar to mine!"

Moses' breathing sounded shuddery as he inhaled. "He is right to think so," Moses said, "I did not think," the Hebrew raised his head to gaze right at me, eyes steady, "I did not see that you were still raised on Seti's teaching, nor how it would be to think a brother dead twenty-three years only for him to brush it aside." Moses' voice cracked, and when he spoke again, his words were thick with unshed tears, "Because I had thought you dead the last twenty years."

Dead silence. Both Gershom and Moses now looked at me, the latter's eyes were misty with unshed tears. I half-wanted to drop my anger and give him a warm welcome right then, but held back. I had more questions for him. Though I maintained my impassive façade, the mask began to slip.

"Carry on, Moses."

Moses passed a hand over his eyes, his face haunted. "Every Passover—"

"I explained it to Pharaoh," Gershom added quickly.

"He has," I confirmed, "To celebrate your first-borns living while Egypt's died."

Moses looked at me, expression pleading, "Not to celebrate," he insisted in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, "but to mourn—I know I do."

Another silent moment. I studied Moses—he was leaning on his stick, hands in a loose hold. He seemed to be shaky, as though emotion roiled in his frame.

"Every year, I prayed for the lost souls, prayed they all rested in a safe haven," Moses raised a hand, pressing his palm under one eye as though to wipe away a tear, "I had prayed for the soul of…of the brother I thought I'd lost, even if I am no longer brother to him." A shaky breath, "I prayed his first-born was safe." Then, swiftly, his demeanour changed, a spark of fierceness in his eyes, "I'll have you know, Rameses, that when Gershom was born, I told God—my God—no more. If he should want my first-born, take me first." Moses stepped closer, his staff hitting the ground twice, "I would dare refuse His askance. As a father, I shudder to imagine outliving either of my sons, not just Gershom."

No words came to me as I stood rooted to the spot during Moses' spiel. He took a moment to regain his composure.

Does Moses understand what it is to lose a child?

"You would go against your God's wishes?"

"Yes. I would—and without hesitation. When I look back now, I wish I…I should have…" Moses' words caught in his throat, "Like…"

"Like my son?" I asked, voice more quieter now than stern.

"Yes," he choked out, "anyone. We saved…none of…of the Egyptians. I too would be enraged if I were in your place." Moses looked at me, his face a picture of haunted memories, his eyes misty with tears that had not yet spilled, "How could you ever forgive me for it?"

The tiniest of lumps formed in my throat—I didn't need conviction to know Moses regretted what had happened to Egypt. Everything in his posture, expression, and voice spoke of deep regret and unfathomable grief—a sorrow twenty years old.

"I knew," Moses half-whispered, "as soon as you told me to leave that—there could be no forgiveness, ever, for what had been done."

As Moses raised a hand to his weeping eyes, Gershom placed a hand on his shoulder. A clatter on the floor—my crook and flail had slipped out of my slackened grasp. I didn't care.

He regretted it, I thought, he regretted it all along, and I never knew.

"Father told me he had never wept as he had before, in the palace courtyard," Gershom supplied, "on the same night the first-borns…passed away."

Moses raised his head, a shadow of surprise passing over his face as he saw I had walked closer to him and his son.

"Gershom speaks true," Moses conceded, "I believe it was for all whom lost someone. I don't believe in my heart I had felt more…alone than in that moment."

"Your God was surely with you."

He shook his head, "I don't know, I truly do not know."

If I'd known!

"I could forgive you for wanting to kill us all—"

Including Moses.

"but how could you forget it was my God who…" he sighed, and tried to smile, but there was no happiness behind it, "How could I ever be called 'brother' again?"

Those last words seemed to unlock something in him as he let go of his staff, and wept into his hands, trembling with his tears. As for myself, there was a curious prickling behind my eyelids.

I can forgive him, I told myself at last, he truly regrets. He is still my brother.

Stepping forward, I raised a hand—the one with the blue ring—placing it gently on his shoulder. There would be no more of this impassive pharaoh act. I would speak as his brother—for we had always been so.

"You believed I'd never forgive you, or call you brother again," I began, "'Forever' lasts twenty years, Moses."

Gershom seemed confused a second, before his eyes widened with understanding. I think Moses must have thought the same, as he turned confused eyes on me. Then—the dawn of realisation.

"You…you mean…" he choked.

I placed my other hand on his other shoulder, my voice much more gentle. I spoke now as his big brother, and not Pharaoh.

"You are not innocent of what has been," I warned, "but nor will I allow yours nor Gershom's death. I will still call you 'brother'."

Moses stared at me, and now I could see the tears that had dried on his cheeks.

"You do?" he choked out.

I managed a smile, "Always."

He looked like he wanted to return the smile, but instead stepped forward and embraced me tightly about the shoulders, like we had been brothers all along. As any brother would, I returned the embrace, knowing we were as true brothers once again, forgiven, though not forgotten. I had many questions—but the sorts of questions one asks to catch up with a long-lost friend or family member—but they would be asked later. I did not ordinarily allow myself to weep, but here, in front of Gershom, as I hugged my brother, I allowed a tear or two to leak from my eyes.

Even a pharaoh will weep.

Well, here we are, at the end of the story! Thank you, however few or many, who read through the story and stayed with it to the end.

END.