Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  Nefertari chanted the magic words that changed the lethal fury of the lioness into a life-giving force. Sekhmet’s seven priestesses communed with the spirit of the queen as she offered herself to the goddess and brought light from the dark recesses of her chapel.

  The high priestess poured water on the head of the lioness, sculpted in diorite, a hard, sparkling stone. The liquid ran over the goddess’s body, which was human in form, and into a vessel held by an acolyte.

  Nefertari drank the healing water, absorbing Sekhmet’s magic. The goddess’s ferocious energy helped her fight the creeping weakness. Then the Great Royal Wife remained alone with Sekhmet for a day and a night, in silence and total darkness.

  When she crossed the Nile, tenderly leaning on Ramses’ shoulder, Nefertari felt stronger than she had in weeks. The king’s love gave rise to another kind of magic, as powerful as that of the goddess. A chariot took them to the rock-cut temple at Deir el-Bahri, Queen Hatshepsut’s sublime achievement. The garden in front of it bloomed with frankincense trees imported from the land of Punt. This was the domain of the goddess Hathor, the patroness of love and beauty, Sekhmet’s mirror image.

  One of the temple buildings was a convalescent home where the patients were bathed several times a day and sometimes given a sleeping cure. The bases of the warm-water baths bore special hieroglyph texts to ward off illness.

  “You need to rest, Nefertari.”

  “My royal duties . . .”

  “Your first duty is to survive, so that our union may remain the cornerstone of Egypt. Those who wish us harm are trying to destroy the country by separating us.”

  The garden of Hatshepsut’s temple seemed to be part of another world. The leaves of the frankincense trees gleamed in the soft winter sunlight. A network of shallow ditches provided constant irrigation, adjustable according to the weather.

  Nefertari had the sensation that her love for Ramses was growing even stronger, as wide as the limitless sky. The way he looked at her showed that he felt the same. But their happiness was fragile, so fragile . . .

  “Don’t sacrifice Egypt for me, Ramses. Swear that Egypt alone will dictate your behavior. Your life belongs to your country, not to any mere human. The people’s welfare depends on your commitment; so does the future of our civilization. Without our time-honored values, what will become of the world? I love you with all my strength, and my dying thought will be of our love; but I have no right to hold you back, for you are Pharaoh.”

  They sat down on a stone bench. Ramses held Nefertari close.

  “You’re my partner, Nefertari. Only you can see me as both Horus and Set, the warring brothers, using the magic formula handed down from the queens of the First Dynasty. Through your eyes Pharaoh exists; your gaze holds his light and reflects it over the Twin Kingdoms. Every pharaoh that has gone before me drew strength from the law of Ma’at, but no two were alike, for the human spirit is ever changing. Your eyes are unique, Nefertari. Egypt and her pharaoh need your eyes.”

  In her darkest hour, Nefertari found a new love.

  “In the library of the House of Life in Heliopolis, I discovered some measures we can take against our invisible enemy. The power of Sekhmet and Hathor, combined with the rest you will take in this temple, can renew your energy. But that won’t be enough.”

  “Are you going back to Pi-Ramses?”

  “No, Nefertari. I may have a cure for what ails you.”

  “A cure?”

  “According to the ancient texts, there’s a place in Nubia that’s sacred to Hathor.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “The exact site has been lost for centuries, but I’ll find it.”

  “You can’t stay away too long.”

  “Thanks to the current, the journey home will be short. If I find Hathor’s magic stone without too much trouble, I’ll be back soon enough.”

  “But the Hittites . . .”

  “I’ve left my mother in charge. If they attack, she’ll let you know at once. You’re authorized to act.”

  They embraced in the shade of the frankincense trees. Nefertari wished she could cling to him forever, spend the rest of her days with him in this peaceful temple.

  But she was the Great Royal Wife and he was the Pharaoh of Egypt.

  FORTY-TWO

  Lita looked pleadingly at the sorcerer Ofir.

  “You must, my child.”

  “No, it hurts too much.”

  “That shows you the spell is working. We have to go on.”

  “My burns . . .”

  “Dolora will dress them for you. They won’t leave a trace.”

  Akhenaton’s great-granddaughter turned her back to the sorcerer.

  “No, I can’t take any more!”

  “Enough of your tantrums! Do as I say or I’ll shut you up in the cellar.”

  “Not that, I beseech you, not that!”

  Of all Ofir’s punishments, the claustrophobic young woman feared the cellar most.

  “Come into my workshop, strip to the waist, and lie down on your back.”

  Dolora, Ramses’ sister, deplored the sorcerer’s rough treatment of Lita, but understood its necessity. The latest news from court was gratifying: Nefertari, suffering from a mysterious and incurable disease, had departed for Thebes, retiring to the temple at Deir el-Bahri. Her lingering death would break Ramses’ heart, and he wouldn’t outlive her for long.

  The path to power lay wide open for Shaanar.

  As soon as Ramses left, Serramanna called at each of the four vast army bases in Pi-Ramses, demanding that the generals intensify their training efforts. The mercenaries immediately demanded a bonus, inciting the regular troops to make a similar request.

  Faced with a problem beyond his capabilities, the Sard consulted Ahmeni, who took it to the Queen Mother. Her instantaneous reply was that the soldiers and mercenaries could choose between obeying orders and being replaced by fresh recruits. If they stayed, and Serramanna was satisfied with their progress the next time that he reviewed the troops, Tuya might consider a pay increase.

  The troops gave in, leaving the Sard free to pursue his major preoccupation: finding the sorcerer who lured Romay, the late chief steward, into stealing Nefertari’s shawl. Ramses had shared his suspicions freely with his security chief, citing Romay’s strange death and the queen’s even stranger illness.

  If that stupid Romay had only survived, Serramanna would have had no trouble making him talk. Torture was not an accepted practice in Egypt, but using black magic against the royal couple must certainly qualify as an exception.

  But Romay was dead, taking his secret with him to the demon-infested underworld, and the trail to the mastermind seemed to have gone cold. But had it really? Romay had once been jolly and talkative; perhaps he’d had an accomplice, some palace crony, an underling, a pretty maidservant . . .

  Questioning his peers and subordinates would certainly bring results, provided the questions were asked with a certain force of conviction . . . Serramanna hurried over to Ahmeni’s office. He would convince the scribe that his methods were sound.

  The entire domestic staff of the palace was assembled at the North Base. Linen maids, chambermaids, hairdressers, masseuses, kitchen boys, sweepers, and countless other servants gathered in a huge armory. Serramanna’s stern-faced archers were there to keep order.

  When the Sard appeared, in helmet and breastplate, there was a collective gasp.

  “New incidents of theft have been reported at the palace,” he revealed. “We know that the perpetrator is an accomplice of the late chief steward Romay, who angered the gods with his evil deeds. Today I will interrogate you one by one. Unless I get to the bottom of this today, you’ll all be shipped off to a desert prison until the guilty party comes forward.”

  It had taken a great deal of arm-twisting before Ahmeni consented to let him use these blatantly illicit tactics. Any of the domestics might have stepped forward to challenge the Sard, and his baseless threats and asser
tions would never stand up in court.

  However, the king’s personal bodyguard was so fearsome-looking, his manner so commanding, and the cavernous armory so unnerving, they were completely cowed.

  Serramanna was in luck: the third woman who came into the room where he was conducting the interviews had quite a bit to say.

  “My job is keeping the flower arrangements fresh,” she told him. “I hated that fat old Romay.”

  “Why?”

  “He took advantage of me. He said if I didn’t sleep with him, he’d have me fired.”

  “If you’d filed a grievance, you could have had him fired.”

  “I wasn’t sure it would work . . . and then Romay kept saying he’d marry me and set me up for life.”

  “He told you he was rich?”

  “He didn’t like to talk about it, but I got him to tell me a little when he was, well, in the right mood.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said he’d be paid a fortune for a rare object.”

  “And how was he planning to get his hands on it?”

  “Through a temporary helper in the queen’s chambers.”

  “Do you know exactly what this priceless object was?”

  “I’m not sure. But I do know that Romay never gave me a thing, not even an amulet. Will I get a reward for telling you all this?”

  A temporary helper in the queen’s chambers, Serramanna muttered to himself as he ran to see Ahmeni. A staff scribe located the palace payroll records for the week the queen’s shawl had gone missing.

  Indeed, a girl named Nani had filled in as a linen maid that week, assisting in the queen’s chambers. The head chambermaid gave a description and confirmed that the girl could well have participated in the theft of Her Majesty’s shawl.

  The chambermaid also recalled where Nani said she lived at the time.

  “Question her,” Ahmeni told Serramanna, “but don’t lay a hand on her or do anything illegal.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Sard replied without a hint of irony.

  An old woman dozed on her doorstep on the east side of town. Serramanna shook her gently by the shoulder.

  “Wake up, old woman.”

  She opened her eyes and brushed a fly away with a callused hand.

  “And who might you be?”

  “Serramanna, the Pharaoh’s personal bodyguard.”

  “I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you used to be a pirate?”

  “It’s hard to change, old woman. I’m as mean as ever, especially when people lie to me.”

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  “Because I’m going to ask you some questions.”

  “It’s a sin to talk too much.”

  “That depends on the circumstances. You could say that talking to me is an obligation.”

  “Be on your way, pirate. At my age, I’m obliged to no one.”

  “Are you related to a girl called Nani?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “This is her address.”

  “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “When she had the good fortune to find a job at the palace, why would she run away?”

  “I never said she ran away.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Remember, I hate being lied to.”

  “Would you strike an old grandmother, pirate?”

  “Yes, to save Ramses.”

  The crone gazed anxiously up at him.

  “I don’t understand . . . is Pharaoh in danger?”

  “Your granddaughter is a thief, perhaps worse. She may be involved in a plot against him. If you won’t talk, you could be named as an accessory.”

  “I don’t see how Nani could be mixed up in anything like that.”

  “She is, and I have proof.”

  The fly began buzzing around the old woman again. Serramanna swatted it.

  “Death is a blessing, pirate, when it comes at the end of long suffering. I had a good husband and a good son, but my boy married a horrible woman who gave him a horrible child. My husband died, my son and his wife split up, and I was left to raise the brat. I fed her and cared for her, tried to teach her right from wrong . . . and now you’re telling me she’s a thief and a traitor?”

  The old woman fell silent, wheezing. Serramanna said nothing, hoping she’d tell him more. If she didn’t, he’d leave her alone.

  “Nani left for Memphis. She kept boasting that she’d be living in a fine villa near the School of Medicine, and I’d be left to die in this poor excuse for a house.”

  Serramanna reported to Ahmeni at once.

  “If you roughed up the old woman, she’s bound to press charges against you.”

  “My men will back me up: I didn’t touch her.”

  “What will you do next?”

  “She gave me a detailed description of her granddaughter; it matches the one we got from the palace chambermaid. It should be enough for me to identify her.”

  “But how will you find her?”

  “With a house-to-house search of her Memphis neighborhood.”

  “What if the old woman was lying to protect this Nani?”

  “It’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  “Memphis isn’t far away, but you’re needed here.”

  “I won’t be far away, as you said yourself. Suppose I do locate Nani and she leads me to the sorcerer: don’t you think Ramses would approve?”

  “Approve is far too weak a word.”

  “Then give me the authority to proceed.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Ahsha and Arinna arrived at the gates to Hattusa, gaping. The capital of the Hittite empire bore the clear stamp of its military might. Since the three gates to the upper town—the King’s Gate, Sphinx Gate, and Lion’s Gate—were off limits to merchants, the young couple would have to enter through one of the lower town’s two gates flanked by lance-wielding soldiers.

  Ahsha displayed his earthenware pots, even offering one of the guards a bargain. The soldier shoved him roughly and ordered him on his way. The lovers walked slowly toward the part of town where craftsmen and shopkeepers sold their wares.

  The rocky gorge, the zigzagging terraces, the boulders in the walls of the Storm God’s temple . . . Arinna was impressed with Hattusa. But Ahsha deplored the lack of charm and elegance in this rugged city, topped by a citadel that made it virtually invulnerable, hewn out of the rough heart of Anatolia. Peace and comfort seemed to have no place here; every stone was steeped in violence.

  The Egyptian looked for gardens, trees, fountains, but found none. A chill wind whistled, making him miss the paradise he called home.

  The couple was repeatedly forced to flatten themselves against a building when a patrol thundered by. Anyone in the way, including women, children, and old people, was pushed aside, even trampled by the hurrying foot soldiers.

  The army’s presence was everywhere. On every street corner, soldiers stood guard.

  Ahsha displayed his wares to a seller of household goods. As was the custom in Hatti, Arinna stood behind him and kept silent.

  “Nice work,” said the shopkeeper. “How many do you make in a week?”

  “I brought all I made in the country. I’m hoping to settle here.”

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I have an empty shop in the lower town. I’ll take the pots you have on hand in exchange for a month’s rent. That will give you time to set up your workshop.”

  “All right, if you throw in three pieces of tin.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “I have to buy food.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ahsha and Arinna moved into a small, damp, windowless house with a dirt floor.

  “I liked my farm better,” the widow admitted. “At least we were warm there.”

  “We won’t stay here long. Take one of these pieces of tin and go buy some blankets and groceries.”


  “And where are you going?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back later tonight.”

  In his flawless Hittite, Ahsha asked around the neighborhood and found a reputable tavern at the foot of a watchtower. The local craftsmen and tradesmen huddled in the smoke of oil lamps.

  Ahsha entered into conversation with two bearded, affable men who sold spare parts for fighting chariots. They had begun as woodworkers but found their current line of work far more profitable than carving chairs.

  “What an amazing city!” Ahsha said with enthusiasm. “I had no idea it was so grand.”

  “First time you’ve been here, then?”

  “Yes, but I’m planning to start my own pottery business.”

  “Then try to supply the army. Otherwise you’ll find slim pickings.”

  “They said back home that there might be a war . . .” The carpenters howled. “You heard right, my friend! It’s no secret here in the capital. Ever since the emperor put his son, Uri-Teshoop, in charge of the army, they’ve been drilling day and night. This is the big one, son. Egypt is going to get it.”

  “About time!”

  “Not everyone’s so sure, especially the big merchants. Hattusili, the emperor’s brother, used to be their mouthpiece, but now he’s thrown his lot in with Uri-Teshoop. For us, it only means more business. Times have never been better! At this rate, Hatti will have triple the number of fighting chariots in no time. Soon we’ll have more chariots than men to drive them!”

  Ahsha emptied his jar of coarse wine and swayed tipsily.

  “To war! Hatti will make quick work of Egypt, and we’ll dance in the streets!”

  “Don’t get carried away, man. The emperor doesn’t seem in any hurry to launch the attack.”

  “So what’s he waiting for?”

  “How would we know? You’d better ask Captain Kenzor.” The carpenters roared at their joke.

  “Who is this Kenzor?”

  “He’s the military liaison between Muwattali and his son. And a handsome devil, believe you me! When he’s in town, the ladies form a line. The most popular officer in the country, without a doubt.”