Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  “What if Megiddo’s defenses are too strong for us?”

  “First let’s try to take the fort. We can’t go into battle with a defeatist attitude.”

  Ramses’ forcefulness energized the soldiers. A crowd of volunteers pressed forward, archers vied for a place on the chariots that would ring the fort, which stood there like a silent and menacing beast.

  Hoisting the long ladders over their shoulders, the columns of foot soldiers advanced warily toward the fortifications. Once the ladders went up, Syrian archers could be seen on the highest tower, pulling their bowstrings. None of them had the time to take aim; Ramses and the Egyptian marksmen shot them down. A second wave of Syrian archers stepped up, all dark goatees and headbands around their flowing hair. This time a few of them launched their arrows, but not one Egyptian was hit. Again, the king and his sharpshooters mowed them down.

  “They aren’t putting up much of a fight,” the old general remarked to Setau. “You’d swear these people have never seen combat before.”

  “Good,” Setau replied curtly. “It will make less work for me. I may even be able to devote a whole night to my wife. These battles are wearing me out.”

  The foot soldiers had just begun scaling the walls when some fifty women suddenly appeared.

  The Egyptians did not customarily massacre women and children. They were instead taken prisoner and brought back to Egypt, where they were put to work on great agricultural estates. Their names were changed and they were fully assimilated into society.

  The old general was confounded. “I thought I’d seen everything. The creatures must be mad!”

  Two women hoisted a brazier to the edge of the wall and dumped it on the climbing soldiers. Burning coals bounced off them as they gripped the rungs of the ladder. The archers’ shafts pierced the women’s eyes and they fell over the edge. The same fate befell the next group of women that came forward with a fresh brazier. One bold girl put hot coals in her slingshot, wound up, and let them fly.

  One of the coals hit the old general in the thigh. He went down slapping his reddening skin.

  “Don’t touch it,” cautioned Setau. “Hold still and let me take care of it.”

  Lifting his kilt, the snake charmer urinated on the burn. His patient knew as well as he that urine was more sanitary than river or well water and cleansed open wounds without risk of infection. Setau hailed a stretcher to carry him off to the hospital tent.

  The foot soldiers overran the ramparts, now completely undefended. A few minutes later, the main gate of the fortress of Megiddo swung open.

  Inside, only a few women and terror-stricken children remained.

  “The Syrians decided to put all their manpower into keeping us from ever reaching the fortress,” Ahsha summed up.

  “It might have worked,” assessed Ramses.

  “They don’t know you.”

  “Who can say he does, my friend?”

  A dozen soldiers were looting the fortress, full of alabaster vessels and silver statuettes. A roar from the lion broke up their party.

  “Place those men under arrest,” decreed Ramses. “See that the living quarters are purified and fumigated.”

  The king named a governor to remain behind with a garrison of his own selection.

  There was several weeks’ worth of food already in storage, and men had already been sent out to hunt game and round up livestock.

  Ramses, Ahsha, and the new governor established a plan for the local economy. Because of the shifting allegiances in the region, farmers had stopped working their fields. Before the week was out, they began to view the Egyptian occupation as a stabilizing force.

  The king had several small outposts built to the north of Megiddo, each with room for a handful of lookouts and horses. In case of Hittite attack, the main fortress would be forewarned.

  From the main watchtower, Ramses surveyed the unfamiliar scenery. Being so far from the Nile, the palm groves, the broad, green fields, the desert, was painful. In the hush of evening, Nefertari would be celebrating the evening rituals. How he missed her!

  Ahsha interrupted the king’s meditation.

  “As you asked, I’ve held discussions with the officers and representatives from the enlisted men.”

  “What’s the consensus?”

  “They have complete trust in you, but they long to go home.”

  “Do you like Syria, Ahsha?”

  “It’s a dangerous country, full of pitfalls. Hard to understand unless you spend a great deal of time here.”

  “Is this what it’s like in Hatti?”

  “It’s even wilder and harsher. In the Anatolian highlands, the winters are freezing.”

  “Do you think it will appeal to me?”

  “You are Egypt, Ramses. No other land will find a place in your heart.”

  “The province of Amurru is close by now.”

  “So is the enemy.”

  “Do you think the Hittite army has invaded Amurru?”

  “We have no reliable information.”

  “I asked your opinion.”

  “I think we’ll find them waiting for us there.”

  NINETEEN

  Stretching along the sea between the coastal villages of Tyre and Byblos, the province of Amurru lay to the east of Mount Hermon and the trade center of Damascus. It was the northernmost Egyptian protectorate, bordering the Hittite sphere of influence.

  Far from home now, the Pharaoh’s soldiers marched with a heavy tread. Against his generals’ recommendations, Ramses had opted not to follow the coastal route, taking the high road instead. The rocky trail was proving difficult for man and beast alike. There was no more chatting or laughter; armed confrontation with the Hittites was too close for comfort. Their enemy’s fierce reputation was enough to frighten the most courageous soldier.

  Ahsha contended that reclaiming Amurru would not be an overt act of war in diplomatic terms, but where would the bloodletting end? The troops had been hopeful that the king would be satisfied with Megiddo and head for home. But after the briefest of stops in Syria, Ramses was back on the march.

  A scout came galloping to the head of the column and reined hard in front of the Pharaoh.

  “They’re straight ahead, at the end of the trail, between the cliffs and the sea.”

  “How many?”

  “Several hundred men armed with spears and bows, hiding in the brush. They’re watching the shore road, so we’ll catch them unawares.”

  “Hittites?”

  “No, Your Majesty. They’re local men.”

  Ramses was puzzled. What kind of trap was this?

  “Show me the place.”

  The general heading the chariot division intervened. “Pharaoh must not expose himself to such a risk.”

  Ramses’ eyes blazed.

  “I need to see for myself and make a decision.”

  The king rode out after the scout. Eventually the two men dismounted and walked down a steep path strewn with loose boulders.

  Ramses froze.

  The sea, the trail alongside it, the thick brush, the enemy lying in ambush . . . nowhere to conceal the Hittites’ massed troops here. Yet opposite stood a cliff that blocked his view. Dozens of chariots could be massed behind it, ready to spring into action.

  Ramses had his soldiers’ lives in his hands. His army was what kept Egypt safe from harm.

  “Let’s move into position,” he murmured.

  The Prince of Amurru’s foot soldiers had been lulled by the long wait for the first Egyptians to appear along the shore road.

  Prince Benteshina was applying the strategy devised by his Hittite “observers.” They doubted Ramses would ever make it this far north, given the number of traps laid for him along the way. And even if he did, he would be so battle-weary that one last ambush would make quick work of him.

  A paunchy despot of fifty with a handsome black mustache, Benteshina had no love for the Hittites, but he was afraid of them. Amurru was so close to their sphere o
f influence that he would be a fool not to stay on their good side. Yes, he was a vassal of Egypt and paid tribute to the Pharaoh, but the Hittites had other plans for him. He was supposed to join the uprising and deal the final blow to what remained of the Egyptian army.

  His throat was dry. The prince, in the shelter of a cave, ordered his valet to go and fetch some cool wine.

  The servant advanced only a few steps.

  “Your Highness . . . Look!”

  “Get going, man. I need a drink.”

  “Look, on the cliffs! Hundreds, thousands of Egyptians!”

  Benteshina rose in astonishment. The servant was right.

  A tall man wearing a crown of blue and a gold-trimmed kilt advanced down the path. At his side loped an enormous lion.

  One by one, then in unison, the Lebanese soldiers turned to take in the spectacle that had greeted their leader. Those napping were shaken to attention.

  “Come out, Benteshina, wherever you are,” Ramses called in his deep and powerful voice.

  Trembling, the Prince of Amurru approached the Pharaoh.

  “You are my vassal, are you not?”

  “Your Majesty, I have always served Egypt faithfully.”

  “Then why is your army lying in ambush for me?”

  “We thought . . . for the safety of our province . . .”

  A dull roar reached his ears. Ramses looked toward the cliffs that he suspected were concealing Hittite chariots. This was the moment of truth.

  “You’re a traitor, Benteshina.”

  “No, Your Majesty! The Hittites forced me to obey them. If I refused, they threatened to kill me and massacre my people. We’ve been hoping you’d come to our rescue.”

  “Where are the Hittites?”

  “They’re gone. They doubted that your army would ever reach here, with everything you’d been through.”

  “What’s that strange noise I’m hearing?”

  “The breakers crashing against the cliffs.”

  “Your men were prepared to attack me. My army is ready to fight.”

  Benteshina knelt down. “How sad it is, Your Majesty, to descend into the silent kingdom of death! To swoon and to sleep forever! The voices of those who depart are heard no more, for there are no doors or windows. No ray of sunlight pierces it, no breeze arrives to refresh the dead. No one wishes to enter the land of the dead! I beg Pharaoh’s pardon, that my people may be spared and that I may continue to serve you!”

  Seeing their master prostrate, the Lebanese soldiers threw down their arms.

  When Ramses bent to help Benteshina up, his soldiers and their Egyptian counterparts cheered with joy.

  Shaanar’s head was swimming as he left Ahmeni’s office.

  The outcome of Ramses’ incredibly swift campaign was that he had reclaimed the province of Amurru, wresting it from direct Hittite control. How had this inexperienced young sovereign, leading his first foray into hostile territory, navigated a host of obstacles and pulled off such a stunning victory?

  It was years since Shaanar had put any faith in the gods, but it was clear to him that Ramses had magical powers, perhaps a legacy from Seti, handed down in some secret ritual. Some force was certainly guiding him.

  Shaanar composed a memo to Ahmeni. In his official capacity as secretary of state, he planned to depart for Memphis and personally announce this remarkable news to the notables there.

  “Where is your sorcerer?” Shaanar asked his sister, Dolora.

  The tall and languid brunette was sheltering Lita from the prince’s rage as Akhenaton’s fragile, blond great-granddaughter trembled with fear.

  “He’s busy.”

  “I demand to see him at once.”

  “He needs to concentrate. He’s working on another way to use Nefertari’s shawl.”

  “For all the good it does us! Ramses has recaptured every fort from here to Amurru, bringing the protectorates back in line. Our losses have been minimal, and not a scratch on our darling little brother! The soldiers have decided he’s a god.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ahmeni is an excellent source of information. In fact, I’m sure he errs on the side of caution. Canaan, Amurru, and southern Syria are no longer under Hittite control. Count on Ramses to make them a well-fortified base and a buffer zone the enemy will no longer dare to cross. This campaign was supposed to be our little brother’s downfall; instead, it’s reinforced his defenses,” fumed Shaanar.

  Lita’s blank stare was fixed on him.

  “We aren’t one step closer to the throne, my lady. Perhaps you and your wizard friend are even toying with me?”

  Shaanar ripped the top of Lita’s dress from her shapely bosom. Her chest was scored with deep burns.

  The lost princess began to sob, clutching at Dolora.

  “Don’t torture the girl, Shaanar. She and Ofir still represent our best hope.”

  “Hope!” he spat. “Is that all they have to offer?”

  “No, Your Highness,” came a low and measured voice. “There’s so much more that I can give you.”

  Shaanar wheeled around.

  The sorcerer’s hawk face once again made its impression. His dark green gaze seemed fully capable of flattening any opponent within seconds.

  “I’m unhappy with our progress, Ofir.”

  “Lita and I have done our utmost, as you can see for yourself. Ramses is no ordinary target, and weakening his defenses will take time, as I already explained. Until the last scrap of Nefertari’s shawl has been burned, the spell will be incomplete. Unfortunately, if we proceed too quickly, Lita will die. That would compromise our legitimate claim to the throne.”

  “How long, Ofir?”

  “Lita is fragile because she’s an excellent medium. Between sessions, Dolora and I tend her wounds. They need to heal before my next attempt to break through the force field.”

  “Couldn’t you experiment with someone else?”

  “Lita is no mere medium. She’s the future Queen of Egypt—your future wife. She’s been training for years to serve this purpose. She’s determined, and no one could take her place.”

  “All right. But the longer we wait, the more Ramses grows in stature.”

  “We can snuff him out in an instant.”

  “My brother has unusual powers. Exceptional powers.”

  “I know that, Your Highness. That’s why I’m drawing on the deepest recesses of my magic. Haste would ruin everything. Still, perhaps . . .”

  Shaanar hung on Ofir’s every word.

  “In the meantime, I could try something tailored to the situation. War heroes tend to let down their guard. Even Ramses may have a moment of weakness. We’ll turn it to our advantage.”

  TWENTY

  Amurru was celebrating. Prince Benteshina was determined to show how greatly he honored Ramses and how much he valued the province’s newfound peace. Solemn declarations of allegiance had been drawn up on papyrus. The prince agreed to donate a supply of cedar flagstaffs that would be erected in front of Egypt’s great temples. These, he vowed, would be shipped without delay. Likewise, the Lebanese soldiers extended their warmest hospitality to their Egyptian counterparts. Wine flowed like water; women gave ample demonstrations of their gratitude.

  Setau and Lotus saw through the forced gaiety, but they were content to take part in the festivities. They had the good fortune to meet a local wise man who was also a snake lover. Although the northern species were less spectacular than those found in Egypt, they enjoyed talking shop with him and picked up a few trade secrets.

  Ramses remained formal and sober, despite his host’s obsequious attentions. Benteshina concluded that as the world’s most powerful ruler, Pharaoh must naturally have a great deal on his mind.

  But Ahsha knew he was far more pensive than usual.

  At the end of a banquet for the high command of the two armies, Ramses had retired alone to the balcony of the palace Benteshina had lent him.

  The king was staring hard at the northern
sky.

  “Excuse me for intruding on your thoughts.”

  “What can I do for you, Ahsha?”

  “You don’t seem too thrilled with the prince’s hospitality.”

  “Once a traitor, always a traitor. But I’m following your advice to stick with the known evil.”

  “What has you so preoccupied? I know it’s not Benteshina.”

  “So you’re a mind reader now?”

  “You’re looking toward Kadesh.”

  “Kadesh, the pride of the Hittites, the symbol of their dominance in northern Syria, of the unrelenting threat to Egypt. Yes, I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “Attacking Kadesh would mean trespassing on the Hittite sphere of influence. That would require a formal declaration of war.”

  “Did the Hittites declare their intentions before they stirred up trouble in our protectorates?”

  “No, but that was a covert action. Attacking Kadesh would require us to cross the border between our territory and their empire. Full-scale war, in other words—a conflict that could last months and end up destroying us.”

  “We’re ready.”

  “We aren’t, Ramses. Don’t let success go to your head.”

  “You aren’t giving me much credit.”

  “You’ve won a string of real victories, but over weak opponents. Benteshina folded before the first shot was fired. It won’t be like that with the Hittites. What’s more, your men are tired and homesick. Heading into a major conflict at this point could only lead to disaster.”

  “Is our army as weak as all that?”

  “The men were physically and mentally prepared to put out some fires in our own protectorates. They aren’t prepared to attack the greatest military power in the world.”

  “Won’t waiting be just as dangerous?”

  “The battle of Kadesh will take place, if you so will it. Just be sure you’re ready.”

  “I’ll make my decision tonight.”

  The festivities were over.

  The order was given at dawn and spread quickly through the ranks: report for duty. Two hours later, Ramses arrived on the scene, dressed in full battle regalia, his two faithful horses hitched to his chariot.