Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  There were butterflies in more than a few stomachs. Could there be any truth to the rumor that they were about to attack Kadesh? Were they really going to march on an indestructible Hittite citadel? Come face to face with the world’s fiercest warriors? No, the Pharaoh wouldn’t do anything so rash. He was his father’s son. He’d never challenge his enemies in their own territory. He’d negotiate first.

  The monarch inspected his troops. They were tense and silent. From the greenest recruit to the most experienced veteran, the men stood stiffly, almost painfully, at attention. Their lives depended on what their pharaoh said next.

  Never fond of military pomp, Setau lay prone in his wagon as Lotus massaged his back, her bare breasts grazing his shoulder blades.

  Prince Benteshina was holed up in his palace, unable to tolerate his usual breakfast of rich pastries. If Ramses declared war on the Hittites, Amurru would be the Egyptian army’s fallback position. His subjects would be drafted into the war. And if Ramses lost, the Hittites would ravage the province.

  Ahsha attempted to guess the king’s intentions, but Ramses’ face remained unreadable.

  Once he’d reviewed the troops, Ramses did an about-face with his chariot. For an instant, the horses seemed to be heading north, toward Kadesh. Then Pharaoh circled south, toward Egypt.

  Setau shaved with his bronze razor, combed his hair with a jagged-toothed wooden comb, coated his face with insect repellent, dusted his sandals, and rolled up his mat. He could never be suave like Ahsha, but he was making an effort to look his best, despite peals of laughter from his lovely wife.

  Since the army had headed happily home, Setau and Lotus finally had some time alone in their wagon. The soldiers made up songs about Ramses’ exploits and sang them as they marched. The charioteers, more restrained, merely hummed along. They agreed on one thing: the soldier’s life was a wonderful life, as long as he wasn’t fighting. They kept up a brisk pace through Amurru, Galilee, and Palestine. The local people cheered them and offered food. Before the last stage of their journey to the Delta, they camped to the north of the Sinai desert, to the west of the Negev, a sunbaked region where the Egyptian desert patrol guided caravans and policed nomadic tribes. Setau was delighted. The area was crawling with vipers and cobras, bigger and more lethal than normal. Lotus, lightning-quick as ever, had already caught several as she walked the perimeter of the camp. She smiled to see how the soldiers steered clear of her.

  Ramses looked out at the desert. He was looking north, toward Kadesh.

  “Your decision was lucid and wise,” declared Ahsha.

  “If wisdom means retreating in the face of the enemy.”

  “It certainly doesn’t mean leading your men to slaughter or attempting the impossible.”

  “Wrong, Ahsha. The impossible is the test of true courage.”

  “For the first time, Ramses, you frighten me. Where will you lead your country?”

  “Kadesh isn’t simply going to disappear.”

  “Diplomacy resolves conflicts that appear to have no solution.”

  “Can your diplomacy pacify the Hittites?”

  “Why not?”

  “Give me the peace I desire, Ahsha, a true peace. Or else I’ll have to achieve it in my own way.”

  They numbered a hundred fifty.

  A hundred fifty men, nomads, Bedouins and Hebrews, trolling the desert for weeks at a time in search of errant caravans. Their acknowledged leader was a squint-eyed man in his forties, rumored to have escaped from a military prison on the eve of his execution. With thirty caravan raids and twenty-three murders (of Egyptian merchants and assorted foreign traders) under his belt, Vargoz was a hero to his band.

  When the Egyptian army appeared on the horizon, they thought at first they were seeing a mirage. The chariots, the horsemen, the rows of foot soldiers . . . Vargoz and his men found a grotto where they could hide out until the enemy moved on.

  That night in his dreams Vargoz saw a face, the hawk face of a Libyan he had known long ago. He heard the measured voice of the sorcerer who had taught him to read and write in a remote oasis somewhere between Libya and Egypt. Ofir had also used him as a medium.

  The imperious face, the persuasive voice from his past now gave him new orders that echoed in his brain.

  Wild-eyed, haggard, he roused his band of raiders.

  “Our biggest job yet,” he told them. “Follow me!”

  As usual, they did as he said. Vargoz had a nose for plunder.

  When they reached the outskirts of the Egyptian encampment, several of the bandits balked.

  “What are we after?” they asked him.

  “The big tent over that way—full of treasure.”

  “We don’t stand a chance.”

  “There aren’t very many sentinels and they don’t expect an attack. Move quickly and we’ll be rich.”

  “It’s the Pharaoh’s army,” one objected. “Even if we pull it off, they’ll never rest till they catch us.”

  “Imbecile! You think we’ll hang around the desert? With all the gold we steal, we’ll be richer than princes!”

  “Gold?”

  “Pharaoh never travels without a supply of it. Gold and precious stones are what he uses to bribe his vassals.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I had a dream.”

  The bandit stared at Vargoz, wide-eyed. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Risk my neck for a dream? You’re out of your mind, man.”

  With a quick blow from his hatchet, Vargoz cut the raider’s head halfway off. Knocking the man to the ground, he finished the job.

  “Anyone else have a question?”

  The hundred forty-nine raiders crept toward Pharaoh’s tent.

  Vargoz had to accomplish what Ofir told him in the dream: cut off one of Ramses’ legs and cripple him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Several of the Egyptian sentinels dozed. Others were lost in their thoughts of home and family. Only one noticed the strange form creeping toward him, but Vargoz overpowered the guard before he had time to cry out. The outlaw band was forced to admit that their leader was right once again. There would be no problem approaching the royal tent.

  Vargoz had no idea whether Ramses was really carrying a treasure with him. He was not looking forward to the moment when his cohorts realized he’d deceived them. But his head was full of Ofir. He had to get rid of the sorcerer’s face, his voice.

  Recklessly, he rammed the officer lying by the entrance to the royal tent, leaving the guard no time to draw his sword. Winded by his attacker’s butting head, he was trampled into unconsciousness.

  The way was clear.

  Even if Pharaoh were a god, a frenzied attack could kill him in his sleep.

  A hatchet ripped through the tent flap.

  Awakening with a jolt, Ramses leapt to his feet. Vargoz was rushing at him, waving his weapon.

  An enormous weight crushed the raider. Intense pain sheared through his back.

  Glancing back, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a gigantic lion closing its jaws around his head in the moment before it shattered like a ripe melon.

  The terrified shriek of the bandit following on Vargoz’s heels warned the rest of the band. Without their chief, disoriented, unsure whether to attack or retreat, the robbers were felled by the sentinels’ arrows. Fighter alone took five of them. Then, seeing that the archers had the situation under control, he curled up in his spot behind his master’s bed.

  Furious over the death of the sentinels, the Egyptians took revenge on the outlaw band.

  A plea from one of the wounded men intrigued an officer, who alerted the king.

  “A Hebrew, Your Majesty.”

  The bandit was close to death, two arrows protruding from his stomach.

  “Have you lived in Egypt, Hebrew?”

  “It hurts,” he moaned.

  “Talk, and we’ll help you.”

  “No, not in Egypt. I’ve always
lived here.”

  “Did your tribe ever shelter a man called Moses?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you attack us?”

  The Hebrew said a few garbled words, then died.

  Ahsha ran up to Ramses, exclaiming, “You’re still in one piece!”

  “Fighter takes care of me.”

  “Who are these bandits?”

  “Bedouins, nomads, and at least one Hebrew.”

  “Their attack was suicidal.”

  “An insane idea. They must have been given a strong incentive.”

  “By the Hittites?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Are you thinking of someone else?”

  “There are too many demons lurking in the shadows.”

  “I couldn’t get to sleep tonight,” confessed Ahsha.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m worried about the Hittites’ lack of reaction. They won’t remain passive for long.”

  “Are you blaming me now for not attacking Kadesh?”

  “Our top priority should be consolidating the defense system in our protectorates.”

  “That will be your next mission, Ahsha.”

  Ahmeni frugally scoured an old wooden tablet to reuse it as a writing surface. His staff was well aware that the king’s private secretary did not tolerate waste and set great store in caring for equipment.

  Ramses’ triumph in the protectorates and the perfect level of the floodwaters were cause for rejoicing as Pi-Ramses prepared to welcome home the victors. Boats delivered quantities of food and drink for the monumental banquet to which all the city’s inhabitants, rich and poor alike, were invited.

  Unable to work in the fields during the inundation, the peasants rested or rowed out to visit their near or distant relatives. The Nile Delta had become a sea dotted with islands where the villages were built. Ramses’ capital was like a ship anchored in the heart of this watery vastness.

  Yet Ahmeni’s soul was uneasy. If he had thrown an innocent man in prison, a man who was also one of Ramses’ most faithful defenders, this injustice would count heavily against him in the Judgment Hall of the Dead. The scribe had been reluctant to visit Serramanna, who continued to proclaim his innocence.

  The police officer Ahmeni had put in charge of investigating Lilia, the principal witness for the prosecution, reported to the secretary’s office late in the evening.

  “Anything new?”

  The detective spoke deliberately. “Aye, sir.”

  Ahmeni felt relieved. The breakthrough had finally come.

  “Lilia?”

  “I found her.”

  “Why didn’t you bring her with you?”

  “Because she’s dead.”

  “Accidentally?”

  “According to the physician who examined her corpse for me, it was murder. Lilia was strangled.”

  “Murder . . . then someone wanted to silence her. But why? Because she’d lied or because there was more she knew?”

  “With all due respect, sir, this new twist seems to cast some doubt on Serramanna’s guilt.”

  Ahmeni turned even paler than usual.

  “I had due cause for detaining him.”

  “There’s no disputing the evidence,” agreed the detective.

  “Of course there is! Suppose this Lilia was paid to implicate Serramanna, but she panicked at the thought of appearing in court, lying under oath, defying the law of Ma’at. Whoever hired her would be forced to make sure she wouldn’t talk. There’s still the physical evidence to consider, but suppose the incriminating tablets are only forgeries? Then our case is hardly as solid as it seemed.”

  “It would be easy to get a sample of Serramanna’s handwriting,” the detective admitted. “He posted a weekly bulletin on the door of the royal bodyguard barracks.”

  “Serramanna was framed . . . isn’t that what you think?”

  The detective nodded.

  “As soon as Ahsha gets back,” said Ahmeni, “I’ll be able to clear Serramanna without waiting for the real culprit to be arrested. Do you have any leads?”

  “There were no signs of struggle at the murder scene. Lilia probably knew her attacker.”

  “Where did you find her?”

  “In a house at the edge of the warehouse district.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “It was unoccupied and the neighbors couldn’t tell me anything.”

  “I can probably trace it through the tax rolls. Didn’t the neighbors notice anything suspicious?”

  “One half-blind old lady claims to have seen a man leave the house in the middle of the night, but she can’t give a description other than that he was short.”

  “Do we have a list of Lilia’s men friends?”

  “No hope of finding out. It’s even possible that Serramanna was the first big fish she’d landed.”

  Nefertari was savoring a long, warm shower. Her eyes closed, she sensed the moment of Ramses’ return growing nearer and nearer. His absence had felt like torture.

  The maidservants gently rubbed her with purifying ashes and natron. After a final rinse, the queen stretched out on a platform of heated tiles and a masseuse kneaded her with a pomade of turpentine, oil, and lemon juice, which would keep her body smelling sweet all day long.

  Dreamily, Nefertari watched the beauticians give her a manicure and a pedicure. Next came the makeup artist, rimming her eyes with a soft green paint that both enhanced and protected them. Since Ramses was due to arrive shortly, the queen’s magnificent hair was treated with special oil scented with rare balsamic resins. Then the beautician offered Nefertari a polished bronze mirror, its handle in the shape of a naked woman, the earthly representation of Hathor’s celestial beauty.

  All that remained was to put on her human hair wig, curled in back and with two large plaits reaching all the way down to her breasts. Once again, Nefertari looked in the mirror and was pleased.

  “If I may say so,” murmured the hairdresser, “Your Majesty has never been lovelier.”

  The handmaidens dressed her in an immaculate linen dress, fresh from the palace weavers.

  The queen had barely had time to sit down, testing the seams of the delicate garment, when a yellow dog with a short and powerful build, floppy ears, corkscrew tail, and short black muzzle jumped on her lap—a dog bounding in from the just-watered garden, splattering mud on the queen’s new dress.

  Horrified, a lady-in-waiting grabbed a flyswatter and made toward the animal.

  “Don’t touch him,” ordered Nefertari. “It’s Watcher, Ramses’ dog. He’s trying to tell me something.”

  A velvety pink tongue slobbered kisses on the queen’s cheeks, smearing her makeup. Watcher’s trusting eyes gave her a look full of indescribable joy.

  “Ramses will be home tomorrow, won’t he?”

  Watcher put his paws on the straps of her dress and wagged his tail for all he was worth.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lookouts at the border forts and outposts flashed the message: Ramses was on his way.

  Pi-Ramses was full of commotion. From the area around the temple of Ra to the workshops near the port, from the villas of government officials to the dwellings of ordinary folk, from the palace to the warehouses, everyone scurried to complete preparations for the sovereign’s much-awaited return.

  Romay, the chief steward, wore a short wig to conceal his increasing baldness. Forty-eight hours without sleep had done nothing for his temper. His subordinates were all too slow and too sloppy. For the royal table alone, he would need hundreds of roasted quarters of beef, several dozen grilled geese, two hundred baskets of bread and dried fish, fifty vats of cream, and a hundred platters of pickled fish, not to mention side dishes. The wine must be of the highest quality, and beers would be brewed especially for the occasion. A thousand banquets would have to be organized in the city’s various neighborhoods so that on this day of days even the humblest would share in the king’s glory and Egypt’s good fortune. The slightest h
itch, and fingers would be pointed at Romay.

  He reread the scroll with details of the latest shipment: a thousand loaves of bread in fancy shapes, made from finely milled flour; two thousand crusty golden rolls; twenty thousand pastries dripping with honey and carob juice, studded with raisins; three hundred fifty-two sacks of grapes to be set out in dishes; a hundred twelve crates of pomegranates; ditto for figs.

  “Here he is!” exclaimed the wine steward.

  Standing on the kitchen roof, a scullion waved broadly.

  “It can’t be!”

  “Yes, it’s him!”

  The scullion jumped down from the roof, the wine steward ran toward the capital’s main thoroughfare.

  “Stay here,” bellowed Romay.

  In less than a minute, the palace kitchens and storerooms were deserted. Romay collapsed on a three-legged stool. No one was left to arrange all those grapes artistically.

  He shone.

  His titles proclaimed him the sun, the powerful bull, the protector of Egypt and conqueror of foreign lands, the king of resounding victories, the chosen son of the divine light.

  He was Ramses.

  In a golden crown, wearing silver armor and a gold-trimmed kilt, holding a bow in his left hand and a sword in his right, he stood erect on the platform of a lily-trimmed chariot, driven by Ahsha. Fighter, the Nubian lion with his blazing mane, kept pace with the horses.

  Ramses’ beauty combined both might and radiance. He was the ultimate expression of what a pharaoh should be.

  The crowd squeezed along either side of the long processional route leading to the temple of Amon. Laden with flowers, scented with perfumed oils, musicians and singers celebrated the king’s return with a hymn of welcome. “The heart rejoices at the sight of Ramses,” they sang. People jostled against one another, competing for even the briefest glimpse of the monarch.

  On the threshold of the holy place stood Nefertari, the Great Royal Wife, Light of Egypt, Sweet of Voice, Lady of the Two Lands. She wore a twin-plumed crown and a golden collar complete with a lapis lazuli scarab inscribed with the secrets of resurrection. She held a cubit rule, symbol of Ma’at, the goddess of justice.