Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

“Good. I’m tired of being in charge. I must be too old to run this great country of ours. You two need to straighten the army out right away, and the court needs some tending, too.”

  Ramses had a long conference with Ahmeni, then saw Serramanna, just back from Memphis. His report suggested that the threat of black magic had finally been countered. However, the king requested that his security chief pursue the investigation and identify the owner of the sinister villa. Who, he wanted to know, was the young blond woman who had died so violently?

  The Pharaoh had other concerns. His desk was piled with alarmist dispatches from Canaan and Amurru. The commanders of the Egyptian outposts had no specific incidents to report, but the rumors of Hittite troop movements were too numerous to ignore.

  Unfortunately, there had been no word from Ahsha to help him sort through the confusing information. The outcome of the conflict would depend on where the two armies engaged in combat. Without that knowledge, the king was forced to choose between reinforcing his defenses or else marching north to do battle. It was in his nature to take bold initiatives. But how could he risk men’s lives so blindly?

  It made the royal court feel better to see the queen plunge into her usual round of activities. Even those who had already buried Nefertari congratulated her on her recovery and assured her that surviving such a serious illness was a sure sign of longevity.

  The Great Royal Wife cared nothing for gossip; she was busy overseeing the production of uniforms and checking on the numerous rural initiatives she sponsored, with the help of Ahmeni’s punctilious reports.

  Shaanar saluted the king.

  “You’ve put on some weight,” observed Ramses.

  “It’s not from sitting around,” protested the secretary of state. “I eat when I’m worried. The rumors of war, the hordes of soldiers everywhere . . . is this what Egypt has become?”

  “The Hittites are bound to attack soon, Shaanar.”

  “You’re probably right, but my department has received no official confirmation. Isn’t Muwattali still sending you friendly letters?”

  “A cover-up.”

  “If we can preserve the peace, millions of lives will be spared.”

  “Which, as you know, is my fondest wish.”

  “Moderation and caution should be our watchwords.”

  “Are you saying that we should be passive, brother?”

  “Certainly not, but I fear that an overambitious general might do something rash.”

  “Rest easy, Shaanar. I have control of my army. Nothing of the kind will happen.”

  “I’m happy to hear you say so.”

  “How is Meba working out as your second-in-command?” asked Ramses.

  “He’s so happy to be back at the department that he’s at my beck and call. I’m glad I brought him out of his forced retirement. Sometimes a solid professional deserves a fresh start. Generosity is the finest of virtues, don’t you agree?”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Shaanar was in conference with Meba. His distinguished assistant had taken care to bring an armful of scrolls, as he would for a typical work session.

  “I’ve seen the king,” declared Shaanar. “He’s still unsure which course to pursue, given the lack of reliable information.”

  “Excellent,” pronounced Meba.

  Shaanar could not admit to his accomplice that Ahsha’s silence surprised him. Why the delay in reporting on his mission, so crucial to Ramses’ defeat? Something must have happened to him. His silence worried the prince, and left him as much at sea as Ramses.

  “Exactly where are we, Meba?”

  “Our spy network has been ordered to go dormant. In other words, the hour is near. No matter what initiatives Pharaoh takes, there’s no way he can win.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The Hittite war machine is geared up to the maximum. Each passing hour brings you closer to the ultimate power, Your Highness. In the meantime, you may want to fine-tune your contacts in the various branches of government.”

  “Yes, except that Ahmeni has been watching me like a hawk. We have to be careful.”

  “Ahmeni could be taken care of.”

  “It’s too soon for that, Meba. My brother would be furious.”

  “Listen to my advice. The weeks are going to fly by, and you must be ready to take the reins when our Hittite friends say the word.”

  “It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. Don’t worry, Meba, I’ll be ready.”

  In a daze, Dolora trailed after Ofir. The discovery of Lita’s mutilated body, the police surrounding the house, this sudden flight out of Memphis . . . She could no longer think, no longer knew where she was going. When Ofir asked her to pose as his wife and continue the fight to reinstate Aton as the One God, Dolora eagerly accepted.

  The couple stayed away from the harbor; it was crawling with police. Ofir shaved his beard; Dolora removed all trace of makeup. Donning peasant garb, they bought a donkey and headed south. The master spy knew that the search for them would center on the area north of Memphis and the border. It would be practically impossible to get through the roadblocks or evade the river patrols, unless they did the unexpected.

  Now was the time to appeal to the fervent followers of Akhenaton, the heretic king. Most of them had settled close to his abandoned former capital in the middle of the country. Posing as the movement’s new prophet had proved very useful; Ofir did not regret it in the least. If he made sure that Dolora still believed in him, Ofir could rely on her unqualified support and find shelter in the bosom of his congregation. Once the Hittites invaded, he could easily leave his followers behind.

  Fortunately, just before the police closed in on him, the sorcerer had received a message of paramount importance and passed the word on to Meba. Muwattali’s plan had been set in motion. It was only a matter of time before the two nations met on the battlefield. As soon as Ramses’ death was announced, Shaanar would oust Nefertari and Tuya, then offer the Hittites a proper welcome. He didn’t seem to realize that Muwattali was not in the habit of sharing power with anyone. His reign would be a short one. With Shaanar out of the way, the Two Lands would become no more than the Hittites’ breadbasket.

  Ofir relaxed and enjoyed the tranquil beauty of the Egyptian countryside.

  Given his rank and position, Ahsha had been spared the dungeons of the lower town, where the average inmate lasted about a year. Instead, he was put in a stone building in the upper town reserved for important prisoners. The food was poor and the bedding worse, but the young diplomat adapted and stayed in shape by doing exercises several times a day.

  Since his arrest, there had been no interrogation. His imprisonment might end any day in a brutal execution.

  Finally, the door to his cell swung open.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Raia.

  “Very well.”

  “The gods were displeased with you, Ahsha. If I hadn’t spotted you, you never would have been caught.”

  “I wasn’t running away.”

  “It’s hard to deny the facts.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “I know you’re Ahsha, a close friend of Ramses. I saw you in Memphis as well as in the new capital; I’ve even sold vases to some of your relatives. The king entrusted you with a dangerous mission, and you proved a resourceful spy, even a daring one.”

  “You’re wrong about one thing. Ramses did send me here, but I serve another master. That’s where I planned to send the information I gathered.”

  “What other master are you talking about?”

  “Ramses’ older brother, Shaanar, the future pharaoh of Egypt.”

  Raia fiddled with his goatee, wrecking the barber’s artful arrangement. Could Ahsha really be a Hittite agent? No, there was something that didn’t make sense. “In that case, why were you posing as a potter?”

  The young diplomat smiled. “As if you didn’t know!”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “Muwatta
li is emperor, of course, but what’s his base of support? How great is the true extent of his power? Are his son and brother still at each other’s throats, or has the question already been settled?”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  “Those were the essential questions I was supposed to answer. You can understand why I went underground. Now perhaps you could furnish me with some answers?”

  Raia slammed the door to the cell behind him.

  Ahsha was taking a chance, and he knew it. Still, provoking the Syrian was the only way he could think of to save his neck.

  In ceremonial dress, Emperor Muwattali left the palace with a swarm of bodyguards who put a distance between him and anyone in the streets, and also blocked him from any archer perched on a rooftop. Heralds preceded him, announcing that the Lord of Hatti was making his way to the great temple in the lower town, where he would make an offering to the Storm God.

  There was no more solemn means of placing the country in a state of war than summoning the god’s invincible energy.

  From his cell, Ahsha heard the commotion greeting the emperor’s passage. He, too, understood that a bridge was about to be crossed.

  The Storm God ruled over the Hittites’ lesser divinities. To keep the gods happy, the priests cleansed their statues. From now on no dissenting voice must be heard: it was time to act.

  The priestess Puduhepa pronounced the words that turned the fertility goddesses into fearsome women warriors. Then she nailed seven iron nails, seven bronze nails, seven copper nails into a swine, to make the future conform to the emperor’s wishes.

  As the litanies were recited, Muwattali’s eyes came to rest on his son, Uri-Teshoop, in his helmet and armor, overjoyed at the idea of waging war and slaughtering the enemy.

  Hattusili remained calm and inscrutable.

  The two of them had eliminated their competitors and now formed the emperor’s inner circle, along with Puduhepa. But Uri-Teshoop detested his aunt and uncle, and they returned the favor.

  The war against Egypt would permit Muwattali to solve domestic conflicts, extend his territory, and assert his control over the Near East before moving on to other conquests. Heaven had smiled upon him and would bless him again.

  When the service was over, the emperor invited the generals and commanding officers to a banquet that began with the ritual offering of four portions of food. The palace steward placed the first one on the throne, the second near the fireplace, the third on the main table, and the fourth on the doorstep of the dining room. The guests then proceeded to eat and drink as if it was their last meal on earth.

  At last Muwattali rose, and a hush fell over the gathering. The tipsiest among the party struggled to compose themselves.

  There was only one more formality before the conflict began.

  The emperor and his retinue filed out of the Sphinx Gate in the upper town, heading for a rocky crest, where Muwattali, Uri-Teshoop, and Puduhepa scrambled to the top.

  They stood motionless, staring at the clouds.

  “There they are!” shouted Uri-Teshoop.

  The emperor’s son drew his bow and took aim at one of the vultures soaring over the capital. His arrow went straight through the raptor’s chest.

  An officer retrieved the carcass for the commander-in-chief, who slit the bird’s belly and pulled out its steaming entrails.

  “Read them,” Muwattali asked Puduhepa, “and tell us our destiny.”

  Struggling with the stench, the priestess fulfilled her duty.

  “The omens are favorable.”

  The mountains shook with Uri-Teshoop’s war cry.

  FORTY-NINE

  The meeting of Pharaoh’s full council, expanded to include numerous high-ranking courtiers, was off to a rocky start. Cabinet members were grim-faced, department heads deplored the absence of clear directives, all omens pointed toward a military disaster. The buffer Ahmeni and his staff provided between Ramses and his government had broken down, and everyone wanted to hear what the king had to say for himself.

  By the time he was seated on his throne, the reception room was packed. The speaker of the assembly was designated to relay their questions, in keeping with protocol. Barbarians might raise their voices and speak out of turn; proper Egyptians, with centuries of tradition behind them, did not.

  “Majesty,” said the speaker, “the country is concerned that a war with the Hittites is imminent.”

  “It is,” answered Ramses.

  A long silence followed this succinct and terrifying revelation.

  “Is it unavoidable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is our army ready to fight?”

  “The foundries have been working nonstop on new equipment. We could have used a few extra months, but we won’t have them.”

  “Why, Your Majesty?”

  “Because we have to march north on short notice. We’ll meet the enemy far from Egyptian soil. Since Canaan and Amurru are back under our protection, we can pass through them without danger.”

  “Who will be appointed commander-in-chief?”

  “I’ll serve in that capacity myself. In my absence, the Great Royal Wife Nefertari will rule over the Two Lands, with the help of Queen Mother Tuya.”

  The speaker discarded the other questions. They were now completely beside the point.

  Homer was smoking sage leaves stuffed into the oversized snail shell he used as a pipe bowl. Sitting beneath his lemon tree, he welcomed the warmth of springtime. It helped his aching joints. His flowing white beard, carefully groomed by the barber Ramses sent him, gave a noble air to his weather-beaten face. In the poet’s lap lay Hector, his black and white cat, purring loudly.

  “I was hoping to see you before you left, Your Majesty. This time it’s really war, isn’t it?”

  “Egypt’s survival is at stake, Homer.”

  “Listen to this passage of mine: ‘Even in solitary places, man has tended the olive tree. It stands full of sap, well watered, bending in the wind, dense with white flowers. But a sudden gust can come up, uprooting the tree and crashing it to the ground.’”

  “And what if the tree withstands the storm?”

  Homer offered the king a cup of red wine, flavored with anise and coriander, and took a hearty gulp from his own goblet.

  “If it does, I’ll write your epic, Ramses.”

  “Will your other work leave you time?”

  “I was put on earth to sing of war and great journeys, and I like a hero. As a conqueror, you’ll be immortal.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “Can you imagine the Hittites invading my garden, cutting down my lemon tree, smashing my lap desk, frightening Hector? The gods would never stand for it. Where are you planning to fight the enemy?”

  “It’s a state secret, but I think I can trust you. We’ll meet in Kadesh.”

  “The battle of Kadesh. Has a nice ring to it. Battles galore may be fought and forgotten, but my account will live on. I’ll give it my best. Just one stipulation, Majesty: I’d prefer a happy ending.”

  “I’ll try not to disappoint you, Homer.”

  Ahmeni was frantic. He had a thousand questions to ask Ramses, a hundred dossiers to show him, ten moral dilemmas to discuss . . . and only Pharaoh could make the final decisions. Pale, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling, the private secretary looked exhausted.

  “You ought to take a rest,” the king advised.

  “But you’re leaving! And who knows for how long? I might make mistakes that would harm the country.”

  “I trust you, Ahmeni, and the queen will be here to guide you.”

  “Tell me the truth, Your Majesty. Do you really have the slightest chance of defeating Hatti?”

  “Would I lead my men into battle if I thought it was a lost cause?”

  “They say that the Hittites are invincible.”

  “Once you’ve identified the enemy, nothing’s impossible. Take care of Egypt for me, Ahmeni.”

  Shaanar was dining on lamb c
utlets sautéed with parsley and celery—a bit too bland for his taste, so he sprinkled on more spices. The red wine, an excellent vintage, did nothing for him. The prince called for his butler, but instead an unexpected guest strode into his dining room.

  “Ramses! Would you care to join me?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  His curt reply ruined Shaanar’s appetite. He rose.

  “Shall we go out in the garden?”

  “As you like.”

  Feeling slightly queasy, Shaanar sat down on a bench. Ramses remained standing, looking out at the Nile.

  “Your Majesty seems irritated. The approaching conflict, perhaps?”

  “There are other causes for my discontent.”

  “But surely they don’t concern me?”

  “They do, Shaanar.”

  “I thought you were happy with my work at the State Department.”

  “You’ve always hated me, haven’t you?”

  “Ramses! We’ve had our differences, I admit, but that’s all in the past.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “You can be sure of it.”

  “Your only goal, Shaanar, is to replace me, no matter how low you have to stoop.”

  Shaanar felt as if the air had been knocked out of him. “Has someone been spreading lies about me?”

  “I don’t listen to gossip. My statements are based on facts.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Serramanna recently raided a house in Memphis, where he found two murdered women and a magician’s den—the workshop of the sorcerer who cast an evil spell over the queen.”

  “How could I be implicated in such a sordid affair?”

  “Because the house belongs to you, although you took care to have it put in our sister Dolora’s name. The tax rolls leave no doubt as to your ownership.”

  “I own so much property, especially in Memphis. I’ve lost count of all the houses I own there! I have no control over what goes on in them.”

  “Weren’t you friendly with a Syrian merchant named Raia?”

  “He’s only someone who sold me imported vases.”