Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  The process of elimination, however, could take several months. The laboratory director was profoundly apologetic.

  “Lay all the ingredients out on a stone table and leave me alone in here,” demanded Ramses.

  The king focused his thoughts, then reached for the divining rod his father had given him. He had been very young when Seti showed him how to find water in the desert.

  Ramses held the rod over each ingredient. When it twitched, he set the substance aside. After rechecking his selections, he used the rod to determine the correct proportions.

  Gum of acacia, anise, the pulp of scored sycamore fruits and crabapples, copper, and particles of the magic stone went into the final formula.

  Carefully made up, Nefertari looked radiant. When Ramses entered the room, she was reading the famous story of Sinuhe the Sailor, in a version recorded by a particularly skillful scribe. She set down the scroll and melted into her husband’s arms. Their embrace was long and passionate, punctuated by the calls of hoopoes and nightingales, adrift on the scent of frankincense.

  “I found the magic stone of the goddess Hathor,” said Ramses, “and the laboratory at Karnak helped me devise a formula.”

  “Will the prescription work?”

  “I used my father’s divining rod to put the ingredients together. The secret has been lost for centuries.”

  “Tell me how you found the stone in Nubia.”

  “A creek with golden sands, where two cliffs meet . . . Abu Simbel, where I planned to build a temple. A place I’d forgotten. Abu Simbel, where I plan to make sure that our love lives forever.”

  The warmth of Ramses’ vibrant body restored the life that had been slowly ebbing from her.

  “An architect and a team of stonemasons are leaving for the site this afternoon,” the king continued. “The river cliffs will become twin temples, united for eternity, as you and I are.”

  “Am I going to see this wonder?”

  “Of course you are.”

  “May Pharaoh’s will be done.”

  “As it must, or I’m not worthy of the title.”

  Ramses and Nefertari crossed the Nile, heading toward Karnak. They performed their priestly duties in the hidden temple of Amon; then the queen prayed alone in Sekhmet’s chapel. The stone goddess, half lion, half woman, now seemed to smile on her.

  Pharaoh himself handed the Great Royal Wife the goblet containing the only possible antidote to the black magic working against her.

  The potion was warm and sweet tasting.

  Swooning, Nefertari lay down and closed her eyes. Ramses remained at her bedside through the endless night, as her fragile body became a battleground where Hathor’s magic clashed with the evil demons sucking the life from his queen.

  FORTY-SIX

  Haggard and wild-eyed, Ahmeni stumbled through a confused explanation.

  “Calm down,” the Queen Mother told him.

  “But Your Majesty, this is war!”

  “We’ve seen no official declaration.”

  “The generals are beside themselves, the barracks are in an uproar, and contradictory orders are flying in all directions.”

  “What’s the cause of all this confusion?”

  “I’m not sure, Your Majesty, but I’ve lost control of the situation. The military men won’t listen to me anymore.”

  Tuya summoned the chief ritualist and two palace hairdressers. To emphasize the sacred nature of her duties, they fitted her with a wig resembling a vulture carcass; the two wings crossed over her forehead and hung down to her shoulders. The female vulture was seen as an attentive mother, and this symbol endowed Tuya with the power to protect the Two Lands.

  Golden bangles adorned her wrists and ankles; around her neck she wore seven strands of semiprecious stones. In her long, tucked linen gown with a broad sash at the waist, she was the picture of supreme authority.

  “Come with me to the North Base,” she proposed.

  “No, don’t go there, Your Majesty! Wait until the situation’s calmer.”

  “Trouble has a way of not dying down on its own. We’d better hurry.”

  Pi-Ramses was abuzz with rumors and arguments. Some insisted the Hittites were approaching the Delta. Others could already describe the battles. Still others were preparing their flight to the south.

  No guard was posted at the North Base gate. The chariot carrying Ahmeni and the Queen Mother rode straight into the courtyard. Discipline had obviously broken down.

  The horses stopped dead in the center of the huge yard.

  A cavalry officer spied the Queen Mother and alerted his fellow officers, who summoned other soldiers. In less than ten minutes, hundreds of men were assembled to hear Tuya speak.

  Tuya, small and frail, in the midst of these armed and hulking men, capable of trampling her in seconds . . . Ahmeni trembled, fearing that the Queen Mother’s decision to intervene would prove suicidal. She should have stayed safe in the palace, guarded by Serramanna’s security forces. Perhaps reassuring words would ease the tension somewhat, provided that Tuya was diplomatic.

  The men fell silent.

  The Queen Mother surveyed them disdainfully. “A fine collection of cowards,” she said sharply, her voice ringing like thunder in Ahmeni’s ears. “Cowards and imbeciles, unfit to defend their country because they fall apart at the first rumor of war.”

  Ahmeni shut his eyes. Neither he nor Tuya would make it out of there alive.

  “Why insult us, Your Majesty?” asked a cavalry lieutenant.

  “I’m only describing what I see going on here. Is that an insult? Your behavior is foolish and indefensible. The officers are more to blame than the enlisted men. Who determines when we engage in war with the Hittites, if not Pharaoh, or, in his absence, myself?”

  The silence hung heavy. What the Queen Mother had to tell them would be no rumor. The fate of the entire nation depended upon it.

  “I have received no declaration of war from the Emperor of Hatti,” she affirmed.

  The men broke out in cheers. Tuya had never lied to them. An appreciative murmur began.

  Seti’s widow stood motionless in her chariot. Finally the soldiers realized there was more to come. Again, they fell silent.

  “I have no reason to believe, however, that the current truce will hold. In fact, it seems clear that our enemy would like nothing better than to force us into a decisive confrontation. Its outcome will depend on your efforts. When Ramses is back in the capital—and his return is near at hand—I want him to be proud of his army and confident of its ability to conquer the Hittites.”

  The cheers were even louder.

  Ahmeni opened his eyes, spellbound as the men were.

  The chariot began to move, and the crowd parted. The men were chanting the Queen Mother’s name.

  “Are we going back to the palace, Your Majesty?”

  “No, Ahmeni. I suppose there have been problems at the foundry, too?”

  The king’s private secretary lowered his eyes.

  With Tuya’s encouragement, Pi-Ramses was soon producing weapons at full capacity again: spears, bows, arrowheads, swords, armor, harnesses, and chariot parts. There was no longer any doubt that the conflict was imminent, but there was a new sense of urgency to make sure that Egypt was better equipped than Hatti.

  The Queen Mother visited the bases and spoke with both officers and enlisted men. She made a point of stopping to watch the chariots being assembled, with a kind word for the workmen.

  The capital had shed its mantle of fear and welcomed the prospect of combat.

  How soft it was, the elegant hand with long, incredibly slender fingers that Ramses kissed one by one before clasping them in his own hand, as if he could hold them forever. There was no part of Nefertari’s body that failed to move her husband. The gods may have set a heavy burden on his shoulders, but they had also given him the most sublime of women.

  “How are you this morning?”

  “Better, much better. I feel my blood mov
ing again.”

  “Would you like a ride in the country?”

  “I’ve been longing for one.”

  Ramses chose two old, very steady horses, and yoked them himself to his chariot. They rode at a leisurely pace along the West Bank of Thebes, following the irrigation channels.

  Nefertari drank in her fill of the sturdy palm trees and tender green of spring fields. Communing with the forces of nature, she willed the last traces of evil from her body. When she alit from the chariot and walked on the riverbank, her hair in the wind, Ramses knew that the goddess’s magic stone had saved the Great Royal Wife and that she would live to see the two temples at Abu Simbel, built to celebrate their eternal love.

  Lita managed a pathetic smile as Dolora, Ramses’ sister, removed the compress soaked in honey, acacia gum, and crabapple pulp. The burn marks had almost disappeared.

  “It hurts,” she moaned.

  “Your wounds are healing.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dolora. They won’t go away.”

  “You’re wrong. The treatment is proven.”

  “Ask Ofir to find another medium. I can’t go on.”

  “Thanks to you, we’ve almost driven a wedge between Nefertari and Ramses. Just hold on a while longer, and your trials will be over.”

  Lita gave up trying to convince Dolora. She was as much a fanatic as the Libyan sorcerer. Despite her superficial kindness, the king’s sister lived only for revenge. Hatred had crowded out all her other feelings.

  “All right,” the fragile medium promised.

  “I knew you’d be brave! Now rest before tonight’s session. Nani will bring in your dinner.”

  Nani, the only servant allowed into Lita’s room, was her last chance. When the girl appeared with a platter of fig puree and chunks of roast beef, Lita clutched at the sash of her dress.

  “Help me, Nani!”

  “What do you want?”

  “I have to get away from here.”

  The girl made a face. “It would be dangerous.”

  “Leave the door open for me.”

  “I’ll lose my job!”

  “Nani, I’m begging you!”

  “How much will you pay?”

  “My supporters have gold . . . all the gold you want.”

  “Ofir will come after me.”

  “The congregation will hide us.”

  “I want a house and a herd of dairy cattle.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Nani had already negotiated a good price for swiping Nefertari’s shawl, but she was greedy, and Lita was offering the moon.

  “When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as it’s dark.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Make it work, Nani. Don’t you want to be rich?”

  “It won’t be easy . . . I want twenty lengths of the finest linen, too.”

  “You have my word.”

  Since early that morning, Lita had been possessed by a vision: a woman of surpassing beauty, smiling and radiant, walked along the Nile, holding her hand out to a tall and powerful man.

  The vision told her that Ofir’s spell had failed and he was torturing her in vain.

  Serramanna and his men were scouring the neighborhood behind the School of Medicine, questioning every inhabitant. The colossal Sard showed them a drawing of Nani’s face and described in awful detail the penalties for lying. He needn’t have bothered, since the mere sight of him inspired cooperation. Unfortunately, the search had been unsuccessful so far.

  But Serramanna was stubborn, and his pirate’s instincts told him that he was closing in on his quarry. When his men came back with a man who roamed the neighborhood selling bread and rolls, the giant felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach, the sign that something important was about to happen.

  He waved the picture in front of the street vendor.

  “Do you know this girl?”

  “I’ve seen her around the neighborhood. She’s somebody’s servant. Moved here not long ago.”

  “Which villa does she work in?”

  “One of the big ones, near the old well.”

  A hundred policemen surrounded the area, drawing the net tight.

  The sorcerer using black magic against the Queen of Egypt was within Serramanna’s reach, and the Sard was going to get him.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The sun was low on the horizon.

  Lita was running out of time to escape. Soon Ofir would lock her in his workshop. What was taking Nani so long?

  A face still haunted the lost princess, the face of a lovely woman, happy and glowing—the Queen of Egypt. Lita felt she owed the woman something, a debt she must repay before breaking free from Ofir.

  The young blond woman crept softly through the house. The sorcerer, as usual, was poring over stacks of old spells. Dolora was napping.

  Lita lifted the lid of a wooden chest containing the last vestige of Nefertari’s shawl. Two or three more sessions and it would be gone. Lita tried to tear it, but the cloth was too tightly woven and her fingers too weak.

  A sharp noise. From the kitchen?

  Lita stuffed the shred of cloth into the sleeve of her dress. Her skin burned instantly.

  “Is that you, Nani?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Hurry, Lita!”

  In the kitchen, Lita held the last piece of the shawl to the flame of an oil lamp.

  A sputtering, then a final swirl of black smoke marked the end of the spell aimed at breaking through the royal couple’s defenses.

  “I’m free!” she said beneath her breath.

  The lost princess raised her arms to the heavens, praying to Aton for a new life.

  “Let’s go,” demanded Nani, who had spent the past hour gathering all the copper plate she could find in the house.

  The two women ran out the back door and into the alleyway.

  Nani collided with Ofir, standing still, his arms crossed.

  “Where are you going?”

  Nani backed away. Lita stood behind her, terrified.

  “What’s Lita doing with you?”

  “She . . . she was feeling sick.”

  “Were the two of you running away?”

  “It was Lita’s idea, she made me.”

  “What did she tell you, Nani?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all!”

  “You’re lying, girl.”

  Ofir’s fingers hooked around the maidservant’s neck, squeezing so tight that she had no chance to protest. Nani struggled to free herself from the sorcerer’s grip, but it was too strong for her. Her eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the hem of the sorcerer’s robe. He casually kicked her aside.

  “Lita . . . what’s happened to you, my child?”

  Inside, Ofir saw the lamp and the blackened residue of fabric. Eyes blazing, he said, “What on earth have you done? You little . . .” he spat, grabbing a meat cleaver. “You burned Nefertari’s shawl, you’ve ruined my work!”

  Lita tried to run. Knocking into an oil lamp, she lost her balance. Quick as a bird of prey, the sorcerer pounced on her and caught her by the hair.

  “You betrayed me, Lita. I can’t trust you anymore.”

  “You’re a monster!”

  “I hate to lose you. You’re a wonderful medium.”

  On her knees, Lita pleaded. “For the love of Aton . . .”

  “Don’t make me laugh, you fool. No one interferes with my plans.”

  With one well-aimed blow of the cleaver, Ofir slashed through Lita’s throat.

  Hair flying, face crumpled, Dolora burst into the room.

  “The street is full of policemen—Oh, Lita! Lita!”

  “She lost her mind and came at me with a knife,” explained Ofir. “I had to defend myself. It was an accident. Police, you say?”

  “I saw them from my bedroom window.”

  “Let’s get out of this house.”

  Ofir led Dolora toward a trapdoor conceal
ed beneath a reed mat. The secret passage beneath it tunneled to a warehouse.

  From now on, Lita and Nani would tell no tales.

  “There’s only one villa left,” a policeman reported to Serramanna. “We knocked, but no one answered.”

  “Let’s break down the door.”

  “That’s against the law!”

  “We’re investigating a threat to national security!”

  “I still need to contact the owner and request permission.”

  “I’m giving you permission!” the giant bellowed.

  “Without the owner’s consent, I need a warrant. We have to follow procedures.”

  Serramanna wasted a good hour on police formalities. Finally, four husky policemen broke the bolts and forced their way into the villa.

  The Sard was the first one inside. He found the lifeless body of a young blond woman, then the corpse of a servant girl he recognized as Nani.

  “A massacre,” murmured one of the policemen in disgust.

  “Two crimes committed in cold blood,” noted the security chief. “Search the premises.”

  The sorcerer’s lair gave ample evidence that black magic had been practiced in the house. Although he’d arrived too late, there was one shred of evidence Serramanna found reassuring: charred remains of fabric that must have been part of the queen’s old shawl.

  Ramses and Nefertari made their entry into a capital that was as bustling as ever, though not as cheerful. The atmosphere was marked by the military presence, and most of the population was involved in the production of arms and chariots. The pleasure-loving city had been transformed into an efficient war machine.

  The royal couple immediately called on Tuya, finding her immersed in tallies from the foundry.

  “Have the Hittites sent any official word?”

  “No, my son, but I’m sure their silence is no good omen. Nefertari . . . have you recovered?”

  “My illness is nothing but a bad memory.”