Ramses, Volume V Read online

  “What is it?”

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  The merchant shrugged. “I know, I know. You used to be a mercenary. Well, we’re at peace now, and the route is well patrolled.”

  “All right, but we’re still being followed. I can tell.”

  “We’re not the only convoy on the road!”

  “If they’re vagabonds, I won’t give up my food without a fight.”

  “Stop worrying and tend to your donkeys.”

  The convoy came to a sudden halt. Furious, the merchant worked his way to the head, where he found a pile of brush blocking their path.

  “Clear it away!”

  The moment the lead drivers set to work, a volley of arrows mowed them down. Their frantic counterparts tried to run, but met the same fate. The former mercenary brandished a dagger, scrambled up the rocky slope, and hurled himself at the archers. A long-haired strongman intercepted him, bashing in his skull with a hatchet.

  The whole incident lasted only a few minutes. Only the merchant himself was left alive. Trembling, unable to move, he watched the hatchet-wielding killer come forward, his broad chest covered with a reddish fleece.

  “Let me live . . . I’ll make a rich man of you!”

  Uri-Teshoop burst out laughing and sank his sword in the poor wretch’s belly. The Hittite detested merchants.

  His henchmen, all Phoenicians, recovered their arrows from the fallen bodies. The donkeys took orders from their new masters.

  The Syrian Raia feared Uri-Teshoop’s violent nature, but he had found no better figure to rally opposition to the peace treaty. Certain factions still hoped to overthrow Ramses by any possible means. Raia was growing rich again, yet he was convinced that one day the Hittites would attack Egypt. Uri-Teshoop, the former commander-in-chief, would regroup his forces and urge them on to battle. As the man behind the general’s climb back to the top, Raia would be in a privileged position.

  When the Hittite appeared in his warehouse, Raia recoiled imperceptibly. He had the feeling that this cruel warrior, at once hot-tempered and coldhearted, might slit his throat for the simple pleasure of killing.

  “Back so soon, Your Highness!”

  “Aren’t you happy to see me, Raia?”

  “Of course I am! But your task was not a simple one, and—”

  “I made it simple.”

  The Syrian shivered beneath his goatee. He had asked Uri-Teshoop to make contact with the Phoenicians and buy up the latest shipment of olibanum coming out of Arabia. It might require hard bargaining, but Raia had supplied Uri-Teshoop with enough tin to persuade any merchant. The Syrian had also thrown in a contraband bar of silver, rare vases, and some bolts of fine fabric.

  “And how did you simplify it?” Raia asked hesitantly.

  “Merchants like to talk; I’m a man of action.”

  “So you had no trouble persuading the convoy leader to sell you the olibanum.”

  Uri-Teshoop’s smile was a carnivore’s.

  “No trouble at all.”

  “Yet the merchant in question drives a hard bargain.”

  “He didn’t bargain with my sword.”

  “You couldn’t have . . .”

  “I hired some mercenaries and we slaughtered every last man in the convoy, down to the leader.”

  “But why?”

  “I told you. I don’t like to talk, and I got the goods. Isn’t that what matters?”

  “The incident won’t go unnoticed. If there’s an investigation . . .”

  “We threw the bodies down a ravine.”

  Raia wondered if he shouldn’t stop living a double life. But it was too late to turn back now. If he showed the least hesitation, Uri-Teshoop would eliminate him.

  “And now?” asked the prince.

  “We need to destroy the cargo,” Raia told him.

  “But isn’t the olibanum worth a fortune?”

  “Yes, but any prospective buyer would turn us in. All white frankincense is earmarked for the temples.”

  “I need weapons, horses, and soldiers.”

  “Don’t even think about selling it!”

  “I won’t. You’re going to sell it for me, in tiny lots, to traders leaving for Greece and Cyprus. And we’ll start forming a network of resisters who want an end to this damned peace agreement.”

  There was a grain of sense in Uri-Teshoop’s plan. Through his Phoenician contacts, Raia could liquidate the olibanum fairly safely. Fundamentally hostile to Egypt, Phoenicia would harbor Hittite political dissenters.

  “I need a respectable front,” the prince continued. “Serramanna will never stop hounding me unless I look like I’ve settled down.”

  Raia considered this. “So what you need is a rich and well-connected wife. A love-starved widow, in other words.”

  “Do you have one in mind?”

  Raia scratched his goatee. “My clientele is extensive . . . I have an idea or two. Next week I’ll throw a banquet and introduce you.”

  “When is the next shipment of olibanum due to leave the Arabian peninsula?”

  “I don’t know yet, but we have time. My informers will keep us posted. But won’t another strike bring the Egyptian army down on us?”

  “There will be no sign of violence, and the Egyptian authorities will be mystified. We’ll corner the whole year’s harvest. But what makes you so sure that a shortage of frankincense will have such a drastic effect on Ramses?”

  “Religious observations are the backbone of Egypt’s culture. Any change in the ancient rituals threatens to throw the country out of balance. When the priests notice the shortage of olibanum and myrrh, they’ll turn against Ramses. He’ll be forced to admit his oversight. His neglect of the gods will anger both the clergy and the people. If we can spread a few false rumors, thereby adding to the confusion and cutting further into his base of support, there will be protests in the major cities.”

  Uri-Teshoop imagined Egypt overrun by a pillaging army. He pictured Ramses’ crowns trampled by Hittite soldiers, saw the terror in his eyes.

  The hatred on the prince’s face began to frighten the Syrian merchant. For a few seconds, Uri-Teshoop entered the realm of darkness, losing contact with the world of men.

  “I want to strike fast and hard, Raia.”

  “We must proceed cautiously, Your Highness. Ramses is a formidable adversary. Undue haste will only result in failure.”

  “I’ve heard about his magical protection. But that has surely weakened with age, and he no longer has Nefertari to help him.”

  “Our spy ring included Ramses’ brother and Meba, the undersecretary of state,” Raia reminded him. “Even though they’re gone, I still have valuable contacts in the upper reaches of government. Officials can be talkative; one of them told me that diplomatic relations between Hatti and Egypt are about to deteriorate.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? And what’s behind it?”

  “That’s still a secret, but I’ll find out before long.”

  “Our luck is beginning to change, Raia! And I’m no less formidable than Ramses.”

  SEVEN

  Iset the Fair’s handmaiden soaped the queen’s back thoroughly, then poured warm, scented water over her slender body. The substance she used was rich in saponin, extracted from the bark and pith of the precious and bountiful desert date tree. The Queen of Egypt relaxed, letting the manicurist and hairdresser work on her. A manservant brought her a cup of cool milk.

  In Pi-Ramses, Iset the Fair felt more at ease than in Thebes, where Nefertari’s tomb stood in the Valley of the Queens on the West Bank and the Ramesseum included a chapel where Ramses often led the prayers for his late wife’s soul. Here, in the cosmopolitan capital Pharaoh had created, life was hectic, with less time to think about the past or the world to come.

  Iset contemplated herself in a polished bronze mirror, a disk with its handle representing a long-limbed naked woman, her head crowned with a papyrus tuft.

  Yes, she was
still beautiful. Her skin was as soft as finely woven cloth, her face was as fresh as ever, love shone in her eyes. Yet her beauty would never equal Nefertari’s, and she was grateful that Ramses had the honesty never to pretend he would one day forget his first Great Royal Wife. Was Iset jealous? Not at all. In fact, she missed Nefertari. Royalty had never been what Iset wanted. The honor of bearing Ramses’ two sons was enough to make her happy.

  Two sons, so different from each other! Kha, the elder, was now thirty-seven, a distinguished cleric who spent the majority of his time in temple libraries. His brother, Merenptah, at twenty-seven was as athletic and commanding as his father. One of them might well be called upon to reign; yet the Pharaoh could also choose one of his many royal sons, most of whom were brilliant administrators, as his successor.

  Iset cared nothing for power or the future. She was savoring each second of this new miracle that life had offered her. Living at Ramses’ side, officiating with him at ceremonies, watching him reign over the Two Lands . . . Was there any existence more marvelous?

  The hairdresser braided the queen’s hair, perfumed it with myrrh, then adjusted a short wig, topping it with a diadem of pearls and carnelian.

  “Forgive me for being overly familiar . . . but Your Majesty looks stunning!”

  Iset smiled. She must stay beautiful for Ramses, to make him forget, for as long as possible, that her youth had disappeared.

  The moment she stood up, he appeared. No man could compare to him, none possessed his intelligence, force of character, or sheer presence. The gods had given him every gift, which he in turn showered upon his country.

  “Ramses! I’m not even dressed yet.”

  “We need to discuss a serious matter.”

  Iset the Fair had been dreading this test. Nefertari had had a flair for governing; she had none. Helping to steer the ship of state terrified her.

  “You decide,” she said meekly.

  “It concerns you directly, Iset.”

  “Me? But I swear that I haven’t meddled in anything official, and—”

  “Your own position is in question, and peace is at stake.”

  “Explain what you mean, I beg of you!”

  “Hattusili is demanding that I marry his daughter.”

  “A diplomatic marriage . . . Why not?”

  “That’s not all he asks. He wants her to become my Great Royal Wife.”

  Iset the Fair stood motionless for a few seconds. Then her eyes filled with tears. It was the end of the miracle. She must step aside and let a pretty young Hittite princess take her place as the symbol of the entente between Egypt and Hatti. With peace hanging in the balance, Iset the Fair weighed less than a feather.

  “The decision is yours to make,” declared Ramses. “Will you agree to step down and live in retirement?”

  The queen smiled wanly. “This Hittite princess must be very young . . .”

  “Her age is of little importance.”

  “You’ve made me a happy woman, Ramses. Your will is Egypt’s will.”

  “So you’ll give in?”

  “It would be criminal to stand in the way of peace.”

  “Well, I’m not giving in! The Emperor of Hatti is not about to dictate to the Pharaoh of Egypt. We’re not barbarians who treat their women as inferiors. What Lord of the Two Lands has ever dared repudiate his Great Royal Wife, who is one in being with Pharaoh? No Anatolian warlord will make Ramses violate the law of our ancestors.”

  Ramses took Iset the Fair’s hands tenderly in his own.

  “You spoke with Egypt’s interests in mind, as a true queen. Now I’ll have to act.”

  Filtering through one of the three tall barred windows that lit Ramses’ spacious office, light from the setting sun gilded the statue of Seti. Brought to life by the sculptor’s magic, kept alive by the ritual “opening of the mouth and the eyes” at the time of his funeral, the monarch continued to transmit a message of rectitude that only his son could apprehend, as the peace of evening clothed itself in godly splendor.

  White walls, a broad table where a map of the Near East was spread out, a straight-backed armchair for the Pharaoh, straw side chairs for his visitors, a library of books on the protection of the royal soul, and a cupboard for papyri: in these stark surroundings Ramses the Great pondered the decisions affecting his country’s future.

  The monarch had consulted the sages of the House of Life in Heliopolis; the high priests heading the major religious centers; Ahmeni; the vizier; and his cabinet. Then he closeted himself in his office and spoke soul to soul with his father. Not so long ago he could have talked to Nefertari and Tuya. Iset the Fair, however, knew her own limits and made no attempt to help. Solitude weighed on him; soon he would have to test his two sons to find out whether either of them might be suited to continue the work under way since the days of the first Pharaoh.

  Egypt was both strong and fragile. Strong because the law of Ma’at—the guiding principle of justice and harmony—would outlast human pettiness; fragile because the world was changing, giving wider berth to tyranny, greed, and selfishness. The pharaohs would no doubt be the last to champion Ma’at, knowing that without the goddess’s help the world would become a mere combat zone where barbarians clashed with ever more destructive weapons, aiming to amass more privileges and destroy all ties to the divine.

  Thus Pharaoh’s task was to replace violence, injustice, hatred, and lies with the harmony of Ma’at, a task he performed in concert with invisible powers. And the Emperor of Hatti’s new demand was in conflict with Ma’at.

  A guard ushered in Ahsha, wearing an exceptionally well tailored linen robe and long-sleeved shirt.

  “I couldn’t work in a room this stark,” he remarked.

  “My father liked things plain, and so do I.”

  “Being Pharaoh doesn’t leave much room for enjoyment. Anyone who envies you must not have a clue. Has Your Majesty reached a decision?”

  “My consultations are finished.”

  “Have my arguments swayed you?”

  “No, Ahsha.”

  “Just as I feared.”

  The secretary of state gazed at the map of the region.

  “Hattusili’s ultimatum is an insult. Acquiescing would be a denial of our entire heritage.”

  Ahsha touched his index finger to the Hittite empire.

  “A refusal equals a declaration of war, Your Majesty.”

  “Are you condemning my decision?”

  “It’s the decision of Ramses the Great, Pharaoh of Egypt. Your father would have done no differently.”

  “Was this some kind of test?”

  “No. I was only doing my duty as a diplomat, suing for peace. Would I be Ramses’ friend if I didn’t challenge him?”

  A smile flickered on the king’s lips.

  “When will Your Majesty mobilize the troops?”

  “My secretary of state is quite the pessimist.”

  “Your official reply will provoke Hattusili’s fury; he’ll be waiting to pounce.”

  “You lack confidence in your abilities, Ahsha.”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “If anyone can still save the peace treaty, it’s you.”

  “In other words, Pharaoh is ordering me to leave for Hattusa, explain our position to the Hittite emperor, and make him reverse his decision.”

  “You read my mind.”

  “It will never work.”

  “Ahsha . . . you’ve done the impossible before, haven’t you?”

  “I was younger then, Your Majesty.”

  “Why let this ridiculous marriage become the main issue? In this situation, we need to take the lead.”

  The diplomat frowned. He thought he knew Ramses well, yet once more the Pharaoh had managed to surprise him.

  “We reached a mutual assistance agreement with our great friend Hattusili,” the king continued. “You’ll explain that I fear a Libyan attack on our western flank. Since the peace treaty was signed, however, our weaponry has aged an
d we’re experiencing a shortage of iron. You’ll therefore request that the Hittite emperor replenish our supply. Thanks to his help, and in keeping with our conventions, we’ll be able to defend ourselves against the Libyan aggressor.”

  Speechless, Ahsha crossed his arms. “Is that really my mission?”

  “I forgot one thing: I need the iron delivered as fast as he can get it here.”

  EIGHT

  Kha, the son of Ramses and Iset the Fair, had steered clear of the military and the government. While the secular arena held no interest for him, he felt a true passion for classical literature and Old Kingdom monuments. With a stern, angular face, shaved head, dark blue eyes, thin frame, and stiff gait from his arthritic joints, Kha looked like the born scholar he was. After distinguishing himself in the struggle with Moses, whose magic tricks had produced the famous plagues on Egypt, Kha remained in firm command of the temple of Ptah in Memphis. He had long since delegated his temporal duties, concentrating his energies on the hidden forces that dwelt in air and rock, in water and wood.

  The House of Life in Heliopolis preserved the “Souls of Light,” the sacred archives dating back to the golden age when the pharaohs built the pyramids and the sages established the liturgy—a blessed era, when men were able to plumb the secrets of life and death. Not content with exploring the mysteries of the universe, these sages had transcribed them in hieroglyphs, thus transmitting their vision to future generations.

  Recognized by all as the greatest expert on the country’s traditions, Kha had been chosen to organize the first of Ramses’ jubilees, called sed-feasts, marking the thirtieth year of his reign. Such an extended period of wielding power was supposed to exhaust a pharaoh’s strength. A festival of regeneration was therefore in order, an assembly of the community of gods and goddesses to renew Pharaoh’s energy. Of course, many demons had attempted to thwart Ramses’ sed-feast, but in vain.

  Kha did much more than merely decipher old scribbles. He was obsessed with projects so ambitious that they would require the Pharaoh’s backing. Before submitting his dreams for his father’s approval, he must first bring them more in line with reality. That was why dawn found him pacing the quarry of the Red Mountain near Heliopolis, seeking out blocks of quartzite. According to legend, on this site the gods had massacred men who had rebelled against the light; the stone would be forever tinged with their blood.