But Shaanar was intent on reaching the land of Irem, where he could incite the tribesmen to rise up, attacking Abu Simbel and razing the construction site. Once uncertainty reigned in Nubia, Pharaoh’s prestige would be damaged and his adversaries would regroup to finish him off.
Shaanar’s little band approached the gold refineries, a restricted zone where skilled workers labored under supervision by the Egyptian army. This was the zone that the rebels would need to capture, interrupting shipments of gold to the homeland.
From the crest of a dune, Shaanar watched the Nubians washing the ore, separating the gold from the gravel that clung to it even after the preliminary crushing and sorting. The water, drawn from a well in the middle of the desert, filled a reservoir that sluiced down to a settling pool. The downhill flow shook the gravel loose. Nevertheless, to make sure the gold was completely pure, the process was repeated several times.
The Egyptian soldiers were numerous and well armed. A mere commando would have no chance of overcoming them. Shaanar saw that he would have to organize a full-scale revolt, gathering hundreds of warriors from various tribes.
On the advice of a Nubian guide, he met with a chieftain from the land of Irem, a tall man whose ebony skin was covered with scars. The chieftain admitted him to his spacious hut in the center of his village, eyeing him coldly.
“So you’re Egyptian.”
“Yes, but one who hates Ramses.”
“I hate all the pharaohs who oppress my country. Who sent you here?”
“Powerful enemies of Ramses’ from the north. If we help them, they’ll oust Pharaoh and give you back your land.”
“If we rebel, Pharaoh’s soldiers will massacre us.”
“It will take more than your clan alone, of course. We’ll have to find allies.”
“That will be difficult, very difficult. It will mean meeting and talking, moon after moon.”
Patience was the virtue Shaanar lacked most. He checked his anger and swore he’d persevere, despite the inherent slowness of such negotiations.
“Are you prepared to help me?” he asked the chieftain.
“I need to stay here, in my village. To start the talks, we should go to the next village over. It’s too far away.”
The Cretan mercenary handed Shaanar a small bar of silver.
“With this,” he told the tribal chief, “you can feed your clan for several months. Those who help me, I pay.”
The Nubian’s eyes bulged. “You’re giving me that to start the talks?”
“And more, if you get results.”
“It will still take a long, long time.”
“Let’s get started at sunrise.”
Back in Pi-Ramses, Iset the Fair often thought of her trysts with Ramses in the reed hut, before he met Nefertari. At one time she’d hoped to marry the man she was still in love with, but who could rival the sublime woman who had deservedly become the Great Royal Wife?
At times, when frustration got the better of her, Iset the Fair went without makeup, dressed carelessly, forgot her perfumed oils . . . But her affection for Kha and Merenptah, the two sons Ramses had given her, as well as Meritamon, the king’s daughter with Nefertari, always roused her from her depression as she focused on the children’s future. Merenptah was a sturdy, good-looking child, already showing signs of intelligence. Meritamon was a pretty and thoughtful girl, a gifted musician. Kha was a budding scholar. These three children were her hope; they would be her future.
Her chamberlain arrived bearing a necklace of four strands of amethyst and carnelian, silver earrings, a gold-embroidered multicolor dress. Behind him was Dolora, Ramses’ sister.
“You look tired, Iset.”
“It’s not worth mentioning. But tell me, where are you taking these lovely things?”
“I was hoping you’d accept them. A little gift.”
“I’m touched, Dolora. How can I thank you?”
The tall brunette, soothing and protective, decided to go on the offensive.
“Doesn’t your existence weigh on you, my dear?”
“No, of course not, since I’m lucky enough to be raising Ramses’ children.”
“Why be content to stay in the background?”
“I love the king, I love his children. The gods have given me a charmed existence.”
“The gods! They’re only an illusion, Iset.”
“What are you saying?”
“There is only one God, the one Akhenaton worshiped, the God of Moses and the Hebrews. It is to Him that we must turn.”
“That’s fine for you, Dolora, but leave me out of it.”
Ramses’ sister realized that she would never make a convert of Iset the Fair. She was too conventional. But there was one other tactic that might prove successful.
“I don’t think it’s fair that you’ve been relegated to the role of secondary wife.”
“I disagree, Dolora. Nefertari is prettier and smarter than I am; there’s no match for her.”
“That’s not true. Besides, she has one terrible flaw.”
“Oh?”
“Nefertari doesn’t love Ramses.”
“How dare you imply . . .”
“I’m not implying. I’m stating facts. You know that I always keep up with court gossip. That’s how I know that Nefertari is a fake and a schemer. What was she before she met Ramses? A provincial music student who would have ended up in some second-rate temple! Then Ramses laid eyes on her and overnight she changed from a shy young girl into a power-hungry woman.”
“Pardon me, Dolora, but I find it hard to believe.”
“Do you know what’s behind this trip to Nubia? Nefertari has demanded a huge temple as a monument to her glory! Ramses gave in and has started a costly project that will take years to complete. Nefertari’s true ambition is finally surfacing: she wants to take the king’s place and rule the country. She has to be stopped, no matter how.”
“You’re not suggesting . . .”
“No matter how. Only one person can save Ramses: you, Iset.”
The young woman was shaken. Of course she mistrusted Dolora, but there might be something to her allegations. Still, Nefertari seemed so sincere. Power could be a corrupting influence. Suddenly her image of a loving Nefertari, worshiping Ramses, grew cracks. For a true schemer, what could be better than seducing the Lord of the Two Lands?
“What do you advise me to do, Dolora?”
“Ramses has been fooled. You’re the one he should have married. You’re the mother of his eldest son, Kha, whom the court already accepts as the likely successor. If you love the king, Iset, if you love Egypt and want the best for it, there’s only one thing to do: get rid of Nefertari.”
Iset the Fair shut her eyes. “Dolora, that’s impossible!”
“I’ll help you.”
“Murder is an abominable crime that destroys the spirit, the soul, the name . . . an attempt on the queen’s life would mean eternal damnation.”
“Who’d know it was you? When you decide to strike, you’ll have to move stealthily and leave no trace.”
“Is this the will of your god, Dolora?”
“Nefertari is a perverse woman who sullies Ramses’ heart and leads him to commit grave errors. You and I must unite to combat her influence. That’s how we’ll prove our loyalty to the king.”
“I need to think it over.”
“What could be more natural? I have great esteem for you, Iset, and I know you’ll make the right decision. No matter what you decide, you have my undying affection.”
Iset the Fair smiled so wanly that before leaving Dolora kissed her on both cheeks.
Ramses’ lesser wife could hardly breathe. She stumbled to the window looking out on one of the palace gardens and soaked up the strong sunlight without relief.
A rival! For the first time, Iset the Fair truly considered Nefertari as a rival. Their unspoken agreement was shattered and the latent conflict burst forth with years of repressed violence behind it. Iset was th
e mother of Ramses’ two sons, his first love, the woman who ought to have reigned at his side. Dolora had revealed a truth she had been trying to ignore.
With Nefertari out of the way, Ramses would finally realize that she was only a passing fancy. The spell would be broken, and he would return to Iset the Fair, the love of his youth who had never stopped loving him.
FORTY-THREE
While harboring a deep mistrust of the Hebrews, the sinister Ofir had cynically concluded that the brickmakers’ quarter was the ideal hideout. Even so, he moved every so often as an extra security measure. Skillfully planted misinformation had led Serramanna to believe that the sorcerer had fled the country. He had backed off on his investigation. Only the usual patrols roamed the neighborhood, keeping things quiet at night.
Yet the sorcerer was far from happy. For months now, he had been at a stalemate. Year Fifteen of Ramses’ reign, the thirty-seventh year of his life, found Egypt healthier than ever, to Ofir’s chagrin.
The news from the Hittite empire was disquieting. Uri-Teshoop still favored all-out war with Egypt, but launched no offensive. Furthermore, seasoned Egyptian troops occupied the buffer zone formed by southern Syria and Canaan, ready to counter the most massive attack. Why was the impetuous Uri-Teshoop so reluctant? The sketchy messages relayed by the Bedouins offered no explanation.
Down in Nubia, Shaanar seemed unable to incite the tribal leaders to action. So far there had only been endless talks.
At court, Dolora was still making overtures to Iset the Fair, but the king’s lesser wife seemed unable to commit. Meba was virtually useless, failing to crack Ahsha’s coded messages. Yes, he’d been able to provide detailed information about the magic charms protecting Prince Kha, but the boy led a studious and blameless existence in which Ofir could find no opening.
After his long journey, during which he founded a number of temples, Ramses had returned to his capital. Nefertari seemed radiantly happy. Despite the threat of war, the royal pair enjoyed tremendous popularity. Everyone credited them with the country’s lasting prosperity, convinced that Ramses would keep them safe from attack.
Ofir’s reading of the situation was full of gloom. As the years went by, the hope of overthrowing Ramses dwindled. Even he, the master spy who had never questioned his mission’s eventual success, was beginning to worry and feel discouraged.
He was sitting in back of the main room, in the shadows, when a man entered his dwelling.
“I’d like to speak with you.”
“Moses . . .”
“Are you busy?”
“No, I was only thinking.”
“Ramses is finally back, and I found the patience to wait for him, as you advised.”
The firmness of Moses’ tone lifted Ofir’s spirits. Had the Hebrew finally decided to take the initiative?
“I called the tribal elders together,” the prophet continued. “They chose me to represent them before the Pharaoh.”
“The exodus is still in your plans, then.”
“The Hebrew people will leave Egypt, because it’s the will of Yahweh. Have you fulfilled your commitments?”
“Our Bedouin friends have delivered the weapons. They’ll be stored in cellars.”
“I won’t advocate violence, but it would be preferable to have a means of defense in case we’re persecuted.”
“And of course you will be, Moses. Ramses will never permit an entire people to defy him.”
“We have no desire to revolt, only to leave this country and make our way to the Promised Land.”
Ofir felt an inner rejoicing. Finally something was going right! Moses would create a climate of insecurity, laying the groundwork for Uri-Teshoop’s military intervention.
Facing the frieze of the twelve gods in the temple at Yazilikaya, the priestess Puduhepa, her long hair caught up in a bun and hidden beneath a cap, lay stretched out on a slab of stone, as if dead.
She had swallowed a dangerous potion that would plunge her into a deep sleep for three days and nights. There was no surer means of entering into contact with the forces of destiny and probing their intentions.
Consulting the usual oracles, still unfavorable to Uri-Teshoop, had not been an adequate basis for a decision on which Hattusili’s life depended, as well as her own. She had therefore decided on this radical but dangerous method.
Yes, the entire merchant class and a solid percentage of the army (after considerable arm-twisting) would lend their support to Hattusili, but perhaps he and Puduhepa were overestimating their prospects. Ahsha’s gold had convinced many superior officers that reinforcing the country’s inner defenses and the frontier posts made more sense than Uri-Teshoop’s plan to attack Egypt. Yet they might still be apt to change sides if Uri-Teshoop woke up and discovered the plot brewing against him.
Challenging Uri-Teshoop’s takeover would sooner or later result in a civil war with an unsure outcome. Thus Hattusili, despite his growing support, was still hesitant to undertake a struggle that would end up costing thousands of Hittite lives.
That was why Puduhepa decided to summon a premonitory dream, which would come to her only during a long forced sleep.
Sometimes the subject never woke from the trance. Sometimes the mind never quite recovered. Hattusili had argued against the experiment, despite his wife’s insistence. Puduhepa had to keep after him until he finally relented.
And here she lay, immobile, barely breathing, for three days and nights. According to the books of divination, she should now open her eyes and reveal what the forces of destiny had told her.
Hattusili drew his woolen mantle tighter around him. Time was running out.
“Puduhepa, wake up. Please wake up!”
She started. No, he was mistaken . . . she hadn’t moved. But here it was again! Puduhepa opened her eyes and stared at the rock carved with the images of the twelve gods.
Then out of her mouth came a voice, a deep, slow voice her husband didn’t recognize.
“I saw the Storm God and the goddess Ishtar. Both of them told me: ‘I support your husband and the whole country will rally behind him, while his rival will be left wallowing in the mud.’”
The hand was soft, so soft that it made him think of honey and spring rain. The caresses were so insistent that they aroused new sensations, a pleasure almost overwhelming in its intensity. Ahsha’s fifth Hittite mistress was as charming as her four predecessors, yet he was beginning to miss Egyptian women, the banks of the Nile, the palm groves.
Lovemaking was his sole distraction from the Hittite capital’s grim and boring atmosphere. There were also numerous talks with the merchants’ principal representatives and secret meetings with military officers. Officially, Ahsha was pursuing long negotiations with Uri-Teshoop, the new ruler of Hatti, poised to succeed Muwattali when he finally lost his protracted struggle with death. The Egyptian emissary also had an unofficial mission: to flush Hattusili out of hiding and deliver him to Uri-Teshoop.
Three times now the prince’s soldiers had nearly closed in on Hattusili, only to find that some insider had tipped him off at the last moment.
On this particular day Uri-Teshoop did not catch Ahsha and his mistress in the act. Entering the room, the warlord’s expression was hard, almost stony.
“I have good news,” said Ahsha, rubbing his hands with scented oil.
“So do I,” declared Uri-Teshoop in a triumphant voice. “My father, Muwattali, died this morning. Hatti is finally mine!”
“Congratulations . . . But there’s still Hattusili.”
“He can’t escape me much longer, no matter how vast my empire is. You said you had good news?”
“About Hattusili, as a matter of fact. A reliable informant has just told me his whereabouts. But . . .”
“But what, Ahsha?”
“Once your uncle is in custody, can you guarantee that we’ll seal our pact?”
“You’ve made the right choice, my friend, don’t worry. Egypt won’t be disappointed. Where is the tr
aitor?”
“In the temple at Yazilikaya.”
Uri-Teshoop personally headed the detachment, kept small so as not to alarm potential lookouts. A full deployment would alert them, allowing Hattusili to take flight once more.
So it was Puduhepa’s priests who had given shelter to Hattusili; Uri-Teshoop would punish them.
The late emperor’s brother had unwisely taken refuge in an easily reached area close to the capital. This time he wouldn’t escape. Uri-Teshoop was hesitating between execution on the spot and a trumped-up trial. Having little taste for things legal, even well arranged, he was leaning toward the first option. He regretted that in his new position, he’d have to refrain from personally slitting Hattusili’s throat; he’d delegate the low deed to one of his men. Back in Hattusa, Uri-Teshoop would organize a grandiose funeral for Muwattali. He, the emperor’s beloved son, would be his uncontested successor.
With a combat-ready army, he would invade southern Syria, join with the Bedouins as arranged, occupy Canaan, cross the border into Egypt, and confront Ramses, who had made the fatal error of believing in peace, as his ambassador kept insisting.
He, Uri-Teshoop, would rule the Hittite empire! He’d carry out his plan with no need of forming a costly coalition like Hattusili’s. Uri-Teshoop felt strong enough to conquer Assyria, Egypt, Nubia, and all of Asia. His glory would outshine all his predecessors.
The small band of soldiers approached the sacred rock of Yazilikaya, where several shrines had been erected. According to legend, this was the home of the supreme divine couple, the Storm God and his wife. The new emperor bore the fearsome god’s name, did he not? Yes, he was Techop, the heavenly Storm. His enemies would feel his thunder.
In the temple doorway stood a man, a woman, and a child: Hattusili, his wife, Puduhepa, and their eight-year-old daughter. The fools were surrendering, counting on Uri-Teshoop’s mercy!
He halted his horsemen, savoring his triumph. Ahsha had delivered on his promise. Once the new emperor was rid of his ultimate enemy, however, the Egyptian ambassador would have outlived his usefulness. Uri-Teshoop would have him strangled. To think that Ahsha believed he would ever want peace! So many years of waiting, so many trials had led up to this moment. All power was his.
Ramses, Volume IV Page 22
