Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “Your Majesty . . .”

  “Come, Mathor.”

  “How did you know it’s me?”

  “Your perfume gives you away.”

  She sat down beside Ramses. Watcher rolled over and sat like a sphinx.

  “You were talking to this animal?”

  “All animals talk. When they’re close to us, like my lion and this latest member of the Watcher dynasty, they have a lot to say, if we know how to listen.”

  “But what can he tell you?”

  “About faithfulness, trust, and forthrightness. He says where he plans to guide me in the afterlife.”

  Mathor made a face. “Death . . . Why must you always mention that horror?”

  “Only humans commit horrors. Death is a simple physical law, and what lies beyond it may bring fulfillment, if your existence has been just and in keeping with the law of Ma’at.”

  Mathor drew closer to Ramses and fixed him with her sloe-eyed gaze.

  “Aren’t you afraid of soiling your dress?”

  “I’m not really dressed yet, Your Majesty.”

  “A plain dress, no jewelry, no wig . . . Why such simplicity?”

  “Does Your Majesty object?”

  “You have a rank to uphold, Mathor. You can’t behave like an ordinary woman.”

  The Hittite balked. “Have I ever done so? I’m an emperor’s daughter, and now the wife of the Pharaoh of Egypt! My existence has always been subject to the demands of protocol and power.”

  “Protocol, yes; but why do you say power? You had no official function at your father’s court.”

  Mathor felt caught in a trap. “I was too young . . . and Hatti is a military state where women are considered inferior. Here everything is different! The Queen of Egypt has a duty to serve her people, doesn’t she?”

  The young woman spilled her hair over Ramses’ knees.

  “Do you feel truly Egyptian, Mathor?”

  “I’ve completely forgotten Hatti, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Have you forsaken your father and mother?”

  “Of course not, but they’re so far away!”

  “It’s been a difficult adjustment for you.”

  “Difficult? This is what I always dreamed of! I don’t want to dwell in the past.”

  “Without an understanding of the past, there’s no preparing for the future. You’re young, Mathor, still trying to get your bearings. It won’t be easy.”

  “My future is settled: I’m Queen of Egypt!”

  “A reigning monarch earns his title day by day. It’s never final.”

  The Hittite was piqued. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “You’re the living emblem of peace between Egypt and Hatti,” declared Ramses. “The route leading up to that peace was strewn with fatalities. Thanks to you, Mathor, joy has replaced great suffering.”

  “Am I only a symbol, then?”

  “It will take you years to penetrate Egypt’s secrets. Learn to serve Ma’at, the goddess of truth and justice, and your life will be full of light.”

  The young woman rose and looked straight at the Lord of the Two Lands.

  “I wish to reign as your consort, Ramses.”

  “You’re only a child, Mathor. Forget your whims, uphold your rank, and let time do the rest. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be alone with Watcher. We still have a lot of talking to do.”

  Mathor bit her lip and ran back to her rooms, determined not to let Ramses see her tears of rage.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  In the months that followed her upsetting talk with Ramses, Mathor behaved impeccably. Gorgeously dressed, she dazzled the high society of Thebes with her charm and beauty, playing the queen content to be a figurehead. Heeding the king’s advice, she familiarized herself with the court and its customs. She also broadened her knowledge of Egypt’s ancient culture and was fascinated by its depth.

  Mathor encountered no hostility from Ahmeni, yet could not make inroads with the scribe generally agreed to be the king’s closest friend. Setau, his other confidant, had returned to Nubia with Lotus to collect venom from his precious snakes and to apply his ideas for improving the regional government.

  The young queen possessed everything yet had nothing. Power seemed so near, yet so far, and bitterness began to invade her heart. Still she strove in vain to win Ramses’ love; for the first time, doubts began to assail her. Determined not to let the Pharaoh notice her growing frustration, she threw herself into the social whirl, of which she was the undisputed queen.

  One autumn evening, Mathor felt weary. She dismissed her servants, lay down and stared at the ceiling, the better to dream of Ramses, all-powerful and unattainable.

  A gust of wind lifted the linen shade covering her window. Or so she thought, until a man burst through it, a long-haired man with an imposing build.

  Mathor sat up and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Who are you?”

  “A fellow Hittite.”

  A shaft of moonlight gave the queen a better view of the unexpected visitor’s face.

  “Uri-Teshoop!”

  “Do you remember me, little girl?”

  “How dare you break into my bedchamber!”

  “It wasn’t easy. I’ve been watching you for hours. With that devil Serramanna always on my tail, I’ve had to delay approaching you.”

  “Why would I want to see the man who overthrew Emperor Muwattali and tried to kill my father and mother?”

  “All that is in the past. Today we’re two Hittites exiled in Egypt.”

  “Are you forgetting who I am?”

  “A bird in a gilded cage, the way I see it.”

  “I’m Ramses’ wife and the queen of this country!”

  Uri-Teshoop sat down on the end of the bed.

  “Stop dreaming, little girl.”

  “I’ll call the guards.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Uri-Teshoop and Mathor locked eyes. The young woman rose and poured herself a glass of cool water.

  “You’re nothing but a monster and a brute. Why should I listen to someone with so much blood on his hands?”

  “Because we belong to the same tribe, and Egypt will always be the enemy of our people!”

  “You’re raving. The peace treaty is engraved in stone.”

  “And you’re dreaming if you think Ramses sees you as anything but a pawn in his game. Soon he’ll be shutting you up in a harem.”

  “You’re wrong!”

  “Has he given you even one shred of power?”

  Mathor said nothing.

  “In Ramses’ eyes, you don’t exist as a person. You’re part of the price he had to pay for peace. Once he feels sure that your father has called for demobilization, he’ll invade Hatti. Ramses is cruel and underhanded. He set a clever trap and Hattusili fell for it. And your own father sacrificed you! Enjoy the high life while it lasts, Mathor. Your youth will be gone much more quickly than you’d ever imagine.”

  The queen turned her back to Uri-Teshoop.

  “Are you quite finished?”

  “Think about what I’ve just told you, and you’ll see how much truth there is in it. If you want to see me again, find a way to send me a message without alerting Serramanna.”

  “What on earth would I want to say to you?”

  “You love Hatti as much as I do. And you can’t accept either defeat or humiliation.”

  Mathor waited a long time before turning around again.

  A light breeze lifted the linen curtain. Uri-Teshoop had disappeared. Had it all been a nightmare, or was it a call to awaken?

  The six men inside the huge vat beneath the vine arbor were singing at the top of their lungs and enthusiastically stomping fermented grapes in time to the music. The wine should be excellent; they were already half drunk on the fumes. Somewhat unsteadily, they clung to the overhanging vines. Outdoing them all was their leader, Serramanna.

  “Someone is asking for you,” a farmhand shouted.


  “Keep going,” Serramanna ordered his men. “Don’t slow down!”

  The man asking for him was an officer in the desert patrol. Weathered, square-jawed, he had his bow, arrows, and short sword at the ready.

  “I’ve come to report, sir,” he told Serramanna. “Our men have been combing the Libyan desert for months now, looking for Malfi and his rebel band.”

  “Have you finally located them?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The desert is immense, and we only control the portion closest to Egypt. Venturing farther west would be risky. The Bedouins spy on us and warn Malfi off whenever we get close. He’s harder to catch than a shadow.”

  It was not what Serramanna had wanted to hear. The desert patrol knew what it was doing; of that much he was certain. Their fruitless search proved just how tough an opponent Malfi was proving to be.

  “Do we know for sure that Malfi has federated several tribes?”

  “I’m not convinced of that,” replied the officer. “It may be just another rumor.”

  “Do you know if he carries an iron dagger?”

  “I’ve never heard it mentioned.”

  “Keep your men on alert. If anything at all turns up, inform the palace.”

  “As you wish. But what have we to fear from the Libyans?”

  “We’re sure that Malfi is up to some kind of mischief. Plus, he’s a murder suspect.”

  Ahmeni never discarded a single document. Over the years, his Pi-Ramses office had turned into an archive of papyrus scrolls and wooden tablets. Three adjoining rooms held inactive files. His staff had repeatedly urged him to eliminate some of the excess, but Ahmeni wanted to keep the maximum amount of information on hand, since requests to other government departments seemed to be filled at a snail’s pace.

  Ahmeni worked fast. From his point of view, setting aside a problem only tended to make it worse. Most of the time it made more sense to rely on his own solutions than to call in a host of experts who tended to disappear once the going got rough.

  He had just eaten a huge dinner of boiled meat that, as usual, would add no weight to his slender frame. He was working by lamplight when Serramanna entered his office.

  “Still reading?”

  “Yes, somebody has to take care of business.”

  “You’re going to ruin your health, Ahmeni.”

  “I did that long ago.”

  “May I sit down?”

  “As long as you don’t move anything.”

  The Sard remained standing.

  “Nothing new on Malfi,” he said regretfully. “He’s still on the run in the desert.”

  “What about Uri-Teshoop?”

  “Oh, leading the high life. If I didn’t know him like a hunter knows his prey, I’d swear he was a solid citizen with nothing in mind but keeping his rich wife happy.”

  “It’s a possibility. They say that marriage can work wonders.”

  “They do, do they?”

  The Sard’s arch tone intrigued Ahmeni.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You’re an excellent scribe, but time flies, you know, and you’re not a young man anymore.”

  Ahmeni put down his brush and crossed his arms.

  “I’ve met a woman . . . charming, but very shy,” continued Serramanna. “Obviously not right for me, but you might like her . . .”

  “You’re trying to marry me off?”

  “I need variety, but you’d make a faithful husband.”

  Ahmeni saw red. “My life is this office and public affairs! Can you picture a woman in here? She’d sort and clean till I couldn’t find a single thing!”

  “I only thought—”

  “Don’t think about me. Just concentrate on finding Ahsha’s murderer.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ramses’ Eternal Temple was a large complex on the West Bank at Thebes. According to the Pharaoh’s wishes, the pylons seemed to touch the sky, trees shaded freshwater ponds, the doors were of gilded bronze, the floors of silver, and statues vibrating with the life force of the ka stood in the great courtyards. Surrounding the temple precinct were a library and storerooms. Within it were chapels to Ramses’ father, Seti, his mother, Tuya, and his beloved wife Nefertari.

  The Lord of the Two Lands returned frequently to this magical domain where the gods resided. He liked to honor the memory of the loved ones whose presence was always with him. Even so, this visit was special.

  Meritamon, Ramses’ daughter with Nefertari, was to perform a ceremony immortalizing the reigning Pharaoh.

  When he caught sight of her, Ramses was once again struck by her resemblance to her mother. In her form-fitting dress adorned with two rosettes at chest level, Meritamon embodied Sechat, the goddess of writing. Her delicate face, framed by disk-shaped earrings, was fragile and luminous.

  The king took her in his arms.

  “How are you, my dear daughter?”

  “Thanks to you, I’m able to pray in this temple and play music for the gods. I sense my mother’s presence at every turn.”

  “It’s at your request that I’ve come to Thebes. As the sole Queen of Egypt recognized by the temples, what mystery do you wish to unveil?”

  Meritamon bowed to the sovereign. “Please step this way, Your Majesty.”

  In her role as the goddess, wearing the ibis mask of the god Thoth, she led Ramses to a chapel. Under Ramses’ gaze, Thoth and Sechat inscribed the king’s five coronation names on the leaves of a great tree carved upon the stone wall.

  “Your annals are hereby established millions of times,” said Meritamon. “They will now last forever.”

  Ramses was strangely moved. He was only a man upon whom fate had thrust a heavy burden, but the two gods referred him to another reality, as Pharaoh, whose soul passed from king to king through the dynasties.

  The concelebrants withdrew, leaving Ramses to contemplate the tree of millions of years on which his eternal name had just been placed.

  Meritamon was on her way back to the choir room when a young blond woman, lavishly dressed, barred her way.

  “I’m Mathor,” she said aggressively. “We’ve never met, but I have to talk to you.”

  “You’re my father’s official wife. We have nothing to say to each other.”

  “But you’re the true Queen of Egypt.”

  “My role is strictly religious.”

  “In other words, essential.”

  “Interpret the facts as you like, Mathor. For me, there’s only one Great Royal Wife—Nefertari.”

  “But she’s dead, and I’m alive! Since you won’t be queen, why stand in my way?”

  Meritamon smiled. “Your imagination is running away with you. I live a cloistered life here and have no interest at all in worldly affairs.”

  “But you attend state ceremonies as Queen of Egypt!”

  “At Pharaoh’s request. Do you question his wishes?”

  “Speak to him, convince him to give me my rightful place. Your influence will sway him.”

  “What is it you really want, Mathor?”

  “I have the right to reign; my marriage gives it to me.”

  “Egypt can never be conquered by force, only by love. On this earth, if you flout the law of Ma’at by forgetting your duties, you’ll end up sadly disillusioned.”

  “Your sermons don’t interest me, Meritamon; what I need is your help. I’m not renouncing the world.”

  “Then you’re braver than I. Good luck, Mathor.”

  Ramses meditated at length in the huge hypostyle hall in the temple of Karnak, which his father, Seti, had begun and he himself had completed in his role as son and successor. Filtered through the screened stone windows, sunlight fell on one after another of the painted and sculpted scenes that showed Pharaoh making offerings to the gods, winning their consent to reside on earth.

  Amon, the great soul of Egypt who gave breath to every nostril, remained mysterious but everywhere in evidence. He comes on the wind, revealed one hymn, but is never seen. Th
e night is filled with his presence. All that is high, all that is low, is the work of his hands. Attempting to learn about Amon, while realizing that he would always elude human intelligence, was the way to keep away evil and darkness, perceive the future, and organize the country in the image of heaven—according to the holy text called The Book of Coming Forth by Day.

  The man now approaching Ramses had a square, unprepossessing face that age had done nothing to soften. A former soldier and chief inspector of the royal stables, he had entered the Karnak priesthood and worked his way up through the ranks to become the Second Prophet of Amon. His head was shaved, his linen robe spotless. He came to a halt just beside the monarch.

  “My joy at seeing you again is great, O Majesty.”

  “Thanks to you, Karnak and Luxor are worthy of the gods that dwell here. How is Nebu?”

  “The high priest no longer leaves his little house by the sacred lake; he’s old beyond reckoning, yet he continues to rule his domain.”

  Ramses appreciated Bakhen’s loyalty. He was one of those exceptional beings without personal ambition, whose sole concern was right action. The management of Egypt’s greatest temple complex and estates was in good hands.

  Yet Bakhen seemed less serene than usual.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Ramses.

  “I’ve just received a number of complaints from smaller temples in the region of Thebes. They’ll soon run out of the olibanum, incense, and myrrh required for their daily religious observances. In the short term, Karnak can supply them, but my own reserves will be depleted within two or three months.”

  “Won’t the temples receive deliveries before the beginning of winter?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty, but we can’t be sure of the quantities. The recent harvests have been so poor that we may experience shortages of these essential supplies. If offerings can’t be made in a satisfactory manner, what will become of the country’s harmony?”

  As soon as Ramses returned to the capital, Ahmeni appeared at his office with an armload of official documents. Everyone wondered where the frail-looking scribe found the strength to carry such heavy burdens.