Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  He wouldn’t have far to look for the guilty party. The soldier in charge of the mail must have overslept. Furious, the governor vowed he’d demote the laggard to laundry detail.

  In the fortress courtyard, one man listlessly pushed a broom. Two young foot soldiers were drilling with short swords. The governor walked briskly to where the couriers and scouts were quartered.

  No soldiers lay on the reed mats.

  The governor stood there, puzzled. No reports, no couriers . . . what could explain it?

  He was still gaping at the empty mats when the fortress door was rammed open by a band of wild-eyed Libyans with plumes in their hair.

  They hacked the sweeper and the two foot soldiers with their hatchets before bashing open the petrified governor’s skull. He hadn’t even tried to run. Uri-Teshoop spit on his corpse.

  “The oasis at Siwa hasn’t been attacked,” an officer reported to Merenptah. “We were fed some false information.”

  “No victims?”

  “No victims, no uprising. I traveled all the way there for nothing.”

  Merenptah sat alone, musing. If this was a diversion tactic, where was the real trouble spot? Only Ramses could gauge the extent of the danger.

  Just as the prince was climbing back into his chariot, his aide-de-camp came running.

  “General, a message from a garrison close to the Libyan border . . . a mass attack against our fortresses there! Most of them have already fallen and the governor’s been killed, the report says!”

  Merenptah had never driven his horses so hard. Jumping from his chariot, the king’s younger son bolted up the stairs to the palace. With Serramanna’s assistance, he broke into the audience Pharaoh had granted to select provincial leaders.

  Merenptah’s flustered face told Ramses at once that something serious had happened. The king adjourned the audience, promising another meeting in the near future.

  “Your Majesty,” declared the commanding general, “the Libyans have probably invaded the northwestern Delta. I can’t tell how bad it is yet.”

  “Uri-Teshoop and Malfi!” exclaimed Serramanna.

  “Yes, there is mention of the Hittite in the sketchy report I received. And Malfi has obviously managed to unite the warring Libyan tribes. Our reaction should be swift and merciless . . . unless this is another false lead, like Siwa.”

  “If it is a ruse and Malfi drew the greater part of our fighting force to the Delta, he could attack down by Thebes and meet no resistance. He’d put Amon’s holy city to fire and the sword.”

  Weighing his decision, Ramses held the future of Egypt in his hands.

  “Your Majesty,” Serramanna said timidly, “you promised . . .”

  “I haven’t forgotten. You’ll come with me this time, Serramanna.”

  Cruel black eyes burned in Malfi’s square-jawed face. His men considered him the incarnation of a desert demon, with eyes in the back of his head and fingers that cut his opponents to shreds. He had brought nearly every tribe in Libya under his command, patiently fanning the flames of their long-standing hatred of Egypt. The Egyptians had grown far too used to peace, and now the Libyans would ride roughshod over them. What was more, they had the bold and experienced Uri-Teshoop on their side.

  “Less than two hours’ march in that direction,” said the Hittite, gesturing, “are the first Delta settlements. We’ll take them to begin with. Then we’ll destroy Pi-Ramses, with its defenses reduced to the minimum. You’ll be proclaimed Pharaoh, Malfi, and what’s left of the Egyptian army will be placed under your control.”

  “Are you sure it will work, Uri-Teshoop?”

  “Yes, because I know how Ramses thinks. The Siwa diversion has him upset and convinced that we’re attacking on several fronts. His priority will be to protect Thebes and his temples; that’s why he’ll send two regiments south, probably under Merenptah’s command. A third regiment is probably guarding Memphis. And since he’s vain enough to believe he’s invincible, the great man himself will head the force sent to wipe us out. We’ll only be facing a few thousand men, Malfi. We can easily take care of them. I ask only one favor of you: let me kill Ramses myself with my iron dagger.”

  The Libyan nodded his agreement. He would have liked more time to get his troops in fighting shape, but their run-in with the traveling merchant had forced him to go on the offensive.

  A single regiment would not daunt Malfi. The Libyans were fighters, their spirit increased tenfold by the drug he’d dispensed before the battle. They had every advantage over the unsuspecting Egyptians.

  He’d given only one order: show no mercy.

  “Here they come,” announced Uri-Teshoop.

  Malfi’s eyes gleamed with eagerness. His country had been downtrodden too long. Now he would pay Egypt back, razing rich villages and burning cropland. Any survivors would be his slaves.

  “Ramses is marching at the head of his troops,” the Hittite reported excitedly.

  “Who’s that at his right?” asked Malfi.

  “His youngest son, Merenptah.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that he’d be diverted to Thebes?”

  “We’ll kill both father and son.”

  “Who’s that to the king’s left?”

  “Serramanna, the head of his royal bodyguard . . . I can’t believe our luck, Malfi! I’ll skin the bastard alive.”

  Foot soldiers, archers, and chariots spread out along the horizon, in perfect order.

  “There’s not just one regiment,” Malfi assessed.

  The Libyan and the Hittite had to yield to the evidence: Ramses had risked confronting them with all four regiments, named for the gods Amon, Ra, Ptah, and Set. The entire Egyptian fighting force was ready to strike the enemy.

  Malfi clenched his fists.

  “You claimed you know Ramses well, Uri-Teshoop!”

  “His strategy doesn’t make sense . . . How can he risk bringing out his whole army?”

  The Libyan looked around and saw that Nubian archers, commanded by Viceroy Setau, were blocking any retreat.

  “One Libyan equals at least four Egyptians,” Malfi shouted to his men. “Charge!”

  As Ramses stood still as a statue in his chariot, the Libyans surged toward the Egyptian front lines. The Egyptian foot soldiers knelt to give the archers a better aim; their volley decimated the enemy ranks.

  The Libyan archers returned the fire, but less accurately. The second wave straggled forward and was met by the Set regiment’s infantry. Then the chariots counterattacked; on Merenptah’s order, they pounded through the rebel troops, which despite Malfi’s curses were beginning to disband.

  The fleeing Libyans ran into Setau and his Nubians, with their devastating arrows and lances. From that moment on, the outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt. Most of the outnumbered Libyans laid down their arms.

  In a frenzy, Malfi gathered his few remaining partisans around him. Uri-Teshoop had disappeared, the coward. Malfi didn’t even care. All he wanted now was to kill as many Egyptians as he could lay his hands on. His first victim would be Merenptah, there within throwing distance.

  In the confusion, the two men’s eyes met. Ramses’ youngest son could feel the Libyan’s hatred.

  In the same instant, their two spears flew through the air.

  Malfi’s grazed Merenptah’s shoulder. The prince’s spear ripped into the Libyan’s forehead.

  Malfi stood upright a few seconds longer, then swayed and fell.

  Serramanna was having a wonderful time. Wielding his heavy double-edged sword with remarkable dexterity, he’d lost count of all the Libyans he’d hacked to bits. Malfi’s death had discouraged the few rebel troops remaining, so now the hulking Sard could rest for a moment.

  He turned to check on Ramses, and what he saw terrified him.

  Wearing a helmet and protected by a breastplate that covered the reddish fleece on his chest, Uri-Teshoop had slipped through the Egyptian ranks and was approaching the royal chariot from behind.

 
The Hittite was going to assassinate Ramses.

  A mad dash, knocking several royal sons out of his way, brought Serramanna between the chariot and Uri-Teshoop, but not soon enough to stop the Hittite from striking a mighty blow. The iron dagger went deep into Serramanna’s chest.

  Mortally wounded, the Sard had just enough strength left to grab his sworn enemy by the throat, squeezing it with his enormous hands.

  “You didn’t make it, Uri-Teshoop. You lose!”

  The Sard loosened his grip only when the fallen prince had stopped breathing. Then, like a wild beast sensing its end drawing near, he lay down on his side.

  Ramses cradled the head of the man who had just saved his life.

  “You’ve won a great victory, Your Majesty . . . and thanks to you, what a wonderful life I’ve had . . .”

  Proud of his final exploit, the Sard breathed his last in Ramses’ arms.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Mammoth vases and ewers in heavy gold-trimmed silver.

  Gold and silver offertory tables of more than three hundredweight.

  A gold-plated boat of Lebanese pine nearly two hundred paces long.

  Sheets of gold to grace tall columns.

  Close to a ton of lapis lazuli, two tons of turquoise.

  This was only part of the treasure that Ramses presented to the temples of Thebes and Pi-Ramses to thank the divinities for granting him victory over the Libyans and saving Egypt from invasion.

  And this forty-fifth year of his reign had seen the birth of a new temple dedicated to Ptah, Gerf Hussein in Nubia, where Setau had transformed a traditional sacred grotto into a shrine. The king had come to dedicate this miniature version of Abu Simbel, likewise carved out of a sandstone cliff. Here, as at many other sites, colossal statues of the monarch in the form of Osiris had been erected.

  When the festivities were over, Ramses and Setau watched the sun set on the Nile.

  “Have you caught building fever, Setau?”

  “Nubia inspires me, Your Majesty. It blazes with heat that has to be channeled into stones and temples. They’ll be the voice of posterity for you, won’t they? Besides, soon enough we’ll rest for all eternity. The point of our brief existence is to work; only what we accomplish will live on.”

  “Are you encountering any difficulty with your additional duties?”

  “Nothing serious. During your reign, Ramses, you’ve put an end to war. Peace with Hatti, peace in Nubia, peace imposed on Libya . . . a creation as beautiful as a grandiose building, and it will prove your greatest memorial. Wherever he is, Ahsha must be happy!”

  “I often think of Serramanna’s sacrifice. He gave his life to save me.”

  “Anyone close to you would have done the same, Your Majesty. How could it be otherwise, when you’re our spokesman in the great beyond?”

  Planted early in Ramses’ reign, the sycamore in the palace gardens at Thebes now provided welcome shade as Ramses sat listening to his daughter play the lute, accompanied by birdsong.

  As they did each day in all of Egypt’s temples, the priests had purified themselves with water from the sacred lakes and performed their rites in the name of Pharaoh. As usual, food had been brought to small temples as well as great ones, to be offered to the gods, then redistributed to Pharaoh’s human flock. As usual, divine power had been awakened and Ma’at had reminded the king: “You live through me, the scent of my dew revives you, your eyes are Ma’at.”

  The daughter of Ramses and Nefertari set her lute at the foot of the sycamore.

  “You’re the Queen of Egypt, Meritamon.”

  “When you speak to me that way, Your Majesty, I sense a threat to my quiet life.”

  “Old age is catching up with me, Meritamon. Bakhen has his hands full taking care of Karnak; I’m asking you, my daughter, to become the guardian of my Eternal Temple. Its magic helped your mother and me to overcome adversity. Make sure that the rites and festivals are celebrated in proper order, so that the Ramesseum continues to pulse with energy.”

  Meritamon kissed the king’s hand.

  “Father . . . you know very well that you’ll never leave us.”

  “Luckily, no man is exempt from death.”

  “Haven’t the pharaohs triumphed over death? It’s dealt you some rude blows, but you’ve resisted it; I even believe you’ve tamed it.”

  “Death will have the last word, Meritamon.”

  “No, Your Majesty. Death has missed its chance. Today your name is present on all the monuments of Egypt and your renown has spread well beyond our borders. Ramses can never die.”

  The Libyan revolt had been crushed, and peace reigned. Ramses’ prestige never stopped growing. Yet problem cases continued to pile up on Ahmeni’s desk, and he became grumpier by the day. Neither of Ramses’ two sons, General Merenptah or High Priest Kha, would be any more likely than he to solve this latest conundrum. The vizier had already given up. To whom could he turn now, if not to Ramses?

  “I’m not saying that Your Majesty is wrong to tour the country,” declared Ahmeni, “but when you’re away from the capital, problems tend to accumulate.”

  “Is our prosperity in peril?”

  “I can’t help thinking how the most minuscule flaw can topple a monumental structure. I don’t work on a grand scale, but on everyday issues.”

  “Is this speech going to last much longer?”

  “I’ve received a complaint from the mayor of Sumenu in upper Egypt. The sacred well that supplies the town has gone dry, and the local clergy have been unable to deal with the crisis.”

  “Have you sent help?”

  “Are you accusing me of negligence? A slew of experts couldn’t get it to work again. And now I have an unworkable well and an anxious population on my hands.”

  Several housewives had gathered on the banks of one of the canals that irrigated Sumenu’s fields. In the middle of the afternoon they came to do their dishes, keeping their distance from where the washermen worked. They chatted, exchanging confidences, gossiping, and criticizing their neighbors. The sauciest tongue in town belonged to Morena, the pretty wife of a carpenter.

  “If the well is dry,” she said, “we ought to leave town.”

  “Impossible!” protested a servant girl. “My family has lived here for generations, and I don’t want to raise my children anywhere else.”

  “How will you do it without well water?”

  “The priests will fix it.”

  “They haven’t so far. Not even the state magicians they called in could help.”

  Blind and limping, an old man approached the group of women.

  “I’m thirsty. Please, ladies, give me something to drink?”

  “Move along, you old coot,” Morena said haughtily. “If you worked for a living, you’ll find some water.”

  “I’m down on my luck, I’ve been sick, and—”

  “A likely story! Move along, I say, or we’ll stone you!”

  The blind man shuffled away; the women resumed their conversation.

  “What about me? Would you give me water?”

  The women looked back and were silenced. The question came from a powerful-looking elderly gentleman. From his bearing, it was easy to tell that he was important.

  “My Lord,” said Morena, “we’d be glad to oblige.”

  “Then why did you refuse this poor blind man?”

  “Because he’s a good-for-nothing, always bothering us!”

  “Remember the law of Ma’at: ‘Have pity on the blind man, mock not the dwarf, do no harm to the lame, for we are all in God’s hands. Care for everyone you meet.’”

  The flustered housewives looked at the ground, but Morena spoke up.

  “Who are you to be talking to us this way?”

  “The Pharaoh of Egypt.”

  Petrified, Morena hid behind her friends’ skirts.

  “A curse has fallen on Sumenu’s main well because of your shameful attitude toward the less fortunate. That’s the conclusion I’ve reached after s
everal days of observation.”

  Morena prostrated herself before Ramses.

  “Will changing our attitude be enough to save the well?”

  “You’ve angered the god that inhabits it; I must appease him.”

  When the monumental statue of the god Sobek, a crocodile-headed figure seated on a throne, emerged from the sculpture studio at the House of Life in Sumenu, the townsfolk crowded to watch its passing. A team of stoneworkers slid it down a path of logs set on the dampened ground, slowly reaching the main well where Ramses awaited, reciting the litanies that asked Sobek to draw water from the Noun, the primordial ocean surrounding the earth, crucial to human survival.

  Then the king ordered the craftsmen to lower the god to the bottom of the well, where he would do his life-giving work.

  By the next morning, the Sumenu well was again dispensing its precious liquid. The citizens organized a banquet, where the blind beggar and the carpenter’s pretty wife sat side by side.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Hefat had done very well in life. The son of an Egyptian father and a Phoenician mother, he was a gifted student, dazzling the royal academy’s demanding mathematics professors. He had weighed his job offers carefully before joining the Hydrology Department, which regulated the Nile, predicting flood levels and controlling the flow of irrigation canals.

  Over the years, Hefat had developed close relationships with the vizier, the cabinet members, and the provincial governors. His ability to flatter his superiors had helped him rise through the ranks. It also compensated for the fact that he had been an early admirer of Shaanar, the Pharaoh’s older brother—Shaanar, a traitor to his country, but a masterful and fascinating politician.

  Luckily, Hefat had never publicly supported Shaanar before the prince met his tragic end.

  Now in his prime at fifty, married and the father of two, Hefat appeared to be at the height of his career, maintaining tight control over the inner workings of his department. Who could have guessed that he was the last important member of a network that Shaanar had created to pave his way to the throne?