Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “Then you also depend on slave labor!”

  “The law of Ma’at requires a contract between the party assigning work and the party executing it. Otherwise, there is no joy in the most sublime work nor the humblest task. And this contract is based on mutual agreement, on giving one’s word. Do you think that our pyramids and temples could have been built by gangs of slaves?”

  “Your Majesty, old habits are hard to change . . .”

  “I’m not naive. I know that most countries will continue to practice slavery. But now you know what my demands are.”

  “Egypt may lose some important markets.”

  “What’s essential is that Egypt preserve her soul. Pharaoh is not a merchant prince, but Ma’at’s earthly representative and the servant of his people.”

  Ramses’ words made a deep impression on Merenptah. For him, the journey to Tyre was a landmark.

  Uri-Teshoop was so disturbed that to calm his nerves he felled a centenarian sycamore that shaded the duck pond, as Tanit’s gardener cowered in the toolshed.

  “Here you are at last!” exclaimed the Hittite when his wife came through the gate.

  Tanit gazed on the destruction.

  “Did you do this?” she asked sadly.

  “This is my house and I’ll do as I like with it! What did you find out at the palace?”

  “Let me sit down, I’m tired,” she said.

  The little tabby cat jumped in its mistress’s lap. As she listlessly stroked its head, it began to purr.

  “Tell me, Tanit!”

  “You’re going to be disappointed. The real point of Ramses’ trip was to halt the growth of the slave trade in Tyre and the surrounding region.”

  Uri-Teshoop slapped Tanit hard across the face.

  “What kind of fool do you take me for!”

  Trying to defend its mistress, the little cat scratched the Hittite. He grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and slit its throat with his iron dagger.

  Blood-spattered, horrified, Tanit ran to her room.

  FIFTY

  Ahmeni was relieved; Serramanna brooded.

  “With Ramses back from Phoenicia safe and sound, I can breathe easier,” admitted the king’s private secretary. “Why are you so glum, Serramanna?”

  “Because Narish turned out to be a dead end.”

  “What were you hoping for?”

  “To find proof that he had suspicious dealings with Dame Tanit. I could have threatened her with charges if she didn’t tell me the truth about Uri-Teshoop.”

  “You’re obsessed with that Hittite! Don’t let it warp your mind.”

  “Are you forgetting that he murdered Ahsha?”

  “We have no proof.”

  “Too true, Ahmeni.”

  The Sard could feel himself aging. Serramanna, stymied by the law! He might as well resign himself to admitting failure: Uri-Teshoop had been shrewd enough to get around the Egyptian police.

  “I’m going home.”

  “To anyone special?”

  “No, Ahmeni. I’m tired and I’m going to sleep.”

  “A lady is waiting for you,” Serramanna’s steward announced.

  “I didn’t send for a girl!”

  “This one’s no girl. A lady, I told you. I asked her to wait in the front room.”

  Intrigued, Serramanna hurried to meet his guest.

  “Dame Tanit!”

  The comely Phoenician rose and rushed into the giant’s arms. Her hair was undone and bruises showed on her cheeks.

  “Protect me, I beg of you!”

  “I’d be glad to, but from what . . . or whom?”

  “From the monster who’s made me his slave!”

  Serramanna was careful not to gloat. “If you want me to act in my official capacity, Dame Tanit, you’ll have to press charges.”

  “Uri-Teshoop killed my cat, he chopped down my beautiful sycamore, and he beats me all the time now.”

  “Those are misdemeanors. He could get a fine, even forced labor. But that wouldn’t put him out of commission.”

  “Will your men protect me?”

  “My mercenaries are part of the king’s royal bodyguard and can’t intervene in private matters . . . unless they become affairs of state.”

  Drying her tears, Tanit pulled back and looked the hulking Sard straight in the eye.

  “Uri-Teshoop wants to assassinate Ramses. He’s in league with the Libyan Malfi; they formed their alliance under my roof. Uri-Teshoop brags about killing Ahsha with an iron dagger that never leaves his side. He plans to use it to kill the king. Would you call that an affair of state?”

  A hundred men fanned out around Dame Tanit’s villa. Archers climbed trees overlooking her garden; others stood by on neighboring rooftops.

  Was Uri-Teshoop alone or with his Libyans? Would he take the household servants hostage if he noticed the stakeout? Serramanna had demanded total silence in the approach, knowing that the slightest incident would alert the Hittite.

  And, inevitably, there was one.

  Scaling the villa’s outer wall, a mercenary lost his footing and fell into the shrubbery.

  A barn owl hooted. Serramanna’s men froze. After a few minutes of stillness, the Sard gave the order to advance.

  It was too late for Uri-Teshoop to run, but he wouldn’t surrender without a fight. Serramanna hoped to take him alive and bring him to justice before the vizier.

  A glint of light came from Tanit’s bedchamber.

  Serramanna and a dozen mercenaries flung themselves onto the dew-soaked ground, crawled to the paving that surrounded the villa, and rushed inside.

  The servant girl cried out in fright and dropped her oil lamp. It shattered on the floor. For a few seconds, confusion reigned; the mercenaries fought with the shadows and hacked at furniture with their swords.

  “Calm down!” shouted Serramanna. “Give us some light!”

  Other lamps were lit. Trembling, the servant girl was pinned between two soldiers pointing their swords at her.

  “Where is Uri-Teshoop?” inquired Serramanna.

  “When he realized the mistress had left him, he jumped on the back of his best horse and galloped off.”

  In frustration, the Sard slammed his fist into a Cretan jar. The Hittite’s warrior instincts had taken over. Sensing danger, he had taken flight.

  For Serramanna, being admitted into Ramses’ stark office was the equivalent of entering the country’s most secret inner sanctum.

  Also present were Ahmeni and Merenptah.

  “Dame Tanit has returned to Phoenicia after giving the vizier a deposition,” Serramanna told them. “Several witnesses place Uri-Teshoop on the way to Libya. He’s gone to join up with Malfi.”

  “That’s guesswork,” judged Ahmeni.

  “No, it’s for certain. Uri-Teshoop has nowhere else to go, and he won’t give up the fight against Egypt.”

  “Unfortunately,” reported Merenptah, “we haven’t been able to locate the Libyans’ camp. Malfi keeps moving around in the desert. All things considered, that may be a good sign: it proves that Malfi hasn’t been able to form a real fighting force.”

  “We have to catch up with them,” ordered Ramses. “An alliance between two evil and violent leaders constitutes a danger we can’t ignore.”

  Serramanna drew himself up to his full height.

  “Your Majesty, I have a request to make of you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m convinced that we haven’t seen the last of this Hittite monster. I beg the privilege of fighting Uri-Teshoop and killing him by my own hand.”

  “Granted.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. No matter what the future holds, you’ve made my life a good one.”

  The Sard withdrew.

  “Is something bothering you?” Ramses asked his son.

  “It’s Moses and the Hebrews. They’re finally closing in on Canaan, which they consider their Promised Land.”

  “How happy Moses must be . . .”

&n
bsp; “Yes, but the local tribesmen aren’t. They fear their aggressive visitors. That’s why I’d like to ask you once more for permission to take my troops and nip the problem in the bud.”

  “Moses will go as far as he must to create a country in which his faithful can live as they please. That’s his right, my son, and we will not interfere. One day we’ll open talks with his new nation; perhaps they’ll even become our ally.”

  “What if they become our enemy instead?”

  “Moses holds no grudge against his native land. You ought to be worrying about the Libyans, Merenptah, not the Hebrews.”

  The general let the subject drop. Although unconvinced by his father’s arguments, he was an obedient son.

  “We’ve had news from your brother Hattusili,” revealed Ahmeni.

  “Good or bad?”

  “The emperor is thinking.”

  Even when the sun beamed, Hattusili felt cold. Within the thick stone walls of his citadel, he could never seem to get warm. With his back to the blaze crackling in the huge fireplace, he reread the Pharaoh of Egypt’s proposals to his wife, Puduhepa.

  “Ramses has incredible nerve! I send him a letter of reprimand, and he answers me with insults. He wants me to send him another princess to marry. What’s more, he’s asking me to travel to Egypt!”

  “A wonderful idea,” the empress told him. “Your official visit would be conclusive proof that the peace agreement can never be broken.”

  “You can’t be serious. Why would I, the Emperor of Hatti, want to appear as Pharaoh’s vassal?”

  “No one is asking you to humble yourself. I’m sure we’d be welcomed with all the honor due our rank. I’ve already written a letter of acceptance; you need only set your seal to it.”

  “I need time to think. There ought to be discussion first.”

  “It’s too late for talks. Let’s prepare to leave for Egypt.”

  “Since when do you make the diplomatic decisions?”

  “My sister Nefertari and I were the ones who forged the peace agreement in the first place. The least you can do as emperor is make it last.”

  Puduhepa thought warmly of Ahsha, the most attractive man she had ever known. Ahsha, Ramses’ boyhood friend, who had gone to his heavenly reward. For him, this day would be a joyful one.

  FIFTY-ONE

  When Mathor learned the news that had Egypt buzzing, namely the announcement of her parents’ state visit, she thought it meant her return to favor. To be sure, she lived as a queen at the harem of Merur, enjoying the countless pleasures of her rank. Yet hers was merely a diplomatic marriage, and she wielded no true power whatsoever.

  The Hittite princess wrote a long letter to Ahmeni, the king’s private secretary. In the strongest terms, she demanded to occupy the role of Great Royal Wife in welcoming the Emperor and Empress of Hatti. She called for an escort to return her to the palace at Pi-Ramses.

  The reply, signed by Ramses, was a categorical: Mathor would not attend the ceremonies; she was to remain at Merur.

  Once her anger cooled, the Hittite reflected. What better way to thwart Ramses than preventing Hattusili’s arrival? Energized by her plan, she made sure she ran into a priest of the crocodile god, a priest with a reputation for competence.

  “In Hatti,” she told him, “our priests often read omens to predict the future. They study the entrails of animals.”

  “You don’t find that somewhat distasteful?”

  “What methods do you use instead?”

  “Only Pharaoh can see into the future.”

  “But surely you priests have your secrets!”

  “There’s a body of state magicians, Your Majesty, but they undergo special training.”

  “Don’t you consult the gods?”

  “In certain circumstances, the high priest of Amon asks questions of the god of creation, with Pharaoh’s permission, and Amon replies through his oracle.”

  “And everyone follows his recommendations, I presume.”

  “No one would dare defy the will of Amon.”

  Sensing the priest’s reluctance, Mathor dropped the subject.

  Yet that very day, after ordering her household not to say she was gone, the queen left for Thebes.

  Death had finally called for old Nebu, the high priest of Amon, at his little house by the sacred lake at Karnak. He died content in the knowledge that he had served the hidden god well and done the will of Pharaoh Ramses, the creator’s earthly representative.

  Bakhen, the Second Prophet of Amon, had immediately informed the king. And Ramses came to pay his respects, for men of integrity, men like Nebu, were what enabled the Egyptian tradition to endure in the face of the forces of evil.

  The silence of mourning filled the vast temple of Karnak. After celebrating the rites of dawn, Ramses met Bakhen at the northwest corner of the sacred lake, near the giant scarab that symbolized the sun’s rebirth after its nightly battle with the darkness.

  “The time has come, Bakhen. Ever since we clashed as young men, you’ve been on my side. If the temples of Thebes are splendid, it’s partly due to your efforts. You’re a capable and honest leader. Yes, the time has come to appoint you as high priest of Karnak and First Prophet of Amon.”

  The priest’s low voice rumbled with emotion.

  “Your Majesty, I’m not so sure. Nebu, you know . . .”

  “Nebu proposed you as his successor long ago, and he was a good judge of men. I entrust you with the staff and the golden ring that signify your new position. You’ll govern this holy city and make sure it fulfills its sacred function.”

  Bakhen was already taking himself in hand. Ramses knew he would set straight to work in his new capacity without a thought for the prestige attached to it.

  “My heart cannot remain silent, Your Majesty. Here in the south, your decision has caused a stir.”

  “Are you referring to the state visit from the Emperor and Empress of Hatti?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s caused a stir in the north as well. But the visit will take place, because it will set the seal on our peace agreement.”

  “Many religious leaders have asked to consult the oracle. If the god Amon gives you his consent, the protests will die down.”

  “Prepare the ceremony, Bakhen.”

  An administrator at Merur had sent Mathor to a valuable contact, a rich Syrian merchant who knew everything that went on in Thebes. He lived on a sumptuous estate on the East Bank, not far from the temple of Karnak, and received the queen in a hall with two graceful iris and cornflower columns.

  “What an honor, Your Majesty, for a simple merchant!”

  “This conversation never took place and we never met. Is that quite clear?”

  The Hittite proffered a golden necklace; the Syrian smiled and bowed.

  “If you give me the help I need,” she continued, “I’ll be very generous.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m interested in the oracle’s reading.”

  “The rumor has been confirmed: Ramses does plan to consult with Amon.”

  “What will he ask the oracle?”

  “Whether the god approves of your parents’ visit to Egypt.”

  Mathor was in luck. Fate had done most of the work for her; she only need finish it.

  “What if Amon says no?”

  “Ramses will be forced to capitulate. And I hardly dare imagine the Emperor of Hatti’s reaction! Still, Pharaoh is a demigod himself . . . The oracle would never turn him down.”

  “I want the omen to be negative.”

  “What?”

  “Let me repeat: help me and you’ll be very rich. How does the god give his answer?”

  “A select group of priests holds the bark of Amon while the First Prophet consults the god. If the boat moves forward, the answer is yes. Backwards means no.”

  “Bribe the priests, then. Amon has to contradict Ramses.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “Find out which priests won
’t take a bribe and use potions to make them sick. Then replace them with your own men. If you make it work, I’ll shower you with gold.”

  “It’s risky . . .”

  “You no longer have any choice, merchant. You’re already in league with me. Don’t try to back out and don’t dare cross me, or I’ll show no mercy.”

  Alone with the bulging sacks of gold nuggets and gemstones that the Hittite had left as her down payment, the Syrian merchant pondered his situation. Some claimed that Mathor would never regain the king’s trust, but others argued she’d reign again. And some of the Karnak clergy, he’d heard, resented Bakhen’s rise through the hierarchy.

  He’d never be able to buy off all the priests in charge of the sacred bark, but if he could just get the strongest ones, the god would appear to waver, then clearly show his disapproval.

  It could be done . . . And he could be a very wealthy man.

  Thebes was in an uproar.

  In both the town and surrounding countryside, people knew that the “great feast of the divine audience” was about to begin, once again demonstrating the communion between Amon and Ramses.

  Every important person from throughout the south was crammed into the great court of the temple where the ritual was to take place. The mayor, provincial officials, and great landowners refused to miss this exciting event.

  When the bark of Amon emerged into the daylight, they held their collective breath. In the center of the gilded wooden boat was the tabernacle containing the sacred image, concealed from human eyes. Yet it was this living effigy that would decide for Pharaoh.

  The priestly bearers advanced slowly across the silver flooring. The new high priest of Amon, Bakhen, noticed several new faces; he remembered hearing about stomach problems that had forced several initiates to drop out of the ceremony.

  The bark came to a halt in front of the Pharaoh. Bakhen spoke.

  “I, the servant of the god Amon, ask in the name of Ramses, Son of Light, whether Pharaoh may rightfully bring the Emperor and Empress of Hatti to Egypt.”

  Even the swallows had stopped winging through the blue sky. As soon as the god replied in the affirmative, the cheering for Ramses could burst forth.