“Meaning . . .”
“Meaning that I’ll take over and you can be Lady of the Two Lands.”
“Ramses would never step down. You’re lying.”
“It’s the truth, dear lady. He’s planning to leave the country with Menelaus. When he’s done traveling, he’ll be treated with all the respect due a member of the royal family.”
“Has he said anything about me?”
“I’m afraid he’s forgotten you and his little son. All he can think of is seeing the world.”
“Is he taking Nefertari?”
“No, no . . . too many fish in the sea.” Shaanar laughed. “You know his appetites.”
Iset seemed distraught. Shaanar would have liked to take her hand, but it was too soon. He mustn’t frighten her away. First he needed to offer comfort, then slowly begin to woo her.
“Kha will have the finest education,” he promised. “You won’t have to worry. After Seti is laid to rest, we’ll go back to Memphis together.”
“Will Ramses be gone by then?”
“Of course.”
“He’s not attending the funeral rites?”
“It’s a shame, but there’s no help for it. Menelaus refuses to wait any longer. Forget Ramses, Iset. Concentrate on becoming queen.”
FIVE
Iset spent a sleepless night.
Shaanar was lying. It wasn’t like Ramses to leave Egypt at a time like this. Not for the world would he miss Seti’s funeral.
Ramses had treated her badly, true, but she would never betray him to his brother. Iset had no desire to be queen, no matter what Shaanar thought. The moon-faced, smooth-talking, ambitious, conceited fool! She hated him.
She knew what she had to do: warn Ramses that his brother was plotting a coup.
On fresh papyrus, she composed a long letter relating her conversation with Shaanar. Then she summoned the local head of the royal courier service.
“This needs to reach Memphis as soon as possible.”
“I’ll see to it personally,” he assured her.
River traffic at Thebes had slowed considerably, as in Memphis, while the country was in mourning. Guards dozed at the river landing where boats for the north customarily docked. Iset’s messenger hailed a sailor.
“Raise anchor, we’re leaving for Memphis.”
“Sorry, can’t leave port.”
“Why?”
“The high priest of Amon at Karnak has the boat reserved.”
“Without going through my office?”
“Just got the order.”
“Well, I’m telling you to ignore it.”
A man appeared on the bridge of the boat in question.
“Orders are orders, my good man. Don’t contradict him.”
“Keep your nose out of this, whoever you are.”
“I’m Shaanar, Seti’s older son.”
The official bowed. “Forgive my insolence, Your Highness.”
“All right, if you give me the message Iset the Fair wants delivered.”
“But . . .”
“It goes to the royal palace in Memphis, correct?”
“Yes, to your brother, Ramses.”
“That’s where I’m heading tonight. Or don’t I meet your standards as a courier?”
The official handed the letter to Shaanar.
As soon as the boat pulled away from Thebes, Shaanar tore Iset’s letter to shreds and scattered them in the wind.
The night was warm and fragrant, belying the fact that Egypt had lost a king as great as the Old Kingdom pharaohs. As the country mourned, the usual lively nightlife was nowhere to be found. In village squares and city streets, no dancing, singing, or storytelling; no tales of animals turning human and teaching humans a lesson or two, no games and laughter.
Watcher, Ramses’ yellow dog, slept with his head against Fighter, the huge lion that patrolled the regent’s private garden. After the gardeners finished the evening watering, the two pets liked to stretch out on the cool grass.
Among the gardeners was a Greek, one of Menelaus’s men. Before leaving for the night, he tucked poisoned chunks of meat into one of the lily beds, where the greedy beasts would surely find them. Even if the lion took hours to die, no treatment could save him.
Watcher picked up the scent first. Yawning, he stretched, sniffed the air, and trotted over to the lilies. His snout quickly led him to the meat; he nosed and pawed it thoroughly, then backtracked. This was too good a find not to share with his friend.
The three soldiers perching on the garden wall smiled as the lion sleepily trailed the yellow dog back to the flower bed. Just a little longer and the coast would be clear. They could slip into Ramses’ bedchamber and hustle him away to Menelaus’s waiting ship.
The lion and dog lay with their heads in the foliage. Before long they seemed to go limp. Ten minutes later one of the Greeks jumped down from the wall. Given how deadly the poison was and how much had been put in the meat, the big cat must already be paralyzed.
The scout motioned to his companions, who followed him down the path toward the regent’s suite. They were about to go inside when a growling sound made them wheel around.
Fighter and Watcher stood staring at them. Among the trampled lilies lay the tainted meat, which the lion had shredded after confirming his friend’s suspicions.
The three Greek soldiers huddled together, daggers raised.
Fighter sprang at them, teeth and claws bared.
The Greek officer who had infiltrated Ramses’ royal bodyguard crept through the prince regent’s wing of the silent palace. Since he was assigned to patrol the hallways, none of the other soldiers on duty would think a thing of it.
He headed toward the granite threshold where Serramanna slept. The Sard always boasted that anyone coming after Ramses would have to deal with him first. Once the regent lost his mainstay, Shaanar could easily take command of the guard troops.
The Greek stopped and listened. Not a sound, except for the steady breathing of deep sleep. Even a giant had to rest sometime. But he might have a cat’s reflexes on suddenly waking to danger. The Greek must move swiftly and surely, allowing the Sard no time to react.
Cautiously, he listened a while longer, until there could be no doubt. Then he unsheathed his dagger and held his breath, striking furiously at the sleeping figure’s throat.
“Nice try, for a sneaking coward,” a deep voice snarled from behind him. He whirled around.
“You just killed a dummy,” said Serramanna. “My breathing was real, though. I had a hunch that something was up tonight.”
Menelaus’s man gripped the handle of his dagger.
“Drop it.”
“I’m still going to slit your throat.”
“Want to bet?” The Sard loomed over him. The Greek’s dagger connected with air. For his size, Serramanna was surprisingly quick on his feet.
“You don’t even know how to fight,” he taunted.
The Greek tried a feint, stepping aside, then rushing forward, blade pointing at his opponent’s stomach.
The Sard’s right hand chopped at his wrist, breaking it, as his left hand slammed into the Greek’s temple. Tongue dangling, eyes glazed, he collapsed and was dead before he even hit the floor.
“One fewer coward to deal with,” muttered Serramanna.
Wide awake, Ramses considered the two-pronged attack. Fighter had taken care of the soldiers in the garden. On his doorstep lay another dead Greek, a member of his personal bodyguard.
“They were after you,” Serramanna said flatly.
“Did the one you killed say anything?”
“I didn’t have time to ask questions. No great loss; he wasn’t much of a soldier.”
“Menelaus has to be behind this.”
“Just let me at that bully! I’ll send him off to meet all the heroes he’s always lamenting.”
“For the moment, just double the watch.”
“Defense is fine, but we’ll never be secure unless we strike b
ack.”
“First we need to know who the enemy is.”
“You just told me it’s Menelaus! Never trust a Greek. Send them all packing before they try again!”
Ramses laid a hand on Serramanna’s right shoulder.
“With you on my side, I don’t have to worry.”
Ramses spent the rest of the night in the garden with his pets. Fighter was fast asleep; Watcher dozed fitfully. The prince contemplated human folly. The struggle for power had begun even before Seti’s mummy could be laid in his tomb.
Moses was right. Lenience toward his enemies had only made them more likely to keep up their attacks, convinced he would not retaliate.
With the dawn, the prince’s spirits rose. No one could take Seti’s place, but it was time for Ramses to start acting like a pharaoh.
SIX
In Seti’s Egypt, temples were responsible for redistributing excess donations, as well as the food produced on their extensive domains. As long as there had been pharaohs, the law of Ma’at, the fragile goddess of truth and justice, maintained that this land of plenty should be free from want. What god could bless a feast day if even the humblest soul went hungry?
As head of state, a pharaoh was both the rudder that steered a steady course and the captain who held his crew together. He must inspire the cooperation essential to any lasting society.
A key government department maintained strict control over the redistribution of goods. However, the temples were allowed to commission a few independent merchants to travel the length of the country, trading freely.
One such trader was Raia, a Syrian living in Egypt for over ten years. With his cargo ship and herd of donkeys, he was constantly on the move, selling wine, preserved meat, and vases imported from Asia. He was of average height and build, sporting a trim goatee and a striped tunic. Polite, discreet, and honest, he attracted a faithful clientele with quality merchandise at reasonable prices. His work permit was renewed year after year in recognition of his service to his adopted country. Like many other immigrants, the Syrian had become practically indistinguishable from the natives.
No one knew that Raia moonlighted as a secret agent for the Hittites.
The information he fed the warlike Anatolians would help them decide when to attack Pharaoh’s foreign dominions, seize those lands, then invade Egypt itself. Raia had cultivated contacts in the military, the customs department, and the police. Tidbits from their dinner conversation ended up in Hattusa, the Hittite capital, by way of coded messages inserted into the alabaster vases Raia exported to southern Syria, Egypt’s official ally. Customs had searched his shipments more than once, finding only what appeared to be routine business letters and invoices. The importer made a profit selling the vases and a bonus for delivering the messages to an agent in Hittite-controlled northern Syria, who relayed them directly to Hattusa.
It was a simple way for the Near East’s greatest military power to receive monthly briefings on Egyptian politics from a primary source.
Seti’s death and the subsequent mourning period would be the perfect time to attack Egypt, but Raia had argued forcefully against it, telling the Hittite generals it would be madness. If they thought the Egyptian army had been demobilized, they were sadly mistaken. Fearing a possible invasion before the ascension of Seti’s successor, the border patrols had been reinforced.
Furthermore, Seti’s loose-lipped daughter had made it plain that Shaanar, her elder brother, was not resigned to his fate. Seti had passed him over, but Shaanar planned to correct this obvious error before Ramses’ coronation.
Raia had made a thorough study of the disgruntled prince. Ambitious, clever, devious—and ruthless when his personal interest was at stake—he was altogether different from his father and brother. Seeing him become Pharaoh was devoutly to be wished, for he seemed more inclined to believe the current Hittite propaganda that closer diplomatic and trade relations would bring an end to the old hostilities. Even Seti had failed to take the key fortress of Kadesh when he had the chance, suing for peace instead. The King of the Hittites had proclaimed his intention to check his expansionist tendencies. He hoped the new pharaoh would believe him and let down the country’s defenses.
Raia next began to ferret out Shaanar’s co-conspirators and determine how he planned to proceed. His unerring instincts led him to the Greeks who had recently settled in Memphis. Menelaus was no more than a cruel mercenary who boasted of razing Troy. Rumor had it that the bloodthirsty Greek was restless, eager to sail home as a conquering hero with his wife, Helen, in tow. Shaanar, he surmised, would pay the Greek contingent handsomely to eliminate Ramses and help him reclaim his rightful place as Seti’s successor.
Raia was convinced that Ramses would mean trouble for the Hittites. Unafraid to fight, he had inherited his father’s determination. He was young, hot-blooded, unpredictable. Shaanar, on the other hand, was a known quantity, reasonable, open-minded: clearly the better choice.
Unfortunately, a palace servant in Raia’s employ had just brought the information that several Greek mercenaries had been killed while attempting to enter Ramses’ bedchamber. The attempted coup had apparently failed.
The next few hours would be telling. If Shaanar managed to avoid being implicated, he still had a future. If not, he’d have to be crossed off the list.
Menelaus stomped on the shield that had warded off so many blows on the battlefield. He broke one of the spears that had dispatched many a Trojan. Then he grabbed a vase and threw it against the wall of his antechamber.
Still fuming, he turned to face Shaanar.
“A complete failure! How can it be? We always win. It took us ten years to beat the Trojans, but we did it.”
“I sympathize, but the fact is that Ramses’ lion got your three soldiers and Serramanna killed the guardsman.”
“Someone gave away our plans.”
“No, your men were simply outmaneuvered. Ramses suspects you now. He’ll probably order you out of the country.”
“Without Helen.”
“Yes. You let me down, Menelaus.”
“Your plan was stupid.”
“You seemed to think it would work.”
“Get out!”
“You’d better be prepared to leave soon.”
“I know what I have to do.”
Ahmeni was Ramses’ sandal-bearer and private secretary, but first and foremost his lifelong friend. His allegiance was complete and unconditional. Short and slight, with thinning hair, his frail physique did not prevent him from being a tireless worker and peerless scribe, forever studying official documents and briefing Ramses on their contents. Devoid of personal ambition, Ahmeni was nevertheless a strict taskmaster, holding his administrative staff of twenty to the highest standards, prizing accuracy and discipline above all else.
Although he had little use for a brute like Serramanna, Ahmeni admitted that the bodyguard had dealt effectively with the Greek assassin. Ramses’ reaction to the attack was surprising. The future pharaoh simply asked his secretary for a thorough description of the main branches of government, how they worked, how they related to one another.
When Serramanna came in to announce Shaanar, Ahmeni was irritated. He did not want to be interrupted as he pored over documents concerning the reform of outdated laws regulating public ferries.
“Don’t let him in,” Ahmeni urged Ramses.
“Shaanar is my brother.”
“He’s a self-centered schemer.”
“I think I should hear what he has to say for himself.” Ramses had his brother shown into the garden, where Fighter lazed in the shade of a sycamore tree and Watcher gnawed on a bone.
“Your security is much tighter than Seti’s!” exclaimed Shaanar. “You certainly screen your visitors.”
“Haven’t you heard that some Greeks broke in here last night? They were after me.”
“I heard. I’ve come to tell you who’s responsible.”
“How would you know that?”
&nbs
p; “Menelaus approached me.”
“What was his proposition?”
“To put me on the throne.”
“And you’re going to tell me you turned him down?”
“I do love power, Ramses, but I know my limitations. No one but you can be the next pharaoh. Our father’s wishes were clear; they must be respected.”
“Why would Menelaus risk his neck?”
“He’s dying to sail home as a conquering hero, but to do that he needs to bring Helen. He’s convinced that you’re holding her against her will. In exchange for making me king, he wanted me to banish you to the desert, hand over Helen, and clear him for departure.”
“Helen is free to leave whenever she chooses. I have no say in her decision.”
“No Greek would believe you. Menelaus assumes a man is telling her what to do.”
“He’s a dolt.”
“Perhaps, but he’s used to bullying his way through life. You’d better be careful.”
“What would you advise?”
“He’s violated our hospitality. It’s time that he left for good.”
SEVEN
The poet Homer lived in a fine new residence not far from the palace. Ramses had provided a cook, maid, and gardener to look after him. The cellar was stocked with Delta wine that Homer spiced with anise and coriander, and there was a liberal supply of the fragrant olive oil he liked to rub on his skin. The old poet was so comfortable that he rarely left his garden, seeking inspiration in the shade of his beloved lemon tree.
He would smoke crushed sage leaves in a pipe fashioned from a giant snail shell and a hollow reed. Hector, his black and white cat, purred in his lap as he dictated verse after verse of his Iliad to Ahmeni or one of the scribe’s assistants.
Ramses’ visit was an added pleasure. The cook brought a Cretan wine jug with a very thin spout, pouring just a trickle of cool spiced wine. The garden pavilion—four acacia columns with a palm-frond roof—gave some relief from the summer heat.
Ramses, Volume II Page 3
