Ramses, Volume III Read online

  Ahmeni’s office was crammed with papyrus scrolls, stuffed into leather cases, standing upright in earthenware jars, or piled into wooden chests, tagged with the documents’ date and contents. No one was allowed to interfere with his system of organization; he even cleaned the room himself, with the utmost care.

  “I wish that I could go with you,” he confided to Ramses.

  “Your place is here, my friend. Every day you’ll consult with the queen and Queen Mother. And no matter how Shaanar tries to worm his way in, be sure he’s granted no decision-making power.”

  “Don’t stay away too long.”

  “I intend to strike quickly and hard.”

  “You’ll have to do it without Serramanna.”

  “Why?”

  Ahmeni related the circumstances surrounding the bodyguard’s arrest. Ramses seemed disheartened.

  “Prepare the indictment carefully,” the king demanded. “When I return, I’ll question him; I’m sure he’ll be able to explain his actions.”

  “Once a pirate, always a pirate.”

  “If so, his trial and sentencing will serve as an example.”

  “You could use his sword arm in battle,” said the scribe regretfully.

  “Not if he’d stab me in the back.”

  “Are our troops really ready for combat?”

  “They have no choice but to be.”

  “Does Your Majesty believe we have a real chance of winning?”

  “We should be able to quell the unrest in the provinces, but after that . . .”

  “Before the push to Kadesh, will you let me join you?”

  “No, my friend. You’re of more use to me here in Pi-Ramses. If I were to die, Nefertari would need your help.”

  “I’ll keep the war effort going,” Ahmeni promised. “We won’t stop manufacturing arms. And, well, I’ve asked Setau and Ahsha to keep an eye on you. With Serramanna out of commission, you might take more chances than you should.”

  “Unless I march at the head of my army, the war is lost before we take the first step.”

  Her hair was darker than the dark of night, sweeter than the fruit of the fig tree; her teeth were whiter than gypsum powder, her breasts round and firm as love apples.

  Nefertari, his wife.

  Nefertari, the Queen of Egypt, whose luminous gaze was the joy of the Two Lands.

  “After my visit to Set,” Ramses told her, “I stopped in to see my mother.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She talked about Seti, how long he would meditate before launching any battle, how he managed to husband his energy on the march.”

  “Your father’s soul lives on in you. He’ll fight at your side.”

  “I leave the kingdom in your hands, Nefertari. Tuya and Ahmeni will be your faithful allies. Serramanna has been jailed on suspicion of treason. Shaanar will certainly try to assert himself. It’s up to you to hold the ship of state on a steady course.”

  “Rely on yourself alone, Ramses.”

  Two waist-length bands of pleated linen hung from the blue crown; Ramses wore a padded leather garment, a combination doublet and kilt, forming a sort of breastplate covered with metal scales. A long filmy robe completed the majestic outfit.

  When Homer saw the Pharaoh approach in full war regalia, he put down his pipe and rose. Hector, the black and white cat, ran under a chair.

  “So the time has come, Majesty.”

  “I wanted to say my farewell to you before we head north.”

  “Listen to the verses I wrote today: ‘To his chariot he hitches his two horses, swift and bronze-shod, with manes of gold. He is dressed in a dazzling tunic, he takes his whip in hand and with a snap of the wrist sends them galloping heavenward.’”

  “My two horses do deserve your praise. For several days now I’ve been grooming them for the trials ahead.”

  “Too bad you’re leaving. I’ve just made an interesting discovery. If I mix barley meal with pitted dates—I pit them myself—it makes quite a tasty brew, once it ferments. I wish you could try it.”

  “That’s an old Egyptian recipe, Homer.”

  “In a new edition from a Greek poet, it might have a different taste.”

  “We’ll have a glass when I come home.”

  “I may be a grouchy old hermit, but I do hate to drink alone. A good friend improves the best drink in the world. You’ll do me a favor if you hurry back.”

  “I intend to. Besides, I want to read your Iliad.”

  “It will be years before I’m finished. That’s why I’m aging slowly, to buy more time. I hope I won’t need to buy extra for you.”

  “I’ll be back, Homer.”

  Outside, Ramses climbed into his chariot, hitched to his two finest horses: Victory in Thebes and the Goddess Mut Is Satisfied. Young, strong, alert, they strained toward the open road, toward a new adventure.

  The king had left his dog, Watcher, with Nefertari. Fighter, the mammoth Nubian lion, ran alongside the royal chariot, at Ramses’ right hand. Stupendously strong and handsome, the beast was also eager to prove himself in war.

  Pharaoh raised his right arm.

  The chariot moved forward, the wheels began to turn, the lion kept pace with his master. And thousands of foot soldiers, flanked by the cavalry, followed Ramses.

  THIRTEEN

  Though the early summer heat was even more intense than usual, the Egyptian army marched as though they were on a country outing. Crossing the northeastern Delta was a delight. Farmworkers, unaware of the looming threat of war, were harvesting spelt with their sickles. A light sea breeze ruffled the stalks of grain; the fields shimmered green and gold. The king had set a fast pace, but the foot soldiers still enjoyed watching the lush scenery and the herons, pelicans, and pink flamingos flying overhead.

  Maintaining discipline, they stopped to eat fruits and vegetables, drink the local wine diluted with water, sample the beer. It was a far cry from the tale of the starving soldier, dying of thirst and sagging under the weight of his gear.

  Ramses was supreme commander of an army divided into four divisions of five thousand foot soldiers each, placed under the protection of the gods Ra, Amon, Set, and Ptah. There were also reserve troops, some remaining behind in Egypt, as well as the elite cavalry unit. To make these mighty numbers easier to maneuver, the king had organized each division into companies of two hundred men under the command of a standard-bearer.

  The general in charge of the cavalry, the division commanders, the scribes, and the head of the Supply Corps followed strict orders and consulted Ramses when any difficulty arose. Fortunately, Ahsha was available with his superior problem-solving skills, and the bulk of the commanding officers respected him.

  As for Setau, he had demanded a chariot to haul what he considered necessary for housekeeping in the forbidding lands of the north: five bronze razors, pots of salves and balms, a whetstone, a wooden comb, pestles, a hatchet, sandals, reed mats, a cloak, kilts, tunics, canes, several dozen containers full of lead oxide, asphalt, red ocher, and alum, plus jars of honey, sacks of cumin, bryony, castor oil seed, valerian. A second chariot carried his medicines, potions, and remedies, under the care of his wife, Lotus, the lone female participant in the expedition. Since she was known to handle poisonous snakes like weapons, however, no one bothered the shapely Nubian beauty.

  Setau wore five cloves of garlic strung around his neck to ward off vapors and protect his teeth. Many of the soldiers did the same, as the virtues of the aromatic bulb were well known. Garlic had supposedly saved the god Horus’s baby teeth as he hid in the Delta marshlands with his mother, Isis, attempting to escape the wrath of Set, who was intent on destroying Osiris’s son and heir.

  At the first night’s camp, Ramses had retired to his tent with Ahsha and Setau.

  “Serramanna has been working for the Hittites,” he revealed.

  “Surprising,” Ahsha appraised. “I consider myself a fair judge of character, and I would have bet he was loyal to you.”


  “Ahmeni has gathered evidence against him.”

  “Bizarre,” commented Setau.

  “There’s no love lost between the two of you,” Ramses pointed out.

  “We clashed, it’s true, but it gave me the chance to size him up. Your pirate captain is a man of his word—and he gave it to you, on his honor.”

  “What about the evidence?”

  “Ahmeni could be wrong.”

  “That would be a first.”

  “Not even Ahmeni is infallible. My guess is that someone framed Serramanna to keep him away from the fighting.”

  “What do you think, Ahsha?”

  “Setau’s hypothesis seems reasonable enough.”

  “Once we’ve brought the protectorates back in line,” declared the king, “and the Hittites have asked for mercy, we’ll investigate further. Either Serramanna is a traitor or else he was brought in on trumped-up charges. No matter which, I want to find out the whole truth.”

  “I’ve given up hope of that,” admitted Setau. “The world of men is too full of lies.”

  “A pharaoh fights for the truth.”

  “Better you than me. At least with my snakes I know they’ll never bite me in the back.”

  “Unless you’re running away from them,” added Ahsha.

  “Then you’d deserve it,” Setau concluded.

  Ramses sensed that his two friends were coming to grips with the same awful suspicion he was feeling. They could have spent hours building a case against the conclusion that Ahmeni himself could have planted the evidence. Ahmeni, the devoted scribe, entrusted with the day-to-day business of government; Ahmeni, who had been left in charge because Ramses trusted him completely? Neither of the two men dared accuse him openly, but the king sensed their unspoken doubts.

  “Why would Ahmeni do such a thing?”

  Setau and Ahsha exchanged a glance and said nothing.

  “If Serramanna had noticed Ahmeni acting suspicious, he would have informed me.”

  “Unless Ahmeni threw him in jail to keep him quiet.”

  “Unlikely,” said Setau. “Look, this is all just speculation. When we get back to Pi-Ramses, we’ll set things straight.”

  “That makes sense,” agreed Ahsha.

  “I don’t like this wind,” Setau added. “It’s not what you usually see in summer. An ill wind, as if the year might die in its prime. Watch out, Ramses. I tell you, it’s not a good sign.”

  “A rapid strike is our best guarantee of success. No wind will slow us down.”

  Strung along the northwestern border of Egypt, the forts that made up the king’s great wall communicated with each other by signals and sent regular reports back to court. In peacetime, their role was to regulate immigration. Now that they had been put on alert, archers and scouts scanned the horizon from atop their walls. Centuries earlier, Sesostris I had built the line of fortifications to stop the Bedouins from raiding livestock and to check any attempt at invasion.

  Whoever crosses this border becomes the son of Pharaoh, proclaimed a marker in front of each fully manned and well-supplied garrison. The forts were also home to customs officers who collected duties on goods crossing into Egypt.

  The Wall of the King, built up over the centuries, kept the people feeling safe. It was a proven system for preventing surprise attacks and barring invading hordes from the rich lands of the Delta.

  Ramses’ army marched serenely onward. The veterans were reminded of the routine inspection tours that each pharaoh carried out from time to time, displaying Egypt’s military might.

  When the battlements of the first fortress came into sight, bristling with archers, the mood grew a bit more subdued. But the huge doors parted to let Ramses pass, and his chariot had barely braked before a portly figure rushed forward, followed by a servant holding a parasol.

  “Glory to you, O Majesty! Your presence is a gift from the gods.”

  Ahsha had given Ramses a detailed report on the governor general of the Wall of the King. A rich landowner, graduate of the royal academy in Memphis, and father of four, he loved good food and hated the military mind-set. He was eager for his prestigious though boring appointment to come to an end so that he could return to Pi-Ramses and an upper-level government post. The governor general had no army training and dreaded the sight of blood, but his accounts were flawless and there was no denying that under his leadership the garrisons were well supplied with food.

  The king stepped down from his chariot and patted his two horses. They whinnied softly.

  “I’ve ordered a banquet, Your Majesty. You’ll have all the comforts of home here. Your bedchamber may not be quite as comfortable, but I hope you’ll like it and find it restful.”

  “I’m not here to rest. We have an insurrection on our hands!”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. But you’ll deal with that in a matter of days.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The reports from our sites in Canaan are promising. There’s so much infighting among the rebels that the movement is falling apart.”

  “Have our positions been attacked?”

  “Far from it, Your Majesty. Here’s the latest dispatch; it arrived this morning by carrier pigeon.”

  Ramses scanned the document, written without undue haste. It did indeed appear that bringing Canaan back into the fold would be fairly straightforward.

  “See that my horses are well cared for,” the monarch ordered.

  “Clean stalls and special forage,” promised the governor.

  “Where is the map room?”

  “Right this way, Your Majesty.”

  Determined not to waste a second of the king’s time, the governor walked much faster than usual. At this rate, he’d soon slim down. His servant even had trouble keeping him in the shade.

  Ramses called for Ahsha, Setau, and his generals.

  “Starting tomorrow,” he announced, tracing the route on the map spread out on a low table, “we head due north, passing west of Jerusalem, along the coast, until we encounter the first rebel position and subdue Canaan. Then we stop at Megiddo until I decide to advance.”

  The generals murmured their agreement. Ahsha remained silent.

  Setau left the room, looked at the sky, and returned to Ramses’ side.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve told you. There’s something wrong with the wind.”

  FOURTEEN

  The pace was lively, the discipline somewhat relaxed. Entering Canaan, long controlled by Egypt and paying tribute to the pharaoh, the army had no sense of straying into foreign territory, no sense of danger. Perhaps it was only a local incident, and Ramses had taken it too seriously.

  Egypt was responding with such a show of force that the rebels would soon be on their knees, begging the king’s mercy. It would be one more peacekeeping mission, unmarked by deaths or serious injuries.

  On the march, the soldiers noted that one small outpost had been destroyed. Its staff of three had kept track of herd migrations. No one paid much attention.

  Setau continued to brood. Driving his chariot single-handed, bareheaded in the blazing sun, he hardly spoke to Lotus, though every lucky soldier who passed her by made sure to take a good look.

  The sea breeze was a godsend, the road was level, the water bearers came by at regular intervals. You had to be in shape, you had to walk for hours, but even so, it wasn’t such a bad life, nothing like the scribes claimed, but then they were quick to sneer at other occupations.

  To his master’s right loped Ramses’ lion. No one tried to approach him, but everyone was cheered by his presence. He was a walking symbol of the Pharaoh’s supernatural strength. With Serramanna gone, the lion was Ramses’ best protection.

  The first fortress in Canaan came into view. It was an impressive structure with tall, sloping brick walls, thick parapets, sturdy ramparts, watchtowers, and crenellations.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Ramses inquired of Ahsha.

  “An exp
erienced commander, born in Jericho but raised in Egypt, who underwent extensive training and served several tours of duty in Palestine before his appointment here. I’ve met him. A good man, highly professional.”

  “Wasn’t he the one who sent the initial dispatches alerting us to a revolt in Canaan?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. This fortress is a strategic information-gathering point for the region.”

  “Would this commander be a good candidate for governor?”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  “In the future, we won’t make the same mistakes. The more efficiently we run the province, the less we run the risk of rebellion.”

  “There’s only one way to control it effectively,” Ahsha suggested. “Eliminating Hittite influence.”

  “Precisely what I intend,” said Ramses.

  A scout galloped up to the fortress gate. An archer waved from the ramparts.

  The scout headed back. A standard-bearer ordered the lead detachment to advance. The weary soldiers looked forward to a drink, a meal, a good night’s sleep.

  A flurry of arrows pinned them to the ground.

  Dozens of archers had appeared on the wall walk, firing point blank at their helpless targets. Arrows through the head, chest, or stomach mowed the Egyptians down. The standard-bearer leading the charge pressed defiantly forward, determined to take the fort with the handful of surviving soldiers.

  The archers’ deadly precision left them no chance. The standard-bearer took a shot to the neck and collapsed at the foot of the ramparts.

  Within a few minutes, many of the army’s most seasoned veterans lost their lives.

  A new wave of troops was surging forward to avenge their comrades when Ramses stopped them.

  “Retreat!”

  “Majesty,” said a lieutenant, “let us at the traitors!”

  “Rush the fort and you’ll end up like they did. I said retreat.”

  The men obeyed him.

  A new volley of arrows landed ten paces from the king, who was soon surrounded by his panic-stricken commanders.

  “Have your troops form a ring around the fortress, out of firing range, archers in front, then foot soldiers, followed by the chariots.”