Ramses, Volume V Read online

  CRITICS SALUTE RAMSES

  “A PLOT AS SINUOUS AS THE RIVER NILE, WITH CHARACTERS LYING LIKE CROCODILES IN THE SHALLOWS. . . . THIS BOOK MAKES ANCIENT EGYPT AS RELEVANT AND 3-D AS TODAY’S NEWS.”

  —J. Suzanne Frank, author of Reflections in the Nile

  “Officially, Christian Jacq was born in Paris in 1947. In fact, his real birth took place in the time of the pharaohs, along the banks of the Nile, where the river carries eternal messages. . . . Who could ever tell that Christian Jacq, Ramses’ official scribe, was not writing from memory?”

  —Magazine Littéraire

  “With hundreds of thousands of readers, millions of copies in print, Christian Jacq’s success has become unheard of in the world of books. This man is the pharaoh of publishing!”

  —Figaro Magazine

  “In 1235 B.C., Ramses II might have said: ‘My life is as amazing as fiction!’ It seems Christian Jacq heard him. . . . Christian Jacq draws a pleasure from writing that is contagious. His penmanship turns history into a great show, high-quality entertainment.”

  —VSD

  “It’s Dallas or Dynasty in Egypt, with a hero (Ramses), beautiful women, plenty of villains, new developments every two pages, brothers fighting for power, magic, enchantments, and historical glamour.”

  —Libération

  “He’s a pyramid-surfer. The pharaoh of publishing. His saga about Ramses II is a bookselling phenomenon!”

  —Le Parisien

  “Moves at a breakneck pace. . . . A lot of fun.”

  —KLIATT

  RAMSES

  Volume I: The Son of Light

  Volume II: The Eternal Temple

  Volume III: The Battle of Kadesh

  Volume IV: The Lady of Abu Simbel

  Volume V: Under the Western Acacia

  RAMSES VOLUME V: UNDER THE WESTERN ACACIA. Copyright © 1996 by Editions Robert Laffont (Volume 5). All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN: 978-0-446-93026-0

  Originally published in French by Editions Robert Laffont, S.A. Paris, France.

  A trade paperback edition of this book was published in 1999 by Warner Books.

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: March 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  ONE

  The setting sun bathed the temples of Pi-Ramses in heavenly gold. Dubbed “the Turquoise City” after the colored tiles on its buildings, the capital Ramses the Great had built in the Nile Delta was the picture of wealth, power, and beauty.

  Life was good in Pi-Ramses, but the Sardinian giant Serramanna took no pleasure in the balmy evening or the pink-streaked sky. Decked out in his horned helmet, sword at his side, whiskers curled, the former pirate who had become Ramses’ personal bodyguard rode grimly toward the villa where the Hittite prince Uri-Teshoop had spent the last several years under house arrest.

  Uri-Teshoop, the deposed son of the late Emperor Muwattali, Ramses’ sworn enemy. Uri-Teshoop, who had usurped the throne from his ailing father, only to be outmaneuvered by Hattusili, the emperor’s brother. Uri-Teshoop had been spirited out of Hatti by Ahsha, the head of Egyptian diplomacy, who was Ramses’ boyhood friend.

  Serramanna smiled. The fearless Anatolian warrior, a runaway! The crowning irony was that Ramses, the man Uri-Teshoop hated most in the world, was the one who had granted him political asylum in exchange for information about the Hittite troops and their state of readiness.

  During Year Twenty-one of Ramses’ reign, to the surprise of both peoples, Egypt and Hatti had signed a peace treaty, pledging mutual assistance in case of outside attack. Uri-Teshoop feared the worst. Would he not make a prime scapegoat, the perfect token for Ramses to offer Hattusili to seal their pact? Yet the Pharaoh, respecting the principle of asylum, had refused to extradite his guest.

  By now, Uri-Teshoop no longer counted. And Serramanna thoroughly disliked the mission that Ramses had sent him on tonight.

  The Hittite’s villa was set in a palm grove on the northern edge of town. At least he’d had a comfortable life in this land of the pharaohs that he had dreamed of destroying.

  Serramanna admired Ramses and would serve him faithfully to the end. However reluctantly, he would carry out the king’s terrible order.

  The entrance to the villa was flanked by two of Serramanna’s handpicked guards, armed with clubs and daggers.

  “Nothing to report?”

  “Nothing, Chief. The Hittite is sleeping it off in the garden, down by the pool.”

  The hulking Sard went through the gate and lumbered down the path to the pool. Three other guards kept a permanent watch on the former commander-in-chief of the Hittite army, who spent his time eating, drinking, swimming, and dozing.

  Swallows swooped high in the sky. A hoopoe grazed Serramanna’s shoulder. Jaws tense, fists clenched, eyes glowering, he prepared to do his duty. For the first time, he was sorry that he worked for Ramses.

  Like an animal sensing danger, Uri-Teshoop awoke before the giant’s heavy tread sounded on the path.

  Tall and muscular, Uri-Teshoop had long, flowing locks; fleecy red hair covered his bare chest. Not even the Anatolian winter daunted him, and he had lost none of his strength.

  Lying on the flagstone rim of the pool, eyes half-closed, he watched as Ramses the Great’s bodyguard drew nearer.

  So
tonight was the night.

  Ever since the signing of the outrageous peace treaty between Egypt and Hatti, Uri-Teshoop had felt his time running out. A hundred times he had thought of escaping, but Serramanna’s men had never given him a chance. He’d escaped extradition only to be bled like a pig, slaughtered by a brute as ruthless as himself.

  “Get up,” ordered Serramanna.

  Uri-Teshoop was not accustomed to being ordered around. Slowly, as if savoring his final act, he rose to face the man sent to slit his throat.

  The Sard’s expression was one of barely contained fury.

  “Go ahead, butcher,” spat the Hittite. “Do what your master told you. I won’t even give you the pleasure of fighting me.”

  Serramanna’s fingers gripped the pommel of his short sword.

  “Clear out.”

  Uri-Teshoop could hardly believe his ears.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re free.”

  “Free? To do what?”

  “To leave this place and go where you please. Pharaoh is applying the law. There’s no longer any reason to hold you here.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, it’s a sign of peace. But if you make the mistake of staying in Egypt and cause the least trouble here, I’ll arrest you. You won’t be a political exile anymore, just a common-law criminal. Give me the slightest cause to run you through with my sword, and believe me, I will.”

  “But tonight you’re not allowed to touch me. Am I right?” Uri-Teshoop taunted.

  “Get out!”

  A reed mat, a kilt, a pair of sandals, a slab of bread, a bunch of onions, and two faience amulets to swap for food: that was all Uri-Teshoop was given upon his release. The Hittite prince had now been wandering the streets of Pi-Ramses for several hours like a sleepwalker. His newfound freedom made his head spin; he could hardly think straight.

  There was no finer city than Pi-Ramses, ran the popular song:

  Long live the town of Pi-Ramses,

  Where the hoopoe and nightingale sing

  In the shade of acacia and sycamore,

  Where the poor man lives like a king.

  Long live the boats and the fishes,

  Long live the breeze from the sea.

  Long live the Turquoise City,

  The most wonderful place to be.

  Uri-Teshoop fell under the spell of the capital built in a fertile region on a loop of the Nile framed by two broad canals. There were rich grasslands, orchards where prized apples grew, vast olive groves that yielded rivers of oil, vineyards producing a soft, fruity wine, flower-decked cottages . . . Pi-Ramses was far different from rugged Hattusa, the capital of the Hittite empire, a fortified city high in the central Anatolian plateau.

  A painful thought wrenched Uri-Teshoop from his torpor. He might never become Emperor of Hatti, but he would get revenge on the Pharaoh who had freed him, the fool. Eliminating Ramses, considered a god since the victory at Kadesh (where he had defeated a coalition that should have crushed him) would plunge Egypt—perhaps even the entire Near East—into chaos. Fate had treated Uri-Teshoop cruelly; his only consolation was that his destructive urges had survived intact.

  Milling around him was a colorful crowd of Egyptians, Nubians, Syrians, Libyans, Greeks, and others who had come to admire the capital that the Hittites had hoped to raze—before they caved in to Ramses.

  Destroying Ramses . . . how could a fallen warrior possibly pull it off?

  “Your Highness,” murmured a voice behind him.

  Uri-Teshoop wheeled around.

  “Your Highness, do you remember me?”

  Uri-Teshoop looked down at a compact man with lively dark eyes. A linen headband held his thick hair in place; he sported a trim goatee. This obsequious character wore a brightly striped robe that reached to his ankles.

  “Raia . . . is it really you?”

  The Syrian merchant bowed.

  “But you were our spy. What are you doing back in Pi-Ramses?”

  “It’s peacetime, Your Highness. A new era has begun. There’s been an amnesty. I was a rich trader with a good reputation in Egypt; I’ve simply started back in business.

  No one tried to stop me, and I’ve rebuilt my upper-class clientele.”

  Raia had been near the top of a Hittite spy ring that operated for years, attempting to destabilize Ramses’ regime. When Serramanna broke up the network, the Syrian had managed to escape and then return to his adopted homeland after a stay in Hattusa.

  “Well, good for you, Raia.”

  “Good for us.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Do you believe that this is a chance meeting?”

  Uri-Teshoop studied Raia more attentively.

  “You mean you trailed me?”

  “I heard conflicting rumors about what might happen to you. For more than a month, my men have kept up a constant watch on your villa. I gave you time to get your feet on the ground, and now . . . well, now here I am. May I offer you a cool beer?”

  Uri-Teshoop wavered. It had been an eventful night. Yet his instincts told him that the Syrian merchant could help him move forward with his plans.

  In the tavern, their discussion was lively. Raia encouraged Uri-Teshoop’s gradual metamorphosis from released prisoner into ruthless warrior, ready for any conquest. The Syrian merchant had not been mistaken: despite years of exile, the former commander-in-chief of the Hittite army was as bloodthirsty as ever.

  “I’m not a big talker, Raia. Tell me what you want from me.”

  The merchant spoke confidentially. “I have only one question, Your Highness. Do you want revenge on Ramses?”

  “He humiliated me. Peace with Egypt was no doing of mine! But overcoming this Pharaoh seems impossible.”

  Raia nodded.

  “That depends, Your Highness, that depends . . .”

  “Do you doubt my courage?”

  “With all due respect, courage won’t be enough.”

  “Why would you, a merchant, want to throw yourself into such risky business?”

  Raia smiled a twisted smile. “Because my hate is as ardent as your own.”

  TWO

  Wearing a golden collar and the pharaoh’s traditional simple white kilt, Ramses the Great was celebrating the rites of dawn at his Eternal Temple, the Ramesseum, on the West Bank of Thebes. Gently he roused the divine power hidden within the naos, or inner sanctum, thanks to which energy would circulate between heaven and earth, Egypt would be at one with the cosmos, and the human tendency toward destruction would be curbed.

  At the age of fifty-five, Ramses was tall and athletic, his large head crowned with a mane of red-gold hair. He had a broad forehead, arched eyebrows, and piercing eyes; his curving nose was long and thin, his ears round and delicately rimmed. He radiated magnetism, strength, and natural authority. In his presence, the sturdiest of characters lost their composure. A god clearly lived within this Pharaoh who had covered the country with monuments and flattened every enemy.

  Thirty-three years on the throne . . . Ramses alone knew the true weight of the ordeals that he had endured. First came the death of his father, Seti, leaving him rudderless at the very moment the Hittites began to wage war on Egypt. Without the help of Amon, his heavenly father, Ramses, deserted by his own troops, would never have triumphed at Kadesh. There had been years of happiness and peace, certainly, but then his mother, Tuya, the model of rectitude, had joined her illustrious husband in the country of light where the souls of the just dwelt for all eternity. Fate’s next blow was even crueler, inflicting a loss from which the king would never recover. His Great Royal Wife, Nefertari, had died in his arms at Abu Simbel in Nubia, where Ramses had built twin temples to glorify the royal couple’s indestructible unity.

  Pharaoh had lost the three beings he loved most in the world, the three people who had made him who he was and whose love was limitless. Still, he must continue to reign, to embody Egypt with the same faith and the same
enthusiasm.

  Four other faithful companions had also left him: his pair of war horses, so valiant on the field of battle; Fighter, the pet lion that had more than once saved his life; and Watcher, the yellow dog, now a royal mummy. Another Watcher had taken his place, then a third, who was just a pup.

  Gone, too, was the Greek poet Homer, who had ended his days beneath the lemon tree in his beloved Egyptian garden. Ramses nostalgically recalled his conversations with the author of the Iliad and the Odyssey, who had come to admire the civilization of the pharaohs.

  After Nefertari’s death, Ramses had been tempted to step down and transfer power to his eldest son, Kha. But his circle of friends had opposed the idea, reminding the monarch that his life was no longer his own and that a pharaoh must serve until he died. No matter what he suffered as a man, he must fulfill his duty to the end. The law of Ma’at required it, and Ramses, like his predecessors, would bow to this principle of justice and harmony.

  It was here, in his Temple of Millions of Years, which emitted the magic flux that protected his reign, that Ramses drew strength. Although an important ceremony awaited him, he lingered in the halls of the Ramesseum. It comprised a vast enclosure with two great courtyards where pillars depicted the king as Osiris, a huge hall with forty-eight columns, and a sanctuary where the divine presence resided. Access to the temple was through massive monumental gates, or pylons, inscribed with texts saying that they rose to the heavens. On the south side of the forecourt stood the palace, and around the holy site were an extensive library, storerooms, a treasury containing precious metals, the scribes’ offices, and the priests’ quarters. The temple complex hummed with activity night and day, for the service of the gods knew no rest.

  Ramses spent a few too-brief moments in the part of the shrine dedicated to his wife, Nefertari, and his mother, Tuya. He contemplated the reliefs showing the queen’s union with the scent of the god Amon-Ra, at once secret and luminous, and then the scenes where she nursed the Pharaoh, guaranteeing him eternal youth.

  They must be growing restless in the palace, he realized. The king tore himself away from his memories, not stopping to look at the colossal statue carved from a single block of pink granite and entitled Ramses, the Light of Kings, nor the acacia tree planted in Year Two of his reign. He headed straight for the audience chamber with its sixteen columns, where the foreign diplomats had gathered.