In Your Absence

Rameses stared at the diminishing figure of his beloved brother running into the hostile desert, the domain of the god Set. Sand buffeted the skin of his calves, pinpricks of discomfort on flesh, and the sun bore down on the bare skin of his shoulders. But all he cared now was that Moses was running away—from him, from his family, from home, from Egypt. Desperate to call his brother home, Rameses stretched an arm in Moses' direction, vainly reaching out to him.

"Moses! Moses!"

But Moses neither slowed down nor looked back, his figure soon swallowed by the vast, arid desert. No-one could survive out there unprepared, not even the wealthiest and most fortunate men in Egypt. Even well-prepared with food and plenty of water, a man could not last long if he failed to be wary of the desert's dangers or did not know where and how to find sustenance for his body. Scorpions, snakes, and hyenas lurked in Set's territory. Moses, however, had sprinted from the palace, with not a drop of water or breadcrumb to sate wrenching thirst and hunger in the Red Lands.

Rameses didn't know how long he lingered at the gates into the kingdom, just staring at the desert before him, wanting to run after Moses, yet something in him knew Moses didn't want to return. There was a terrible finality in Moses' last words—"goodbye, brother"—and somehow he knew Moses wouldn't come back, no matter how much Rameses wanted him to. He ought to have given chase—go back to the chariot, spur his horses onwards, look for his brother. But even if he did, which direction would he go to find Moses? The desert had infinite possibilities of pathways.

Turning around, Rameses trudged back in the direction of the gates into the kingdom, ignoring the painted bound Hebrew slaves decorating the walls on either side of him. Sand slipped in and out of his sandals, gritty on the skin between his toes and on the soles of his feet. The gold of his necklace and armbands glinted against the sunlight, the metal warm on his skin. But he didn't care about nor did he notice any of that. For now, he kept his eyes resolutely ahead, placing one foot in front of the other. He resisted looking back over his shoulder, knowing Moses wouldn't be there beside or behind him. It was a hard thing to do, to resist glancing back, for all the while he walked, he felt he'd left something behind, the way one does when they walk out of the house just knowing they forgot some item. But Rameses didn't leave Moses behind, Moses left Rameses behind. He left Egypt, his home, behind.

Rameses discovered his horses and chariot still standing exactly where he'd left them when he'd jumped off to run after Moses. The horses pawed the ground with their dusty hooves, snorting through wide nostrils. They eyed him as if to ask what took him so long to get back to them, and tossed their heads from side to side as though questioning Moses' whereabouts.

"He's not coming back for a while," Rameses told them as he stepped back into the chariot. "Let's go."

What did he mean by telling me he wasn't who I thought he was?

Of course Rameses knew who he was! He had been his brother for eighteen of his twenty-one years—he knew perfectly well who Moses was. That wasn't to say that he hadn't been puzzled by Moses' strange behaviour this morning, the day after the banquet when Rameses had been pronounced as Prince Regent. He'd been quieter than usual, somehow more subdued, avoiding any interaction with the royal family. Even when Rameses questioned him on this, Moses offered answers that were vague at best.

And now Moses had killed a man—and Rameses had no idea why. It was just another unexplained mystery for today. Why would he save a lowly slave—and a Hebrew slave at that? Before today, Moses wouldn't have cared less if a slave was being whipped to an inch of his life—he would have cast a blind eye and turned away.

With a sharp whip of the reins, Rameses urged the horses to turn the chariot, galloping back into the palace gates, wanting to leave the scene immediately. He snapped the reins again, spring the horses on as fast as they could, the wheels of the chariots churning up brief waves of sand that sprayed over the chariot's body and wheels. Bumps and swells in sand and mud-brick floor tiles nudged the chariot, bumping it as it sped along, back into the secure heart of Egypt with all its splendorous glory. Here, Rameses was home, here Moses should have been home. Maybe he would come home later—perhaps even tonight.

Moses must come back, he assured himself, he'll return. He always will.

The horses returned to their stables, and chariot back in storage, Rameses strode back to the temple under construction. He knew he'd face questions and stares, but Rameses didn't care. Once his father found out he'd abandoned his temple duties—even just for a few moments—and let Moses run off into the desert possibly never to return, everything else he would face here would look like nothing. And this time, if Seti yelled at him, accused him of shirking his duties, there would be no Moses to defend him, to cheer him up again. When Rameses skulked off to be alone in the lap of one of the statues of his father in the palace, Moses would never join him, for he no longer resided in the palace.

But he will come back, Rameses persuaded himself, this won't be for long.

As Rameses entered the temple, he deliberately focussed his eyes on the two priests waiting for him on the other side of the temple under construction with Seti.

Seti?

A Hebrew slave collided into Rameses' shoulder. Rameses pushed him away with rough hands.

Slave should have looked where it was going!

Dozens of eyes followed Rameses as he passed lines of broken slaves straining on ropes attached to giant blocks of limestone. Guards and slave masters, whips coiled in hands whose veins stood stark under the flesh, glowered at the cowering Hebrews, daring them to stop or slow down even just a heartbeat.

"Prince Rameses!" a guard nearby waved at him, "Where's Prince Moses?"

He had hoped no one would ask, not before he reached his parents anyway. His stomach clenched at the very question, his heart twisting in his chest at the reminder of his brother.

Why did you have to leave?

"Gone." Rameses supplied curtly before striding away from the nosy guard.

Seti remained standing between his two priests, hands leaning on the table laden with a pyramid of rolled-up scrolls full of blueprints and sketches of the temple to be. The pharaoh's stern gaze did not leave Rameses as the young prince drew near the fallen nose—half covered in sand—of the statue damaged in the two boys' careless chariot race but yesterday.

"Prince Rameses."

This time, it was Seti who spoke the prince's name, staring down at Rameses, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a grim line. He knew what had happened—everyone knew except, possibly, the queen. The priests no doubt had regaled the whole event to the pharaoh in the most dramatic way possible.

"Where is Moses?" Seti queried.

"He has run away," Rameses reported, "He…he may come back."

Seti's lips thinned even more, if that were possible, a hard line appearing between his eyebrows.

"Has he said anything to you?"

Go ask the man I once called father.

"He did, but I didn't understand it."

Seti waved a hand at the priests for them to take over, stepping closer to Rameses standing on the bridge of the stone nose.

"And what did you not understand?"

Rameses, even after a lifetime, still quailed inside under his father's stern gaze.

"He told me to ask you, saying he is not who I think he is."

Something changed within Seti's expression, seeming to harden and yet soften at the same time. The king turned his head, staring down at the groaning slaves far below, not saying a word for a long time. Rameses waited for Seti to speak again—maybe make it all clear to him, so he would understand Moses' cryptic words.

"Father?"

Seti exhaled through his nose, bowing his head and loosening his fists. His bony shoulders rolled back under his tunic, lifting his head back up.

"He is right," Seti told his son, "He is not who you think."

Rameses' patience ran out.

"Father!" he demanded, "What is going on? What is there that I do not—"

"A prince does not lose his temper," Seti interrupted, whirling around to glare at his son, voice rising with his reprimand, "A king knows when and where to confront, and a temple is not one of those places!"

"But father," Rameses protested, not caring he argued in a temple like a petulant little child, "I need to know."

"A king is patient!" Seti snapped, "Remember this!"

Rameses scowled. If being king meant he needed the eternal patience of his own mother, then he could happily delay being king until he got the proper answers. He deliberately ignored the priests' smirks and headshakes at Rameses from behind their king.

"Rameses," Seti continued after a fashion, now sounding more weary than angry, "Return to your duties as Prince Regent and overseer of the temples."

Seti pointed at the table where the two priests waited.

One day as Prince Regent and I have lost my Royal Architect.

"Prince Rameses," Seti said in a voice laden with waning patience.

"Yes, father."

Steeling himself, Rameses clenched his fists and marched up to the table, the priests shifting over to give him space. The blueprint for this temple was still unrolled, flat on the table. The designs were still sketched on the papyrus, little scrawled notes in hieratic peppered over the drawings and in the edges. Rameses read the notes without really seeing them, knowing it should have been Moses looking over these notes and drawings. He would have been the one directing the architects' procedures, how they should build the temple. He would have overseen everything that happened with the temple's construction. Rameses could find the best person to be his Royal Architect in all of Upper and Lower Egypt, but not even he could replace Moses in a thousand years.

Then the priests began talking to each other in hushed tones about Moses—the prince had a suspicion they deliberately chatted just loud enough for him to overhear.

"I'm not surprised it happened at all," Hotep commented to Huy.

"His Majesty should have seen it coming long before. It was only a matter of time."

"I'm surprised he hadn't told Rameses already."

"I remember when he…shall we say…drifted into our lives."

Drifted into our lives? Rameses echoed in his head.

The two priests chuckled between each other, as though fully knowing they were aggravating the prince by being all mysterious with their conversation.

"Considering who Moses is," Huy continued, "It had to be only a matter of time before he discovered his true heritage."

His true heritage?

"Hotep, Huy," Rameses said under his breath, "Do you know something I don't?"

The two priests laughed.

"Oh Rameses," Huy shook his head, "If only there had been someone who told you."

"Then tell me."

"I think we'll leave it for His Majesty," Hotep declined, "You know nothing about Moses."

I know everything about Moses!

It was so tempting right now to just flip this table on top of their heads, yell at them, and demand to know what was going on right there and then, even if it had to be in a holy house of the god Ra. But Rameses knew better—one anger-filled reaction and they would tattle straight to the pharaoh, who was practically wrapped around their little fingers. Opting to pretend to appear the paragon of calm and reason, Rameses straightened up and looked the priests in the eye.

"I have been his brother for eighteen years—"

The priests grinned in their annoyingly superior manner.

"—and I know all there is to know about him."

"Oh my prince," Huy said in a condescending tone, "Even after eighteen years, you don't know everything. Trust us."

No, I'm not going to. I—not you—am his brother, and know more about him than both of you do combined.

The priests managed to keep away from the topic of Moses as Rameses deciphered the poor writing on the papyrus, making quick decisions in his head—did that sound right? Did this sound wrong? Would this offend or please the gods?

Apparently unable to resist keeping their big mouths shut any longer, the priests began whispering loudly about Moses again.

"So, you think we should tell him?" Huy asked.

"Like I said, pharaoh is the one who should—it isn't up to us to decide."

"Well, why not drop hints?"

Rameses ground his teeth. "Hotep. Huy. I command you to keep quiet about Moses."

"Oh, you mean Moses, who you think is your brother?"

With a frustrated groan, Rameses threw his hands up, chucking one of the scrolls at the priests. The scroll bounced off Hotep's stomach and fell into the sand face-down.

"Stop it!" Rameses commanded in his ringing voice, "One more word about Moses—"

"He killed a man," Huy interrupted loudly, "An Egyptian who was whipping a lowly Hebrew slave. Now why do you think that might be, Hotep?"

Hotep scrunched up his face in an exaggerated manner, like he found it very hard to think—an idea Rameses didn't find too far-fetched.

"Maybe the pharaoh will know why."

"Maybe he finally knew who he was. Either way, he performed a crime against the gods."

Rameses' muscles tensed, a little bubble of indignant fury rising in him.

"It. Was. An. Accident." Rameses insisted, "Father would have pardoned him."

"Don't be so sure about that," Hotep warned, "You may be surprised."

"He would have agreed with me."

Both priests' grins stretched wider.

"And are you the Pharaoh?" Huy asked.

"Future pharaoh, yes," Rameses retorted, "and I've had enough of this nonsense about Moses."

Both priests raised their hands in surrender.

"Fine, but don't say we didn't tell you!" Huy said, "Come back to us when you've heard the truth from Seti."

They don't know what they're talking about, Rameses seethed, I don't know why Moses did what he did, but they don't know any more than I do!

If Moses were here, he would have helped Rameses prank the two priests later in the evening. But tonight, there would be no one. He wouldn't get into trouble with Seti or the priests, but nor would he have anyone to truly, without holding back, voice his indignant rage against Hotep and Huy. How dare they profess to know more about his own brother! Wasn't he not Moses' closest confidante and best friend for eighteen years?

I will tell father what they have said—he will not be impressed!

The sun seemed to take an eternity to begin its journey down to the western horizon, where Ra would make another voyage through the Duat, only to battle Apep just before dawn like he had since creation. If Apep won, the sun would never rise again. If Ra lost…even Rameses shuddered to think of it. It would mean eternal darkness and the world sinking into chaos as Apep rose triumphant.

Nevertheless, the oncoming night heralded the end of a long work day and it still didn't look like Moses was returning any time soon. Rameses knew that his brother's two dogs back in the palace would be expecting him to come home soon as well, but tonight they would be disappointed.

Moses will return…he will.

Rameses stopped in the palace's entrance hall, closing his eyes as he inhaled the scent of incense burning in holders lining the floor. He opened his eyes, only to be greeted by the four immense statues of himself, his parents, and Moses. The same stab of grief jolted his heart again, and Rameses was forced to hurry past the statues to the rest of the palace, in particular the private throne room where Seti often was late in the afternoon when the sun threw stretched-out, exaggerated shadows over the land and buildings. Statues elongated, skinnier and taller than they really were, and columns took on thinner appearances in their silhouettes.

As he hoped, Seti was still lingering in the throne room, taking a small break from his business for the day, discussing matters in a low voice with Tuya. Rameses noticed Tuya held a basket in her arms. Tuya glanced up and spotted Rameses. She touched Seti's arm and nodded in Rameses' direction. The pharaoh looked over at his son and straightened up in his chair, looking grim. He waved at Rameses, a silent order to come to him. Rameses obeyed, standing before his father and mother at the throne.

"You wished to see me?"

Seti locked eyes with Rameses. "Rameses, your mother and I have decided it is time for you to know the truth."

Rameses' eyes flickered from Seti's to his mother's. "The truth?"

"I wish you didn't find out this way," Tuya said in a far quieter voice than usual, "but I believe you need to know why Moses behaved as he did."

Rameses' heart drummed a little faster in his head, his mind niggling him with the priests' words. The claims that he didn't know the full truth about Moses returned, and now he wondered if they did know something he didn't know. But here in this throne room, after a whole day of frustrating mysteries, some truths might finally be revealed.

"Rameses," Tuya continued, "Moses did not realise the truth until last night; you are not alone in not knowing."

Seti cleared his throat. "He discovered the mural of the extermination of the Hebrew babies when he was born, and it was through this he found out the truth of his heritage."

"Wait…" Rameses had to take a moment to remember the mural, the one with the babies tossed to the crocodiles. "That…that was the Hebrew babies?"

"Unfortunate," Seti remarked dryly, "But it had to be done, for they became too populous, and I knew I had to control their numbers, lest they began a revolt and overthrew us."

You don't know the truth, the echo of the priests' voices taunted in Rameses' head, you don't know your brother.

"Does this have anything to do with Moses?"

"Everything," Seti said grimly, looking over at Tuya.

Tuya's eyes were bright as she looked at Rameses with compassion etched in every line of her face. She appeared at that fragile line between holding back and bursting into tears. Her hands gripped the basket for dear life.

"It was the very same day, my son," Tuya recalled, "that Moses came to us, not of my womb, but in this." She cast her gaze down at the basket. "He was in this basket."

Stunned at this new revelation, Rameses could only stare at the basket for several moments, unable to find the right words to say. Moses' words returned to him in a rush, how he had told Rameses he wasn't who he thought he was, how everything he'd known was a lie.

That's why he stopped that guard. That's why he saved that slave. He's a…

Rameses sucked in a breath, trying to remember to breathe despite the news. Moses hadn't been born of his mother, but of another woman—and not an Egyptian woman at that.

"He…" Rameses swallowed, throat dry, "he was a Hebrew?"

Silence. Rameses took that to mean a "yes".

"Not an Egyptian." Rameses finished.

Tuya was crying now, her tears glinting on her cheeks and in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Rameses." Tuya choked out, "We should have told you before."

Seti cleared his throat again, stiffening his back and shoulders. "That doesn't mean he wasn't any less our son than you are. It made hardly a difference to us, even after today."

If he'd have told me, Rameses thought, still trying to process this new revelation, I wouldn't have thought him any less a brother.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

Again, nothing but silence, except for Seti turning away so his son didn't see his face, and Tuya shaking her head sadly, more tears spilling over her cheeks. Unable to take it anymore, Rameses backed out of the room, away from his grieving parents. The priests had been right after all—he had known nothing about Moses.

They'll be gloating about this tomorrow.

His brother was a Hebrew, not an Egyptian. He had been born a lowly slave, not a high-born prince of Egypt with Egyptian blood in his veins. The new knowledge seemed to beat in pace with his running footsteps, hounding him as he made his way to his favourite thinking spot where he could be alone with his stewing thoughts, especially after a reprimand from his father.

Hebrew. Not Egyptian. Hebrew. Hebrew. Slave, not royal.

The prince came to a stop, panting with exertion, gazing up at the statue with its face shadowed by the oncoming night. Out of breath, Rameses allowed himself to sit down under the statue's unremitting gaze. Rameses wanted to hear footsteps approaching—and not the footsteps of his mother or father. For once, he didn't want to remain alone with the statue, knowing his brother was no longer here. Moses would never have let him stew in his emotions until he drew at least one genuine laugh or smile from Rameses. It was as though he lived just to see and hear his brother laugh.

But tonight, he was all alone with the unresponsive statue, without any hope of Moses coming along and being with him until he felt better. The same brother he had believed to be Egyptian, when he was Hebrew all along.

Rameses leaned his head back on the statue's leg and closed his eyes, taking deep steadying breaths through his nose. He wished that Moses had trusted him with this new truth—because it didn't make a difference to Rameses.

He was my brother, Rameses thought, And he always will be.

If only Moses had trusted him, he would have seen that there wasn't anything to be afraid of. Rameses wouldn't have reviled him, turned away, or allowed him to be executed for killing the Egyptian guard. Hebrew or not, blood sibling or adopted, Moses had been his brother for eighteen years, and, Rameses felt, nothing could ever shatter this deep familial connection.

Hebrew or not, Moses was, and always would be, his beloved little brother.