“A dim-witted mystic, but an excellent medium. She’s helped me gain access to precious information that I never could have obtained otherwise. I soon hope to break through Ramses’ magical defenses.”
Ofir thought of Moses, a potential ally whom he regretted losing. Interrogating Lita in her trance state had convinced him that the Hebrew was still alive.
“Could I perhaps rest here for a few days?” asked Raia. “This ordeal has been hard on my nerves.”
“Too risky. Go straight to the port, the southern end, and take the first barge departing for Pi-Ramses.”
Ofir gave the Syrian the passwords and instructions that would get him safely out of Egypt, across Canaan and southern Syria, and into the Hittite sphere of influence.
As soon as Raia was gone, the sorcerer checked to make sure Lita was sleeping soundly and slipped out of the villa.
The unrelenting storm suited his purposes. He would go unnoticed and would quickly return to his lair after alerting Raia’s replacement.
Shaanar was eating like mad. Although rationally he knew there was nothing to worry about, he needed to soothe his nerves with food. He was polishing off a roast quail when his steward announced a visit from Meba, his predecessor at the State Department, whom he had maneuvered into believing that Ramses was the cause of all his troubles.
Meba was a typical elder statesman, stiff and formal, from a long line of scribes accustomed to navigating the corridors of power, avoiding conflict and focusing on promotions. When he became secretary of state, Meba had attained the peak of his career and had counted on remaining there until his retirement. Then Shaanar had brought about his sudden ouster (though Meba would never know it). With time on his hands, the career diplomat had retired to his vast landholdings outside Memphis, appearing only rarely at court in the new capital.
Shaanar washed his hands and mouth, reapplied scent, and smoothed his hair. Meba was fastidious and the prince had no wish to suffer by comparison.
“My dear Meba! What a pleasure to see you here in Pi-Ramses. Will you be my guest at dinner tomorrow evening?”
“Gladly.”
“I realize that we’re living in serious times, but we must put our best face forward. The king is trying to keep up the normal routine at the palace.”
Meba’s broad, appealing face was part of his charm, as were his neat gestures and cultured voice.
“Are you happy with your position, Shaanar?”
“It’s not easy, but I’m giving it my best, for the good of the country.”
“Are you acquainted with Raia, a Syrian merchant?”
The prince stiffened. “I’ve bought vases from him. Remarkable pieces, though somewhat overpriced.”
“Have you ever discussed anything besides objets d’art?”
“What’s come over you, Meba?”
“You have nothing to fear from me, Your Highness. Quite the contrary.”
“To fear . . . what do you mean?”
“You’ve been expecting a visit from Raia’s replacement, haven’t you? Here I am.”
“You, Meba?”
“I need to keep busy. When the Hittite network contacted me, I saw it as an opportunity to get my revenge on Ramses. I can live with the fact that the enemy is backing you as his successor, provided that you give me back the State Department when you come to power.”
The king’s older brother looked defeated.
“Give me your word, Shaanar.”
“You have it, Meba. You have it.”
“I’ll bring you the directives from our friends. If you have a message to send to them, you’ll go through me as well. Since you’re going to appoint me your assistant in Ahsha’s absence—starting today, let’s assume—we’ll see each other often enough. No one will suspect me.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Freezing drizzle fell on Hattusa, the capital of the Hittite empire.The temperature plummeted, the inhabitants huddled around turf or wood fires. It was the time of year when infant mortality was at its highest. The boys who survived would make excellent soldiers. As for the girls, who were barred from any inheritance, their only hope was a suitable marriage.
Despite the harsh weather, Uri-Teshoop, the emperor’s son and newly appointed army commander, had stepped up the pace of training. He was unhappy with the foot soldiers’ physical conditioning, so they were forced to march for several hours every day, fully outfitted, as if departing for a long campaign. Several men had succumbed to exhaustion. Uri-Teshoop left them on the side of the road, figuring that their incompetence hadn’t earned them a decent burial. The vultures would dispose of the cadavers.
The emperor’s son was no more lenient with the cavalry, urging them to push their horses and chariots to the limit. The number of fatal accidents convinced him that certain charioteers had not mastered the new equipment and had grown sloppy during the extended truce.
No protest arose from the ranks of the military. Everyone sensed that Uri-Teshoop was preparing the troops for war, and preparing them well. While pleased with his growing popularity, the general bore in mind that Muwattali remained the supreme commander. There was one major disadvantage to leading maneuvers in remote corners of Anatolia, however: he was far from the center of activity. Uri-Teshoop therefore considered it worth his while to employ a number of courtiers to keep him up to date on his father’s doings—and Hattusili’s.
When he heard that his uncle had left on a tour of neighboring countries, Uri-Teshoop was at once astonished and reassured. Astonished because Hattusili rarely left the capital, and reassured because his absence would keep him from exerting undue influence over the merchant class.
Uri-Teshoop detested the merchants. After his victory over Ramses, he planned to depose Muwattali, banish Hattusili to the salt mines, and send Puduhepa, his arrogant, treacherous wife, to a provincial brothel. As for the merchants, they would all be forced to join the army.
Hatti’s future was clear in his mind. It would be a military dictatorship and he, Uri-Teshoop, would be absolute master of the country.
Right now it would be folly to attack the emperor, at the height of his powers after ruling the country for years with a skilled and merciless hand. Impetuous as he was, Uri-Teshoop was determined to be patient and wait for his father to slip. Then Muwattali would either agree to abdicate or his son would eliminate him.
Swathed in a thick woolen mantle, the emperor stayed close to the fire, which barely warmed him. The older he got, the harder the winters seemed; yet he could never live without the uplifting sight of the snow-covered mountains. At times he was tempted to give up his expansionist policies and concentrate on exploiting his country’s natural riches. But the notion was quickly dispelled, for his people’s survival depended on the conquest of new territory. Taking Egypt would give them an inexhaustible horn of plenty. He would put Ramses’ ambitious older brother, Shaanar, in charge of an interim administration. Then he would replace the traitor with a Hittite government that would snuff out the slightest hint of revolt.
The main danger, as he saw it, was his own son, Uri-Teshoop. The emperor needed him to get the troops back in order, to rekindle their fighting spirit. But Uri-Teshoop must not be allowed to turn victory to his advantage. He was an intrepid warrior, but had no talent for statecraft.
Hattusili was a different case. The emperor’s brother might be physically unimposing, but he was an excellent administrator and knew how to stay in the background, without drawing attention to his true influence. What did he really want? Muwattali had no answer to the question, which made him all the more wary.
And here was Hattusili, back from his mission.
“Did you have a good journey, brother?”
“I think you’ll be pleased with the results,” Hattusili replied, then began sneezing.
“You’ve caught cold?”
“The inns are poorly heated. My wife has made me some mulled wine. I’ll drink it while I soak my feet in hot water and I’ll be good as new.”
“They were surprised, and then they were afraid I was there to raise taxes.”
“Good. They need to be reminded who’s in charge.”
“That’s why I pointedly mentioned their leaders’ past transgressions before discussing the matter at hand.”
“You know how to handle the weapons of diplomacy, brother.”
“It’s a skill that requires constant practice, but well worth the effort. All of our vassals, without exception, said yes to our . . . invitation.”
“I applaud your initiative, Hattusili. When will the preparations be complete?”
“Three or four months from now.”
“Will official documents need to be drawn up?”
“We’re better off without them,” said Hattusili. “Our spies have infiltrated Egypt, so perhaps they have a network in place in our territory.”
“Highly unlikely, but we can’t be too careful.”
“Our allies are eager to hasten the fall of Egypt. Giving their word to your official representative is tantamount to swearing before the emperor. They’ll keep quiet until the action begins.”
His eyes glazed with fever, Hattusili was grateful that the room was snug, its windows covered with cloth-lined wooden slats.
“How is the army shaping up?” he asked.
“Uri-Teshoop is doing an admirable job,” replied Muwattali. “Our troops will soon reach the point of maximum efficiency.”
“Do you think that Ramses and his wife will be fooled by the letters from you and Puduhepa?”
“The Pharaoh and the Great Royal Wife replied most amiably, and we have pursued the correspondence. At the very least, it will throw them off guard. What news of our spies in Egypt?”
“The Syrian merchant’s network is out of commission, but our chief of intelligence, the Libyan Ofir, is still of great value.”
“What’s been done about this Syrian?”
“I thought he should be eliminated, but Ofir had a better suggestion.”
“Go now and let that lovely wife of yours cure your cold.”
Mulled wine helped Hattusili’s fever and cleared his sinuses. The steaming footbath was heaven, after countless hours on the road. A servant girl massaged his neck and shoulders, and a barber shaved him under the watchful eye of Puduhepa.
“Mission accomplished?” she asked once they were alone.
“I believe so, my dear.”
“I also accomplished things in your absence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s not in my nature to be idle.”
“Tell me what you mean!”
“I thought you’d be clever enough to guess.”
“Don’t tell me . . .”
“Yes, my dear diplomat. While you were on the emperor’s errand, I decided to take care of your rival—your only rival.”
“Uri-Teshoop?”
“Who else is holding you back and undermining your influence with the emperor? His new appointment has turned his head. He thinks he’s already on the throne!”
“Muwattali is manipulating him, not the reverse, I assure you.”
“Both of you underestimate the danger.”
“You’re wrong, Puduhepa. The emperor is clearheaded. He put his son in charge of the army to energize the troops and make sure they’re combat ready. But Muwattali doesn’t consider Uri-Teshoop capable of running the country.”
“Has he told you so?”
“No, but I can tell.”
“That’s not enough for me. Uri-Teshoop is violent and dangerous, he hates the two of us, and he’d love to get us out of the way. Since you’re the emperor’s brother, he doesn’t dare attack you directly, but he’ll stab you in the back.”
“Just wait, Puduhepa, and Uri-Teshoop will trip himself up.”
“We won’t need to wait.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already taken steps.”
Hattusili didn’t want to believe his ears.
“A representative from the merchants’ guild is on his way to General Uri-Teshoop’s training camp. He’ll ask for an audience, and to gain his trust he’ll confide that his organization would welcome the end of Muwattali and the advent of his son. Then our man will take out his dagger, and that will be the end of the monster!”
“Hatti needs Uri-Teshoop . . . it’s too soon, much too soon. He has to prepare our troops for battle first.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to save him,” Puduhepa said in disbelief.
Aching, feverish, stiff-kneed, Hattusili stood up. “I’m on my way,” he told her.
THIRTY-NINE
Ahsha was virtually unrecognizable in the guise of a courier riding the postal routes of northern Syria. In a coarse and tattered cloak, the formerly refined and elegant diplomat straddled a sturdy donkey. Two more donkeys trailed behind, each heavily laden with mailbags. Together they had just entered Hittite territory.
Ahsha had spent several weeks in Canaan and Amurru, examining the two protectorates’ defense systems in detail. He had talked at length with Egyptian officers in charge of organizing resistance against an eventual enemy deployment. He had also added significantly to his list of feminine conquests.
Benteshina, the Prince of Amurru, had heartily approved of Ahsha. He was a model guest who enjoyed a good meal, made no unreasonable demands, and asked only that the prince alert Ramses at once if he noticed any unusual action from the Hittites.
Then Ahsha had headed home—or so he had led his hosts to believe. Obeying orders, the diplomat’s escort rode south along the coastal route, while Ahsha destroyed his Egyptian clothing, assumed his new identity (confirmed by expertly forged Hittite credentials), and traveled north.
Given the conflicting reports and unclear state of relations, it was impossible to assess Hatti’s true intentions without firsthand knowledge. Since Ramses’ needs meshed with his own, Ahsha had gladly accepted the challenge. This mission would put him ahead of the game.
The Hittites’ great strength, it seemed to him, was their ability to make everyone believe they were invulnerable and ready to conquer the world. But were they? That was the crucial question he had to answer.
Thirty-odd soldiers, armed and sinister-looking, were guarding the Hittite border crossing. Four foot soldiers ringed Ahsha and his three donkeys. The would-be courier stood stunned and motionless.
A lance tip grazed Ahsha’s left cheek.
“Your credentials?”
From beneath his cloak, Ahsha produced a tablet covered with Hittite writing. The soldier read it and handed it to a colleague, who also examined the document.
“Where are you going?”
“Hattusa, with letters and invoices for the merchants.”
“Show me them.”
“They’re confidential.”
“Nothing is confidential to the army.”
“I don’t want to have problems with the recipients.”
“You’ll have plenty of problems if you don’t do as I say.”
His fingers numb with the cold, Ahsha undid the string around the sacks full of tablets.
“It’s got to be business,” the soldier said as he examined the documents. “Can’t make head nor tail of it. All right then, we’ll search you.”
The courier carried no arms. The Hittite border guard gave up in frustration. “Before you go into any villages, report to the checkpoint first.”
“Never had to before.”
“You do now. Show your credentials at every checkpoint, or you’ll be marked as an enemy and hunted down.”
“There are no enemies in Hittite territory!”
“Just do as you’re told.”
“All right, all right.”
“Now hit the road!”
Ahsha ambled off like a man with a clear conscience. Walking beside the lead donkey, he fell into a steady pace and took the road to Hattusa, in the heart of Anatolia.
Several
times, he found himself looking for the Nile. The craggy northland was hard to get used to; it lacked the simple beauty of the great Valley with a river running through it. Ahsha missed the sharp divide between cultivated land and desert. He missed the spectacular sunsets. But he had to forget Egypt and think only of Hatti, this cold and hostile land whose secrets he was determined to learn.
The sky was low, unleashing violent downpours. The donkeys stepped around the puddles and stopped to munch on wet grass whenever they felt like it.
This was no country for peace. Its savagery made everyone living here see life as a struggle and view the future as survival of the fittest. How many generations would it take to turn these desolate valleys into farmland, to make soldiers into plowmen? Here men were born to fight, and fight they would.
The placement of checkpoints at the entry to every village intrigued Ahsha. Did the Hittites suspect there were spies within their country, tightly controlled as it was by the military? This unusual precaution was a clue in itself. The army might be conducting maneuvers that needed to be kept safe from prying eyes.
On two more occasions, roving patrols checked Ahsha’s mailbags and questioned him regarding his destination. Each time he was allowed to go on his way. At the first village he came to, he found a checkpoint and was subjected to another thorough search. The soldiers were on their guard and irritable; the counterfeit postman did not protest.
After spending the night in a barn, he ate some bread and cheese and resumed his journey, secure in the knowledge that his disguise was completely believable. In mid-afternoon, he took a side road leading into some undergrowth. This was his chance to deposit a few tablets addressed to nonexistent merchants. As he approached the capital, he would gradually lighten his load.
The woodland overlooked a steep ravine. Huge boulders had rolled to the bottom, pried loose by rain and snow. Gnarled oak roots clung to the slope.
As he opened one of the sacks on the lead donkey, Ahsha had the feeling he was being watched. The animals were restless. Robins were flitting between the treetops.
He gathered up a stone and a piece of dried wood—a flimsy defense against a potential attacker. When he heard the unmistakable sound of horses approaching, Ahsha slunk behind a fallen trunk. Four men on horseback came out of the undergrowth and surrounded the donkeys. They were not soldiers, but bandits equipped with bows and daggers. Even in Hatti there were caravan robbers! When apprehended, they were executed on the spot.
Ramses, Volume III Page 20