Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  “Egypt doesn’t need a defeated pharaoh. I’ll fight them, Menna.”

  Ramses put on his blue crown and fastened his battle gear, combining a kilt and a breastplate covered with small metal disks. On his wrists were golden bracelets with lapis lazuli clasps in the shape of ducks, with golden tails.

  Calmly, as if it were an ordinary day, the monarch padded his two horses with red, blue, and green cotton blankets. Victory in Thebes, the stallion, and the Goddess Mut Is Satisfied, the mare, were adorned with magnificent plumes of red tipped with blue.

  Ramses climbed into his gilded war chariot, ten feet long, its caisson resting on an axle and shaft. The pieces had been bent with heat, covered with gold leaf, and joined with tenons; at the fittings, leather protected the parts from friction. The caisson’s frame, open at the back, was made from gold-plated planks. The bottom was of interlaced thongs.

  On the side panels, Asian and Nubian warriors were depicted kneeling in submission. The dream of a kingdom that was being shattered, the final symbolic statement of Egypt’s power, its domination over both the north and the south.

  The chariot was equipped with two quivers, one for arrows, the other for bows and spears. With these paltry weapons, Pharaoh was preparing to combat an entire army.

  Ramses wrapped the reins around his waist, leaving his hands free. His horses were brave and intelligent; they would head straight into the fray. A low growling sound gave him reassurance: his lion, Fighter, would be steadfast, striding by his side to the death.

  A lion and a pair of horses were all the allies the King of Egypt had left. The Amon division’s cavalry and infantry were fleeing at the approach of the enemy.

  “If you make a mistake,” Seti had told his son, “blame no one but yourself and correct your error. Fight like a bull, a lion, and a falcon. Rage like the storm. Otherwise, you will be beaten.”

  With a deafening roar, raising a cloud of dust, the enemy hurtled up the rise where the Pharaoh of Egypt stood proud and alone in his golden chariot.

  Ramses was filled with a profound sense of injustice. Why was his destiny turning against him, why must Egypt be trampled by the barbarians?

  On the flat stretch in front of the fortress, the Ra division was in tatters, the few survivors having fled southward. The remains of the Ptah and Set divisions were trapped on the east bank of the Orontes. His own Amon division, though it boasted the cream of the charioteers, had behaved appallingly. The very first enemy charge had sent it running. There was not one commanding officer left, not one shield bearer or bowman ready to fight. No matter what their rank, his soldiers had thought only of saving their necks, forgetting their country. Menna, the king’s personal driver, was on his knees, head in hands, so as not to witness the enemy charge.

  Five years on the throne, five years during which Ramses had tried to be faithful to Seti’s spirit and build on his heritage. Five years ending in disaster, on the heels of which Egypt would be invaded and her people enslaved. Nefertari and Tuya could offer only a token resistance to the swarm of predators spreading over the Delta, then devastating the Nile Valley.

  As if they could read their master’s thoughts, the two horses began to shed tears.

  It was too much for Ramses.

  Raising his eyes to the sun, he spoke to Amon, the god concealed in the light, whose true form no other being would ever know.

  “I call on you, Amon! How can a father abandon his son in the midst of the enemy? What have I ever done to deserve such treatment? Every country around has joined against me; my soldiers, though great in number, have stranded me here, alone and helpless. And whom am I left to fight? Cruel barbarians, strangers to the law of Ma’at. For you, my father, I have built temples, to you made my daily offerings. The fragrance of my rarest flowers has wafted up to you. Great pillared halls have risen in your name. Banners bearing your name fly from towering flagstaffs to announce your holy presence. From the quarries of Elephantine I have hewn tall obelisks proclaiming your glory.

  “I call on you, Amon, because I am alone, absolutely alone. I have acted for you with a loving heart. In my distress, Father, grant me your strength. Amon would do more for me than millions of soldiers and hundreds of thousands of chariots. A valiant army is nothing compared to the might of Amon.”

  The palisade protecting the entry to the center of the camp gave way, opening the way to the speeding chariots. In less than a minute, the young Pharaoh’s life would be over.

  “Father,” cried Ramses, “why have you abandoned me?”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Muwattali, Hattusili, and the assembled princes admired the Pharaoh’s stance.

  “He’ll die a warrior,” said the emperor, “like a Hittite, and that’s no small compliment. Hattusili, I give you credit.”

  “Those Bedouins were perfect,” replied his brother. “They convinced Ramses that our troops were days from Kadesh.”

  “Uri-Teshoop was mistaken to oppose your plan and recommend an engagement out on the level. I won’t forget that.”

  “The important thing now is to bring off the final victory. Once we’ve conquered Egypt, Hatti will reign supreme.”

  “First let’s finish with Ramses, when the last of his troops have gone.”

  The sun abruptly grew twice as bright, blinding the Hittites and their allies. The rumble of thunder cut through the cloudless sky.

  It had to be a hallucination. The voice from the ends of the universe, reverberating through the blue vastness . . . a voice that spoke for Ramses’ ears alone: “I am your father, Amon. Your hand is in mine. I am yours, the Father of Victories.”

  The Pharaoh was suddenly wrapped in light. His body grew dazzling as gold in the sun. Ramses, the son of Ra, took on the power of the heavenly body, hurling himself at his stunned opponents.

  He was no longer a failed commander, overwhelmed and alone, but a king of unrivaled strength with a tireless sword arm. He was a devastating flame, a shooting star, a rushing wind, a wild bull on the rampage, a falcon with talons poised to strike. Ramses let fly arrow after arrow, killing the drivers of the Hittite chariots. Uncontrolled, the horses reared and collided. The chariots overturned, wreaking havoc.

  Fighter, the massive Nubian lion, sprang into action, raking his claws over enemy soldiers, sinking his fangs into necks and skulls. His proud mane blazed as he attacked with deadly accuracy.

  Ramses and Fighter turned the tide and broke through the enemy lines. The infantry commander raised his spear, but before he could throw it Pharaoh’s shot hit him in the left eye, precisely as the lion’s jaw closed over the terrified face of the emperor’s lead charioteer.

  Despite their superior numbers, the combined forces began to back away, scurrying down the rise toward the level ground.

  Muwattali blanched. “That’s not a man,” he exclaimed. “That’s Set himself, the only one with the power to overcome a force of thousands! Look, when you try to attack him, your hands won’t work, you can’t move, you forget how to use your weapons!”

  Even the imperturbable Hattusili was awestruck. He could have sworn that he saw fire spurting out of Ramses.

  A giant Hittite managed to scramble into the king’s chariot and flail at him with a dagger, but his coat of mail went up in smoke and he died screaming in agony from his burns. Neither Ramses nor the lion slowed down. Pharaoh felt the hand of Amon guiding him. The Father of Victories was at his side, giving him the strength of an army. Like a whirlwind sweeping through a haystack, the King of Egypt scattered his opponents.

  “We can’t let this go on,” Hattusili said angrily.

  “Our men are panic-stricken,” the Prince of Aleppo pointed out.

  “Then get them under control,” ordered Muwattali.

  “Ramses is a god . . .”

  “Ramses is a man, even if his courage seems superhuman. Take action, Prince, encourage our soldiers, and this battle will soon be over.”

  The Prince of Aleppo reluctantly spurred his horse and rode down
the knoll that served as the coalition leaders’ command post. He was determined to put an end to Ramses’ antics with his lion.

  Hattusili, scanning the hills to the west, suddenly went rigid.

  “Your Majesty, over there . . . it looks like Egyptian chariots heading this way.”

  “Which direction are they coming from?”

  “It would have to be the coast road.”

  “But how would they get through?”

  “Uri-Teshoop refused to set up roadblocks, claiming that no Egyptian would dare to try that approach.”

  The reinforcements were speeding forward, encountering no opposition, spreading out over the flatland and rushing into the breach Ramses had opened.

  “Don’t run,” the Prince of Aleppo screamed at his troops. “Get Ramses!”

  A few soldiers obeyed. The moment they did an about-face, the lion clawed them from head to chest.

  When the Prince of Aleppo saw the Pharaoh’s golden chariot bearing down on him, his heart sank. He took off at a gallop. In his attempt to escape, his mount trampled several Hittites. Alarmed, he let go of the reins. The horse bolted for the river, where a tangle of chariots was breaking apart—some sinking, others drifting off on the current. Soldiers were struggling in the mire, some drowning, others trying to swim. They all preferred to take their chances in the Orontes rather than face the demigod cutting through their ranks like wildfire.

  The Egyptian reinforcements finished the job for Ramses, exterminating the enemy troops still in place, herding stragglers into the river. One charioteer fished out the sputtering Prince of Aleppo, feet first.

  Ramses’ chariot was approaching the knoll where the enemy command was stationed.

  “Let’s pull back,” Hattusili advised the emperor.

  “We still have units on the west bank.”

  “They won’t be enough. Ramses may even take the ford and bring across his other two divisions.”

  The emperor wiped his forehead with the back of one hand.

  “I don’t understand, Hattusili. How can one man fight off an entire army?”

  “If that man is Pharaoh, if he’s Ramses . . .”

  “I know. ‘Rich in Armies, Powerful in Victories,’ they say in Egyptian . . . but that’s only his title, and this is a field of battle!”

  “We’re beaten, Your Majesty. Let’s move to safety.”

  “A Hittite never retreats!”

  “Consider the prospect of staying alive to fight another day.”

  “What are you suggesting, Hattusili?”

  “Why not take cover inside the citadel?”

  “We’ll be trapped!”

  “We have no choice,” advised Hattusili. “If we go north, Ramses and his troops will pursue us.”

  “Let’s hope Kadesh really is impregnable.”

  “It’s not just any fortress. Even Seti decided not to storm it.”

  “But his son will.”

  “Let’s hurry, Your Majesty!”

  Grudgingly, Muwattali raised his right hand and held the pose for what seemed to him endless seconds, ordering the retreat.

  Biting his lips until he drew blood, Uri-Teshoop watched the whole sorry spectacle. The battalion blocking access to the first ford on the east bank of the Orontes moved up to the second ford. What was left of the Ptah division refused to follow, fearing a second ambush. The commander decided instead to shore up the rear, dispatching a messenger to give the all clear to the Set division, bringing it out of the forest of Labwi.

  The Prince of Aleppo came to his senses, escaped from his rescuer, swam across the river, and joined his allies retreating toward Kadesh. The Egyptian reinforcements fired volleys of arrows on them, killing hundreds.

  The Egyptians marched through the cadavers, cutting one hand from each, to be used in a gruesome tally eventually entered in the royal archives.

  No one dared approach the Pharaoh. Fighter lay sphinx-like in front of the weary steeds. Blood-spattered, Ramses climbed down from the golden chariot and stood for a long while stroking his lion, rubbing his pair of horses, not even glancing at the petrified soldiers who dreaded his reaction.

  Menna was the first to approach him. The charioteer trembled, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

  Beyond the second ford, the Hittite army and the coalition forces were streaming toward the fortress of Kadesh and entering the main gate. The Egyptians had run out of time to prevent them from taking shelter.

  “Your Majesty,” Menna said haltingly, “we won.”

  Staring at the fortress in the distance, Ramses looked like a granite statue.

  “The leader of the Hittites has withdrawn,” continued Menna. “You alone killed thousands of men! Who will find the words to sing your praise?”

  Ramses turned his stone face to the groom.

  Menna fell to the ground, terrified that the Pharaoh’s lightning power would strike him.

  “Is that you, Menna?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, Menna, your driver and faithful servant. Forgive me, forgive your army. May your great victory help you forget our failings!”

  “A pharaoh never pardons, faithful servant. A pharaoh governs and acts.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The Amon and Ra divisions had been decimated, the Ptah considerably weakened. Only the Set division was intact. Thousands of Egyptians were dead; even more of the Hittites and coalition troops had perished. A single fact remained: Ramses had won the battle of Kadesh.

  It was true that Muwattali, Hattusili, Uri-Teshoop, and certain of their coalition chieftains (even the half-drowned Prince of Aleppo) were alive and safe inside the fortress.

  Yet the myth of Hittite invincibility had perished. A number of princes allied with the Emperor of Hatti had succumbed to Egyptian arrows or died in the river. Henceforth, the neighboring powers would know that Muwattali’s shield was not enough to protect them from the wrath of Ramses.

  The Pharaoh convened a meeting of all his surviving commanders, including the generals commanding the Ptah and Set divisions.

  There was little joy in the victory. On his gilded throne, Ramses wore the face of an angry falcon.

  “Every man here,” he began, “was responsible for a command. All of you flaunted your rank before the battle. Yet when the time came, all of you acted like cowards!You were fed and clothed, exempt from taxes, respected and envied as the heads of divisions. All of you failed me and ran from battle.”

  The commander of the Set division took one step forward.

  “Your Majesty . . .”

  “Do you presume to contradict me?”

  The general got back in line.

  “I can no longer trust you. Tomorrow, you’ll fail me again, scattering like sparrows at the first hint of danger. I’m demoting every last one of you. Consider yourselves fortunate to remain in the army as simple soldiers, serving your country, earning your pay and, in time, your pension.”

  There was no protest. Most had expected a harsher punishment.

  Later that day, the king named new commanding officers, choosing from among the reinforcement units.

  On the day following his upset, Ramses launched the first attack on the fortress of Kadesh, where Hittite banners fluttered on the towers.

  The Egyptian archers shot volleys of arrows, but the shafts broke against the solid rock of the battlements. Unlike its Syrian counterparts, Kadesh had towers beyond their aim.

  Eager to prove their valor, the infantry scaled the rocky base of the fortress and laid wooden ladders against the walls. But the Hittite sharpshooters picked off most of them, and those that remained were forced to abandon the effort. Three more attempts were made, each one ending in failure.

  The next day, and the next, a few daring souls made it halfway up the walls before a stream of projectiles knocked them to their deaths.

  Kadesh lived up to its legend.

  A somber Ramses convened his new war council. His appointees tried hard to outdo each other in bravado, hop
ing to please the king. Weary of their chatter, he dismissed them, keeping only Setau at his side.

  “Lotus and I will save dozens of lives,” Setau told his old friend, “provided that we don’t die of exhaustion. At the rate we’re going, our hospital will soon run out of supplies.”

  “Don’t beat around the bush, Setau.”

  “All right. Let’s go home, Ramses.”

  “And forget about the fortress of Kadesh?”

  “We have our victory.”

  “Until Kadesh is under Egyptian control, the Hittite menace persists.”

  “Taking Kadesh would waste too many resources and too many lives. Why not go back to Egypt? We need to take care of the wounded and rebuild our forces.”

  “This fortress must fall like the others we conquered.”

  “What if it doesn’t, no matter how hard you try?”

  “Nature is bountiful in these parts; you and Lotus can find what you need to prepare your own remedies.”

  “What if Ahsha was locked up inside that fort?”

  “All the more reason to take it and free him.”

  The driver Menna ran up and bowed low to Ramses. “Your Majesty! They threw a lance from the ramparts, with this message tied to the tip!”

  “Hand it over.”

  Ramses studied the text:

  To Ramses, Pharaoh of Egypt, from his brother Muwattali, Emperor of Hatti,

  Before continuing our confrontation, would it not be wise for us to hold discussions? Let a tent be erected on the level, halfway between your camp and the fortress.

  I will come there alone, tomorrow when the sun is at its highest, to meet you, my brother ruler, alone.

  Inside the tent sat two folding thrones, face to face. Between them was a low table on which two goblets and a small jar of cool water had been placed.

  The two sovereigns sat down at once, eyeing each other. Despite the heat, Muwattali was dressed in a long woolen mantle of red and black.

  “I am happy to meet with my brother the Pharaoh of Egypt, whose glory is ever increasing.”