Ramses felt that he carried within him all the dynasties that had gone before, the line of pharaohs who had created Egypt in the image of the cosmos.
For a moment, the twenty-seven-year-old monarch stumbled under the burden. Then he felt the past more clearly—not an unbearable weight but a guiding force. In this Eternal Temple, his ancestors were showing him the way.
Raia delivered vases to the upper crust of Memphis. If the men tailing him interrogated his employees, they would learn that the Syrian merchant was continuing to supply his select clientele. He was careful to display his usual sales tactics, consisting of direct contacts, showings, and heavy doses of flattery.
Then he headed for the famous harem at Merur, which he had last visited two years earlier. He could just picture Ahmeni and Serramanna’s henchmen scratching their heads in wonder. They would think he must have accomplices in this venerable institution. They would waste time and energy barking up the wrong tree.
Raia misled them further with a brief stay in a village near the harem. He held long discussions with local people who were complete strangers to him. To the men on his trail, though, they would obviously be involved in the spy ring.
Finally, the merchant ended his little game and went back to Memphis to check on his shipments of preserved meats destined for Pi-Ramses and Thebes.
Serramanna ranted.
“This spy is laughing in our faces! He knows we’re having him followed, and he’s deliberately misleading us.”
“Calm down,” Ahmeni recommended. “Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.”
“What kind of mistake?”
“The messages he gets from Hatti must be hidden in his food shipments or inside the vases. My guess is that it’s the vases, since most of them come from southern Syria and the Near East.”
“Let’s have a look at them, then!”
“That would be a shot in the dark. What we really need to find out is how he transmits the messages and what network he uses. Given the situation, he at least needs to let the Hittites know we suspect him. Let’s be ready when he ships anything at all to Syria.”
“I have another idea,” Serramanna confessed.
“Legal, I hope?”
“If I promise not to make waves and furnish you with a legitimate reason to arrest Raia, can I go ahead?”
“How much time will you need?”
“I’ll be done by tomorrow.”
THIRTY-SIX
In Bubastis, the festival of the Intoxication of Bastet was being celebrated. She was the cat goddess, the goddess of pleasure, and for a week young men and maidens tasted the first stirrings of love. There was revelry and drinking. In the country, boys competed in wrestling tournaments to show off their strength and win the lovely spectators with their fighting spirit.
Raia’s employees had been given two days off. The thin, stooped Syrian who ran the warehouse had checked the dozen or so moderately valued vases and bolted the door. He was not averse to joining in the fun and trying his luck with the ladies, even the more mature variety. Raia was a demanding boss. When he offered you a break, it was best to take it.
Humming as he pictured the pleasures awaiting him, the warehouse man headed down the narrow street leading to a square where merrymakers were already gathering.
A meaty hand grabbed him by the hair, dragging him backward, while its mate stifled his cry of pain.
“Hold still,” Serramanna ordered, “or I’ll strangle you.”
Terrified, the Syrian let the giant steer him into a storeroom piled with wicker baskets.
“How long have you been working for Raia?”
“Four years.”
“Is the pay good?”
“Not very.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“More or less.”
“Raia is going to be arrested,” Serramanna told him flatly. “He’ll be sentenced to death as a spy for the Hittites. His accomplices will be next.”
“But I only work for him!”
“Perjury is a serious offense.”
“I’m a warehouse worker, not a spy.”
“It was wrong of you to claim he was here in Bubastis when he was in Pi-Ramses committing a murder.”
“A murder . . . no, that’s not possible . . . I didn’t know!”
“Now you do. Will you give another statement?”
“Yes . . . no, he’ll kill me!”
“You leave me no choice, my friend. If you won’t agree to come clean, I’ll smash your head against the wall.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I’ve killed more than my share of your kind, you lily-livered—”
“Raia will get me!”
“You’ll never see him again.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
“All right, then. He paid me to say he was here in Bubastis.”
“Do you know how to write?”
“Not too well.”
“We’re going to the public scribe’s office together. He’ll take your statement. Then you can have your night on the town.”
With her sparkling green eyes and delicately painted lips, Iset the Fair was young, attractive, and vivacious as ever. The winter evening was cool, so she slipped a shawl around her shoulders.
The wind blew hard through the outskirts of Thebes, yet Iset made her way toward the meeting place specified in the disturbing note she had lately received: “The reed hut, just like Memphis. On the West Bank, across from the temple of Luxor, at the edge of a wheat field.”
His handwriting . . . there was no mistaking it. But why the curious invitation? Why the sudden reminder of their past closeness?
Iset walked along an irrigation ditch, saw the field of wheat gleaming gold in the sunset, and finally spied the hut. She was about to enter it when a gust of wind made the hem of her dress catch on a thorn bush.
As she bent over to keep the fine fabric from tearing, a hand suddenly freed it and lifted her upright.
“You’re as lovely as ever, Iset. Thank you for coming.”
“Your message surprised me, to say the least.”
“I wanted to see you outside the palace.”
The king fascinated her. His athletic body, noble bearing, and powerful gaze elicited an instant response, as always. She had never stopped loving him, although she knew there was no competing with Nefertari. The Great Royal Wife had captured Ramses’ heart; it belonged to her entirely. Iset the Fair was neither jealous nor envious. She accepted her fate and was proud she had given the king a son. Already, Kha’s star shone brightly.
Yes, she had been hurt when Ramses married Nefertari, but her resentment at the time was only a twisted form of love. Iset had refused to take part in the plots against him. She would never betray the man who had given her so much happiness, filling her heart and her body with his light.
“Why the secrecy . . . and why the same setting as our first nights together?”
“It was Nefertari’s idea.”
“Nefertari? I don’t understand.”
“She wants us to have another son to carry on the royal line, just in case anything happens to Kha.”
Iset staggered and fell into Ramses’ arms.
“This must be a dream,” she murmured, “a marvelous dream. You’re not the king, I’m not Iset, we’re not in Thebes, we aren’t going to try and make a brother for Kha. It’s only a dream, but I want to live it to the fullest and keep it fresh for all eternity.”
Ramses removed his tunic and laid it on the ground. Iset was feverish as he undressed her.
Then her body went wild with joy as it created a child for Ramses, a blinding flash she had never expected to feel again.
On the boat taking him back to Pi-Ramses, the king sat alone, staring at the Nile. Nefertari’s face never left him. Yes, Iset’s love was true and her attraction intact, yet for her he did not have the feeling that had swept over him the moment he met Nefertari, a feeling imperious as the sun and vast as
the desert, a love that grew stronger with each passing day. The same energy that built the Ramesseum and his capital went into his passion for his wife.
The king had neglected to tell Iset about Nefertari’s true demands: that Iset become his secondary wife in more than name only, giving him several more offspring, since his vigor and overpowering personality might prove too much for some of his potential successors. There had been a serious precedent. Pepi II had outlived all his children, and when he died, aged over one hundred, he left a void that developed into a crisis. If Ramses lived a long life, what would befall the kingdom if Kha or Meritamon, for whatever reason, were unable to succeed him?
It was impossible for a pharaoh to lead the life of an ordinary man. Even his love life and his family were at the service of the royal line.
But there was Nefertari, his ideal among women, and the sublime love she offered him. Ramses was torn, wishing neither to neglect his duties nor to have any other lover, even Iset the Fair.
His answer came from the Nile, the river that gave new life each year through the inundation, with boundless generosity.
The court was assembled in the great audience chamber at Pi-Ramses, and the rumors were flying. Following his father’s example, Ramses was rather sparing with such ceremonies. He preferred small work sessions with his advisers to pointless group discussions with courtiers whose only preoccupation was currying favor.
When Pharaoh appeared, many a heart skipped a beat at the sight of the staff he grasped in his right hand. It indicated that Ramses was about to make a decree immediately carrying the force of law. The staff symbolized the Word; the cord twined around it was the link with reality the king would bring into being when he announced the terms of a decision reached through careful deliberation.
The room was charged with emotion. No one doubted for a moment that Ramses was about to declare war on the Hittites. An ambassador would be sent to Hatti to deliver Pharaoh’s message to the emperor, specifying when the hostilities were to begin.
“What I am about to say has the effect of a royal decree,” declared Ramses. “It will be engraved on stelae, the heralds will proclaim it in towns and villages, and every inhabitant of the Two Lands will be informed. From this day forward and until I draw my last breath, I will confer the status of ‘royal son’ or ‘royal daughter’ on children who will be educated in the palace and receive the same instruction as my son, Kha, and my daughter, Meritamon. There is no limit to how many may receive this honor, and from their ranks I may choose my successor at random.”
The crowd was amazed and delighted. Every father and mother secretly hoped their child would be among the lucky few. Some were already mentally drawing up the list of their progeny’s outstanding qualifications, the better to impress Ramses and Nefertari.
Ramses wrapped a large shawl around Nefertari’s shoulders. She was just recovering from a cold.
“It comes from the finest workshop in Sais. The high priestess herself wove it for you.”
The queen’s smile lit up the gloomy Delta sky.
“I would have loved to go south for the winter, but I know it’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry, Nefertari, but I have to stay here while the troops are being trained.”
“Iset will bear you another son, won’t she?”
“If the gods are willing.”
“Good. When do you see her again?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you promised . . .”
“I’ve just made a decree.”
“What does that have to do with Iset?”
“You’ll have your wish, Nefertari. We’ll end up with more than a hundred sons and daughters, and one of them will succeed me.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
I can prove Raia lied,” Serramanna reported enthusiastically.
Ahmeni sat stone-faced.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, yes,” replied the king’s private secretary.
The Sard understood why Ahmeni was so unresponsive. Once again, the scribe was operating on only two or three hours of sleep.
“I have in my possession the sworn statement of the man who heads Raia’s Bubastis warehouse, clearly indicating that the merchant was not in that city on the day of Lilia’s murder and that he paid his employee to lie for him.”
“Congratulations, Serramanna. Nice work. Is your warehouse man still in one piece?”
“He left the scribe’s office eager to join in the local festivities—the Feast of the Intoxication of Bastet, I believe. I think he was hoping to try his luck with the fair sex.”
“Nice work. I mean it.”
“You don’t get it. We’ve destroyed Raia’s alibi. He can finally be brought in and interrogated!”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible? What’s standing in our way?”
“Raia shook off the men we had tailing him and disappeared down a back street in Memphis.”
With Shaanar alerted and out of danger, it was time for Raia to make his break. Since he was sure Ahmeni would be examining every shipment to southern Syria, even if it was only preserved meat, he could no longer communicate with the Hittites. Sending a message through one of the members of his network seemed risky; it was too easy to turn in a fugitive sought by Pharaoh’s police. The only solution, Raia realized the moment he knew he was under suspicion, was to contact the head of the Egyptian network, despite strict orders to the contrary.
Losing the policemen on his trail had been no easy task. Thanks to an evening visitation from the Storm God, he sneaked into a workshop and out the back door.
Walking on the rooftops, he reached the spy chief’s residence at the height of the storm, as lightning flashed and heavy winds whipped up clouds of dust in the deserted streets.
The house was plunged into darkness and looked abandoned. Raia’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom as he painstakingly made his way through the main room in total silence. He heard a muffled moan.
The merchant advanced, uneasy now.
There came another cry of intense but stifled pain. A ray of light was visible at the bottom of a nearby door.
Had the chief been caught? Was he being tortured? No, it wasn’t possible. No one but Raia even knew his identity.
The door flew open and torchlight blinded the Syrian. He recoiled, shielding his eyes with his hands.
“Raia . . . what are you doing here?”
“Forgive me, Chief, but I had no alternative.”
The Syrian merchant had met his chief only once, at Muwattali’s court, but he made a lasting impression. Tall, thin, with prominent cheekbones, dark green eyes, he looked like a bird of prey.
Suddenly, Raia was afraid that Ofir would kill him on the spot. But the tall Libyan remained eerily calm.
In the laboratory beyond, a young blond woman continued to moan.
“I was preparing her for an experiment,” explained Ofir, shutting the door.
The darkened room alarmed Raia. Black magic, it looked like to him.
“We can speak privately here, though you realize this is strictly against regulations.”
“I know, but I was about to be arrested by Serramanna’s henchmen.”
“They’re still searching Memphis for you, I imagine.”
“Yes, but I shook them.”
“If they followed you here, they’ll break down the door before long. In that case, I’ll be forced to kill you and claim I was attacked by a burglar.”
Dolora, dozing away upstairs under the influence of a sleeping draught, would confirm Ofir’s story.
“I know what I’m doing, Chief. They’ve lost my trail.”
“Let’s hope so, Raia. How did this happen?”
“A run of bad luck.”
“Or perhaps a combination of mistakes?”
The Syrian told his story, filling in every detail. No use in lying to Ofir, who could read men’s thoughts!
A long silence followed Raia’s explanation. Ofir was
thinking before handing down his verdict.
“You were unlucky, it’s true; but we have to face the fact that the network is doomed.”
“But my stores, my stock, the fortune I made . . .”
“You’ll get them back once Hatti has conquered Egypt.”
“May the gods of war grant it.”
“Have you any doubt that we’ll win?”
“None at all! The Egyptian army is unprepared. According to the latest reports, the rearmament effort is still lagging. The commanding officers dread facing the Hittites in combat, and a positive attitude is half the battle.”
“Beware of overconfidence,” cautioned Ofir. “We’ll need every available tactic to bring about Ramses’ downfall.”
“Will you keep using Shaanar?”
“Does the Pharaoh suspect him?”
“He doesn’t trust his brother, but he can’t suppose that Shaanar is in league with us. Who could imagine that a member of the Egyptian royal family—a secretary of state—would be such a traitor? I still consider Shaanar a crucial pawn in our game. By the way, how do you plan to replace me?”
“That’s not for you to know, Raia.”
“You’ll have to write a report on me, Ofir.”
“It will be full of praise. You’ve served Hatti faithfully. The emperor will certainly be grateful.”
“What will my next mission be?”
“I’ll submit a proposal to Muwattali. He’ll decide.”
“This business about Aton . . . is it serious?”
“I couldn’t care less about any religion, but there are advantages to leading a congregation. Since I have them eating out of my hand, why not take advantage of their gullibility?”
“The girl in your workshop . . .”
Ramses, Volume III Page 19
