Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

  Although the palace doctors were unable to improve Muwattali’s condition, the emperor refused to die. To tell the truth, Uri-Teshoop was glad that old man lingered; no one could accuse him of killing his father. The medical staff confirmed that the emperor had suffered a heart attack and warmly approved of his son’s daily visits. Uri-Teshoop criticized Hattusili for staying away, as if unconcerned for his brother’s health.

  When he happened upon the haughty Puduhepa, Uri-Teshoop could not let the opportunity pass.

  “Is your husband in hiding?”

  “Hattusili is on a mission at the emperor’s request.”

  “My father didn’t mention it to me.”

  “According to the doctors, Muwattali has lost the power of speech.”

  “You don’t seem terribly upset about his condition.”

  “And you won’t let anyone see him—anyone except you.”

  “Muwattali needs rest.”

  “We hope he’ll soon be back in full command of his faculties.”

  “Of course you do, but suppose he remains incapacitated . . . There will have to be a decision.”

  “With Hattusili away, it’s quite impossible.”

  “Have him come back to the palace.”

  “Is that a suggestion or an order?”

  “However you want to take it, Puduhepa.”

  Puduhepa had left the capital at night, with a very limited retinue, checking several times to make sure that Uri-Teshoop had not had her followed.

  At the sight of the sinister fortress where Hattusili had taken refuge, she shivered. By now the garrison might have taken her husband prisoner as a peace offering to the commander-in-chief. In that case, her existence, like Hattusili’s, would come to a brutal end behind those gray walls.

  Puduhepa did not want to die. She felt able to serve her country, ready to live through a great many more scorching summers, hike the wild trails of Anatolia again and again, and see Hattusili reign over Hatti. If there was a chance, however slim, of overcoming Uri-Teshoop, she was prepared to grasp at it.

  The way she was greeted at the fortress reassured the priestess. She was immediately escorted to the central tower, where the commander had his private quarters.

  Hattusili ran to meet her. They embraced.

  “Puduhepa, at last! You managed to escape . . .”

  “Uri-Teshoop has already taken over the capital.”

  “We’re safe here. All the men in the garrison hate him. Too many soldiers have suffered abuse at his hands.”

  Puduhepa noted the presence of a man seated by the fire.

  “Who is that?” she asked under her breath.

  “Ahsha, Pharaoh’s secretary of state and special envoy.”

  “Ahsha, here!”

  “He may be our only chance.”

  “But what does he have to offer?”

  “Peace.”

  Hattusili now witnessed an extraordinary phenomenon. His wife’s dark brown eyes grew lighter, as if glowing from within.

  “Peace with Egypt,” she repeated in amazement. “We know it can never be!”

  “Shouldn’t we use this unexpected ally to further our interests?”

  Puduhepa untwined herself from Hattusili and approached Ahsha. The diplomat rose to greet the lovely visitor.

  “Forgive me, Ahsha. I should have spoken to you sooner.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt your reunion.”

  “You’re putting yourself at considerable risk by staying here.”

  “I was planning to head for the capital, but your husband persuaded me to wait until you arrived.”

  “You’ve heard about the emperor’s illness.”

  “I’ll still try to talk to him.”

  “No use, he’s dying. The empire already belongs to Uri-Teshoop.”

  “I’ve come in search of peace, and I won’t leave without it.”

  “Are you forgetting that Uri-Teshoop’s goal in life is the destruction of Egypt? I disapprove of his obsession, yet I must concede that war is what has always held our empire together.”

  “Have you considered the very real danger you’re facing?”

  “You mean the Egyptian army out in full force, with Ramses at its head?”

  “Don’t discount another possibility: the unchecked rise of Assyrian power.”

  Hattusili and Puduhepa could barely suppress their astonishment. Ahsha’s information network must be far more efficient than they had supposed.

  “Assyria will attack you eventually, and Hatti won’t know which way to turn, warring on two different fronts. And the notion that the Hittite army can destroy Egypt is unrealistic. We’ve learned from our past mistakes and reinforced defenses in our protectorates. Working your way past them will be difficult, and the delay will give the main force time to mount a swift counterattack. On top of that, you’ve already learned the hard way that Amon takes care of Ramses and helps him fight with the strength of a thousand men.”

  “So you’ve come to announce the downfall of the Hittite empire?” Puduhepa asked sharply.

  “No, my lady, for Egypt has nothing to gain by it. There’s no enemy like an old enemy, don’t you agree? Despite his reputation to the contrary, Ramses is a peace-loving pharaoh, and the Great Royal Wife supports him in this course of action.”

  “What does Queen Mother Tuya think?”

  “She shares my views, namely that Assyria is bound to pose a threat, first to the Hittites and before long to Egypt.”

  “An alliance against Assyria . . . is that what you’re really proposing?”

  “A peace agreement and an alliance to protect both our nations from invasion. The next emperor of Hatti will have to make a decision with far-reaching consequences.”

  “Uri-Teshoop will never stop trying to vanquish Ramses!”

  “What would Hattusili decide?”

  “My husband and I no longer have any power.”

  “Give me your answer,” Ahsha insisted.

  “We’d agree to begin negotiations,” declared Hattusili. “But what’s the point?”

  “Only the unattainable amuses me,” the Egyptian said with a smile. “Today, the two of you may be nothing, yet I’m betting on you to brighten my country’s prospects. If Hattusili becomes emperor, our discussion will mean a great deal.”

  “That’s only a dream,” Puduhepa objected.

  “It’s fight or flight for you now,” Ahsha said coolly.

  The priestess’s proud eyes blazed. “We’ll never run.”

  “Then you and Hattusili need to win or buy the trust of as many officers as you can. The fortress commanders will take your side, since Uri-Teshoop disdains them and blocks their promotion, claiming that they play only a defensive role. Almost all the merchant class prefers you; get them to spread it around that the Hittite economy can’t survive another war and that conflict with Egypt will only bring hardship and ruin. Undermine Uri-Teshoop and keep digging away at him until your nephew looks like a troublemaker, unable to lead the nation.”

  “It won’t happen overnight.”

  “If you don’t try, there will never be peace in our time.”

  “Meanwhile, what do you plan to do?” Puduhepa inquired of Ahsha.

  “It may be a bit risky, but I’m going to make overtures to Uri-Teshoop.”

  Ahsha contemplated the ramparts of Hattusa and fantasized what the Hittite capital might look like brightly painted, with fluttering banners and gorgeous young women dancing on the battlements. This lovely vision faded, however, as he faced the oppressive reality of the stronghold clinging to the mountainside.

  Only two of his countrymen, a groom and a sandal-bearer, accompanied the secretary of state. The rest of the delegation had returned to Egypt. When Ahsha displayed his official seal at the lower town’s first guard post, the sentry was speechless.

  “Please inform the emperor of my presence.”

  “But . . . you’re Egyptian!”

  “Special ambassador. Coul
d you please hurry?”

  Nonplussed, the sentry kept Ahsha under close surveillance, dispatching one of his men to the palace.

  Ahsha was not overly surprised to see an infantry unit arrive a short time later. The men stepped smartly, holding their lances, commanded by a brute whose only form of thought was blindly carrying out his orders.

  “The commander-in-chief wishes to see the ambassador,” the soldier announced.

  Ahsha greeted Uri-Teshoop, reciting his official titles.

  “Ramses’ most trusted adviser, here in Hattusa . . . what a surprise!”

  “I see that you’ve been promoted, Your Highness. Please accept my congratulations.”

  “Egypt will have to watch its step now.”

  “We’ve certainly taken note of valor in war. I’ve been careful to strengthen the defenses in our protectorates.”

  “I’ll crush them anyway.”

  “They’re prepared to resist, no matter how overwhelming the attack.”

  “So much for small talk, Mr. Ambassador. What are you really here for?”

  “I’ve heard that Emperor Muwattali is ill.”

  “You’ll have to settle for rumors. Our leader’s health is a state secret.”

  “The Lord of Hatti is our enemy, but we respect his greatness. That’s why I’ve come.”

  “State your purpose, Ahsha.”

  “I have medicine with me that can cure your father.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  At seven years of age, the boy was acting on the proverb drilled into him by his father, who had learned it from his own father: “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day; teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for a lifetime.”

  His stomach growled as he beat the water with a stick to drive his catch toward the tall papyrus stalks where his equally hungry friend lay in wait with the net.

  Suddenly, the lad saw them.

  A fleet was sailing in from the north. The flagship bore a golden sphinx on its prow. Yes, it had to be Pharaoh’s ship!

  Forgetting both fish and net, the budding fishermen dove into the Nile and swam toward the bank in order to alert the village. This would mean several days of feasting.

  The immense hall of columns in the temple of Karnak looked magnificent: the twelve soaring columns in the central nave manifested the power of creation arising from the primordial ocean.

  It was here that Nebu, the high priest of Amon, walking with the aid of his fine gold-plated cane, came to greet the royal couple. Despite his rheumatism, he managed a bow. Ramses helped him to his feet.

  “I’m happy to see you, Your Majesty, and delighted to set eyes on your beautiful queen.”

  “Are you becoming a perfect courtier, Nebu?”

  “No hope of that, Your Majesty. I’ll continue to speak my mind, as I just have.”

  “How is your health?”

  “The older I get, the more my joints ache, but the temple doctors have prescribed a willow extract that seems to help. I confess that I haven’t much time to dwell on my problems . . . you’ve given me so much responsibility!”

  “And it would appear that I have good reason to be satisfied with my choice.”

  Nebu was in charge of eighty thousand men, nearly a million head of livestock, a hundred-odd barges, fifty busy construction sites, a huge amount of arable land, gardens, woodlands, orchards, and vineyards—such was the world of Karnak, the rich domain of Amon.

  “The most difficult part, Your Majesty, is coordinating the efforts of the scribes on the estates, in the granaries, the ones in the accounting department, and all the rest of them . . . without close supervision, the infighting would quickly get out of hand.”

  “You’ve become quite the diplomat, Nebu.”

  “I know of only two virtues: to obey and to serve. Everything else is nonsense. And at my age, I have no time for nonsense.”

  Ramses and Nefertari admired, one by one, the hundred and thirty-four columns engraved with the names of the deities to whom Pharaoh made offerings in scene after scene. The tall stone stalks eternally linked the floor (symbolizing the primordial swamp) with the blue-painted ceiling sparkling with stars.

  As Seti had wished, this vast hypostyle hall would forever attest to the glory of the hidden god, at the same time revealing his mysteries.

  “Will you be stopping long in Thebes?” asked Nebu.

  “To lead Egypt toward peace,” answered Ramses, “I must satisfy the gods by providing residences fit for them, and by completing my eternal dwelling, as well as Nefertari’s. The spark of life in our hearts is something the gods may take back at any time; we must be prepared to appear before them, so that the people of Egypt do not suffer by our death.”

  Ramses summoned the divine force slumbering within Karnak’s naos and saluted its presence: “Hail to thee, giver of life, who brings forth gods and men, creator of my country and of distant lands, who makes the blooming prairies and the flood waters. All creation is full of thy perfection.”

  Karnak was awakening.

  Daylight replaced the glow of oil lamps. Celebrants filled purification vessels with water from the sacred lake, replaced the cones of incense releasing their scent through the chapels, decked the altars with flowers, fruit, vegetables, and fresh bread. Processions gathered to distribute the offerings, all in the name of Ma’at. She alone could renew the diverse forms of life. She alone invigorated the world with the fresh scent of dew as the sun rose.

  With Nefertari at his side, Ramses walked down the avenue of sphinxes leading toward the temple of Luxor.

  At the monumental gate, a man stood waiting for the royal couple. A square-jawed, solid man, a former Inspector of the royal stables. He had also been Ramses’ instructor in boot camp.

  “Bakhen made me fight him,” the king told his wife. “I still remember how proud I was not to be beaten.”

  After giving up the military life, the rugged young man had changed markedly. Ramses eventually named him Fourth Prophet of Amon, moving Bakhen to tears, and seeing the Pharaoh again today moved him beyond words. Since he preferred to let his work speak for him, he gave the royal couple a tour of Luxor’s impressive facade, which was flanked by two slender obelisks and several colossal statues of Ramses. The handsome sandstone was covered with scenes that told the tale of the battle of Kadesh and the King of Egypt’s victory.

  “Your Majesty,” Bakhen declared fervently, “the building is completed!”

  “But the work must go on.”

  “I’m ready.”

  The royal couple and Bakhen entered the forecourt just past the pylon, where statues of Ramses stood between the columns, fostering his ka, the immortal energy that kept him fit to reign.

  “The stonemasons and sculptors have done fine work, Bakhen, but I cannot grant them any leave. I must even confess I’m about to take them on a difficult, if not dangerous, mission.”

  “May I ask what it is, Your Majesty?”

  “Erecting several places of worship in Nubia, including a great temple. Bring the workmen together and poll them; I’ll only take volunteers.”

  The Ramesseum was to be the mortuary temple where Ramses the Great’s soul would be glorified forever—his Eternal Temple. Built according to the king’s own plans, this Temple of Millions of Years had become a grandiose monument, the largest on the West Bank of Thebes. Granite, sandstone, and basalt had been used to raise pylons, courtyards, and chapels. Several gilded bronze gates marked off the various sections of the complex, walled all around with mud bricks.

  Shaanar had crept into an empty storeroom at nightfall. The weapon he concealed was one that Ofir hoped would be decisive. Now Ramses’ brother was waiting for total darkness before venturing into the sacred space.

  At length he sneaked down one wall of the palace under construction and made his way across a courtyard. He stopped short at the entrance to a chapel commemorating Seti.

  Seti, his father . . .

  But a father who had betrayed him, choosing Ramses as
Pharaoh! A father who had thrown him aside, putting a tyrant before him . . .

  Once he completed this sinister errand, Shaanar would no longer be Seti’s son. But what did it matter? Contrary to what the priestly initiates pretended, no one got past the obstacle of death. Nothingness had claimed Seti, as it would soon claim Ramses. Life had only one meaning: grabbing all the power you could, by every possible means, and wielding it without constraint, shoving aside the weak and useless.

  And to think that thousands of imbeciles already thought that Ramses was a god! When Shaanar toppled their idol, he would clear the way for a new regime. Outdated practices would be banned as he governed according to the only two policies worth pursuing: territorial conquest and economic development.

  Once he was firmly on the throne, Shaanar would raze the Ramesseum and destroy every image of his brother. Even in its unfinished state, the Eternal Temple was producing energy that even Shaanar found difficult to resist. Hieroglyphs, carvings, and paintings were living proof of Ramses’ power. The very stone was steeped in it.

  No, he told himself, it was only the darkness that made it seem that way. Shaanar shook off his growing reluctance. He carefully executed Ofir’s instructions, then silently left the temple complex.

  Yes, it was taking shape; it was growing strong, this Eternal Temple. It was the keystone of Ramses’ reign, and he paid homage to it. Henceforth it would be here that he came to draw on the force that nourished his every thought and deed.

  As at Karnak and Luxor, the architects, stonemasons, sculptors, painters, and draftsmen had worked wonders. The sanctuary, several chapels and side-chapels, and a small columned hall were now completed, along with the shrine to Seti. The rest of the sacred domain was under construction, not to mention the brick storerooms, the library, and the priests’ quarters.

  Planted in Year Two of Ramses’ reign, the Ramesseum’s acacia tree had also grown amazingly fast. The lacy foliage was already providing welcome shade. Nefertari stroked the young tree’s trunk.