Ramses, Volume IV

by Christian Jacq

  Ramses held Tuya tenderly to him.

  “Depriving Shaanar of a proper burial,” she pointed out, “is a terrible punishment from the gods.”

  “I faced death at Kadesh. Shaanar met his in the desert. Perhaps it purified his soul.”

  “And what if he’s still alive?”

  “The thought has occurred to me, too. If he’s lurking somewhere, still intent on harming me, will you still call him your son?”

  “You are Egypt, Ramses, and I will stand in the way of anyone trying to hurt you.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ramses prayed before the statue of Thoth in the lobby of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, laying a bunch of lilies on the altar. The patron of writing—hieroglyphs were “the words of the gods”—was represented as a great stone baboon, his gaze lifted to the heavens.

  Pharaoh’s visit was a singular honor. Ahsha welcomed the monarch, bowing low. When Ramses embraced his friend, the young cabinet officer’s subordinates felt privileged to be working for a man on such intimate terms with the king.

  The two men retreated to Ahsha’s well-appointed office: it was filled with roses from Syria, arrangements of daffodils and marigolds, acacia chests, chairs with lotus-blossom carvings, colorful cushions, bronze-footed ornamental stands. The walls were decorated with scenes of a waterfowl hunt in the marshes.

  “Much fancier than my office,” noted Ramses. “All this place needs is Shaanar’s collection of vases.”

  “Don’t remind me! I sold them off and put the proceeds in the department treasury.”

  Smartly dressed and wearing a lightweight, scented wig, his small mustache neatly trimmed, Ahsha looked like he was on his way to a dinner party.

  “When I’m able to spend a few peaceful weeks in Egypt,” he admitted, “I tend to enjoy myself. But never fear, I haven’t forgotten Your Majesty’s mission.”

  That was Ahsha: cynical, something of a dandy, a ladies’ man, and at the same time a veteran statesman, an expert in foreign affairs, a perceptive and daring adventurer.

  “What do you think of my new initiative?”

  “I applaud the measures you’re taking, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you consider them . . . adequate?”

  “Only one thing is missing—which I suspect is the reason for this unannounced visit. Let me guess: could it be Kadesh?”

  “Of course you’re right, or you wouldn’t be my secretary of state and head of intelligence.”

  “Do you still want to take the fortress?”

  “We won an important battle at Kadesh, but the Hittite stronghold still sits there, a thorn in our side.”

  Frowning, Ahsha poured some wine, a lovely shade of red, into two silver goblets with handles fashioned like gazelles.

  “I knew that Kadesh would never let you rest. Yes, the fortress is still a sore spot—and still a threat.”

  “That’s why I see it as permanently endangering our protectorate in southern Syria. Any Hittite attack will be launched from Kadesh.”

  “Sound reasoning, it would appear,” Ahsha said evenly.

  “But you don’t agree we should take it.”

  “If you had a nice middle-aged career diplomat ensconced in this office, he’d bow and scrape to you and say something like ‘Ramses the Great, mighty king, great soldier, go forth and conquer Kadesh!’ And the man would be a blooming idiot.”

  “Why let Kadesh stand?”

  “Because you’ve shown the Hittites that they’re not invincible. Their army is still powerful, of course, but you’ve made them doubt it. Muwattali promised his country an easy invasion and a stunning victory. Now he’s forced to explain away a retreat. Plus he has problems at home: the power struggle between his son, Uri-Teshoop, and his brother, Hattusili.”

  “Who’s the probable winner?”

  “I’d say it’s even, at this point.”

  “You think that Muwattali’s days are numbered?”

  “I do, since murder is a common complaint in the Hittite ruling class. A warrior nation can’t have a leader who loses in combat.”

  “Then wouldn’t this be the perfect time to go after Kadesh?”

  “Yes, if our principal concern was to undermine the Hittite empire.”

  Ramses appreciated his friend Ahsha’s insight and irreverent outlook, but even he was taken aback at this remark.

  “I thought that was the major goal of our foreign policy.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  “How can you be serious?”

  “When a decision translates into life or death for thousands of human beings, I’m not inclined to joke.”

  “You mean you’ve discovered information that will radically change my outlook?”

  “Just a hunch, based on a few intelligence reports I ran across. Have you ever heard of the Assyrians?”

  “A warrior people, like the Hittites.”

  “Yes, and under the sway of the Hittites until just recently. But when Hattusili formed his regional coalition, he bought Assyrian neutrality in exchange for a great deal of precious metal. They turned the windfall into armaments. Now the military has the upper hand in the country, and Assyria is poised to become the next great power in the region, more ambitious and more destructive than Hatti.”

  Ramses thought for a moment. “Are you saying that Assyria is about to take control of Hatti?”

  “Not yet, but they’re bound to sooner or later.”

  “Why doesn’t Muwattali nip the problem in the bud?”

  “Because he’s having trouble holding on to the throne and he’s keeping a watchful eye on Kadesh. He still sees us as his country’s main enemy.”

  “Don’t his rivals?”

  “His son, Uri-Teshoop, is like a blind man. His only thought is of overrunning Egypt and slaughtering as much of the population as possible. Hattusili is broader minded, though, and he must be aware of the threat looming on his doorstep.”

  “You’ve done more than merely analyze the situation, I’m sure. What’s your plan of action, Ahsha?”

  “I’m afraid it won’t appeal to you. It goes against your way of thinking.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “All right. Our best plan would be to make the Hittites believe we’re preparing to march on Kadesh. Rumors, classic disinformation, feeding them false documents, troop maneuvers in southern Syria, and so on . . . I’ll handle that part.”

  “Nothing I object to yet.”

  “The next part is a bit trickier. Once we have them convinced, I’ll go under cover to Hatti.”

  “Under cover?”

  “A secret mission, with broad negotiating powers.”

  “But what do you want to negotiate?”

  “A peace treaty, Your Majesty.”

  “Peace . . . with the Hittites?”

  “It’s the best way to keep Assyria from becoming a monster much more dangerous than Hatti.”

  “The Hittites will never sign a treaty!”

  “With your full support, I believe it’s feasible.”

  “If anyone but you were proposing this, I’d suspect him of treason.”

  Ahsha smiled. “I thought you might . . . but I put my faith in the great Ramses’ foresight.”

  “The sages teach that flattery has no place in friendship.”

  “I’m not addressing you as a friend, but as Pharaoh. Clearly the short-term solution would be to seize the moment and attack the Hittites while we have a real chance of winning. But with Assyria emerging on the international scene, we need to modify our strategy.”

  “You admitted yourself that it’s only a hunch, Ahsha.”

  “It’s my job to try to predict the future. Sometimes intuition is the best indicator.”

  “I can’t let you run such a terrible risk again.”

  “It worked the last time.”

  “You must really love those Hittite prisons.”

  “I can think of better places for a vacation, but someone has to volunteer for this job.
”

  “You’ll be hard to replace.”

  “I plan to make it home, Ramses. And in the long run I’d be bored as a provincial administrator. Wine, women, and song go only so far, you know. I’ll need a new adventure to keep my wits sharp. I can exploit the Hittites’ weaknesses and get them to sign the treaty. At least let me try.”

  “Your plan is sheer madness. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I love a challenge.”

  “You can’t really believe that I’ll consent to it.”

  “I do, because you’re not some doddering old monarch who can no longer change the world. I await my orders.”

  “I’m heading south, perhaps for months, and you’ll be going back north.”

  “Since you’re taking care of spiritual matters, leave the Hittites to me.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The royal sons were fifteen to twenty-five years old. They wore their heads shaved except for a sidelock above the right ear, and were decked out in earrings, wide gold collars, and tucked kilts. Each proudly clutched a staff topped with an ostrich plume.

  Chosen for their physical and mental vigor, the young men were to serve as Ramses’ representatives in the various army battalions. On the battlefield, their task was to restore the troops’ failing energy—for the king had not forgotten his army’s lackluster performance against the Hittite coalition at Kadesh.

  The royal sons would now be serving in the administration of the buffer zone, following strict orders from Ahsha.

  Already widespread was the legend of Ramses the Great as a tireless progenitor and prolific father, who had sired a hundred children as proof of his divine potency. It was a fabulous legend, one that sculptors would translate into stone and scribes would perpetuate with relish.

  In the shade of his lemon tree, Homer was grooming his long white beard. Hector, the black and white cat, had grown plump. He purred when Ramses petted him.

  “Excuse my saying so, Majesty, but you seem perturbed.”

  “Let’s say, well, preoccupied.”

  “Bad news?”

  “No, but I’m about to leave on a voyage that may be fraught with peril.”

  The Greek poet stuffed more sage leaves into the snail-shell bowl of his pipe. “Ramses the Great . . . that’s what the people call you now. Listen to this new verse of mine: ‘The magnificent gifts of the gods are not negligible. Only the gods can give them, for no one can acquire them on his own.’”

  “What makes you so fatalistic?”

  “It comes with age, Your Majesty. I’ve completed my Iliad and Odyssey, and I’ve just put the finishing touches on my account of your victory at Kadesh. All that’s left for me now is smoking my pipe, drinking my special wine, and having my olive oil massages.”

  “Don’t you want to reread your epics?”

  “Only mediocre authors like to gaze in the mirror of their words. Tell me, Majesty, why this long journey?”

  “My father told me not to neglect the temple at Abydos. I haven’t followed his orders, and now I need to make up for lost time.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “My father’s definition of a pharaoh was ‘The one who makes his people happy.’ And how is that done? By following Ma’at and pleasing the gods, so that they shower their blessings on humankind.”

  “I sense the queen’s hand in this.”

  “With her, and for her, I want to build a monument that will produce the luminous energy we so dearly need, while protecting Egypt and Nubia from harm.”

  “Have you chosen the site?”

  “In the heart of Nubia, Hathor has left her imprint on a place called Abu Simbel. A place where Lady of the Stars has imprinted the secret of her love in the stone. That love is the gift I want to give Nefertari, that she may become forever the Lady of Abu Simbel.”

  Hairy and bearded, the cook hunkered in front of his brazier, fanning the flames beneath the trussed goose he had skewered through the mouth. Once the bird’s feathers were singed, he would pluck it, clean it, cut off the head, feet, and wing tips, then turn it slowly on the spit.

  A noble lady called out to him.

  “Is all your poultry spoken for?”

  “Almost all.”

  “If I order a whole goose, can you have it ready this evening?”

  “Well, it won’t be easy . . .”

  Dolora, Ramses’ sister, tugged at the left shoulder strap of her dress, which tended to slip. Then she set a pot of honey at the cook’s grimy feet.

  “Your disguise is perfect, Shaanar. If you hadn’t told me exactly where to look, I never would have recognized you.”

  “Have you learned something important?”

  “I think so,” his tall, dark sister told him. “I’ve come from the king and queen’s audience.”

  “Come back in two hours. Your goose will be ready. I’ll close up shop and you’ll follow me. I’ll take you to Ofir.”

  At the edge of the warehouse district, the streets of cooks’ and butchers’ shops grew quiet only after dark. A few heavily laden shop boys headed toward the mansions where they would deliver succulent meats for the night’s banqueting.

  Shaanar headed down an empty side street, stopped in front of a low blue door, and gave four slow knocks. As soon as the door opened, he motioned Dolora to follow. The lanky brunette steeled herself and ducked into a low-ceilinged room crammed with baskets. Shaanar lifted a trap door and led his sister down a wooden stairway to the cellar.

  At the sight of Ofir, Dolora threw herself at his feet and kissed the hem of his robe.

  “I was so afraid I’d never see you again!”

  “I promised you I’d come back. My time of meditation in Akhenaton’s lost capital has confirmed my faith in the One God who will one day rule over this country.”

  Dolora fixed her ecstatic gaze on the hawk-faced sorcerer. He fascinated her—Ofir, the prophet of the true faith. Yes, one day his strength would guide the people. One day soon he would overthrow Ramses.

  “Your help is very precious to us,” said Ofir in his deep and soothing voice. “Without you, how could we fight against this unbelieving and hated tyrant?”

  “Ramses has dropped his guard; I think he even trusts me now, because my testimony helped his friend Moses.”

  “What are the king’s current plans?”

  “He’s sending the Royal Sons to oversee the northern protectorates, under Ahsha’s orders.”

  “That scum!” bellowed Shaanar. “He played me for a fool and then betrayed me! I’ll get Ahsha someday, I’ll trample him . . .”

  “Let’s stick to business,” Ofir cut in. “Dolora has more to tell us.”

  The princess was delighted with her newfound importance. “The king and queen are leaving on a long journey.”

  “What’s their destination?”

  “Upper Egypt and Nubia.”

  “Do you know why they’re going?”

  “Ramses wants to make an extraordinary gift to the queen. A temple, it seems.”

  “Is that the only reason for their journey?”

  “Pharaoh wants to spark Egypt’s divine forces, focus their energy, and weave a protective web that will cover his kingdom.”

  Shaanar snickered. “Has our darling brother gone mad?”

  “No,” protested Dolora. “He realizes that mysterious foes are at work against him. There’s nothing he can do but appeal to the gods and assemble an invisible host to aid him in his fight.”

  “He’s crazy,” Shaanar said, “crazier by the day. An invisible army? Ridiculous!”

  The wayward prince was silenced by an icy glance.

  “Ramses has recognized the danger,” said the sorcerer.

  “You can’t really believe . . .” his voice trailed off. A terrifying aura of violence surrounded Ofir. For a second, Shaanar no longer doubted the Libyan’s occult powers.

  “What about the child Kha? Who’s protecting him in their absence?” Ofir asked Dolora.

 
“Setau, the snake charmer. He’s tutoring Kha in magic and doing all he can to build a magic wall around the boy.”

  “Snakes embody the earth’s magic,” Ofir acknowledged. “Anyone who’s been around them knows that. Thanks to the brush Meba stole from Kha, I’ll still be able to penetrate his defenses. But it will take me longer than I’d planned.”

  Dolora’s heart sank at the thought that Kha must suffer in this surreptitious power struggle, yet she bowed to the sorcerer’s logic. An attack on his son would weaken Ramses, deplete his ka—his spiritual essence—and perhaps lead him to abdicate. However cruel the means, Dolora believed the end was worth it.

  “It’s time for us to go,” Ofir announced.

  Dolora clutched at his robe. “When will I see you again?”

  “Shaanar and I are going to leave the capital for a time. We can’t stay for long in any one place. You’ll be the first to hear when we come back. In the meantime, keep on gathering information.”

  “And I’ll keep the faith,” she said fervently.

  “Is there anything more important?” murmured Ofir with a knowing smile.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  To celebrate Moses’ acquittal, the Hebrew brickmakers threw a huge party in their modest neighborhood. Feasting on triangular flatbread, pigeon pie, stuffed quail, stewed figs, strong wine and cool beer, they sang well into the night, raising cheers to Moses, their hero.

  Weary of the hubbub, the guest of honor left as soon as his newfound supporters were too drunk to notice his absence. Moses felt the need to be alone and consider the struggles to come. Persuading Ramses to release the entire Hebrew population from Egypt would be no easy task. Yet he must accomplish his mission from Yahweh, no matter what the cost. If need be, he would move mountains.

  As Moses sat on the edge of the communal grinding stone, two men approached him. Bedouins, they were—bald, bearded Amos and stringy Keni.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “Joining in the festivities,” declared Amos. “Truly a special occasion, isn’t it?”

  “You’re no Hebrews.”