Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  “Fortunately, he’s not assigned to the State Department any longer. Ramses decorated him and sent him to shore up the defenses in our protectorates.”

  “Tricky, if not impossible.”

  “Ahsha and Ahmeni have reached some rather alarming conclusions. They think someone forged Serramanna’s alleged correspondence with the Hittites, and they believe that someone was a Syrian.”

  “Very awkward,” Raia said darkly.

  “Then Serramanna’s girlfriend turned up dead. Lilia, the one you paid to plant the tablets.”

  “I had to get rid of her. The imbecile was threatening to talk.”

  “Of course you had to, but you ought to have been more careful.”

  “How so?”

  “Choosing the scene of the crime.”

  “I didn’t choose it. She was about to sound the alarm. I had to act quickly and get out of town.”

  “Ahmeni is trying to find the owner of the building where she was killed and bring him in for questioning.”

  “He’s a merchant, on the road most of the time. In fact, I ran into him in Thebes.”

  “Will he give your name?”

  “I’m afraid so, since I am his tenant.”

  “It’s not a pretty picture, Raia! Ahmeni is convinced that a Hittite spy ring is operating on Egyptian soil. Even though he personally had Serramanna locked up, the two of them seem to be working hand in glove now. The search for the man who framed the Sard and murdered his former girlfriend has become an affair of state. And they have several clues that point in your direction.”

  “They haven’t found me yet.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’ll need to make sure my landlord doesn’t talk.”

  “How?”

  “The usual way, Sir Prince.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  With the approach of winter, the days grew shorter, the sun grew dimmer. Ramses preferred the intensity of summer, the full heat of his heavenly father the sun. He alone of mortal men could stare the heavenly body in the face without being blinded. But this delightfully mild autumn day offered him a rare pleasure: a late afternoon in the palace gardens with Nefertari, their daughter, Meritamon, and her half-brother, Kha.

  Sitting on folding chairs by a shallow pond, the king and queen observed the siblings’ play. Kha wanted his sister to study a scroll with him, a difficult text on the moral precepts a scribe should follow, while she insisted that he should learn the backstroke. Despite his single-mindedness, the boy gave in, though not without complaining that the water was freezing and he’d catch a cold.

  “Meritamon is a force to be reckoned with. She can charm anyone alive, just like you.”

  “Kha is a budding magician . . . look, he’s getting out the scroll now. His sister will read it with him whether she wants to or not.”

  “How are they doing in school?”

  “Kha is exceptional, of course. Nedjem, your agriculture secretary, is still informally supervising his education. He tells me Kha could already pass the entry-level scribe exam.”

  “Would he want to take it?”

  “He only wants to learn.”

  “Let’s give him the nourishment he needs to develop his talent. He may be in for a rough time, since lesser men will always try to stifle genius. I hope Meritamon will have an easier life.”

  “She only has eyes for her father.”

  “And I have so little time for her . . .”

  “Egypt must come before our children, as Ma’at decrees.”

  The king’s pet lion and yellow dog lay near the garden gate. The moment anyone approached, Watcher would rouse his partner.

  “Come, Nefertari.”

  The young queen, her hair undone, sat on Ramses’ lap and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “You’re the light of my life. We could be a normal couple, spend all our afternoons together . . .”

  “This garden is a beautiful dream, but the gods and your father made you Pharaoh. You’ve given your life to your people, and offered it up for good.”

  “Right now my life is the sweet-smelling hair of the woman I love to distraction, her soft hair dancing in the evening breeze and brushing my cheek.”

  Their lips met in the eager kiss of two young lovers.

  It was time for Raia to act.

  He headed for the Pi-Ramses waterfront. It was a smaller port than Memphis, therefore not quite so busy, though the loading and unloading of boats was still strictly regulated by port authority officials.

  Raia would take his fellow merchant Renouf off to a hearty lunch at a good inn, with many witnesses to vouch that they had enjoyed themselves immensely. That night, Raia would sneak into Renouf’s house and strangle him. If a servant got in the way, he’d meet the same fate. Hittite training camps in northern Syria had taught Raia how to kill. Of course, this latest crime would be attributed to Lilia’s murderer. But what did it matter? With Renouf out of the way, Raia would be safe.

  The waterfront was lined with stands selling fruits, vegetables, sandals, fabric, trinkets. Since no purchase was considered satisfactory unless both parties drove a hard bargain, there was a considerable racket. If it were up to him, Raia would reorganize this free-for-all to make it more profitable.

  The Syrian approached a uniformed official.

  “Has Renouf’s boat docked yet?”

  “Pier 5, next to the barge there.”

  Raia hurried forward.

  On the bridge of Raia’s boat, a sailor dozed. The Syrian walked up the gangplank and woke the guard.

  “Where is your boss?”

  “Renouf? I have no idea.”

  “When did you get in?”

  “Just after dawn.”

  “You sailed at night?”

  “We had special permission because we were hauling fresh cheese from the main Memphis dairy. Some of the nobles here can’t do without it.”

  “Once he signed off the cargo, your boss would have headed home, don’t you think?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that big bodyguard of the king’s—you know, the Sard with the whiskers—took Renouf off in his chariot. Not the kind of guy you want to argue with, eh?”

  The sky had just fallen on Raia’s head.

  Renouf was a cheerful, comfortably built man, the father of three, who had inherited his family’s shipping business. When Serramanna met him at the pier, the merchant was bewildered, but judging from the Sard’s expression it seemed wiser to go along with him and clear up the misunderstanding.

  The giant sped him off to the palace and escorted him to Ahmeni’s office. Renouf had never met the king’s private secretary, but knew him by reputation. The scribe was supposed to be serious, hardworking, and loyal to a fault, a silent power who handled government business with exemplary integrity, shunning honors and invitations.

  The first thing that struck him was Ahmeni’s pallor. Rumor had it that the scribe hardly ever left his office.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” said Renouf, “though I would have appreciated some advance warning. Being hauled off my boat the moment we docked in Pi-Ramses was quite a surprise.”

  “Please forgive me,” Ahmeni replied. “We’re investigating a very grave matter.”

  “A matter concerning me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I need honest answers to a few questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Are you acquainted with a certain Lilia?”

  “A fairly common name. I must know ten!”

  “The one I’m talking about is a local resident, young, single, and very pretty. She sells her charms to the highest bidder.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I love my wife, Ahmeni. As much as I travel, I’ve never been unfaithful to her. I can assure you that we have a solid relationship. Ask my friends and neighbors, if you don’t
believe me.”

  “Will you swear by the law of Ma’at that you’ve never met the aforementioned Lilia?”

  “I solemnly swear,” said Renouf.

  The merchant’s earnestness impressed Shaanar, who looked on silently.

  “Strange,” Ahmeni said ruefully.

  “Why strange? We merchants may not enjoy the best reputation, but I pride myself on being an honest man. I pay my employees well, I maintain my boats, I feed my family, I pay my bills, my taxes have never been audited . . . is that what you call strange?”

  “Men such as you are all too rare, Renouf.”

  “Unfortunately so.”

  “Well. The strange thing is where they found Lilia’s body.”

  The merchant looked up, startled.

  “Her body . . . do you mean . . .”

  “She was murdered.”

  “How awful!”

  “She may have led a criminal life, but any murder is a capital offense. The strange part is that she was found in a house in Pi-Ramses that belongs to you.”

  “In my house?” Renouf asked, the color draining from his face.

  “Not in your villa,” Serramanna interjected. “A property right here.” His touched his index finger to the map of Pi-Ramses that Ahmeni had unrolled in front of them.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Does this house belong to you or not?”

  “Yes, but it’s not a house.”

  Ahmeni and Serramanna exchanged glances. Was Renouf on the level?

  “No one lives there,” he explained. “It’s a warehouse. I thought I might need more storage space for my merchandise, which is why I bought the property. But my eyes were bigger than my stomach; at my age, I no longer feel like expanding my business. I plan to retire to my farm outside Memphis at the earliest opportunity.”

  “And you’re planning to sell this property?”

  “For the moment, I’ve rented the warehouse.”

  Hope glimmered in Ahmeni’s eyes.

  “To whom?”

  “A merchant I know named Raia. A rich man, very active in business, with several barges and shops all over the country.”

  “What does he sell?”

  “He specializes in high-quality conserves. Also sells collectible vases to an upper-crust clientele.”

  “Where is he from, do you know?”

  “He’s Syrian, but he’s lived in Egypt for years.”

  “Thank you, Renouf. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Are you done with me?”

  “I think so. And please don’t mention our conversation to anyone.”

  “You have my word.”

  Raia, a Syrian . . . if Ahsha had been there, he would have seen how right he had been. Before Ahmeni even got to his feet, the Sard was bolting out the door toward his chariot.

  “Serramanna, wait for me!”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Despite the cold, Uri-Teshoop wore only a coarse woolen kilt. Bare-chested, he rode at a gallop, forcing the horsemen he commanded to push their mounts to the limit. Tall and muscular, with fleecy red hair all over his body and flowing locks, Uri-Teshoop, son of the Hittite emperor Muwattali, was the proud new commander of the army after the failed uprising in the Egyptian protectorates.

  Ramses’ swift and energetic response had taken Muwattali by surprise. And yet Baduk, the prince’s predecessor as commanding general, had insisted that staging the insurrection would present no particular difficulty; nor would occupying the territory, once the revolt succeeded.

  The Syrian spy he’d been using in Egypt for years was less convinced. He insisted that Ramses was a great pharaoh, a strong and decisive leader. Baduk retorted that the Hittites had nothing to fear from an inexperienced king and an army of mercenaries, jittery recruits, and bunglers. The peace agreement with Seti had been convenient in that it gave Muwattali time to consolidate his authority, ridding himself of any parties eyeing the throne too hungrily. At this point, he reigned supreme.

  The expansion policy could be resumed. And if there was one country the Anatolian emperor wished to dominate, one country that would make his people the masters of the known world, it was Egypt.

  According to General Baduk, the fruit was ripe for the picking. With Amurru and Canaan in Hittite hands, it would be simple to press into the Delta, lay waste to the fortresses that made up the King’s Wall, and invade lower Egypt.

  A magnificent plan, which the Hittite high command had been eager to execute.

  Except that they had failed to reckon with Ramses.

  In Hattusa, the Hittite capital, everyone was wondering why the wrath of the gods had fallen upon their empire. Uri-Teshoop, however, knew exactly what the problem was: he attributed the fiasco directly to General Baduk’s stupidity and incompetence. The emperor’s son was now touring the country not only to inspect the fortifications, but also to ferret out Baduk, who had failed to reappear in Hattusa.

  He thought he might find him at Gavur Kalesi, a hilltop fort at the edge of the Anatolian plateau. Three giant statues of armed soldiers flanked it, announcing the Hittite nation’s warlike nature. “Submit or be slain,” they seemed to proclaim. Along the roads, on the rock walls of riverbanks, on freestanding boulders in the middle of fields, sculptors had carved military scenes—marching foot soldiers, each with a javelin in the right hand and a bow slung over the left shoulder. In Hittite country, the love of war conquered all.

  Uri-Teshoop had swiftly covered the fertile, well-watered plains with their rows of nut trees. The swamp-studded maple forests hadn’t slowed him down a bit. Driving his men and horses hard, the emperor’s son was headed as fast as he could for the fortress of Mashat, the only place left where General Baduk could be hiding.

  Despite their endurance and constant drilling, the Hittite cavalry arrived at Mashat exhausted. The fort sat on a rise in the middle of an open plain between two mountain ranges, an excellent vantage point for surveying the environs. Night and day, archers were posted in the watchtower’s crenellations. The officers, scions of noble families, maintained an iron discipline.

  Uri-Teshoop was frozen some three hundred paces in front of the fortress. A javelin had just landed deep in the ground in front of his horse.

  The emperor’s son dismounted and advanced. “Open up!” he shouted. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  The fortress gate opened. Ten soldiers stood in the doorway, brandishing their lances. Uri-Teshoop walked straight through them.

  “The emperor’s son demands to see the governor.”

  The commander instantly descended from the ramparts at breakneck speed. “Prince, what an honor!” The soldiers raised their lances in salute.

  “Is General Baduk in residence here?”

  “Yes, I’ve given him my own quarters.”

  “Take me to him.”

  The two men climbed a stone stairway with steep, slippery steps.

  Atop the hill, the wind blew. The commandant’s residence was of roughly hewn stone, the inner walls blackened from the thick smoke of oil lamps.

  The moment he spied Uri-Teshoop, the middle-aged man within rose ponderously.

  “Prince Uri-Teshoop . . .”

  “How are you, Baduk?”

  “Still wondering where my plan went wrong. If the Egyptian army hadn’t reacted so swiftly, the insurgents in Canaan and Amurru would have been better organized. But I wouldn’t say all is lost. The Egyptians have taken over, yes, but their hold on the region is superficial. Even though the local princes are back in Pharaoh’s fold, their hearts are still with us.”

  “Why didn’t you order our troops stationed at Kadesh to attack the Egyptians once they reached Amurru?”

  General Baduk registered shock. “That would have required a formal declaration of war . . . well beyond the powers vested in me! Only the emperor could make such a decision.”

  Once as bloodthirsty and domineering as Uri-Teshoop, Baduk had become a shell of a man. His hair and beard were grizzled.
/>   “Have you analyzed your failure?”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing here in Mashat. My report will spare no one, including myself.”

  “May I be excused, Your Highness?” asked the fort commander, aware that he shouldn’t be privy to high-level military secrets.

  “No,” replied the prince.

  The commander was embarrassed to watch the prince humiliate General Baduk. He was a great soldier and devoted to his country. But obedience was the prime Hittite virtue, and the word of the emperor’s son was law. Any insubordination was punishable by death on the spot, since there was no other way to maintain cohesion in an army perpetually on the brink of war.

  “The fortresses in Canaan offered a strong resistance to the Egyptian attacks,” offered Baduk. “The garrisons we trained refused to surrender.”

  “That doesn’t change the outcome,” Uri-Teshoop said bluntly. “The insurgents were exterminated. Canaan is back under Egyptian control. The same holds true for Megiddo.”

  “Unfortunately true, even though our commandos had prepared things brilliantly. But the emperor wanted them back in Kadesh before the fighting started, so that no trace of the Hittite presence could be detected in Canaan or Amurru.”

  “Let’s talk about Amurru! How many times did you assure us that you had the prince eating out of your hand, that he’d never go back to Ramses?”

  “That was my biggest mistake,” Baduk conceded. “The Egyptians threw us off completely. Instead of following the coastal route that would have led them straight into an ambush, they cut through the interior. The Prince of Amurru was caught unawares, and surrender was his only viable option.”

  “Surrender!” spat Uri-Teshoop. “I don’t want to hear about surrender! As I understand it, the point of your strategy was to weaken the Egyptian army, crippling the infantry and chariot divisions. Instead, the Pharaoh’s losses were light, his troops gained confidence, and he chalked up a major victory!”

  “I won’t try to deny how wrong I was. I should never have trusted the Prince of Amurru; he’d rather face dishonor than fight.”

  “Defeat has no place in a Hittite general’s career.”