Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

Ahmeni arrived with a magnificent amber-colored papyrus on which Ramses himself would inscribe his proposals.

  “I’ve had a complaint from one of the neighborhood councils,” the scribe announced. “It’s about mosquitoes.”

  “They can get out of hand at this time of year unless sanitary measures are strictly enforced. Is there a pond that someone forgot to drain?”

  “Aaron claims it’s Yahweh’s third plague, Your Majesty. He stirred up the dust to turn it into mosquitoes. Does that sound like the wrath of God to you?”

  “Our friend Moses is nothing if not persistent,” Ahsha observed.

  “Send a squad of health inspectors into the neighborhood in question,” Ramses told Ahmeni. “The people need relief.”

  The inundation promised a fruitful year. Ramses celebrated the rites of dawn at the temple of Amon, then allowed himself a walk on the river landing with Fighter. The rest of his morning would be spent inside the palace, composing a letter to Hattusili.

  Suddenly Moses’ staff echoed on the flagstones. The enormous lion stared at the Hebrew but made no sound.

  “Let my people go, Ramses, that we may worship Yahweh as He demands.”

  “Have we anything more to say to each other, Moses?”

  “Wonders and plagues have shown you the will of Yahweh.”

  “Is that my friend behind those strange words?”

  “No friend, but the messenger of Yahweh! And you, my Pharaoh, are an unbeliever!”

  “How can I make you see the light?”

  “You’re the one who’s blind.”

  “You go your way, Moses, and I’ll stick to mine, no matter what happens.”

  “Grant me one favor: come see my Hebrew brethren’s livestock.”

  “Is there something special about them?”

  “Just come.”

  Fighter, Serramanna, and a squadron of mercenaries went along to provide security. Moses had herded the Hebrews’ livestock together in a marshy area some two leagues outside the capital. Thousands of horseflies buzzed mercilessly around the bleating animals.

  “This is the fourth plague sent by Yahweh,” Moses revealed. “If I drive these beasts apart, the horseflies will swarm over your capital.”

  “Nice try . . . but did you really need to leave this herd so filthy and make the animals suffer so?”

  “Yahweh demands that we sacrifice rams, cows, and other animals sacred to the Egyptians. If we perform our rites within your country, the farmers will resent us. Let us go into the desert, Ramses, or else the horseflies will attack your subjects.”

  “Serramanna and an armed contingent will accompany you, your priests, and the diseased livestock to a place in the desert where you can make your sacrifices. The rest of the animals will be cleaned and sent back to their regular pastures. Once your rites are over, you’ll return to Pi-Ramses.”

  “I’m not giving up, Ramses. One day you’ll be forced to release us from Egypt.”

  FIFTY

  It’s time to hit harder,” Ofir advised. “Much harder.”

  “We got them to let us sacrifice out in the desert, didn’t we?” observed Moses. “Ramses gave in. He’ll make more concessions.”

  “Don’t you think he’s running out of patience?”

  “Yahweh is protecting us.”

  “I have another idea, Moses, an idea for a fifth plague that will hurt Pharaoh to the quick.

  “It’s not up to us, but to Yahweh.”

  “Shouldn’t we lend him a hand? Ramses is a hardheaded tyrant who can only be daunted by signs from on high. Let me help you.”

  Moses acquiesced.

  Ofir left the prophet’s dwelling and met his accomplices, Amos and Keni. The two Bedouin chiefs had continued to stockpile weapons in the local Hebrews’ cellars; just back from southern Syria, they brought messages from Hittite agents. The sorcerer was eager for fresh news, if not instructions.

  Amos had oiled his bald pate.

  “Emperor Hattusili is furious,” he revealed. “With Ramses refusing to extradite Uri-Teshoop, he’s ready to resume the fighting.”

  “Perfect! What does he expect of my network?”

  “The orders are simple: keep agitating the Hebrews here in Egypt, make trouble all over the country to undermine Ramses, arrange for Uri-Teshoop’s escape and bring him back to Hattusa. Or else kill him.”

  Crooked-Fingers was a peasant who loved his plot of land and his herd of some twenty cows, each one sweeter than the last; gentle beasts, although their leader did have her own ideas and wouldn’t let just anyone approach her. Crooked-Fingers spent hours conversing with her.

  The impish Redhead woke him each morning, licking his forehead. The cowherd tried to grab her by the ear, but he always ended up getting to his feet.

  But this morning the sun was already high in the sky when Crooked-Fingers rose.

  “Redhead . . . Where have you gotten to, Redhead?”

  He rubbed his eyes and advanced a few steps into his field, where he saw the cow lying on her side.

  “What’s the matter with you, Redhead?”

  Glassy-eyed, gagging, her belly swollen, the pretty young cow was near death. A bit farther back in the field, two others were already gone.

  The frantic peasant ran to the village square to get help from the local veterinarian. He found a dozen other similarly afflicted herdsmen already besieging the doctor.

  “An epidemic!” cried Crooked-Fingers. “We’d better tell the palace right away.”

  When Ofir, watching from the balcony of his house, saw a cohort of worried and angry peasants, he knew his orders had been correctly executed. By poisoning a few head of cattle, the Bedouin chiefs Amos and Keni had sown panic.

  In the middle of the avenue leading to the palace, Moses halted the procession.

  “Here is the fifth plague that Yahweh has visited upon Egypt! His hand will spare no herd or flock, and only the livestock belonging to my people will be free of pestilence.”

  Serramanna and a large detail of soldiers were preparing to disperse the peasants when Lotus arrived, her black horse at a gallop, reining in at the edge of the gathering.

  “Don’t lose your heads,” she said in a calm voice. “What we have here is no pestilence, but a poisoning. I’ve already saved two milk cows, and with the help of the animal doctors I think I can cure the rest of the victims.”

  The crowd’s dismay gave way to a mood of hope. And when the agriculture secretary announced that Pharaoh would replace the dead livestock at government expense, all was well once more.

  Ofir had enough poison left to keep helping Moses, this time without letting him know. Using an old magic formula, on orders from Yahweh, the prophet had taken handfuls of soot from a furnace and scattered it in the air so that dust would fall on man and beast, causing them to break out in boils. This sixth plague would be so terrifying that Pharaoh would finally be forced to capitulate.

  Ofir had another idea. How better to impress the monarch than by touching his inner circle? Bald-headed Amos, unrecognizable in a wig that covered half his forehead, had delivered tainted food to the cook who prepared the meals for Ahmeni and his staff.

  When the sandal-bearer appeared for the king’s daily briefing, Ramses noticed a reddish sore on his friend’s cheek.

  “Have you hurt yourself?”

  “No, but this pimple keeps getting worse.”

  “I’ll call for Dr. Pariamaku.”

  The palace doctor arrived out of breath, accompanied by an attractive young woman.

  “Are you ill, Your Majesty?” inquired Pariamaku.

  “As you know, Doctor, I’m never ill. I’d like you to examine my private secretary.”

  The physician circled Ahmeni, prodded his arms, took his pulse, and put his ear to his rib cage.

  “Nothing abnormal at first glance . . . I’ll have to think.”

  “If it’s a skin ulceration resulting from gastric difficulties,” the girl spoke up timidly, “shouldn’t we have him try
a mixture of sycamore, anise, honey, pine resin, and fennel, to be applied externally as well as drunk in a potion?”

  Dr. Pariamaku assumed an important expression.

  “Not a bad idea . . . we’ll give it a try and see. Go to the laboratory, my child, and prepare the remedy.”

  The girl withdrew, after bowing tremulously to the monarch.

  “What’s your assistant’s name?” asked Ramses.

  “Neferet, Your Majesty. Pay no attention to her, she’s only an intern.”

  “She seems quite competent.”

  “She was simply reciting a formula I taught her. Just a beginner, with no great talent.”

  Ofir was bemused.

  Medicine had worked against the plague of boils, and Ramses remained as obstinate as ever. Moses and Aaron were restraining the Hebrews, since any untimely agitation would bring swift reprisals from Serramanna and the police.

  An additional setback was the loss of contact with Dolora, the king’s sister. There was no doubt that she had failed in her mission. Nefertari was alive and well, showing no signs of chronic illness. Sensing she was watched, Dolora no longer dared venture into the Hebrew quarter, even at night, which meant that Ofir was cut off from his most direct source of palace information.

  This did not prevent the Hittite spy from fanning the flames of revolt among the Hebrews. A core faction, united behind Moses and Aaron, was ready to spearhead the movement.

  Arranging Uri-Teshoop’s escape would be difficult. Assigned to a villa guarded day and night by Serramanna’s men, Uri-Teshoop was a has-been and a liability. Rather than taking undue risks, the better solution might be to eliminate him, which would immediately win favor with Hattusili. The new emperor was shrewd and merciless, a worthy successor to his brother.

  Ofir still had one undercover ally: the diplomat Meba. The man was a weakling, but he was the one who would help the sorcerer get rid of Uri-Teshoop.

  Ahsha’s escort was kept to a bare minimum, since the head of Egyptian diplomacy thought he had no better than one chance in a hundred (contrary to the queen’s opinion) of finding a warm welcome in the Hittite capital. In the eyes of the new emperor, he was a suspect character who had helped Uri-Teshoop go free. Hattusili was likely to let his resentment get the better of his political savvy. If he did, he would have every member of the Egyptian delegation arrested, if not executed, starting with Ahsha, to force Ramses’ hand. A confrontation, Hattusili might think, would allow him to even the score.

  Puduhepa did seem to favor peace, but how far could she diverge from her husband’s wishes? The Empress of Hatti was not one to back a hopeless cause. If negotiation proved too difficult a route, she would fall in line with the war effort.

  A buffeting wind, common on the plateaus of Anatolia, accompanied Ahsha and his contingent to the gates of Hattusa. Its fortress-like grimness struck him even more forcibly than on his earlier visits.

  The secretary of state presented his credentials to the sentry post commander, waiting for more than an hour before he was granted entry through the Lion Gate. His hopes were dashed when he found he was being led not to the palace but to a dingy gray freestone building, where he was assigned a room. The single window was fitted with iron bars.

  Even to an optimist, the place looked like a prison.

  Playing the Hittites correctly demanded both skill and luck, a great deal of luck. Ahsha felt that his might be running out.

  As evening fell, a helmeted officer in heavy armor came to fetch him. This time they headed up the incline to the citadel where the imperial palace stood.

  Ahsha was approaching the moment of truth, if such existed in the world of diplomacy.

  In the audience chamber, hung with tapestries, a fire blazed. Empress Puduhepa was basking in its warmth.

  “I beg the Egyptian ambassador to sit before the hearth with me. The night may be cool.”

  Ahsha sat unceremoniously in a chair a respectful distance from her.

  “I greatly appreciated Queen Nefertari’s letters,” declared the empress. “Her thinking is inspired, her arguments convincing, her intentions forthright.”

  “Am I to understand that the emperor agrees to open negotiations?”

  “The emperor and I wish to see concrete proposals.”

  “I am the bearer of a document conceived by Ramses and Nefertari and drawn up by Pharaoh himself; it will serve as a basis for our discussions.”

  “Exactly the initiative I was hoping for. Hatti must, of course, impose certain conditions.”

  “I’m here to find out what they are, with the firm intention of reaching an agreement.”

  “Your words warm my heart as much as the fire does. I trust your initial welcome didn’t trouble you?”

  “I can’t complain.”

  “Hattusili has caught cold and spent the last few days in bed. I’ve been so busy that I had to make you wait. But by tomorrow the emperor should be able to open the discussions.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Ramses was on his way to the temple of Amon well before daybreak when suddenly Moses stood in his way. The guard accompanying the king drew his sword, but Ramses checked it.

  “I need to speak to you, Pharaoh!”

  “Keep it short.”

  “Can’t you see that Yahweh has been indulgent so far? If He’d so wished, you and your people would already be annihilated. He spared your life the better to show that He alone is almighty and powerful. Now let the Hebrews out of Egypt, or else . . .”

  “Or else?”

  “A seventh plague will visit intolerable suffering upon your country: a hailstorm so violent that it will take countless victims. When I raise my staff toward the sky, there will be thunderclaps and bolts of lightning.”

  “You must know that one of this capital’s main temples honors Set, the Lord of the Storm. His is the wrath of the sky, and I know the rituals that tame it.”

  “This time they won’t work. The hail will take its toll of beasts and men.”

  “Out of my way, Moses.”

  That very afternoon, the king consulted with the “priests of the hour” who observed the heavens, studied the movements of the planets, and predicted the weather. They were in fact anticipating heavy rains that might wipe out part of the flax harvest.

  As soon as the dark clouds gathered, Ramses closeted himself in Set’s inner sanctum, facing the angry god alone. The monumental statue’s red eyes glowed like coals.

  The king did not have the power to oppose Set’s will and stop the storms he unleashed; he could only shorten them and diminish their strength by communing with the god’s spirit. Seti had taught his son how to deal with Set and channel his destructive power without risking destruction himself. It took all his energy to hold his own against Set’s invisible flames, but once again it was worth the effort.

  Meba felt shaky. Though disguised in a short wig and a coarse, poorly cut cloak, he was afraid that he’d be spotted. But who would recognize him in this house of beer near the docks, where stevedores and sailors came to relax?

  Amos, the bearded bald man, took a seat across from him.

  “Who sent you?” Meba asked in a faltering voice.

  “The sorcerer. And you’re . . .”

  “No names, please. Give him this tablet. It contains information that may well interest him.”

  “The sorcerer wants you to take care of Uri-Teshoop.”

  “But he’s under house arrest!”

  “Your orders are strict: kill Uri-Teshoop or we’ll turn you in to Ramses.”

  Doubt was beginning to make inroads among the Hebrews. Seven plagues had already been inflicted on Egypt, and Pharaoh was obstinate as ever. When the council of elders met, however, Moses was still able to retain his hold.

  “What will you do next?” the chairman asked him.

  “Unleash an eighth plague, so terrible that the Egyptians will feel abandoned by their gods.”

  “What will it be?”

  “Look to the east for y
our answer.”

  “Will we finally be released from Egypt?”

  “Be as long-suffering as I was for years in the desert. Put your faith in Yahweh: He will lead us to the Promised Land.”

  In the middle of the night, Nefertari woke with a start.

  At her side, Ramses was fast asleep. The queen crept out of the bedroom and stepped onto the balcony. The air was sweet, the city silent and peaceful, yet the Great Royal Wife grew increasingly anxious. The vision that had tormented her would not fade; she was still in the grip of a nightmare.

  Ramses took her gently in his arms.

  “A bad dream, Nefertari?”

  “If only that were all . . .”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A peril coming from the east, on a frightful wind . . .”

  Ramses looked hard in that direction, as if seeing into the darkness. The king’s mind became night and sky, traveling to the ends of the earth, where the winds are born.

  What Ramses saw there was so awful that he threw on his clothes, woke the palace staff, and sent for Ahmeni.

  The cloud blowing in from the east was made up of locusts—millions, billions of them. A plague of insects was not unknown, but never on such a scale.

  Thanks to Pharaoh’s early warning, the Delta peasants had lit bonfires, smoking out the locusts with noxious smells. Certain crops were covered with coarse linen sheeting.

  When Moses proclaimed that the insects would devour every tree in Egypt, leaving not a single piece of fruit, royal messengers had quickly spread advance warning through the countryside. Now everyone was glad that Ramses’ precautionary measures had been so swiftly instituted.

  The damage was minimal. The locust, people recalled, was one of the symbolic forms Pharaoh’s soul took, reaching the heavens with one gigantic leap. In small numbers, the insect was considered beneficial; only the swarms were a problem.

  The royal couple toured the area around the capital in their chariot, stopping in several villages that feared a new infestation. Ramses and Nefertari reassured them that the plague would soon abate.