Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “You’ll stand trial,” announced Kha.

  The very idea of court, of the probable sentence, made the Syrian take flight. Raising his dagger, he rushed at an archer who was coming toward him with wooden handcuffs, and sank the knife into the soldier’s arm.

  Seeing their comrade in mortal danger, three other archers drew their bows. The thief fell, his body bristling with arrows.

  Over Ahmeni’s objections, Ramses had insisted on heading the expedition himself. Thanks to information from the desert patrol, as well as the use of his divining rod, the king had located the missing shipments of crucial incense products. He had also detected another irregularity that he wanted to check for himself.

  The Pharaoh’s chariot took off through the desert, followed by a cohort of military vehicles. Ramses’ two horses were so swift that they soon outdistanced his escort.

  All the way to the horizon was nothing but sand, rocks, and hillocks.

  “What is the king doing out in the middle of nowhere?” a chariot lieutenant asked the archer who rode with him.

  “I was at the battle of Kadesh,” replied the archer. “Ramses does nothing by chance. It’s a divine force that guides him.”

  The monarch passed by a sand dune and came to a halt.

  As far as the eye could see were magnificent trees with gray and yellow bark around a soft white core—an extraordinary plantation of olibanum trees, enough to provide Egypt with precious resin for years to come.

  FORTY-ONE

  Uri-Teshoop was at the breaking point. The beauty of the gardens, the quality of the food, the charm of the music—nothing could make him forget Serramanna’s constant presence and unbearable smile. Tanit, on the other hand, was enjoying her tour of the harems in the company of a dazzling queen. Mathor, who charmed the dourest of administrators, loved being the center of attention.

  “Excellent news,” Serramanna announced to the Hittite. “Ramses has just performed a new miracle. Pharaoh discovered a huge olibanum plantation in Arabia, and the caravans made their way back to Pi-Ramses safe and sound.”

  The Hittite clenched his fists. Why hadn’t Malfi carried out their plan? If the Libyan had been arrested or killed, Uri-Teshoop would never be able to wreak havoc in Egypt.

  Tanit was talking with some local businesswomen at Merur, the harem where Moses had worked long ago. Uri-Teshoop sat apart, on a low stone wall at the edge of an artificial lake.

  “Enjoying the view, cousin?”

  The former commander-in-chief of the Hittite army raised his eyes to focus on Mathor, now at the height of her beauty.

  “I’m too depressed.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “You, Mathor.”

  “Me? You can’t be serious!”

  “Haven’t you figured out Ramses’ strategy yet?”

  “Tell me your theory, Uri-Teshoop.”

  “You’re living the final moments of your dream. Ramses has just led a military expedition to the colonies, asserting his hold over the native populations. You’d have to be blind not to see that he’s consolidating his bases, getting ready to launch a new assault against Hatti. Before he does that, he’ll have to get rid of two stumbling blocks—you and me. I’ll be put under house arrest and probably fall victim to some convenient accident. You’ll be shut up in one of these harems you so enjoy visiting.”

  “Harems aren’t prisons!”

  “You’ll be given an honorary position, and that will be the last you’ll see of the king. Ramses has his mind set on war, believe me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I have my network of friends, Mathor. I get solid information, things that would never reach your ears.”

  The queen looked troubled.

  “What are you proposing?”

  “The king is a gourmet. He especially enjoys a dish created in his honor, a marinade of garlic, onions, and red oasis wine over beef and filets of Nile perch. A Hittite princess should know how to exploit a weakness for good food.”

  “You can’t be suggesting that I—”

  “Don’t play innocent! In Hattusa, you learned the uses of poison.”

  “You’re a monster!”

  “If you don’t get to Ramses first, he’ll destroy you.”

  “That’s the last word you’ll ever say to me, Uri-Teshoop.”

  The fallen prince was playing for high stakes. If Mathor was unconvinced, she might well denounce him to Serramanna. But if Uri-Teshoop had successfully planted the seeds of doubt in his cousin’s mind, the battle was half won.

  Kha was worried.

  Yes, the restoration program he had undertaken at Saqqara had already brought remarkable results. Djoser’s step pyramid, the pyramid of Wenis that housed the earliest “Pyramid Texts” (secret formulas for resurrecting the royal soul), and the monuments of Pepi I had all been carefully refurbished.

  And the high priest of Memphis had not stopped there. He had also asked his teams of builders and stonemasons to patch up the Fifth Dynasty pharaohs’ temples and pyramids at Abu Sir, just north of Saqqara. In Memphis, Kha had enlarged the temple of Ptah, adding a chapel to Seti’s memory and leaving room for a shrine to the glory of Ramses.

  Suddenly overcome with fatigue, Kha went to the spot where the First Dynasty tombs had been dug, at the edge of Saqqara’s desert plateau, overlooking palm groves and cultivated fields. Here King Djet had been buried with three hundred sculpted bulls’ heads, inlaid with genuine horns that protruded from the walls that surrounded his sepulchre. The visit gave Kha the necessary energy to strengthen the bonds between past and present.

  The high priest had not yet discovered the Book of Thoth. At times he felt he would never do so. He attributed his failure to a lack of vigilance and his neglect of the cult of the sacred bull. While he vowed one day to address the problem, he knew he must first see his restoration program to completion.

  But would it ever be finished? For the third time since the beginning of the year, Kha told his driver to take him to the pyramid of Mycerinus, where he hoped to leave an inscription once the project was completed.

  For the third time, he found the work site empty, except for an old stonecarver munching on bread rubbed with garlic.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Kha.

  “Gone home.”

  “The ghost again?”

  “Yes, it’s back. Several men saw it this time, with its hands full of snakes and threatening to kill anyone who came near. As long as the ghost is hanging around, no one will want to work here, no matter how high the pay.”

  Kha’s worst fears were confirmed: refurbishing the monuments on the Giza plateau would be impossible. The ghost was loosening stones and causing accidents. Everyone knew that it was a tormented soul, returning to earth to cause trouble among the living. Not even Kha’s strong magic had been able to stop it.

  A chariot approached; it must be Ramses. Kha took heart. He’d requested his father’s help. Yet if the king failed, part of the plateau of Giza would have to be declared off limits, and ancient masterpieces would continue to crumble.

  “The situation is worsening, Your Majesty. The workers have fled.”

  “Have you tried the usual incantations?”

  “They’ve had no effect.”

  Ramses contemplated the pyramid of Mycerinus, with its powerful granite foundations. Each year, the Pharaoh made a pilgrimage to Giza, drawing on the energy its builders had captured in stone—rays of light uniting earth with heaven.

  “Do you know where this ghost is lurking?”

  “None of the workmen dared follow it.”

  The king noticed the old stonecarver, still busy eating, and approached him. Startled, the man dropped his piece of bread and fell to his knees, hands outstretched, forehead to the ground.

  “Why didn’t you run like the others?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

  “You know the ghost’s hiding place, don’t you?”

  L
ying to the king would mean eternal damnation.

  “Take us there.”

  Trembling, the old man guided the king through the streets of tombs where Mycerinus’s followers reposed; in the hereafter, they would continue to serve as his faithful servants. Some of these structures were now more than a thousand years old and needed work, as Kha’s trained eye was quick to see.

  The stonecarver entered a small open-air courtyard strewn with chunks of limestone. In one corner was a crumbling pile of hewn building blocks.

  “It’s here, but don’t go any farther.”

  “Who is this ghost?”

  “A sculptor whose memory wasn’t honored. He’s getting revenge by attacking other stoneworkers.”

  “According to the inscriptions, the man directed a team of builders in Mycerinus’s day.”

  “Let’s clear that pile of blocks,” ordered Ramses.

  “Your Majesty . . .”

  “Get to work.”

  The rim of a rectangular well emerged; Kha threw a pebble down it, and the fall seemed endless.

  “Almost fifty feet,” concluded the stonecarver when he heard it hit. “Don’t venture into that hellhole, Your Majesty.”

  A knotted rope hung down one wall of the well.

  “Someone has to go,” Ramses said firmly.

  “In that case, I should be the one to take the risk,” the workman decided.

  “If you meet the ghost,” objected Kha, “will you know the right words to neutralize it?”

  The old man hung his head.

  “As high priest of Ptah,” said Ramses’ firstborn son, “the task falls to me. Don’t keep me from going, Father.”

  Kha began a descent that he thought would never end. Yet the bottom of the well was not dark: a strange glow emanated from the limestone walls. The high priest finally set foot on uneven ground and proceeded down a narrow corridor ending in a false door. On this was a portrait of the dead man, surrounded by columns of hieroglyphs.

  Then Kha understood.

  A wide crack ran the full length of the portrait, depriving the beneficiary of the hieroglyphs’ formulas for resurrection. Prevented from inhabiting his image, the man’s spirit had taken the form of a destructive ghost, furious with the living for neglecting his memory.

  When Kha resurfaced, he was exhausted yet radiant. As soon as the underground door was repaired and the dead man’s face lovingly sculpted, the curse over the work site would lift.

  FORTY-TWO

  Uri-Teshoop was back in Pi-Ramses, and still seething. With Serramanna watching his every move for weeks, unable to act and deprived of information, he felt like massacring all of Egypt, beginning with Ramses. What was more, he had to put up with the cloying Tanit, still eager for her daily ration of love.

  And here she was, half-naked, in her cloud of fragrance.

  “Darling . . . the Hittites!”

  “What Hittites?”

  “Hundreds of them! Pi-Ramses is full of Hittites!”

  “Have you lost your mind, woman?”

  “My servants have seen them.”

  “Hittites attacking the heart of Ramses’ kingdom? If it’s true, Tanit, that’s fabulous news.”

  Uri-Teshoop pushed his wife away and dressed in a short black and red striped tunic. It felt like the old days. He hopped on a horse, excited, ready for battle.

  Hattusili had been overthrown, the faction calling for all-out war had triumphed, the Egyptian defense lines had been broken in a surprise attack, and the fate of the Near East hung in the balance!

  On the broad avenue leading from the temple of Ptah to the royal palace, a colorful crowd was celebrating.

  There was no soldier in sight, not the slightest sign of combat.

  Speechless, Uri-Teshoop spoke to a grinning policeman.

  “I heard that Hittites have invaded Pi-Ramses.”

  “It’s true.”

  “But where are they?”

  “At the palace.”

  “Have they killed Ramses?”

  “What are you talking about? These are the first Hittites who’ve come to visit Egypt. They’re paying tribute to our Pharaoh.”

  Tourists! Dumbfounded, Uri-Teshoop broke through the crowd and headed for the palace gates.

  “We were hoping you’d come!” Serramanna boomed heartily. “Want to watch the ceremony?”

  The crestfallen prince let the Sard show him to the audience chamber, thick with courtiers.

  In the front stood the visitors’ delegates, their arms heaped with gifts. When Ramses appeared, conversation ceased. One by one, the Hittites presented the king with lapis lazuli, turquoise, copper, iron, emeralds, amethysts, carnelian, and jade.

  The sovereign lingered over some superb turquoise nuggets; they could only have come from the Sinai mines. As a young prince, Ramses had traveled there with Moses. The red and yellow mountain was unforgettable, with its looming boulders and secret ravines.

  “These are splendid,” he said to the delegate. “Could you have crossed paths with Moses and his Hebrew followers?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Have you heard about their exodus?”

  “Everyone in the region fears them. They’re quick to do battle, and Moses still insists they’ll find their homeland.”

  So Ramses’ boyhood friend was still pursuing his dream. The monarch took little note of the growing piles of presents, his mind flooding with memories of his estranged companion.

  The head of the delegation was the last to bow to Ramses.

  “Are we free to come and go in all of Egypt, Your Majesty?”

  “Indeed, as our peace agreement stipulates.”

  “May we honor our gods in your capital?”

  “To the west of town is the temple of the Syrian goddess Astarte, our Set’s companion. She protects my chariot and horses; I’ve also asked her to keep the Memphis waterfront safe. The Storm God and Sun Goddess you worship in Hattusa are equally welcome in Pi-Ramses.”

  As soon as the delegation left the audience chamber, Uri-Teshoop approached one of his fellow Hittites.

  “Do you recognize me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m Uri-Teshoop, son of Emperor Muwattali.”

  “Muwattali is dead now. Hattusili is emperor.”

  “This visit . . . it’s a front, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean? We’ve come to tour Egypt, and other Hittites will follow us. The war is over for good.”

  For several long minutes, Uri-Teshoop stood stunned in the middle of Pi-Ramses’ main avenue.

  The head of the Treasury, who was trailing behind Ahmeni, had finally been convinced to appear before Ramses. Up to this point, he had thought it safer to hold his tongue, hoping that scandal could be avoided and reason would win the day. But the arrival of the Hittite visitors, or more exactly the value of their gifts, had occasioned such blatant excess that the high official could no longer keep silent.

  Facing Ramses would be too much for him, so the Treasury secretary had gone to Ahmeni. The king’s private secretary heard him out, stone-faced, then requested an urgent meeting with the monarch. Now the dignitary was repeating his accusations word for word, as instructed, not omitting the slightest detail.

  “You have nothing to add, Ahmeni?”

  “Would that really be useful, Your Majesty?”

  “Did you know about this irregularity?”

  “It slipped by me, I admit, although I did issue warnings.”

  “Both of you can consider the problem solved.”

  Relieved, the Treasury secretary avoided the king’s stern gaze. He felt lucky not to have been held responsible. As for Ahmeni, he was counting on Ramses to establish the law of Ma’at in the heart of his own palace.

  “At last, Your Majesty!” exclaimed Mathor. “I was afraid I’d never see you again. Why wasn’t I at your side when you greeted my countrymen? They would have been glad to see how well you treat me.”

  Superb in her red robe with silv
er rosettes, Mathor sailed around a ballet of servant girls pursuing their daily tasks—banishing the smallest speck of dust, carrying jewels and gowns for her to wear, tending the hundreds of flowers that scented the queen’s wing of the palace.

  “Dismiss your staff,” ordered Ramses.

  The queen froze.

  “But . . . I have no reason to.”

  The man Mathor saw now was no lover, but the Pharaoh of Egypt. The same expression must have been on his face when he counterattacked at Kadesh, rushing single-handed at thousands of Hittite soldiers.

  “Out of here, all of you!” cried the queen.

  Unaccustomed to such treatment, the servants slowly withdrew, dropping all they carried on the tile floor.

  Mathor attempted a smile.

  “What’s going on, Your Majesty?”

  “Do you think you’re behaving like a Queen of Egypt?”

  “I’m living up to my rank, as you demanded.”

  “On the contrary, Mathor. Your willful behavior is capricious and unacceptable.”

  “What have I done wrong?”

  “You’ve been badgering the Treasury secretary to release assets belonging to the temples, and yesterday you signed a decree appropriating the precious metal your fellow countrymen brought as a gift to Egypt.”

  “I’m the queen. It all belongs to me!” the young woman snapped.

  “You’re sadly mistaken. The state doesn’t run on greed and selfishness, but the law of Ma’at. This land is the property of the gods; they transmit it to Pharaoh, whose duty is to maintain it in good condition, prosperous and happy. Your first concern, Mathor, ought to be right action. When a head of state is no longer a role model, the country is courting decadence and ruin. Your behavior is an insult to Pharaoh’s authority and his people’s welfare.”

  Ramses had not raised his voice, but his words cut like a blade.

  “I . . . but I didn’t think . . .”

  “A Queen of Egypt must think before she acts. And you have acted badly, Mathor. I’ve reversed your unjust decree and taken measures to keep you from doing more harm. Henceforth you are to reside at the harem of Merur and will appear at court only at my request. You will want for nothing, but will make no further requisitions.”