Ramses, Volume V Page 3

  “Aren’t we blowing a minor incident out of proportion?”

  “From our point of view, it’s a major incident.”

  “I’m afraid I see . . . But couldn’t we seek a negotiable solution?”

  “Our position isn’t negotiable.”

  Ahsha had been afraid this was coming. At Kadesh, Hattusili had been commander of the coalition that Ramses defeated. Now the emperor was seeking any possible means to reassert his dominance.

  “Does this mean you’d consider . . .”

  “Breaking the treaty? It does,” the Hittite ambassador said flatly.

  Ahsha decided to use his secret weapon.

  “Would this help to smooth things over?”

  He handed the Hittite a letter Ramses had written. Intrigued, the ambassador read it aloud:

  May this letter find you in the best of health, dear brother Hattusili, and your wife, family, horses, and provinces as well. I have just examined your complaints: you believe that I treat you as one of my subjects, and that grieves me. Be certain that I hold you in all the consideration due your rank, for you alone are emperor of the Hittites. I assure you that I regard you as my brother.

  The envoy was obviously astonished.

  “Did Ramses write this?”

  “It’s in his own hand.”

  “Is the Pharaoh of Egypt acknowledging his error?”

  “Ramses wants peace. And I have an important announcement: an International Center will soon open in Pi-Ramses, permanently staffed and at the disposal of the diplomatic corps. The Egyptian capital will host a permanent dialogue with its allies and vassals.”

  “Remarkable,” conceded the Hittite.

  “Our hope is that this initiative will pacify your country.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t.”

  Now Ahsha began to worry in earnest. “Am I to conclude that nothing will allay the emperor’s dissatisfaction?”

  “I may as well tell you straight out that Hattusili also wishes to keep the peace. Except that he’s proposing one condition . . .”

  The Hittite ambassador spelled out the emperor’s true intentions. The smile quickly faded from Ahsha’s face.

  As they did every morning, celebrants said prayers for Seti’s ka—his spiritual essence—at his magnificent temple of Gurnah on the West Bank at Thebes. The priest in charge of funerary offerings was about to set a tray of grapes, figs, and juniper wood on the altar when one of his subordinates whispered a few words in his ear.

  “Pharaoh, here? But no one told me!”

  Turning around, the priest spied the monarch’s tall silhouette in a white linen robe. Ramses’ power and magnetism set him apart from the other celebrants.

  Pharaoh took the tray and entered the chapel where his father’s soul lived on. It was here at Gurnah that Seti had proclaimed Ramses as his successor, having guided his younger son lovingly yet firmly toward that point ever since adolescence. The twin crowns of Egypt, “Great of Magic,” had been carefully fitted to the prince’s head. He was the Son of Light, and now his destiny was entwined with Egypt’s.

  Succeeding Seti had seemed impossible. Yet Ramses’ true freedom had lain in having no choice, living the law, and satisfying the gods in order to benefit humankind.

  Today, Seti, Tuya, and Nefertari roamed the byways of eternity, sailing in their celestial barks. On earth, their tombs and temples immortalized their name. It was toward their ka that humans would turn when they felt the need to pierce the mysteries of the afterlife.

  When the service was over, Ramses headed for the temple gardens, which were dominated by a sycamore full of herons’ nests.

  The sad, sweet sound of an oboe enchanted him. A quiet tune, grave yet lilting, as if saying that hope could bring an end to pain.

  Seated on a low wall, framed in foliage, a woman sat playing. Her hair was black and shiny, her features as chiseled as those of a goddess, Meritamon, aged thirty-three, was at the height of her beauty.

  Ramses felt a pang, for she was the image of her mother, Nefertari. A gifted musician, Meritamon had known since girlhood that she was suited to the religious life, playing tunes for the gods in some secluded temple. Such a cloistered existence had been Nefertari’s dream—an impossible dream once Ramses’ love had led her to become his Great Royal Wife. Meritamon could easily have claimed a prominent rank among the temple musicians at Karnak, yet she preferred to remain at Gurnah, close to Seti’s soul.

  The final notes filtered toward the sun. The lovely musician set her instrument down on the wall and opened her blue-green eyes.

  “Father! Have you been here long?”

  Ramses took his daughter in a long embrace.

  “I’ve missed you, Meritamon.”

  “Pharaoh is the spouse of Egypt; all her people are his children. With more than a hundred royal children, I’m flattered that you still remember me.”

  He stepped back and admired her.

  “You know that the title of royal son or daughter is an honorary one. And you’re the only child of Nefertari, the love of my life.”

  “Now you’re married to Iset the Fair.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No, you made the right decision. Iset is devoted to you.”

  “Would you consider returning to Pi-Ramses?”

  “No, Father. I don’t care for the outside world. What could be more useful than conducting services each day? I commune with my mother; I’m living her dream, and I’m convinced that my happiness feeds her eternal spirit.”

  “She left you her beauty and her character. Have I no chance at all of luring you back?”

  “None at all,” she said, smiling.

  He gently took her hands. “Are you sure?”

  Her smile was so much like Nefertari’s. “Could you be giving me an order?”

  “You’re the only person that Pharaoh would never dare order around.”

  “I wouldn’t try to resist you, Father. It’s just that I’m of more use in the temple than at court. Nurturing my mother’s spirit, my grandparents’ spirit, seems like the most important task I can perform. Without ties to our ancestors, what kind of world would we build?”

  “Keep playing your heavenly music, Meritamon. Egypt will need it.”

  The young woman’s heart skipped a beat.

  “What danger do you fear?”

  “An approaching storm.”

  “Surely you can control it.”

  “Play, Meritamon, for Egypt and for Pharaoh, too. Spread harmony, enchant the gods, make them smile down on our Twin Kingdoms. A storm is brewing, and it will be terrifying.”

  FIVE

  Serramanna slammed his fist into the guardroom wall, sending a slab of plaster flying.

  “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

  “Disappeared, Chief,” confirmed the soldier in charge of tailing the Hittite prince Uri-Teshoop.

  The hulking Sardinian grabbed him by the shoulders, and though the guard was a sturdy fellow, he felt his bones crack.

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, Chief, I swear it isn’t!”

  “You let him slip right through your fingers?”

  “He got lost in the crowd.”

  “Why didn’t you search the neighborhood?”

  “Uri-Teshoop is a free man, Chief! We have no authorization to launch a search for him. The vizier would never sanction it.”

  Serramanna snorted like an angry bull and let go of the soldier. The bumbling idiot was right.

  “What should I do next, Chief?”

  “We’ll put a double guard on Pharaoh. The slightest infraction of discipline and I’ll bash your skulls!”

  It was not a threat that the members of Ramses’ bodyguard took lightly. In a fit of rage, the old pirate might just do it.

  To work off his fury, Serramanna sank a series of daggers into the heart of a wooden target. Uri-Teshoop’s disappearance did not augur well. The bitter and vengeful Hittite would use his newfound liberty as a w
eapon against the Lord of Egypt. All that remained to be seen was when and how.

  A large contingent of diplomats was on hand as Ramses inaugurated his new International Center. With his customary brio, Ahsha gave a fine speech studded with the words “peace,” “understanding,” and “economic cooperation.” As was fitting, a lavish banquet topped off a ceremony heralding Pi-Ramses’ advent as the capital of the Near East and welcoming all its neighbors.

  From his father, Ramses had inherited the ability to read people’s innermost secrets. Despite Ahsha’s practiced composure, the king could tell that his friend was worried, increasingly anxious about the approaching storm.

  The moment they could break away from the receiving line, the two men talked.

  “Brilliant performance, Ahsha.”

  “All in a day’s work, Your Majesty. I must say I applaud your new initiative.”

  “What was the Hittite ambassador’s reaction to my letter?”

  “Oh, excellent.”

  “But Hattusili is demanding more, isn’t he?”

  “That may be the case.”

  “Stop playing the diplomat, Ahsha. I want the truth.”

  “All right, then. Unless you accept Hattusili’s conditions, there will be war.”

  “I won’t cave in to his threats.”

  “Please listen, Ramses. You and I have worked too hard for peace to see it disintegrate in an instant.”

  “Tell me his demands.”

  “You know that Hattusili and his wife, Puduhepa, have a daughter, by all accounts a lovely and highly intelligent young woman.”

  “So?”

  “Hattusili wants to strengthen his ties with Egypt. He thinks a marriage would be the best way.”

  “Am I to understand . . .”

  “You understood from the beginning. To seal our pact, Hattusili demands not only that you marry his daughter, but also that you make her your Great Royal Wife.”

  “That title belongs to Iset the Fair.”

  “What does that matter to a Hittite? A wife must obey her husband. If he repudiates her, all she can do is fade into the background.”

  “This is Egypt, Ahsha, not some barbaric country. Are you suggesting that I cast Iset aside to marry a Hittite princess, the daughter of my worst enemy?”

  “Today he’s your best ally,” corrected the secretary of state.

  “The very idea is absurd and revolting!”

  “At first glance, yes. But on second thought, it’s not without interest.”

  “I won’t inflict such humiliation on Iset.”

  “You’re no ordinary husband. The grandeur of Egypt must come before your personal feelings.”

  “You’ve had too many women, Ahsha. I think you’ve become a cynic.”

  “The concept of fidelity is alien to me, I admit, but I’m offering my opinion as your friend and servant.”

  “It’s no use asking my sons Kha and Merenptah if they’d agree. I know what they’d say.”

  “Who could reproach them for honoring their mother, Iset the Fair, Ramses’ Great Royal Wife? Peace or war . . . this is the choice before you.”

  “Let’s dine with Ahmeni. I want to consult with him.”

  “You can consult with Setau, too. He’s just off the boat from Nubia.”

  “That’s the first good news you’ve given me!”

  Setau the snake charmer and champion of Nubia; Ahsha the shrewd statesman; Ahmeni the disciplined and devoted scribe . . . Only Moses was missing. So many years earlier they had made up Ramses’ band of boyhood friends, attending the royal academy in Memphis, sharing the pleasures of friendship and debating the nature of true power.

  Tonight Ramses’ chef had outdone himself: a leek and zucchini timbale; lamb grilled with thyme and a side dish of puréed figs; marinated kidneys, goat cheese, and honey cake with carob sauce. In honor of this reunion, Ramses had called for a special red wine from Year Three of Seti’s reign, sending Setau into near ecstasy.

  “All praise to Seti!” exclaimed the cobra tamer, dressed in his indestructible antelope-skin tunic, its countless pockets saturated with anti-venom remedies. “Any reign that produced such a marvel was truly blessed by the gods.”

  “I see that you still haven’t learned how to dress,” said Ahsha, shaking his head.

  “Evidently not,” Ahmeni chimed in.

  “No one asked for your opinion, scribe. Just keep shoveling in the food. How do you manage to stay so thin?”

  “I work hard for king and country.”

  “Are you implying there’s something wrong with my initiatives in Nubia?”

  “If that were the case, I would have written you up long ago.”

  “When you two are finished bickering,” interrupted Ahsha, “perhaps we could discuss more serious matters.”

  “Moses is the only one missing,” mused Ramses. “Where is he, Ahsha?”

  “Still battling his way through the desert. He’ll never reach his Promised Land.”

  “Moses is on the wrong path, but I’m sure he’ll achieve his goal.”

  “I miss him too,” confessed Ahmeni. “But how can we forget that our Hebrew friend is a traitor?”

  “This is no time for nostalgia,” Setau broke in. “For me, a friend who takes such a drastic step is no longer a friend.”

  “Wouldn’t you take him back if he made amends?” asked Ramses.

  “As far as I’m concerned, he’s burned his bridges. Forgiveness is for weaklings.”

  “It’s a good thing Ramses didn’t put you in charge of diplomacy,” Ahsha said dryly.

  “With snakes there are no halfway measures. Venom either cures you or kills you.”

  “I thought we’d changed the subject,” said Ahmeni.

  “What brings me here is Lotus,” explained Setau. “Her psychic gifts said that Ramses is in danger. Or am I mistaken?”

  The Pharaoh offered no denial. Setau turned toward Ahmeni.

  “Instead of gobbling cake, tell us what you’ve found out!”

  “Why . . . nothing! Everything is in order as far as I can see.”

  “And you, Ahsha?”

  The diplomat rinsed his fingers in a bowl of lemon-scented water.

  “Hattusili has made an unexpected demand: he wants Ramses to marry his daughter.”

  “Where’s the problem?” asked Setau, amused. “This type of diplomatic marriage has worked well in the past, and a Hittite princess would just be one more secondary wife.”

  “In the present case, the situation is more complex.”

  “Is the bride-to-be hideous?”

  “No. The Hittite emperor wants his daughter to be Great Royal Wife.”

  At that, Setau lost his temper.

  “That means our old enemy is requiring Ramses to renounce Iset!”

  “To put it bluntly, yes,” said Ahsha.

  “I hate the Hittites,” confessed Setau, draining another goblet of wine. “Iset the Fair isn’t Nefertari, of course, but she still deserves respect.”

  “For once,” Ahmeni said hoarsely, “I agree with you.”

  “You should both reconsider,” declared Ahsha. “Peace is at stake here.”

  “We can’t let the Hittites dictate to us!” protested Setau.

  “They’re no longer our enemies,” the secretary of state reminded them.

  “You’re wrong! Hattusili and his ilk will never stop trying to take over Egypt.”

  “You’re the one who’s off base. The Hittite emperor wants peace; he’s only redefining his conditions. We at least ought to think it over.”

  “I prefer to trust my instincts.”

  “I have thought it over,” affirmed Ahmeni. “I can’t say I care for Iset the Fair, but she is Queen of Egypt, the Great Royal Wife that Ramses chose after Nefertari’s passing. No one, even the Emperor of Hatti, has the right to insult her.”

  “Completely unreasonable!” Ahsha insisted. “Do you want to send thousands of Egyptians to their deaths, cause bloodshed in our n
orthern protectorates, and put the whole country in jeopardy?”

  Ahmeni and Setau looked questioningly at Ramses.

  “I’ll make my decision alone,” said the Pharaoh.

  SIX

  The convoy leader dithered over his route.

  Should he head south along the coast, passing through Beirut and crossing Canaan on the way to Sileh, or would it be better to take the road along the Anti-Lebanon range and Mount Hermon, leaving Damascus to the east?

  Phoenicia had its charms: there were oak and cedar forests, shady walnut groves, fig trees with their delicious fruit, and villages that made pleasant rest stops.

  But Pi-Ramses urgently needed his cargo—olibanum, the painstakingly harvested white frankincense from the Arabian peninsula.

  The Egyptians called it sonter, “that which makes divine,” and mixed it with reddish myrrh, which was no less precious. The rare substances played a crucial role in worship. Temples filled with their heady scent, which rose to the heavens and delighted the gods. Embalmers and physicians also made use of them.

  The Arabian frankincense tree was short, with dark green leaves. In August and September it bloomed with golden, purple-hearted flowers, while droplets of white resin beaded beneath the bark. A trained worker could scrape the bark to obtain three harvests per year, reciting the time-honored magic words: “Be good to me, white frankincense tree, and Pharaoh will make you grow.”

  The convoy was also transporting Asian copper, tin, and glass, but these items, while sought-after and easily traded, were far less valuable than olibanum. Once the delivery was made, the merchant would rest at his comfortable home in the Delta.

  With his receding hairline and expanding waistline, he enjoyed a good time, yet took his work seriously. He personally checked his chariots and donkeys daily. As for his employees, they were well fed and well treated, but were quickly dismissed if they dared to complain.

  The merchant decided to take his convoy down the high road. It was harder but shorter than the coastal route. There would be plenty of shade and the animals would stay cooler.

  The donkeys were moving at a steady pace, the twenty drivers were humming, the wind was at their back.

  “Boss . . .”