A Hittite and a Shaman

Chapter 1 The Message

1264 BCE

Queen Nefertari was an unhappy woman.

She was the first lady of the mightiest man of the times. She was blessed with the everlasting love of her spouse. She had no fears, no needs, no room for worries. Even so, she was discontented.

Nefertari Meritmut, queen of the pharaoh Ramses II, was standing on the terrace of the royal garden adjacent to her chambers and witnessing the valediction of the palace gardener. The old man was ending his service.

His boss, the supervisor of the royal gardens and orchards in the new capital Per-Ramesses, stood in the pavilion at one end of the terrace. It was an elevated structure, elegant but simple, devoid of any figurines and other decoration, with a conical ceiling for shade. It offered a podium or stage. This was the spot where the host would first stand for a brief chat with guests so they could view the scenery and absorb it before descending for a stroll.

The man was addressing the audience, composed of his peers, servants, and slaves. He closed the laud: “…and we all pray to the gods to support you, cherished Sefu, in your years of repose and reminiscence. Remember, this garden is your contribution to the peace and pleasure of our venerable pharaoh and his queen in this new city of Per-Ramesses. It is, indeed, your legacy to the world.”

On his prompt, Sefu struggled up the steps and stopped before the queen. Nefertari smiled and motioned him to come closer. A maid came up to her, held out a casket, and opened it. Nefertari lifted from it a gold medal featuring the royal insignia [J1] in the middle and a floral border along the edge. This award was cherished as a sign of royal acknowledgment for lifelong service. She held it aloft for the audience’s view. The stooping man bowed even deeper and held out his palms, one resting on the other. She noticed his crooked fingers and how they trembled. No smile crept through the creases of his weather-beaten face.

“May the gods bless you with a long and healthy life, Sefu,” she said in a gentle tone but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I express the appreciation of your service in the name of the pharaoh. But bear in mind, you are always welcome to visit us any time you please, for this garden is also yours. All the plants here are your plants, your kin. This refuge for flowers is your creation with the blessings of the gods.”

She looked up to the sky and added, “Em [J2] heset net Ra. Em hotep nefer, em hotep. Be in favor with the sun god Ra. Live in great peace.”

Returning to her chambers, Nefertari strode to her dressing room to change. She set aside her crown and cast a look into the bronze mirror.

Before her mind’s eye, the face of the old man lingered, his expression one of gratitude, pride, joy, and sorrow all rolled into one. She would miss him. Sefu was ever present in the garden, now bending over the weeds, now rustling behind the bushes, shouting commands to the juniors, and reining in [J3] his language when he sighted her. He seemed to enjoy the garden more than anyone else, laboring in the paradise of his own creation. Except for him, this was a silent world, yet the garden could be rebellious in the long run, tending towards chaos if ignored. The question could be raised: who was the master, and who was the servant? His accomplishment dedicated to the royalty was to realize heaven on earth, an abode of peace.

Em hotep, peace be with you, had also been among her last words to the gardener. True, it was the lifetime achievement of Sefu. What was her achievement in life? How could she contribute to peace in this life?

The pharaoh had been ordained by the gods to assure peace and prosperity for all in Egypt or Kemet, the Black Land, the divinely created garden[J4] . What was her contribution to that enormous task? How did she support her beloved husband? Was the role of a queen only representative? Was she to be respected only because of her marriage, celebrated and paraded only for her position? A live decorative banner?

Yes, she could pride herself as an ideal spouse, mother, and wife, just as the society expected, nay, demanded. She had been a faithful and loving wife to Ramses, presenting to him six children and heirs among them. Her occasional contribution to state affairs had won her the title “Mistress of Upper and Lower Egypt.” But endowed with her abilities, skills, and position, what had she truly achieved as queen?

She came out of the dressing room. Her gaze wandered and rested on a clay envelope and a tablet lying on a small table next to the tall figurine of goddess Hathor. The tablet was a message from Hattusha, the capital of Hatti, the kingdom of the Hittites to the north, who had not been on good terms with Egypt for ages. Delivered two days before by a herald from there, the message was written in clay.

Nefertari corresponded with various queens of other lands. The most prominent among them was Queen Puduhepa of Hatti. Their friendship had not been shadowed by the cold war between the countries. Usually, such messages in cuneiform script from Queen Puduhepa were in the Akkadian language, the diplomatic lingua franca, which Nefertari had mastered along with the hieroglyphs of the Egyptians. But this time, the same script was in a strange language she could not identify. She stared at it. The message stared back.

“Yesterday, you called for the scribe, milady,” Bennu, her lady-in-waiting, called out from behind her as if she had read her thoughts.

“Yes, I did,” the queen said.

“He is here, awaiting your audience.”

“You may usher him in.”

Ife, the personal scribe of the queen, stood near the door, waiting. He was an elderly man, bent with age and the typical posture of a scribe over decades.

He bowed and said in a shaky voice, “You sent someone for me, your majesty?”

“Yes. I did. I need your help. Do you see the envelope over there on the table? The message reached me two days ago.”

Ife shuffled towards the table and gazed at the object.

“See what you can make of it.”

He picked up the envelope with both hands.

Bennu approached Nefertari. The queen raised a hand, signaling her to wait. The scribe inspected the message for a few seconds and shook his head.

“I can only say this is from—”

“I know it is from the Hittite kingdom,” Nefertari said. “The insignias on the envelope and at the bottom of the message say that much. But what about the text?”

Ife frowned, hesitated, and shook his head again. “I am afraid, your majesty, the language is not Akkadian. It could be Nesite, the official language of the Hittites. It could even be Palaic, Luwian, or [J5] Lydian.”

“Is it from Queen Puduhepa of Hatti? Can you say that much?”

“I could not say that, either.” Ife drooped his lips.

“Strange. She always wrote in Akkadian.” Nefertari said to herself.

Ife said, “Maybe she chose the Hittite tongue this time. It could be something she could not express otherwise.”

The queen was a bit restless. “Or the author is someone else who presumes we can read the language. But you cannot. Who could read it and translate it for us?”

“I know none who would be reliable, I am afraid, your majesty. The only other scribe who was well versed in Nesite passed away a year ago. I will have to make inquiries.”

“Do so. But of course, do not let anyone know who the author could be or that I am the recipient. Make sure he does not turn up out of curiosity.”

“Yes, of course. You can count on my oath, your majesty. I will do my best, but it may take some time.” Ife returned the tablet to the envelope, placed it on the table, bowed, and left.

After he had gone, Nefertari stared into her handheld mirror, adjusted her hair again, and said to Bennu, “I would like to change my dress. Get me the red one with the brocade.”

Bennu walked up to the wardrobe in the dressing room.

“By the way,” Nefertari called out, “how is your family getting on?”

“What shall I say, madame?” Bennu chuckled as she came up with the garment. “They are well, but right now, instead of my daughter, it is my husband who is excited like a child; it is about the upcoming celebration.”

“Do you mean the annual parade?” Nefertari asked, taking the dress from Bennu’s hands.

“Yes, the one commemorating the battle near Qadesh.”

Nefertari held out the dress and cocked her head to the side, casting a critical look at it.

“In that war, your husband was a charioteer at the front, and I can imagine he is proud about the event,” she said. “As for me, I must confess that the battle was a nightmare. I hoped day after day that my spouse would return hale and hearty from the front.”

Nefertari reached to her neck to stroke the gift from her husband that she always wore. It was a collar [J6] with a pendant of pure gold in the shape of an ankh, a cross with a loop as the top limb. The ankh was a symbol of breath and life. Ramses had presented it to her before leaving for the campaign to Qadesh as a promise of his victorious return.

She strode towards the dressing room.

“It was no different in my case, milady,” Bennu said, following her. “In fact, we women only fear for the lives of our fathers, husbands, and sons, not for mere victory. The battle cries we hear are the cries of wailing women. I was lucky not to be widowed, nor to face a husband returning maimed and…as a cripple”.

“Yet,” Nefertari said, looking back at Bennu, “let us also honor those who lost their lives for the cause.”

Bennu bit her lip and spoke up after a short pause.

“The cause, milady? The cause we have in life is to remain hale and hearty, to survive and serve, not to mourn and moan. But all I can do is to hope there is no war. I can only fear, sigh, hope, and face fate. What else can I ever do? I am only a woman.”

Nefertari sighed and whispered, “Yes, we are only women.”

***

On the same day, in another part of the city, the bronzesmith Rai’a had laid down his hammer for a chat with his old friend. He had come out to the front of his smithy and was sitting with his comrade Sa’a on a brick bench. He had built it as a crude seat for a pause between long hours standing at the anvil. The workshop was the porch of a dwelling, before which, a road approached and forked into two paths leading to its rear.

He stretched, stroked the small of his back, and said, “Whew! When I was young, I could take a lot of the strain. Remember how we went through thick and thin at the front?”

“Sure,” Sa’a said. In contrast to his comrade, he was a slender man with a hungry look. In his youth, he had been hailed as an expert bowman, renowned for his speed and adroitness in his art. Now, living in a village, he had come on a visit to the big city. “Soon we will be celebrating that famous battle.”

The army consisted of infantry and chariotry, the latter being the elite branch. In the battle, Ramses had led four divisions in a campaign to the north with the purpose of conquering the vassal states of the Hittites, Qadesh being one of them. A young pharaoh only five years into his reign, he had shared all the danger with his troops at the front. He had been misled by spies, told that the enemy location was far from Qadesh. He had led his Amun division ahead, outdistancing his other three divisions and isolating his own.

Rai’a and Sa’a had been charioteers in the Ra division, following the pharaoh’s. Rai’a was the driver, and Sa’a was the archer. They were surprised and attacked from the right by the Hittites, who had crossed the Orontes River to its left bank. The Ra division took a heavy toll, with the survivors getting split into a group heading south with the enemy in hot pursuit and another small group moving north to join Ramses’s division and warn him. Rai’a and Sa’a were in this group.

As Ramses set out for a consultation with the military officers of his division in the far north, the Hittites closed in. With his troops surprised and fleeing in disarray, he had to act fast. Calling out to the god Amun for aid, he fought his way out and regrouped the troops to dispel the assault with success. The battle ended in a stalemate when the Hittites withdrew to the east after heavy losses.

“A great time to remember and to praise our pharaoh. Only the young know nothing and do not care,” Rai’a added and pursed his lips.

Sa’a nodded. “Those days, we were also young but brave. Today’s young men hang around and loiter, playing games or chasing girls.”

“All idlers.” Raia shook his head.

“On the other hand,” Sa’a corrected himself after a pause, “how could they show their bravery if there is no war? They cannot pick up weapons for mock battles and slaughter one another.”

The pair fell in thoughtful silence for a while.

Sa’a broke it. “The day of the celebration is also a day to mourn the dead. I think of Qali.”

Qali had been a comrade in their company. In the battle, he had been hit in the chest by an arrow and had perished in the arms of his comrades.

A girl in her teens emerged from the house and entered the smithy with a carefree, jumpy gait. She would qualify as a beauty in any land of her times. She was carrying an open basket of colored grass woven to form a pattern.

“Going to see your uncle, Anat?” father Rai’a asked.

“No. To the seamstress. Mom has some work for her.” She stopped, fumbled in the basket, and gasped,

“Oh, I forgot something.” She set the basket on a small table near Rai’a and rushed back to the house.

Sa’a’s face had been bright since her entry. He said, “You have a beautiful daughter, brother.”

“Oh, thanks.” Rai’a grinned. “How time flies! When I returned from the battle, she was a kid. Just imagine. She is now seventeen.”

“All set to get married. Any plans?” Sa’a asked.

“We are on the lookout. Maybe she will find her match herself, the way I found my wife.”

“The way your wife found you.” Sa’a pointed at Rai’a.

“All right, all right.”

They laughed.

“And the gods spared you from the arrows of the Hittites,” Sa’a added.

“That is true. They saved me from the devils. I call them Hyksos.” Rai’a grimaced. “They are no better than those barbarians of yore. All from the north. Aliens are by nature bad.”

“What do you mean? Can you explain?”

“They have neither our gods to protect them nor a pharaoh to guard and guide, no one to teach manners. For them, life is a game, and that game is war.”

Sa’a shook his head. “You generalize, my friend.”

On the road before the smithy, a young man ran up to them. Out of breath, he stopped a few feet before them, paused for a fraction of a second, looked over his shoulder, and moved on, overlooking the table ahead. He stumbled and staggered. Before the men could jump up to help him, he scrambled up on his own, almost tipping the basket on the table. He turned to the men, nodded an apology, and ran off down one of the roads leading to the rear.

Then the next surprise came: two burly men from the same direction the young man had come. They were in a hurry, too. They stopped before the smithy. One made a move to approach Rai’a and Sa’a, but the other blocked him. They called out some commands to each other and separated, each taking a different route along the two roads past the smithy.

Sa’a was the first to speak up. “What is going on?”

“What do I know? The young man was being chased. Maybe he stole something.”

“Were they members of the royal guard?”

“No,” Rai’a answered. “The royal guard is made of soldiers from the Mejay tribe. You would know them by their looks. They are all tall and dark and come from the south. These were civilians in peculiar clothes.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?” Sa’a asked.

“I could not follow. Maybe they were foreigners. There are quite a few here, mostly merchants and traders. Anyway, I must get back to work.” Raia slapped his thighs and rose. Sa’a followed.

Anat came out of the rear and dropped a garment into the basket. She picked it up and said, “I have everything now. I must hurry.” She ran off.

“Anat! Come back before it gets dark,” Raia yelled when she was almost out of earshot, the words all elders would say to their daughters for ages to come.

Anat yelled back, “Of course, Dad,” and disappeared.

Previously, the men had failed to witness a subtle move. With his back turned to them, the young man on the run had dropped something into the basket.