Ramses, Volume V Page 10
Ahmeni was paler than usual. His eyes were infinitely sad.
“You, at least, will dare to tell me the truth!”
“Ahsha is dead, Your Majesty.”
Ramses was stone-faced.
“In what circumstances?”
“His convoy was attacked on the way into Canaan. A shepherd discovered the corpses and alerted the local police. When they arrived on the scene, one of them recognized Ahsha.”
“Has his body been positively identified?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Where is it now?”
“At a fort, along with the remains of the other members of his delegation.”
“No survivors?”
“None.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No witnesses.”
“Let’s send Serramanna to the scene of the attack. He should search for clues and bring back the remains. Ahsha and his companions will rest in Egyptian soil.”
The giant Sard and a small group of mercenaries had gone through several horses on the way to the fort and back. As soon as he returned to Pi-Ramses, Serramanna had left Ahsha’s remains with an embalmer to wash, perfume, and prepare the body before it was presented to the Pharaoh.
Ramses had taken his friend in his arms and laid him on a bed in one of the palace bedchambers.
Ahsha’s face was serene. Wrapped in a white shroud, he seemed to be asleep.
Above him stood Ramses, flanked by Ahmeni and Setau.
“Who killed him?” asked Setau, his eyes red-rimmed.
“We’re going to find out,” promised the king. “I’m waiting for Serramanna to report.”
“Ahsha’s House of Eternity is ready,” reported Ahmeni. “Men have judged him worthy, and the gods will bring him back to life.”
“My son Kha will conduct the funeral rites and say the ancient prayers for resurrection. Ahsha’s work here below will continue in the next world; his love of country will protect him from the dangers of the underworld.”
“I’ll kill his murderer with my own hands,” announced Setau. “I won’t rest until I do.”
Serramanna was shown into the room.
“What have you found out?”
“Ahsha took an arrow near the right shoulder blade, but the wound wasn’t fatal. Here’s what killed him.”
The former pirate handed the dagger to Ramses.
“Iron!” exclaimed Ahmeni. “A sinister gift from the Emperor of Hatti! The message is clear: he’s assassinated the Egyptian ambassador, a close friend of Pharaoh’s!”
Serramanna had never seen Ahmeni so furious.
“We know who the murderer is, then,” concluded Setau. “Let Hattusili try and hide in his citadel! I’ll find a way to get in and toss his corpse back over the ramparts.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t be too hasty,” ventured the Sard.
“Don’t tell me you think I can’t do it!”
“I’m sure you could do as you say, Setau. It’s the identity of the murderer I wonder about.”
“The iron dagger is a Hittite piece, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, but I found another clue at the scene as well.”
Serramanna produced a broken plume. “It’s the Libyans’ war regalia.”
“Libyans fighting with Hittites? It’s impossible.”
“When the forces of evil decide to unite,” asserted Ahmeni, “nothing is impossible. It’s all quite clear: Hattusili wants a showdown. Like his predecessors, he dreams only of destroying Egypt, and he’d sign on with demons from hell to do it!”
“There’s another point to consider,” commented Serramanna. “Ahsha’s delegation was a small one. There must have been forty or fifty of the attackers. A band of looters that laid a trap for them, not a regular army.”
“That’s only your interpretation,” objected Ahmeni.
“No, it’s a fact. When you look at the terrain, the width of the path, and the prints the riders left, there’s no room for doubt. I’m sure there wasn’t a single Hittite chariot in the vicinity.”
“What does that change?” asked Setau. “Hattusili ordered his shock troops to execute Ahsha with a special gift for Ramses, this iron dagger! Since Pharaoh refuses to wed his daughter, the Emperor of Hatti counters by having one of his close friends assassinated. Even though Ahsha was a diplomat, a negotiator. Nothing can change a nation’s mind-set; the Hittites will always be inarticulate barbarians.”
“Your Majesty,” Ahmeni said gravely, “I abhor violence and detest war. But leaving this crime unpunished would be an intolerable affront to justice. As long as Hatti remains unchecked, Egypt will be in mortal danger. Ahsha gave his life to make us see it.”
Without betraying the least emotion, Ramses listened to it all.
“What else, Serramanna?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty.”
“Did Ahsha write anything on the ground, perhaps?”
“He wouldn’t have had time. The blow from the dagger was forceful and death would have followed quickly.”
“What about his baggage?”
“Stolen.”
“His clothing?”
“The embalmer removed it all.”
“Bring me what he was wearing.”
“But . . . it must be destroyed by now.”
“Bring it here, and fast.”
The king gave Serramanna the fright of his life. Why would he be so interested in a blood-spattered tunic and cloak?
The Sard left the palace at a run, leapt on the back of his horse, and galloped to the embalmers’ settlement outside of town. The senior embalmer had prepared Ahsha’s corpse for the final earthly encounter between Pharaoh and his friend.
“Ahsha’s clothing,” demanded the Sard.
“I don’t have it anymore,” replied the undertaker.
“What did you do with it?”
“Well . . . the usual. Gave it to the neighborhood washerman.”
“Where does he live?”
“Last house on the curve that runs along the canal.”
The hulking Sard flew off again, forcing his steed to jump walls, riding through gardens, hurtling down alleyways as pedestrians scattered. He reached the curve at full gallop.
At the last house, he pulled on the reins to stop his sweating horse, jumped off, and pounded on the shutters.
“Where’s the washerman?”
A woman appeared in the window.
“Down at the canal. He’s working.”
Leaving his horse behind, Serramanna ran down to the canal, used only for doing laundry. A man was just beginning to soap Ahsha’s tunic when Serramanna grabbed him by the hair.
On the cloak there were traces of blood. On the tunic, too, but with a visible difference: Ahsha’s unsteady finger had drawn something there.
“It’s a hieroglyph,” Ramses announced. “What do you make of it, Ahmeni?”
“Two outstretched arms, open palms held downward . . . a negative meaning.”
“The sign for ‘no.’ I read it the same as you.”
“The beginning of a name or a word . . . What did Ahsha mean?”
Setau, Ahmeni, and Serramanna were perplexed. Ramses reflected.
“Ahsha knew he had only a few seconds before he died, time to write only one hieroglyph. He also knew the conclusion we’d reach, that only Hattusili could be behind this abominable act, forcing me to declare war immediately. So Ahsha left this last word to prevent a tragedy. ‘No.’ No, the real culprit is not Hattusili.”
NINETEEN
Ahsha’s funeral was a stately occasion. Dressed in a panther skin, Kha performed the ritual opening of the eyes, ears, and mouth above the gilded acacia-wood coffin containing the distinguished diplomat’s mummy. Then Ramses sealed the door to his eternal dwelling.
When silence fell once again upon the tomb site, the king remained alone in the mortuary chapel opening toward the outside. He would be first to fill the role of priest to his late friend’s ka by placing a lotus
blossom, some irises, a loaf of fresh bread, and a cup of wine on the altar. Henceforth, a priest in the employ of the palace would bring offerings each day, maintaining Ahsha’s eternal memory.
Moses was gone in pursuit of his dream; Ahsha was in the next world. The circle of boyhood friends was growing tighter. At times, Ramses began to regret that he had reigned so long, with so many dark passages. Like Seti, Tuya, and Nefertari before him, Ahsha was irreplaceable. He had kept to himself, passing through life with feline grace. He and Ramses had no need to talk at length; each instinctively grasped the other’s most secret meaning.
Nefertari and Ahsha had built the peace agreement. Without their determination and courage, Hatti would never have agreed to a halt in the old hostilities. Fortunately, Ahsha’s killer had no idea how strong the understanding between true friends could be. As he lay dying, Ahsha had summoned his final spark of energy to contradict a lie.
It was a moment when any man would be justified in drowning his sorrows in wine or easing his pain by reminiscing with loved ones. Any man except Pharaoh.
To see Ramses the Great one-on-one, even when you were both his younger son and commander-in-chief of his army, was enough to take your breath away. Merenptah tried to stay cool, knowing that his father would judge him, like the god Thoth weighing souls in the Judgment Hall of the Dead.
“Father, I wanted to say—”
“Don’t bother, Merenptah. Ahsha was my old friend, not yours. Condolences won’t lessen my grief. All that matters is that his ka will last, beyond the fact of physical death. Now tell me, is my army ready for combat?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“From this point on, there’s no room for carelessness. The world is about to undergo a great change, Merenptah. We must be ready to defend ourselves at any time. You should be constantly on your guard.”
“Am I to understand that you’re declaring war?”
“Ahsha helped us spot a trick that might have made us the party breaking the peace treaty. Still, the situation is delicate. To save his honor, Hattusili will be forced to invade Canaan and launch a broad offensive against the Delta.”
Merenptah was astonished.
“Are we going to let him?”
“He’ll think we’re disorganized and unable to react. We’ll attack once he gets lost in the maze of branches of the Nile, dividing his troops. On our terrain, the Hittites won’t be able to maneuver.”
Merenptah seemed on edge.
“What do you think of this plan, my son?”
“It’s . . . bold.”
“You mean dangerous?”
“You’re Pharaoh and I must obey you.”
“Be honest, Merenptah.”
“I’m confident, Your Majesty. I trust in you, as all of Egypt does.”
“Be ready then.”
Serramanna trusted his pirate’s instincts. He could not believe that Ahsha’s death had happened during an organized raid by Emperor Hattusili’s shock troops. And this same instinct told him that there was a beast to track, someone capable of murder if it might weaken Ramses and deprive him of his friend’s precious, even indispensable support.
Which was why the Sard was lurking near Dame Tanit’s villa, waiting for Uri-Teshoop to emerge.
The Hittite left the house early in the afternoon, riding off on a black horse with white spots, checking first to see if he was followed.
Serramanna approached the doorman.
“I want to see Dame Tanit.”
The lady of the house received the Sard in a handsome salon with two columns, lit by four tall windows that let in both air and light. The comely Phoenician looked thinner.
“Is this an official visit, Serramanna?”
“A social call, for the time being. The rest will depend on your answers, Dame Tanit.”
“So it’s an interrogation.”
“No, a simple interview with an upstanding citizen who’s fallen into bad company.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you know what I’m getting at. A serious event has just occurred: Ahsha, the secretary of state, was murdered on his way home from Hatti.”
“Murdered . . .” Tanit blanched. To get rid of Serramanna all she needed to do was call for help, and the four Libyans hiding in her villa would instantly dispose of the Sard. But eliminating Ramses’ security chief would cause an investigation, and Tanit would be caught in the wheels of justice. No, she must keep her head.
“I’d like a detailed account of your husband’s whereabouts for the past two months.”
“Uri-Teshoop has spent most of his time here in this house. We’re still very much in love. When he does go out, it’s to visit a tavern or walk in town. We’ve been so happy together!”
“When did he leave Pi-Ramses and when did he come back?”
“Since he’s been with me, he hasn’t left the capital. He enjoys it here. He’s gradually forgetting his past. Thanks to our marriage, he’s become one of Pharaoh’s subjects, just as you and I are.”
“Uri-Teshoop is a criminal,” Serramanna said firmly. “He’s threatened and terrorized you. If you tell me the truth, I’ll put you under my protection, and the justice system will take care of him.”
For a second, Tanit was tempted to run into the garden. Serramanna would follow her, she’d warn him about the Libyans, and she could be her own woman again . . . But that would be the last she’d ever see of Uri-Teshoop, and she wasn’t ready to give him up. While he was away, she’d fallen ill. She’d never had such a lover; she needed him like a drug.
“Even if you drag me into court, Serramanna, I won’t say anything different.”
“Uri-Teshoop will destroy you, Dame Tanit.”
She smiled, thinking of the feverish lovemaking that had ended only minutes before the Sard’s arrival.
“If you’ve finished making your unfounded accusations, you may go.”
“I’d like to save you, Dame Tanit.”
“I’m not in danger.”
“If you change your mind, get in touch.”
She teasingly ran a soft hand over the Sard’s enormous forearm.
“You’re a good-looking man . . . Too bad I’ve already met my match.”
Decked out in a golden collar with a lapis lazuli scarab, turquoise bracelets at her wrists and ankles, tall feathers in her queenly headdress, and wearing a tucked dress of royal linen and rose-colored cape, the Great Royal Wife Iset the Fair slowly rode through Pi-Ramses in her chariot. The driver had chosen two steady horses outfitted with a brightly colored caparison and sporting blue, red, and yellow ostrich plumes.
The spectacle was magnificent. News of the queen’s passage spread quickly, and soon a crowd gathered to admire her. Children scattered lotus petals in front of the horses as cheers rose. Seeing the Great Royal Wife so close would bring good luck. Rumors of war were forgotten in the groundswell of approval for Ramses’ decision. He must never repudiate Iset the Fair, no matter what the repercussions.
Raised in an aristocratic milieu, Iset the Fair savored this contact with her people, where social classes and cultures mixed. All the inhabitants of Pi-Ramses cheered in support of her. Despite the chariot driver’s reluctance, the queen demanded to visit the humblest neighborhoods, where she was given a warm welcome. How good it felt to be loved!
Back at the palace, Iset the Fair collapsed on her bed as if intoxicated. There was nothing more moving than being the repository of the people’s trust, their hope of a rosy future. Emerging from her cocoon, Iset the Fair had discovered the country of which she was queen.
That evening, at a dinner for the provincial governors, Ramses had announced that conflict was imminent. Everyone noted that Iset the Fair was radiant. Though unable to equal Nefertari, she was growing into her title and inspired respect from veteran courtiers. For all and sundry she had a word of reassurance. Egypt had nothing to fear from Hatti; all would be well, thanks to Ramses. The governors were touched by the queen’s conviction.
When Ramses and Iset were alone on the terrace overlooking the city, he held her tenderly to him.
“You did beautifully tonight, Iset.”
“Are you proud of me at last?”
“I chose you as Great Royal Wife and was right to do so.”
“Have negotiations with Hatti broken down for good?”
“We’re ready for battle.”
Iset the Fair laid her head on Ramses’ shoulder.
“No matter what happens, you’ll be the winner.”
TWENTY
Kha was obviously distressed.
“War . . . but why?”
“To save Egypt and permit you to find Thoth’s book of knowledge,” answered Ramses.
“Is it really impossible to mend relations with Hatti?”
“Their troops are closing in on our northern protectorates. It’s time to deploy our contingent; I’m going with Merenptah and leaving you in charge while I’m gone.”
“Father! I can’t replace you, even temporarily.”
“You’re wrong, Kha. With Ahmeni’s help, you’ll be able to do as I ask.”
“What if I make mistakes?”
“Concentrate on the people’s happiness and you’ll know what to do.”
Ramses climbed into his chariot, which he would drive himself at the head of the regiments he planned to post at strategic points in the Delta and along the northeastern frontier. Behind him would come Merenptah and the generals with the four main battalions.
Just as the king prepared to give the departure signal, a rider burst into the barracks courtyard.
Serramanna jumped off his horse and ran up to Ramses’ chariot.
“Your Majesty, I must speak to you!”
Pharaoh had ordered his security chief to watch over the palace. He knew it was a disappointment to the Sard, who for years had longed to see action with the Hittites; but who else would take better care of Kha and Iset the Fair?