Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  Pi-Ramses was a world away from Hattusa, home of King Muwattali. A mountain ridge ran from the northeastern border of Egypt through central Syria, protecting the Two Lands from any attempted invasion.

  But the Hittites were growing restless, and Seti was no longer alive. Pushing beyond their territory, the fierce Anatolians had moved as far south as Damascus, the Syrian capital.

  Or so claimed Ahsha, based on reports from his intelligence network. Ramses had to be sure before he marched out at the head of his army to drive the enemy back into the north. Neither Shaanar nor Ahsha could advise him to do so; Pharaoh, and Pharaoh alone, could weigh the decision and take action.

  Ramses’ impulse had been to counterattack the moment he learned of the Hittite ploy, but readying his troops after their transfer from Memphis to Pi-Ramses would take several more weeks, if not months. The wait might have been for the best, though it tried the king’s patience: for the past ten days, no further alarming news had come out of central Syria.

  Ramses headed for the aviary where hummingbirds, jays, titmice, hoopoes, lapwings, and a multitude of other birds led a charmed existence amid the shady sycamores and lotus-studded ponds.

  He was sure he would find her there, plucking the notes of an ancient air on her lute.

  Nefertari, his queen and consort, the love of his life. While not of noble descent, she was the loveliest woman in the land. Her sweet voice never uttered a wasted word.

  As a girl, Nefertari had aspired to a cloistered life as a temple musician in some remote spot. Then Prince Ramses had fallen madly in love with her. Neither of them had foreseen that he would become Pharaoh and she his Great Royal Wife, together holding Egypt’s fate in their hands.

  With her glossy black hair, blue-green eyes, and her love of silence and meditation, Nefertari had won the hearts of the nobility. Deft and discreet, she worked at her husband’s side, miraculously blending the roles of queen and helpmate.

  Their daughter, Meritamon, resembled her. Nefertari could bear the king no more children, but this sorrow seemed to sit no more heavily on her than a spring breeze. The love she and Ramses had built through nine years of marriage seemed to her a source of happiness for the people of Egypt.

  Ramses watched her in secret as she conversed with a hoopoe. It fluttered, sang a few bright notes, and landed on her wrist.

  “Come out, wherever you are,” Nefertari called. As usual, she had sensed his presence and read his thoughts. He came forward.

  “The birds are restless today,” she remarked. “A storm is brewing.”

  “What’s the palace gossip?”

  “Loose tongues make jokes at the expense of the Hittites and brag about the size of our army. Then there’s the usual matchmaking and favor seeking.”

  “What are they saying about the king?”

  “That he’s more like his father every day and will keep the country from harm.”

  “If only their opinion could be proven true . . .”

  Ramses took Nefertari in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Bad news?”

  “No, all quiet to the north.”

  “The Hittites have stopped advancing?”

  “Ahsha hasn’t heard anything dire.”

  “Are we ready to fight?”

  “No soldier is eager to march into battle against this particular enemy. The more experienced men see no hope of victory.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Leading a war on this scale is beyond my experience. Even my father decided not to wage all-out war against the Hittites.”

  “The fact that they’ve changed their tactics must mean they think they can win,” commented Nefertari. “The queens of Egypt have always fought to maintain their country’s independence. Much as I despise the thought of violence, I’ll be at your side if war is the only solution.”

  A sudden commotion stirred the aviary. Nefertari’s hoopoe flew to the top of a sycamore. Birds whirled in all directions.

  Ramses and Nefertari glanced up to see a homing pigeon straggle in, searching uncertainly for its destination. The king reached out in welcome, and the pigeon landed in front of him.

  Tied to its right leg was a miniature scroll. The message was in tiny but legible hieroglyphs, signed by an army scribe.

  Scanning it, Ramses felt a sword was running through him.

  “You were right, Nefertari. A storm was brewing . . . and just broke.”

  THREE

  The great audience chamber at Pi-Ramses was one of the wonders of Egypt. It was at the top of a monumental stairway, lined with scenes of slain enemies, a representation of the ever present forces of evil that only Pharaoh could subjugate. They must be brought in line with Ma’at, the principle of harmony and justice with the queen as its living face.

  Around the entryway, the monarch’s coronation names were painted in blue on a white background, enclosed in an oval symbolizing the cosmos over which Pharaoh ruled as the creator’s son and earthly representative.

  Its serene beauty stunned all who crossed the threshold of Ramses’ domain. The glazed floor tiles danced with painted scenes of fountains and gardens. A duck floated on a blue-green pond; a bolti fish darted through lotus blossoms. On the walls, pale green, dark red, light blue, golden yellow, and off-white animated the plumage of frolicking waterfowl; water lilies, poppies, daisies, and cornflowers were painted on captivating friezes.

  The room was a hymn to nature in the hands of men, yet for many its most memorable scene was the face of a young woman meditating by a hedge of hollyhocks. The resemblance to Nefertari was so striking that the king had clearly intended it as a tribute to his wife.

  Climbing the steps to his golden throne, Ramses did not pause to look at the lion carved in its base, closing its jaws around a threatening demon. Instead, he glanced at the hollyhocks, an import from Syria. Now Syria was the threat.

  Every member of the court was present, yet the silence was total.

  Cabinet officials and their assistants, ritualists, royal scribes, magicians and scholars versed in ancient lore, priests in charge of daily offerings, keepers of secrets, grand ladies with a role in the royal household, and everyone else admitted by Romay, the jovial yet vigilant chief steward.

  It was rare for Ramses to call such a large assembly, which would quickly broadcast the content of his speech to the nation. The crowd held its breath, fearing some dreadful announcement.

  The king wore the twin crown of red and white, representing the crucial union of upper and lower Egypt. He held the sekhem, the sacred scepter, to his breast; it symbolized Pharaoh’s dominance over the elements, over life itself.

  “A Hittite war party has destroyed the Abode of the Lion, an outpost in lower Syria established by my father. The barbarians massacred every living soul, women and children included.”

  An indignant murmur rose. No soldier, no army had the right to act that way.

  “A postman happened upon the outrage,” the king continued. “Frightened out of his wits, he was found wandering by one of our patrols, which relayed the news to me. In addition to the slaughter, the Hittites destroyed the settlement’s temple and defaced the stela Seti had placed on the outskirts.”

  A fine-looking old man, visibly upset, came forward and bowed to the Pharaoh. Ramses recognized the Keeper of Secrets, in charge of the palace archives.

  “Your Majesty, do we have proof that this crime was perpetrated by the Hittites?”

  “They left their signature: ‘Victory to the army of Muwattali, powerful sovereign of Hatti. Thus shall all of his enemies perish.’ And there’s more: the princes of Amurru and Palestine have now sworn allegiance to the Hittites. Egyptian residents have been slaughtered, according to the survivors who fled to our fortresses.”

  “But Your Majesty, that means . . .”

  “War.”

  Ramses’ office was huge and sunlit. Windows framed in blue and white ceramic tile allowed the king to watch the changing seaso
ns and smell the scents of his garden. Bouquets of massed lilies sat on gilded stands; a long acacia table served for studying papyrus scrolls. In one corner of the room was a diorite statue of Seti seated on his throne, eyes raised toward the great beyond.

  Ramses had convened his closest advisers: Ahmeni, his friend and private secretary, plus Shaanar and Ahsha.

  Slight, pale, and balding at twenty-four, with long, slender hands, Ahmeni had devoted his life to serving Ramses. He was hopeless at sports and suffered from back problems, yet he was famed as a workhorse who practically lived in his office, rarely slept, and accomplished more in an hour than his staff of highly competent scribes managed to do in a week. Ahmeni could have named his own job in the government, but he preferred to remain in the background, with the title of sandal-bearer to the pharaoh.

  “The magicians have been doing their part,” he reported. “They’ve made waxen images of Hittites and other Asiatics and burned them, scratched the enemy’s names into earthenware vessels and smashed them. I’ll have them keep at it until the army leaves for battle.”

  Shaanar shrugged his shoulders. Ramses’ older brother, short and pudgy, had a moon face (close-shaven except when he had been in mourning for their father), thick lips, small, dark eyes, and a reedy voice.

  “We can’t depend on magic,” he advised. “As secretary of state, I propose that we recall our ambassadors to Syria, Amurru, and Palestine. They’re simpletons who couldn’t spot the inroads the Hittites were making in our protectorates.”

  “I’ve taken care of that,” said Ahmeni.

  “You could have consulted with me,” said Shaanar in a hurt tone.

  “The point is that it’s been done.”

  Unconcerned with their verbal jousting, Ramses pointed to a spot on the map spread in front of them on the acacia table.

  “Have the garrisons on the northwest border been put on alert?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” replied Ahsha. “No Libyan will be allowed entry.”

  The only son of a wealthy noble family, Ahsha had the bearing of a thoroughbred. Beautifully groomed and smartly dressed, he had a fine-boned face, sparkling eyes, and a slightly haughty air. He spoke several languages and had shown a passion for the Foreign Service for as long as anyone could remember.

  “Our patrols are monitoring the Libyan coastal zone and the desert along the Delta. Our forts are on high alert and could easily contain an attack, in the unlikely event one was attempted. At the moment, there seems to be no leader capable of rallying the desert tribes under a single banner.”

  “Is that conjecture, or for certain?”

  “Certain.”

  “Finally, some positive news!”

  “That’s all there is, unfortunately. My operatives have just forwarded appeals from the mayors of Megiddo, at the end of the caravan route, as well as Damascus and the Phoenician ports where so much shipping activity takes place. The Hittite raids and the destabilization of the region are already interfering with trade. If we don’t act quickly, the Hittites will isolate us from our trading partners and then wipe them out. The world Seti and his predecessors built up will be destroyed.”

  “Do you think for a moment I’m not aware of that, Ahsha?”

  “We can never be too aware of a mortal danger, Majesty.”

  “Has every diplomatic avenue really been exhausted?” queried Ahmeni.

  “An entire settlement has just been wiped out,” admonished Ramses. “No negotiation is possible in the face of such slaughter.”

  “Thousands will die if we go to war.”

  “Is your secretary recommending capitulation?” asked Shaanar with a sneer.

  Ahmeni clenched his fists. “Take that back, Shaanar.”

  “Finally ready to fight, Ahmeni?”

  “Enough,” proclaimed Ramses. “Save your energy for defending Egypt. Shaanar, are you in favor of direct and immediate retaliation?”

  “I wonder . . . wouldn’t it be better to wait and strengthen our defenses?”

  “The Supply Corps needs ample warning,” protested Ahmeni. “Marching off unprepared could only lead to disaster.”

  “The longer we stall, though,” offered Ahsha, “the farther revolt will spread through the provinces. We need to stop it short in Canaan and restore the buffer zone between the Hittites and us. Otherwise, they’ll have a convenient base for launching their offensive.”

  “Pharaoh shouldn’t risk his life without due consideration,” Ahmeni said testily.

  “Are you questioning my judgment?” snapped Ahsha.

  “You don’t know the state our troops are in! They’re still underequipped, even though the foundries have stepped up production.”

  “In spite of the obstacles, we have to bring the protectorates back in line without delay. Egypt’s survival depends on it.”

  Shaanar tactfully refrained from entering the two old friends’ debate. Ramses, valuing their opinion equally, had listened attentively.

  “Leave me,” he commanded.

  When he was alone again, the king regarded the sun, the source of light from which he had sprung. As the Son of Light, he was able to stare into it with impunity.

  “Bring out the best in each person around you. Use it to help you,” his father had counseled. “But each decision will be yours alone. Love Egypt more than your life, and the way will be clear.”

  Ramses considered each of the three men’s positions. Shaanar was uncertain, eager not to displease; Ahmeni wanted to keep the country as a sanctuary, turning his back on what was happening outside; Ahsha had a broad perspective on the situation and did not try to deny how serious it was.

  Other worries nagged at him: had Moses been caught in the upheaval? Ahsha had searched high and low for him, to no avail. His agents had nothing to offer. If his Hebrew friend had found his way out of Egypt, he would have headed either for Libya, the lands of Edom and Moab, or else for Canaan or Syria. In calmer times, he would have been spotted by now. As it was, if Moses was still alive, discovering his whereabouts would be a stroke of luck.

  Ramses left the palace and went to call on his generals. His only concern must be getting his army ready to leave as soon as possible.

  FOUR

  Shaanar pulled the two wooden bolts locking the door to his State Department office, then checked the windows to make sure no one was outside in the courtyard. He had cautiously ordered the guard in the outer office to the far end of the hallway.

  “No one can hear us,” he told Ahsha.

  “Still, we could have met somewhere a bit more private.”

  “It has to look as if we’re working night and day for national security. Ramses has made unexcused absences grounds for immediate firing. We’re at war, my dear Ahsha!”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s obvious the king has already made up his mind. You’ve convinced him!”

  “I hope so, but let’s be cautious. You know how unpredictable Ramses is.”

  “Our little game was perfect. My brother thought I was unsure and didn’t dare commit myself for fear of displeasing him. You, on the other hand, were firm and decisive, making me look even more spineless. How could Ramses suspect that we’re in league?”

  Satisfied, Shaanar filled two cups with a white wine from the town of Imau, famous for its vineyards.

  The secretary of state’s decor formed a marked contrast to the stark simplicity of the Pharaoh’s office. It was full of chairs with lotus-blossom fabric, brocaded cushions, bronze-footed plant stands, murals of waterfowl-hunting scenes, and, most notably, vases from all over the world—Libya, Syria, Babylon, Crete, Rhodes, Greece, and Asia. Shaanar loved vases and had paid dearly for most of the unique pieces in his office. His passion only continued to grow, and his collection was overflowing his villas at Thebes, Memphis, and Pi-Ramses.

  At first the new capital had seemed like another unbearable triumph for Ramses, but it had turned out to be a godsend, bringing Shaanar closer geographically to his Hittite backers,
as well as to the lands where his prized vases were crafted. Seeing, touching his treasures, recalling their exact provenance, was a source of inexpressible pleasure.

  “Ahmeni worries me,” confessed Ahsha. “He’s sharp . . .”

  “Ahmeni is an imbecile, a weakling who clings to Ramses’ tunic. He sees and hears only what serves his purpose.”

  “He did speak out against me, though.”

  “The miserable little scribe thinks that Egypt is the only country in the world, that we can hide behind our fortresses, close our borders, and keep out every possible enemy. He’s dead set against the military, convinced that the only chance of peace is in isolationism. A clash between the two of you was inevitable, but it can only help us.”

  “Ahmeni is Ramses’ closest adviser,” objected Ahsha.

  “In peacetime, yes; but the Hittites have declared war, and your reasoning was forceful. And don’t forget Tuya and Nefertari!”

  “Are they in favor of war?”

  “They hate the idea, but the queens of Egypt have always been staunch fighters for their country; some have gone to remarkable lengths to safeguard the Two Lands. Remember how the noblewomen of Thebes reorganized the army and sent it to clear the Hyksos invaders out of the Delta? My revered mother and the enchanting Nefertari will be no exception to the rule. They’ll urge Ramses to go on the offensive.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” Ahsha sipped at the fruity, full-bodied wine; Shaanar guzzled his.

  The prince, no matter how expensively dressed, never seemed as well turned out as the diplomat.

  “I know I’m right!” he said heartily. “Look, you’re the head of our spy network, one of Ramses’ oldest friends, the only man he trusts on foreign policy. He’s bound to listen to you!”

  Ahsha nodded.

  “We’re nearing our goal,” Shaanar continued, with growing excitement. “Ramses will be killed in battle or else come home defeated and be forced to step down. In either case, I’ll look like the only one who can negotiate with the Hittites and save Egypt from disaster.”