Ramses, Volume III Read online

  “Peace will have a price,” Ahsha cautioned.

  “I haven’t forgotten our plan. I’ll shower the princes of Canaan and Amurru with gold, give fabulous presents to the Hittite emperor, and make even more fabulous pledges! The treasury may be depleted for a time, but I’ll be king. And Ramses will soon be forgotten. The people are like sheep. Whom they love today, they hate tomorrow. Their stupidity will be my secret weapon.”

  “Have you given up on the idea of an immense empire stretching from the heart of Africa to the Anatolian plateau?”

  A faraway look came over Shaanar’s face.

  “A dream of mine, true, but only in trade terms . . . once we’re at peace again, we’ll open new ports, develop the caravan routes, and form economic ties with the Hittites. Then Egypt will be too small for me.”

  “And if your empire were also . . . political?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Muwattali governs the Hittites with an iron hand, but even he can be challenged. Court gossip in Hattusa mentions two possible successors—the emperor’s son, Uri-Teshoop, and his brother, Hattusili. The son makes no secret of his ambitions; Hattusili has stayed in the background, a priest of the goddess Ishtar. If Muwattali died in battle, one of them would take over. Now, the two men hate each other, and their supporters are primed for a fight.”

  Shaanar rubbed his chin. “More than simple palace feuds, you think?”

  “Much more. The Hittite empire could fall to pieces.”

  “And if someone were there to pick them up . . . and add them on to Egypt . . . what an empire that would be, Ahsha! Babylonia, Assyria, Cyprus, Rhodes, Greece, and the northern lands, all under my banner!”

  The young diplomat smiled.

  “The pharaohs have lacked ambition because they were only concerned with their people’s welfare and Egypt’s prosperity. You, Shaanar, have a broader outlook. That’s why Ramses must be eliminated, one way or another.”

  Shaanar felt no guilt about betraying his brother. If Seti’s mind hadn’t been weakened by illness, he, Shaanar, the elder son, would have been the successor. He had been treated unfairly; he would fight to regain what was his by right.

  He eyed Ahsha inquisitively. “Of course, you haven’t told Ramses everything.”

  “Of course not, but he has access to any message I receive from my operatives. They’re logged and filed here. Not a single one could be spirited away or destroyed without attracting attention and exposing me to charges of wrongdoing.”

  “Has Ramses ever called for an accounting?”

  “Up to this point, no, but now that we’re on the brink of war, I’d better take care not to arouse suspicion and have him come looking more closely.”

  “You have a plan, then?”

  “As I’ve said, every report from the field is open and aboveboard, nothing has been cut.”

  “If that’s the case, Ramses knows all there is to know!”

  Ahsha’s finger traced a slow circle around the rim of the alabaster goblet.

  “There’s a certain art to espionage, Shaanar. The facts are important, but the interpretation even more so. My job is to summarize the facts and provide a basis for the king’s future actions. In the present situation, he can’t say that I’ve refused to take a position. You heard me urging him to launch a counteroffensive.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Ramses will respond in kind to the Hittite aggression,” Ahsha said coolly. “Who can blame him? But look beyond the facts for a moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Moving the main military base from Memphis to Pi-Ramses has involved countless logistical problems that remain unsolved. The more we pressure Ramses into action, the more the army suffers; that’s the first point in our favor. They’re underequipped and poorly supplied, putting the troops at a distinct disadvantage.”

  “What else is there in our favor?”

  “The terrain itself and the extent of the defection in the provinces. While I haven’t hidden that from Ramses, I haven’t stressed the scope of the conflagration. The savagery of the Hittite raids and the massacre at the Abode of the Lion have terrorized the princes of Canaan and Amurru and the governors of the port cities. Seti respected the ability of the Hittite warriors—that’s not the case with Ramses. Most of the local chieftains would rather be Muwattali’s vassals than face his wrath.”

  “They don’t think Ramses will come to their rescue, so they’ve decided to have first crack at Egypt, to please their new master . . . am I right?”

  “That’s one possible interpretation.”

  “Well, what’s yours?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated. The fact that there’s been no word from certain of our fortresses may mean that they’re in the enemy’s possession. If so, the resistance Ramses encounters may be much stiffer than expected. What’s more, the Hittites have probably been busy shipping arms to the insurgents.”

  Shaanar licked his lips. “Some nice surprises in store for the Egyptian battalions! Ramses may be defeated the first time he faces them, even before he meets the Hittites!”

  “We mustn’t rule out the possibility,” Ahsha agreed.

  FIVE

  At the end of a trying day, the Queen Mother Tuya was relaxing in the palace gardens. She had celebrated the rites of dawn at a shrine to the goddess Hathor, the feminine face of the sun. She had ironed out protocol problems, granted an audience to disgruntled courtiers, and been briefed by the secretary of agriculture, at Ramses’ request. Finally, she had spent time talking with Nefertari, the Great Royal Wife.

  Tuya was slender. She had huge, almond-shaped eyes that were harsh and piercing, a thin, straight nose, and a firm chin. Her moral authority was uncontested. The twisted plaits of her wig flowed over her ears and down her back. She wore a long, knife-pleated linen gown, a collar with six strands of amethysts around her neck, and golden bracelets on her wrists. No matter what the hour, Tuya was flawlessly groomed.

  She missed Seti more each day. Time made her husband’s absence even harder to bear, and she longed for the release that would allow her to join him for eternity.

  Still, she took great pleasure in the new generation. Ramses had the makings of a great ruler, Nefertari a great queen. They loved their country passionately, as she and Seti had. They were willing to die for Egypt.

  The moment she saw Ramses approaching, Tuya realized her son had arrived at a serious decision. The king gave his mother his arm; they strolled down a sandy path between two rows of flowering tamarisks. The air was heavy and fragrant.

  “It will be a hot summer,” she said. “Luckily, your secretary of agriculture serves you well. The dikes will be kept in good repair and the irrigation reservoirs dug wider. If the inundation is as good as last year’s, the harvest will be plentiful.”

  “My reign may be a long and happy one.”

  “Is there any reason it won’t be? The gods have blessed you and nature smiled upon you.”

  “We’re heading for war.”

  “I know, son. It’s the right decision.”

  “I needed your approval.”

  “No, Ramses. You and Nefertari act as one.”

  “My father signed a pact with the Hittites.”

  “Because they stopped attacking Egypt. If they’d broken their word, Seti would have responded without delay.”

  “Our troops aren’t prepared.”

  “Are you telling me they’re afraid?”

  “Who can blame them?”

  “You.”

  “The combat veterans are telling horror stories about the Hittites.”

  “Bad enough to frighten Pharaoh?”

  “If I only knew what I was facing . . .”

  “You’ll face it on the battlefield, when your courage will save the Two Lands.”

  Meba, the former secretary of state, detested Ramses. Convinced that the king had unjustly dismissed him, his only thought was of revenge. Like several members of the court,
he was waiting for the young Pharaoh to falter after four years of success.

  Rich and sophisticated, with a broad face and proud bearing, Meba was exchanging local gossip with his ten dinner guests, the cream of Pi-Ramses society. The food was first-rate, the ladies charming. He lived for the day Shaanar pulled off his coup, but in the meantime, why not enjoy himself?

  A servant murmured a few words in Meba’s ear. The diplomat immediately rose to his feet.

  “My friends, the king is about to honor us with his presence.”

  Meba’s hands shook. Ramses was not in the custom of appearing at private gatherings.

  The entire party rose and bowed as one.

  “Your Majesty, we hardly . . . Would you like to sit down?”

  “No need. I’ve come to announce war.”

  “War!”

  “Have you been too busy feasting to hear that Egypt’s enemies are at the gate?”

  “We’ve all been concerned, of course,” said Meba reassuringly.

  “Our soldiers have been worried that conflict was inevitable,” said a veteran scribe. “They know they’ll have to march in the sun, heavily laden, down difficult roads. Impossible to quench their thirst, since water will be rationed. Even if their legs give out, they’ll have to keep going, forget their aching backs and growling stomachs. A rest in camp? Their hopes will be dashed—too many chores to be done before they can hit their bedrolls. In case of an alarm, they’ll stagger to their feet, half awake. Food? Don’t ask. Medical attention? Minimal. But plenty of danger to go around—enemy arrows and spears in the air and death always on the prowl.”

  “Nice rendition,” proclaimed Ramses. “I was a scribe, so I also know that old text by heart. But today, we’re not talking about literature.”

  “We have confidence in our valiant soldiers, Majesty,” Meba proclaimed, “and we know our forces will be victorious, no matter what hardships they must endure.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn’t go far enough. I know what patriots you and your noble guests are, and I therefore welcome you all as volunteers.”

  “Your Majesty . . . perhaps professionals could better handle—”

  “The army needs men of quality to supervise new recruits. Shouldn’t the rich and noble set an example? You’re all expected at headquarters first thing in the morning.”

  The Turquoise City was frantic with activity. Transformed into a military base, cavalry and infantry command post, and naval launching site, it rang with maneuvers and drills from dawn to dusk. Ramses spent his days at the foundry or on base, delegating the day-to-day business of government to Nefertari, Tuya, and Ahmeni.

  The monarch’s presence reassured and encouraged the men. He checked the quality of spears, swords, and shields, inspected the new recruits, talked with officers as well as enlisted men, and held out the prospect of generous rewards for valor in battle. The mercenaries would receive fat bonuses if they led Egypt to victory.

  The king paid great attention to the care of the horses. The outcome of any battle greatly depended on keeping them in top physical condition. In the center of each stable yard, paved with cobblestones and crisscrossed with gutters, stood a holding tank used both to water the horses and for cleaning purposes. Each day Ramses inspected a different set of stalls, examined the horses, and dealt severely with signs of neglect.

  Ramses’ joint forces were beginning to work like a large body, its governing head constantly on call. The king always responded swiftly, spelling out his requirements and settling disputes on the spot. Confidence solidified. Each soldier felt that orders were given advisedly and that the Egyptian military had coalesced into a real war machine.

  Being able to see the Pharaoh up close, even talk to him on occasion, was an amazing privilege for the men and their officers. Many a courtier would have envied their access to the king. His attitude gave the troops an unaccustomed energy, a new strength. Even so, Ramses the man remained aloof. He was Pharaoh, unique on earth, driven by a force beyond himself.

  The sovereign was attending to business in the stables when he saw Ahmeni approaching, much to his surprise. Years earlier, Prince Ramses had rescued his friend from forced labor in just such a setting; ever since, Ahmeni had studiously avoided horses.

  “Reporting for duty?”

  “Our friend the poet has arrived in Pi-Ramses. He’s asking to see you.”

  “As soon as he’s settled.”

  “He won’t have any trouble. His villa here is a copy of his house in Memphis.”

  Seated beneath a lemon tree, his favorite, Homer was drinking wine spiced with anise and coriander, and smoking dried sage leaves tamped in the thick snail shell he used as a pipe. His skin glistening with olive oil, the old poet greeted the king with his customary gruffness.

  “Don’t get up, Homer.”

  “I can still manage a bow to the Lord of the Two Lands.”

  Ramses sat down on a stool beside Homer. The bard’s black and white cat, Hector, hopped in the king’s lap and began to purr as he petted it.

  “Does my wine suit Your Majesty?”

  “A bit rough, but the nose is delicious. How have you been doing?”

  “My bones ache, my sight keeps dimming, but the climate does wonders for me.”

  “Satisfied with your house here?”

  “It’s perfect. The cook, housekeeper, and gardener came up from Memphis. Good people; they know how to pamper me without getting in the way. They were as eager as I was to discover this new capital of yours.”

  “Wouldn’t your life be quieter in Memphis?”

  “Nothing’s happening in Memphis anymore! This is where the fate of the world is decided. And no one’s better qualified than a poet to tell about it. Remember this passage? ‘From the peaks of Olympus, Apollo descends, furious, carrying the bow on his shoulder and the quiver well closed: he is full of rage, and on his back, when he leaps, the arrows rattle. Like dark night he approaches, shooting men . . . innumerable pyres must light to burn the corpses.’”

  “The first book of your Iliad?”

  “Yes, but it’s more than merely the story of Troy. This Turquoise City, a lovely maze of gardens and canals, is turning into a military camp!”

  “I have no choice, Homer.”

  “War is the scourge of humanity, the proof that we’re a degenerate species, manipulated by unseen forces. Every verse of the Iliad is an exorcism. My hope is to purge the heart of man of violence—though sometimes I doubt my magic.”

  “Still, you have to keep on writing. And I have to rule my country, even if it becomes a battlefield.”

  “This will be your first great war, won’t it? The great war, perhaps.”

  “The thought frightens me as much as it does you, but I have neither the time nor the right to be afraid.”

  “There’s no way out?”

  “None.”

  “Then I pray that Apollo may guide your sword arm, Ramses. May death be your ally.”

  SIX

  Over the years, Raia had become the richest Syrian merchant in Egypt. He fit in well, with his average build, lively dark eyes, and trim, pointed goatee. From his chain of shops in Thebes, Memphis, and Pi-Ramses he sold choice preserved meats and collectible vases imported from Syria and other Near Eastern lands. His wealthy and cultured clientele gladly paid top prices for the work of master craftsmen from abroad, which they showed off at social gatherings.

  Courteous and discreet, Raia enjoyed an excellent reputation. Thanks to the rapid expansion of his business, he had acquired a dozen-odd boats and three hundred donkeys, enabling him to ship his foodstuffs and objets d’art all over Egypt with admirable dispatch. He was a purveyor to the court and the nobility, with connections in the government, the army, and the police.

  No one suspected that the mild-mannered Syrian was also a secret agent for the Hittites, receiving coded messages inside specially marked vases, and funneling information through an informant in southern Syria. Pharaoh’s major ene
my was thus kept closely informed of political developments and public opinion in Egypt, as well as the nation’s economic situation and military capabilities.

  When Raia appeared on the doorstep of Shaanar’s plush villa, the steward seemed flustered.

  “My master is in conference. He can’t be disturbed.”

  “We have an appointment,” Raia pointed out.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Can’t you at least tell him I’m here and that I’ve brought an exceptional vase, the masterpiece of a potter who’s now retired?”

  The steward hesitated. Knowing how passionate Shaanar was about his collection, he decided to risk ignoring his master’s orders.

  A quarter of an hour later, Raia observed the exit of a young female, heavily made up, with tousled hair and a tattoo on her exposed left shoulder. She could only be one of the foreign beauties imported to work at the new capital’s most elaborate tavern.

  “My master will see you now,” announced the steward.

  Raia crossed the magnificent garden, its vast central pond shaded by date palms.

  Shaanar, looking exhausted, sat back on a chaise longue.

  “The young are so demanding,” he sighed. “Beer, Raia?”

  “Please.”

  “All the women at court are after me, but I have no inclination to marry. When I become king, I can settle down with someone suitable. Meanwhile variety is the spice of life, don’t you agree? Or has some woman got you under her thumb?”

  “The gods forbid, Sir Prince! At any rate, my business never leaves me much free time.”

  “You’ve saved a splendid find for me, my steward says?”

  From a canvas sack stuffed with wadded cloth, the merchant carefully extracted a minuscule porphyry vase, the handle formed into the body of a doe. The sides of the vase were covered with hunting scenes.

  Shaanar caressed the piece, scrutinizing each detail. He got up and studied it from every angle, fascinated.