Ramses, Volume III Page 6
“How are you, sister dear?”
“Glad to see you, Shaanar. The fact that you’re here shows we’re still moving forward.”
Dolora and Sary, her late husband, had vainly sought favors from Ramses when he was Seti’s co-regent. When their hopes were dashed, they plotted against him. Only the combined influence of the Queen Mother Tuya and Nefertari, the Great Royal Wife, had convinced Ramses to spare their lives. Sary, who had once been the king’s private tutor, then head of the royal academy, was forced to work as a brickyard overseer. Broken and bitter, he had taken his resentment out on the Hebrew workmen, blatantly abusing them until a furious Moses came to their defense and killed him. As for the dark and ungainly Dolora, she had fallen under the spell of Ofir and Lita. Immersed in the cult of Aton, the One God, she put her limited energies into reviving his religion and banishing Ramses, the unbeliever.
Shaanar was determined to make the most of Dolora’s misguided passion. Promising her an important role when he came to power, he manipulated her hatred of Ramses, planning to do away with her eventually if she remained a fanatic.
“Any news of Moses?” asked Dolora.
“He’s vanished,” replied Shaanar. “No doubt his fellow Hebrews have killed him and buried him out in the desert.”
“We’ve lost a valuable ally,” Ofir acknowledged, “but the will of the One God must be done. Our numbers are still on the rise, are they not?”
“We must proceed with care,” Shaanar insisted.
“Aton will help us!” Dolora said fervently.
“I haven’t lost sight of my initial plan,” the sorcerer continued. “Weakening Ramses’ magical forces will eliminate the only real obstacle in our path.”
“Your first attempt was not an unqualified success,” Shaanar pointed out.
“But not a total failure, either.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I agree, Your Highness. That’s why I’ve decided to use a different technique.”
“What technique?”
With his right hand, the sorcerer gestured toward the tag on a large earthenware vessel.
“Would you read that for me?”
“‘House of Life, Heliopolis. Four fish: Mullet,’” he read. “Why dried fish?”
“Not just any fish: they were specially consecrated as an offering, they’re already magic. I also acquired this piece of cloth.” Ofir held out a tattered shawl.
“That looks like—”
“Yes, Your Highness, it belongs to the Great Royal Wife, Nefertari. Her favorite shawl.”
“You stole it?”
“My followers are everywhere, as I said.”
Shaanar was astonished. Did the Libyan have sources inside the palace?
“The combination of consecrated food and cloth that has touched the queen’s person is essential. Thanks to these magical objects, and your continued support, Aton will once again reign supreme. Lita will represent him as our queen, and you will be Pharaoh.”
Lita lifted her dreamy eyes toward Shaanar. She was not at all bad-looking, he thought, considering her as a bedmate.
“Still, there’s Ramses.”
“He’s only human,” declared Ofir. “Not even he can resist black magic forever. But if I’m to succeed, I need help.”
“You know you can count on mine!” exclaimed Dolora, clutching Lita’s hands as the wide-eyed princess focused on Ofir.
“Tell us your plan,” Shaanar demanded.
Ofir held his arms crossed on his chest. “Your help is indispensable as well, Highness.”
“Mine? But . . .”
“All four of us wish the king and queen dead. And the four of us symbolize the cardinal directions, the quadrants of time, the entire world. If one of these four forces came to be missing, the spell would be broken.”
“I’m not a sorcerer!”
“Your simple acceptance will do.”
“Say yes!” begged Dolora.
“What will I have to do?”
“Nothing complicated,” Ofir assured him. “But your hand will play an important part in destroying Ramses.”
“Let’s get started.”
The sorcerer opened the vessel and removed the four dried and salted fish. Lita, as if in a trance, broke loose from Dolora and lay down on her back. Ofir spread Nefertari’s shawl over her bosom.
“Take one of the fish by the tail,” he ordered Dolora.
She passively obeyed. From a pocket in his tunic, Ofir withdrew a tiny figurine of Ramses and stuck it down the mullet’s throat.
“The next fish, Dolora.” He repeated the procedure until each of the four fish had swallowed a tiny effigy of Ramses.
“Either the king will die in battle,” prophesied Ofir, “or else fall prey to us when he returns from the war. This cuts him off from the queen forever.”
Ofir went into a smaller room, followed by Dolora, carrying the four fish, and Shaanar, whose desire to harm Ramses won out over his fear.
In the middle of the room was a small charcoal grill.
“Throw the fish in the fire, Your Highness. Your wish will be granted.”
Shaanar did as he was told.
As the fourth and final fish went up in smoke, a cry startled him. The trio retraced their steps to the front parlor.
Nefertari’s shawl had spontaneously burst into flames, burning Lita until she was nearly unconscious.
Ofir lifted the cloth, which put out the fire.
“Once we burn the rest of the shawl,” he explained, “our demons will be unleashed upon Ramses and Nefertari.”
“Will Lita still have to suffer?”
“Lita accepted this sacrifice. She must remain conscious for the duration of the experiment. As soon as her burns are healed, we’ll try again, until every last bit of the shawl is gone. It will take time, Your Highness. But it will work.”
ELEVEN
The chief physician of upper and lower Egypt and head of the palace medical service, Dr. Pariamaku was in his fifties, brisk of manner, with long, slender, manicured hands. Rich, married to a Memphis noblewoman who had given him three fine children, his long and distinguished career had taken him to the top of his profession.
Yet that summer morning he was cooling his heels outside Ramses’ office and growing angrier by the minute. The king wasn’t ill—he was never ill—and he’d kept the famous doctor waiting for more than two hours.
Finally a chamberlain showed him in.
“Your Majesty, I am your humble servant, but—”
“How are you, my dear Doctor?”
“Disturbed, Your Majesty, very disturbed. At court they’re saying that you’ve chosen me as surgeon general for your northern campaign and—”
“That would be quite an honor, don’t you think?”
“Of course, Your Majesty, of course, but wouldn’t I be of more use to you here at the palace?”
“I suppose I ought to take that under consideration.”
Pariamaku was visibly distressed. “Your Majesty, if you would be so good as to inform me—”
“Yes, you’re right, Doctor. The palace can’t do without you.”
He could barely contain a sigh of relief. “I have complete confidence in my associates, Your Majesty. Any of the court physicians you choose will give satisfaction.”
“I’ve already made my selection. You remember my friend Setau, I believe?”
A dark, thickset, square-jawed man stepped forward. He was hard-eyed, unshaven, without a wig, and wearing an antelope-skin tunic studded with pockets. The distinguished physician recoiled.
“Doctor, glad to see you, I know I don’t belong to the medical establishment, but I do get along with snakes. Would you like to have a look at the viper I captured yesterday?”
Pariamaku took another step backward and looked toward the king in bewilderment. “Your Majesty, there are certain requirements that a military surgeon general—”
“I want you to be particularly vigilant during
my absence, Doctor. I hold you personally responsible for the health of the royal family.”
Setau stuck a hand into one of his pockets. Afraid he might pull out a snake, Pariamaku quickly bid his farewell to the king and retreated.
“Why do you put up with clowns like him?” asked the snake charmer.
“Don’t be too hard on him. Sometimes he even cures his patients. By the way, did I hear you say you agree to become my surgeon general?”
“I have no interest in the position, but I can’t let you march north alone.”
A vessel of dried fish missing from the House of Life in Heliopolis. Then Queen Nefertari’s shawl. Two thefts, and only one suspect. Serramanna was sure he knew who had done it: Romay, the king’s chief steward. The Sard had been watching him for some time. Behind his jovial facade was a traitor. He’d even tried to assassinate the Pharaoh.
For once, Ramses had chosen the wrong man for the job.
Serramanna knew, however, that if he revealed his suspicions about Romay, the king might not take it kindly. The same for Moses. He saw no way to get the steward arrested or cast doubt on the Hebrew’s loyalty—unless maybe Ahmeni could help. Ramses’ private secretary was nobody’s fool. He would listen.
Serramanna walked past the two soldiers flanking the corridor leading to Ahmeni’s office. The tireless secretary directed a staff of twenty scribes to deal with the day-to-day business of government. Each morning, Ahmeni briefed Ramses on important matters.
At the giant’s heels came the sound of rapid footsteps. He wheeled around in surprise. A clutch of foot soldiers was coming at him.
“What’s going on here?”
“We have orders.”
“I’m the one who gives you orders!”
“We’ve been told to arrest you.”
“Preposterous!” raged Serramanna.
“We’re obeying orders.”
“Back off, if you know what’s good for you!”
Ahmeni’s office door opened and the scribe appeared.
“Tell these morons to leave me alone, Ahmeni!”
“I can’t, Serramanna. I had the warrant drawn up for your arrest.”
For a moment, the old pirate felt he was back on a sinking ship. As he stood there, stunned, the guards moved quickly to disarm him and tie his hands behind his back.
“What’s going on here?”
At a sign from Ahmeni, the guards hustled Serramanna into his office. The secretary consulted a scroll on his desk.
“Are you acquainted with a certain Lilia?”
“A lady friend of mine. The latest, to be precise.”
“Did you have a fight with her?”
“She threw herself at me, but that was in bed.”
“Did you assault her?”
“I gave her my best shot, you might say. All in good fun.”
“So you have no quarrel with this young woman?”
“I do! She nearly wore me out. A Sard has his pride, you know.”
Ahmeni remained stone-faced. “This Lilia has made grave accusations against you.”
“But she consented, I swear it!”
“It has nothing to do with your sexual escapades. I’m talking about treason.”
“What? Did I hear you say treason?”
“Lilia claims you’re a Hittite spy.”
“The hell I am!”
“She’s a patriotic young woman. When she noticed some strange-looking wooden tablets in your linen chest, she decided to turn them in. Do you recognize these?”
Ahmeni handed the tablets to the Sard. “They don’t belong to me!” he protested.
“They’re proof of your crime. The writing is rather crude, but in essence you tell your Hittite contact you’ll make sure that your elite commandos will never see battle.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Your girlfriend has given a sworn statement before a magistrate and witnesses.”
“It’s an attempt to discredit me and undermine Ramses.”
“According to the dates on the tablets, you’ve been spying for the last eight months. The Hittite emperor has promised you a fortune once Egypt is defeated.”
“I’ve been Ramses’ man ever since the day he spared my life.”
“Then why are you corresponding with the Hittites?”
“You know me better than that, Ahmeni! Yes, I was a pirate, but I’m a loyal friend!”
“I thought I knew you, but maybe you’re like everyone else at court, only thinking how you can line your pockets. Don’t mercenaries work for the highest bidder?”
Hurt to the quick, Serramanna stiffened.
“If Pharaoh named me head of his personal guard troops, then gave me an elite command in his army, it must mean he trusts me.”
“But should he?”
“I deny your accusations.”
“Untie him.”
Serramanna was immensely relieved. Ahmeni’s interrogation had been thorough, as usual, but the point was to let him prove his innocence.
The secretary handed the Sard a sharpened reed, dipping the tip in black ink, and a smooth slab of limestone.
“Write your name and title.”
Uneasily, the Sard did as he was told.
“The handwriting is the same as on the tablets in question. This sample will also be submitted as evidence. You’re guilty, Serramanna.”
Blind with fury, the pirate rushed at the slender scribe. Instantly, four spears pricked at his ribs, drawing blood.
“That’s as good as admitting it,” said Ahmeni.
“Let me see the girl! I’ll make her take it back!”
“You’ll see her at your trial.”
“I’m being framed, Ahmeni.”
“Start working on your defense, Serramanna. For traitors like you, the only punishment is death. And don’t expect Ramses to let you off.”
“Let me speak to him. I’ve made some breakthroughs in my investigation.”
“The army is marching out tomorrow. Your Hittite friends will miss you.”
“Let me talk to Ramses, please!”
“Throw him in jail and guard him closely,” ordered Ahmeni.
TWELVE
Shaanar’s spirits were excellent and his appetite ravenous. His breakfast, “the cleansing of the mouth,” consisted of barley porridge, two roast quail, goat cheese, and round honey cakes. Since Ramses was marching north with his army that morning, he decided to celebrate with grilled goose rubbed with rosemary, cumin, and chervil.
Serramanna had been arrested and thrown in jail, significantly compromising the elite force’s effectiveness.
The prince had just touched his lips to a cup full of cold milk when Ramses strode into his private suite.
“May your face be protected,” said Shaanar, rising to employ this traditional morning greeting.
The king wore a white kilt and a short-sleeved surplice. Silver bracelets adorned his wrists.
“You don’t look ready to travel, beloved brother,” he said.
“I didn’t hear you were planning to take me with you, Ramses.”
“You don’t seem to have the fighting spirit.”
“No. You were always the brave one.”
“Here are my instructions: while I’m gone, you’re to gather information from abroad and submit your reports to Nefertari, Tuya, and Ahmeni. They’re my ruling council, authorized to act in my name. I’ll be at the front with Ahsha.”
“He’s going with you?”
“I need his expertise. He has firsthand knowledge of the region.”
“Our diplomacy hasn’t helped the situation this time, I’m afraid.”
“No, Shaanar, but we can’t drag our feet any longer.”
“What will be your strategy?”
“To regain control of the border provinces, regroup, and then march on Kadesh for a direct confrontation with the Hittites. When the second phase begins, I may call for you.”
“Taking part in the final victory will be an honor.”
“Be careful, Ramses. Our country needs you.”
Ramses took a boat across the canal separating the warehouse district from the oldest part of Pi-Ramses. This was the site of Avaris, onetime capital of the Hyksos, Asian invaders whose sinister memory still lingered. Here stood the temple of Set, the terrifying god of thunder and celestial disturbances, keeper of the most powerful force in the universe, and patron of Ramses’ father, Seti, the only pharaoh who had ever dared to bear his name.
Ramses had rebuilt the temple in a larger and grander form, for it was here that his father, secretly grooming him to become pharaoh, had tested him against the mighty Set.
Fear and the strength to overcome it had struggled within the young prince’s heart. When the combat ended, Ramses was touched with the power of Set’s fire. As Seti had summed up his patron’s lesson: “Believing in human goodness is a mistake no pharaoh should ever make.”
In the covered forecourt of the temple stood a pink granite stela. A carving of a bizarre creature, part dog, with large upright ears and a long curved snout, sat atop it. This was the animal incarnation of Set, which no man had ever seen or ever would. Carved into the tablet was Set’s human form, with a cone-shaped crown, a solar disk, and two horns. His right hand held the ankh, or key of life, his left the scepter of power.
The text was dated to the fourth day of the fourth month of summer of the year 400; the number four represented the organizing principle of the cosmos. The hieroglyphs began with an invocation:
Hail to thee, Set, son of the goddess of heaven,
You, whose power is great in the bark of millions of years.
You stand at the prow of the bark of light, repelling its foes,
Yours is the voice of thunder!
Permit Pharaoh to follow your ka.
Ramses entered the sanctuary and prayed before the statue of Set. He would need the god’s energy in the fight ahead. And Set, who could change four years on the throne into four hundred years set in stone, would be his strongest ally.