“Your Majesty, we must take immediate action! The tax on barges is excessive, and . . .”
Ahmeni fell silent. The serious expression on Ramses’ face told him not to bother the king with details.
“How is our supply of olibanum, incense, and myrrh?”
“I can’t say off the top of my head, I’ll have to check . . . Nothing to be alarmed about, as far as I know.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because I have a system for tracking it. If the reserves dipped below an acceptable level, I’d know.”
“Still, it sounds as if there’s a potential shortage around Thebes.”
“Let’s use the overstocks in the Pi-Ramses warehouses and hope that the upcoming harvest will be plentiful.”
“Delegate your less important tasks and take care of this problem immediately, Ahmeni.”
Ahmeni called a meeting with the head of reserves at the Double White House, the Treasury secretary, and the director of the House of Pine, who checked all shipments of merchandise from foreign countries. The three high officials were all well into their fifties.
“I had to leave an important meeting,” complained the Treasury secretary, “so I hope you have some good reason for bringing us here.”
“All three of you are responsible for our reserves of olibanum, myrrh, and incense,” Ahmeni pointed out. “Since none of you has alerted me to the shortages, I suppose the situation is under control.”
“I’m almost out of olibanum,” confessed the director from the Double White House, “but that certainly can’t be the case with my colleagues here.”
“I have only a small supply remaining,” the Treasury secretary noted, “but since it hadn’t quite reached the official shortage level, I didn’t think it wise to alarm my colleagues.”
“My situation is exactly the same,” said the director of the House of Pine. “If the shortage had continued over the next few months, I would have reported it.”
The three high officials had missed the point of his instructions and had focused instead on the details. And as was too often the case, they had not communicated with one another.
“I want exact figures from each of you.”
Ahmeni’s calculations were swift. By the next spring there would not be one speck of incense in Egypt; the temples and laboratories would be completely out of myrrh and olibanum.
And throughout the country a feeling of revolt would be born and grow against Ramses’ failure to provide.
THIRTY-NINE
Still as lovely as a spring morning, Chief Physician Neferet was putting the final touches on an amalgam filling of pistachio tree resin, honey, copper flakes, and a bit of myrrh, intended for the tooth of her illustrious patient.
“No sign of abscess,” she explained to Ramses, “but your gums are fragile and your tendency toward arthritis seems more pronounced. Your Majesty mustn’t forget the mouthwash and willow bark tonic that I’ve prescribed.”
“I’ve planted thousands of willows along the river and inland lakes. You’ll soon have a good supply of your anti-inflammatory remedies.”
“Thank you, Majesty. I’m also giving you a paste to chew, composed of bryony, juniper, sycamore pods, and incense. Speaking of incense and myrrh, which are so effective in treating pain, I ought to inform you that we’re experiencing shortages.”
“I know, Neferet, I know . . .”
“When will new supplies be available for my doctors and surgeons?”
“It won’t be long.”
Sensing the monarch’s unease, Neferet refrained from asking the questions that burned on her lips. The problem must be serious, but she trusted Ramses to lead the country out of this predicament.
Ramses had spent a long time with his father Seti’s statue; the sculptor’s genius had imbued the face with life. In the stark white-walled office, Seti’s presence linked the Pharaoh’s thoughts to those of his predecessor. Whenever he had to make decisions involving the kingdom’s future, Ramses consulted the soul of his father and teacher, whose rigorous training methods would have broken lesser men.
Seti had been right to test him. Ramses felt that he owed his endurance to the demanding education he had received. As he matured, the fire within him burned no less intensely, but the passion of youth had been transformed into an ardent desire to build up his country and his people as his ancestors had done before him.
When Ramses’ eyes came to rest on the large map of the Near East that he often consulted, the Pharaoh thought about Moses, his boyhood friend. He too had burned with a consuming fire, his true guide in the desert as he sought the Promised Land.
On several occasions, against the advice of his military advisors, Ramses had refused to take action against Moses and the Hebrews, believing that they must follow their destiny.
Ramses admitted Ahmeni and Serramanna to his office.
“I’ve reached several decisions. There’s one in particular that ought to please you, Serramanna.”
Hearing the king out, the hulking Sard was overjoyed.
Tanit, the shapely Phoenician, never tired of Uri-Teshoop’s body. Although the Hittite brutalized her, she gave in to all his demands. Thanks to him, she felt young again. Each day was replete with pleasure. Uri-Teshoop had become her god.
The Hittite kissed her savagely, then rose and stretched like some wild beast, splendidly naked.
“You’re a fine filly, Tanit. At times you almost make me forget my country.”
Tanit left the bed and joined her lover, crouching to kiss his ankles.
“We’re happy, so happy! Let’s not think of anything but our love . . .”
“We’re leaving tomorrow for your villa in the Faiyum.”
“It’s so dull there, darling. I’d rather stay here in Pi-Ramses.”
“As soon as we arrive, I’ll leave again. But you’ll act as if we’re together in your love nest.”
Tanit stood up and pressed her heavy breasts to Uri-Teshoop’s chest, embracing him fervently.
“Where are you going? How long will you be gone?”
“You don’t need to know. When I get back, if Serramanna questions you, just say that we were never out of each other’s sight.”
“You can trust me with your secret, darling, I—”
The Hittite slapped her so hard that she cried out in pain.
“You’re a female, and a female should keep her nose out of men’s business. Do as I say and everything will be fine.”
Uri-Teshoop was to rendezvous with Malfi. The two would waylay the convoy bringing olibanum, myrrh, and incense to Egypt. Once they destroyed these precious commodities, Ramses’ popularity would plummet and the country would be in a state of turmoil. Conditions would be favorable for a surprise attack by the Libyans. In Hatti, the anti-treaty faction would run Hattusili off the throne and reinstate Uri-Teshoop, the only commander able to conquer Pharaoh’s armies.
A frantic servant appeared in the doorway.
“Mistress, it’s the police! A giant with a helmet and sword . . .”
“Send him away,” ordered Tanit.
“No,” countered Uri-Teshoop. “Let’s see what our friend Serramanna wants. Tell him we’ll be right down.”
“I refuse to speak to him. He’s so uncouth.”
“Settle down, darling. Are you forgetting that we’re the most famous pair of lovebirds in Egypt? Throw on a dress that leaves your breasts bare and splash on some perfume.”
“Care for some wine, Serramanna?” asked Uri-Teshoop, hugging a languid Tanit to him.
“I’m here on official business.”
“How does it concern us?” inquired the Phoenician.
“Ramses gave Uri-Teshoop the right to asylum in difficult times, and the way he’s become part of Egyptian society is gratifying to the king. That’s why he’s granting the two of you a privilege that you can be proud of.”
Tanit was astonished. “What do you mean?”
“The queen is leaving on a
tour of all the harems in Egypt, where festivities will be arranged in her honor. The Pharaoh is extending an invitation for you to join her on the journey.”
“That’s . . . that’s wonderful!” exclaimed the Phoenician.
“You don’t look so happy about it, Uri-Teshoop,” remarked the Sard.
“Of course I am . . . such an honor for a foreigner like me . . .”
“Queen Mathor is your cousin, isn’t she? And your wife is a Phoenician. As long as people abide by the laws, they’re welcome in Egypt. Your conduct has made you an authentic subject of Pharaoh.”
“Why were you sent to invite us?”
“Because I’ll be providing security for the royal entourage,” the Sard replied with a grin. “And I won’t let you out of my sight for a second.”
They numbered only a hundred, but they were powerfully armed and perfectly trained. Malfi had assembled a strike force that included only his best men, a mixture of experienced fighters and energetic young soldiers.
After final drills, during which a dozen unqualified men perished, the commando left the secret camp in the heart of the Libyan desert and headed north toward the western fringe of the Delta. Advancing in skiffs or along muddy trails, they crossed it from west to east, then turned toward the Arabian peninsula for their rendezvous with Uri-Teshoop. His men would give them precious information on how to escape detection by Egyptian patrols and lookouts.
The first phase of the conquest would be a triumph. The oppressed Libyans would find new hope, and Malfi would become the hero of a people desperate for revenge. The Nile would turn into a river of blood. Yet first they must strike at Egypt’s core values: religious ritual and expression of the law of Ma’at. Without olibanum, without myrrh and incense, the priests would feel abandoned and would accuse Ramses of breaking his pact with heaven.
Malfi’s scout retraced his steps.
“We can’t go any farther, sir,” he reported.
“What kind of nonsense is this?”
“Come see for yourself.”
Lying prone on a mound of soft earth, hidden by thorn bushes, Malfi could not believe his eyes.
The Egyptian army occupied a wide band of ground between the sea and the marshlands. Boats full of archers skimmed the waters. Lookouts stood on tall wooden towers. There must be several thousand men, commanded by Merenptah, Ramses’ younger son.
“We can’t get through,” the scout advised. “We’ll be spotted and massacred.”
Malfi could not lead his men to death; they were his finest, the future spearhead of the Libyan army. Destroying a caravan would have been easy, but skirmishing with a huge force like this would be suicide.
Fuming, the Libyan grabbed a thorny tuft and ground it to bits in his hand.
FORTY
The caravan boss felt dazed. He was a Syrian who had traded all over the Near East, and though he was nearing sixty he had never seen such riches in one place.
His producers were supposed to meet him at the northwestern point of the Arabian peninsula, an arid and desolate region where the temperature was torrid by day and often frigid by night, to say nothing of the danger from snakes and scorpions. The spot was ideal for sheltering a secret cache. For three years now, the Syrian had been stockpiling the treasures he had skimmed from the Egyptian government.
His partners in crime, the Libyan Malfi and the Hittite Uri-Teshoop, believed him when he claimed to have torched what remained of the year’s paltry harvest of incense products. Malfi and Uri-Teshoop were warriors, not businessmen; they wouldn’t realize that no sensible merchant ever destroys the goods.
With limp black hair framing his moon face, a thick torso set on short legs, the Syrian had been lying and cheating since his teens, not forgetting to buy silence along the way. One of his contacts had been another clever Syrian, Raia, who had recently met a violent death.
The caravan boss had amassed quite a nest egg over the years. Now it paled in comparison to the incredible prize that had just been deposited in his warehouse.
Standing an average of ten feet high, the incense trees of Arabia had yielded three harvests so abundant that three times as many seasonal workers than usual had to be hired. The dark green leaves and golden flowers with purple centers were not half as beautiful as the superb brown bark. Scraping it released droplets of resin; specialized workers would roll it into tiny balls that released their marvelous scent when burned.
Words failed the cavavan boss when he contemplated the incredible quantity of olibanum. Its whitish, milky, fragrant resin had flowed like honey from the gods. The droplets of white, gray, or yellow had nearly made him weep with joy. He was acquainted with this costly and sought-after product’s numerous virtues. It was an antiseptic, an anti-inflammatory, and an analgesic. In ointments, plasters, powders, sometimes in liquid form, Egyptian doctors used it to counteract tumors, ulcers, abscesses, eye and ear infections. Olibanum stopped hemorrhages and helped wounds heal faster; it was even an antidote to poison. Neferet, the famous chief physician of the realm, would pay a fortune for this indispensable substance.
And there was green galbanum resin gum, dark laudanum resin, thick, sticky balsam oil, myrrh . . . He was on the brink of ecstasy. Such a fortune was beyond any merchant’s wildest dreams.
The Syrian had taken care to set a decoy for his clients, dispatching a caravan on the route where Uri-Teshoop and Malfi were expecting him. He feared it had been a mistake sending only a modest cargo, for news of the exceptional harvest was already spreading and might reach his foreign partners’ ears too quickly.
How could he buy some time? Within two days the Syrian was expecting Greek, Cypriot, and Lebanese traders, who would snap up the contents of his warehouse. Then he planned to head for Crete, where he would spend the rest of his days in comfort. For the next two days he’d just have to pray that Uri-Teshoop and Malfi didn’t find him out.
“A Hittite is here to see you,” one of his servants announced.
The Syrian’s mouth went dry. His eyes stung. The worst had happened. A suspicious Uri-Teshoop was here to check on the rumors. And if he demanded to inspect the warehouse . . . Was there any way to reason with the former commander-in-chief of the Hittite army, or should he run?
Paralyzed with fear, he hesitated. Then he saw that the man coming toward him was not Uri-Teshoop.
“Are you a Hittite?” the caravan boss asked haltingly.
“I am.”
“And a friend of—”
“No names, please. Yes, I’m a friend of the general’s, the only man capable of saving Hatti from dishonor.”
“Good, good . . . May the gods smile upon him! When will he be arriving?”
“You’ll have to be patient.”
“Nothing has happened to him, I hope?”
“Don’t worry, he’s merely been detained at official ceremonies in Egypt. He trusts that you’ll honor the terms of your contract to the letter.”
“He can rest assured that the contract has been executed. Everything went as he wished.”
“Good. I’ll let the general know.”
“Tell him I hope he’s satisfied. As soon as I get to Egypt, I’ll be in touch.”
Once the Hittite was out of sight, the caravan boss gulped down three shots of strong liquor. He couldn’t believe his luck! Uri-Teshoop detained in Egypt . . . Some god of crooked deals must be looking after him.
He would still have to deal with Malfi, a dangerous madman who displayed the occasional flash of lucidity. The sight of blood usually went to the Libyan’s head. Slaughtering the decoy caravan would have given him as much pleasure as bedding a woman, and he would have forgotten to examine the cargo closely. But if anything set off an alarm, he’d track the caravan boss like an animal.
The Syrian had many strengths, but physical courage was not among them. The thought of confronting Malfi made him panic.
In the distance, a cloud of dust.
They were expecting no one . . . It could only be the Libyan
and his bloodthirsty commando!
The caravan boss collapsed on a mat, cursing his luck. Malfi would enjoy slitting his throat, watching him die a slow death.
The cloud of dust was moving slowly. Horses? No, they’d be going faster. Donkeys? Yes, it was donkeys. Then this must be a caravan! But where had it come from?
Hopeful but unsure, the merchant rose to watch the heavily laden convoy’s slow, steady progress. And he recognized the drivers: the men he had sent to their death on the route where Malfi lay in wait!
Could it be a mirage? No, here came the lead driver, a fellow Syrian somewhat older than himself.
“A good trip, friend?”
“Fine, fine.”
The caravan boss concealed his stupefaction. “No trouble along the way?”
“Not in the least. But we’re all in a hurry to drink, eat, wash, and sleep. Will you take care of the cargo?”
“Of course, of course . . . Go relax.”
The caravan was safe and sound, the goods intact. There was only one possible explanation: Malfi and the Libyans had been stopped. Perhaps the warlord had been killed by the desert patrol.
It was all turning out as he’d hoped. The risk and anxiety would all be worth it!
Slightly giddy, the Syrian ran to the warehouse, to which he held the only key.
The wooden bolt was broken.
Livid, he pushed in the door. Between him and his heaps of treasure stood a man with a shaved skull, draped in a panther skin.
“Who . . . who are you?”
“Kha, the high priest of Memphis and Ramses’ elder son. I’ve come for what belongs to Egypt.”
The Syrian gripped his dagger.
“Don’t do anything rash . . . Pharaoh is watching you.”
The thief looked behind him. As far as he could see, the sandy hillocks bristled with Egyptian archers. And there in the sunshine stood Ramses the Great, in his tall blue crown, erect in his chariot.
The caravan boss fell to his knees.
“Pardon . . . I’m not guilty . . . they made me . . .”
Ramses, Volume V Page 20
