Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “I won’t reconsider, Serramanna. You’re staying in Pi-Ramses.”

  “It’s not about me, Your Majesty. Come, I beg you.”

  The Sard looked stricken.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Come, Your Majesty, come with me . . .”

  Ramses asked Merenptah to let the generals know their departure would be delayed.

  Pharaoh’s chariot followed Serramanna’s horse as they sped toward the palace.

  The chambermaid, the lady-in-waiting, and the servant girls were huddled in the hallways, weeping.

  Serramanna stopped at the doorway to Iset the Fair’s bedchamber. The Sard’s face was a mixture of misery and confusion.

  Ramses went in.

  A heady smell of lilies filled the room, bright with the noonday sun. Iset the Fair, clothed in a white ceremonial robe and a turquoise tiara, lay on her bed, arms at her side and eyes wide open.

  On the sycamore night table was an antelope-skin tunic—Setau’s old standby, stolen from his workshop.

  “Iset . . .”

  Iset the Fair, Ramses’ first lover, the mother of Kha and Merenptah, the Great Royal Wife for whom he was fully prepared to do battle . . . Iset the Fair was looking into the next world.

  “The queen chose death to keep us out of war,” explained Serramanna. “She poisoned herself with the venom from Setau’s tunic so that she’d no longer stand in the way of peace.”

  “You’re not making sense, Serramanna!”

  Ahmeni spoke up. “The queen left a message. I read it and asked Serramanna to come and find you.”

  In keeping with tradition, Ramses did not close the dead woman’s eyes. She must confront the afterlife with a frank gaze and an open face.

  Entombed in the Valley of the Queens, Iset the Fair was given a more modest resting place than Nefertari’s. Ramses himself performed the rites of resurrection over her mummy. The queen’s ka would be kept alive by the constant prayers of special mortuary priests and priestesses.

  On the Great Royal Wife’s sarcophagus the Pharaoh had placed a branch of the sycamore tree he had planted in the garden of Iset’s Memphis mansion when they were seventeen. This token of their youth would keep Iset’s soul blooming.

  At the end of the ceremony, Ahmeni and Setau requested an audience with Ramses. Without replying, the king climbed a nearby slope. Setau scrambled after him, and despite the toll on his frail constitution, Ahmeni did likewise.

  The sand, the rocky incline, Ramses’ rapid pace that set his lungs on fire . . . Ahmeni muttered all the way up the path. Still, he made it to the top, where the king gazed out on the Valley of the Queens and the eternal dwellings of Nefertari and Iset the Fair.

  Setau kept silent, the better to appreciate the magnificent sight. Ahmeni sat on a boulder and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  He dared interrupt the king’s meditation.

  “Your Majesty, there are urgent decisions to be made.”

  “Nothing is more urgent than contemplating this land beloved of the gods. The gods spoke; their voice became the sky, mountains, water, and earth. In Set’s red land we have dug our tombs, with their chamber of resurrection bathed in the primordial ocean that surrounds the world. Through our rites we preserve the energy of the first morning, and our country is born again each day. All else is meaningless.”

  “To live again, our country has to survive! If Pharaoh neglects the world of men, the gods will retreat into their invisible realm.”

  Setau expected that Ahmeni’s sharp tone would earn him a blistering rebuke from Ramses. But the king contented himself with studying the marked contrast between desert and cultivated land, between the everyday and the eternal.

  “What’s the latest pitfall you’re imagining, Ahmeni?”

  “I wrote to Hattusili, the Emperor of Hatti, to announce the news of Iset the Fair’s passing. While the country is in mourning, engaging in war would be out of the question.”

  “No one could have saved Iset,” added Setau. “She took too much of too many different substances, and the combination was deadly. I burned that wretched tunic, Ramses.”

  “I don’t hold you responsible, Setau. Iset thought she was acting in Egypt’s best interest.”

  Ahmeni stood up. “She was right, Your Majesty.”

  Stung, the monarch wheeled around. “How dare you say such a thing, Ahmeni?”

  “Much as I fear your wrath, I have to state my opinion: Iset left this world to preserve the peace.”

  “What do you think, Setau?”

  Like Ahmeni, Setau felt the power of Ramses’ blazing eyes. Yet the least he could offer was his honesty.

  “If you refused to understand Iset the Fair’s message, Ramses, she’d die a second death. Make sure that her sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

  “And what should I do about it, according to you?”

  “Marry the Hittite princess,” Ahmeni declared gravely.

  “Nothing stands in the way of it any longer,” added Setau.

  Ramses clenched his fists. “Are your hearts hard as granite? Iset has barely been laid in her tomb and you’re telling me to remarry?”

  “You’re not just any widower mourning his loss,” Setau said bluntly. “You’re the Pharaoh of Egypt, whose duty it is to preserve the peace and save his people. The people care nothing for your personal feelings; they only demand that you govern them wisely.”

  “A Pharaoh and a Hittite Great Royal Wife . . . wouldn’t that be a travesty?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Ahmeni chimed in. “What else could bring our two countries closer together? If you consent to this marriage, the specter of war will recede for the foreseeable future. Imagine how your father, Seti, and your mother, Tuya, will celebrate up among the stars! Not to mention Ahsha, who gave his life to build a lasting peace.”

  “You’re starting to sound like a politician, Ahmeni.”

  “I’m only a scribe in failing health, not especially bright, but honored to be sandal-bearer to the Lord of the Two Lands. I have no wish to see those sandals splattered with blood again.”

  “The law of Ma’at requires you to reign in conjunction with a Great Royal Wife,” Setau pointed out. “You really can’t lose if you marry this foreigner.”

  “I hate the woman already!”

  “Your life isn’t your own, Ramses. Egypt demands this sacrifice of you.”

  “And so do you, my friends.”

  Ahmeni and Setau nodded in unison.

  “Leave me alone now. I need to think.”

  Ramses spent the night on the cliffs. After nourishing himself with the rising sun, he lingered in the Valley of the Queens, then rejoined his escort. Without a word, Ramses climbed into his chariot and drove at full speed to the Ramesseum, his Eternal Temple. He celebrated the rites of dawn and prayed in Nefertari’s chapel. Then the Pharaoh retired to his palace, where he proceeded with long ablutions, drank some milk, ate some figs and fresh bread.

  His face refreshed as if he had slept for several hours, the monarch pushed open the door to Ahmeni’s office. The scribe was frowning over his correspondence.

  “Take a new sheet of top-quality papyrus and write to my brother the Emperor of Hatti.”

  “And what might be the content of this letter?”

  “Announce that I’ve decided to make his daughter my Great Royal Wife.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Uri-Teshoop drank a third cup of strong oasis wine. Fortified with spices and resin, this was a substance embalmers used to preserve the viscera; physicians also prized its antiseptic properties.

  “You drink too much,” observed Raia.

  “You don’t know how to enjoy what Egypt has to offer. This wine is a treat! Did anyone follow you?”

  “Put your mind at ease.”

  The Syrian merchant had waited until the middle of the night before slipping into the comely Phoenician’s villa. He had detected nothing suspicious.

  “Why this unexpected visit?”


  “Important news, Highness, very important.”

  “The war has started?”

  “No, Highness, no. There will be no war between Egypt and Hatti.”

  Uri-Teshoop threw down his cup and grabbed the Syrian by the collar of his tunic.

  “What are you talking about? My setup was perfect!”

  “Iset the Fair is dead and Ramses is preparing to marry Emperor Hattusili’s daughter.”

  Uri-Teshoop released his partner in crime.

  “A Hittite queen of Egypt . . . Unthinkable! You must be mistaken, Raia!”

  “No, Highness. The news is official. You murdered Ahsha for nothing.”

  “Getting rid of that miserable spy was crucial. Our hands are no longer tied. None of Ramses’ other advisers is as smart as Ahsha.”

  “We’ve lost, Highness. It’s peacetime again, a peace no effort of ours can break.”

  “Imbecile! Do you know the woman who’s going to become Pharaoh’s Great Royal Wife? A Hittite, Raia, a real Hittite princess, proud, shrewd, indomitable!”

  “She’s the daughter of your enemy Hattusili.”

  “She’s my cousin. But a Hittite first and foremost! She’ll never submit to an Egyptian, Pharaoh or not. This is our chance.”

  Raia sighed. The wine was going to the warrior prince’s head. Bereft of any hope, he was imagining things.

  “Perhaps you ought to leave Egypt,” the Syrian suggested to Uri-Teshoop.

  “Suppose that this Hittite princess were on our side, Raia. We’d have an ally in the very heart of the palace!”

  “You’re dreaming, Highness.”

  “No, this is a sign that destiny is sending us, a sign I’ll turn to my advantage!”

  “You’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  Uri-Teshoop drained a fourth glass of wine.

  “We’ve omitted one detail, Raia, but there’s still time to act. You’ll use the Libyans.”

  A curtain rustled, and the Syrian merchant pointed his finger toward the suspect location.

  Like a cat, Uri-Teshoop sprang toward the curtain, pulled it roughly aside, and hauled out a trembling Tanit.

  “Were you listening?”

  “No, no, I was coming to find you . . .”

  “We have no secrets from you, darling, since you can’t betray us.”

  “You have my word!”

  “Go to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Tanit’s longing gaze promised a lively bedtime. In a few crisp phrases, Uri-Teshoop gave his orders to Raia.

  The main Pi-Ramses foundry was still busy turning out swords, lances, and shields. So long as the Pharaoh’s marriage to the Hittite princess had not been celebrated, preparations for war would continue as before.

  Weapons seized from the Hittites were sent to a workshop near the foundry, where Egyptian craftsmen studied them closely. One of the metal workers, a highly inventive young man, took an interest in the iron dagger the palace had just sent over.

  The quality of the metal, the width of the blade, the ease of handling—everything about it was remarkable.

  Copying this piece would not be easy. It would take several tries. His mouth almost watering, the craftsman weighed the dagger in his hand.

  “Someone to see you,” announced an orderly.

  The visitor was a blunt-featured mercenary.

  “What do you want?”

  “The palace wants the iron dagger back.”

  “Do you have a written order?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  From a leather pouch that hung from his belt, the mercenary produced a wooden tablet and showed it to the metal worker.

  “But these aren’t hieroglyphs!”

  With a wicked uppercut, Raia’s Libyan hireling knocked the craftsman cold. Then he retrieved the tablet and the fallen dagger and ran from the workshop.

  At the end of a lengthy interrogation, Serramanna was convinced that the metal worker was not in league with the thief who had taken the dagger. It must be just some soldier of fortune with an eye for profit, like so many others in the Egyptian army.

  “A ruffian working for Uri-Teshoop,” the Sard told Ahmeni.

  The scribe kept on writing.

  “Do you have proof of that?”

  “My gut instinct is enough for me.”

  “Is this even worth pursuing? Uri-Teshoop has money now, or at least his wife does; why would he try to steal Hattusili’s dagger?”

  “Because he’s thought of some new way to harm Ramses.”

  “Any conflict with the Hittites is impossible at this point. The essential thing is your inquest into Ahsha’s murder. Any progress there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ramses is demanding to know the assassin’s identity.”

  “The murder and the theft of the dagger . . . it’s all tied up together. If anything happens to me, go after Uri-Teshoop.”

  “What’s going to happen to you?”

  “If I’m to get anywhere with this investigation, I’ll have to infiltrate Libyan circles. And if they figure out what I’m doing, they’ll try to get rid of me.”

  “You’re the captain of the royal bodyguard! No one will dare take you on.”

  “They didn’t stop at killing Pharaoh’s secretary of state, who was also his boyhood friend.”

  “Couldn’t you try something less dangerous?”

  “I’m afraid not, Ahmeni.”

  In the heart of the Libyan desert, far from any oasis, Malfi’s tent was a makeshift fort, guarded by trustworthy lieutenants. The tribal chief was drinking milk and eating dates; he never touched wine or beer, considering them the devil’s potions because they jumbled his thoughts.

  Malfi’s personal bodyguard was composed of natives from his village who would have remained poor peasants without his help. Eating their fill, properly clothed, armed with lances, swords, bows, and slings, and popular with the ladies, they practically worshiped Malfi. To them he was a powerful desert spirit, swift as a panther, with razor-sharp fingers, and eyes in the back of his head.

  “My Lord, there’s a fight!” his water bearer reported.

  Malfi stood up, unalarmed. He had a square face with a broad forehead half hidden beneath a white turban. He slowly emerged from his tent.

  The training camp was home to fifty-odd men, who were practicing with mock weapons and bare fists in the afternoon sun. Malfi enjoyed the extreme conditions that the desert heat and sand offered; only men possessing the true warrior spirit would survive here.

  And this test of their skill was crucial in view of the task awaiting the fledgling Libyan army: overcoming Ramses’ forces. Malfi constantly pondered the generations of Libyan chieftains humiliated by the pharaohs. The hostilities had lasted for centuries, punctuated by the defeats the Egyptians inflicted on the brave but disorganized desert tribes.

  Ofir, Malfi’s older brother, had used a weapon that he hoped would be decisive: black magic, in the service of the pro-Hittite spy ring he also directed. He had paid for his failure with his life, and Malfi had sworn revenge. Little by little he was forming a federation of Libyan tribes, whose uncontested master he was bound to become.

  His meeting with the Hittite prince Uri-Teshoop was a boon. With an ally of that standing, a Libyan victory was no mere pipe dream. Malfi would soon avenge long centuries’ worth of shame and rage.

  A heavyset soldier, unusually aggressive, seemed to have forgotten he was in a training exercise and was pummeling two opponents, despite the fact they were taller and armed with lances. When Malfi approached him, the soldier began to show off, grinding his foot into one of his victim’s heads.

  Malfi drew a dagger from beneath his tunic and sank it into the back of the heavyset soldier’s neck.

  The fighting broke up. All heads turned toward Malfi.

  “Continue your training and keep control of yourselves,” he ordered. “Remember that the enemy can come from nowhere.”

  TWEN
TY-TWO

  The great audience chamber at the Pi-Ramses palace was truly stunning. Even courtiers who had already climbed the monumental staircase—decorated with figures of vanquished enemies won over to the will of Pharaoh and the law of Ma’at—found it a deeply moving experience. The main door was wreathed with Ramses’ coronation names, blue on a white background, enclosed in cartouches whose oval shape symbolized the cosmic circuit over which the Lord of the Two Lands reigned.

  Plenary audiences, convening the entire court, were not a frequent occurrence. Only events with a direct impact on Egypt’s future led Ramses to address the elite assembly.

  The atmosphere was tense. Rumor had it that the Hittite emperor was holding his ground. Ramses’ initial rejection of the proposal to marry Hattusili’s daughter had surely been taken as an insult. The Pharaoh’s eventual acceptance had probably failed to cancel the affront.

  The floor of the great hall was tiled with lacquered terra-cotta, featuring scenes of pools, flowering gardens, ducks swimming in a blue-green pond, and fish darting through white lotus blossoms. Priests, scribes, cabinet members, provincial governors, givers of offerings, keepers of secrets, and court fixtures were present, admiring the extravaganza of pale green, yellow-gold, and off-white on the walls with their scenes of flitting hoopoes, hummingbirds, titmice, nightingales, and kingfishers. Higher up, the eye delighted in a floral frieze of interwoven poppies, lotuses, daisies, and cornflowers.

  A hush fell when Ramses ascended the stairs leading to his golden throne. The highest step was decorated with a lion closing its mouth around a lurking enemy from the underworld, representing the disorder that constantly threatened to disrupt Ma’at’s harmony.

  Pharaoh wore a double headdress, the white of upper Egypt entwined with the red of lower Egypt. The twin crown was imbued with magic, like the uraeus on his forehead, the image of a female cobra spitting fire to dispel the forces of darkness. In his right hand the king held the scepter called “Magic,” resembling a shepherd’s crook. For just as the shepherd watches over his flock and returns strays to the fold, Pharaoh must unite the scattered field of energies. For a few seconds the monarch’s eyes lingered on a sublime painting, the face of a young woman meditating in front of massed hollyhocks. This was a portrait of Nefertari, whose beauty illuminated the reign of Ramses the Great even from beyond the grave.