every soldier until the entire army had passed and they realized their children weren’t coming home. His pride had done this. His rashness. His belief that the gods were with him and that Sekhmet would prevail over reason. That a divided army could confront the Hittite power. He should have waited for the rest of his army to take Kadesh. But how could I tell him this? I looked at Ramesses in his short white kilt and golden pectoral, and even in his
“What would have happened if you didn’t speak Shasu? What would have happened if the Ne’arin hadn’t come to our rescue after six thousand Egyptians already lay dead?”
Ne’arin meant
Ramesses fixed me with his gaze. “Habiru mercenaries from Canaan.”
I gasped.
“Who else could have summoned them? They appeared out of nowhere with the division of Ptah. They fought like they were possessed by Montu. But how could Ahmoses have known?”
“The Habiru must have been willing to fight for a chance at what they want,” I told him.
Ramesses was quiet, surely thinking about the Habiru in Canaan.
“They will rebel,” he said with certainty. “If they settle with their brothers in Canaan. Their army of Ne’arin were well trained.”
“But they came to fight for you.”
“Because under the Hittites there would be no chance of being set free. In helping me, they are helping themselves. If I don’t set them free, the Ne’arin will rebel. I could crush it. They’re not so many men . . .”
“Enough to save your army.”
Ramesses nodded. “I saw more blood before the walls of Kadesh,” he admitted, “than my father saw in all his years. I vowed to give them victory, but I should not have made that promise. There are many promises I should not have made. I thought I could make the gods listen to me. I thought a victory in Kadesh would write my name in their halls. But the old priestess was wrong. The gods were already listening,” he went on. “They’ve always been listening.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TO DIE BY THE BLADE
WHEN WE RETURNED to the city of Avaris and the Dowager Queen saw that Ramesses was safe, she crushed her son in her large embrace, and even took Amunher in her arms, marveling at how big he and his brother had grown.
“In two months they’ve become different children,” she exclaimed, and I wondered if her newfound interest was sparked by the cries of “Warrior Queen” that filled the streets. “Tell me about the battle,” she implored, “and how you helped to crush the Hittites!”
I told her the story, and that evening in the Great Hall, there was a celebration surpassing anything ever seen in Seti’s time. Dancing girls with bracelets on their wrists flitted from one room to the next, laughing and singing with the elated men. Asha presided over a group of noblewomen, recounting for them the story of how he arrived just in time as the Hittites broke down the gates of Kadesh. I noticed them leaning forward to listen, but he seemed to be speaking to one red-haired woman in particular, and I saw with a start that it was the priestess Aloli.
The feasting was to continue for seven days, and each evening when the oil lamps were lit, women emerged from the shadows of the palace with their eyes rimmed in kohl and their cheeks rouged with ochre. Each evening I marveled over the quantities the cooks of Pi-Ramesses unveiled. There were the common servings of olives and dates, but in larger bowls there was goose with honeyed lotus, glazed in heavy pomegranate wine. The scent of slowly roasting meat woke me in the mornings, and by the fifth night in the Great Hall, Ramesses said jokingly, “I think that Amunher and Prehir have doubled in size since returning to Avaris.”
The courtiers around our table laughed, their voices like polished bells, and Iset added eagerly, “Ramessu has grown so big that his hand can fit around a spear. He’ll be hunting hippo before he’s two.” She smiled at Ramesses, but Paser had approached the dais with a scroll, and Ramesses’s attention was diverted.
“There is a message from Kadesh,” Paser announced.
Henuttawy sighed. “Is it always work with you?”
“Yes. Just like for some it is always play.”
Ramesses frowned over the courtiers’ guffaws, taking the scroll from Paser. “This isn’t the seal of Emperor Muwatallis.”
“No. It is the seal of his son, Prince Urhi.”
Ramesses glanced around him. Everything was bright and happy. Women in jeweled collars and linen tunics laughed with young soldiers, who described the Hittites fleeing from the division of Ptah and the Ne’arin. The women never asked how it could be a victory if Egypt had not regained Kadesh; the soldiers saw the battle as a warning to the Hittite king that Egypt would be taken seriously. We had won Emperor Muwatallis’s respect. But then why was his son writing to us, and not the emperor himself? “If it’s bad news,” he whispered to Paser, “I don’t want to read it here. Come into the Per Medjat.” He looked at me, and it was clear that I was invited as well.
I had only been inside Seti’s Per Medjat once before. Seeing it again I realized how much larger it was than the library in Thebes. Scrolls filled the polished wooden shelves, reaching to the top of a chamber painted with images of Thoth, the ibis god of scribes who first invented language. On every wall his beaked head was painted or raised in relief, and scenes from his sacred book were depicted around him. Of course, it is forbidden to read the Book of Thoth, for it is filled with powerful spells. But I wondered if somewhere within Pharaoh Seti’s great library the dangerous book still existed.
We sat at the farthest table, and when Ramesses broke the seal on the prince’s message, I wondered aloud, “Why isn’t Muwatallis himself writing?”
Ramesses looked up from the papyrus. “Because Emperor Muwatallis is dead.”
He handed me the scroll and Paser read it over my shoulder, both of us squinting in the candlelight. “It doesn’t say how he died!”
“But Prince Urhi is writing for confirmation,” Paser replied. “He is telling the kingdoms of the south of his ascension, before his uncle can make a claim for the throne.”
“Muwatallis’s brother,” Ramesses said darkly. “He’s the general who ambushed the division of Ra. General Hattusili.”
And now Hattusili wanted his nephew’s throne. The young prince was writing to Ramesses, asking for his support. Hatti had never asked for aid from Egypt before. “And what about the truce?” I asked fearfully.
Paser was firm. “Prince Urhi will want peace. He will have enough to do in keeping his uncle at bay.”
“Prince Urhi might want peace,” I said, “but if Hattusili takes the throne, how do we know he won’t rise against Egypt?”
“Because he’s already seen war with Pharaoh,” Paser said, “and he didn’t much like it. If there had been a chance of defeating Egypt, he would have convinced his brother to carry on.”
“Then what will Egypt do?” I asked. “There are two contenders for the throne of Hatti. If we pledge support to Urhi, but Hattusili takes the crown . . .”
“We will wait.” Ramesses gave the scroll back to Paser. “Wait until there is a certain victor, and pledge our support to him.”
I glanced up at Paser, who appeared equally impressed that Ramesses was choosing the safest thing to do.
“Shall I draft a message?” Paser wanted to know.
There was the loud creak of the door, then the sound of several sandaled feet making their way across the tiles. The three of us turned, and Henuttawy stepped into the light. I could smell that she had been drinking.
“Ramesses! What are you doing here?”
“There is business to attend to,” Ramesses said severely.
“With Nefertari?” She laughed, and Iset appeared behind her in a netted dress of beads. “The entire feast is
