He needed to get word to Shaanar as quickly as possible, but without arousing the slightest suspicion.
Raia delivered precious vases to several Pi-Ramses notables. Shaanar, a regular customer, was on the list. In due time, the Syrian arrived at the prince’s house and spoke to his steward.
“His Royal Highness is not at home.”
“Ah . . . Will he be back soon?”
“I have no idea.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t wait for his return. I have urgent business in Memphis, and events of the last few days have prevented me from leaving town. Would you be so good as to see that the prince receives this vase?”
“Of course.”
“Please give him my best regards. Oh, I forgot . . . the price is rather high, but a vase of this quality is hard to find. We’ll settle up when I return.”
Raia called on three more customers before embarking on his southward journey. He knew what he had to do: get in touch with the chief of the Egyptian operation, once he managed to shake off anyone Serramanna might have set on his trail.
The secretary of state’s personal scribe ran into Shaanar’s office, forgetting his wig and the dignity of his position, to his colleagues’ horror. Self-control was the mark of the literate man, they believed.
Shaanar was not to be found.
The scribe was in a terrible bind. Should he wait until the secretary returned or go over his head and alert the king? Though a reprimand was certain to follow, the scribe opted for the latter course.
Flabbergasted, his colleagues watched him leave the building without explanation, still without his wig, and jump into the official chariot, which would carry him to the palace within minutes.
Ahmeni greeted the scribe, quickly discerning the reason for his agitation.
The letter, transmitted by diplomatic representatives in southern Syria, bore the seal of Muwattali, emperor of the Hittites.
“The secretary of state is out of the office. I thought it would be better if—”
“You did right. You needn’t fear any repercussions. The king will appreciate your initiative.”
Ahmeni tested the weight of the missive, a wooden tablet wrapped in cloth and sealed in several places with typical Hittite dried mud stamps.
He closed his eyes, hoping that it was only a bad dream. When he opened them again, the message was still there, burning into his fingers.
His throat was dry as he walked very slowly toward Ramses’ office. After spending a day with the secretary of agriculture and irrigation officials, the king was alone, preparing a decree aimed at improving the upkeep of the dikes.
“You look upset, Ahmeni.”
The secretary stiffly presented him with the official-looking document direct from the emperor of the Hatti.
“The declaration of war,” murmured Ramses.
THIRTY-FOUR
Without haste, Ramses broke the seals, tore off the protective cloth, and scanned the message.
Once again, Ahmeni closed his eyes, savoring the final moments before all hell broke loose, before the Pharaoh dictated his reply, marking Egypt’s entry into war with Hatti.
“Are you sober as ever, Ahmeni?”
The question surprised him. “You know I am.”
“Too bad. We could drink some special wine to mark the occasion. Read this.”
Ahmeni deciphered the tablet:
From the emperor of the Hatti, Muwattali, to his brother Ramses, Son of Light, Pharaoh of Egypt,
I hope this finds you well and that your mother, Tuya, your wife, Nefertari, and your children are also in good health. Your reputation continues to grow, along with your wife’s, and your valor is known throughout Hatti.
How are your horses? Here, we set great store by ours. They are splendid animals, the most wonderful in all creation.
May the gods protect Hatti and the Twin Kingdoms.
A broad smile lit Ahmeni’s face. “This is wonderful!”
“I’m not so sure,” said Ramses.
“But it’s a typical diplomatic overture, nothing like a declaration of war.”
“Only Ahsha can tell us that.”
“You have no faith at all in Muwattali . . .”
“His power is based on a combination of brutality and deception. Diplomacy is only one more weapon in his stockpile; he’s not really seeking peace.”
“What if he’s sick of war? The way you took back Canaan and Amurru showed him that he has to take the Egyptian army seriously.”
“Oh, he does. That’s why he’s preparing for the conflict and trying to ease our fears with a few friendly gestures. Homer sees no hope of lasting peace, and he ought to know.”
“What if he’s wrong and Muwattali has changed? What if the merchant class has won out over the generals? Puduhepa’s letter points in that direction.”
“The military fuels the economy, and the Hittites are warriors at heart. The more widespread the conflict, the bigger the profits for the merchants.”
“So you think war is inevitable.”
“I hope I’m wrong. If Ahsha can find no sign of maneuvers, rearmament, or mobilization of troops, I’ll feel better.”
Ahmeni was troubled. A preposterous idea had just occurred to him. “Ahsha’s official mission is to reorganize the defense systems in our protectorates. To get the information you need, won’t he have to penetrate Hittite territory?”
“He will,” admitted Ramses.
“That’s madness! If he’s ever captured . . .”
“Ahsha was free to turn down the assignment.”
“He’s our friend, Ramses, we were boys together. He’s as loyal to you as I am, he—”
“I know, Ahmeni. That’s why I’m relying on his courage.”
“He has no chance whatever of coming back alive! Even if he can get a few messages back to us, they’re bound to catch him.”
For the first time, the scribe found himself questioning the Pharaoh’s judgment. He was right, of course, to put the good of Egypt before all else. But he was sacrificing a friend, a man in a million, who deserved to live to one hundred ten, the age of the sages.
“I need to dictate a reply, Ahmeni. Let’s assure our brother the Emperor of Hatti that all is well in my house and my stables.”
Nibbling on an apple, Shaanar studied the vase his steward had just brought in to him.
“You’re sure it was Raia himself who delivered it?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Tell me exactly what he said to you.”
“He mentioned the high price of the vase and said you could work things out when he gets back to town.”
“Bring me another apple and see that no one disturbs me.”
“About the companion you requested for tonight . . .”
“Reschedule her.”
Shaanar’s eyes were riveted on the vase. A copy, he thought—a rough and ugly copy, so bad that it couldn’t be bartered for a pair of shoddy sandals, so bad that it wouldn’t play in the provinces.
Raia’s meaning was clear. The spy had been exposed and was warning the prince to avoid all contact. His grand strategy was falling to pieces. Without being able to contact the Hittite, how could he function?
Still, he could see two bright spots.
First, at this crucial juncture, the Hittites would be unwilling to dismantle their Egypt spy network. They’d simply remove Raia, and his replacement would contact Shaanar.
Second, Ahsha was in an ideal position. He would further disrupt defenses in the protectorates, make valuable contacts with the enemy, and smooth the way for him.
And he mustn’t forget Ofir, whose magic still had a chance to work against Ramses.
All in all, Raia’s slip couldn’t have been that serious. The Syrian would soon find his way out of this predicament.
A warm golden light bathed the temples of Pi-Ramses. After celebrating the evening rituals, Ramses and Nefertari met at the temple of Amon, which was still under construction. The capita
l grew more beautiful by the day, a happy and peaceful place. The royal pair walked in the temple gardens. Perseas, sycamores, and jojoba trees grew among clumps of oleander. Gardeners were watering the young trees, talking gently to them. It was common knowledge that plants needed encouragement as well as water.
“What do you think of our letters from the north?” asked Ramses.
“They worry me,” replied Nefertari. “The Hittites are dangling the prospect of a lasting peace, trying to confuse us.”
“I was hoping you’d see it in a more positive light.”
“Hiding the facts as I see them would be a disservice to our love. I owe you the truth, even when storm clouds are brewing.”
“It’s hard to imagine a war, to think of so many young lives lost, when we’re here in this peaceful garden.”
“We have nowhere to hide, Ramses.”
“Will my army be able to withstand Hittite attacks? There are too many veterans trying to coast toward retirement, too many inexperienced young soldiers, too many mercenaries focused on their wage . . . the enemy knows our weaknesses.”
“Don’t we know theirs?”
“Our intelligence-gathering network in their territory is still in its infancy. We thought Muwattali would stay within the boundaries my father established when he spared Kadesh. But Muwattali is bent on expanding his empire, and there’s no sweeter prize than Egypt.”
“Has Ahsha submitted any reports yet?”
“I haven’t heard a word from him.”
“You fear for his life, don’t you?”
“I’ve sent him behind enemy lines. Ahmeni can’t forgive me.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“I can’t lie to you, Nefertari. It was my idea, not Ahsha’s.”
“He could have said no.”
“A pharaoh’s request isn’t easy to refuse.”
“Still, Ahsha knows his own mind.”
“If he’s captured, I’ll be responsible. If he dies . . .”
“Ahsha lives for Egypt, just as you do. He must hope his mission will save our country.”
“Yes, that’s what we discussed before he left. We talked the whole night long about pinpointing Hittite strategy. If he can do it, we may be able to prevent an invasion.”
“What if you attack first?”
“I’m considering it . . . but not without Ahsha’s input.”
“The letters from Hattusa show that the emperor and his camp are trying to buy time, probably because of internal disagreements. A first strike may be the opportunity you’re seeking.”
Nefertari’s melodious voice belied the iron will of a true queen. Like Tuya, she stood by her husband, feeding his strength.
“I think about Moses constantly,” Ramses confessed. “How would he act now that Egypt is under threat? Despite his religious obsessions, I’m convinced that he’d join our fight to save the land of the pharaohs.”
The sun had set. Nefertari began to shiver. “I miss my old shawl,” she sighed. “It kept me so warm.”
THIRTY-FIVE
The region called Midian was out of the way, east of the Gulf of Aqaba and south of Edom. The peace and quiet was broken only occasionally by nomads roaming the Sinai peninsula, and the Midianites liked it that way. They had been shepherds for centuries, sidestepping the squabbles so prevalent among Arab tribes in the land of Moab.
An old priest, father of seven daughters, reigned over the small community that staunchly bore their hard existence in a rugged climate.
The old man was treating a lamb’s hoof when he heard a strange sound in the distance.
“Horses,” he thought. “Horses and chariots, traveling fast.”
An Egyptian army patrol . . . yet they never wasted their time here. The Midianites possessed no weapons, nor did they care to fight. With their meager standard of living, they paid no taxes; they knew better than to harbor Bedouin pillagers, lest the desert patrol destroy their oasis and drive them off.
When the Egyptian chariots reached their camp, the women and children huddled inside their primitive tents. The elder rose and faced the intruders.
“Who are you?” barked the young officer in charge of the patrol.
“The priest of Midian.”
“You’re the leader of this sorry bunch?”
“I am.”
“What do you live on out here?”
“We raise sheep, gather dates, drink water from our well. We grow a few vegetables.”
“Have any weapons?”
“It’s not our custom.”
“I’ve been ordered to search your tents.”
“Do as you please. We have nothing to hide.”
“We’ve heard that you’re harboring Bedouin outlaws.”
“We’d be mad to provoke the wrath of Pharaoh. Remote and barren as this land may be, it’s our home. Breaking the law would be our downfall.”
“Wise words, old man, but I’ll still have to do the search.”
“I told you, search all you like. Before you do, may we invite you to share our meal? One of my daughters has just given birth to a son. We’ll eat some lamb and drink palm wine in celebration.”
The Egyptian officer was caught off guard. “It’s not in the regulations . . .”
“While your soldiers go through the tents, come sit by the fire.”
His panic-stricken flock huddled around the holy man, who reassured them and urged them to cooperate with the soldiers.
The officer accepted the invitation to sit down and share in the humble feast. The mother was still resting, but the father, an old, hunched, bearded man with chiseled features, rocked the newborn in his arms.
“A shepherd who married late,” explained the elder. “This child will be the light of his old age.”
The soldiers uncovered no hidden weapons or outlaws.
“Continue to observe the law,” the officer told the priest of Midian, “and your people will be safe from harm.”
The chariots disappeared into the distance.
When the sand settled, the new father stood up. The officer would have been surprised to see how the stunted shepherd transformed into a broad-shouldered giant.
“We’re safe, Moses,” the holy man said to his son-in-law. “They won’t be back.”
On the West Bank of Thebes, architects, stone carvers, and sculptors were hard at work on the Ramesseum, the Pharaoh’s Eternal Temple. In accordance with the law of Ma’at, the naos or inner sanctum was built first, to house the hidden god whose form would never be revealed to mortal men. A huge quantity of blocks of sandstone, gray granite, and basalt had been stockpiled at the highly organized construction site. The walls of the hypostyle hall, with its great rows of columns, were already going up. Work on the adjacent palace complex was also under way. As Ramses planned, his Temple of Millions of Years would be a fabled monument where his father’s memory was honored for all time, his wife and his mother celebrated. It would be the wellspring of the invisible energy without which he could never rule in justice.
Nebu, the high priest of Karnak, was smiling. When the tired, arthritic old man had been put in charge of the largest and richest of Egyptian temples, the court viewed it as a purely political move. Nebu would totter toward senility doing Pharaoh’s bidding, only to be replaced by another equally aged and servile royal pawn.
No one had expected that Nebu would age like granite. Bald and slow-moving, he ruled his vast domain with a steady hand. He was loyal to his king, unlike certain of his predecessors who had challenged the Pharaoh’s authority. Serving Ramses was Nebu’s fountain of youth.
But today Nebu gave no thought to Karnak, the immense temple, the huge staff, the hierarchy, the estates, the villages. He bent over the acacia Ramses had planted on the future site of his Eternal Temple, in the second year of his reign. The high priest of Karnak had promised the monarch he would care for the sapling, which was now a thriving young tree. In this magical spot, it grew much faster than normal.
�
�How is my acacia doing, Nebu?”
The high priest looked slowly around. “Your Majesty! No one told me you were expected.”
“A surprise visit. Your staff couldn’t have known. This tree is magnificent.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. You seem to have endowed it with your strength. It will be my privilege to nurture it; you’ll live to see it full-grown.”
“I wanted to see Thebes again, my tomb in the Valley of the Kings, my Eternal Temple, and this acacia before the storm breaks.”
“Is war inevitable, Your Majesty?”
“The Hittites are trying to pretend it isn’t, but who can trust their attempts at conciliation?”
“Everything is in order at Karnak, I can assure you. Its riches belong to you, and under my stewardship the estates have prospered.”
“How’s your health, Nebu?”
“As long as the blood flows through my heart, I’ll serve you. Nevertheless, if Your Majesty wanted to replace me, I wouldn’t argue. Sitting beside the sacred lake and watching the swallows is what I’d most like to do.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not prepared to let you go yet.”
“My legs are giving out, my hearing isn’t what it used to be, my bones ache . . .”
“But your mind is as quick as a falcon on the wing and as straight as an ibis. Keep up the good work, Nebu, and take care of this acacia. If I don’t come back, you’ll be its sole support.”
“You’ll come back. You have to come back.”
Ramses visited the work site, recalling his days with the quarrymen at Aswan. He was building Egypt day by day, but it was the stoneworkers who raised the temples and Houses of Eternity. They were what kept the Two Lands from sinking into the anarchy and baseness inherent in human nature. Worshiping the power of light and following the law of Ma’at meant setting humanity on the straight and narrow path, overcoming the tendency toward selfishness and vanity.
The monarch’s dream was becoming reality. The Temple of Millions of Years was taking shape, the awesome source of magical energy was beginning to function on its own, fueled by the hieroglyphs and images carved into the temple walls. Walking through the rooms that had been roughed out, praying in the future chapels, Ramses drew on the ka produced by this merging of heaven and earth. He drew on it not for his personal ends, but to gather the strength for his coming confrontation with the Hittites. He would chase away the storm clouds gathering over his sacred land.
Ramses, Volume III Page 18
