Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

  “I’d like to propose a strategy that should prove effective, though it may offend you.”

  “Since when are you so tactful? Spell it out, Serramanna.”

  “We could spread the rumor that Kha won’t live more than three days.”

  The mere thought sent a chill up Ramses’ spine.

  “I knew it would shock you, Your Majesty. But the news will force the assassins’ hand, and I think their haste will be to our advantage.”

  The king paused only momentarily.

  “Make sure you get them, Serramanna.”

  Dolora, Ramses’ sister, slapped her hairdresser for pulling too hard on a strand of her beautiful dark hair.

  “Off with you, clumsy wench!”

  The hairdresser exited sobbing. Since it was time for Dolora’s pedicure, another servant replaced her at once.

  “Trim the dead skin and touch up the red on my nails . . . and take care not to hurt me.”

  The pedicurist was glad she had years of experience.

  “You do good work,” said Dolora after a time. “You’ll get a good tip and I’ll tell my friends about you.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. You’ve made me happy on this sad day.”

  “Oh? What’s so sad about it?”

  “My first client this morning, a great lady whose name you’d know, just told me the terrible news. The king’s eldest son is about to die.”

  “Isn’t that just a rumor?”

  “I’m afraid not. The palace physician is saying that Prince Kha can’t last more than two or three days.”

  “Hurry up now,” said the princess. “I have things to do.”

  An emergency. For once, Dolora felt she must circumvent the normal security precautions. Forgoing makeup, she pulled on her simplest wig and threw a brown cape over her shoulders. No one would recognize her.

  Dolora mingled with the crowd and cut across town to where the Hebrew brickmakers lived. Threading her way between a water bearer and a cheese seller, she jostled two girls playing with dolls in the middle of the street, nudged a doddering old man who got in her way, and finally came to a dark green door, where she knocked five times.

  The door creaked open.

  “Who are you?” asked a brickmaker.

  “The sorcerer’s lady friend.”

  “Come in.”

  The brickmaker led Dolora down a stairway to a cellar. The dim light of an oil lamp flickered on the sorcerer’s sinister face—a hawk face, with the high cheekbones, hook nose, and mysterious angles that fascinated her.

  Ofir was holding Kha’s old paintbrush. It was scrawled with strange markings and partially burnt.

  “What’s the emergency, Dolora?”

  “Kha isn’t much longer for this world.”

  “Have the palace doctors given up on him?”

  “Pariamaku thinks his death is imminent.”

  “Excellent news, though it may change our plans somewhat. You were right to come.”

  The fateful night would come sooner than expected. All over the land, firstborn children would die, beginning with Ramses’ son. The people of Egypt would be stricken with despair. Terrified by the wrath and the might of Yahweh, they would turn against Ramses in a wild and spontaneous uprising.

  Dolora threw herself at the sorcerer’s feet.

  “What’s going to happen, Ofir?”

  “Ramses will be swept aside. Moses and the True God will triumph.”

  “Our dream come true . . .”

  “Only because we’ve made it a reality. Remember how hard we’ve worked, my dear Dolora.”

  “Isn’t there any way to avoid . . . certain bloodshed?”

  Ofir brought Dolora to her feet and laid his palms to the cheeks of this tall, dark, almost languid woman.

  “Moses makes the decisions, and Moses is inspired by Yahweh. We mustn’t dispute his orders, no matter what the consequences.”

  Then came the sound of a door flying open, a smothered cry, rapid footsteps down the stairs, and the towering Sard burst into the cellar.

  Dolora, whom he had trailed to the sorcerer’s den, was shoved aside as Serramanna reached for Ofir, felling him with a blow to the head. The master spy was still clutching Kha’s old paintbrush when the onetime pirate stepped on his wrist, forcing his fingers open.

  “Ofir . . . I’ve finally got you.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Setau entered Kha’s sickroom, threw the enchanted paintbrush on the floor, and stomped furiously until it was no more than tiny fragments.

  Nefertari, who had been magnetizing Ramses’ eldest son nonstop, watched him with gratitude.

  “The spell is broken, Your Majesty. Kha will get better now.”

  Nefertari removed her hands from the young man’s neck, then swooned in an exhausted heap.

  After Dr. Pariamaku prescribed his harmless tonics, Setau administered a real remedy to the queen, one that would restore her flagging energy.

  “The Great Royal Wife has gone beyond the limits of fatigue,” he informed Ramses.

  “I want the whole truth, Setau.”

  “In sharing her magic with Kha, Nefertari has taken years off her own life.”

  Ramses remained at the queen’s bedside, trying to give her the strength that emanated from him, the strength that was the foundation of his reign. He was ready to sacrifice everything if only Nefertari could live to a ripe old age, letting her beauty shine over the Twin Kingdoms.

  It took all Ahmeni’s persuasion to redirect Ramses toward affairs of state. The king agreed to confer with his friend and secretary only after Nefertari’s soothing voice assured him that she was feeling the darkness retreat from her.

  “Serramanna gave me a long report,” declared Ahmeni. “The sorcerer Ofir has been arrested and will stand trial for espionage, the illicit practice of black magic, attempts on the life of royalty, and murdering the unfortunate Lita and the servant girl. But he’s not the only guilty party: Moses is just as dangerous as Ofir. The sorcerer implicated Moses in the plot to kill every firstborn child in Egypt. If Serramanna hadn’t been so vigilant, how many victims would we be mourning?”

  From oldest to youngest, richest to poorest, most blasé to most naive, every single Hebrew was amazed. No one expected to see Pharaoh appear in person, at the head of a detachment of soldiers commanded by Serramanna. The streets were deserted; curious eyes peeped at the monarch from behind half-closed shutters. Ramses went directly to Moses’ dwelling.

  The prophet, alerted by a follower, stood on his doorstep, staff in hand.

  “I thought we were never supposed to meet again, Your Majesty.”

  “This will be our last conversation, Moses, you can be sure. Why attempt such slaughter?”

  “Obedience to Yahweh is all that occupies me.”

  “Then your god is far too cruel. I respect your faith, my friend, but I refuse to let it become a source of discord in the land of which my ancestors have left me in stewardship. Get out of Egypt, Moses. Take your people with you. Go live your truth somewhere else. It won’t be an exodus at your demand, but an order from me to leave.”

  Dressed in a long red and black woolen cloak, Emperor Hattusili contemplated his capital from the hilltop citadel. His wife, Puduhepa, took him tenderly by the arm.

  “Our country is harsh, but beautiful in its own way. Why sacrifice it because of a grudge?”

  “Uri-Teshoop must be punished,” the emperor said firmly.

  “He already is, don’t you think? Imagine a warrior like him under house arrest, at the mercy of his worst enemy! It must be a mortal blow to Uri-Teshoop’s pride.”

  “I have no right to concede on the issue.”

  “Assyria won’t care about the deadlock. Their army is growing restive; they’ll soon attack if they learn that peace negotiations with Egypt have failed.”

  “The negotiations are secret.”

  “Do you really believe that? With messengers constantly traveling back and forth between Hatti and Egypt,
they must know something is going on. Unless we sign a nonaggression pact in the very near future, the Assyrians will consider us easy prey, since Ramses won’t make a move to stop them.”

  “We Hittites know how to defend ourselves.”

  “Since you’ve come to power, Hattusili, your people have changed a great deal. Even the soldiers are eager for peace. I know it’s what you want, too.”

  “Nefertari has influenced you.”

  “My sister the Queen of Egypt shares my convictions. She’s managed to persuade Ramses to suspend hostilities against our nation. Now shall we dash her hopes?”

  “Uri-Teshoop . . .”

  “Uri-Teshoop belongs to the past. Let him marry an Egyptian princess, assimilate with Pharaoh’s people, and disappear from our future!”

  “You’re asking a lot of me.”

  “Isn’t that my duty as your consort?”

  “Ramses will take my backing down as a sign of weakness.”

  “Nefertari and I will interpret it differently for him.”

  “Are women directing the foreign policy of Hatti and Egypt?”

  “Why not,” replied Puduhepa, “if the outcome is peace?”

  During his trial, the sorcerer Ofir had much to say. He boasted about his role as a Hittite spy and his crippling of Kha. When he described how he had murdered poor Lita and the servant girl Nani, the jurors were convinced that Ofir felt no remorse and would kill again in cold blood if he felt the need.

  Dolora sobbed. Implicated by Ofir, she denied nothing, imploring Ramses’ mercy and accusing their brother, Shaanar, of leading her astray.

  After brief deliberations, the vizier delivered the verdict. Ofir was sentenced to death by self-administered poison. Dolora, whose name would be expunged from all official documents, would spend the rest of her life doing heavy labor in southern Syria. Shaanar received a death sentence in absentia; his name would also disappear from the public record.

  Setau and Lotus left for Abu Simbel the same day Ahsha returned to Egypt. They barely had time to congratulate one another before going their separate ways.

  Ahsha was immediately ushered in to see the royal couple. Despite her weakness, Nefertari had kept up her correspondence with Puduhepa. Fighter, the Nubian lion, and his partner Watcher (now old and grizzled), stayed close to the queen, as if aware that their presence lifted her spirits. Whenever his responsibilities allowed, Ramses spent time with his spouse. They strolled in the palace gardens; he read ancient texts to her; both grew increasingly conscious of the endless love that united them, the secret love no word could describe, ardent as a summer sky and sweet as the Nile sunset.

  It was Nefertari who urged Ramses to return to his duties, to keep the ship of state heading in the right direction, responding to the innumerable demands of his administration. Thanks to Iset the Fair, Meritamon, and Kha (who was well on the road to recovery), the queen’s convalescence was full of youth and joy. She enjoyed visits from Merenptah as well as Tuya, adept at hiding her own fatigue.

  Now Ahsha bowed low to Nefertari.

  “I’ve missed your wisdom and beauty, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you bring good news?”

  “Yes, excellent news.”

  “Does Hattusili want to sign a treaty?” Ramses asked warily.

  “Thanks to the Queen of Egypt and Empress Puduhepa, the extradition issue has been set aside. Uri-Teshoop is to remain in Egypt and marry into our society. Thus nothing stands in the way of an agreement.”

  A broad smile lit Nefertari’s face.

  “This could be the greatest of all victories.”

  “Our main support came from Empress Puduhepa. The tone of your letters touched her heart. Since Hattusili assumed the throne, the Hittites have been uneasy about the Assyrian army. They understand that their enemy of yesterday is now their best hope for tomorrow.”

  “Let’s act quickly,” advised Nefertari, “to capitalize on this rare opportunity.”

  “I’ve brought back the version of the nonaggression pact proposed by Hattusili. We’ll go over it word for word. As soon as you and Pharaoh give your consent, I’ll return to Hatti.”

  The three of them set to work. Not without surprise, Ramses saw that Hattusili had agreed to most of his conditions.

  Ahsha had done an amazing job, faithfully interpreting the king’s views. Tuya was also asked to give the document a close reading, and in the end she too approved.

  “What’s going on here?” the Viceroy of Nubia asked the driver who was expertly steering his two-horse chariot through the noisy and crowded streets of Pi-Ramses toward the palace.

  “The Hebrew exodus,” replied the driver. “Moses is leading them out of Egypt to their Promised Land.”

  “Why would Pharaoh allow such a thing?”

  “Ramses expelled them for disturbing the peace.”

  In stunned silence, the Viceroy of Nubia, on an official visit to the capital, watched thousands of men, women, and children leaving the city, driving their livestock and pulling carts full of clothing and provisions. Some were singing, others looked sad. None looked overjoyed to be leaving the land where they’d lived so pleasantly, but they dared not contradict Moses.

  Greeted by Ahmeni, the Viceroy of Nubia was shown into Ramses’ office.

  “What is the reason for this visit?” inquired the monarch.

  “I wanted to inform you at once, Your Majesty. I took the fastest boat I could find to bring you my personal report on the tragic events that have recently swept through the province entrusted to me. It’s all been so unexpected, so brutal. I could never imagine . . .”

  “Get to the point,” interrupted Ramses.

  The Viceroy of Nubia gulped.

  “A revolt, Your Majesty. A tribal coalition up in arms.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Success at last.

  Month after month, Shaanar had held round after round of talks, determined to win the tribal chiefs over one by one. When they all joined forces, they could take over Nubia’s main gold mine. Even with all the silver he offered them, the black warriors were reluctant to defy Ramses the Great. Wouldn’t it be madness to take on the Egyptian army, which had dealt them such a resounding defeat during Seti’s reign?

  Despite the frustration, Shaanar plodded on. His last chance to get Ramses was to draw him into this ambush. To do that, he needed seasoned fighters, hungry for riches and unafraid of the Pharaoh’s soldiers.

  Shaanar’s perseverance finally paid off. A first chieftain signed on, then a second, a third, then several more. More talks ensued to choose who would head the rebel troops.

  The discussion had degenerated into a fight in the course of which two chieftains and the Cretan mercenary were killed. At length Shaanar was selected as the leader. While not a Nubian, he was the most familiar with Ramses and his army.

  The guards at the gold mine put up little resistance to the horde of warriors armed with spears and bows. Within a few hours, the rebels had taken control of the site; a few days later, they repelled the expeditionary force sent from the fortress of Buhen.

  With a full-scale revolt on his hands, the Viceroy of Nubia would have no choice but to report to Ramses.

  Shaanar knew that his brother would come in person to put down the rebellion. That would be his fatal mistake.

  Parched hills, granite outcroppings, a narrow band of greenery resisting the desert’s advance. A sheer blue sky dotted with pelicans, flamingos, crested cranes, jabirus. Palm trees with double trunks.

  This was Nubia at its purest, a place that Ramses found endlessly enchanting despite the grave concerns that had sent him hurrying south with his army.

  According to the viceroy’s report, the rebel tribes had seized the province’s main gold mine. Any halt in production of the precious metal had catastrophic consequences. First of all, goldsmiths were hard at work on Ramses’ new temples, and furthermore he needed gold for presents to his vassals, the best method for maintaining excellent diplomatic relations.<
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  While he hated leaving Nefertari, Ramses knew he must strike quickly and hard, propelled by the certainty that only Shaanar could be the instigator of this revolt, a certainty that Nefertari’s psychic powers had confirmed.

  His older brother had not disappeared into the desert reaches, as they had once believed. He had found a new way to make trouble. With mining operations under Shaanar’s control, he could raise a horde of mercenaries, attack the Egyptian fortresses, and attempt against all reason to take over the land of the pharaohs.

  Between Shaanar and Ramses, all family ties had been severed. Not even Tuya protested when the Pharaoh confided his intentions. This fratricidal confrontation would be their last.

  Several of the royal sons were at Ramses’ side, eager to prove their valor. Wearing wigs with long panels, tucked shirts with billowing sleeves, and vented kilts, they proudly waved the insignia of the jackal god, “the trailblazer.”

  When a gigantic elephant blocked their progress, even the hardiest of them were ready to bolt. But Ramses advanced toward the hulking beast, let the elephant lift him with his trunk and deposit him between the two huge ears that flapped in delight. If anyone doubted that the Pharaoh enjoyed divine protection, those doubts now vanished.

  Fighter, his magnificent mane bristling, marched toward the mine at the elephant’s side. Archers and foot soldiers conjectured that Pharaoh was planning to rush the enemy ranks. Yet Ramses made camp a good distance from the mine site. The cooks set to work immediately, the men cleaned their weapons and sharpened blades, the donkeys and oxen were fed.

  One royal son, a youth of twenty, ventured a protest.

  “Why wait, Your Majesty? A few Nubian rebels are no match for our forces!”

  “You don’t know this country and its people. The Nubians are sharpshooters and ferocious fighters. If we’re overconfident, it could cost us many lives.”

  “Aren’t lives always lost in a war?”

  “My aim is to lose as few men as possible.”

  “But the Nubians will never surrender.”

  “Not in a confrontation, no.”