Ramses, Volume V

by Christian Jacq

  “No, the gods will make only one.”

  “What if Pharaoh can’t find it?”

  “He’d languish, and various ills would beset the country. But Ramses won’t fail at his task.”

  “Of course not,” the pair agreed.

  Uri-Teshoop and Tanit moved away. “If such an animal does exist,” said the Hittite, “let’s find it first and kill it off.”

  Ahmeni’s face was drawn and tired. How could he be anything other than tired? Ramses himself had never been able to convince his friend to slow his pace, despite his frail physique.

  “All kinds of good news, Your Majesty! For instance—”

  “Start with the bad news, Ahmeni.”

  “Who told you?”

  “You’ve never been good at hiding your feelings.”

  “All right, then. Emperor Hattusili has just sent you a letter.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary; our diplomats correspond regularly.”

  “He’s addressing you, his brother Pharaoh, because Mathor has complained about her situation. The news took Hattusili by surprise; he’s demanding an explanation.”

  Ramses’ eyes blazed.

  “The woman has probably slandered you to make her father angry and revive the discord between our two peoples,” offered the scribe.

  “Let’s send a suitable reply to my brother the emperor.”

  “I went over Ahsha’s Hittite papers and drafted a letter that ought to smooth things over.”

  Ahmeni produced a wooden tablet, worn from having been used and scraped clean so many times.

  “A fine diplomatic style,” said Ramses. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “Can I have one of my staff make a final copy?”

  “No, Ahmeni.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’m going to compose the answer myself.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I fear . . .”

  “Do you fear the truth? I’ll simply explain to Hattusili that his daughter is unsuitable as Great Royal Wife and will spend the rest of her days in comfort at the harem, while Meritamon appears with me at official functions.”

  Ahmeni blanched.

  “Hattusili may be your brother, but he’s a proud ruler. A blunt reply may provoke an equally brutal reaction.”

  “No one should try to gloss over the truth.”

  “Your Majesty . . .”

  “Get back to business, Ahmeni. My letter will go out by tomorrow morning.”

  Uri-Teshoop had chosen the perfect wife—attractive, sensual, well connected, and rich, very rich. Thanks to Dame Tanit’s fortune, the Hittite had been able to hire a considerable number of spotters to locate full-grown black bulls with white markings. Ramses had not even started looking, so Uri-Teshoop hoped this head start would be an advantage.

  The story was that the comely Phoenician wanted to start raising cattle and was looking for breeding bulls. First they combed the area around Pi-Ramses, then branched out into the provinces between the capital and Memphis.

  “Why is Ramses waiting?” Uri-Teshoop asked Tanit when she returned from a palace meeting with officials from the Double White House, the king’s economic advisers.

  “He spends most of his time with Kha. The two of them are reformulating the ancient blessing of the Apis bull.”

  “Have they even found the beast yet?”

  “Only Pharaoh can find the right one.”

  “Then why doesn’t he get started?”

  “The mourning period isn’t over yet.”

  “If we could deposit the corpse of the new Apis bull in front of the temple, it would be such a blow to Ramses . . .”

  “My steward has a message for you.”

  “Hand it over!”

  Uri-Teshoop grabbed a shard of limestone from Tanit’s hands. According to one of the scouts, a bull corresponding to the desired description had been spotted in a small village north of Memphis. The owner was demanding an exorbitant price.

  “I’m leaving this instant,” announced Uri-Teshoop.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  It was a sleepy summer afternoon in the little village. By the well, beneath a cluster of palm trees, two girls were playing with dolls. Nearby, their mother was repairing wicker baskets.

  Uri-Teshoop’s horse burst into this peaceful scene, sending the two little girls dashing back to their mother, who was herself terrified by the violent-looking rider with the long, flying hair.

  “Woman,” he shouted, “tell me where I can find the owner of a strong black bull.”

  The housewife backed away, clutching her daughters to her.

  “Talk, or you’ll feel my fists on you.”

  “On the way out of the village, a farm with a pen . . .”

  The horse rode off in the direction to which she pointed. A few minutes of galloping and Uri-Teshoop spotted the pen.

  A splendid bull, its black coat sprinkled with white, stood motionless, chewing its cud.

  The Hittite jumped down and examined the animal closely. It did indeed bear all the distinctive marks of an Apis bull.

  He ran toward the main building where farmworkers were returning from haying.

  “Where’s your boss?”

  “Under the pergola.”

  Uri-Teshoop was closing in on his goal; he didn’t even care about the price.

  Lounging on a reed mat, the owner opened his eyes.

  “How was the ride?”

  “You!”

  Serramanna stood up slowly, stretching his immense carcass.

  “You’re interested in raising cattle, Uri-Teshoop? An excellent idea! It’s one of Egypt’s strong points!”

  “But you’re not—”

  “The owner of the farm? Oh yes, I am! A nice little place I was able to buy thanks to Ramses’ generosity. I plan to retire here. I see you’re interested in my prize bull?”

  “No, you’re mistaken, I—”

  “When Ahmeni and I noticed you were nosing around, the king’s private secretary had an amusing idea: dyeing my bull’s hide with the Apis markings. You don’t mind a practical joke, do you?”

  The mourning period would soon be over, and the priests were beginning to worry. Why wasn’t the king out looking for the new Apis? After visiting the underground shrine to the mummified bulls, then working for days on the First Dynasty resurrection ritual, Ramses let his son, the high priest of Ptah, tell him all about the builder god’s ceaseless activity—at work in the heavenly reaches as well as inside beehives or mountains. Ptah’s creative Word was revealed in the heart and enacted by the tongue, for every living thought must come to life in a true and fitting form.

  A week before the appointed date for the consecration of the new Apis, however, Kha himself could no longer hide his concern.

  “Your Majesty, the mourning . . .”

  “Yes, son. I know where to find a successor to the late Apis. You needn’t worry.”

  “If the bull is far from here, it will take you some time to reach it.”

  “Tonight I’ll sleep in the burial chamber and ask the gods and Nefertari to guide me.”

  When night fell, the king remained alone in the underground abode. He knew each of the Apis dynasties by name and appealed to their single linked soul. Lying on a priest’s simple cot, Ramses entrusted his soul to sleep—not to the simple repose of body and senses, but to dreams that could take him on an endless flight. As if he had suddenly sprouted a bird’s wings, the king left the earth, soared through the heavens, and saw.

  He saw all of upper and lower Egypt: the provinces, the towns and villages, the great temples and small shrines, the Nile and her irrigation ditches, the desert and the cultivated fields.

  A vigorous north wind pushed the white-sailed ship toward Abydos. In the prow, Ramses tasted the pleasure, one that he always craved, of admiring his country from the water.

  Kha had firmly informed the celebrant priests attached to the court that he was leaving with his father to bring the new Apis bull
back to Saqqara. Aware of how disastrous it would be if their mission failed, the high priest refused to entertain the possibility.

  “We’re almost there,” he said to the monarch.

  “This journey has gone so quickly . . . Such overwhelming beauty seems to do away with time.”

  The entire clergy of Abydos was assembled to greet the king at the landing; the temple’s high priest saluted Kha.

  “Has His Majesty come to prepare the mysteries of Osiris?”

  “No,” replied Kha. “Ramses is convinced that we’ll find the new incarnation of Apis here.”

  “If such were the case, we would have informed His Majesty.”

  “Then Pharaoh must know something that you don’t know.”

  The high priest of Abydos was confounded. “Haven’t you tried to reason with your father?”

  “He’s Ramses.”

  Everyone expected the monarch to explore the surrounding countryside, but he made straight for the desert, where the tombs of the First Dynasty pharaohs lay. While their mummies lay at rest in Saqqara, their luminous being endured at Abydos.

  Tamarisks shaded the monuments. There, in the foliage, Ramses saw him.

  A magnificent black bull raised its head, turning toward the approaching human.

  All was exactly as it had been in the Pharaoh’s dream that night in the underground chamber.

  The beast showed no signs of aggression. He almost seemed to be greeting an old friend after a long separation.

  On the bull’s forehead was a white blaze, a white crescent on the chest and flanks. The hairs in its tail were both black and white.

  “Come, Apis,” said Ramses. “I’m taking you to your home.”

  When the royal ship docked at Memphis, the festivities had already begun. Dignitaries from Pi-Ramses had left the capital to admire the new Apis, whose strength would add years to Pharaoh’s reign. But Ahmeni was in no mood to celebrate. He had come bearing bad news.

  Cheers rose as the bull and the king, side by side, disembarked and made their way to the temple of Ptah, where the bull-god would live in a huge pen, surrounded by a herd of ravishing cows.

  At the gate to the temple grounds an ancient rite was being enacted: a highborn woman of excellent repute stood facing the bull. She lifted her dress to the waist, unveiling her sex, as the crowd roared with laughter. This was the Hathor priestess, welcoming the male that would impregnate her sacred cows and continue the Apis line.

  In the front row, Uri-Teshoop squirmed. This bizarre scene, this shameless woman sharing in the crowd’s hilarity, this impassive bull, the people that seemingly worshiped Ramses . . . Ramses who seemed so indestructible!

  Anyone else would have given up by now. But Uri-Teshoop was a Hittite, a warlord, and Ramses had deprived him of his place as emperor. He could never forgive the Pharaoh for reducing the Hittite nation, once proud conquerors, to a bunch of cringing cowards.

  The temple’s double gates swung closed. Outside, the population danced, sang, and feasted at Pharaoh’s expense, while within the temple Ramses, Kha, and a group of priests performed the ceremony inaugurating the new Apis. The culminating rite was the bull’s sprint with the mummy of Osiris on its back—the reconstituted and resurrected body of the god who conquered death.

  “How can anyone enjoy traveling?” grumbled Ahmeni. “And while I’m away, problems and emergencies are piling up on my desk!”

  “For you to come here,” observed Ramses, “you must have some important reason.”

  “Next you’ll accuse me of spoiling the celebration.”

  “Have I ever found serious fault with you?”

  The king’s sandal-bearer lowered his head, muttering.

  “Emperor Hattusili wasted no time replying,” he revealed. “It’s easy to see, reading between the lines, that he’s angry. He disapproves of your attitude toward his daughter; the threats are barely veiled.”

  Ramses kept silent for quite some time.

  “Since my arguments didn’t convince him, we’ll use a different strategy. Take a new papyrus, Ahmeni, and your best brush. My proposals will no doubt surprise my brother Hattusili.”

  FORTY-NINE

  The negotiations are finished,” Tanit told Uri-Teshoop. “The trader Narish has returned to Tyre, where he’ll welcome Ramses with the mayor and a delegation of notables.”

  The Hittite gripped the handle of his ever-present iron dagger.

  “Couldn’t you get any more confidential information?”

  “The itinerary isn’t secret, and the monarch will be accompanied by his son Merenptah, the commander-in-chief of the Egyptian army, at the head of two elite regiments. Any attack against them would be doomed to failure.”

  Uri-Teshoop fumed; Malfi did not yet have enough men to wage a full-scale battle.

  “Still, it doesn’t add up,” Tanit continued. “The senior administrators at the Double White House have made no special demands, as if the Pharaoh weren’t even going to deal with economic problems. And there are disputed issues of the sort that Egypt doesn’t usually ignore.”

  “What conclusion do you draw from that?”

  “Ramses is concealing his true objective.”

  Uri-Teshoop was perplexed.

  “You’re probably right. We’d better find out what’s really behind his journey.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “Go to the palace, get the courtiers to talk, steal documents, whatever . . . You’ll find a way, Tanit.”

  “But darling . . .”

  “No excuses. I have to know.”

  Broad and safe, the track followed the foot of Mount Carmel and sloped gently down toward the sea. The sea . . . a strange sight for many an Egyptian soldier, an incredible limitless plain of water. The veterans warned the younger men: while wading in the foamy waves was not at all dangerous, if they swam out any distance an evil spirit might drag them to the bottom.

  Ramses marched at the head of his army, just behind Merenptah and the scouts. All during the journey, the king’s younger son had kept up the strictest security measures, yet the king did not seem worried in the least.

  “If you take the throne,” he told Merenptah, “don’t neglect to make regular tours of our protectorates. If your brother Kha becomes king, remind him to do it. When Pharaoh’s visits are too few and far between, the clouds of revolt can gather. His presence brings back the sun.”

  Despite the veteran soldiers’ reassurances, the young recruits were uneasy. The violent surf crashing against the rocky heights made them miss the banks of the Nile.

  The countryside looked less forbidding: cultivated fields, orchards, and olive groves showed that this was a rich agricultural region. But the old city of Tyre faced seaward; a bay formed a kind of unbreachable moat, protection against attack by an enemy fleet.

  New Tyre had been built on three small islands separated by shallow canals, along which lay the dry docks.

  From atop their watchtowers, the Tyrians observed Pharaoh and his soldiers. Led by Narish, a delegation came out to meet the Lord of Egypt, greeting him warmly. Narish then enthusiastically guided Ramses through the streets of his home city. Merenptah kept his eyes riveted to the rooftops, a constant source of potential peril.

  Tyre was a center of commerce. Glassware, gold and silver vases, purple cloth, and a variety of other merchandise passed through the port. The closely packed houses stood four or five stories tall.

  The mayor, an old friend of Narish’s, had offered Ramses his luxurious villa with a breathtaking view of the sea. The roof garden was a marvel, and the proud homeowner had even redecorated in the Egyptian style to help the Pharaoh feel at home.

  “I hope you’ll be satisfied, Your Majesty,” declared Narish. “Your visit is a very great honor. This evening you’ll preside at a banquet that will go down in our city’s history. May we hope that closer trade relations with Egypt will develop?”

  “I’m not against it, but on one condition . . .”

  �
��Lowering our profits . . . I thought as much. It could be negotiated, provided we make it up in higher volume.”

  “That’s not the condition I had in mind.”

  Despite the mild temperature, the merchant felt his blood run cold. In the wake of the peace agreement, Egypt had ceded the region to Hittite control, but in reality Phoenicia enjoyed considerable independence. Ramses must have grown power-hungry, seeking to tighten his hold on the area at the risk of violating the treaty and provoking a conflict.

  “What are your demands, Your Majesty?”

  “Let’s go down to the port. Merenptah will come with us.”

  On the king’s orders, his younger son brought only a limited retinue.

  At the western end of the port were a hundred-odd men of varying ages and backgrounds, all naked and in chains. Some struggled to retain a shred of dignity; others stared blankly.

  Curly-haired Tyrians were bargaining for the men, singly or in lots. They hoped to make a sizable profit on the sale of healthy slaves. The trading was active.

  “Set these men free,” demanded Ramses.

  Narish was amused. “They’re extremely valuable . . . Allow the city of Tyre to make you a present of them, Your Majesty.”

  “This is the real reason for my journey. No citizen wishing to trade with Egypt should deal in slaves.”

  Shocked, the Phoenician summoned all his self-control to stifle a vigorous protest.

  “Your Majesty . . . slavery is a fact of life, and merchant peoples have always engaged in this trade!”

  “There is no slavery in Egypt,” said Ramses. “The gods forbid it. No individual has the right to treat another as an object without a soul or as merchandise.”

  The Phoenician had never heard such foolishness. From anyone but the Pharaoh of Egypt, he would have thought such talk completely mad.

  “But don’t you take prisoners of war as slaves, Your Majesty?”

  “According to the seriousness of their offenses, they’re sentenced to varying periods of forced labor. Once they earn their freedom, they may do as they please. Most of them stay in Egypt, and many of them start families.”