Ramses, Volume IV Read online

  Over the years, the buildings had begun to deteriorate. Whitewash chipped off, plaster crumbled. The hastily constructed capital did not fare well in torrential rains and sandstorms. The stone slabs Akhenaton had erected to mark the borders of his god’s sacred territory were now barely legible. Time would erase the hieroglyphs, reducing the royal mystic’s mad undertaking to nothing.

  Tombs for the regime’s high officials had been dug in the cliffs, but no mummy lay in rest there. The burial chambers had been cleaned out along with the rest of the city. No one dared set foot in the defiled tombs, for it was said that spirits roamed them, waiting to pounce on curious visitors.

  No one, that is, except Ramses’ brother, Shaanar, and the sorcerer Ofir, who had set up housekeeping in the tomb of the high priest of Aton. The antechamber, with its rows of columns, was comfortable enough. The images of temples and palaces on the walls testified to the heretic capital’s lost glory. The stone carver had immortalized Akhenaton and Nefertiti worshiping the solar orb. Its long rays ended in hands that gave life to the royal couple.

  Shaanar’s beady dark eyes often strayed to the carvings that depicted Akhenaton as the sun king. The fugitive prince was thirty-five, moon-faced, with a short, heavy frame, and allergic to the sun. The carvings reminded him of his nemesis, Ramses, the Son of Light.

  Ramses, the tyrant he had tried to overthrow with the help of the Hittites. Ramses, who had exiled him to a desert penal colony. Ramses, who had planned to drag him through the courts and see him condemned to death.

  As Shaanar was being transferred from the main Memphis jail to the desert outpost, a sudden sandstorm had allowed him to escape. The hatred he felt toward his brother and his thirst for revenge had given him the strength to survive in the desert. He had instinctively headed for the one place he knew would be safe—the heretic king’s abandoned city.

  His partner in crime, Ofir, the onetime head of Hittite espionage in Egypt, was there to meet him. The Libyan sorcerer had an imposing appearance with his hawklike face, prominent cheekbones, thin lips, strong chin. This was the man who would make Shaanar his brother’s successor.

  Fuming, the prince picked up a stone and hurled it at a carving of Akhenaton, smashing the pharaoh’s crown.

  “Damn him! Damn all the pharaohs and their godforsaken country!”

  For Shaanar’s dream had been shattered. Not long ago he had pictured himself at the head of a vast empire stretching from Anatolia to Nubia; now he was an outcast in his own country. Ramses should never have survived Kadesh. Shaanar would have seized the throne, collaborated with the Hittite victors, then thrown off their yoke to become the sole master of the whole Near East. Ramses should have been the ruin of Egypt, Shaanar its savior. Should have been . . .

  Shaanar turned to face Ofir, seated in the depths of the tomb.

  “Where did we go wrong?” he asked.

  “Our luck will change.”

  “But when, Ofir?”

  “Magic may be an exact science, yet it can never exclude the unpredictable.”

  “The unpredictable turned out to be Ramses himself!”

  “Your brother is endowed with rare and fascinating powers.”

  “Fascinating? He’s nothing but a despot. Could you be falling under his spell, Ofir?”

  “I need to learn all I can about him if we’re to win in the end. After all, this is a man who summoned the power of Amon to help turn the tide at Kadesh.”

  “Do you really believe that ridiculous story?”

  “There’s more to this world than meets the eye, Shaanar. Secret forces are at work, secret forces that lay the warp of reality.”

  Shaanar slammed his fist into the wall where Aton’s orb figured.

  “Look where your fine speeches have gotten us! Shut up in a tomb, alone and powerless! We’ll die here like wretches!”

  “That’s not entirely accurate, since the followers of Aton are feeding and protecting us.”

  “Your little flock is a bunch of deluded idiots!”

  “I quite agree, but they’re certainly useful.”

  “Do you think you can whip them into an army?”

  Ofir made no reply, but traced strange geometric figures in the dust.

  “Ramses defeated the Hittites,” Shaanar pressed on. “Your intelligence network is in shambles. I haven’t one supporter left in Egypt. What are our alternatives besides living here like outlaws?”

  “Magic will provide us with alternatives.”

  Shaanar winced. “Your magic couldn’t kill Nefertari. You didn’t come close to disabling Ramses.”

  “You’re being unfair,” the sorcerer said evenly. “Thanks to me, the queen’s health will never be the same.”

  “Iset the Fair will produce another son for Ramses. I hear he plans to adopt a herd of children. Our attempts on his family have hardly troubled him.”

  “They’ll wear him down eventually.”

  “Didn’t you ever learn that a pharaoh’s powers are renewed after the thirtieth year of his reign?”

  “We’re not at that point yet, Shaanar. The Hittites haven’t given up the battle.”

  “I thought the coalition they formed fell apart at Kadesh.”

  “Emperor Muwattali is a master strategist. He’s wily enough to know when to take a step backward. The new alliance he’s put together will come as a nasty shock to Ramses.”

  “I’m tired of pipe dreams, Ofir.”

  From a distance came the sound of pounding hooves. Shaanar grabbed hold of a sword.

  “This isn’t when your followers usually bring our food,” he said as he hurried toward the entrance to the tomb, overlooking the plain and the ghost town.

  “Two horsemen.”

  “Headed this way?”

  “They’re at the edge of town now, and yes, coming toward the cliffs! We’d better get out of here and find another hiding place.”

  “Let’s not rush; there are only two of them.” Ofir stood up. “This may be the sign I’ve been waiting for, Shaanar. Take a good look.”

  Shaanar recognized the lay deacon of Ofir’s congregation. When it dawned on him who the other man was, he could barely speak.

  “Meba? What’s Meba doing here?”

  “You know he’s my second in command.”

  Shaanar lay down his sword.

  “No one in the king’s entourage suspects him,” continued the sorcerer. “It’s time you two put aside your differences.”

  Shaanar made no reply. He felt nothing but contempt for Meba, whose only ambition was to protect his personal fortune and his position in society. When the old diplomat had revealed his identity as a Hittite agent, Shaanar had doubted the sincerity of his commitment.

  The two men dismounted where the path forked toward the high priest of Aton’s tomb. The deacon stayed back with the horses, while his distinguished visitor advanced toward the hideout.

  A shudder went through Shaanar. What if Meba, reinstated in the government, had betrayed them? What if the police were on his heels? Still, no one else appeared on the horizon.

  On edge, the diplomat dispensed with the usual greeting.

  “I’ve taken a great risk in coming here. What on earth could have made you request such a meeting?”

  Ofir’s reply was stinging. “You answer to me, Meba. You’ll go wherever I tell you. Now report.”

  Shaanar was taken aback. Here, underground, the sorcerer was still directing his network.

  “The news isn’t good, I’m afraid. The emperor’s latest initiative fell short of the mark. Ramses launched a vigorous counteroffensive; he’s already recaptured Canaan.”

  “Is he pressing on to Kadesh?”

  “I haven’t been able to find that out.”

  “You ought to, Meba. Work on improving your sources. Have the Bedouins kept up their end of the bargain?”

  “The rebellion seems quite widespread. But you realize that I can’t ask too many questions without arousing Ahmeni’s suspicions.”

/>   “You do work at the State Department, don’t you?”

  “Caution dictates . . .”

  “Do you ever chance upon Ramses’ son?”

  “Little Kha? Occasionally, but why would . . .”

  “I need to lay my hands on an object he’s especially fond of, Meba, and I need it right away.”

  SEVEN

  Moses, along with his wife and son, had left the land of Midian, south of Edom and east of the Gulf of Aqaba, where he had taken refuge some time ago. Now he had decided to return to Egypt, against his father-in-law’s advice. Since Moses was wanted for murder, the old man argued, it would be folly to turn himself in to Pharaoh’s police. He’d surely be imprisoned and sentenced to death.

  But no amount of reasoning could change Moses’ mind. God had spoken to him on the mountain. God had ordered him to lead his Hebrew brethren out of Egypt. They must be free to practice their faith in a land that belonged to them. The odds were overwhelmingly against them, but the new prophet had no doubt that he would succeed.

  His wife, Zipporah, had also tried to dissuade him, to no avail.

  So the small family group set out on their way to the Delta. Moses kept a slow and steady pace with the aid of a knobby walking stick. Zipporah soon found that he always knew which way to turn.

  When a cloud of sand announced the approach of horsemen, Zipporah gathered her son in her arms and huddled close to Moses. Tall, bearded, broad-shouldered, he had the build of an athlete.

  “We need to hide,” she begged.

  “It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “If it’s Bedouins, they’ll kill us. If it’s Egyptians, they’ll arrest you.”

  “Don’t fret so.”

  Moses waited, unflinching. And as he waited he thought of his days at the royal academy in Memphis, where he had been indoctrinated in the ageless wisdom of the Egyptians and also formed a close friendship with Prince Ramses, the future pharaoh. After graduation, an administrative post at the harem at Merur had given him considerable responsibility for a man of his age. Eventually, after serving as superintendent of various building projects, he had overseen the construction of Pi-Ramses, the pharaoh’s new capital in the Delta. The appointment was an honor, making Moses one of the most influential men in Egypt.

  Yet his was a tortured soul. Ever since he could remember, a fire had consumed him. Only after the miracle of the burning bush did the pain disappear. At last, Moses had discovered his mission in life.

  The horsemen, when they arrived, did prove to be Bedouins. In the lead rode Amos, bald and bearded, and the tall, thin Keni—the two tribal chiefs who had lured Ramses into an ambush at Kadesh. Their men formed a ring around Moses.

  “Who are you?” barked Amos.

  “My name is Moses. This is my wife and son.”

  “Moses . . . could you be the famous friend of Ramses? The one who was wanted for murder and fled to the desert?”

  “I am he.”

  Amos jumped down from his horse and slapped the Hebrew on the back.

  “Then we’re in the same camp! We want to overthrow Ramses, too.”

  “I still consider the King of Egypt my brother,” Moses said evenly.

  “You can’t be serious, when he’s put a price on your head! We Bedouins and you Hebrews should band together with other desert nomads. We’ll join forces with the Hittites to vanquish Ramses once and for all. The Pharaoh’s strength has become a legend, my friend. Come ride with us. We’ll raid the Egyptian battalions pushing their way into Syria.”

  “Sorry. I’m going south.”

  “South?” Keni said warily. “What’s in that direction?”

  “Egypt. I’m heading to Pi-Ramses.”

  The two Bedouins exchanged an astonished glance.

  “Are you putting us on?” questioned Amos.

  “I’m stating facts.”

  “But you’ll be arrested and put to death!”

  “Yahweh will protect me. I need to lead my people out of Egypt.”

  “Have you lost your mind, man?”

  “That’s the mission Yahweh has given me.”

  Now Keni slipped off of his horse. “Stay where you are, Moses.”

  The tribal chieftains moved out of earshot, where they could talk.

  “He’s a madman,” Keni insisted. “The desert has that effect sometimes.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Just look at his eyes.”

  “I did, Keni. The man is sane. What’s more, he’s clever and determined.”

  “Wandering in the desert with a wife and small child—you call that clever?”

  “Yes, Keni. A brilliant disguise. Who’d pay him the least attention? But Moses still has followers in Egypt, and he’s planning to lead a Hebrew rebellion.”

  “It will never work. Pharaoh’s police will be all over him.”

  “Yes, but if we help him, he could be of use to us.”

  “What do you mean, Amos?”

  “We can help him across the border and later supply the Hebrews with arms. They’ll probably be exterminated, but they’ll stir things up in Pi-Ramses.”

  Moses inhaled the Delta air deeply. This land still enchanted him, though by rights he should hate it. How could he feel any enmity toward the lush green fields, the graceful palm groves? He felt like a young man again, the Pharaoh of Egypt’s close friend and associate, who had dreamed of spending his whole life at Ramses’ side, serving him, helping him transmit the ideal of truth and justice that had nurtured the dynasties through the ages.

  Now that ideal was a thing of a past. Henceforth Yahweh alone would guide Moses’ footsteps.

  Thanks to Keni and Amos, the Hebrew crossed into Egypt in darkness, along with his wife and son, evading the border patrol as it roamed between two outposts. Zipporah, while terrified, offered no objection and voiced no criticism. Moses was her husband. She had vowed to obey him and would follow wherever he led.

  With the sunrise and the resurrection of nature, Moses felt his hopes revive. Here he would fight the good fight, no matter what forces aligned against him. Ramses must be made to understand that the Hebrews demanded their liberty with the desire to form a nation, according to divine will.

  The family stopped in villages where they were welcomed with the customary hospitality offered to strangers. Moses’ speech showed clearly that he was of Egyptian stock, which didn’t hurt matters. Slowly but surely, the Hebrew, his wife, and his son reached the outskirts of the capital.

  “I built a good part of this city,” Moses revealed to Zipporah.

  “It’s so big, so beautiful! Are we going to live here?”

  “For a while.”

  “Where will we stay?”

  “Yahweh will provide.”

  They made their way through the bustling maze of craftsmen’s shops. Zipporah, accustomed to the seclusion of her desert oasis, felt confused. On every side there were shouts and cries. Carpenters, tailors, and sandal makers were hard at work. Donkeys threaded slowly through the narrow streets, laden with earthenware vessels containing meat, dried fish, or cheese.

  Straight ahead lay the homes of the Hebrew brickmakers.

  Nothing had changed. Moses recognized every house, heard familiar chants, and experienced a surge of memory in which rebellion mingled with youthful enthusiasm. As he lingered in a little square with a central well, an old brickmaker hobbled up to take a good look at him.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? But wait, it can’t be! Don’t tell me you’re Moses, the famous Moses?”

  “I am, old man.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “Oh? They forgot to tell me,” Moses said with a smile.

  “When you were around, they treated us brickmakers better. Now anyone who falls behind has to go fetch his own straw. You’d never have stood for it. Imagine, having to haul your own straw! And we fight tooth and nail for the smallest pay raise.”

  “Do you have a house, at least?”

&n
bsp; “I’d like bigger lodgings, but my request is tied up in paperwork. Back then, you would have helped me.”

  “I’ll help you now.”

  The brickmaker’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you still wanted for murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “You killed Ramses’ sister’s husband, or so they say.”

  “He was a blackmailer and a bully,” Moses objected. “I never intended to hurt him. We had an argument and it got out of control.”

  “So you did kill him. But I understand, I do!”

  “Would you take me and my family in for the night, old man?”

  “Follow me,” he replied.

  As soon as Moses, his wife, and child were asleep, the old brickmaker left his bed and crept through the darkened room toward the door to the street, opening it ever so carefully. It gave a loud creak, and the brickmaker froze. Once he was certain that Moses had not awakened, he slipped across the doorstep.

  The price on his guest’s head was a big one. He’d go straight to the police. But he had barely set foot outside when a powerful hand flattened his back against a wall.

  “Where do you think you’re going, scum?”

  “I needed a breath of air, that’s all.”

  “You’re planning to turn Moses in, am I right?”

  “No, no, of course not!”

  “I ought to strangle you.”

  “Let him go,” ordered Moses, appearing in the doorway. “He’s a Hebrew, the same as you and me. And who are you, coming to my aid in the night?”

  “My name is Aaron.”

  The man was no longer young, but vigorous, with a rich, deep voice.

  “How did you find out that I was staying here?”

  “Don’t you know that we were all watching you? Everyone knows you in these parts. The council of elders would like to meet with you, Moses.”

  EIGHT

  Benteshina, the Prince of Amurru, was having a wonderful dream. A young noblewoman, Egyptian-born and naked as the day she was born, smelling of myrrh, was working her way up his legs like a clinging vine.