Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “You should go to your immediate superior, the Viceroy of Nubia.”

  “He’s an imbecile and a do-nothing. All he cares about is keeping his job. He has no interest in the province, and Ramses wants me to put it back on the map. To cover it with temples and chapels, to increase the amount of arable land, I need men and equipment.”

  “There are also certain procedures you need to follow.”

  “You and your rules! They take all the fun out of life. Forget the rules, Ahmeni!”

  “I’m not an independent agent, Setau. The vizier Pazair and the king himself will demand an accounting.”

  “Give me what I’m asking for and we’ll find the funds for it later.”

  “In other words, you’re making me responsible for your future mistakes.”

  Setau appeared surprised. “Well, naturally! You scribes know how to make things sound right.”

  The braised pigeon was delectable; Ahmeni obviously enjoyed it.

  “Lotus cooked this, didn’t she?”

  “My wife is a woman of many talents.”

  “This borders on bribery, you know.”

  “Are you going to accommodate me?”

  “If Ramses weren’t so fond of Nubia . . .”

  “Thanks to me, within a few years it will be richer than an Egyptian province!”

  Ahmeni attacked the roasted quail.

  “Now that we’ve taken care of business,” said Setau, “I can confess that I’m rather worried.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Last night I was making love to Lotus when she sat straight up and said she sensed a monster lurking. She wasn’t talking about the two cobras standing watch at the foot of our bed or even the Hittite threat that Ramses could easily dispel a second time, if he had to.”

  “Did you find out what monster it was, then?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind: it’s Uri-Teshoop, the Hittite beast.”

  “We can’t pin anything on him.”

  “Have you put Serramanna on alert?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does he think?”

  “He hates Uri-Teshoop, like you do, and believes that setting him free was a big mistake. But as you say, the Hittite’s done nothing wrong so far. I think that exile has stolen his thunder. What have we to fear from a fallen prince?”

  Serramanna opened his eyes at dawn’s first light. On his left a young Nubian woman slumbered. On his right was a slightly younger Libyan. This morning the Sardinian giant couldn’t even remember their names.

  “Rise and shine, ladies!”

  He administered a slap to his bedmates’ delicate backsides. As usual, he underestimated his strength, and the girls’ shrieks gave him a headache.

  “Get dressed and go home,” he ordered.

  Serramanna dove into the pool that took up most of his garden and swam for some twenty minutes. He knew no better cure for the aftereffects of wine and wantonness.

  Feeling better, he was about to polish off a loaf of fresh bread with some onions, bacon, and dried beef when his manservant announced that one of his men had arrived to see him.

  “A new development, Chief. We’ve located Uri-Teshoop.”

  “Dead, I hope?”

  “No, alive and kicking . . . and married.”

  “Who’s the lucky woman?”

  “A Phoenician widow, Dame Tanit.”

  “One of the richest women in Pi-Ramses! You must be mistaken.”

  “Go see for yourself, Chief.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Still gnawing on a huge chunk of beef, Serramanna jumped on his horse.

  The doorman at Dame Tanit’s villa should have asked the giant Sard for a search warrant, but Serramanna’s angry glare changed his mind. He called the gardener and asked him to take the head of Ramses’ personal bodyguard in to see the lady of the house.

  Clad in a flimsy linen gown that did little to conceal her voluptuous charms, Tanit was breakfasting on a shady terrace. Beside her was Uri-Teshoop, who wore nothing but his fleece of reddish hair.

  “The illustrious Serramanna!” exclaimed the Hittite, visibly pleased by the Sard’s arrival. “Shall we invite him to share our meal, my dear?”

  The hulking Sard came to a halt before the mistress of the house, who clung to Uri-Teshoop.

  “Do you know who this man is, Dame Tanit?” inquired Serramanna.

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Uri-Teshoop is a Hittite prince, son of the late Emperor Muwattali.”

  “He was also the commander-in-chief of the Hittite army and Egypt’s worst enemy.”

  “That was all long ago,” Uri-Teshoop interrupted mockingly. “Before Ramses and my uncle signed their treaty. Now Pharaoh has set me free, and everyone’s happy. Don’t you agree, Serramanna?”

  The Sard noted bite marks on the comely Phoenician’s neck. “This Hittite has spent the night under your roof and seems determined to move in with you. Are you aware of what that implies, Dame Tanit?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “He’s forcing you to marry him, isn’t he, under threat of violence?”

  “Answer him, sweetheart,” ordered Uri-Teshoop. “Tell him that you’re a free woman, that you make your own decisions like any of your Egyptian sisters.”

  Tanit was emphatic: “I love Uri-Teshoop and take him as my husband! There’s no law against it.”

  “Think carefully, Dame Tanit. If you admit that this individual has assaulted you, I’ll arrest him on the spot and you’ll be out of danger. I’ll make sure he’s charged, and he won’t get off lightly. Mistreating a woman is a serious offense.”

  “Get out of my house!”

  “I’m surprised,” Uri-Teshoop said coolly. “I thought that you’d come as a friend, and here you’re acting like a policeman. Do you happen to have a warrant, Serramanna?”

  “Take care, Dame Tanit. You’re heading for trouble.”

  “My wife and I could file a grievance,” added the Hittite. “But I’ll let it go this time. Off with you, Serramanna. Newlyweds need privacy, you know.”

  Uri-Teshoop planted a passionate kiss on the comely Phoenician. Oblivious of the Sard, she stroked her new husband without the least restraint.

  The shelves and cupboards in Ahmeni’s office threatened to cave in under the weight of official documents. The king’s private secretary had never had so many pressing matters to deal with at once; since he checked every detail personally, he had been sleeping only two hours a night, and over his staff ’s protests he had canceled leave time for the entire next quarter. Only a sizable bonus had prevented a mutiny.

  Ahmeni was implementing Setau’s plans for Nubia, countering the do-nothing viceroy’s objections. He advised Pazair, the vizier, who mistrusted his staff economists. He met with Ramses daily after carefully preparing the data the sovereign requested. And then there was the rest, all the rest, since Egypt must remain a great nation, a unique land he would continue to serve without a thought for his own welfare.

  Still, when Serramanna burst into his office, the pale and hollow-faced scribe wondered how much more his frail shoulders could handle.

  “What now?”

  “Uri-Teshoop has gone and married a rich Phoenician widow named Tanit.”

  “He’s done well. She’s well endowed in every sense of the word, I hear.”

  “It’s a catastrophe, Ahmeni!”

  “Why do you think so? Marriage may tame our warrior prince at last.”

  “I won’t be able to shadow him anymore. If he spots my men, he’ll go to the authorities. He’s a free man now; officially, I have no cause to keep him under surveillance. But I’m sure he has something up his sleeve.”

  “Did you talk with this Tanit?”

  “He hit her and threatened her, I’m sure of it. But she seems to be in love with him.”

  “Love? I’d forgotten there were people with time to think about that. Don’t worry, Serramanna. Uri-Teshoop ha
s finally made a conquest, but this one will retire him from the battlefield for good.”

  ELEVEN

  Hattusa, the capital of the Hittite empire, was the same as ever. Built on the central Anatolian plateau, exposed to blazing summers and frigid winters, the fortified city was composed of a lower town (notable for the temple of the Storm God and Sun Goddess) and an upper town. Atop the upper town, a forbidding citadel stood watch over five miles of ramparts bristling with towers and battlements.

  Ahsha was not unmoved at the sight of the city, which cast the empire’s military might in stone. This was the place where he had nearly lost his life during a particularly dangerous espionage mission prior to the battle of Kadesh.

  The Egyptian secretary of state’s convoy had trekked through arid steppes and negotiated inhospitable passes to reach the capital, surrounded by peaks that presented a daunting obstacle to potential attackers. Hattusa loomed like an impregnable fortress terraced up rocky slopes, an incredible feat of engineering. A far cry from Egypt with its warm, open, welcoming cities!

  Five fortified gates controlled access to the capital—two in the lower town’s walls, three in the upper town. The Hittite escort that had been accompanying the Egyptian delegation for the last few days of their journey now led them to the uppermost point of entry, the Sphinx Gate.

  Before passing through it, Ahsha celebrated the Hittite ritual of breaking three loaves of bread, pouring wine on the stone, and saying the time-honored words: “May this rock be eternal.” All around he noticed containers full of oil and honey, intended to keep demons at bay. Emperor Hattusili, he saw, had not interfered with tradition.

  This time Ahsha had found the journey fatiguing, whereas in his younger days he was always on the move and had loved taking risks and courting danger. The older he got, the less he liked leaving Egypt. This trip was depriving him of the chance to do what he loved best: watching Ramses govern. Upholding the law of Ma’at, Pharaoh knew that “listening is the best of all,” to quote the sage Ptah-hotep, Nefertari’s favorite author. Ramses would let his cabinet members speak at length, remaining attentive to each intonation, each nuance of body language. Then, with the lightning quickness of the crocodile Sobek surging through deep water to bring the sun back to life, the Pharaoh would make his decisions. He would utter a simple phrase, luminous, obvious, and definitive. He steered the rudder with a peerless touch, for he alone was the ship of state and its pilot. The gods who had chosen him had made no mistake, and men were right to obey them.

  Two officers in helmet, breastplate, and boots guided Ahsha into Emperor Hattusili’s audience chamber. The palace sat on an imposing summit with three tall peaks. Its high towers and battlements were under constant watch by specially trained troops. The lord of the land was safe from any outside attack. That was why past usurpers had usually preferred poison over a futile attempt on the palace.

  Hattusili would have been forced to use poison on Uri-Teshoop, were it not for Ahsha’s exceptionally deft manipulation, which convinced the heir apparent to flee the country. Seeking refuge in Egypt, Uri-Teshoop had supplied Ramses with useful information on the Hittite army.

  A lone entrance led into the “Great Fortress,” as the awestruck inhabitants called the citadel. When the heavy bronze door swung shut behind him, Ahsha felt he was being taken prisoner. The message he was delivering to Hattusili did not leave him inclined to be optimistic.

  He was reassured to note that the emperor did not keep him waiting. Ahsha was shown into a freezing hall with thick pillars and walls hung with heavy tapestries.

  Short and slight, his hair held in place with a headband, a silver collar around his neck and a copper band at his left elbow, Hattusili was dressed in his habitual long red and black robe. A superficial observer might have concluded that he was rather insignificant, even harmless. That would fail to take into account his stubborn character and gift for strategy. After all, this onetime high priest of the Sun Goddess had finally outmaneuvered Uri-Teshoop in their long power struggle. His wife, the lovely priestess Puduhepa, whose intellect commanded the respect of military men and merchants alike, had seconded him. Ahsha bowed to the imperial pair, seated on their squat and massive thrones.

  “May all the gods of Egypt and Hatti smile upon Your Imperial Highnesses, and may your reign be durable as the heavens.”

  “We’ve known one another long enough to dispense with formalities, Ahsha. Come sit beside us. How is my brother Ramses?”

  “Extremely well, Your Highness. May I say that the empress’s beauty illuminates the palace?”

  Puduhepa smiled. “Flattery is still part of the diplomat’s arsenal, I see.”

  “We’re at peace now; I no longer need to flatter you. My declaration is no doubt improper, but it’s sincere.”

  The empress blushed.

  “If you’re still the ladies’ man you used to be,” concluded the emperor, “I’d better be on my guard.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t changed. It’s not in my nature to be faithful.”

  “Yet you saved Ramses from the pitfalls that Hatti set in his path, and dismantled our network of spies in Egypt.”

  “Let’s not overstate the case, Your Highness. I carried out Pharaoh’s plan, and luck was with me.”

  “But why dwell on the past? Our task is to build the future.”

  “Ramses agrees completely: his top priority is strengthening the peace agreement with Hatti. The happiness of both our peoples depends on it.”

  “We’re glad to hear it,” murmured Puduhepa.

  “Allow me to stress that Pharaoh’s intentions are peaceful,” continued Ahsha. “As he sees it, the era of conflicts is over, and we must never allow our past differences to rekindle.”

  Hattusili grew somber.

  “Is there something behind your insistence?”

  “Not at all, Your Highness. Your brother Ramses merely wishes to acquaint you with his innermost thoughts.”

  “You’re to thank him for showing such trust in me and tell him that we’re in perfect accord.”

  “To the joy of our two countries and their allies. Nevertheless . . .”

  The head of Egyptian diplomacy laid his chin on his clasped hands, at chest level, in a meditative pose.

  “What is it, Ahsha?”

  “Egypt is a rich country, Your Highness. It can never stop attracting envy.”

  “Is there some new threat?” questioned the empress.

  “Unrest in Libya. Again.”

  “Can’t Pharaoh deal with it easily?”

  “Ramses would like to act quickly and use effective weaponry.”

  Hattusili’s inquisitive gaze fixed on Ahsha.

  “Surely Egypt’s arsenal is adequate?”

  “Pharaoh would like his brother the Emperor of Hatti to ship us large quantities of iron that we can use to manufacture new arms and crush the Libyan initiative.”

  A long silence followed the diplomat’s request. Then Hattusili rose, nervously pacing the audience chamber.

  “My brother Ramses is demanding a fortune from me! I have no iron; if I did, I’d keep it for my own army. Is Pharaoh seeking to bankrupt me and ruin Hatti, when Egypt is such a wealthy nation? My reserves are empty, and it’s no time for mining iron.”

  Ahsha remained impassive.

  “I understand.”

  “Let my brother Ramses dispatch the Libyans with the weapons he has on hand. Later, if he still needs iron, I’ll send a reasonable quantity. Be sure to tell him that this request surprises and shocks me.”

  “I’ll let him know, Your Highness.”

  Hattusili returned to his throne.

  “Now let’s get down to basics: when will my daughter be leaving Hatti to become Ramses’ Great Royal Wife?”

  “Well . . . the date hasn’t been set.”

  “You’ve come all the way here to tell us there’s no decision?”

  “Such an important proposal demands due consideration, and—”

  “
Enough diplomacy,” interrupted the empress. “Does Ramses agree to repudiate Iset the Fair and make our daughter Queen of Egypt, or doesn’t he?”

  “It’s a delicate situation, Your Highness. Egyptian justice does not condone such a repudiation.”

  “Is a woman going to dictate the law?” Hattusili asked curtly. “Who cares what this Iset wants? Ramses only married her to replace Nefertari, a true queen who was instrumental in bringing about the peace. The new consort doesn’t count. To seal our pact for good, Ramses must marry a Hittite princess.”

  “Perhaps your daughter could become a secondary wife and—”

  “She’ll be Great Royal Wife, or else . . .”

  Hattusili’s voice trailed off, as if he himself were frightened by the words he meant to say.

  “Why does Ramses insist on rejecting our proposal?” the empress asked in a more conciliatory tone.

  “Because, as I’ve told you, a pharaoh doesn’t repudiate a Great Royal Wife. It’s not in keeping with Ma’at.”

  “Is that position irreversible?”

  “I’m afraid so, Your Highness.”

  “Is Ramses aware of the consequences?”

  “Ramses has only one concern: acting with rectitude.”

  Hattusili rose.

  “This audience has ended. Give my brother the Pharaoh this message from me: either he must set a date for his marriage to my daughter in the very near future, or it will mean war.”

  TWELVE

  Ahmeni had a bad back, but never found the time for a massage. As if he weren’t already overburdened with work, now he was supposed to lend Kha a hand with the preparations for Ramses’ sed-feast, his second jubilee. Arguing that his health was excellent, the king wanted to postpone it; but his elder son invoked the authority of traditional texts.

  Ahmeni appreciated Kha’s high standards and enjoyed discussing literature with him. Yet his daily cares were so overwhelming that the Pharaoh’s private secretary and sandal-bearer was rarely able to indulge his taste for fine prose.

  After a council meeting during which the king implemented a vast reforestation project in the south and lectured the official in charge of the dikes because repairs were behind schedule, Ahmeni and Ramses were strolling in the palace gardens.