Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  The Syrian merchant’s strong-shouldered recruits looked at each other and strained to move the bark backward.

  It wouldn’t move.

  Their fellow priests must simply be pushing in the opposite direction. They tried even harder, but a strange force propelled them forward. Dazzled by the light streaming from the tabernacle, they yielded.

  The god Amon had given his approval to his son Ramses. The jubilation could begin.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Here he was.

  Slightly stooped, his hair graying but eyes still sharp, he could pass for a rather ordinary man, not worth a second look. Here he was, Hattusili, the Emperor of Hatti, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak to counteract the cold he felt no matter what the season.

  Here he was, the chief of a warlike and conquering nation, the supreme commander of the Hittite troops at Kadesh, but also the co-author of the peace treaty. Here was the uncontested master of a rugged country where he had crushed all opposition.

  And Hattusili had just set foot on Egyptian soil, followed by two women—his wife, Puduhepa, and a frightened-looking young princess.

  “It’s impossible,” murmured the Emperor of Hatti. “Completely impossible. No, this can’t be Egypt.”

  Yet it was no dream. It was really Ramses the Great advancing toward his former rival, to embrace him.

  “How is my brother Hattusili?”

  “Getting old, my brother Ramses.”

  Denounced by Tanit, Uri-Teshoop had fled the country, removing any potential obstacle to Hattusili’s state visit. The fallen prince was now a hunted criminal and the sworn enemy of both Egypt and Hatti.

  “Nefertari would have enjoyed this extraordinary occasion,” said Ramses to Puduhepa, superb in her long red gown and adorned with Egyptian jewelry, a gift from Pharaoh.

  “All during our journey, I couldn’t stop thinking of her,” confessed the empress. “No matter how long you reign, she shall always remain your true queen.”

  Puduhepa’s remarks smoothed over any diplomatic difficulties. In the brilliant summer sunshine, the sparkling Turquoise City thronged with thousands of dignitaries from every corner of Egypt. They had come to welcome the royal guests from Hatti and participate in the many ceremonies planned in their honor.

  The capital’s beauty and wealth dazzled the imperial couple. Aware that the god Amon had given Ramses his approval, the population greeted the illustrious visitors enthusiastically. Beside the Pharaoh in his chariot pulled by two plumed horses, Hattusili experienced surprise after surprise.

  “Doesn’t my brother have any sort of security?”

  “My royal bodyguard provides protection,” replied Ramses.

  “But all these people, so close to us . . . it hardly seems safe.”

  “Observe how my people look at me, Hattusili. Do you see any hatred or aggression? Today they’re thanking us for giving them peace, and we’re communing with them in joy.”

  “A population that’s not governed by terror . . . how very strange! And how did Ramses manage to raise an army able to resist the Hittite forces?”

  “All Egyptians love their country as the gods do.”

  “It was you, Ramses, who robbed me of the ultimate victory—you and you alone. But suddenly I don’t mind anymore.”

  The Emperor of Hatti took off his woolen cloak. He no longer felt cold.

  “I like this climate,” he said. “It would be nice to live here.”

  The first reception, held at the Pi-Ramses palace, was grandiose. There were so many delicious dishes that Hattusili and Puduhepa could barely dip into them, sipping on vintage wine. Gorgeous bare-breasted singers charmed their ears and eyes, and the empress took note of the latest fashions worn by noble ladies.

  “I’d like to drink a toast to Ahsha,” suggested Puduhepa. “He gave his life for peace, for the happiness that both our peoples now enjoy.”

  The emperor agreed, but he looked discontented. “I see our daughter isn’t here,” he said.

  “I won’t rescind my decision,” declared Ramses. “Although Mathor committed some serious wrongs, she will remain the symbol of peace. As such, she’ll be given all the honor due her. Need I go into the details?”

  “No, my brother. Some things it’s better not to know.”

  Ramses thus avoided any mention of the Syrian merchant’s arrest and his attempt to reduce his sentence by making accusations against the queen.

  “Would Pharaoh like to speak with his future bride?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Hattusili. This second diplomatic marriage will be celebrated properly and in public, and our two nations will be gratified. But there will be no personal involvement.”

  “Nefertari is truly unforgettable . . . That’s as it should be. I doubt that the princess I brought you, pretty but weak-minded, would interest Ramses the Great. She’ll discover all that your country has to offer and be happy here. As for Mathor, who never enjoyed life in Hatti, she’ll mellow in Egypt.”

  Hattusili had just sealed the destiny of the two Hittite princesses. In this fortieth year of Ramses’ reign, there was no further basis for dispute between Hatti and Egypt—which was why Empress Puduhepa’s dark eyes were shining with genuine joy.

  The city’s pylons, obelisks, great forecourts, colonnades, scenes of offerings, and silver flooring all fascinated Hattusili, who was also interested in the House of Life, the library, storerooms, stables, kitchens, and offices where scribes labored. The Emperor of Hatti emerged most impressed from his meetings with the vizier and the cabinet; the architecture of Egyptian society was as grandiose as the country’s religious monuments.

  Ramses showed Hattusili how to burn incense, its fragrance attracting the gods to the dwellings that men had made for them. The empress was included in the ritual appeasing dangerous forces, which Kha conducted with his habitual rigor. Then there was the tour of Pi-Ramses’ temples, notably the shrines dedicated to foreign deities. And then the emperor thoroughly enjoyed a moment of rest in the palace gardens.

  “It would have been unfortunate for the Hittite army to destroy such a lovely city,” he said to Ramses. “The empress is delighted with your capital. Since we’re at peace, would my brother permit me to request a favor?”

  Hattusili’s relative passivity was beginning to intrigue Ramses. Struggling not to fall under Egypt’s spell, his strategic mind was reasserting itself.

  “The empress and I have seen marvels, yet I know there’s another side to your city as well. Since we’ve agreed to assist each other in case of outside attack, I’d like to verify the state of the Egyptian army. Will Pharaoh grant me permission to visit the capital’s main military base?”

  If Ramses pleaded national security or steered the emperor toward one of the smaller bases, Hattusili would be forewarned. This was the moment of truth, the reason he’d agreed to make the journey.

  “Merenptah, my younger son, is head of the Egyptian army. He’ll be glad to take the Emperor of Hatti on a tour of his headquarters.”

  At the end of the banquet in Empress Puduhepa’s honor, Hattusili and Ramses went for a stroll by a lotus pond covered with blue and white blossoms.

  “I’ve discovered a feeling I never knew until now,” admitted Hattusili. “I mean trust. Only Egypt could make a man your size, my brother Ramses. Forging an authentic friendship between two rulers prepared to destroy each other is something of a miracle. But you and I are growing older, and we should be thinking of our successors . . . Whom have you chosen, among your innumerable royal sons?”

  “My oldest son, Kha, is a scholar, a deep thinker, who can moderate any discussion and convince without ever arguing. He’ll be able to run the kingdom smoothly and weigh his decisions carefully. Merenptah has courage. He knows how to command and organize; he’s won the military’s admiration and the administration’s respect. Either one of them would make a good king.”

  “In other words, you still aren’t sure. Well, fate will send you a sign. With sons like yours,
I’m not concerned about the future of Egypt. They’ll both know how to carry on your work.”

  “And what about your succession?”

  “The prospects are rather dim. Hatti is in decline, as if peace had unmanned us. But I have no regrets; the alternative was even worse. At least we’ll have had a breathing space, and I’ll have given my people a quality of life they never knew before. Unfortunately, I’m afraid they won’t make good use of it, and our country will perish. Oh . . . I have one more favor to ask of you. I don’t walk about so freely at home, and my feet have been killing me. I’ve heard that the chief physician of the realm is extremely competent and also a highly attractive woman.”

  Neferet left the banquet room where she was conversing with Puduhepa and came to care for the imperial toes.

  “A condition I’ve seen before; I can treat this for you,” she said after examining him. “The first step is applying a pomade of red ocher, honey, and hemp. Tomorrow morning I’ll use another preparation—acacia and jujube leaves, malachite powder, and mussels, ground into a powder. This second salve will feel pleasantly cool, but you’ll have to walk with your ankles bandaged.”

  “If I offered you a fortune, Neferet, would you come back to Hatti with me and be my personal physician?”

  “You know I couldn’t, Your Highness.”

  “I can never win against Egypt,” said Hattusili with the hint of a smile.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Long Legs whistled a tune to the glory of Ramses as he trudged along with his donkey hauling pottery toward the northwestern edge of the Delta. Not far from the Mediterranean coast, the traveling merchant found the winding path that led to a small fishing village where he was sure to sell off his inventory.

  Long Legs was proud of his nickname, bestowed by the girls who watched him and his friends run their footraces on the sandy beaches. He’d been undefeated for over two years. More and more girls came to admire the naked young runners, lingering to congratulate the champion. No wonder they called him the fastest man in the western Delta!

  But there were drawbacks, too. Girlfriends wanted presents, and Long Legs had to work hard to uphold his status.

  Cranes flew overhead as a strong wind buffeted low clouds. Observing the sun’s position, Long Legs realized he wouldn’t make it to the village before dark. He’d be better off spending the night in some reed hut along the way. Once night fell, dangerous creatures emerged from their lairs to attack the unwary.

  Long Legs unloaded his donkey, fed it, then started a fire with flints and a fire stick. He ate two grilled fish and drank cool water from a jug. Then he stretched out on his mat and slept.

  As he dreamed of his next footrace and the exciting aftermath, a familiar sound woke him. The donkey was pawing the ground with his front shoe. Between him and his master, it was an unmistakable danger signal.

  Long Legs stood up, extinguished the fire, and crouched behind a thorn bush. Wise move, since thirty armed men wearing helmets and breastplates soon emerged from the shadows. The moon was full, giving him a good look at the man in charge. His head was bare, his hair was long, and his chest was covered with fleecy red hair.

  “There was a spy, but he got away!” exclaimed Uri-Teshoop, sinking his lance into the reed mat.

  “I don’t think so,” objected a Libyan. “Look at this pottery and the donkey here. It was only a traveling merchant who stopped to rest.”

  “All the villages west of here are under our control. We have to find this spy and get rid of him. Spread out, men.”

  Four years had passed since Emperor Hattusili and Empress Puduhepa had paid their visit to Egypt. The ties between Egypt and Hatti were stronger than ever; the specter of war had vanished. A steady flow of Hittite visitors arrived to admire the scenery and cities in the Delta.

  Ramses’ two Hittite princesses got along beautifully. Mathor’s pampered existence had gradually quelled her ambitions; her younger counterpart was enchanted with life in Egypt. Together, and without regret, they concluded that Ramses the Great, at sixty-six years of age, had become a living legend, beyond their reach. And the Pharaoh, sensing their chastened attitude, allowed the two queens to participate in certain official ceremonies.

  In Year Forty-three of his reign, at Kha’s urging, Ramses had celebrated his fifth sed-feast, surrounded by the community of gods and goddesses. Their statues, imbued with their spiritual essence, or ka, were once again assembled in the capital. Henceforth, the Pharaoh must have ever more frequent recourse to this ritual rejuvenation as age bore down on him.

  Ramses also had to consult regularly with Neferet, his chief physician. Ignoring her illustrious patient’s occasional grumbling about old age, she cared for his teeth and kept his arthritis from progressing. Thanks to her treatments, the monarch’s vitality remained intact, and he worked at an unrelenting pace.

  After waking the divine power within the sanctuary and celebrating the rites of dawn, Ramses met with the vizier, Ahmeni, and Merenptah, whom he trusted to work out the details of his directives. In the afternoon he studied the grand state rituals with Kha, working toward their reformulation.

  The king was slowly detaching himself from running the country, having placed it in excellent hands. He often went to Thebes to see his daughter, Meritamon, and meditate at his Eternal Temple.

  When Ramses returned from Karnak, where High Priest Bakhen was performing to the satisfaction of all, a worried-looking Merenptah greeted him at the pier.

  “A troubling report, Your Majesty.”

  The commanding general of the Egyptian army personally took the reins of the royal chariot, steering it toward the palace.

  “If the facts are confirmed, Your Majesty, I’ll feel partially at fault.”

  “Explain yourself, Merenptah.”

  “The oasis of Siwa, near the Libyan border, has supposedly been attacked by a band of Malfi’s raiders.”

  “How old is this information?”

  “I’ve just had the report, but the incident dates back ten days or so.”

  “And you don’t think it’s reliable?”

  “Well, the officer assigned to the oasis isn’t identified correctly, but that could be due to confusion and haste. If the oasis really has been attacked, we’ll have to take action. And if Malfi is really behind it, we’ll have to nip his rebellion in the bud.”

  “Why do you think you’re at fault, Merenptah?”

  “Because I haven’t been vigilant enough, Your Majesty. The peace with Hatti has made me forget that war could break out in the west. And with Uri-Teshoop still at large, I worry. Will you let me go to Siwa and wipe out the insurgents?”

  “For all your thirty-eight years, Merenptah, you still have the dash of a young officer! Send one of your top men on this mission. I want you to stay here and put our forces on a state of alert.”

  “I swear that they were Libyan bandits!” Long Legs repeated to the drowsy border guard.

  “You’re raving, boy. No Libyans around here, I tell you.”

  “I ran until I dropped; they were trying to kill me! Good thing I’m a champion, or they would have caught up. Helmets, breastplates, spears, lances . . . a regular army!”

  The border guard yawned a few more times, then glared at the young man.

  “Too much strong beer can make you see things. You ought to stop drinking.”

  “The moon was full,” Long Legs persisted, “so I saw their leader before I ran. A great big guy with red hair all over his chest.”

  The guard’s ears finally perked up. A sketch of Uri-Teshoop had been circulated to army, police, and customs outposts, promising a fat reward for the Hittite’s arrest.

  The border guard waved the sketch in front of Long Legs.

  “Is this him?”

  “Yes, that’s the man I saw!”

  The military had studded the band of desert along the western edge of the Delta with small forts, and settlements grew up around them. They lay a day apart by chariot, two days at a fast march,
and the garrisons’ standing order was to alert the generals in Pi-Ramses and Memphis to the slightest suspicious movement across the Libyan border. The high command made sure that this region was one they kept a close eye on.

  When the border region’s military governor received an unsettling report based on a traveling merchant’s testimony, he took care not to pass it on to his superiors, for fear they’d laugh at him. The possibility of capturing Uri-Teshoop nevertheless prompted him to send a patrol to the area where the Hittite had supposedly been sighted.

  That was why Nakti and his men found themselves on a forced march into an inhospitable, mosquito-infested region, with a single idea in mind: getting this unwelcome assignment over with as quickly as possible.

  Nakti cursed every step of the way. When would he finally be posted to Pi-Ramses, to a comfortable barracks, instead of pursuing phantom enemies?

  “Fort sighted ahead, sir.”

  The frontier guards may take us for imbeciles, thought Nakti, but at least they’ll offer us food and drink, and we can spend the night.

  “Watch out, sir!”

  A soldier dragged Nakti backward. In his path lay an enormous black scorpion, positioned to attack. One more distracted step and he would have been bitten.

  “Kill it,” the officer ordered his rescuer.

  The soldier had no time to draw his bow. Arrows flew from the fort’s battlements. With the precision of trained archers, the Libyans under Uri-Teshoop’s command mowed down the Egyptian patrol.

  With his iron dagger, the Hittite prince cut each of the wounded men’s throats.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  As he did each morning, the military governor of the Libyan frontier zone went to his office to consult the daily dispatches from his outposts. Ordinarily, it was a simple task, for all the wooden tablets bore the same message: “Nothing to report.”

  That morning, however, no reports had been delivered.