Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  Ahsha flattened himself on the ground. If the four bandits saw him, they were sure to slit his throat.

  Their leader, bearded and pockmarked, sniffed the air like a hunting dog.

  “Look,” he said to one of his companions. “This is no prize. Nothing but tablets. You know how to read?”

  “Never had time to learn.”

  “Is this stuff worth anything?”

  “Not to us.”

  Furious, the outlaw shattered the tablets and threw the pieces into the ravine.

  “Whoever owns these donkeys can’t have gone far. And he has to have tin on him.”

  “Let’s spread out,” ordered the ringleader.

  Numb with fear and chilled to the bone, Ahsha kept his wits about him. Only one bandit was heading in his direction. He crawled forward, hugging a tree root. The ringleader walked around him without even noticing.

  Ahsha smashed the man’s neck in with a rock. He fell forward, his mouth in the dirt.

  “Over there!” cried one of his accomplices, who’d seen the attack.

  Seizing his victim’s dagger, Ahsha hurled it, hitting the man in his chest as he ran forward.

  The two survivors readied their bows.

  Ahsha’s only option was to run. An arrow whizzed past his ear as he clambered down the ravine, aiming for a briar patch where he could take cover.

  Another arrow grazed his right calf just as he plunged into his temporary shelter. Covered with scratches, his hands raw, he fought his way through the bramble, fell, got up, and began to run again.

  He ran until he could run no more. If his pursuers caught up with him, he wouldn’t have the strength to fight them. But the ravine was silent, save for the cawing of a flock of crows skirting black clouds.

  Warily, Ahsha stayed put until nightfall. Then he climbed back up the slope to where he’d left his donkeys, edging along the ravine.

  The animals were gone. Only the bodies of the two dead bandits remained.

  Ahsha’s own wounds were superficial but painful. He washed at a spring, rubbed his bruised skin with the herbs at hand, climbed to the top of a sturdy oak, and slept stretched out on two thick, almost parallel branches.

  He dreamed of a comfortable bed in one of the plush villas Shaanar had provided in exchange for his services. He dreamed of a pool beneath tall palm trees, a cup of vintage wine, and a pretty lute player plucking a tune, then letting him stroke her body.

  Cold rain woke him before dawn, and he headed north once more.

  The loss of his donkeys and tablets would force him to change his identity. A courier without documents or beasts of burden would appear highly suspicious and soon be under arrest. He’d never make it past the next checkpoint.

  If he stayed in the forest, he could steer clear of roving patrols, but what about the bears, wildcats, and bandits he might encounter? There was plenty of water, but what about food? With any luck, he might waylay a traveling salesman and assume his identity.

  His situation was less than ideal, but nothing would keep him from reaching Hattusa and finding out for himself how strong the Hittite army really was.

  FORTY

  After a day on horseback directing cavalry maneuvers, Uri-Teshoop was taking a frigid shower. The intensive training was beginning to show results, but the emperor’s son was still not satisfied. The Hittite army must leave no opening for the Egyptian troops, nor must it show any hesitation during the various phases of the attack.

  As the general was drying off in the brisk wind, his aide-de-camp came to tell him that a merchant newly arrived from Hattusa desired an audience.

  “Let him wait,” said Uri-Teshoop. “I’ll see him tomorrow at dawn. Merchants were born to obey. What manner of man is he?”

  “Important, by the look of him.”

  “He can still wait. Put him in the least comfortable tent you can find.”

  “What if he protests?”

  “Let him complain.”

  Hattusili and his escort had galloped at breakneck speed. The emperor’s brother ignored his cold and his fever, obsessed with the need to reach Uri-Teshoop’s headquarters before it was too late.

  When he spotted the encampment in the middle of the night, it looked calm. Hattusili made himself known to the guards, who opened the wooden gates to him. Preceded by the chief security officer, the emperor’s brother was shown into Uri-Teshoop’s tent.

  The general woke up unhappy. Seeing Hattusili was no pleasure under the best of circumstances.

  “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?” grumbled Uri-Teshoop.

  “Your life.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve uncovered a plot against you.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I just returned from an exhausting journey, I’m ill, and my only desire is to rest. Do you think I would have ridden all night from Hattusa if it wasn’t serious?”

  “Who wants to kill me?”

  “You know that I’ve worked closely with the merchants . . . While I was away, one of them confessed to my wife that his friend had gone over the edge and decided to kill you. He’s afraid that a war with Egypt will wipe him out.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “I don’t know, but I came here to warn you straightaway.”

  “You’re no partisan of this war either, are you?”

  “You’re wrong, nephew. I see the necessity for it. Your victory will allow our empire to continue expanding. The emperor has appointed you to head his armed forces because he recognizes your abilities as a fighter and your capacity for leadership.”

  Hattusili’s speech astonished Uri-Teshoop, though without allaying his suspicions. The emperor’s brother was a master of the art of flattery.

  Yet it was true a merchant had come seeking an audience with him. If Uri-Teshoop had consented to see the man at once, he might no longer be among the living. There was still one simple way to see whether Hattusili’s story was true.

  The merchant had spent a sleepless night, mentally rehearsing what he had to do. He would sink his dagger into Uri-Teshoop’s throat to keep him from crying out, then exit at the leisurely pace of a dignified businessman. He would mount his horse and trot quietly out of the encampment, picking up speed, then jumping on the back of a faster mount concealed in the woods nearby.

  The risk was considerable, but the merchant detested Uri-Teshoop. A year earlier, his two sons had taken part in one of the warmongering brute’s senseless expeditions. They were among the twenty young men he drove to death in the course of it. When Puduhepa had planted the seeds of this plan, he had quickly consented. The reward she promised was almost beside the point. Even if he was arrested and executed, he would have the satisfaction of taking revenge for his sons and ridding the country of a monster.

  At dawn, Uri-Teshoop’s aide-de-camp went to fetch the merchant and escorted him to the general’s tent. Controlling his nervousness, he spoke of his merchant friends who hoped to oust the emperor and help his son assume the throne.

  The aide-de-camp frisked him and found no weapon. The short, double-edged dagger was concealed beneath the harmless-looking woolen hat most merchants favored during the winter.

  “Go in. The general is waiting.”

  His back to the visitor, Uri-Teshoop was bent over a map.

  “Thank you for seeing me, General.”

  “State your business.”

  “The merchant class is divided. Some wish to keep the truce, others lean toward war. I side with those who believe we should conquer Egypt.”

  “Go on.”

  It was the perfect chance: Uri-Teshoop was still concentrating on the map, drawing dots on it, his back turned.

  The merchant whipped off his hat, gripped the handle of the dagger, and approached the prince, still talking calmly.

  “My friends and I are convinced that the emperor will never be able to bring off such a conquest. But a general like you, a born warrior . . .
Die, you cur, die like you killed my sons!”

  Just as the merchant lunged, the general whirled around, his left hand also clutching a dagger. The attacker’s blade plunged into his neck, while the general struck the merchant in the heart. Both fell down dead, their arms and legs tangled together.

  The real Uri-Teshoop came out from behind a panel of his tent.

  To learn the truth, he had sacrificed an enlisted man roughly the same build as himself. The idiot had moved too quickly and killed the merchant; questioning him would have been of value. Still, the prince had heard enough to corroborate his uncle’s story.

  Hattusili was a realist, and cautious, Uri-Teshoop calculated. He wanted to back the winner. He hoped that his nephew would return this important favor once he returned victorious, the future master of Hatti.

  Hattusili was sadly mistaken.

  Ahsha had no need to ambush a fellow traveler, for he happened upon far easier prey: a young widow by the name of Arinna, barely over twenty, childless and alone. Her soldier husband, stationed at Kadesh, had drowned when the army crossed the Orontes at flood stage. Now Arinna was struggling to eke a living from the meager farm he had left her.

  Arriving on her doorstep in a state of exhaustion, Ahsha had explained that he had been robbed and escaped by crawling through a briar patch. He begged her to give him shelter for the night.

  As soon as he began to wash in the water which she had heated on the hearth in an earthenware basin, Arinna’s feelings changed. Her shyness was replaced by the overwhelming desire to touch his beautiful body. She had gone without love for months now. Acting on impulse, she undressed, slipped her arms around the stranger’s neck, and pressed her ample bosom to his back. Ahsha did not resist.

  For two days, the lovers didn’t leave the farmhouse. Arinna was inexperienced, but ardent and giving; she was one of the rare lovers he would remember clearly.

  Outside, it was raining.

  Ahsha and Arinna lay naked by the hearth. His hand traced the young woman’s furrows and valleys as she sighed with pleasure.

  “Who are you really?”

  “I told you, a traveling salesman robbed by bandits.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re too refined, too elegant. You don’t act or talk like a salesman.”

  Ahsha took note. His disguise might not be as convincing as he thought.

  “You’re not brutal enough to be a Hittite. When you make love, you think of your partner. My husband only ever took his own pleasure. Who are you?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I swear by the Storm God!” The farm wife glowed with excitement.

  “It isn’t easy . . .”

  “Trust me! Haven’t I given you proof enough of my love?”

  He kissed the tips of her breasts.

  “I’m the son of a Syrian nobleman,” explained Ahsha, “and my dream is to join the Hittite army. But my father won’t let me because of the danger. He says some men don’t even survive the training. I ran away to see Hatti on my own and prove myself so that I can be recruited.”

  “You’re mad! Our soldiers will eat you alive.”

  “I want to fight against the Egyptians. If we don’t push them back, they’ll seize all my property in Syria and ruin me.”

  She laid her head on his chest. “I hate war.”

  “Is there any way around it?”

  “Everyone thinks we’re heading for war any day.”

  “Do you know where the army is training?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “Have you seen any troops passing through?”

  “Not here. It’s the middle of nowhere.”

  “Will you come with me to Hattusa?”

  “Well . . . I’ve never been there.”

  “Then it’s time you went. In the capital, I can get to know some officers and convince them to sign me up.”

  “Why would you want to? You’re too young to die!”

  “If I don’t act quickly, my province will be destroyed. Egypt has gotten too big.”

  “Hattusa is far away.”

  “I saw that you have pots stored out in the shed. Did your husband make them?”

  “Yes, he was a potter before he was drafted.”

  “We can sell them and live in Hattusa. I hear it’s an unforgettable city.”

  “But the farm . . .”

  “There’s not much to do here in winter. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

  Arinna stretched out closer to the hearth and opened her arms to her heaven-sent lover.

  FORTY-ONE

  The House of Life in Heliopolis was the oldest center of learning in all of Egypt. As usual, ritualists were going over the texts to be used in the celebration of the mysteries of Osiris; state magicians were laboring to keep evil at bay; astrologers were charting their predictions for the following months; healers were formulating potions. Strangely, however, the library was off limits for the day—the library where millions of scrolls were stored, including the original version of the Pyramid Texts and the prayers for the pharaoh’s rebirth in the heavens.

  Today the library was reserved for a single reader: Ramses.

  Arriving during the night, the monarch had locked himself behind the great stone walls with their shelves preserving the essence of Egyptian knowledge, relating to the known world and the afterlife as well. Ramses had come to consult the archives because of his concern for Nefertari’s health.

  The Great Royal Wife was wasting away. Neither the palace physician nor Setau could determine why. The Queen Mother, however, offered a disturbing diagnosis: forces beyond the province of traditional medicine might be causing Nefertari’s sickness. Black magic, she felt, was at work.

  For ten hours or more, Ramses consulted the lore of his ancestors. As soon as he found what he was looking for, he headed back to his capital.

  Nefertari had chaired a meeting of the Women Weavers’ Guild with representatives from every temple in the country. She gave orders for the ritual vestments to be woven until the next inundation. After making an offering of red, white, green, and blue strips of cloth, the queen left the building, supported by two priestesses. They helped her into a litter that carried her back to the palace.

  Dr. Pariamaku hurried to the Great Royal Wife’s bedside and administered a stimulant, though without much hope of alleviating the fatigue that had been slowly crippling her. As soon as Ramses entered the room, the physician exited.

  The king kissed Nefertari’s hands and forehead.

  “I’m so tired.”

  “You need to cut back on your duties.”

  “It’s more than a passing weakness . . . I feel the life draining out of me like a stream, but now it’s only a trickle.”

  “Tuya thinks it’s something more than physical.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Someone is using the forces of darkness against us.”

  “My shawl . . . my favorite shawl! It fell into the hands of a sorcerer.”

  “It must have, my darling. I’ve asked Serramanna to find out what happened.”

  “He’d better hurry, Ramses.”

  “There are other things we can try, Nefertari. But that means leaving Pi-Ramses tomorrow morning.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a place where our secret enemy can’t touch you.”

  Ramses met for hours with Ahmeni. Pharaoh’s private secretary and sandal bearer had nothing out of the ordinary to report. As always when the king was about to leave for an extended period, he anxiously reviewed outstanding business in order to avoid potential pitfalls. The country’s welfare was always his prime concern. Ramses noted how thoroughly Ahmeni studied each document, mentally filing away essential information and discarding the rest.

  The king made a number of important decisions and gave Ahmeni the task of seeing that the various branches of government carried them out. Then he reviewed Serramanna’s standing orders
, not the least of which was overseeing the training of his elite commandos quartered in Pi-Ramses.

  At the close of the day the monarch met his mother for a walk in the garden where she liked to meditate. Her shoulders covered with a shirred cape, she wore earrings in the shape of lotus blossoms and an amethyst necklace that softened her angular features.

  “I’m leaving for the south with Nefertari, Mother. It’s too dangerous for her here.”

  “You’re right. Until we stop the dark forces at work against us, the queen must remain in seclusion.”

  “I’m leaving you in charge. If there’s an emergency, Ahmeni will carry out your orders.”

  “What about this war on the horizon?”

  “For the moment, everything’s quiet. The Hittites are doing nothing. Muwattali keeps sending me meaningless letters.”

  “Couldn’t that translate into domestic unrest? Muwattali eliminated quite a few rivals before he seized power. There must be factions still working against him.”

  “If so, that’s hardly good news for us,” commented Ramses. “What better way to unite his country than a new war?”

  “In that case, the Hittites must be gearing up for a major confrontation.”

  “I hope I’m wrong . . . perhaps Muwattali has simply grown tired of bloodshed.”

  “Don’t think like an Egyptian, my son. Peace is no virtue to the Hittites. An emperor has to preach conquest and expansion, or he’s quickly toppled.”

  “If the attack comes while I’m out of reach, don’t wait for my return to retaliate.”

  Tuya’s small chin was square and determined.

  “No Hittite will cross the border into the Delta.”

  The temple of the goddess Mut, the “Mother,” contained three hundred sixty-five statues of Sekhmet, the lion goddess, for use in the morning offerings, and an equal number to be used each evening. This was where the kingdom’s great physicians came to probe the secrets of illnesses and their cures.