His sole satisfaction was watching Ahmeni’s expression grow more downcast by the day, a sure sign that the campaign’s progress was stalled. The king’s brother put on a sympathetic face and promised he’d pray for the tide to turn in Egypt’s favor.
Shaanar had much less to do at the State Department than he claimed. He also avoided any overt contact with the Syrian merchant Raia. In these troubled times, it would be unseemly for a figure of Shaanar’s stature to focus on his collection of rare imported vases. He therefore had to make do with cryptic messages from Raia, the contents of which were encouraging. According to Syrian “observers” in Canaan, the rebels’ trap had worked to perfection. Headstrong as ever, Ramses had forged eagerly ahead, forgetting that his enemies might have a surprise or two in store.
In his spare time, Shaanar had solved the mystery on everyone’s mind at court—the theft of Nefertari’s shawl and the dried fish from the House of Life in Heliopolis. It had to be Romay, the chief steward of the royal household. Shaanar had summoned the fat man on some lame pretext, and they were to meet that very morning, before his regular briefing with Ahmeni.
Romay looked like the former chef he was, with his big belly, round cheeks, and multiple chins. His performance as chief steward had been flawless. Handpicked by the Pharaoh, he had quickly silenced his critics. While admittedly slow moving, he was a stickler for cleanliness and for detail. He tasted every dish served to the royal family and maintained strict discipline among his staff. Failure to follow his orders resulted in instant dismissal.
“How may I be of service, Your Highness?” Romay asked Shaanar.
“Didn’t my steward explain the problem to you?”
“He mentioned a scheduling conflict for an upcoming banquet, but I’m not aware—”
“What if we discussed the theft from the House of Life in Heliopolis instead? I’m sure you’ve heard about the missing vessel of fish.”
“Fish? I know nothing about it.”
“And Queen Nefertari’s shawl?”
“I’ve been informed of that, of course, and I was appalled, but—”
“Did you look into it?”
“It’s not my place to conduct investigations, Your Highness!”
“You’d be in the ideal position, though.”
“No, I don’t think—”
“Just think about it—you’re the key man in the palace. Nothing gets by you, I hear!”
“You overestimate me.”
“Why did you do it, Romay?”
“Me? You aren’t insinuating—”
“No, I’m not insinuating. I’m positive. What did you do with the queen’s shawl and the missing fish?”
“Your accusations are completely unfounded!”
“I know what men are like, Romay. And I have proof.”
“No!”
“Why would you take such a risk?”
Romay’s flustered expression, the unhealthy flush spreading upward from his neck, the way his whole body suddenly sagged, were proof enough. Shaanar was right again.
“Was it a bribe, or do you simply hate the Pharaoh? Either way, it’s a serious offense.”
“Your Highness, I—” The fat man’s distress was almost touching.
“Considering your record, I’m inclined to overlook this incident. But if I need your help in the future, you’d better be prepared to do as I ask.”
Ahmeni was composing his daily report to Ramses in his quick, sure hand.
“Can you spare a moment?” Shaanar asked affably.
“You know I always have time for you. We’re meeting at the king’s request, after all.” He set down his writing kit.
“You look exhausted, Ahmeni.”
“Only outwardly.”
“Shouldn’t you be taking better care of your health?”
“The health of our nation is my sole concern.”
“Don’t tell me you have bad news!”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“I’ve wanted to tell you about Ramses’ triumphs in Canaan, but I thought it was best to wait until the information was confirmed. Since we were fed some false reports recently via carrier pigeon, I’ve learned to be more careful.”
“A Hittite scheme, I suppose?”
“Yes, and it almost cost us dearly! Our garrisons in Canaan had fallen into rebel hands without our even knowing. If Ramses had split up the forces, our losses would have been disastrous.”
“But fortunately that didn’t happen.”
“The province of Canaan is once again under our control, with free access to the coast. The governor has sworn his loyalty to Ramses.”
“In such a short time! Quite an accomplishment for my brother. Since he’s answered the Hittite challenge, I suppose they’re marching home now.”
“That’s classified information.”
“What do you mean, classified? I’m secretary of state, remember?”
“I have no further information.”
“Impossible!”
“But true.”
Shaanar stormed out.
Ahmeni was alone again with his regrets—not over his attitude toward Shaanar, but because he’d been so hasty in detaining Serramanna. The evidence had certainly been stacked against the bodyguard, but perhaps it had deserved closer attention. With the pressure of impending war, Ahmeni had been a bit more lax than usual. He’d feel better if he double-checked all the evidence, as was his habit.
Irritated with himself, he got up to locate Serramanna’s file.
SEVENTEEN
Guarding the main point of entry to Syria, the fortress of Megiddo sat on a hilltop above a lush plain. It looked forbidding with its stone walls, battlements, high square towers, wooden hoardings, and thick gates.
The garrison included both Egyptians and Syrians loyal to the Pharaoh, but who could trust the official messages asserting that the fort had not fallen into rebel hands?
Ramses found the scenery unsettling: high wooded hills, gnarled oak trees, muddy rivers, dank wetlands, sandy soil . . . a hard land, hostile and closed, so very different from the beauty of the Nile and the sweeping vistas of Egypt.
Twice his scouts had been attacked by wild boars intent on protecting their sows and young. His horsemen had trouble negotiating the overgrown forest trails and tight passages between tree trunks. On the other hand, the easy availability of water and the abundance of game were distinct advantages.
Ramses gave the order to halt, but not to pitch the tents. Eyes fixed on the fortress in the distance, he waited for the scouts’ return.
Setau was glad of the extra time in his infirmary. The seriously wounded had been sent home, so the remaining troops were able-bodied except for men suffering from colds and stomach complaints. A little byrony, cumin, or castor oil cleared up their ailments. He still distributed garlic and onions as a preventive measure, including the special variety he had brought along.
Lotus had just saved a donkey bitten on the leg by a snake which she had managed to capture. The expedition was finally getting interesting. Now that they were near Syria, she was encountering species that were new to her. The one she was now examining hadn’t yielded much venom but was quite interesting.
Two foot soldiers made an appeal to the talents of the beautiful Nubian, under the pretext that they, too, were victims of snakebite. Hearty slaps across the face were their antidote, and when Lotus pulled a hissing viper out of a bag, they turned tail and hid amongst their comrades.
More than two hours had passed since the troops had halted. The cavalry had been given permission to dismount, the infantry had broken ranks, with several lookouts on duty.
“The scouts are taking their time,” said Ahsha.
“I agree,” said Ramses. “How is your arm, by the way?”
“Completely healed. Setau really is a wizard.”
“How do you like this country?”
“I don’t. The way looks clear, but the grou
nd is swampy. All those big oaks, hedges, grasses—our troops are getting separated.”
“The scouts aren’t coming back,” asserted Ramses. “They’ve either been killed or taken prisoner.”
“That means Megiddo is under enemy control, as we feared, and not likely to surrender.”
“Megiddo is the key to southern Syria,” Ramses countered. “Even if the Hittites have taken up residence, it’s our duty to fight for control.”
“That wouldn’t amount to a declaration of war,” said Ahsha. “We’d only be reclaiming territory within our zone of influence. We can therefore attack at any time and without prior warning. In the context of international law, we’re dealing with a local rebellion, not a conflict between major states.”
The diplomat’s argument would be sure to have relevance for the surrounding states.
“Inform the generals they should prepare to attack.”
Before Ahsha even had time to ride away, a troop of horsemen came thundering out of the oak grove to the king’s left, heading straight for the dismounted Egyptian cavalry. Many of Ramses’ men were pinned by short lances; several horses had their legs or throats slashed. The survivors defended themselves with pike and sword; a few managed to climb into their chariots and retreat toward the infantry position, where foot soldiers stood behind their shields.
The raiders had pulled off a deadly strike. They were easy to identify as Syrians by their goatees, fringed ankle-length robes, brightly striped sashes and scarves.
Ramses remained strangely calm. Ahsha was agitated.
“They’re going to charge the infantry!”
“Success has gone to their heads.”
The Syrian advance was quickly checked as the infantry pushed the raiders toward the archers, who took deadly aim.
Fighter gave a throaty growl.
“It’s not over yet,” said Ramses ominously.
From the cover of the oak grove rushed hundreds of hatchet-wielding Syrians, straight for the backs of the Egyptian marksmen.
“Let’s go!” the king urged his horses. Their master’s tone of voice told the two noble steeds they must fly. Fighter sprang forward. Ahsha and another fifty chariots followed.
The melee was wild and gory, with the lion clawing at anyone bold enough to attack Ramses’ chariot, while the king fired arrow after arrow into enemy hearts, necks, heads. Chariots ran over the wounded. Foot soldiers running to the rescue sent the Syrians fleeing.
Ramses noticed a strange-looking warrior running back toward the oak grove.
“Stop him,” he yelled to Fighter.
The lion wiped out two stragglers along the way, then knocked the man over. Though the beast had tried to exercise restraint, the fallen man lay critically injured, blood pouring from his back. Ramses examined the raider. He had long hair and a scruffy beard; his red and black striped robe was in shreds.
“Send for Setau,” the monarch demanded.
The fighting was nearly finished. The Syrians had been wiped out to the last man, inflicting only slight damage on the Egyptian forces.
Setau arrived at Ramses’ side, breathless.
“Save him,” the king requested. “This man is no Syrian; he’s a desert nomad. We need to find out what he’s doing here.”
The sight of a Bedouin, so far outside his normal range—the Sinai caravan routes he would normally haunt—intrigued Setau.
“Your lion did some serious damage.”
The man’s face ran with sweat, blood poured from his nostrils, his neck was stiff. Setau took his pulse and listened to the “voice of his heart.” It was so weak that the diagnosis was simple: the man was dying.
“Can he speak?” asked the king.
“His jaw is locked. There may be one last chance, though.”
Setau worked a cloth-covered wooden tube into the man’s mouth; through this he poured a preparation made from cypress root.
“That should ease his pain. If he’s as strong as he looks, he may hang on for a few hours.”
The nomad seemed to recognize his captor. Awestruck, he struggled to get up, broke the wooden tube with his teeth, flapped his arms like a grounded bird.
“Calm down now,” soothed Setau. “We’re trying to help you.”
“Ramses . . .”
“Yes. The Pharaoh of Egypt, and he wants to talk to you.”
The Bedouin stared at the blue crown.
“Are you from Sinai?” inquired the king.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“Why are you fighting with these Syrians?”
“Gold—they promised me gold.”
“Have you met any Hittites?”
“They gave us a battle plan and then they left.”
“Were there other Bedouins with you?”
“They ran away.”
“Have you ever seen a Hebrew by the name of Moses?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ramses described his friend.
“No, I’ve never come across him.”
“Have you heard of a man like him anywhere in the desert?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How many men are there inside the fort over there?”
“I don’t know,” he stammered.
“Don’t lie.”
In a sudden burst of energy, the Bedouin sat up, pulled out his dagger, and flailed at the king. Setau knocked the knife from his hand.
It was too much for the wounded raider. His face contracted, his body arched, and he fell back dead.
“The Syrians tried to recruit the Bedouins,” commented Setau. “What stupidity! They would never get along.”
Setau returned to his field hospital, where Lotus and their assistants were already at work on the wounded. The dead had been rolled up in reed mats and loaded onto wagons. A convoy would take them home for a proper burial.
Ramses patted his horses and stroked Fighter. The lion’s muffled growls sounded almost like purring. Soldiers clustered around their king, raising their weapons on high and hailing the Pharaoh who had just led them to victory with the flair of a true commander.
The generals pushed their way through the crowd and added their congratulations.
“Any more Syrians lurking in the woods?”
“No, Your Majesty. Shall we camp for the night?”
“We have better things to do. On to Megiddo!”
EIGHTEEN
Revived by a huge dish of lentils that wouldn’t add an ounce to his meager frame, Ahmeni spent the night at his desk, planning to get a head start on the next day’s work. That way he’d be able to spend some time on Serramanna’s file. Whenever his back started to hurt, he’d touch his gilded scribe’s palette in the graceful shape of a lotus column, a gift from Ramses on the day he had made Ahmeni his private secretary. His energy was instantly renewed.
Since their school days, a mysterious bond had linked Ahmeni to Ramses. He knew instinctively when his friend was in danger. On several occasions, he had sensed death hovering close to the king, too close for a man without his magical powers. If Ramses’ special barrier of divine protection was ever breached, his habitual risk taking could lead to disaster.
And if Serramanna was one of the stones in that magical barrier, Ahmeni had made a grave mistake in relieving the Sard of his duties. He simply wasn’t sure.
The accusations relied heavily on the testimony of Serramanna’s girlfriend Lilia. Ahmeni had asked to have her brought to him for further questioning. He’d get the truth out of her.
At seven o’clock, the police officer heading the investigation appeared at his door. He was a no-nonsense public servant in his fifties.
“Lilia won’t be coming today,” he announced.
“Did she refuse to see me?”
“No. We can’t find her.”
“Doesn’t she live at the address she gave?”
“She did, but according to the neighbors, she moved out a few days ago.”
“Without telling anyone where she
was going?”
“Right.”
“Did you search the house?”
“It was completely stripped. Even the linen chests were empty, as if the woman wanted to wipe out every trace of her existence.”
“What kind of girl are we talking about?”
“A woman of easy virtue, the neighbors say. Her face was her fortune.”
“She worked in a tavern, then?”
“Not that we could discover.”
“Did she bring men home?”
“Apparently not, but she went out a lot, mostly at night.”
“We have to find her and identify her patrons.”
“We will.”
“Then hurry.”
When the policeman left, Ahmeni took another look at the wooden tablets covered with Serramanna’s alleged secret message to the Hittites.
In his quiet office, in the clear light of early morning, a theory began to take shape in Ahmeni’s mind. To test it, he’d have to wait until Ahsha was back.
High on a rocky spur, the fortress of Megiddo daunted the Egyptian soldiers staring up from the plain. Its towers were so high that new ladders had been built, and even so, the walls hardly looked easy to scale. Arrows and stones from above could decimate the assault teams.
With Ahsha at his side, Ramses drove his chariot around the fortress, keeping up his speed to make them a swiftly moving target.
Not a single arrow was fired. Not a single sharpshooter peeked above the battlements.
“They’ll stay under cover until the last minute,” assessed Ahsha. “That saves them ammunition. The smartest tactic would be to starve them out.”
“A fortress this big could withstand a siege for months. Would our morale survive that long?”
“An attack would cost us a great many lives.”
“Do you believe I’m so hard-hearted that all I think about is winning?”
“Egypt comes first, before individual lives.”
“I hold all life precious, Ahsha.”
“What’s your plan, then?”
“We’ll circle our chariots around the fort, at shooting distance, and our marksmen will pick off the lookouts on the wall walk. Three squads of volunteers will raise the ladders and climb up with their shields in front of them.”
Ramses, Volume III Page 9