As the Great Royal Wife had predicted, the east wind calmed, to be replaced by fresh gusts that blew the locusts away from the croplands toward the Sea of Reeds.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Dr. Pariamaku told the old diplomat Meba. “Though I’m sure you could stand a few days’ rest.”
“Then why don’t I feel well?”
“Your heart is in excellent shape, your liver is fine. Don’t worry, you’ll probably live to be a hundred!”
Meba had feigned illness in the hope that Pariamaku would confine him to his room for several weeks, during which time Ofir and his accomplices might be arrested.
His childish plan had gotten him nowhere. And fingering the sorcerer was no alternative—he’d only be implicating himself.
His only choice was to carry out his mission. But how could he get to Uri-Teshoop without alerting Serramanna and his handpicked guards?
When all was said and done, diplomacy was his sole advantage. The next time he encountered the Sard in the palace corridors, Meba hailed him.
“I’ve just received a dispatch from Ahsha ordering me to interrogate Uri-Teshoop on certain aspects of the Hittite government,” declared Meba. “Whatever he tells me must be kept strictly confidential, so it will need to be a one-on-one interview. I’ll record his statement on papyrus, seal it, and submit it to the king.”
Serramanna seemed vexed. “How long will it take?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“The request is urgent.”
“All right. Let’s get going.”
Uri-Teshoop gave the diplomat a cold reception, but Meba quickly won his way into the Hittite’s good graces. Rather than pressing Uri-Teshoop with questions, he applauded the prince’s cooperation and painted a rosy picture of his future.
Uri-Teshoop described his finest moments in battle and even ventured a jesting comment or two.
“Are you satisfied with how you’re being treated?” inquired Meba.
“The food and lodging are fine, I get plenty of exercise . . . if only they let me have women.”
“I may be able to help you.”
“How?”
“Ask for a walk in the gardens; say you’d enjoy the cool of the evening. In the tamarisk grove, near the back gate, a girl will be waiting.”
“I think we’ll become good friends.”
“That’s my fondest wish, Your Highness.”
The air was muggy, the clouds grew dark. The god Set was again displaying his powers. Uri-Teshoop’s evening stroll would bring no relief from the stifling heat. Two guards walked with him, letting him wander among the flower beds. After all, there was no way the Hittite prince could escape. And besides, why would he want to leave this gilded retreat?
Hiding in the tamarisks, Meba trembled. A mandrake potion had put him in an altered state; he had scaled the garden wall and was ready to strike.
When Uri-Teshoop leaned his head into the bower, Meba would slit his throat with the dagger he’d stolen from an infantry officer. He’d leave the weapon behind to cast suspicion on the military. It was quite feasible that the Pharaoh’s soldiers would plot to kill the enemy chief responsible for so many Egyptian deaths.
Meba had never killed before, and he knew that the act would lead to his damnation. When he arrived at the Judgment Hall of the Dead, he’d plead that he’d been forced into it. But for the moment he must think of nothing but the dagger and Uri-Teshoop’s neck.
Footsteps.
Slow, cautious footsteps. His prey was coming closer, pausing, stooping. Meba raised his arm. Then a violent blow to the skull knocked him unconscious.
Serramanna hoisted the diplomat by the collar of his tunic.
“Wake up, you traitor. Wake up, fool!”
The old man remained limp.
“Don’t play games with me!”
Meba’s head lolled strangely sideways. Serramanna realized he’d once again hit too hard.
FIFTY-TWO
In the course of the inevitable inquest into Meba’s violent death, Ahmeni subjected Serramanna to a close interrogation. The Sard was unsure whether he would face consequences.
“The evidence is clear,” concluded the scribe. “You had ample grounds for suspecting the diplomat Meba of lying to you and intending to kill Uri-Teshoop. When you attempted to catch the perpetrator in the act, he struck out at you and succumbed in the ensuing struggle.”
The former pirate breathed a sigh of relief. “An excellent account.”
“Though deceased, Meba will be tried and convicted. His name will henceforth be struck from all official documents. Yet one question remains: who was he working for?”
“He claimed he was acting on Ahsha’s orders.”
Ahmeni bit the tip of his brush.
“Ahsha might want to eliminate a stumbling block in the peace negotiations . . . but he wouldn’t have given the job to a bungling old bureaucrat! More than that, he’d never violate Ramses’ principles, including respect for the right to asylum. Meba was lying, as usual. What if he belonged to the Hittite spy ring you were investigating?”
“But weren’t they supporting Uri-Teshoop?”
“Yes, but now Uri-Teshoop is only a renegade. Hattusili is emperor, and they’d be doing him an important favor if they took care of his only serious rival.”
The Sard toyed with his luxuriant mustache. “In other words, Ofir and Shaanar are not only alive and well, but still operating in Egypt.”
“Shaanar disappeared in Nubia. No one’s heard from Ofir in years.”
Serramanna clenched his fists.
“That damned sorcerer may be right under our noses! The reports that put him in Libya could have been faked just to make us stop looking.”
“Ofir has always managed to elude us.”
“No one stays out of my way forever, Ahmeni.”
“Just this once, would you consider bringing him in alive?”
For three interminable days, thick black clouds hung over Pi-Ramses, blocking the sun. The Egyptian people feared that the goddess Sekhmet was about to compound the perils that Set had threatened.
Only one person could keep the situation from degenerating: the Great Royal Wife, the earthly incarnation of the eternal law that Pharaoh maintained with his constant offerings. It was a time for every Egyptian to examine his or her conscience and make amends. Assuming the weight of her people’s transgressions, Nefertari traveled to Thebes. At the temple of Mut, she would lay offerings at the feet of the terrible goddess Sekhmet’s statues. The queen would turn the darkness into light.
In the capital, Ramses granted one more audience to Moses, who was proclaiming that the darkness over the capital was the ninth plague Yahweh had sent to Egypt.
“Convinced now, Pharaoh?”
“You’re only interpreting natural phenomena and attributing them to your god. That’s your vision of reality, and I respect it. But I will not accept your upsetting my people in the name of your dogma. It’s against the guiding principle of Ma’at and can lead to nothing but trouble and civil disturbances.”
“Yahweh’s demands remain unchanged.”
“Leave Egypt with your band of followers, Moses, and go worship your god wherever you like.”
“That’s not how Yahweh wants it. I have to take the entire Hebrew people with me.”
“Your cattle and flocks must remain behind, since for the most part your people don’t own them but only keep them. Those who turn their backs on Egypt must not share in her wealth.”
“Our chattel goes with us. Not one head of livestock will be left in your country, for all will be used in sacrifice to Yahweh as we make our way to the Promised Land.”
“I call that stealing.”
“Only Yahweh can judge me.”
“What faith can justify such an outrage?”
“Don’t bother trying to understand it. You can only bow to its power.”
“Pharaohs through the ages have dealt wi
th the scourge of fanaticism and intolerance. Don’t you shudder to think what can happen when men impose an absolute truth on their fellow men? I know that I do.”
“Bow to the will of Yahweh, Ramses.”
“Have you nothing to offer but threats and invective, Moses? What’s become of our friendship, the friendship that once led us toward greater understanding?”
“Only the future interests me, and that future is my people’s exodus.”
“Get out of my palace, Moses. This is the last I’ll see of you. If you challenge me again, I’ll brand you a rebel and you’ll be brought to trial.”
Blazing with anger, Moses stormed through the palace gates, ignoring former acquaintances who might have sought a word with him. He headed straight back to his house in the Hebrew quarter of Pi-Ramses, where Ofir was waiting.
From his informants, the sorcerer had learned about Meba’s sorry death. Yet the diplomat’s last written report contained one interesting bit of information: during a visit to the temple of Ptah in Memphis, Meba had noted that Kha now went without the talismans that once had formed Setau’s magic wall. As a high priest, young Kha was endowed with special magical powers, but why not put him to the test once more?
“Did Ramses give in this time?” inquired the sorcerer.
“He never will!” snapped Moses.
“Ramses is utterly fearless. The situation will be deadlocked unless we resort to violence.”
“A revolt . . .”
“We have the arms for it.”
“The Hebrews will be exterminated.”
“Who said anything about an open rebellion? Death will be our ally, the tenth and last plague inflicted upon Egypt.”
Moses was still blind with rage. In Ofir’s menacing words, he seemed to hear the voice of Yahweh.
“You’re right, Ofir. We must strike so hard that Ramses will have no choice but to free the Hebrews. At midnight on the appointed day, Yahweh will kill the firstborn of every household in Egypt.”
It was the moment Ofir had been waiting for. Finally, he’d have his revenge on Ramses, the conquering pharaoh.
“The list of firstborn sons will begin with Kha, Ramses’ son and probable successor. The magic protecting him has been too strong for me, but now I think I can find a way through it.”
“The hand of Yahweh will not spare the son of Ramses.”
“We can take advantage of the Egyptians’ good nature,” proposed Ofir. “The Hebrews should fraternize with them, asking for presents of gold and silver. You’ll need it during the exodus.”
Moses was silent for a time, then said, “We’ll make sacrifices, dipping hyssop blossoms into the blood of the lamb and marking our houses with it. On the night the firstborns die, the Exterminator will pass over our doorsteps.”
Ofir made haste to his workshop. He still possessed the brush stolen from Kha so long ago. It still might serve to paralyze Ramses’ eldest son and send him toward an eternal sleep.
The play of light and shadow in the garden made Nefertari seem lovelier than ever. Mysterious and sublime, flitting as gracefully as a goddess among the shrubs and flowers, she was happiness itself. Yet the moment he kissed her hand, Ramses could sense that her mood was somber.
“Moses hasn’t left off with his threats,” she murmured.
“He was my friend. I can’t believe that he truly wishes us harm.”
“I share your respect for him, but a raging fire has taken hold of his heart. I’m afraid of what he’ll do next.”
A concerned-looking Setau approached the royal couple.
“Forgive me for being blunt as ever, but Kha has been taken ill.”
“Is it serious?” queried Nefertari.
“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty. My remedies don’t seem to help.”
“Do you mean . . .”
“There’s no use denying it. He’s under a spell.”
As the daughter of Isis, goddess of magic, the Great Royal Wife hurried to the prince’s bedside.
Despite his pain, the young high priest of Ptah impressed everyone around him with his dignity. As he lay on a cot, wan and hollow-eyed, Kha’s breathing was shallow.
“My arms are numb,” he told Nefertari. “Can’t even move my legs.”
The queen laid her hands on the young man’s temples.
“I’ll give you all my energy,” she promised. “Together we’ll fight this creeping death. You’ll feel the happiness that has been mine, and you’ll never die.”
In the Hittite capital, negotiations were advancing very slowly. Hattusili reviewed each article of the proposed treaty, suggested changes in wording, locked horns with Ahsha, and eventually reached a compromise, carefully weighing each term. Puduhepa added her own comments, leading to further discussion.
Ahsha’s patience was seemingly inexhaustible. He was acutely aware that this process would forge a peace agreement influencing the future of the entire Near East and much of Asia.
“Don’t forget,” Hattusili frequently reminded him, “that I’m still demanding Uri-Teshoop’s extradition.”
“That will be the last item we resolve,” replied Ahsha, “once we’ve formulated the agreement as a whole.”
“You’re remarkably optimistic. But are you sure the Emperor of Hatti trusts you completely?”
“If he were unwise enough to do so, would he be the Emperor of Hatti?”
“If you’re second-guessing me, doesn’t that compromise the outcome of the negotiations?”
“We have to second-guess each other. Each of us wants the best possible terms for his country. My job is to help us strike a balance.”
“You think that can be done?”
“The future of the world . . . Ramses has entrusted it to me. That’s what you hold in your hands, Imperial Highness.”
“I’m patient, clearheaded, and stubborn, my dear Ahsha.”
“Just as I am, Your Highness.”
FIFTY-THREE
Serramanna stuck close to the guardhouse reserved for his mercenaries. At most, he allowed himself some fun with a bargirl from the most reputable house of beer. Not even sex could make him lower his guard. Sooner or later, the enemy would make a mistake, and he had to be ready when the moment came.
Kha’s illness had profoundly upset the Sardinian giant. Everything touching on the king and his relatives affected him as if the royal family had become his own. He was furious with himself for not having Ramses’ enemies under better control.
One of the mercenaries arrived to brief him.
“Something strange is going on with the Hebrews.”
“Explain yourself.”
“It looks like red paint on their doors. I don’t know why, but I thought you might want to know.”
“Good work. Now bring me the brickmaker Abner. Charge him with anything you can think of.”
After testifying in favor of Moses, Abner had dropped out of sight, apparently no longer demanding kickbacks from younger workers.
Now, appearing before Serramanna, Abner was visibly nervous.
“What is this latest offense?” inquired the Sard crossly.
“I’ve done nothing, sir! My conscience is clean as a priest’s white vestment.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I’m only a humble brickmaker, and . . .”
“Enough, Abner. Tell me why you’ve smeared your doorway with red paint.”
“An accident, sir.”
“And the same accident happened to dozens of other houses in your neighborhood? Stop treating me like an imbecile, man.”
The towering Sard cracked his knuckles, and the Hebrew jumped. “It’s nothing . . . a neighborhood fad, that’s all.”
“Oh? And what if the latest police fad was to cut off your nose and ears?”
“You have no right. It’s against the law.”
“But there are extenuating circumstances. I’m investigating the spell cast on Ramses’ eldest son, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that you’r
e mixed up in it.”
Judges dealt harshly with charges of black magic; Abner could face a stiff sentence.
“I’m innocent!”
“With your record, that’s hard to believe.”
“Don’t do this to me, I beg of you. I have a wife and children . . .”
“Talk or else I’ll bring charges.”
For Abner, it was no hard choice between his own skin and Moses’ safety.
“Moses is putting a curse on the children of Egypt,” he confessed. “One night soon every firstborn will die at the hands of Yahweh. A sign on the doorway will spare the Hebrews.”
“By all the monsters of the deep, this Moses is a demon!”
“Will you let me go, sir?”
“You’ll only warn them, vermin. You’ll be safer in prison.”
Abner nodded, looking somewhat relieved.
“When will I be released?”
“What date has been set for this slaughter?”
“I’m not sure, but it must be soon.”
Serramanna rushed to the palace, where Ramses saw him as soon as he was finished with the agriculture secretary. As Kha clung to life, sustained only by Nefertari’s magic, Nedjem was so distraught that he could barely function. Ramses had convinced him that public service and the greater good of all Egyptians must take precedence over everything else, even a personal tragedy.
The Sard outlined Abner’s confession for the monarch.
“The man is lying,” said Ramses. “Moses would never sanction such an abomination.”
“Abner is a coward and scared to death of me. He was telling the truth.”
“Serial killings, the cold-blooded and systematic elimination of every firstborn . . . only a sick mind could conceive of such horror. It can’t come from Moses.”
“I recommend immediate action to make sure the plan is never implemented.”
“Yes. Put the provincial police on alert as well.”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty, but isn’t it time we arrested Moses?”
“He’s committed no crime. A jury would acquit him. I need to think of another solution.”
Ramses, Volume IV Page 27
