Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

  From atop the dum palm where he had planned to watch the fleet being shipwrecked, Shaanar witnessed Ramses’ latest miracle. A miracle? No, a stroke of luck, a soothing breeze blowing out of nowhere in the middle of a heat wave!

  Seething, Shaanar squeezed a handful of sun-ripened dates to a pulp.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  During the hot months, the Hebrew brickmakers were laid off from their jobs. Some used the time to stay home and rest, while others sought landscaping work on the great estates. It looked like a remarkable year for the orchards; Pi-Ramses’ famous apples would figure prominently on banquet tables.

  Girls dozed in vine-covered wooden cabanas or took dips in the artificial lake where young men swam in front of them, showing off. Old people sought out shady nooks. Everyone was talking about Ramses’ latest exploit, subduing a huge herd of frenzied hippos. The local song celebrating the joys of life in the capital was in the air. Even the Hebrew brickmakers hummed it as they worked.

  Plans for an exodus seemed to be at a standstill. Yet when Ahmeni saw Moses walking into his office, he feared that the summer quiet was soon to end.

  “Don’t you ever rest, Ahmeni?”

  “There’s too much to do. When Ramses is gone, it’s even worse. The king can make a decision in seconds. I need to mull things over.”

  “What will happen if you ever get married?”

  “Don’t even mention it! A wife would interfere too much with my work and keep me from serving Pharaoh as I should.”

  “Pharaoh, our friend.”

  “Is he still your friend, Moses?”

  “Aren’t you sure?”

  “Your attitude makes me wonder.”

  “The Hebrew cause is just.”

  “Exodus makes no sense to me.”

  “If your people were enslaved, wouldn’t you want to free them?”

  “Enslaved, Moses? Everyone in Egypt is free, including you.”

  “What we need is freedom to worship Yahweh, the One True God.”

  “I’m an administrator, not a theologian.”

  “Would you agree to tell me when Ramses is coming back?”

  “He hasn’t told me.”

  “If he did, would you tell me?”

  Ahmeni fiddled with a writing tablet. “I don’t approve of your plans, Moses. As your friend, I ought to warn you that Serramanna considers you dangerous. Don’t make trouble unless you’re prepared to suffer the consequences.”

  “With Yahweh’s help, I have nothing to fear.”

  “Be careful with Serramanna, though. If you disturb the peace, he’ll come down hard on you.”

  “Wouldn’t you try to stop him, Ahmeni?”

  “Egypt is my religion. If you betray your country, I’ll have no more to do with you.”

  “I’m afraid we have nothing in common anymore.”

  “Whose fault is that, Moses?”

  Leaving Ahmeni’s office, Moses brooded. Ofir was right: he should wait for Ramses’ return and attempt to convince him, hoping that words alone would change his mind.

  Ofir’s new workshop was in the maze of Hebrew dwellings. He had already cast some experimental spells with young Prince Kha’s paintbrush, though without success. The brush remained inert, giving off no vibrations, as if it had never touched a human hand.

  The magical protection surrounding Kha was so effective that the Libyan sorcerer was worried. Did he have what he needed to break through the wall? Only one man could help him, and that was Meba.

  Yet the Meba he found on his doorstep was far from a haughty and confident diplomat. Trembling, wrapped in a hooded cape that concealed his face, Meba seemed more like a fugitive.

  “It’s already dark out,” observed Ofir.

  “I still could have been spotted. Coming here is dangerous for me. I don’t think we should meet this way.”

  “We have to meet face to face.”

  Meba regretted ever joining forces with the Hittite spy, but how could he work himself free?

  “Why did you send for me, Ofir?”

  “To tell you that change is sweeping over the Hittite empire.”

  “What does that mean for us?”

  “Good news. And what news have you brought me?”

  “Ahsha has been careful. Only Ahmeni is allowed to review his dispatches and summarize them for Ramses. They’re sent in a code I’m not familiar with, and showing too much interest would raise suspicions.”

  “I need to know what’s in those messages.”

  “But the risks . . .”

  Ofir’s icy stare told Meba it was better not to make further excuses.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Are you certain that the brush you stole really belonged to young Kha?”

  “Beyond a doubt.”

  “And you’re sure that Setau was the one who built the magic wall around Ramses’ son?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Setau has left for Nubia with Ramses, but his shield is proving stronger than I would have expected. What exactly did he use?”

  “Talismans, I think. But I can’t get near Kha anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Serramanna suspects that I stole the brush. One false move and he’ll throw me in prison.”

  “Keep your head, Meba. Justice is more than a word here in Egypt. The Sard has no proof, so you’re safe from him.”

  “I’m sure that Kha suspects me, too.”

  “Does he confide in anyone?”

  The diplomat thought for a moment. “His guardian, Nedjem, probably.”

  “Then question Nedjem about the talismans.”

  “It’s extremely dangerous.”

  “You’re an agent of the Hittite empire, Meba.”

  The old diplomat shifted his eyes. “I promise I’ll do my best.”

  Serramanna slapped the pretty Libyan hard on the bottom. What she lacked in skill, she’d made up in enthusiasm. She had breasts that his hands wouldn’t soon forget and thighs no red-blooded man could ignore for long. Serramanna, for one, had paid her charms proper attention.

  “Let’s do it again,” she whispered.

  “Not now. I have work to do!”

  The girl backed away. Serramanna jumped on his horse and galloped to the post where his men stood watch. Most shifts were spent playing dice or the popular game of snake as they discussed promotions and bonuses. With the royal couple away on their journey, Serramanna had put his guardsmen on double duty as added protection for the Queen Mother and other members of the royal family.

  All was silent inside the guard post.

  “Have you lost your voices?” inquired Serramanna, sensing trouble.

  The post sergeant rose, shoulders slumping.

  “We followed your orders, Chief.”

  “And?”

  “We followed orders, but the lookout in the Hebrew quarter had no luck. He didn’t catch sight of Meba.”

  “That means he was sleeping on the job!”

  “It could mean that, Chief.”

  “And you call that following orders?”

  “It was so hot today . . .”

  “I ask you to tail a suspect, stick to him like glue, especially if he heads for the Hebrew quarter—and you lose him on me!”

  “It won’t happen again, Chief.”

  “One more mistake like this and I’ll send you all back to where you came from, the Greek islands or wherever!”

  Serramanna stormed out of the guard post. His instincts told him that Meba was mixed up with the Hebrew insurrectionists and planning somehow to further Moses’ cause. And plenty of other officials, just as stupid, had no inkling how dangerous this new prophet was.

  Ofir closed the door to his workshop behind him. His two visitors, Amos and Keni, did not need to know what he was working on. Like him, the two Bedouins had adopted the dress of Hebrew brickmakers and let their whiskers grow.

  These two men and their network of desert nomads were his link with Hattusa, the Hittite capital.
He paid dearly for the service, hoping they wouldn’t double-cross him.

  “Emperor Muwattali is still alive,” revealed Amos. “His son Uri-Teshoop is supposed to succeed him.”

  “Any plans for a new offensive?”

  “Not for the time being.”

  “Have you found any arms for us?”

  “We have, but getting them here is a problem. We’ll have to break it down into smaller shipments so that the authorities won’t smell trouble. It will take a while, but we have to move cautiously. Has Moses agreed to the plan?”

  “He will. Meanwhile, let’s find volunteers to store the weapons in their cellars. There’s no lack of partisans ready to fight.”

  “We’ll make a list of the most reliable ones.”

  “When will the shipments start?” asked Ofir.

  “As early as next month.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The officer in charge of security for the Hittite capital was among Uri-Teshoop’s staunchest supporters. Like many other military men, he couldn’t wait for Emperor Muwattali to die so that Uri-Teshoop could take over and finally overrun Egypt.

  After personally checking to see that his men were stationed at strategic points throughout the city, the officer headed back to the barracks for a well-earned rest. In the morning he’d drill the slackers and send a few of them to the stockade. It was important to maintain discipline.

  Hattusa was a grim place, with its fortifications and gray walls. One day soon the Hittite army would be celebrating in the lush Egyptian countryside, basking in glory on the banks of the Nile.

  The officer sat down on his bed, took off his boots, and rubbed his feet with inexpensive nettle ointment. He was just on the brink of sleep when his door flew open.

  Two soldiers, swords drawn, glared at him.

  “What do you two think you’re doing? Get out!”

  “You’re worse than a vulture, betraying our leader, Uri-Teshoop!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Here’s your reward!”

  Grunting like butchers at a slaughter, the two enlisted men rammed their swords into the culprit’s stomach.

  A pale sun rose. After a sleepless night, Uri-Teshoop needed sustenance. He was breakfasting on milk and goat cheese when his two henchmen were finally shown in.

  “Mission accomplished,” one of them reported.

  “Any problems?”

  “It went without a hitch. We surprised every one of them.”

  “Lay a bonfire at the Lion Gate and dump the cadavers there. Tomorrow morning I’ll light the pyre myself. It will be a lesson to anyone who thinks of betraying me.”

  Thanks to the list of names supplied by Ahsha, the purge had been swift and brutal. Hattusili had no more informers in his nephew’s inner circle.

  Next the supreme commander paid a visit to his father. Two male nurses had propped the emperor in a chair on his palace balcony overlooking the upper town.

  Muwattali stared into space, gripping the armrests.

  “Can you talk to me, Father?”

  The slack mouth opened, but no sound issued from it. Uri-Teshoop was relieved.

  “Don’t worry about the empire. I’m taking good care of it. Hattusili is hiding in the country. He’s completely out of the picture, and I never even had to touch him. The coward can rot in oblivion.”

  Hatred glinted in Muwattali’s eyes.

  “You have no right to resent me, Father. Either power is given to you, or else you take it, don’t you agree?”

  Uri-Teshoop unsheathed his dagger.

  “Aren’t you tired of suffering, Father? A great emperor cares only for ruling his country. In your present state, that’s hardly a possibility. Give me a sign and I’ll put an end to your suffering.”

  Uri-Teshoop drew closer to Muwattali. The emperor’s eyelids did not even flicker.

  “Tell me to do it, Father. Give me your approval. Give me the power that’s mine by right.”

  With all his might, Muwattali stared his son down.

  Uri-Teshoop raised his arm, ready to strike.

  “Surrender, in the name of all the gods!”

  The emperor squeezed the cushioned armrest until it burst like a ripe fruit. Stunned, his son dropped the dagger, which clattered to the floor.

  Within the sanctuary of Yazilikaya, on a hillside northeast of the Hittite capital, the priests were cleansing the Storm God’s statue to keep his power dwelling among them. Next they celebrated the rites intended to banish chaos and keep evil locked underground. They pounded nails into a piglet, seven each of iron, bronze, and copper, then burnt it to banish dark forces at work against Hatti.

  Once the ceremony was over, the celebrants filed past a frieze of the twelve gods, paused at a stone table, and took a drink of strong spirits to chase away negative thoughts. Finally, they went down a stairway carved into the rock, entering a chapel hollowed deep in the hillside.

  A priest and priestess left the procession and entered an underground chamber lit by oil lamps. Hattusili and Puduhepa pulled back the hoods that concealed their faces.

  “It feels good to steal a moment of peace,” she confessed.

  “We’re safe here,” agreed Hattusili. “None of Uri-Teshoop’s soldiers would dare set foot in this sacred place. Just to be careful, I’ve posted lookouts around the temple. Now tell me about your travels.”

  “It all went much better than I hoped. Many of the officers are much less enthusiastic about Uri-Teshoop than we supposed, and definitely attracted to the idea of making a fortune without sacrificing their lives. Some of them are also aware of the threat Assyria poses and stress the need to strengthen our defenses rather than rushing into another war with Egypt.”

  His wife’s words were sweet as nectar to Hattusili.

  “Is this a dream, Puduhepa, or are you really bringing us some hope?”

  “It was amazing how people opened up at the sight of Ahsha’s gold. I found a number of high-ranking officers who think Uri-Teshoop is arrogant, cruel, and vain, and hate him for it. They no longer believe in his boastful speeches or his ability to vanquish Ramses; they can’t forgive his treatment of the emperor. He may not have assassinated his father yet, but he openly wishes him dead. If we maneuver correctly, Uri-Teshoop’s reign will be short.”

  “My brother is dying and I can do nothing to help him . . .”

  “Do you want to attempt a coup?”

  “That would be a mistake, Puduhepa. Muwattali’s fate is sealed.”

  The handsome priestess considered her husband with admiration.

  “Do you have the courage to sacrifice your feelings to rule over Hatti?”

  “If I must. But my feelings for you can never change.” “We’ll fight together, Hattusili. We’ll fight to win. Tell me what happened with the merchants.”

  “They haven’t lost faith in me. In fact, because of Uri-Teshoop’s blunders, they support me more strongly than ever. They’re convinced that he’ll bankrupt the empire. And we have strong support in the provinces, though not in the capital.”

  “Ahsha’s gold will change that. I’ll go to Hattusa and start working on the upper echelons of the military.”

  “If you fall into Uri-Teshoop’s clutches . . .”

  “We have friends in Hattusa. They’ll hide me, and I’ll arrange secret meetings, never in the same place twice.”

  “It’s too dangerous, Puduhepa.”

  “We won’t let up on Uri-Teshoop or waste a single hour.”

  The blond Hittite girl was slowly licking her way up Ahsha’s back. Although half asleep, he eventually stirred, turned over, and embraced his partner, her breasts tingling with pleasure. He was growing inventive when Uri-Teshoop burst into the room.

  “Is sex all you think about, Ahsha?”

  “My stay here has proved quite educational.”

  Uri-Teshoop grabbed the blonde by the hair and tossed her out of the room while Ahsha made himself presentable.

  “I’m in a g
ood mood today,” announced the prince. His muscles did seem to bulge more than ever. With his long hair and fleecy red chest, the emperor’s son was every inch the warrior.

  “I’ve gotten rid of all my enemies,” declared Uri-Teshoop. “There’s only one traitor left. The army is under my thumb.”

  Uri-Teshoop had thought hard before he ordered the purge. If Ahsha was telling the truth, the housecleaning was essential. If he was lying, it was still a way to eliminate potential rivals. All things considered, he couldn’t go wrong with the Egyptian’s idea.

  “Do you still refuse to let me treat your father?”

  “His condition is incurable, Ahsha. There’s no use trying drugs that won’t improve matters and might make him more uncomfortable.”

  “Since he’s in no state to govern, will the empire remain without a leader?”

  Uri-Teshoop flashed a triumphant smile. “The military will soon declare me emperor.”

  “Then you’ll sign the peace pact?”

  “Didn’t I say so?”

  “You gave your word.”

  “There’s one major stumbling block: Hattusili.”

  “I thought he no longer had any influence.”

  “As long as he’s alive, he’ll be a thorn in my side. With the merchants behind him, he can interfere with supplying my army.”

  “Can’t you intercept him?”

  “Hattusili is slippery as an eel.”

  “It’s awkward,” Ahsha admitted, “but there is a solution.”

  Uri-Teshoop’s eyes blazed. “Tell me.”

  “Lay a trap for him.”

  “You’ll help me catch him?”

  “Call it my inaugural gift to Hatti’s next emperor.”

  FORTY

  Using her psychic gifts, Nefertari confirmed Ramses’ premonitions. The incident with the frenzied hippos had been no chance encounter. Trappers and fishermen had herded the beasts together.

  “Shaanar . . . Shaanar is behind this,” Ramses told her. “He’ll never give up trying to destroy us. It’s all he lives for. Can you agree to continue south with me, Nefertari?”