Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  “You’re looking lovely,” he greeted his sister, Dolora.

  The languid brunette was enjoying the attentions of a group of empty-headed young noblemen.

  “And you’ve outdone yourself, Shaanar.”

  He gave her his arm and led her out to the covered walkway adjoining the banquet hall.

  “I must see Ofir tomorrow morning. And tell him not to go out on any account. He’s in danger.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dolora herself answered the door to her villa.

  Shaanar looked behind him. No, he hadn’t been followed.

  “Come in, Shaanar.”

  “All quiet?”

  “Yes, don’t worry. Ofir’s experiment is moving forward,” his sister assured him. “Lita is giving her all, but her health is fragile and we mustn’t hurry the process. What’s so urgent?”

  “Is your wizard awake?”

  “I’ll go get him.”

  “Watch out for yourself with Ofir, little sister.”

  “He’s a wonderful man who serves the One God, and he’s sure you’re the key to the future.”

  “Please tell him I’m waiting. There’s not much time.”

  Dressed in a flowing black robe, the Libyan sorcerer bowed to the prince.

  “You must leave this place today, Ofir.”

  “What’s happened, Your Highness?”

  “You were seen talking with Moses in Pi-Ramses.”

  “Could the witnesses give a description?”

  “Nothing too detailed, but now the investigators are on the lookout for a foreigner who was posing as an architect.”

  “That’s not much to go on, Your Highness. I can blend in when it’s necessary.”

  “You took an unnecessary risk.”

  “Personal contact with Moses was indispensable. It may still bring results in the long run.”

  “Ramses came back safe and sound from his expedition in the protectorates. He wants to find Moses and the man who spoke with him. If you can be identified, you’ll be brought in for questioning.”

  Ofir’s smile made Shaanar’s blood run cold.

  “Do you think a man like me can be arrested?”

  “You may have made one fatal error,” the prince said ominously.

  “What was that?”

  “Trusting Romay.”

  “Why do you think we’re connected in any way?”

  “On your orders, he stole Nefertari’s shawl and the fish from the House of Life in Heliopolis—the material you needed for your spell.”

  “Remarkable deduction, Your Highness. But you have one thing wrong: Romay did take the shawl, but a friend of his, a Memphis delivery man, brought me the fish.”

  “A delivery man? What if he talks?”

  “The poor soul just passed away of a heart attack.”

  “Was it a . . . natural death?”

  “All deaths are natural in the end, Your Highness, when the heart stops.”

  “That still leaves Romay. Serramanna is convinced of his guilt and is hounding him mercilessly. If Romay talks, the trail will lead back to you. And practicing black magic is a capital offense, especially casting spells on the royal person.”

  Ofir’s slight smile never wavered. “Let’s go into my laboratory.”

  The cavernous room was full of scrolls, bits of carved ivory, goblets full of colored substances and cords. Order prevailed, and there was a pleasant smell of incense. It felt more like a craftsman’s studio or a scribe’s office than a sorcerer’s den.

  Ofir stretched his hands out above a copper mirror on a three-legged stand. He poured water over the surface and beckoned Shaanar closer.

  Slowly, a face appeared in the mirror.

  “Romay!” exclaimed Shaanar.

  “Romay the steward is a good man, but weak, greedy, and easily influenced. It took no special magic to work a spell on him. The theft he committed in spite of himself is eating away at him like acid.”

  “If Ramses questions him, Romay will talk.”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  Ofir’s left hand traced a broad circle above the mirror. The water bubbled and a deep crack appeared in the copper.

  Shaanar backed away in astonishment.

  “Will that be enough to silence him?”

  “Consider the problem solved. I doubt that there’s any call for me to leave Memphis. This house is in your sister’s name, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone sees her come and go. Lita and I are her devoted servants and prefer to stay close to home. Until we’ve broken through the royal defenses, neither the girl nor I will leave this place.”

  “And your congregation?”

  “Your sister serves as my liaison. For the time being, they’re staying underground, awaiting a sign from Aton.”

  Shaanar departed, somewhat reassured. He had no use for religious fanatics and wished he could see Romay eliminated with his own eyes. He could only hope this mumbo jumbo worked.

  Still, it was better to err on the side of caution.

  The Nile was a marvelous river. Thanks to the strong current, Shaanar covered the distance between Memphis and Pi-Ramses in less than two days.

  The king’s older brother stopped at his office and called a quick meeting of his key staffers in which he was briefed on dispatches from abroad and reports from diplomats stationed in the protectorates. Then a litter took him to the palace as rain clouds gathered.

  Pi-Ramses was a fine city, though without Memphis’s patina and old-fashioned charm. When he took the throne, Shaanar would strip it of its status as capital, especially since it was Ramses’ creation. For now, a cheerful bustle filled the streets, as if peace were eternal, as if the vast Hittite empire had disappeared into a bottomless pit. Shaanar momentarily acknowledged the attraction of this simple existence, in tune with the rhythm of the seasons. Perhaps he, like the entire population of Egypt, should let go and accept Ramses as his ruler.

  But Shaanar was not a follower.

  He had the makings of a king who would go down in history, a monarch with a vision far broader than that of Ramses and his Hittite counterpart. His brainchild would be a new world, with him as its master.

  Pharaoh did not keep his brother waiting. Ramses had just been conferring with Ahmeni, whose face had been lovingly washed by Watcher. The king’s private secretary and the prince nodded coldly at each other. The yellow dog lay down in a patch of sunlight.

  “Good trip, Shaanar?”

  “Excellent. If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m awfully fond of Memphis.”

  “Who could blame you? It’s a special place, and Pi-Ramses will never be its equal. If the Hittite threat hadn’t reached such proportions, I wouldn’t have needed to create a new capital.”

  “The Memphis government remains a model of professionalism.”

  “The civil service is efficiently run here as well. Isn’t your State Department a case in point?”

  “I spare no effort, believe me. But there have been no disturbing messages, either official or officious. The Hittites are silent.”

  “What are our diplomats saying off the record?”

  “That the enemy was stunned by your rapid strike. They had no idea the Egyptian army was so powerful and decisive.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why doubt it? If the Hittites were so sure of their overwhelming superiority, they should have responded by now.”

  “I can’t believe they plan to stay within the boundaries Seti established.”

  “Are you becoming a pessimist, Your Majesty?”

  “The territorial imperative is the only thing the Hittites understand.”

  “But wouldn’t Egypt be a bit much to handle, even for them?”

  “I doubt they think so. Hatti lives to fight.”

  “Then we’ll have to fight fire with fire.”

  “Are you suggesting intensive rearmament, Shaanar, and an increase in troop size?”

  “What better solution?”
<
br />   The patch of sunlight had vanished. Watcher jumped onto his master’s knees.

  “That would be tantamount to a dare,” worried Ramses.

  “There’s only one language these people understand: the language of force. That’s what you really think, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I also want to consolidate our defenses in the north.”

  “Make our protectorates a buffer zone, I know . . . a tall order for your friend Ahsha, ambitious as he is.”

  “Am I expecting too much of him?”

  “Ahsha is young. You’ve just decorated him and made him one of the most important figures in your administration. Such a rapid rise may go to his head. No one denies his talent, but shouldn’t you be cautious?”

  “The generals did feel passed over, I realize. But Ahsha is the man for the job.”

  “There’s one minor detail I think I should mention. You know how the palace servants gossip. Most of it is just rumors, but once in a while I hear something of interest. Now, my steward is on very close terms with one of the queen’s chambermaids, and he tells me this girl saw Romay leave the palace with that shawl of Nefertari’s.”

  “Will she testify against him?”

  “She’s terrified of Romay, afraid of the repercussions if she accuses him.”

  “But this is Egypt. The goddess of justice rules.”

  “Perhaps you should try to make Romay confess first. Then the girl will corroborate his story.”

  Shaanar was taking chances, and he knew it. Criticizing Ahsha was dangerous; reporting Romay might lead Ramses too close to the truth. On the other hand, Shaanar was gaining credibility with the Pharaoh.

  If Ofir’s black magic failed to produce results, Shaanar would strangle him with his own hands.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Romay had found only one way to calm his mounting anxiety: inventing a new marinade recipe he’d name after Ramses, a recipe that would be handed down from master chef to apprentice. The steward shut himself up in the huge palace kitchen, where he could be alone. He had personally selected the mild garlic, top-quality onions, red oasis wine from a special vintage, vinegar spiced with the best salt from the land of Set, several kinds of aromatic herbs, fillets of tender Nile perch, and beef that was fit for the gods. The marinade would give the mixture an inimitable flavor that would delight the king. Then he just might remember how valuable his chief steward was to him.

  Despite his request for the strictest privacy, someone was opening the kitchen door.

  “I thought I said . . . Your Majesty! You don’t belong in the kitchen!”

  “Is any corner of my kingdom off limits to me?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Forgive me, I—”

  “Am I allowed to taste this?”

  “I’m still testing it. I want my marinade to be a recipe that goes down in the palace annals.”

  “Do you have a taste for secrecy, Romay?”

  “No, no,” he laughed. “But good cooking demands discretion. And I guard my creations closely, I’ll admit that much.”

  “Is that all?”

  Ramses loomed over Romay. The steward felt himself shrivel and lowered his gaze. “There’s nothing mysterious about what I do, Your Majesty. My life is devoted to serving you, only to serving you.”

  “Are you so sure? Every man has his weaknesses, they say. What are yours?”

  “I, well, I don’t know. Overeating, certainly.”

  “Are you unhappy with your salary?”

  “No, certainly not!”

  “The office of chief steward is enviable and sought after, but it won’t make a rich man of you.”

  “That’s not my goal, I assure you.”

  “Who could resist a sizable reward in exchange for a few small favors?”

  “I’d rather seek favor with you, Your Majesty.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Romay. Do you recall that unfortunate incident when a scorpion was left under my pillow?”

  “Thank goodness it never bit you!”

  “You were promised that it wouldn’t be fatal and that you could never be caught. Am I right?”

  “No, Your Majesty. That’s wrong, all wrong.”

  “You shouldn’t have given in to temptation, Romay. Then you gave in again when you agreed to steal the queen’s favorite old shawl. And it wouldn’t surprise me to learn you were involved with the disappearance of the fish from Heliopolis.”

  “No, Your Majesty!”

  “Someone saw you.”

  Romay couldn’t breathe. Huge beads of sweat popped out on his forehead.

  “That can’t be . . .”

  “Are you wicked, Romay, or merely the victim of circumstance?”

  The steward felt a sharp pain in his chest. He wanted to tell the king everything, free himself of the nagging remorse.

  He knelt, bumping his head on the edge of the table where his ingredients were laid out. “No, I’m not bad. I was weak, too weak. Forgive me, Your Majesty, I beg you.”

  “Only if you tell me the truth now, Romay.”

  Through a fog of pain, the fat man saw Ofir’s face. The face of a vulture, with a hooked beak, digging through his skin and gnawing at his heart.

  “Who ordered you to commit these evil deeds?”

  Romay wanted to talk, but Ofir’s name couldn’t cross his lips. A sticky web of fear was smothering him, beckoning him to escape, to slip into nothingness.

  Romay looked up at Ramses imploringly. His right hand clutched at the dish of marinade experiment, upending it. The spicy sauce trickled over the steward’s face as he fell to the floor, stone dead.

  “He’s so big,” said Kha, looking at Fighter, his father’s lion.

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  At the age of nine, the Pharaoh’s son with Iset the Fair was as serious as an old scribe. Childish pastimes bored him. All he wanted to do was read and write, spending the greater part of his time in the palace library.

  “He scares me a little.”

  “You should be scared, Kha. Fighter is a very dangerous animal.”

  “But you’re not afraid of him, because you’re Pharaoh.”

  “This lion and I are old friends. When he was just a baby in Nubia, a snake bit him. I found him, my friend Setau helped him get better, and we’ve been together ever since. Not long ago, it was Fighter’s turn to save my life.”

  “Is your lion always nice to you?”

  “Yes, but only to me.”

  “Does he talk to you?”

  “Yes, with his eyes, his tail, the sounds he makes . . . and he understands what I say to him.”

  “Can I pet his mane?”

  Lying like a sphinx, the enormous lion observed the man and boy. He gave a throaty roar, making Kha cling tight to his father.

  “Is he angry?”

  “No, he’ll let you touch him.”

  Emboldened by his father’s reassurances, Kha approached the beast. His small hand stroked the thick mane haltingly at first, then steadily. The lion purred.

  “Can I sit on his back?”

  “No, Kha. Fighter is a proud, proud warrior. He’s already granted you a special privilege. Don’t ask too much of him.”

  “I’ll write his story and tell it to my sister, Meritamon. It’s a good thing she stayed in the palace garden with the queen. A little girl like her would be scared of such a tremendous lion.”

  Ramses gave his son a new scribe’s palette and brush case. The boy was enchanted with the present and eager to try the new implements at once. Soon he was lost in his writing. The king did nothing to disturb his son. To Ramses, these quiet moments were a gift, especially since he was haunted by the still-fresh memory of his steward’s frightful death. The skin on Romay’s face had instantly puckered, like an old man’s. The traitor had died of fright, without revealing who had set him on the road to self-destruction.

  Shadowy forces were at work against Pharaoh. And whoever was mustering them was an enemy no less fearful than the H
ittites.

  Shaanar was jubilant.

  Romay was dead of cardiac arrest, effectively sealing off the trail that led back to Ofir. The sorcerer took no credit, but his black magic had certainly killed the big steward when Ramses pressed him for answers. At the palace, no one seemed shocked by his sudden demise. The man had become obsessed with food, growing fatter and more fretful by the day. His heart had finally given out.

  Satisfying as it was to be rid of the thorny problem Romay had represented, Shaanar also had another cause for rejoicing. Raia, the Syrian merchant, was back in Pi-Ramses. He sent to say he had a remarkable vase to show the prince. They met late one mild and sunny November morning.

  “How was your trip to the south?”

  “Tiring, Sir Prince, but well worth the effort.”

  The Syrian’s goatee was neatly trimmed. His small and lively brown eyes absorbed the details of the column-lined reception room where Shaanar displayed his masterpieces. Raia whisked the wrapping off a potbellied bronze vase trimmed with grapevines and stylized grape leaves.

  “The provenance is Crete; I acquired it in a trade with a rich Theban lady. You won’t find this style anymore.”

  “Say no more. You’ve sold me, friend.”

  “Very well, Sir Prince, but . . .”

  “Is the lady imposing conditions?”

  “No, it’s only that the price is rather high. It’s a unique piece, truly unique.”

  “Let’s set this little gem on a stand and go into my office. I’m sure we can reach an agreement.”

  The thick sycamore door closed behind them. No one could overhear their conversation.

  “One of my assistants told me you were in Memphis asking to buy a vase from me. I cut my trip short and came straight back to Pi-Ramses.”

  “Exactly as I hoped.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Serramanna is out of prison, cleared of all charges, and back at work for Ramses.”

  “Awkward,” Raia said tersely.

  “That damned little snoop Ahmeni started questioning the evidence. Then Ahsha got into the act.”

  “I’d watch my step around Ahsha. He’s clever and understands the Near East.”