Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “Your mission is of the highest importance, Merenptah.”

  “I won’t disappoint you, Father.”

  Since early that morning, a cloudburst had been pounding Hattusa, threatening to flood the lower town. Panic was rising when Empress Puduhepa addressed the population. Not only were the priests of Hatti praying hard for the Storm God’s mercy, she reassured them; magicians from Egypt had also been consulted.

  Puduhepa’s speech restored calm. A few hours later, the rain stopped. Heavy black clouds hung low in the sky, but to the south it was clearing. The princess might be able to leave after all. The empress went to her daughter’s rooms.

  At the age of twenty-five, the princess had the savage beauty of Anatolian women, blond and sloe-eyed, with a thin, almost pointed nose and an ivory complexion. She was fairly tall, long-limbed, and carried her head high as befits a princess, yet the overall impression she gave was one of sensuality. Her slightest movements had a feminine quality, both inviting and aloof. There was no well-born man in Hatti who hadn’t dreamed of winning her.

  “The weather’s improving,” said Puduhepa.

  The princess arranged and scented her long hair, not waiting for a maid.

  “Then I should get ready to go.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I’m the first Hittite princess to marry a pharaoh, and what a pharaoh! Ramses the Great, the pride of Egypt, the peacemaker . . . In my wildest dreams, I never imagined a more fabulous destiny.”

  Puduhepa was surprised. “We’ll be saying goodbye for good, and you’ll never again see your homeland. Won’t that be hard for you?”

  “I’m a woman and I’m going to marry Ramses, travel the land of the gods, reign in splendor, live in luxury, enjoy a perfect climate, and who knows what else! But marrying Ramses won’t be enough for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want him to love me, too. When he agreed to the marriage, Pharaoh wasn’t thinking of a woman, only of diplomacy and peace, as if I were only an article in a treaty. I’ll make him change his mind.”

  “You may be disappointed.”

  “Am I stupid and ugly?”

  “Ramses is no longer a young man. He may not even lay eyes on you.”

  “I’ll make my own destiny; no one else will do it for me. If I can’t win Ramses’ heart, what use will my exile be?”

  “Your marriage will guarantee the future prosperity of two great countries.”

  “I won’t stand for being a servant or a shut-in, only a Great Royal Wife. Ramses will forget I’m a Hittite, I’ll reign at his side, and all of Egypt will bow to me.”

  “I hope it comes true, my darling.”

  “I’ll make it come true, Mother. My will is just as strong as yours.”

  The sun peeked weakly from behind the clouds. Winter was on its way, with its procession of wind and cold, but the southward route to the Egyptian protectorates would soon be negotiable. Puduhepa wished she could talk more with her daughter, but there was no time. Ramses’ future bride was now a stranger in her own citadel.

  Raia could not calm down.

  A violent dispute had erupted between him and Uri-Teshoop, and the two men had parted without an understanding. The former commander of the Hittite army firmly believed that the arrival of Hattusili’s daughter could be turned to Ramses’ disadvantage, and therefore no move must be made to stop her. Raia, on the other hand, considered that the diplomatic marriage would stamp out any flicker of warring instinct still left in Hatti.

  By giving up the fight, Hattusili was playing into Ramses’ hands. The thought made Raia so furious that he felt like pulling out his goatee and ripping his brightly striped tunic to shreds. His hatred of Ramses had become an obsession, and he would willingly run any risk to topple the pharaoh whose colossal statues loomed in front of his country’s great temples. It seemed that Ramses’ every endeavor met with success. It was too unfair, and it had to stop.

  Uri-Teshoop had gone soft, a rich widow’s plaything. But he, Raia, had not lost the will to fight. Ramses was only a man; hit often enough and hard enough, he would fall. The first blow was to keep the Hittite princess from ever reaching Pi-Ramses.

  Without telling Uri-Teshoop and his Hittite friends, Raia would organize a strike force with Malfi’s help. When the Libyan chieftain learned that Ramses’ own son, Merenptah, was heading the Egyptian escort troops, his mouth would water. Why, they could eliminate a Hittite princess on her way to marry Ramses and a prince of the blood in one fell swoop!

  Not one member of the convoy would be left alive. Pharaoh would believe it was last-ditch resistance from some renegade Hittite army faction. They could scatter some typical weapons at the scene and dress a few dead peasants as Hattusili’s soldiers. They would certainly meet with stiff resistance, and there would be Libyan losses, but that would never daunt Malfi. The prospect of a brutal, bloody, and victorious engagement would be too appealing.

  Hattusili would lose his daughter, and Ramses his son. The two leaders would seek revenge in their most bitter confrontation ever. Ahsha was no longer there to smooth things over. As for Uri-Teshoop, he’d be forced to fall in line, or else Malfi would deal with him. Raia had no lack of ideas for disrupting Egyptian politics from within. He’d never let Ramses rest.

  A knock came at the door of the small stockroom where the Syrian merchant stored his most precious vases. At this late hour, it could only be a customer.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Captain Rarek.”

  “I don’t want to see you here!”

  “I’ve had a close call. I need to tell you what happened.”

  Raia opened the door a crack.

  He only caught a glimpse of the sailor’s face before Rarek was pushed from behind, sending both of them tumbling head over heels, while Serramanna and Setau stormed into the stockroom.

  The Sardinian giant poked a finger at Raia. “What’s this man’s name?”

  “Ahmeni,” replied the captain.

  Shackled by handcuffs and a rope around his ankles, Rarek could barely move. Retreating to a dark corner of the stockroom, Raia darted like a snake and climbed the ladder leading to the roof. With a little luck he could shake his pursuers.

  Sitting on one corner of a roof, a handsome Nubian woman shot a stern glance at him.

  “Stop right there.”

  Raia whipped a dagger from beneath the sleeve of his tunic.

  “Out of the way, or I’ll kill you!” As he sprang, arm raised to strike, a marbled viper bit him in the right heel. The pain was so intense that Raia let go of his weapon, bumped against a ledge, lost his balance, and tumbled over.

  When Serramanna found him, he shook his head in frustration. The fall had broken Raia’s neck.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Woozy with satisfaction, amazed by her lover’s stamina, Dame Tanit clung to Uri-Teshoop’s powerful torso.

  “Do it again,” she begged hoarsely.

  The Hittite prince was ready to oblige, but the sound of footsteps distracted him. He rose and pulled a short fighting sword from its scabbard.

  There was a knock at the bedchamber door.

  “Who is it?”

  “The steward.”

  “I told you not to disturb us!” Tanit yelled crossly.

  “A friend of your husband’s is here . . . claims it’s an emergency.”

  The comely Phoenician grabbed Uri-Teshoop’s wrist to hold him back, saying, “It may be a trap.”

  “I can defend myself.”

  Uri-Teshoop called to a Hittite guard posted in the garden. Proud to serve his former commander, he made his report in a hushed voice, then disappeared.

  When her lover returned to the bedchamber, Tanit, still naked, threw her arms around his neck and smothered him with kisses. Sensing his mind was elsewhere, she pulled away and poured him a drink of cool wine.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Our friend Raia is dead.”

  “An accident?”r />
  “He fell off a roof trying to escape from Serramanna.”

  The Phoenician blanched. “That awful Sard! Do you think he’ll make the connection to you?”

  “He may.”

  “You need to get away from here this minute!”

  “Absolutely not. Serramanna is watching me closely; if Raia didn’t have time to talk, I’m still beyond his reach. We’re well rid of the Syrian, if you ask me. He was beginning to lose his head. Since he put me in contact with the Libyans, he’d outlived his usefulness anyway.”

  “Do you still need me?” Tanit asked cajolingly.

  Uri-Teshoop pawed her luscious breasts. “Be a nice quiet wife and I’ll make you happy,” he murmured.

  When he took her hungrily, she swooned once again with pleasure.

  The hunters displayed their animal pelts to Techonk. The Libyan personally chose his raw material; he trusted no one’s judgment but his own and maintained strict standards, rejecting three-quarters of what was offered him. That very morning he had dismissed two hunters who tried to sell him second-rate skins.

  Suddenly a brightly striped tunic landed at his feet.

  “Does this look familiar?”

  Pains shot through the tanner’s midsection; he rubbed his round belly.

  “It’s common enough.”

  “Take a good look at it.”

  “I tell you, it means nothing special to me.”

  “Let me refresh your memory, Techonk. This tunic belonged to the Syrian merchant Raia, a dubious character who was up to something. When we cornered him, to jumped off a roof. His past caught up with him, you might say. He was a notorious spy. I’m sure of one thing: the two of you were acquaintances, even partners.”

  “No, I never—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Techonk. I have no proof, but I don’t doubt that our late friend Raia was hatching some plot against Ramses, along with you and Uri-Teshoop. Let the Syrian’s death serve as a warning. If you or your co-conspirators try to harm the king again, you’ll end up like Raia. And what about the commission you owe me?”

  “I’ll have a leather shield and a pair of my best sandals delivered to your house.”

  “That’s a start . . . Now how about some names?”

  “Nothing’s going on with the Libyans here in Egypt! We all acknowledge Ramses’ authority.”

  “That’s what you should keep on doing. I’ll be in touch, Techonk.”

  Serramanna’s horse had barely rounded the corner when the Libyan, clutching his stomach, ran to the privy.

  Emperor Hattusili and his wife, Puduhepa, were having a disagreement. Ordinarily the empress acknowledged the wisdom of her husband’s views, yet in this instance they were on opposing sides of a heated argument.

  “We should let Ramses know that our daughter is on her way,” insisted Puduhepa.

  “No,” retorted the emperor. “This is the perfect opportunity to flush out rebel factions within our army.”

  “You mean you’d let your daughter’s convoy be attacked? You’re willing to use your own flesh and blood as bait?”

  “She’ll be perfectly safe, Puduhepa. In case of aggression, our finest Hittite soldiers will protect her and annihilate the rebels. And we’ll accomplish two things at once: eliminating the last vestiges of military opposition to our regime, and sealing the pact with Ramses.”

  “I refuse to put my daughter at risk.”

  “My decision is final. She’ll leave tomorrow. Only when she’s approaching the Egyptian sphere of influence will I notify Ramses that his bride is en route.”

  How fragile the princess looked, surrounded by Hittite officers and enlisted men with their heavy armor and menacing headgear! Equipped with fresh weapons and healthy young horses, her elite escort troops appeared invincible. Emperor Hattusili realized that his daughter would indeed be exposed to a certain risk, but the opportunity was simply too good to miss. A head of state, he mused, must sometimes put national security above the welfare of his own family.

  The sky was clear, the temperature unusually warm for the season. Beneath their winter cloaks the soldiers were stifling and sweating. February suddenly seemed like summer. This freak weather couldn’t last; in a few hours some rain was sure to fall and replenish the cisterns.

  The princess knelt before her father, who anointed her with the special oil of betrothal.

  “Ramses himself will perform the anointment of marriage,” he told his daughter. “Safe journey, future Queen of Egypt.”

  The convoy pulled away. Behind the chariot carrying the princess came another vehicle of the same size, just as comfortably outfitted. And on it, seated on a lightweight wooden throne, sat Empress Puduhepa.

  “I’m not letting her go alone,” she called as her coach passed the emperor. “I’ll ride along to the border.”

  Unfriendly mountains, steep passes, unsettling gorges, thick woods where attackers might lurk . . . Empress Puduhepa found her own country frightening. The soldiers guarding them remained on alert, and their number should be enough to discourage any assailant; still, Hatti had long been the theater of bloody civil strife. It was quite conceivable that Uri-Teshoop, or one of his ilk, might make an attempt on the princess, a living symbol of peace with Egypt.

  The young woman remained imperturbable, as if the ordeal had no effect on her. She haughtily blazed the trail with a fierce determination to reach her goal.

  When the pines rustled, when the rush of a waterfall sounded like armed men advancing, Puduhepa jumped. Where were the rebels hiding? What strategy would they use? Strange noises often woke her at night. All day she scanned the woods, bluffs, and riverbanks.

  The princess and her mother did not talk. Walled in silence, Puduhepa’s daughter refused all contact with her former existence. For her, Hatti was dead, and the future was named Ramses.

  Suffering from the heat, thirsty, exhausted, the convoy passed through Kadesh and arrived at the frontier post of Aya in southern Syria. There stood an Egyptian fortress, at the northern limit of Pharaoh’s sphere of influence.

  Archers were poised in the battlements. The great gates were shut. The garrison was prepared for an attack. The princess got down from her chariot and straddled one of the horses that were part of her dowry. She galloped toward the fort, pulling up at the foot of the ramparts. No Egyptian archer had dared fire.

  “I am the daughter of the Emperor of Hatti, and the future Queen of Egypt,” she declared. “Ramses the Great is expecting me. Extend me a royal welcome, or Pharaoh’s anger will burn you like fire.”

  The fortress commander stepped forward, protesting, “You’ve brought an army with you.”

  “Not an army, only my escort.”

  “They look like Hittite fighting men to me.”

  “You’re wrong, Commander. I’ve told you the truth.”

  “I’ve received no such orders from the capital.”

  “Inform Ramses immediately that I’ve set foot on Egyptian soil.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Sniffling, red-eyed, and coughing, Ahmeni had a cold. The February nights were freezing, and the pale winter sun didn’t manage to warm the air in daytime. Ahmeni had ordered a large quantity of heating wood, yet the delivery had been delayed. In a foul mood, he was preparing to vent his frustrations on his staff when an army courier deposited a dispatch on his desk—a message from the fortress at Aya in southern Syria.

  Ahmeni deciphered the coded message, sneezing as he read. At once he threw a woolen mantle over his heavy linen gown, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and ran to Ramses’ office, though his lungs seemed to be on fire.

  “Your Majesty . . . incredible news! Hattusili’s daughter has arrived in Aya. The fortress commander awaits your instructions.”

  At this late hour the king worked in the light of oil lamps with smudge-proof wicks. Positioned on sycamore stands, they gave off a soft, even light.

  “There must be some mistake,” assessed Ramses. “Hattusili would have told me his daught
er was coming.”

  “The fortress commander was greeted by a Hittite fighting force that claims to be a bridal party!”

  The king paced briefly in his vast office, which was heated with braziers.

  “It’s a ploy, Ahmeni. Hattusili must have wanted to test his power at home. The convoy could have been attacked by rebel soldiers.”

  “He’d use his own daughter as bait?”

  “Hattusili’s mind is at ease now. Have Merenptah leave at once for Syria with his special forces. They’ll keep the princess safe on the rest of her journey. Order the fortress commander to open the gates and let Aya welcome the Hittites.”

  “What if . . .”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  In mutual amazement, the Hittites and Egyptians fraternized, feasted, drank, and ate together like old comrades in arms. Puduhepa, relieved, could turn back toward Hattusa, while her daughter, surrounded by dignitaries and a token Hittite honor guard, would continue south toward Pi-Ramses under Merenptah’s protection.

  Tomorrow they would separate for good. Her eyes misting over, Puduhepa looked at her beautiful, strong-willed daughter.

  “You feel no regret?” she asked.

  “I’m too excited.”

  “It’s the last time we’ll ever see each other.”

  “That’s how life is. Each person has a destiny . . . and mine is the best of all!”

  “I hope you find happiness, my child.”

  “I’m happy already.”

  Hurt, Puduhepa refrained from embracing her daughter. The final link had been severed.

  “It’s completely unheard of,” noted the fortress commander, a square-faced, gruff-voiced career soldier. “At this time of year, the mountains should be covered with snow, and we’d have some rain every day. If this heat wave continues, our cisterns will soon run dry.”