Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  The war council met in the audience chamber of the royal palace. The generals heading the four army divisions had answered the summons of their supreme commander. Ahmeni took notes for the report he would later compile.

  The generals were middle-aged scribes, well educated, masters of great estates, excellent managers. Two of them had seen combat with the Hittites under Seti, but the engagement had been brief and limited. In reality, none of the commanding officers had experienced full-scale war with an outcome in question. The closer real war came to breaking out, the more apprehensive they became.

  “The state of our arsenals?”

  “Good, Your Majesty.”

  “Arms production?”

  “Still at full capacity. According to your directives, the foundry workers and fletchers are being paid double for overtime. But there’s still a shortage of swords and daggers for close combat.”

  “Chariots?”

  “We’re within weeks of being on target.”

  “Horses?”

  “They’ll depart in peak condition.”

  “Morale?”

  “That’s the sore spot, Your Majesty,” offered the youngest general. “Your presence has done wonders, but there’s been no end of wild tales about the Hittites. Despite our repeated denials and prohibitions, this sort of rubbish can still have an influence.”

  “Even on some of my generals?”

  “No, of course not, Your Majesty . . . though there are some questions we haven’t been able to answer.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, will we be outnumbered?”

  “First we’ll settle matters in Canaan. That ought to give us an idea.”

  “Are the Hittites already entrenched there?”

  “No, their army hasn’t ventured that far from their bases. A few commandos struck out, then headed north again. They’ve bribed the local overlords in the hope that we’ll tire ourselves out in the effort to win them back. We won’t give them the satisfaction. We’ll put down the rebellions as we go, giving our soldiers the confidence to march north and win a decisive victory.”

  “Some of the men are concerned about our fortresses.”

  “They needn’t be. Yesterday and the day before, a dozen carrier pigeons arrived at the palace with positive messages. Not one fortress has fallen into enemy hands. They have all the supplies and weapons they need to resist any possible attacks until we arrive. We haven’t another moment to waste, though.”

  Ramses’ wishes were the generals’ commands. They bowed and hurried back to their barracks, firmly resolved to speed preparations along.

  “They’re useless,” grumbled Ahmeni, setting down the chiseled reed he used for writing.

  “You’re hard on them,” Ramses replied.

  “Just look at them: too rich, too settled, too scared! They’ve spent more time in the shade of their gardens than in the heat of battle. And war is the Hittites’ national sport, you know it! Your generals are as good as dead—provided they don’t desert at the first hint of fighting.”

  “So you think I should replace them?”

  “Too late, and what good would it do? Your officers are all cut from the same cloth.”

  “Are you suggesting that we shouldn’t go to war?”

  “That would be a deadly mistake. You have to take action, of course, but one thing is clear. Our ability to win depends on you, Ramses. On you alone.”

  Ahsha came to see Ramses late at night. The king and the head of his intelligence network were both working almost nonstop; the atmosphere in the capital grew tenser by the day.

  At one of the windows of the Pharaoh’s office, side by side, the two men gazed at the night sky, its soul made of thousands of stars.

  “Do you have news for me, Ahsha?”

  “The situation is stalled: the rebels on one side, our line of fortresses on the other. Our supporters are depending on your help.”

  “I’m eager to get under way, but I have no right to risk my soldiers’ lives. The lack of preparedness, the arms shortages . . . we’ve been living in a dreamworld for far too long, Ahsha. This comes as a rude awakening, and we needed it.”

  “May the gods be with us.”

  “Do you doubt that they’ll help us?”

  “No, but are we ready to help ourselves?”

  “The men who fight under me will be risking their lives to defend Egypt. If the Hittites have their way, dark days are ahead, my friend.”

  “Have you considered that you may be risking your own life?”

  “Nefertari will be named my regent, to rule in my stead.”

  “Such a lovely night . . . why are men so intent on killing one another?”

  “I hoped for a peaceful reign. Since it’s not to be, I won’t shirk my destiny.”

  “Your destiny may not be favorable, Ramses.”

  “Are you losing faith in me?”

  “Maybe I’m afraid. It’s in the air.”

  “Have you found any trace of Moses?”

  “It seems he’s vanished into thin air.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I know you haven’t started looking.”

  Ahsha was cool as ever.

  “You refused to have your agents track Moses down,” Ramses continued, “because you don’t want him brought back to Egypt and sentenced to death.”

  “Is that what you want? I thought Moses was our friend.”

  “He won’t be convicted of murdering Sary.”

  “What? You may be Pharaoh, but even you can’t put friendship above the law.”

  “I won’t have to. Moses may be tried, but he’ll be acquitted.”

  “But he did kill Sary, didn’t he?”

  “In self-defense, according to a sworn witness.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard in quite a while.”

  “Send your men after Moses. Track him down for me.”

  “It won’t be easy. With all that’s been going on in the border states, he may have ended up somewhere we can’t follow.”

  “Find him, Ahsha.”

  NINE

  Glowering, Serramanna strode among the brickmakers’ dwellings. Four young Hebrews, new arrivals from middle Egypt, had willingly cooperated in accusing Abner. Yes, he’d helped them get work, but at what a price!

  The police inquest had been a slipshod affair. Sary, while still influential, had become a dubious character, and Moses had never been easy to deal with; the police seemed to think his disappearance and Sary’s death were all for the best. There was no telling how many important clues they missed.

  The Sard had been gathering information in the neighborhood before he once again appeared on Abner’s doorstep.

  The brickmaker was studying a wooden tablet covered with figures as he munched on bread rubbed with garlic. As soon as he caught sight of Serramanna, he slid the tablet beneath his haunches.

  “Doing your accounts, Abner?”

  “I swear I’m innocent!”

  “The next time you try to shake someone down, you’ll answer to me.”

  “I’m under the king’s protection.”

  “That’s a laugh.”

  The Sard reached for a sweet onion and took a bite. “Anything to drink around this dump?”

  “Yes, in the chest . . .”

  Serramanna lifted the lid. “By Bes, the god of wine, you’ve got enough for a crowd here! And plenty of beer . . . you earn a good living, Abner.”

  “They were, well, gifts.”

  “It’s nice to be popular.”

  “What do you want from me? I gave my statement.”

  “I can’t help it. I just enjoy your company.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “I don’t believe it. When I was a pirate, I questioned all my captives. A lot of them couldn’t recall where they’d hidden their treasure. With a little persuasion, they finally remembered.”

  “I’m not hiding an
y treasure!”

  “Your little bundle doesn’t interest me.”

  Abner seemed relieved. As the Sard opened up another amphora of beer, the Hebrew slipped his tablet under a reed mat.

  “What were you writing on that piece of wood, Abner?”

  “Nothing, nothing . . .”

  “The sums you’ve squeezed out of your fellow Hebrews, I’ll bet. A sturdy bit of evidence, if it went to court.”

  Frightened out of his wits, Abner found no reply.

  “We can come to an agreement, my friend. Remember, I’m not a judge, not even a policeman.”

  “You have a proposition?”

  “I’m interested in Moses, not in you. You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “No better than anyone else . . .”

  “Don’t lie, Abner. You wanted his protection, so you watched him to find out what kind of man he was, how he behaved, who his friends were.”

  “He spent all his time working.”

  “So most of his contacts were through work?”

  “Yes, the overseers, the workers, the—”

  “And outside of work?”

  “He liked to meet with the Hebrew clan chiefs.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “We’re a proud and touchy people. There have been stirrings of independence. A handful of zealots saw Moses as a potential leader. But the whole thing would have blown over once Pi-Ramses was finished.”

  “One of the workers you ‘helped’ told me that a stranger visited Moses and they talked for quite a while, alone, in his official residence.”

  “That’s right. Nobody had ever seen him before—apparently some architect from the south who came to give Moses technical advice. Never went with him on site, though.”

  “Describe this man for me.”

  “Middle-aged, tall, thin, a hawk face with a hooked nose, high cheekbones, thin lips, a jutting chin.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “An ordinary tunic . . . an architect would have been better dressed, come to think of it. You would have sworn the stranger was trying to go unnoticed. He didn’t talk to anyone but Moses.”

  “A Hebrew?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “How many times did he come to Pi-Ramses?”

  “At least twice.”

  “Since Moses left town, has this stranger been seen again?”

  “No.”

  Still thirsty, Serramanna downed another beer. “I hope you’re not hiding anything, Abner. It would really get on my nerves. I might lose control of myself.”

  “I’ve told you all I know about the man!”

  “I’m not asking you to go straight, Abner; you’d never make it. Just try to stay out of trouble.”

  “Would you like . . . I could have some more of this beer delivered to you.”

  The Sard twisted the Hebrew’s nose between his thumb and forefinger. “And I could rearrange your face if you pull any more tricks, Abner.”

  The brickmaker crumpled to the floor in pain.

  Serramanna shrugged his shoulders, walked out of the brickmaker’s quarters, and headed for the palace, deep in thought. His new line of inquiry had yielded a great deal of information.

  Moses had been part of an active plot. He planned to head a Hebrew uprising, no doubt to improve his people’s situation, perhaps even demanding an autonomous settlement in the Delta. What if the mystery man who visited him was a foreigner who had come to offer outside help? In that case, Moses could even be guilty of high treason.

  Ramses would refuse to consider such an accusation. Before he could say anything against the man who had been the king’s closest friend, Serramanna would need solid proof.

  All of a sudden he was playing with fire.

  Iset the Fair, Ramses’ secondary wife and the mother of Kha, his only son, had her own suite of apartments in the royal palace at Pi-Ramses. Although she and Nefertari got along beautifully, she preferred the social life in Memphis, where she was a reigning beauty with her green eyes, delicate nose, and sweet mouth.

  Lively, charming Iset lived a glamorous but empty life. She felt too young to be living on her memories. She had been Ramses’ first lover, had loved him to distraction, and still loved him with all her heart, but with no desire to try and win him back. For a while (in retrospect it seemed like seconds), she had hated Ramses for the very power she worshiped in him. How could he keep his hold on her while his soul belonged to Nefertari?

  If only the Great Royal Wife had been ugly, stupid, and despicable . . . But Iset had succumbed to Nefertari’s charm and acknowledged how special she was, a born queen and a match for Ramses.

  What a strange fate, thought Iset, to see the man she loved in the arms of another woman and give the cruel situation her full approval.

  If Ramses ever came to her, Iset the Fair would have no complaints. She would offer herself with the same abandon she felt on their first nights together, in a reed hut deep in the country. Her desire for him was so overpowering that for all she cared he could have been a shepherd or a fisherman. Iset had no taste for power. She would never have relished being Queen of Egypt and taking on the crushing obligations she watched Nefertari shoulder. Since it was not in her nature to be jealous, Iset the Fair thanked her lucky stars for the gift of a lifetime: loving Ramses.

  As usual, it was a happy day. Iset was playing with Kha, now nine years old, and Meritamon, the only child of Ramses and Nefertari. The darling little girl would soon turn four. The two children were devoted to each other. Kha loved reading and writing more than ever. He was teaching his sister hieroglyphs now, guiding her tiny hand when she faltered. Today they were working on birds, which required a great deal of dexterity.

  “Come for a swim, the water is wonderful,” Iset called to them.

  “I’d rather keep working.”

  “You should learn how to swim, too.”

  “I don’t care about swimming.”

  “Your sister might like a break.”

  Meritamon, a miniature version of her beautiful mother, looked from one to the other, not wanting to take sides. Swimming was fun, but her brother was so big and so smart.

  “Do you mind if I go in?” she asked him anxiously.

  Kha thought for a moment.

  “All right, but just for a while. You need to do that quail over again; the head isn’t round enough.”

  The little girl ran over to Iset the Fair, and Iset thought once again how good Nefertari was to trust her with Meritamon’s upbringing.

  The two of them bobbed in the cool, pure water of the garden pool, shaded by a sycamore. Yes, as usual, it was a happy day.

  TEN

  In Memphis, the heat was almost stifling. The north wind had stopped blowing and what torrid gusts there were left man and beast with parched throats. Lengths of sturdy cloth had been stretched between housetops to shade the alleyways. The water bearers couldn’t keep up with business.

  In his secluded villa, the sorcerer Ofir remained comfortable. Slits high in the walls kept the air circulating. It was a quiet spot, restful, fostering the intense concentration his evil spells required.

  Ofir was customarily calm, almost indifferent, as he worked his magic, but lately he had felt a creeping excitement. This ambitious new undertaking challenged his abilities. The prospect of revenge was tantalizing—revenge for his grandfather, Akhenaton’s Libyan adviser.

  His distinguished guest arrived in the mid-afternoon, when the city’s streets and byways lay deserted. The secretary of state used a chariot belonging to his associate Meba, driven by a mute coachman.

  The sorcerer greeted Shaanar deferentially. As on their previous meeting, the prince felt ill at ease; the hawk-faced Libyan wore such an icy expression. With his dark green eyes, prominent nose, thin lips, he looked more like a demon than a man. Yet his voice and manner were both so mild that at times you might feel you were chatting with some kindly old priest.

  “Why did you send for m
e, Ofir? I don’t appreciate being caught off guard.”

  “Because I’ve been working for our cause, Your Highness. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I hope not, for your sake.”

  “Please step this way. The ladies are waiting.”

  Shaanar had set the sorcerer up in this villa, calculating that the more support he gave to Ofir’s black magic, the swifter his own rise to power would be. Naturally, the house had been put in the name of his sister, Dolora. Such useful allies, and so willing . . . Ahsha, the king’s boyhood friend and a master plotter; the Syrian merchant Raia, a deft Hittite agent; and now Ofir, thanks to that old fool Meba. The prince smiled, remembering how he had talked Ramses into giving him Meba’s job, then persuaded the old diplomat that it was all the king’s idea. Ofir represented a strange and dangerous world that both worried and intrigued him. There was no denying the sorcerer’s potential to do harm.

  Ofir was supposedly spearheading a political movement to revive Akhenaton’s heresy and the worship of a single deity, Aton, the sun god. The mad king’s feeble great-granddaughter was to replace Ramses. Shaanar had encouraged the sorcerer to expand his activities, hoping the sect would attract Moses. The sorcerer had been trying to enlist the Hebrew in what he claimed was their common quest.

  Shaanar reasoned that internal strife, even on a small scale, would be one more obstacle in Ramses’ path. When the time came, he planned to get rid of everyone no longer of use to him, for a man of power can have no past.

  Unfortunately, Moses had committed murder and fled the country. Without the Hebrews, Ofir’s movement would never gain enough strength to topple Ramses. Ofir had given a convincing demonstration of his magical powers, nearly killing Nefertari in childbirth and weakening Meritamon in the process. Even so, they had both survived, and while the queen could never bear another child, the Pharaoh’s magic had proved stronger than the Libyan’s.

  Ofir was becoming less useful, even a bother. In fact, when he received the magician’s summons to Memphis, Shaanar had considered eliminating him.

  “Our guest is here,” Ofir announced to the two seated women holding hands in the shadows. One was Dolora, Shaanar’s sister; the other, blond and shapely, was Lita, Akhenaton’s great-granddaughter (or so Ofir claimed). She appeared to Shaanar to be mentally deficient and completely under the sorcerer’s sway.