Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  “What a marvel . . . and one of a kind!”

  “Reasonable, too.”

  “Have my steward settle with you.” He lowered his voice. “And there’s no telling what the message from my Hittite friends is worth.”

  “Ah, Sir Prince! They’re more firmly behind you than ever. They already consider you Ramses’ successor.”

  On the one hand, Shaanar was using Ahsha to mislead Ramses; on the other, he was making plans for his future thanks to Raia, the Hittite go-between. Ahsha was unaware of Raia’s role, just as Raia was of Ahsha’s. Shaanar was the grand master, moving the game pieces and sealing his secret allies off from each other.

  The only unknown was a daunting one: the Hittites.

  Piecing together Ahsha’s intelligence reports and the information Raia would provide, Shaanar would eventually form a clear picture without taking undue risks.

  “How far-reaching is the offensive, Raia?”

  “Hittite commandos have led deadly raids in central Syria, southern Syria, the Phoenician coast, and the province of Amurru, to terrorize the natives. The boldest stroke so far was wiping out the Abode of the Lion and destroying Seti’s marker, which resulted in unhoped-for reversals of allegiance among local princelings.”

  “Are Phoenicia and Palestine under Hittite control now?”

  “Even better, they’re up in arms against Ramses! The local leaders have occupied the fortresses and forced Egyptian troops out. Pharaoh has no idea he’s about to run into a wave of resistance that will sap his strength on the way north. As soon as Ramses’ losses are serious enough, the Hittite army will swoop down and destroy him. That will be your chance, Shaanar; you’ll take over and forge a lasting alliance with the victors.”

  Raia’s predictions were markedly different from Ahsha’s. In either scenario, Shaanar became Pharaoh, replacing the dead or defeated Ramses. Yet Raia saw him ending up as the Hittites’ vassal, whereas in Ahsha’s version he took control of their empire. Everything would depend on the magnitude of Ramses’ defeat and the damage he inflicted upon the Hittite army. It would be a close call, but still, it might work, and his primary goal remained the throne of Egypt. From that base, further conquests could be planned in time.

  “How have the trade centers reacted?”

  “As usual, they’re siding with whoever looks stronger at the moment. Aleppo, Damascus, Palmyra, and the Phoenician ports have already gone over to Muwattali.”

  “Bad news for our economy,” Shaanar said with a frown.

  “Not at all! The Hittites are the world’s greatest warriors, but not as strong on trade. They’re counting on you to help them develop the international market . . . and share in the profits. Don’t forget I’m a merchant. I mean to stay in Egypt and keep on prospering. The Hittites will bring us the stability we need.”

  “You’ll head my Treasury Department, Raia.”

  “We’ll both make our fortune, God willing. The war will last only a time. The trick is to stay on the sidelines and gather the windfalls.”

  The beer was delicious, the garden shade refreshing.

  “My brother’s activities worry me,” confided Shaanar.

  The merchant grew somber. “What is he up to?”

  “Constantly prowling the bases, pumping up his soldiers. Before long he’ll have them believing they’re invincible!”

  “What else?”

  “The foundries are turning out weapons day and night.”

  Raia tugged at his goatee. “Not to worry. He’s so far behind the Hittites that he’ll never catch up. And morale will plummet the moment the troops see battle. The Hittites will send them packing, mark my word.”

  “You may be underestimating our army.”

  “If you’ve ever watched a Hittite attack, you understand why brave men tremble at the very thought.”

  “I can name one who won’t.”

  “Ramses?”

  “No, the captain of his bodyguard, a hulking Sard named Serramanna. A pirate, no less, who’s won the Pharaoh’s trust.”

  “I know him by reputation. Why single him out?”

  “Because Ramses has put him in charge of an elite regiment, in large part mercenaries. He may turn them all into swashbucklers! I shudder to think what they might do in battle.”

  “A pirate and a mercenary . . . surely he can be bought?”

  “That’s just the trouble. He’s grown devoted to Ramses and guards him like a faithful old watchdog. A dog’s love is one thing no riches can buy.”

  “Then he can be eliminated.”

  “I’ve considered it, my dear fellow, but it’s preferable not to try anything too sudden or violent. Serramanna is ruthless and extremely wary. He’s fought off other attempts on his life, and even if we succeeded, Ramses would be hot on our trail.”

  “Do you see another option?”

  “Yes. We need to find some way to sideline Serramanna without implicating ourselves.”

  “I know how to stay out of trouble, Sir Prince. One possibility does occur to me . . .”

  “It has to be foolproof. The Sard has a nose for danger.”

  “I’ll make sure that he’s out of the way.”

  “It will be a blow to Ramses. There’s a bonus in it for you, Raia.”

  The merchant rubbed his hands together. “I have more good news, Sir Prince. Do you know how Egyptian troops stationed across the border communicate with Pi-Ramses?”

  “Relay riders, signals, and carrier pigeons.”

  “But when trouble is brewing, only the birds can be used. And the army’s main supplier is no incorruptible like Serramanna; I got him to name his price. It will be easy for me to destroy outgoing messages and intercept or switch the incoming ones. Without their knowing it, the army’s communications system will be in complete disarray.”

  “Excellent initiative, Raia. But don’t forget to keep finding me vases like this one.”

  SEVEN

  Serramanna took a dim view of the war. He had left the pirate’s life behind to head Ramses’ personal guard detachment, and by now was accustomed to Egypt, his splendid residence, and the local beauties that brightened his leisure hours. Lilia, his current flame, was the best to date. Their last bout of lovemaking had left him exhausted—unthinkable for a Sard!

  He cursed the circumstances that would take him away from what he considered a charmed life, even though keeping the Pharaoh safe was no easy job. The young monarch consistently ignored his pleas for caution. But Ramses was a great king, and Serramanna admired him. If keeping him on the throne meant spilling some Hittite blood, then spill it he would. He even hoped his own sword might slit the throat of Muwattali, whose soldiers called him the “Great Chief.” The Sard snorted: a “great chief” leading a pack of bloodthirsty savages! Once his mission was accomplished, Serramanna would wax his mustache and return to his amorous conquests.

  When Ramses had put him in charge of an elite detachment, entrusted with dangerous missions, Serramanna had felt a reinvigorating surge of pride. Since the Lord of the Two Lands demonstrated such confidence in him, the Sard would make sure it was well placed. His training program had already weeded out the underqualified and overfed; he would keep only the toughest soldiers, who could fight one against ten and suffer multiple wounds without complaint.

  No one knew exactly when the army was marching out, but Serramanna’s instincts told him it would be soon. The atmosphere in the barracks was tense. At the palace, the high command met more and more frequently. Ramses was often closeted with Ahsha, his intelligence chief.

  Rumors swirled though the capital: the revolt was spreading like wildfire, prominent Egyptian loyalists had been executed in Phoenicia and Palestine. Yet the messages arriving by carrier pigeon maintained that the fortresses were holding strong and thwarting enemy attacks.

  Pacifying Canaan should present no problem. Ramses would probably decide to continue northward, toward the province of Amurru and on to Syria, where the inevitable confrontation with the
Hittite army would come. According to army intelligence, the commando troops had now withdrawn from southern Syria.

  Serramanna was not afraid of the Hittites. In spite of their deadly reputation, he was itching for a fight with the barbarians. He’d mow down as many as he could before they ran off with their tails between their legs.

  There was one item he must take care of before he left for the fields of glory, however. It was a short walk from the palace to the craftsmen’s workshops close by the storehouses. The maze of streets buzzed with activity as cabinetmakers, garment workers, sandal makers plied their trade. A bit farther on, toward the docks, stood the Hebrew brickmakers’ humble dwellings.

  The giant’s arrival caused a stir among the workers and their families. In Moses, the Hebrews had lost an outstanding leader, who had defended them against all forms of authoritarianism and restored their pride. The sudden appearance of a well-known figure like the Sard did not augur well.

  Serramanna nabbed a fleeing boy by the kilt.

  “Stop wiggling and tell me where Abner the brickmaker lives.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you know what’s good for you . . .”

  The boy registered the threat and started talking. He even agreed to show Serramanna the way to Abner’s house, where they found the brickmaker huddled beneath some covers in one corner of the main room.

  “Come along with me,” ordered the security chief.

  “You can’t make me.”

  “What are you afraid of, man?”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear.”

  “Please leave me be.”

  “The king is asking to see you.”

  Abner clung to his covers until the Sard was forced to lift him with one hand and set him on the back of a donkey that calmly made its way back to the royal palace.

  Abner was terrified.

  Prostrated before the Pharaoh, he dared not meet his gaze.

  “I’m not satisfied with the inquest into Sary’s death,” said the king. “I want to know what really happened, and I think you can tell me, Abner.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m only a humble brickmaker . . .”

  “Moses is charged with killing my sister’s husband. If he admits to the crime, he should face the punishment. But why on earth would he do it?”

  Abner had hoped that no one would question his own role in the affair too closely. He should have known that Ramses would refuse to believe the worst of his old friend Moses.

  “He must have gone mad, Your Majesty.”

  “And you must take me for a fool, Abner.”

  “Majesty!” he gasped.

  “There was no love lost between you and Sary.”

  “That’s hearsay.”

  “No, I have sworn statements. Get up, Abner.”

  Trembling, the Hebrew rose hesitantly. He hung his head, unable to meet Ramses’ gaze.

  “Are you a coward, Abner?”

  “A simple brickmaker who wants to live in peace, Your Majesty—that’s what I am.”

  “Wise men don’t believe in chance. What was your role in this tragedy?”

  Abner knew he should stick to his story, but the Pharaoh’s deep voice broke through his defenses. “Moses was a hero to the Hebrews. We all respected him. Sary was our overseer, and he resented the challenge to his authority.”

  “Did Sary mistreat you?”

  Abner muttered a few incomprehensible words.

  “Speak up,” the king demanded.

  “Sary”—he cleared his throat—“Sary was not a good man, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, I’m aware that he’d become abusive and dishonest.”

  Abner was reassured enough to continue. “Sary threatened me and demanded a kickback.”

  “Extortion. So that was his game! Why did you give in to him?”

  “I was afraid, Your Majesty. So afraid! Sary would have beaten me, taken everything.”

  “Why didn’t you file a grievance?”

  “Sary had connections with the police. No one dared cross him.”

  “No one but Moses.”

  “Just look where it got him!”

  “With your help, Abner.”

  The brickmaker wished he could burrow underground, away from this powerful man who seemed to tap directly into his thoughts.

  “You confided in Moses, didn’t you?”

  “Moses was a good man, a brave man.”

  “Out with it!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I told him about my trouble with Sary.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He agreed to help me.”

  “How?”

  “Ordering Sary to leave me alone, I suppose. He never told me exactly.”

  “Stick to the facts.”

  “I was at home after work when Sary showed up that night, mad as a hornet. ‘Miserable Hebrew cur!’ he was shouting. ‘I told you to keep your mouth shut!’ He struck me. I put my hands over my face and tried to stay clear of him. Then Moses came running in. They struggled, and Sary went down. If Moses hadn’t been there, I would have been the one who ended up dead.”

  “In other words, it was self-defense. Thanks to your testimony, Abner, Moses could be cleared of the charges against him and regain his place in Egyptian society.”

  “I had no idea . . .”

  “Why didn’t you come forward, Abner?”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Of what? Sary is dead. Was there anyone else who threatened you?”

  “Uh, no . . .”

  “What has you so worried, then?”

  “The courts, the police . . .”

  “Lying under oath is a grave offense, Abner. But perhaps you don’t believe that Osiris will weigh our souls in the next world.”

  The Hebrew bit his lips.

  “You didn’t speak up,” continued Ramses, “because you were afraid of calling attention to yourself. You didn’t care about helping Moses, the man who saved your life.”

  “Your Majesty!”

  “The truth is, Abner, that you wanted to keep a low profile because you’ve been demanding kickbacks, too. Serramanna had a little talk with some of the brickmakers junior to you. The way you exploit them is shameful.”

  The Hebrew knelt before the king.

  “I find them work, Your Majesty. It’s only a sort of commission.”

  “You’re only a petty crook, Abner, but you’re worth a great deal to me, because you could clear Moses’ name.”

  “You mean you’re letting me go?”

  “Serramanna will have a scribe take your sworn statement. Make sure you include every detail. And let this be the last I hear of you, Abner.”

  EIGHT

  The Bald One, a dignitary of the House of Life at Heliopolis, inspected every bit of food the local suppliers brought him. He painstakingly examined each piece of fruit, each vegetable, each fish. The farmers and fishermen feared yet respected him, for he paid them fairly; still, they realized they would never attain the comfortable position of official purveyor, since he refused to play favorites, relying instead on his high standards. Every item he selected to be blessed and placed on the altars, then redistributed to the community, must be perfect.

  Once his selections were made, the Bald One routed them toward the House of Life’s kitchens, called the “pure place,” reflecting the strict cleanliness in which it was maintained. The priest relied on frequent unannounced inspections, sometimes followed by a wave of demotions.

  Now it was time for a routine check of the dried and salted fish. Only he and the steward in charge of the storeroom knew how to work the wooden latch.

  The latch had been tampered with.

  Stunned, he pushed open the door. Inside it was silent and dark as ever.

  He entered the room uneasily, but sensed no one else around. Somewhat relieved, he stopped to inspect each earthenware vessel, fingering the tags that spelled out the contents. Then, near the door, h
e found an empty spot.

  A vessel had been stolen.

  Every noblewoman’s dream was to become a member of the queen’s household. Yet when Nefertari chose her attendants, she was more concerned with ability and maturity than fortune and rank. A number of her appointments had been unconventional, like Ramses’ choices when forming his government.

  Thus the enviable position of wardrobe mistress had gone to a pretty brunette from a rather ordinary Memphis family. Her role was caring for Nefertari’s favorite garments; though her wardrobe was extensive, the queen was particularly fond of soft old dresses and a worn shawl she liked to drape around her shoulders at nightfall. While it protected her from the chill night air, it also reminded her of the day she first met Ramses, how she had worn it that evening gazing at the stars and thinking of the brash yet gentle young prince, how she had kept him at arm’s length for months, unable to admit even to herself that the attraction was mutual.

  Like the other ladies-in-waiting, the wardrobe mistress virtually worshiped her sovereign. Nefertari managed her household smoothly, gave orders with a smile. She considered even the humblest task worth doing well, demanded that all be done promptly and thoroughly. When a problem arose, she preferred to discuss it directly with the parties involved, giving their explanations serious consideration. Like Tuya before her, she won the admiration of all around her. It was little wonder that she had grown so close to Tuya.

  The wardrobe mistress was airing garments, sprinkling them with flower essences, and carefully repacking them in the wooden chests and cupboards. As dusk gathered, she went to fetch the queen’s old shawl for her to wear as she performed her nightly devotions.

  The young woman’s face drained of color. The shawl was gone.

  “Impossible,” she thought. “I must be looking in the wrong place.” She tried another chest, then another, then the cupboards.

  Still nothing.

  The wardrobe mistress questioned the other ladies-in-waiting, the queen’s hairdresser, the laundry maids . . . None of them had the slightest idea.

  Nefertari’s favorite shawl had been stolen.