Ramses, Volume III

by Christian Jacq

  When the king was in residence at Pi-Ramses, he met with his éminence grise each day. When he left for a visit to Thebes or Memphis, Ahmeni prepared detailed reports that the king studied attentively before deciding matters.

  The scribe had just presented his public works plan for the coming year when Serramanna was shown into the office. He towered among the shelves full of carefully organized papyri. The burly Sard made his bow to the monarch.

  “I still sense a certain resentment,” commented Ramses.

  “Would I ever have let you fight a whole army single-handed?”

  “Taking care of my wife and my mother was a high-priority assignment.”

  “I grant you that, but I wish I could have slaughtered some Hittites with you! They claim they’re the world’s greatest warriors, and then they hole up in a fortress!”

  “Our time is limited,” interrupted Ahmeni. “What’s the latest on your investigation?”

  “Nothing,” replied a downcast Serramanna.

  “No trace of him?”

  “I found the chariot and the policemen’s corpses, but not Shaanar’s. According to some traveling merchants who’d taken shelter in a stone hut nearby, the sandstorm was extremely violent and lasted much longer than usual. I searched as far as the oasis of Kharga, and I can assure you that my men and I combed the desert.”

  “In a blinding storm,” reasoned Ahmeni, “he’d most likely have stumbled into a wadi. Shaanar’s body is probably lying in some dry riverbed, buried under a ton of sand.”

  “Yes, probably,” admitted Serramanna.

  “I don’t agree,” declared Ramses.

  “He never could have made it out alive, Your Majesty. He left the main road, got lost, and succumbed to the wind, the sand, and thirst.”

  “His hatred is so intense that it could serve him as food and drink. Shaanar is not dead.”

  The king was praying before the statue of Thoth in the lobby of the State Department, after placing a bouquet of lilies and papyrus stems on the altar. The god of wisdom was represented as a baboon with a crescent moon as a headpiece. Thoth sat with his eyes raised to the heavens, far beyond earthly concerns.

  High public servants rose and bowed at Ramses’ passing. Ahsha, his new secretary of state, came out to greet him at his office door. The Pharaoh’s old friend had been hailed as a hero by the court. The two embraced, and Ahsha knew that the Pharaoh’s visit was a singular mark of his favor, confirming the young diplomat in his new role as head of Egypt’s foreign affairs.

  His office was quite different from Ahmeni’s. Bouquets of Syrian roses, sprigs of narcissus and marigold, slender alabaster vases on graceful stands, floor lamps, acacia chests, and colorful wall hangings formed a decor that was inviting yet refined, less like a workspace than the private apartments in some plush villa.

  His eyes gleaming with intelligence, elegant, wearing a simple perfumed wig, Ahsha looked like a sophisticated guest at a lavish banquet. Who would have guessed that this well-bred specimen was a master spy, able to assume the identity of a humble Hittite merchant? There was no clutter of documents in the new appointee’s office; he preferred to keep crucial information filed away in his prodigious memory.

  “I may be forced to hand in my resignation, Your Majesty.”

  “You’ve done something wrong already?”

  “It’s what I haven’t been able to do. I’ve used every resource available, but there’s still no sign of Moses. It’s curious. By now someone should have run across him. The only possibility I can see is that he’s gone to the middle of nowhere and simply stayed put. If he’s changed his name and joined with a tribe of nomads, it could be very difficult to identify him, if not impossible.”

  “Keep looking. What can you tell me about the Hittite spy ring?”

  “The young blond woman was buried; we never found out who she was. The sorcerer disappeared. We think he’s left the country. Once again, no sightings, as if every member of the network simply vanished in a matter of days. The danger it represented was real enough, though.”

  “Are you sure we’re safe now?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Ahsha acknowledged.

  “Don’t give up the search.”

  “I’m wondering what form the Hittite reaction will take,” the statesman admitted. “Kadesh was humiliating, and the internal power struggle is unrelenting. I don’t believe they’ll stick with the truce, but it will be months, if not years, before they’re ready to fight again.”

  “How is Meba working out?”

  “My distinguished predecessor is a fine addition to the department, tireless and most respectful.”

  “Watch out for him. I’m convinced that he still holds a grudge. What do you hear from our outposts in southern Syria?”

  “Dead calm, but my trust in their observations is somewhat limited. That’s why I’m leaving tomorrow for Amurru. We need a force that’s ready to react at the first sign of an invasion.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  To calm her fury, the priestess Puduhepa locked herself up in the holiest site in the Hittite capital, the upper town’s underground chamber, carved out of the rocky prominence on which the imperial palace was built. Muwattali, after the defeat at Kadesh, had decided to keep both his brother and son at a distance. He consolidated his personal power, maintaining that he alone was capable of holding the rival factions in check.

  The underground sanctuary had an arched ceiling and walls covered with carvings that showed the emperor as a warrior and a priest, a winged solar disk hovering over him. Puduhepa made her way to the altar of the underworld, where a blood-spattered sword lay.

  It was here that she came to find the inspiration she needed to save her husband from Muwattali’s wrath and help him regain favor. Uri-Teshoop, for his part, still had the ear of the extremist wing of the military establishment. He would not be biding his time; he would try to get rid of Hattusili, if not eliminate the emperor outright.

  Puduhepa meditated far into the night, thinking only of her husband.

  The god of the underworld gave her the answer.

  The meeting between Muwattali, his brother, and his son ended up in a violent clash of opinions.

  “Hattusili is the one responsible for our defeat,” Uri-Teshoop insisted. “If I’d been commanding the coalition troops, we would have crushed the Egyptian army.”

  “We did,” Hattusili reminded him, “until Ramses came out of nowhere.”

  “I would have stopped him!”

  “Don’t be a braggart,” interrupted the emperor. “No one could have overcome his superhuman power on the day of the battle. When the gods speak, man must heed them.”

  Muwattali’s statement prevented his son from pursuing his argument. He therefore launched an offensive on another front. “What are your plans for the future, Father?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “There’s no more time to think! Kadesh made us a laughingstock. We should wipe out the insult as soon as possible. Let me have what’s left of the coalition army, and I’ll invade Egypt.”

  “Absurd,” Hattusili protested. “Our primary concern must be to rebuild our alliances. The coalition princes lost a great many men, and some of them may lose their thrones unless we support them financially.”

  “Excuses,” retorted Uri-Teshoop. “Hattusili hopes that time will hide the fact that he’s a loser and a coward.”

  “Watch your language,” warned Muwattali. “It’s no use calling names.”

  “I’ve waited long enough, Father. I want full control.”

  “I’m the emperor, Uri-Teshoop. Don’t try to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

  “Stick with your brother’s bad advice, if you want to. I’m not setting foot outside my rooms until you order me to lead our troops to victory.”

  Uri-Teshoop walked briskly out of the audience chamber.

  “He’s not entirely wrong,” Hattusili admitted.

  “What do you mean?”


  “Puduhepa consulted the gods of the underworld.”

  “She did, did she?”

  “They told her we have to make up for the loss of Kadesh.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “A risky one, but I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “You’re my brother, Hattusili, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I don’t think I was wrong about Kadesh, and my sole aim in life is preserving the glory of the empire. The gods have spoken, and I vow to carry out their instructions.”

  The north wind blowing down through the Delta failed to disperse the dark, heavy rain clouds. Seated behind his father on the back of a splendid gray horse, the boy Kha shivered.

  “I’m cold, Father. Couldn’t we go a little slower?”

  “We’re in a hurry.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see death.”

  “The beautiful Lady of the West, with her sweet smile?”

  “No, that’s the death of the just, and you’re not one of them yet.”

  “That’s what I want to be!”

  “Then take this first step.”

  Kha clenched his teeth. He would never, ever disappoint his father.

  Ramses stopped by the spot where a canal joined a branch of the Nile. A small granite shrine marked the site, which seemed harmless enough.

  “Is this where death is?”

  “Inside the shrine. If you’re afraid, don’t go in.”

  Kha jumped down, repeating the magic words he’d learned from stories, spells to protect him from danger. He glanced back at his father, but Ramses stood motionless. Kha comprehended that he could expect no help from Pharaoh. There was no way to go except toward the shrine.

  A cloud hid the sun; the sky grew darker. The child walked haltingly, stopping in his tracks halfway to his destination. In the pathway was a cobra black as ink, very long, with a big head, poised to strike.

  Petrified, the boy didn’t dare run away. The cobra, emboldened, slithered closer.

  Soon it would reach him. Muttering the ancient formulas, stumbling over the words, the boy squeezed his eyes shut as the cobra reared its head.

  A forked stick pinned the snake to the ground.

  “This death is not for you,” declared Setau. “Go back to your father now, Kha.”

  Kha looked Ramses straight in the eye.

  “I said the right words and the cobra didn’t bite me. I’ll become one of the just, Father, won’t I?”

  Settled into a comfortable armchair, savoring the pale winter sunshine that glazed the trees in her private garden with gold, Tuya was deep in conversation with a lanky dark-haired woman when Ramses arrived for a visit.

  “Dolora!” the king said sharply, recognizing his sister.

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” Tuya admonished. “She has a great deal to tell you.”

  Pale and tired-looking, Dolora threw herself at Ramses’ feet. “Forgive me, I beg of you!”

  “First tell me what you’re guilty of, Dolora.”

  “That awful sorcerer misled me. I thought he was a righteous man. I must have been under a spell.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A Libyan, skilled in black magic. He shut me up in a villa in Memphis, then dragged me along with him when he fled. He told me he’d slit my throat if I didn’t go.”

  “Why would he threaten you?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” Dolora broke out in sobs. Ramses helped her to her feet and into a chair.

  “Tell me.”

  “The sorcerer . . . he killed a servant girl and the young woman that he’d used as a medium. They wouldn’t follow his orders.”

  “Did you witness the murders?”

  “No, I was locked in my room . . . but I saw their bodies when we escaped from the house.”

  “Why did this sorcerer hold you captive?”

  “He thought I could be his next medium. Through me, he thought he could get to you. He drugged me and grilled me about you . . . but I was too far gone to talk. When he fled to Libya, he let me go. It was dreadful, Ramses. I was sure he was going to kill me.”

  “You should be more careful of the company you keep.”

  “I’m sorry. If you only knew how sorry I am!”

  “You’re under house arrest, Dolora.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Ahsha was on familiar terms with Benteshina, the prince of the province of Amurru. Little inclined to follow the ways of the gods, the prince was a slave to gold, wine, and women; a corrupt and venal man whose only aim in life was preserving his rank and privileges.

  Since Amurru had a key strategic role to play, however, the new secretary of state had no qualms about using every available means to enlist the prince’s cooperation. First of all, Ahsha would go to see him in person, in the name of Pharaoh, as a mark of respect. Furthermore, he would be laden with rich presents, notably fine fabrics, vintage wines, alabaster dinnerware, ceremonial weapons, and furniture fit for a king.

  Most of the Egyptian troops stationed in Amurru had been mobilized as reinforcements in the battle of Kadesh. Since their valiant effort had largely saved the day, they were granted an extended home leave, and most still remained in Egypt. Ahsha therefore led a detachment of fifty officers who would recruit and train native soldiers. Eventually, a thousand foot soldiers and archers would arrive from Pi-Ramses, reestablishing a strong military base in Amurru.

  Ahsha sailed north from Pelusium. It was a pleasant trip, with favorable winds, a calm sea, and a pretty Syrian to distract him.

  When the Egyptian ship entered the Beirut harbor, Prince Benteshina was waiting on shore, along with a sizable retinue. Fiftyish, portly and affable, sporting a shiny black mustache, the prince kissed Ahsha on both cheeks and launched into a speech about the prodigious victory at Kadesh and how Ramses the Great had single-handedly shifted the balance of power.

  “And you, my dear Ahsha! Such a brilliant career! So young, and already directing affairs of state for your mighty country! I bow to you, sir.”

  “No need, Your Highness. I come to you as a friend.”

  “You’ll stay in the palace, of course. We’ll see to your every need.” There was a gleam in Benteshina’s eye. “Perhaps you might like . . . a young virgin?”

  “To refuse such a wonder would be presumptuous, surely. Now consider the modest presents I lay before you, Benteshina, and tell me if they please you.”

  The sailors unloaded their cargo.

  The voluble prince could not hide his satisfaction. The sight of a bed with remarkably delicate carving produced an almost worshipful exclamation.

  “You Egyptians know how to live. I can’t wait to try this out,” he said with a meaningful leer.

  With the prince in such excellent spirits, Ahsha decided it was time to introduce the military contingent.

  “These officers will train your subjects as soldiers. As a faithful ally of Egypt, you must help us build a defensive front to protect Amurru and discourage the Hittites from attacking you.”

  “That’s my dearest wish,” asserted Benteshina. “The constant fighting has disrupted our economy. My people want to be safe.”

  “In a few weeks, Ramses will send an army, and in the meantime these officers will set up a training camp.”

  “Excellent, excellent. Hatti suffered a serious setback, and Muwattali has been weakened by the power struggle between his son and brother.”

  “Which way do you think the military establishment is leaning?”

  “It seems divided. Some of them support Uri-Teshoop, others Hattusili. For the moment, the emperor has a grip on the situation, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of a coup. And then a number of the coalition members regret ever getting involved in a losing battle, so costly in human terms and a financial drain as well . . . Pharaoh’s leadership might seem very attractive.”

  “It sounds promising.”

  “And I promise you an unforgettable welcome!”

  The L
ebanese girl, with her full breasts and ample thighs, lay down on top of Ahsha and softly rubbed her body back and forth against his. Every bit of her skin smelled sweet, and the blond thatch between her legs was enticing.

  Although he had already gone several thrilling rounds, Ahsha responded. When the girl’s massage produced the desired effect, he rolled her over on one side. Easily slipping into her intimate reaches, he once again found an intense and mutual pleasure. She was certainly far from a virgin, but her expert caresses more than made up for that failing. Neither of them had said a word.

  “Go now,” he said. “I’m sleepy.”

  She left him alone in the vast bedchamber overlooking a garden. Soon Ahsha forgot her and began to ponder Benteshina’s revelations about the Hittite coalition and its potential unraveling. Making the right move would be difficult, but the thought was exciting.

  What other power might sway the dissidents if they lost confidence in Muwattali? Certainly not Egypt. The land of the pharaohs was too far away, its culture foreign to the fractious Near Eastern princelings. Slowly it dawned on him, an idea so upsetting that he felt an immediate need to consult a map of the region.

  The door to the bedchamber opened.

  In walked a thin little man, his hair held in place with a headband, a slim silver chain around his neck, a silver cuff at his left elbow. He was dressed in a length of multicolored cloth that left his shoulders uncovered.

  “My name is Hattusili. I’m the brother of Muwattali, Emperor of Hatti.”

  Ahsha felt light-headed. Perhaps, travel-weary and exhausted from lovemaking, he was having hallucinations.

  “You’re not dreaming, Ahsha. I’m delighted to meet the new chief of Egyptian diplomacy. I hear you’re a very close friend of the Pharaoh.”

  “You, in Amurru?”

  “You’re my prisoner, Ahsha. Any attempt at escape will be futile. My men have captured your officers and taken your ship and crew. Hatti is once again master of the province of Amurru. Ramses should never have underestimated how quickly we might react to our defeat. Kadesh was a personal humiliation for me, as leader of the coalition. Without your king’s wrath and his fearlessness, I would have exterminated the Egyptian army. That’s why I need to reassert my leadership as soon as possible and gain the upper hand while Egypt is resting on its laurels.”