“I know.” The Sard took another swallow of wine and dabbed at his curling mustache. “Your Majesty, I tried to warn you,” he said sententiously. “When Ahmeni arrested me, I was preparing to make a certain number of revelations I feared might displease you.”
“We’re listening, Serramanna.”
“The man who wanted me out of the way, Your Majesty, was Romay, your new steward. When the scorpion turned up in your stateroom,* I suspected Setau, but I was wrong. Your friend cared for me when I was sick, and I found out then what manner of man he is. There’s not a dishonest bone in his body. Romay, on the other hand, is a sneak. Who else would have had the opportunity to steal Nefertari’s shawl? And he must have been responsible for the dried fish disappearing from the House of Life as well.”
“But what was his motive?”
“I have no idea.”
“Ahmeni insists I have nothing to fear from Romay.”
“Ahmeni isn’t infallible,” the Sard retorted sharply. “He was wrong about me, and he’s making a mistake about your chief steward as well.”
“I’ll question Romay myself,” announced Ramses. “Do you still want to take his part, Ahmeni?”
The scribe shook his head to say no.
“Any more revelations, Serramanna?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Concerning whom?”
“Your friend Moses. There’s no room for doubt about him. Since I’m still in charge of your security, I might as well be the one to tell you.”
The grim expression on Ramses’ face would have been enough to silence most men. Steeling himself with another gulp of wine, Serramanna forged ahead.
“To me, Moses is a turncoat and an instigator. His goal was to lead his people and found an independent Hebrew state in the Delta. He may still have some friendship for you, but in the end, if he’s still alive, he’ll be your most ruthless enemy.”
Ahmeni was prepared for an outburst from Ramses, but the king remained strangely calm.
“Is this guesswork or the result of an investigation?”
“As thorough an investigation as I could manage. Furthermore, I learned that Moses had several contacts with a foreigner posing as an architect. This man came to encourage him, even offer his aid. Your Hebrew friend was at the heart of a plot against Egypt.”
“Have you identified this mysterious architect?”
“Ahmeni didn’t leave me time.”
“Let’s put that behind us, Serramanna. You were treated unfairly, but now we need to join forces.”
Ahmeni and Serramanna eyed each other reluctantly. After a long pause, they shook hands, and Ahmeni thought he might never write again.
“I can’t think of a worse scenario,” the king resumed. “Moses is a stubborn man; if your information is correct, Serramanna, he’ll never give up. But today who knows what ideal he worships? Does he even know himself? Before we accuse him of high treason, we need to find him.”
“This so-called architect seems highly suspect,” said Ahsha, intrigued. “I’d like to know who’s behind him.”
“We need to shed light on a number of questionable areas before reaching any conclusions,” recommended Ahmeni.
Ramses laid a hand on the Sard’s broad shoulder. “Your frankness is a rare quality, Serramanna. Don’t ever lose it.”
In the week that followed Ramses’ triumphant return, Shaanar, as secretary of state, had nothing but good news to report to his brother. The Hittites had lodged no official protest and seemed to be taking the situation lying down. The Egyptian army’s show of force made them decide to keep observing the pact of nonaggression imposed by Seti.
Before Ahsha left on his tour of the protectorates, he was the guest of honor at one of Shaanar’s famous banquets. Seated to the right of his host, the young diplomat was enjoying the entertainment—three dancing girls, naked except for colored wisps of cloth around their waists that did nothing to hide the jet-black triangle below. They moved gracefully to the changing rhythms their pretty accompanists played on a harp, three flutes, and an oboe.
“Which one would you like for the night, Ahsha?” Shaanar inquired unctuously.
“This may shock you, Shaanar, but I’ve spent an exhausting week with a sex-starved widow. All I want tonight is twelve hours’ sleep before I head out for Canaan and Amurru.”
“Thanks to the music and my talkative guests, you and I can say anything we want.”
“I no longer work for the State Department, but I don’t suppose you’re disappointed with my new mission.”
“It couldn’t have turned out better if we’d planned it ourselves.”
“Oh yes, Shaanar. Ramses could have been killed, maimed, or dishonored.”
“I’ve always known he was a born warrior, but I had no idea that he was such a strategist. When you think about it, this was only a relative victory. Besides taking back the provinces, what has he accomplished? The Hittites’ failure to respond has me puzzled.”
“They’re taking stock of the situation. Once the shock has passed, they’ll strike back.”
“How do you plan to proceed, Ahsha?”
“By giving me carte blanche in the protectorates, Ramses has played into our hands. While I’m supposedly reorganizing our defensive system, I’ll really be dismantling it bit by bit.”
“What if you’re exposed?”
“I’ve already persuaded Ramses to keep the princes of Canaan and Amurru where they are. They’re both crooked characters who’ll sell themselves to the highest bidder. It will be easy for me to nudge them into the Hittite camp, eliminating the buffer Ramses is always talking about.”
“Be careful, Ahsha. You’re playing for very high stakes.”
“We’ll never win if we aren’t prepared to take risks. The hardest part will be anticipating the Hittites’ strategy. Fortunately, that’s my specialty.”
An immense empire stretching from Nubia to Anatolia, an empire that he would rule—Shaanar could scarcely conceive of it, but his dream was little by little becoming reality. Ramses’ choice of friends was his downfall. There was Moses, a murderer and instigator; Ahsha, a traitor; and Setau, a limited eccentric. That left Ahmeni, loyal and straight as an arrow but without ambition.
“We’ll have to drag Ramses into a war he can’t win,” continued Ahsha. “He’ll be the shame of Egypt, and you’ll appear as the savior. That’s our mandate, and we mustn’t forget you.”
“Has Ramses given you any other instructions?”
“Yes, he wants me to find Moses for him. You know how greatly he values friendship. Even if the Sard thinks the Hebrew is guilty of high treason, Pharaoh won’t believe it until he hears it straight from Moses’ own mouth.”
“Has anyone found a trace of him?”
“No definite sightings. Either he’s died of thirst in the desert, or else he’s hiding out with one of the tribes roaming the Sinai and Negev deserts. There are hundreds of them. But if he turns up in Canaan or Amurru, I’ll catch him in the end.”
“If he turns up as the head of a rebel faction, he could be of use to us.”
“One thing bothers me,” revealed Ahsha. “According to Serramanna, Moses was in contact with a mysterious stranger.”
“Here, in Pi-Ramses?”
“Yes, here.”
“Does anyone know who this man was?”
“Only that he looked like a foreigner and was passing himself off as an architect.”
Shaanar tried to hide his alarm. Ofir had been spotted! The sorcerer remained an unknown quantity, of course, a mere shadow, but he was becoming a potential threat. Even the hint of a connection to him would be fatal, since practicing black magic against the Pharaoh was a capital offense.
“Ramses is adamant about finding this stranger,” added Ahsha.
“Probably some illegal Hebrew immigrant. He could be the one who led Moses into exile. I’ll wager that both of them are gone for good.”
“I agree. Ahmeni is pursuing the matter
, though, and he’ll give it his best try, especially after his fiasco with Serramanna.”
“Do you think Serramanna will forgive him?”
“He seems more likely to hold a grudge.”
“They say he was framed?” Shaanar ventured.
“Some Syrian paid a prostitute to plant the evidence, apparently. Later he killed her to keep her quiet. It’s also certain that a Syrian forged Serramanna’s handwriting on the tablets that were supposed to prove he was a Hittite spy. A clever ploy, though rather too easy to see through.”
Shaanar was finding it difficult to stay cool. “Which means . . .” he said blandly.
“Which means there’s a flourishing spy ring here in Egypt.”
Raia, the Syrian merchant, Shaanar’s key contact, was also in danger. And Ahsha, his other major partner, was intent on tracking Raia down!
“I’ll have the State Department pursue the investigation, if you like,” he offered smoothly.
“Ahmeni and I will take care of it. It’s better to move cautiously so as not to alarm our prey.”
Shaanar took a healthy swallow of white Delta wine. Ahsha would never know what a valuable service he was providing.
“I can tell you about one major figure that’s in for some serious trouble,” the young diplomat told him, amused.
“Who?”
“Romay, that big man who runs the palace with an iron hand. Serramanna has been watching him, and he’s convinced that Romay should be in prison.”
Shaanar felt punch-drunk, like a fighter who’d suffered one blow too many, yet he managed a blithe smile.
He’d have to move quickly, very quickly, to stay out of the gathering storm.
TWENTY-FIVE
The end of the annual inundation was fast approaching. The peasants had refurbished the plows they would hitch to a pair of oxen and use to dig shallow furrows in the loose river silt. Since this year’s flood level had been ideal, neither too high nor too low, the irrigation experts had plenty of water in reserve for the dry season. The gods smiled on Ramses. Once again this year, the granaries were bursting and the Pharaoh’s people would eat their fill.
Romay, the palace steward, could not appreciate the mild late October weather, cooled by an occasional squall. The more he fretted, the more he ate. With his troubles growing by leaps and bounds, Romay’s increasing girth made it difficult to keep up his frantic pace. From time to time he was forced to sit down and catch his breath.
Serramanna was keeping him under constant surveillance. When he couldn’t tail Romay personally, he sent one of his brawny henchmen. They were easy enough to pick out in the palace corridors or around the market stalls where the chief steward still insisted on selecting all the ingredients for the royal kitchens.
Once Romay would have taken pleasure in composing a new recipe from lotus root, bitter lupine boiled in several changes of water, zucchini, garbanzo beans, garlic, almonds, and tidbits of grilled perch; now even this delightful prospect failed to make him forget he was a hunted man.
Since his acquittal, the giant bodyguard had been overstepping his bounds. But Romay could not protest. When your heart is heavy and your conscience troubled, peace of mind is a rare commodity.
Serramanna had a pirate’s patience, waiting to pounce on the first false move from the puffy, black-hearted steward. His instincts hadn’t failed him: for months he had suspected the man of spinelessness, the fatal flaw that leads to the worst betrayals. Although he had gained a high position, Romay had not proved immune to greed. He craved riches as well as the small measure of power he wielded.
The constant surveillance was taking its toll on the steward’s nerves. Eventually he’d crack under pressure, perhaps even come forward of his own accord.
As Serramanna expected, Romay hadn’t gone to the king with complaints about being watched. If he were innocent, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so, a fact the Sard stressed in his daily reports to Ramses.
After several days of this treatment, the bodyguard would ask his men to take over Romay’s surveillance, but remain out of sight. In his relief, Romay might rush to confide in his partner in crime—the one who had bribed him to steal in the first place.
The bodyguard reported to Ahmeni’s office well after nightfall. The secretary was putting away the day’s scrolls in a large sycamore cabinet.
“Anything new, Serramanna?”
“Not yet. Romay is tougher than I would have thought.”
“Are you still mad at me, Serramanna?”
“Well . . . what you put me through is hard to forget.”
“It would do no good to offer my apologies again, so let me offer you something better. Come have a look at the tax rolls with me.”
“Are you officially involving me in your investigation?”
“Exactly.”
“My anger is melting away like a bad dream. Let’s get going.”
The bureaucrats in charge of the Pi-Ramses tax rolls were so meticulous that it had taken them several months to reach the same production levels as the Memphis branch. Getting used to a new capital, making a record of properties and buildings, and identifying the owners and tenants all demanded a great deal of verification. That was why Ahmeni’s request, though classified as urgent, had taken so long to fulfill.
Serramanna noted that the director of the department, a thin, bald man over sixty, looked even more sickly than Ahmeni. His pasty complexion was proof that he was a stranger to sunshine and fresh air. The bureaucrat welcomed them with chilly formality and led them through a maze of stacked wooden tablets and pigeonholed papyrus scrolls.
“Thank you for seeing us at this late hour,” said Ahmeni.
“I guessed you’d require the strictest secrecy.”
“You were right.”
“I hope you don’t mind my admitting that your request made extra work for us, but we finally did identify the owner of the property in question.”
“Who is it?”
“A merchant from Memphis called Renouf.”
“Do you know his home address?”
“He lives in a villa south of the old town.”
Pedestrians scattered in every direction as Serramanna’s two-horse chariot sped through the streets. Ahmeni, feeling queasy, squeezed his eyes shut. The vehicle clattered on to the newly built bridge from Ramses’ capital to the old city of Avaris. The wheels creaked, the carriage rattled, but the chariot made it across.
It was a neighborhood where handsome villas set in elaborate gardens stood next to modest two-story houses. Some inhabitants, feeling the chill of the autumn evening, had lit a fire of kindling or dried mud.
“Here it is,” said Serramanna.
Ahmeni had trouble letting go of the leather strap he’d been clutching on the ride.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine, fine.”
“Let’s go, then! We may be able to wrap the investigation up tonight, if our man’s at home.”
Ahmeni clambered out and followed the Sard, weak-kneed.
Renouf’s doorman was sitting by the gateway in a rough brick wall trimmed with flowering vines. He was eating some bread and cheese.
“We’re here to see the merchant Renouf,” said Serramanna.
“He’s not at home.”
“Where can we find him?”
“He’s left for the south.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is there anyone here who could tell us?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Send for us as soon as he returns.”
“Why should I?”
Glowering, Serramanna grabbed the doorman under the arms and dragged him to his feet.
“Because we have orders from Pharaoh. And if you delay even one minute, you’ll answer to me.”
Shaanar was suffering from insomnia and heartburn. He needed to go to Memphis as soon as possible to catch up with Raia and confer with Ofir. The secretary of state co
uld not make a trip to the former capital without a valid reason; as it happened, there were several administrative matters requiring his attention in Memphis. It was therefore in the name of Pharaoh that Shaanar began an official voyage on a boat much slower than he would have liked.
Either Ofir would have to silence Romay, or else Shaanar would be forced to sever his ties with the sorcerer prematurely, before his spell was complete.
Shaanar was glad he’d kept his allies compartmentalized, a strategy that was paying off at present. A wily diplomat like Ahsha would hardly appreciate uncovering the prince’s links to a pro-Hittite spy network. A professional agent like Raia, convinced he was manipulating the Pharaoh’s brother, would surely be offended to find that Shaanar was only using the Hittites. As for Ofir, it was preferable that he remain ensconced in the occult.
Ahsha, Raia, Ofir. Three balls Shaanar could juggle in the air until his future was assured—providing they never collided.
On the first day of his stay in Memphis, Shaanar held audiences with the officials he needed to consult with; in the evening, he planned to give one of his famous banquets. He also asked his steward to send for Raia, who might be able to supply him with some new collectible vases.
As the sun went down in the prince’s garden, his guests drifted back into the mansion.
“The vase merchant is here,” announced his steward.
If he’d been a religious man, Shaanar would have thanked the gods. Feigning indifference, he headed toward the gatehouse.
The man who greeted him there was not Raia.
“Who are you?”
“The manager of Raia’s shop in Memphis.”
“Ah. The owner usually comes himself.”
“He’s left for Thebes and Elephantine to arrange for a shipment of fine victuals, but I do have some items that might interest you in the meantime.”
“Show me what you brought.”
Shaanar studied the vases. “I’ve seen better. Still, I’ll take these two, I suppose.”
“The price is very reasonable, Your Highness.”
Shaanar did the customary bargaining and let his steward pay for the vases. Returning to his guests, he smiled and chatted with practiced ease, though his mind was elsewhere.
Ramses, Volume III Page 13
