Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

  Ramses felt the anger drain out of him.

  “What do you think, Ahmeni?”

  “Shaanar is dead, his co-conspirators have scattered or given up. But Serramanna trusts his instincts.”

  “Perhaps he should, Ahmeni. Instinct is an unfiltered form of intelligence, beyond the reasoning we use to mislead or reassure ourselves. My father honed his instincts until they became intuition—and intuition is a form of genius.”

  “Seti was a king, not a pirate.”

  “Serramanna is versed in the ways of darkness. It sounds like he’s onto something. Get in touch with him as soon as you can and have him come back to Pi-Ramses.”

  “I’ll send a courier at once.”

  “And please communicate my request to the vizier: I want to meet with Moses.”

  “But he’s in prison!”

  “He’s had the chance to stand trial and state his case. My seeing him won’t influence the outcome.”

  Strong winds buffeted the plain where Akhenaton’s capital, the City of the Horizon of Aton, had been hastily built and now lay in sorry ruin. As Serramanna walked down an abandoned street, the side of a building crumbled. Though no stranger to peril, the Sard felt his spine tingle. Dangerous shadows lurked in these empty houses and palace halls. Before questioning the villagers, he had wanted to get a feel for the place, confront its ghosts, assess the cruel legacy of its misguided religion.

  As evening drew near, Serramanna went to the neighboring village in search of food and a few hours’ needed rest. The place seemed deserted; not a donkey, goose, or dog was about. Doors and shutters gaped open. Even so, he kept his short sword unsheathed. It would have been smarter not to come here alone, but he would rely on his experience and strength.

  On the dirt floor of one tumbledown house huddled a grief-stricken old woman, her head on her knees.

  “Go ahead and kill me,” she said with a sob. “I’ve nothing left to steal.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m with Pharaoh’s security force.”

  “Go away, stranger. This village is dead, my husband is gone, and I’m only waiting my turn.”

  “Who was your husband?”

  “A good man who he spent his life helping others, and then they accused him of practicing magic! The sorcerer killed him, that was all the thanks he got.”

  Serramanna sat down next to the widow. Her dress was grimy, her hair matted.

  “Can you describe this sorcerer?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “He may be wanted for another murder.”

  The widow looked up in astonishment. “Are you serious?”

  “Do I look like the type to fool around?”

  “But it’s too late. My husband is already dead.”

  “I can’t bring him back to life; that’s in the hands of the gods. But I can take care of the sorcerer.”

  “He’s a tall man, tall and lean, with a hawk face and cold eyes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ofir.”

  “An Egyptian?”

  “No, Libyan.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “For months he used to come here and talk with our adopted daughter, Lita. The poor girl . . . she had visions, spells you might say. She got the idea she was descended from Akhenaton. My husband and I tried to talk sense to her, but she would only listen to the sorcerer. One night she disappeared and we never saw her again.”

  Serramanna showed the old woman the drawing of the mysterious murder victim.

  “Is this her?”

  “Yes, my daughter, my little blond Lita. Is she . . .”

  The Sard didn’t like to hide the truth. He gave a silent nod.

  “When is the last time you saw this Ofir?”

  “A few days ago, when he came to see my husband on his sickbed. I know he gave him something that killed him off. I know Ofir!”

  “Is he living somewhere nearby?”

  “He’s hiding in the old tombs up on the cliffs. They’re full of demons. Cut Ofir’s throat, Officer. Trample his body and burn it!”

  “You should get away from here, Mother. It’s not good to live with ghosts.”

  Serramanna left the hut and jumped onto his horse, spurring him into a fast gallop in the direction of the tombs. Day began to break.

  Abandoning his mount at the foot of the slope, the Sard hit the ground running, sword in hand; he wouldn’t have surprise on his side, but he wanted to be ready to strike a sudden blow. He chose the largest entrance to the tombs and snuck inside.

  Throughout the tombs, he found only emptiness. The only inhabitants of these deserted sepulchres were the people carved on the walls, the last survivors of a bygone reign.

  Meritamon, Ramses and Nefertari’s daughter, was playing the harp for her parents with a skill that astonished the monarch. Seated on folding chairs at the edge of a pool dotted with blue lotus blossoms, Pharaoh and the Great Royal Wife, hand in hand, were blissfully happy. Not only was their eight-year-old daughter a prodigy, her music also conveyed a depth of feeling unusual for her age. Fighter, the enormous Nubian lion, and Watcher, the old yellow dog curled between his front paws, also seemed to be under the spell of Meritamon’s tune.

  The final notes softly faded, leaving a tender silence in their wake.

  The king kissed his daughter.

  “Did you like it?”

  “You’re a gifted musician, but you’ll still have to work very hard.”

  “Mother promised me that I can study at the temple of Hathor. It’s a wonderful school.”

  “If that’s your wish, it will certainly be granted.”

  The girl’s beauty was as dazzling as her mother’s, with the same luminous gaze.

  “If I become a temple musician, will you come to see me?”

  “Do you think I could live without your playing?”

  A glum-looking Kha approached them.

  “You look upset,” the queen remarked.

  “I’m missing something. It must have been stolen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I put my writing things away every night. One of my reed brushes has disappeared. It was old, but I still liked to use it.”

  “You couldn’t have misplaced it?”

  “No, I looked everywhere.”

  Ramses took his son by the shoulders. “You’re making a grave accusation.”

  “I know better than to speak lightly. That’s why I thought hard before I mentioned it.”

  “Do you suspect someone in particular?”

  “Not for the moment, but I’ll try and figure it out. I really liked that brush.”

  “You have others.”

  “True, but none exactly like that one.”

  The lion lifted his head. The dog perked up his ears. Someone was coming.

  Dolora approached nonchalantly. She wore an elaborate wig with long braids and a green dress that flattered her sallow complexion.

  “Your Majesty wishes to see me?”

  “Your behavior at Moses’ trial was commendable,” Ramses declared.

  “I only told the truth.”

  “Describing your husband so unsparingly took some courage.”

  “There’s no lying in front of Ma’at, not to mention the vizier.”

  “Your testimony strengthened Moses’ case.”

  “I was pleased to do my duty.”

  The palace cellar master arrived with some of the year’s new wine, and the conversation turned toward the details of the children’s education.

  When she left the garden, Dolora was certain she had regained the king’s trust. Where before their relations had been superficially cordial, with flashes of suspicion showing through, now there was genuine warmth.

  Dolora dismissed her sedan chair. She wanted to stroll through the streets on her way home.

  In the guise of a humble water bearer, much thinner and with a full beard and mustache, Shaanar was unrecognizable.

  “Convinced now, my darling
sister?” he said, dipping a drink for her.

  “Your plan was excellent.”

  “Our brother is blinded by friendship. Since you came to Moses’ aid, Ramses is sure you’re on his side.”

  “Now that I have him fooled, what’s our plan?”

  “Keep your ears open. The slightest bit of information may be precious. When I need to contact you, I’ll come in this disguise.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Ramses and Ahmeni had listened attentively to Serramanna’s story. Contrasting with the tension that filled Ramses’ office, gentle sunlight flooded the room. As the hot months drew to a close, Egypt wore soft and shimmering gold.

  “Ofir, a Libyan sorcerer,” repeated Ahmeni, “and Lita, a delusional girl he manipulated . . . are they really anything to worry about? The sorcerer fled the law, has no support within the country, and has probably crossed the border by now.”

  “You underestimate the seriousness of the situation,” argued Ramses. “Are you forgetting where he was hiding—the City of the Horizon of Aton, the heretic pharaoh’s old capital?”

  “It’s been a ghost town for ages.”

  “But Akhenaton’s ideas are still around, stirring up trouble. This Ofir is probably using them to build a network of sympathizers.”

  “A network . . . are you suggesting that Ofir is a Hittite spy?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “But the Hittites have no use for Aton and the concept of a single god!”

  “The Hebrews do,” interjected Serramanna.

  Ahmeni had been afraid he’d say that. The Sard was as undiplomatic as ever, blurting out whatever was on his mind.

  “We know that Moses was contacted by someone posing as an architect,” the bodyguard continued. “His description matches the sorcerer’s exactly. Isn’t that enough to convince you?”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Ahmeni.

  “Go ahead,” ordered Ramses.

  “I may not know much about religion,” the Sard went on, “but I do know that the Hebrews worship a single god. Do I have to remind you, Majesty, that I suspect Moses of treason?”

  “Moses is our friend!” protested Ahmeni. “Even if he did meet with this Ofir, does that mean he’s been plotting against Ramses? The man must have contacted all kinds of important personalities.”

  “Why ignore the obvious?” asked the Sard.

  The Pharaoh rose and looked out his office window. In the distance was the lush Delta countryside, the inherent sweetness of life in Egypt.

  “Serramanna is right,” Ramses said decisively. “The Hittites have launched a two-pronged offensive, attacking us from within and without. We won the day at Kadesh, ran them out of our protectorates, and dismantled their spy ring. But where has it all gotten us? The Hittite army is still a force to be reckoned with, and Ofir is still at large. A man like that, who casually resorts to murder, will never stop trying to harm us. But Moses can’t be involved with the sorcerer; he’s simply incapable of such duplicity. I say Serramanna is right, except when it comes to Moses.”

  “I hope that’s the case, Your Majesty.”

  “I have a new assignment for you, Serramanna.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find Ofir.”

  “First I want you to find me the Hebrew brickmaker called Abner.”

  Nefertari wanted to celebrate her birthday at the royal estate in the heart of the Delta, now run by Nedjem, the agriculture secretary. Mild-mannered, a true nature lover, he showed the royal couple a new kind of plow specially adapted to the thick, rich Delta soil, personally demonstrating how it turned the earth to the proper depth without undue harm.

  The workers on the estate were clearly overjoyed. Having the king and queen in their midst was a gift from the gods, a blessing on the year to come. The harvest would be bountiful, the orchards bursting with fruit. The livestock would multiply.

  Yet Nefertari sensed that Ramses was only going through the motions. At the end of a copious meal, she was able to have a private word with him.

  “I can tell that something’s bothering you. Is it Moses?”

  “I’m worried about what will happen to him, I admit.”

  “Has Abner been found yet?”

  “No, and if he doesn’t reconfirm his deposition, I doubt that the vizier will move for acquittal.”

  “Serramanna won’t let you down. What else is on your mind? I’m sure there’s something more.”

  “The law of the pharaohs requires me to protect Egypt from interior threats as well as enemies outside our borders, and I’m afraid I’ve failed.”

  “You’ve taken the Hittites in hand, so are you saying there’s a threat from within?”

  “We still have to struggle against the forces of darkness. I feel them advancing, portraying themselves in a false light.”

  “Strange that you should say so, but somehow it’s not surprising. Yesterday evening, when I led the evening prayers at the temple of Sekhmet, the eyes of the statue shone with an eerie light. I said the liturgy to appease the lion goddess. It worked in the temple confines, but can we keep evil at bay in the outside world?”

  “The heretic pharaoh’s ideas were never completely stamped out, Nefertari.”

  “Didn’t Akhenaton himself set limits on the worship of Aton?”

  “Yes, but he unleashed forces that he could no longer control. And Ofir, a Libyan sorcerer and Hittite minion, awoke the demons slumbering in the abandoned capital.”

  Nefertari said nothing for a moment. Her eyes remained closed. Freeing herself from the transitory present, her thoughts flew toward the invisible world, searching for some glimmer of truth in the murky future. Her discipline as a priestess had developed the queen’s second sight, a direct contact with the creative matrix of life. At times, her intuition was able to lift the veil and see to the core.

  Somewhat uneasily, Ramses awaited the Great Royal Wife’s verdict.

  “A dreadful clash,” she said when she opened her eyes again. “Ofir’s invisible host will be no less deadly than the Hittite army.”

  “Since you confirm my fears, we need to take action at once. We’ll tap the energy in the most important temples, letting the gods and goddesses weave a protective web to fling over Egypt. I could never do it without your help.”

  Nefertari embraced Ramses with infinite tenderness. “Do you even need to ask?”

  “We’ll be undertaking a long voyage and facing a great many dangers.”

  “Would our love have meaning if we didn’t make a gift of it to Egypt? We offer our lives in exchange for the life she gives us.”

  Young peasant girls, bare-breasted, wearing reed headdresses and grass skirts, performed a fertility dance and tossed cloth balls to ward off evil spirits.

  “I wish we had their skill,” whispered Nefertari.

  “Something’s worrying you, too, my darling.”

  “It’s Kha.”

  “Has he done something wrong?”

  “No, but that brush of his has been stolen. Remember when my favorite old shawl disappeared? I’m sure that the missing sorcerer, Ofir, used it to cast a spell on me. He was trying to wreck my health and undermine our union. Before that, I almost died in childbirth and nearly lost Meritamon. Setau saved me that time. I’m afraid this sorcerer is planning a new attack, this time against a child, your eldest son.”

  “Has Kha been sick?”

  “Dr. Pariamaku has just examined him and found nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “That doesn’t satisfy me. Get hold of Setau and have him construct a magic wall around Kha. Starting today, he should alert us the moment he notices anything. Have you warned Iset?”

  “Of course.”

  “We have to find out who took the brush and whether the thief belongs to the palace staff. Serramanna can question them one by one.”

  “I’m afraid, Ramses. Afraid for Kha.”

  “Let’s put our own fear aside; it could harm the boy. Black magic preys on the slightest weakness.”
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br />   Equipped with a scribe’s palate and brushes, Kha arrived at Setau and Lotus’s laboratory. The Nubian beauty was milking cobra venom that her husband would turn into a remedy for digestive problems.

  “Are you my magic teacher?” asked the boy.

  “Your only teacher will be magic itself. Still afraid of snakes, son?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Good for you—only imbeciles have no fear of reptiles. Snakes were in this world before us. They’re full of knowledge that we need. They’re everywhere, above the ground and under it.”

  “Since you and my father took me to face the cobra, I know that I won’t die a terrible death.”

  “You still need protection, though, it would seem.”

  “Someone stole one of my brushes, and a sorcerer might be trying to use it against me. The queen told me so.”

  Kha’s poise and maturity amazed Setau.

  “Snakes cast a spell on us,” the expert explained. “At the same time, they can show us how to break spells. That’s why I’m going to have you start taking a daily dose of a potion made from onion paste, snake blood, and stinging nettles. In two weeks or so, I’ll add copper filings, red ochre, alum, and lead oxide. Then Lotus will give you a remedy she invented.”

  Kha made a face. “It must not taste very good.”

  “We’ll have you wash it down with a little wine,” grinned the snake charmer.

  “I’ve never tasted wine.”

  “One more way we’ll be furthering your education.”

  “Wine troubles the mind and keeps the scribe from having a steady hand.”

  “And too much water is no fun at all. To know what fine wine is, you have to start tasting early.”

  “Will wine keep me safe from black magic?”

  Setau toyed with a pot of greenish paste.

  “A passive subject has no hope of resisting black magic. Only an intensive effort can help you fight off invisible attacks.”

  “I’m ready,” said Kha.

  EIGHTEEN

  For six solid days it had rained on Hattusa, the capital of the Hittite empire, built on the central Anatolian plain where arid steppes alternated with gorges and ravines.