Ramses, Volume V Read online

  But Pharaoh had no time for nostalgia. The ship of state moved forward; the rudder must be manned.

  “I have called you together so that you may transmit some essential facts to the whole country. Wild rumors have been circulating in the capital, and I intend to reestablish the truth, which you will broadcast.”

  Ahmeni was seated in the last row, with other scribes, as if he occupied some lesser post. This way he would be more in tune with the audience’s reactions. Serramanna, on the other hand, had chosen the front row. At the slightest sign of unrest, he would pounce. As for Setau, he occupied his place in the hierarchy, to the left of the Viceroy of Nubia, among the most visible dignitaries, many of whom stole repeated glances at Lotus, clothed in a pink dress with straps that left her breasts uncovered.

  The governor from the province of the Prince, in lower Egypt, came forward and bowed to the monarch.

  “May I have the floor, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, speak.”

  “Is it true that the secretary of state, Ahsha, is actually a prisoner in Hattusa, and the peace treaty with the Hittites has been broken?”

  “My friend Ahsha was murdered on his way back to Pi-Ramses. He has found eternal rest on Egyptian soil. The investigation into his death continues; the guilty parties will be identified and punished. The peace with Hatti is in large part Ahsha’s work, and we will make it his monument. Our nonaggression pact is still in force and shall remain so for some time to come.”

  “Your Majesty . . . may we ask who the next Great Royal Wife will be?”

  “The daughter of Hattusili, Emperor of Hatti.”

  A buzz ran through the crowd. Finally a battalion commander requested the floor.

  “Your Majesty, isn’t that too great a concession?”

  “As long as Iset the Fair was queen, I rejected Hattusili’s proposal. Today, this marriage is the only means of consolidating the peace that the people of Egypt desire.”

  “Will we have to tolerate the presence of a Hittite army on our soil?”

  “No, General, only a Hittite princess.”

  “Forgive my impudence, Your Majesty, but a Hittite on the throne of the Two Lands . . . won’t it be a slap in the face to those who fought in the Anatolian campaigns? Thanks to your son Merenptah, our troops are combat ready and well equipped. What have we to fear from a conflict with the Hittites? Rather than backing down to their blatant demands, we ought to confront them.”

  The officer’s outspokenness seemed likely to cost him his post.

  “Your remarks are not devoid of intelligence,” appraised Ramses, “but your outlook is biased. If Egypt were to launch an attack, we would be breaking the peace treaty and betraying our word. Is that any proper way for a pharaoh to behave?”

  The general backed away and blended into the crowd of courtiers who were in general agreement with the monarch.

  The supervisor of canals requested the floor.

  “What if the Emperor of Hatti reverses his decision and refuses to send his daughter to Egypt? Wouldn’t you judge that attitude intolerable, Your Majesty?”

  Dressed in his ceremonial leopard skin, the high priest of Memphis, Prince Kha, stepped forward.

  “Will Pharaoh permit me to answer?”

  Ramses nodded.

  “From my point of view,” declared the king’s elder son, “politics and diplomacy are not an adequate basis for making a vital decision. Keeping our word and respecting the law of Ma’at are of prime importance, but we must also heed our ancestral legacy of magic. In Year Thirty of his reign, Ramses the Great celebrated his initial sed-feast; henceforth our sovereign must frequently replenish the invisible forces he needs in order to govern. That is why the most urgent task he faces in the thirty-third year of his reign is planning his second sed-feast. Then the horizon will clear and the answers to our questions will come unbidden.”

  “It’s a complicated and costly undertaking,” protested the director of the House of Gold and Silver. “Wouldn’t it be better to postpone this for a while?”

  “Impossible,” retorted Kha. “Our study of the texts and the astrologers’ calculations lead to the same conclusion: Ramses’ second jubilee must be held without fail before two months are out. We must coordinate our efforts to ensure the attendance of all the gods and goddesses, and focus our thoughts on safeguarding Pharaoh.”

  The commander-in-chief of the fortresses strung along the northeastern border felt he must put in a word. A career soldier, a man of experience, he had the ear of many influential figures.

  “With all due respect for the high priest’s position, what happens in the event of a Hittite attack? When Hattusili learns that Egypt is planning this jubilee without regard to his daughter’s wedding, he may take it as an insult and strike out at us. While Pharaoh is busy celebrating the sed-feast, who will be giving orders?”

  “Religious ceremonies are the very thing that will protect us,” Kha asserted in his fine, deep voice, “as they have done since time immemorial.”

  “So says a priest well versed in the temples’ secrets. A military man sees things somewhat differently. Hattusili is reluctant to attack us because he fears Ramses, the victor of Kadesh. He knows what supernatural feats our Pharaoh can perform. If the king isn’t at the head of his troops, the Emperor of Hatti will be more likely to try a preemptive strike.”

  “Egypt’s best protection is in the realm of magic,” Kha reiterated. “Our foes, Hittite or otherwise, are merely the instruments of the forces of darkness. No human army can stop those forces. Remember that Amon was the one who gave strength to Ramses’ sword arm at the battle of Kadesh.”

  The argument hit home. No other officer voiced an objection.

  “I’d like to attend the sed-feast,” said Merenptah, “but shouldn’t I be at the border in Pharaoh’s stead?”

  “With two of the royal sons, you’ll keep watch over our frontier while the jubilee proceeds.”

  Ramses’ decree reassured the assembly, but the ranking celebrant priest, visibly irritated, made his way to the front of the audience. He had a shaved head, a long, thin face, and a rather ascetic figure.

  “If Your Majesty will allow me, I have a few questions to ask of the high priest.”

  The king made no objection. Kha had been dreading this ordeal, but had hoped it would at least take place in an unofficial setting.

  “At what site does the high priest of Memphis plan to celebrate this second sed-feast?”

  “In the Pi-Ramses temple constructed for the purpose.”

  “Does the king possess the testament of the gods?”

  “He does.”

  “Who will preside over the ceremonies?”

  “Seti’s immortal soul.”

  “Whence comes the light that provides Pharaoh with celestial energy?”

  “That light is born of itself and reborn continuously in Pharaoh’s heart.”

  The priest gave up quizzing Kha, realizing that the prince was flawlessly prepared. With a grave expression, the dignitary turned back to face Ramses.

  “Despite the high priest’s qualifications, Your Majesty, I deem it impossible to celebrate this sed-feast.”

  “Why?” asked Kha in amazement.

  “Because the Great Royal Wife plays an essential role in it. Yet Pharaoh is a widower and has not yet taken this Hittite princess as his wife. However, no foreigner has ever had access to the mysteries of regeneration.”

  Ramses rose.

  “What makes you think that Pharaoh is unaware of this difficulty?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Techonk had been a tanner since he was a child. The son of a Libyan arrested by the Egyptian police for sheep rustling and sentenced to several years’ hard labor, he had not followed his father home to preach armed revolt against Pharaoh. At Bubastis, then Pi-Ramses, Techonk had found work and gradually made a name for himself in his trade.

  Approaching fifty, he began to feel pangs of remorse. He was fat and happy, but only because
he’d sold out, ignoring Egypt’s humiliating treatment of his native land. As a prosperous craftsman with a staff of thirty, he willingly opened his door to needy Libyans. Over time, he became a one-man aid society for his fellow expatriates. Some of them quickly found their place in Egyptian society. Others kept a chip on their shoulder and never adjusted. But now something new was in the air, a movement that frightened Techonk, who was no longer so convinced that the Two Lands should perish. Still, suppose Libya finally did have its day, and a Libyan sat on the throne of Egypt? Only first they’d have to get rid of Ramses . . .

  To quiet his mind, Techonk returned to his work. He checked a fresh shipment of hides from goats, sheep, antelopes, and other desert animals. After the skins were dried, salted, and smoked, a team of specially trained workers would coat them with dirt and soften them with urine, droppings, and dung. It was the foulest-smelling procedure performed in the workshop, which underwent regular public health inspections.

  A fast-acting curing process using oil and alum was followed by true curing with a product rich in tannic acid, derived from Nile acacia pods. If necessary, the hides underwent a second soaking in oil, then were pounded and stretched to soften them. Techonk was successful because he refused to settle for a simple tanning with animal fat. What was more, he had a special talent for draping and cutting the finished product. That was why his clientele was large and varied. Techonk’s workshop produced bags, dog collars and leashes, ropes, sandals, cases and scabbards for daggers and swords, helmets, quivers, shields, and even writing stands.

  Using a knife with a semicircular blade, Techonk was cutting a strap from a top-grade antelope skin when a whiskery giant barged into his establishment.

  Serramanna, the head of Ramses’ security detail . . . The blade raced along the leather, slid off track, and sliced through the craftsman’s middle finger. Techonk cried out in pain as the blood spurted. Ordering an assistant to clean the hide, he washed his wound and prepared to daub it with honey.

  The hulking Sardinian stood motionless, watching the scene. Techonk bowed to him.

  “Excuse me for keeping you waiting . . . a foolish accident.”

  “Strange . . . I heard that you had a sure hand with the knife.”

  Techonk was trembling with fear. As the descendant of Libyan warriors, he should have been able to stare down any opponent. But Serramanna was an old pirate, a Sard, and colossal.

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I need a wristband in your best leather. Wielding my hatchet, I’ve begun to feel a slight weakness lately.”

  “I can offer you a choice of several different models.”

  “I’m sure that you keep the best ones in your back room.”

  “No, I—”

  “I told you I’m sure, Techonk. Let’s go.”

  “Yes, I remember now.”

  Techonk was sweating like a pig. What had Serramanna found out? Nothing, he could know nothing. The Libyan must get hold of himself, not show signs of some completely unfounded fear. Egypt was a law-abiding country; the Sard would never dare use violence without legal repercussions.

  The tanner led Serramanna into the cubbyhole where he kept the masterpieces he never intended to sell. Among them was a splendid red leather wristband.

  “Are you trying to bribe me, Techonk?”

  “Of course not!”

  “A piece like this is fit for a king.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “You’re a fine craftsman, Techonk. You’ve done well, with a large clientele, a promising future . . . What a shame!”

  The Libyan blanched.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “With everything going so well, why throw it all away?”

  “Throw it away?” he echoed dumbly.

  Serramanna ran his hand over a magnificent brown leather shield, suitable for a commanding general.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, Techonk, but you may be in for some serious trouble.”

  “But why?”

  “Do you recognize this piece?” asked the bodyguard, producing a leather tube serving as a scroll case. “It came from your workshop, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “All right, I admit it’s my work.”

  “Who ordered it?”

  “A priest at the main temple.”

  The Sard smiled. “You’re an honest man, Techonk. I knew it.”

  “I have nothing to hide, sir!”

  “Yet you made one serious mistake.”

  “What?”

  “Using this case to deliver a subversive message.”

  The Libyan was short of breath. His tongue felt thick and his temples throbbed.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .” he choked.

  “It got switched around somehow,” Serramanna explained. “The priest was quite surprised to find it contained a document calling for all Libyans in Egypt to unite in an armed revolt against Ramses.”

  “No, no . . . it’s impossible!”

  “You admitted that this scroll case comes from your shop, Techonk. And you’re the one who sent out the message.”

  “No, sir, I swear I wasn’t!”

  “I admire your work, Techonk. You should never have gotten mixed up in a plot that’s too deep for you. At your age and in your situation, it’s hard to fathom. What got into you?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Don’t make any false statements, or you’ll suffer the consequences in the next world. You’ve gone astray, Techonk, but I can believe you were manipulated. We all lose our bearings from time to time.”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding, I—”

  “Don’t waste your breath, Techonk. My men have been monitoring you for the past several months. We know that your workshop shelters Libyan rebels.”

  “Not rebels, sir! Only men in trouble, who need a helping hand. Isn’t that natural?”

  “Don’t downplay your role. Without you, no underground network could form.”

  “I’m an honest tradesman, I—”

  “Let’s get down to brass tacks, friend. I have evidence that can hang you, or at least get you life without parole. I only need to show this scroll to the vizier and he’ll write out a warrant for your arrest. You’ll have a well-publicized trial and a punishment to fit the crime.”

  “But I’m innocent!”

  “That’s what you say. But with hard evidence, the judges won’t hesitate. You’re trapped, Techonk . . . unless I decide to help you.”

  “What will make you decide?” gulped the tanner.

  Serramanna stroked the leather shield.

  “No matter what his position, every man has unfulfilled desires. I’m no exception. I earn a good living, my lodgings are more than adequate, I have all the women I want . . . but I’d like a nest egg, something for my old age. So you see, I could say nothing and suppress this evidence . . . but for a price, Techonk.”

  “How high?”

  “Don’t forget that I have to keep the priest in question quiet. A fair percentage of your profits would satisfy me.”

  “If we reach an agreement, will you leave me in peace?”

  “I still have to do my job, friend.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The name of the Libyans responsible for killing Ahsha.”

  “Sir, I have no idea!”

  “Even if that’s the truth, you can find out for me. Be my special investigator, Techonk, and you won’t regret it.”

  “What if I can’t get results?”

  “That would be unfortunate . . . but I’m sure you’ll find a way. In my official capacity, I’m here to place an order for a hundred shields and scabbards. When you come to the palace, ask for me.”

  Serramanna exited, leaving a bewildered Techonk behind. Ahmeni had convinced the Sard to pose as a man on the make, ready to betray his king for gold. If Techonk fell for the act, he’d be less afraid to talk and would lead Serramanna in the
right direction.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In this thirty-third year of the reign of Ramses the Great, the Theban winter, sometimes fraught with icy winds, turned out to be mild. A wide, cloudless blue sky. A peaceful Nile, its banks lush green from the summer floods.

  Donkeys laden with forage trotting from one village to the next. Cows with milk-swollen udders driven to pasture by cowherds and dogs. Girls playing with dolls on the doorsteps of whitewashed houses while boys ran after a rag ball . . . Egypt moved to its eternal rhythm, as if nothing, ever, was bound to change.

  Ramses savored this simple moment frozen in time. How right his ancestors had been to choose the West Bank for building their Temples of Millions of Years, to dig their houses of eternity, where each morning their astral bodies were born anew with the rising sun! Here the border between this world and the other side blurred, and human life was absorbed into mystery.

  After celebrating the rites of dawn at the temple of Gurnah, where Seti’s ka was preserved, Ramses prayed in the chapel. His father’s soul was expressed in each hieroglyph carved into the walls. Deep in the silence, he sensed his father’s voice, the voice of a pharaoh reborn as a star. As the Pharaoh made his way though the great courtyard, bathed in soft light, a procession of priestesses emerged from the hall of columns, singing and playing their instruments. The moment Meritamon spotted her father she broke away from the group, went to meet him, and bowed, crossing her arms over her chest.

  She looked more like Nefertari every day. Clear as a spring morning, her beauty seemed to have fed on the temple’s wisdom. Ramses took his daughter’s arm and the two of them walked slowly down the avenue of sphinxes, lined with acacia and tamarisk trees.

  “Do you keep abreast of events in the outside world?”

  “No, Father; I know you’re defending Ma’at, combating the forces of darkness and chaos. Isn’t that all that matters? Rumors from the secular world never cross the temple walls, and rightly so.”