Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

The foot soldiers tried to revive their courage with a chant composed on the triumphant march home from Kadesh: “Ramses’ arm is strong, his heart is valiant. He is a peerless archer, a wall protecting his soldiers, a flame burning his enemies.”

  A jittery Menna filled the king’s twin quivers with arrows.

  “Have you checked those?” asked Ramses.

  “Yes, Majesty. They’re light and sturdy. The enemy archers won’t have a chance against you.”

  “You know that flattery is a deadly sin, don’t you, Menna?”

  “Yes, but I’m so afraid! Without you, these barbarians would have exterminated us.”

  “Make sure my horses’ feed is ready. They’ll be hungry when we get back.”

  As soon as the Egyptian chariots approached the fort, the Canaanite archers and their Bedouin allies fired off several volleys. The arrows fell short of the horses. Some of them whinnied, a few of them reared, but the king’s calm advance kept his handpicked unit from giving way to panic.

  “Bend your longbows,” he commanded, “and wait for my signal.”

  The arms factory in Pi-Ramses had produced a number of acacia-wood bows with bowstrings of beef sinew. The carefully calculated curve allowed the arrows to fire in a long, high arc, overreaching any battlements.

  “Fire!” shouted Ramses resoundingly, his voice releasing the men’s pent-up energy.

  Most of the arrows hit the mark. With a shaft through the head, eye, or neck, the enemy archers fell like flies, dead or seriously wounded. Their replacements fared no better.

  Assured that his foot soldiers were not about to perish under enemy fire, Ramses signaled the order to storm the fort’s wooden gates. Soon the men were hacking them down with their battle-axes. The Egyptian chariots drew closer and Pharaoh’s archers fired with ever more deadly accuracy, eliminating any potential for resistance. The jagged shards in the ditches had no deterrent effect, since, contrary to his usual practice, Ramses would use no ladders on this occasion.

  The Canaanites resisted with all their might, but before long the gates gave way. The ensuing melee was appallingly violent. Pharaoh’s infantry clambered over enemy corpses and swept like a tidal wave through the fort’s interior.

  The rebels gradually lost ground. They fell in heaps, their long scarves and tasseled robes spattered with blood.

  Egyptian swords cut through headgear, shattered bone, slashed flanks and shoulders, hacked tendons, dug into entrails.

  Soon silence hung heavy on the vanquished fort. Women begged their assailants to spare the survivors huddled in the courtyard.

  Ramses’ chariot made its entry into the recaptured citadel.

  “Who’s in charge here?” inquired the king.

  A man of about fifty, his left arm missing, emerged from the sorry huddle of defeated troops.

  “I’m the senior soldier . . . all my superiors are dead. I beg Pharaoh’s indulgence.”

  “What forgiveness can be granted to those who break their word?”

  “At least kill us quickly, Lord of the Two Lands.”

  “Here’s what I’ve decided, Canaanite wretch. Your province’s trees will be cut down, and the wood shipped to Egypt. All prisoners—men, women, and children—will be sent in convoys to the Delta to serve in public works projects. Canaan’s livestock and horses will become our property. Any remaining troops will be drafted into my army and fight henceforth under my command.”

  The losers groveled before him, happy to escape with their lives.

  Setau was relatively pleased. The number of seriously wounded was on the low side, and he had on hand enough fresh meat and honey poultices to stop their bleeding. With her quick, sure touch, Lotus approximated the edges of the wounds with cross-shaped adhesive strips. Her smile was an effective analgesic. Stretcher bearers were bringing casualties in to the field hospital, where they were treated with unguents, pomades, and potions before being shipped home to Egypt.

  Ramses addressed these men who had suffered bodily harm in defense of their country. Then he convened the high command, revealing his intention to continue north through Canaan, recapturing each and every fort under joint Hittite-Bedouin control.

  The pharaoh’s enthusiasm was contagious. The climate of fear lifted, and there was rejoicing over the day and night of rest accorded the men. Ramses himself was dining with Setau and Lotus.

  “How far north do you expect to go?” asked the healer.

  “All the way through Syria, at least.”

  “To Kadesh?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “If the expedition lasts too long,” Lotus remarked, “we’ll run out of medical supplies.”

  “The Hittites reacted swiftly; we have to be even more decisive.”

  “Will this war ever come to an end?”

  “Yes, Lotus, the day we totally defeat the enemy.”

  “This is no time for politics,” grumbled Setau. “Come, darling. Let’s spend some time in bed before we go hunting snakes tonight. I have a feeling they’re waiting for us out there.”

  Ramses celebrated the rites of dawn in the little chapel erected in the center of the camp, near his tent. A modest shrine compared to the temples of Pi-Ramses, yet the Son of Light’s fervor was unabated. His father Amon would never reveal his true nature to mere mortals. Never would he take on a concrete form. Still, the invisible was ever present and felt by all.

  When the sovereign emerged from the chapel, he noticed a soldier leading a balky oryx. Strange-looking soldier, he mused, with his long hair, striped tunic, goatee, and shifty eyes. And what was this wild beast doing in camp, so close to the royal tent?

  He had no time for further speculation. The Bedouin released the oryx to charge at Ramses, its sharp horns pointed at the unarmed sovereign’s midsection.

  Appearing from nowhere, Fighter lit into the oryx’s side, sinking his claws into the beast’s neck. It collapsed beneath the lion, killed instantly.

  Rooted to the spot, the Bedouin pulled a knife from his tunic, but never managed to use it. He felt a sharp pain in his back, followed immediately by an icy fog that blinded him and sent his weapon clattering. He fell forward, a lance protruding from between his shoulder blades.

  Calm and smiling, Lotus had displayed surprising skill in handling the lance. The lovely Nubian seemed quite unruffled by the experience.

  “Thank you, Lotus.”

  Setau emerged from his tent. So did a number of soldiers, watching the lion devour its prey and inspecting the Bedouin’s body. Horrified, Ramses’ shield bearer, Menna, threw himself at the Pharaoh’s feet.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty! I promise to find the sentries who let this criminal into our camp and punish them severely.”

  “Call the trumpeters, Menna. Have them sound the call for departure.”

  THREE

  More and more irritated, mostly with himself, Ahsha spent his days looking out at the sea from the second-story window of the Amurru palace where he was being held prisoner. How could he, the head of Egyptian espionage, have fallen into this pathetic trap?

  The only son of a rich and noble family, a brilliant alumnus of the Royal Academy in Memphis, Ahsha was refined and elegant. He loved women; the attraction was mutual. Always immaculately turned out, he had a long, thin face, slender limbs, lively, intelligent eyes, and a spellbinding voice. But behind the trappings of society lay a man of action and a seasoned diplomat, an expert linguist with an intimate knowledge of Egypt’s protectorates and the Hittite empire.

  Ahsha’s daring espionage mission during the recent hostilities had played a pivotal role in Ramses’ victory at Kadesh. In recompense, Ramses had appointed his friend as the new secretary of state.

  Although the unexpected defeat seemed to have checked Hittite expansion for the present, Ahsha had decided to head straight back to Amurru, where the Lebanese coast hugged the Mediterranean, east of Mount Hermon and the trade center of Damascus. His intent was to use the province as a base of military operations, t
raining local troops as elite commandos. Their presence would check any potential Hittite advance toward Palestine and the Delta borderlands.

  When he entered the port of Beirut in a ship laden with gifts for Amurru’s corrupt ruler, Prince Benteshina, little did Ahsha suspect that the welcoming committee would include Hattusili, the brother of the Hittite emperor—for Hatti had already bought back the Prince of Amurru.

  Ahsha had made a thorough study of Hattusili. Small and unimposing, but intelligent and devious, the man was a tough opponent. He had forced his prisoner to write an official dispatch to Ramses, hoping to lure the Pharaoh into a trap. Fortunately, Ahsha had managed to insert a coded warning.

  How would Ramses react? The national interest dictated that he should abandon all thought of his friend and hurry north to counter the Hittite threat. Knowing the Pharaoh, Ahsha was convinced he would respond in kind to enemy aggression, no matter the risk. Still, the head of Egyptian diplomacy would represent an excellent bargaining chip, and to Benteshina, Ahsha figured, he was worth his weight in gold. It was a slim hope, but he clung to it.

  Captivity grated on his nerves. Ever since adolescence, Ahsha had been a mover and a shaker. This forced passivity was unbearable. One way or another, he had to act. Perhaps Ramses believed that his friend was dead. Perhaps he was outfitting his troops with new arms before launching a full-scale offensive.

  The more Ahsha pondered, the more clearly he saw that his only chance was to make a break for it.

  A servant brought him the usual copious breakfast. He could hardly complain about palace hospitality. Ahsha was enjoying a steak when he heard his host’s heavy tread approaching.

  “And how is our distinguished Egyptian guest?” Benteshina asked jovially. A portly fifty, the prince still sported a luxuriant black mustache.

  “Honored by your visit,” replied Ahsha.

  “I’ve been meaning to drink a toast to your new appointment.”

  “Why isn’t Hattusili with you?”

  “Our distinguished Hittite visitor has business elsewhere.”

  “Amurru is certainly a popular spot. When will I see Hattusili again?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “So your country is back in the Hittite fold?”

  “Times change, my dear Ahsha.”

  “You don’t fear the wrath of Ramses?”

  “Pharaoh can’t possibly penetrate my domain.”

  “Does that mean the Hittites bought Canaan, too?”

  “Don’t ask for specifics . . . I’m sure you’re aware that I need to barter your precious existence for all it’s worth. I hope that nothing untoward happens to you in the process, but . . .”

  With a malicious smile, Benteshina informed Ahsha that he would have to be eliminated if there were any suggestion he might report what he’d seen and heard in Amurru.

  “Are you sure you’re siding with the winner, Benteshina?”

  “But of course, my dear Ahsha! Though to tell the truth, the Hittites didn’t leave us much choice. Then there’s been talk of all the problems Ramses is facing. I hear that a possible coup, a military defeat, or a combination of the two may result in his death and his replacement with a more, shall we say, compliant ruler.”

  “You don’t understand Egypt, Benteshina, and you’re certainly underestimating Ramses.”

  “I stand by my judgment. Kadesh was only a temporary setback. Muwattali will win in the end.”

  “A risky bet.”

  “Fond as I am of wine, women, and gold, I’m no gambler. The Hittites have war in their blood. You Egyptians don’t.”

  Benteshina slowly rubbed his hands together. “If you’d like to avoid any unpleasantness when we exchange you, my dear Ahsha, I strongly suggest you reconsider your allegiance. Suppose you fed false information to Ramses . . . you’d be well rewarded, once he’s out of the way.”

  “You’re asking me, the head of Egyptian diplomacy, to betray my country?”

  “Doesn’t everything depend on circumstances? I’d sworn allegiance to your pharaoh too . . .”

  “I find it hard to think when I’m so lonely.”

  “Are you saying you need a woman?”

  “A refined and cultured woman, very understanding . . .”

  Benteshina emptied his goblet and wiped his moist lips with the back of his right hand.

  “To help you reflect on your situation, I’m prepared to make any sacrifice.”

  Night had fallen. Two oil lamps cast their dim light over Ahsha’s chamber as he lay on his bed, dressed only in a short kilt.

  The thought wouldn’t let him alone: Hattusili had left Amurru. Yet his departure did not coincide with any southward expansion into the protectorates of Palestine and Phoenicia. If the Hittite initiative was as far-reaching as Benteshina hinted, why would Hattusili abandon his Lebanese command post? Muwattali’s brother would hardly dare venture farther south on his own. Therefore, he had probably returned to his own country, but why?

  “My lord . . .”

  A hesitant voice interrupted Ahsha’s musings. He sat up and saw, in the semi-darkness, a young woman dressed in a short tunic, barefoot, with flyaway hair.

  “Prince Benteshina sent me. He told me to . . . he wants . . .”

  “Come sit beside me.”

  The woman reluctantly obeyed. She looked about twenty and was blond and shapely, very appealing. Ahsha put an arm around her shoulder.

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes, My Lord, but the prince promised my husband would never hear of this.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a customs inspector.”

  “Do you work, too?”

  “I sort dispatches at the central post office.”

  Ahsha slipped the blonde’s dress off one shoulder, nuzzled her neck, and pushed her down on the bed.

  “Do you see dispatches from Canaan?”

  “Yes, but I’m not supposed to discuss them.”

  “Are there a lot of Hittite soldiers here in the capital?”

  “I can’t talk about that, either.”

  “Do you love your husband?”

  “Oh, yes, My Lord.”

  “Does the thought of making love with me disgust you?”

  She turned away.

  “Answer my questions and I won’t even touch you.”

  The blonde gazed hopefully at the Egyptian captive. “Do I have your word?”

  “By all the gods of Amurru.”

  “All right,” she said. “There aren’t too many Hittites around yet; a few dozen trainers are working with our soldiers.”

  “Has Hattusili left Amurru?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the situation in Canaan?”

  “Uncertain.”

  “Isn’t the province under Hittite control?”

  “There are different rumors. Some claim that Pharaoh has taken back Gaza, the capital of Canaan, and the governor was killed in battle.”

  The news instantly breathed new life into Ahsha. Not only had Ramses found the red flag, he had acted on Ahsha’s coded message. His counterattack would stop the Hittites in time. That was why Hattusili had headed north—to warn the emperor.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” the diplomat said, reaching for the girl.

  “You’re going to keep your promise, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I have to take certain precautions.”

  Ahsha bound and gagged his companion. He needed a few hours’ head start. Spying the cloak she had dropped in his doorway, he hit on a plan to get out of the palace. He donned the garment, pulled up the hood, and crept down the stairs.

  On the main floor, a banquet was in progress.

  Some of the guests lay passed out on the floor. Others were feverishly entwined. Ahsha stepped over naked bodies.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” a voice said thickly.

  Ahsha had now
here to run. Several armed guards were posted at the palace gates.

  “Already done with that Egyptian? Come here, my lovely.”

  A few paces ahead of him lay freedom.

  Benteshina’s sticky hand pulled back the hood of his cloak. “Nice try, Ahsha,” said the prince.

  FOUR

  Pi-Ramses, the Pharaoh’s new capital in the Delta, was dubbed “the Turquoise City” for the shiny blue tiles that adorned the fronts of its buildings. In the streets of Pi-Ramses, sightseers goggled at the temples, the royal palace, the artificial lakes, the harbor. They admired the orchards, canals full of fish, noble villas with flower gardens and shady pathways. They sampled apples, pomegranates, olives, and figs, sipped fine wines, and learned the local anthem: “What joy to be in Pi-Ramses, where the poor man lives like a king, in the shade of acacias and sycamores, in the glint of turquoise and gold, where the cool breeze wafts and the birds love to sport in the marshlands.”

  But Ahmeni, the king’s private secretary, old school friend, and unfailing servant, didn’t feel like singing. Like many in Pi-Ramses, he felt that something was missing when Ramses was gone.

  Gone, and in danger.

  Refusing to heed any reasonable counsel, brushing aside any urge to temporize, Ramses had marched north to reclaim Canaan and Syria, staking his troops and his life on an uncertain outcome.

  Ahmeni’s official title was sandal-bearer to the Pharaoh. He was short, slight, pale and balding, small-boned and frail, with long, slender hands that drew exquisite hieroglyphs. His origins were humble, yet an invisible bond connected him to Ramses. In keeping with the ancient expression, he was “The King’s Eyes and Ears,” remaining in the background, his staff of twenty handling the daily business of government. He was a tireless worker, sleeping little and staying thin as a rail no matter how much he ate. Ahmeni rarely left his office. The centerpiece of his desk was the gilded scribe’s kit that Ramses had given him long ago. Whenever he felt his energy flagging, he had only to touch the lotus-shaped box to find the impetus to plow through another pile of documents that would have daunted any other scribe. He allowed no one else to clean his office, where papyrus scrolls were carefully arranged in earthenware stands and leather pigeonholes.