Ramses, Volume IV Read online

  If she began getting on Ramses’ nerves, he’d send her away from the capital. Her punishment would be to never see him. Could there be anything worse?

  When the king appeared in the hallway, Iset felt weak in the knees. It was impossible to run away. She couldn’t take her eyes off Ramses, his godlike power and presence.

  “What are you doing there, Iset?”

  “I wanted to ask . . . have you seen our new son yet?”

  “The nursemaid showed him off to me. A beautiful baby, our Merenptah.”

  “I’ll love him as much as Kha.”

  “I know you will.”

  “Only let me be the plot of land that you garden, the pond where you bathe . . . Do you wish to have other sons, Ramses?”

  “I’ve provided for that. I’m already choosing my royal children.”

  “Ask of me what you will . . . I belong to you, body and soul.”

  “You’re wrong, Iset. Long ago you taught me that no human being can belong to another.”

  “But I’m yours, and you hold me in your hands like a fledgling fallen from the nest. Without your warmth to protect me, I can’t survive.”

  “I love Nefertari, Iset.”

  “Nefertari is a queen; I’m only a woman. Couldn’t you love me with a different kind of love?”

  “With her, I’m building a world. Only the Great Royal Wife can share in this secret.”

  “Will you let me stay here in the palace?”

  Iset’s voice had grown very faint, for her future hung on Ramses’ answer.

  “You’ll stay here to bring up Kha, Merenptah, and my daughter, Meritamon.”

  The Cretan was one of Serramanna’s mercenaries. His current assignment was investigating settlements near Akhenaton’s abandoned capital in middle Egypt. Like his boss, he was a former pirate who enjoyed the standard of living Egypt offered. While he missed the sea, navigating the Nile in quick little boats was some consolation. He liked to try to outwit the river. Even an experienced sailor was bound to respect the current, the sandbanks lurking just beneath the surface, and the herds of angry hippos on the banks.

  The Cretan had shown the portrait of the murdered blond woman to hundreds of villagers, without success. To tell the truth, he was only going through the motions, since the girl was most probably from Pi-Ramses or Memphis. Serramanna had sent his men into every province, searching for some essential new piece of evidence. But luck hadn’t smiled on the Cretan. All he found was a peaceful region where life was in tune with the seasons. He wouldn’t be the one to earn the handsome bonus the Sard was offering. Still, he made sure to be thorough, especially since that meant spending long hours asking questions in wayside taverns. Two or three more days of this and he’d head back to Pi-Ramses, empty-handed but grateful for the free vacation.

  From his strategic table, the Cretan observed the barmaid serving beer. She laughed and flirted openly with the customers. He decided to take a chance.

  “I like your looks,” he said, grabbing the sleeve of her tunic.

  “And who would you be?”

  “A real man.”

  “That’s what they all say!” she countered with a saucy laugh.

  “I can prove it.”

  “I can imagine how.”

  “I’ll bet you can’t.”

  “Men are all talk.”

  “Some are all action.”

  The barmaid ran a finger over her lips. “Be careful what you say. I might take you up on it, and I have a big appetite.”

  “I have a big one, too.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Would you like me to show you?”

  “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “I think you’re pretty. You don’t mind a man who’s forward.”

  “Where are you from?” she asked, her voice growing husky.

  “The island of Crete.”

  “And what kind of man are you?”

  “I give as good as I get.”

  They arranged to meet in a barn in the middle of the night. Dispensing with the preliminaries, they coupled hungrily, tiring only after several rounds. Afterward they lay contentedly side by side in the straw.

  “You remind me of someone,” said the Cretan. “Your face makes me think of a girl I’ve been trying to find.”

  “What girl?”

  He showed her the picture of the blond victim.

  “I’ve seen her before,” said the barmaid.

  “Does she live around here?”

  “She was staying in the little village on the edge of the ghost town, out near the desert. I used to see her in the marketplace—but that was months ago.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know. I never spoke to her.”

  “Did she live by herself?”

  “No, there was a much older man hanging around her, some kind of sorcerer who still believed in the heretic pharaoh’s lies. Everyone left him alone.”

  Unlike most of the neighboring villages, this one looked shabby. Run-down houses, flaking plaster, peeling paint, overgrown gardens . . . who’d want to live here? The Cretan wandered down the main street strewn with waste that goats were eating.

  A wooden shutter banged.

  A little girl took off down the street, clutching a rag doll. When she stumbled, the Cretan caught her by the wrist.

  “Where does the magician live?”

  The child struggled.

  “Answer or I’ll take your doll.”

  She pointed toward a squat dwelling with wooden bars on the windows and its door closed. Releasing the girl, the Cretan ran toward the dilapidated house and broke down the door with his shoulder.

  It was dark inside the one square room with a dirt floor. On a palm-frond bed, an old man lay dying.

  “Police,” the Cretan announced. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

  “What do you want?” the man groaned.

  “Tell me who this young woman is,” he said, displaying the portrait.

  “Lita . . . my little Lita. She thought she was descended from Akhenaton. The man took her away.”

  “What man?”

  “A stranger . . . a foreign sorcerer who stole Lita’s soul.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He’s come back here. He’s hiding out in the tombs. In the tombs, I’m sure of it,” the old man said feebly.

  His head rolled to one side. He was still breathing, but he could no longer talk.

  The Cretan was afraid.

  The dark mouths of the abandoned tombs looked like the jaws of hell. To take refuge here, you’d have to be something of a demon yourself. The old man could have been lying, but the Cretan felt it was his duty to check out the lead. With a little luck, he’d lay his hands on Lita’s murderer, haul him back to Pi-Ramses, and collect the bonus.

  Despite this welcome prospect, the mercenary felt uneasy. He’d rather fight in the open air, clobber a bunch of pirates out on deck . . . these tombs gave him the creeps, but he pressed forward.

  After climbing up a steep slope, he entered the first of the burial places. It had a fairly high ceiling and wall paintings that paid tribute to Akhenaton and his wife, Nefertiti. He slowly made his way to the very back, finding neither a mummy nor any trace of human presence. No demons jumped out at him.

  Relieved, the Cretan explored a second tomb, as disappointing as the first. The porous rock was crumbling; the carvings would never withstand the centuries. Bats flapped around him, their sleep disturbed.

  The old man in the village must have been delirious. Still, Serramanna’s deputy took care to visit two or three more large tombs before he left the abandoned site.

  Everything here was good and dead.

  He followed the path along the cliff overlooking the plain where the City of the Horizon of Aton had stood. His last stop was the tomb of Merire, high priest of Aton. The carvings were meticulous. The Cretan admired one of the royal couple lit by the rays of the solar orb.r />
  At his back came the faint sound of footsteps.

  Before the Cretan had time to turn around, the sorcerer Ofir had slit his throat.

  THIRTEEN

  Meba had squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the Cretan’s dead body lay on the ground.

  “You shouldn’t have, Ofir, you shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Stop whining, Meba.”

  “But you’ve just killed a man!”

  “And you’re an accessory to murder.”

  Ofir’s expression was so menacing that the diplomat backed deeper into the tomb. He wanted to flee those incredibly cruel eyes pursuing him into the shadows.

  “I know who this snoop is,” announced Shaanar. “One of Serramanna’s henchmen.”

  “A paid investigator,” mused Ofir. “The Sard must be trying to find out who Lita was. The fact that his sleuth made it this far means he’s launched an intensive effort.”

  “We’re no longer safe even in this wretched place,” concluded Shaanar.

  “Let’s not be alarmist. This is one detective that will never talk.”

  “Even so, he found us. Serramanna will do the same.”

  “Only one person could have told him where we’re hiding: Lita’s guardian, the old fool the villagers consider their wise man. He’s on his deathbed, but he still managed to betray us. I’ll take care of him as soon as it’s dark out.”

  Meba felt obliged to protest. “You’re not going to commit another murder!”

  “Come out here where I can see you,” snarled Ofir.

  Meba stalled.

  “Hurry up.”

  The diplomat came forward, a nervous tic deforming his mouth.

  “Don’t touch me, Ofir!”

  “You’re our ally and my subordinate. Don’t forget that.”

  “Of course not, but these murders . . .”

  “This isn’t your comfortable office at the State Department. You belong to a spy network with the mission of undermining Ramses, if not overthrowing him, and allowing the Hittites to take over Egypt. Do you think diplomatic posturing will get us there? One day it will be your turn to eliminate someone who threatens your security.”

  “I’m a government official and I . . .”

  “You’re an accomplice in the murder of this detective, Meba, whether you like it or not.”

  The diplomat’s gaze once again fell on the Cretan’s lifeless body.

  “I never thought it would come to this.”

  “Now you know where we stand.”

  “As you were saying before we were so rudely interrupted, Meba,” Shaanar reminded him, “you have something to report?”

  “Why else would I risk coming to this godforsaken place? I came to say that my mission is accomplished, of course.”

  The sorcerer’s voice was silken. “Nice work, friend. We’re proud of you.”

  “I keep my promises. Don’t forget yours.”

  “The future government won’t overlook your talents. Now show us your treasure, Meba.”

  The diplomat exhibited Kha’s reed brush. “The prince used it to write with.”

  “Excellent,” approved Ofir. “Really excellent.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “We can use this personal possession to capture Kha’s energy and turn it against him.”

  “He’s only a child!”

  “Kha is Ramses’ eldest son.”

  “No, Ofir, not a child . . .”

  “You’ve chosen sides, Meba. There’s no turning back.” The sorcerer held out his hand.

  “Give me the brush, Meba.”

  The diplomat’s reluctance amused Shaanar. He hated the craven fool so much that he was quite prepared to strangle him with his own hands.

  Meba slowly relinquished the brush.

  “Is it really necessary to involve such a young boy?”

  “Go back to Pi-Ramses,” ordered Ofir. “And don’t come back here again.”

  “Will you be staying long?”

  “Long enough to work my spell.”

  “What then?”

  “Don’t be too curious, Meba. I’ll be in touch with you.”

  “My position in the capital may become untenable.”

  “Keep your head and everything will be fine.”

  “What should I be doing?”

  “Carry on as usual. My instructions will arrive when the time comes.”

  The diplomat made as if to leave the tomb, then turned around.

  “Think it over, Ofir. Ramses won’t stand for anyone laying a hand on his son.”

  “Be on your way, Meba.”

  From the tomb’s entrance, Ofir and Shaanar watched their associate head down the path and mount his horse, concealed behind the ruins of a mansion.

  “He’s losing his nerve,” Shaanar observed. “Old Meba is like a rat caught in a trap. Why not get rid of him right away?”

  “As long as Meba is in an official position, he’s useful to us.”

  “What if he decides to reveal our whereabouts?”

  “Do you suppose I haven’t thought of that?”

  Since Ramses’ return, Nefertari had spent almost no time alone with her husband. Ahmeni, the vizier, the cabinet members and high priests had besieged the king’s office, and the queen herself was continuing to respond to requests from scribes, workshop foremen, tax collectors, and other officials involved with the running of her household.

  She often regretted not following her girlhood dream of becoming a temple musician. She could have lived quietly, removed from the distractions of everyday life. But the Queen of Egypt had no right to such a refuge, and must fulfill her duties regardless of fatigue and the stress of responsibility.

  With Tuya’s constant support, Nefertari had learned the art of governing. During the seven years of his reign, Ramses had spent many months abroad and on the battlefield. The young queen had needed to draw on unsuspected emotional reserves to bear the weight of the crown, to continue celebrating the rituals that maintained the indispensable link between god and man.

  Having virtually no time to think of herself did not displease Nefertari. There were not enough hours in the day; that was as it should be. The one drawback was that she was often apart from Kha and Meritamon, losing the precious chance to watch them grow up. Although Kha and Merenptah were Iset the Fair’s sons and not her own, she loved them as much as her daughter, Meritamon. Ramses had done right in asking Iset to supervise the three children’s upbringing. The two women were neither rivals nor friends. Unable to bear more children, Nefertari had pleaded with her husband to again be intimate with Iset the Fair, who could provide him with heirs. But once Iset was pregnant, he’d decided not to continue their relationship, planning instead to adopt an unlimited number of royal children to symbolize the royal couple’s fertility.

  The love the queen shared with Ramses went far beyond the physical and its pleasures. She loved him for what he was, what he stood for. They were two halves of the same being. Their souls were united even when they were apart.

  Nefertari wearily put herself in her servants’ capable hands for a manicure and pedicure. After a long working day, it was a pleasure to tend to her personal grooming. She must always appear perfectly serene, no matter what cares weighed upon her.

  The crowning moment was her evening shower. Two servants poured warm scented water over the queen’s naked body. Then she stretched out on a bed of heated tiles for a long massage with a pomade of incense, turpentine, and lemon oil to relax her muscles for a good night’s sleep.

  Nefertari contemplated the glitches for which she was responsible, the errors she had committed, her pointless fits of temper. She sought the proper response in each situation, for right actions strengthened the law of Ma’at in Egypt and kept chaos at bay.

  Suddenly the hands on her back changed their rhythm, becoming bolder.

  “Ramses . . .”

  “You don’t mind if I take over, do you?”

 
“I need to think.”

  She turned very slowly to meet his adoring gaze.

  “I thought that you had some evening meeting with Ahmeni and the granary administrators from all over the country.”

  “No, darling. Tonight belongs to us.”

  She undid the waistband of Ramses’ kilt.

  “What’s your secret, Nefertari? Sometimes I start to think that your beauty is not of this world.”

  “Is our love?”

  They embraced on the steaming tiles. Their scents mingled, their lips met, and off they rode on a wave of desire.

  Ramses wrapped Nefertari in a long shawl. Spread out, it bore the wings of the goddess Isis, constantly moving, producing the breath of life.

  “It’s amazing!”

  “I commissioned it from the weavers’ workshop in Sais. I don’t want you ever to be cold again.”

  She clung to the king.

  “I pray that from now on we’ll never part.”

  FOURTEEN

  Lit by three tall, barred windows, Ramses’ office was stark, in the style of his father, Seti’s: bare white walls; one large table; a straight-backed armchair for the king and straw-seated chairs for visitors; a cabinet for papyri containing magical texts protecting the royal person; a map of the Near East; and a statue of the late Pharaoh, his eternal gaze watching over his son at work.

  Near his writing tools the king kept two forked acacia branches tightly bound at one end with linen string. The divining rod Seti had passed on to him had already proved useful on a number of occasions.

  “When is Moses’ trial?” the monarch inquired of Ahmeni.

  “In a couple of weeks.”

  The frail-looking scribe had, as usual, arrived carrying his weight in documents. Weak as his back might be, he insisted on personally transporting confidential files.

  “Has Moses been informed?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “He seems serene.”

  “Have you told him that we can prove it was self-defense?”