The next afternoon arrived imperceptibly.
Rapanu, who'd rushed between the port and warehouses, felt like he'd just fallen on his bed when he had to get up again.
Flatbread, wine and a pot of porridge—that was breakfast for the offspring of the richest family. Nine out of ten in their city hadn't seen such.
Common folk were openly starving.
Ugarit and the area around it slightly resembled Egypt. It was two colors—yellow and green.
Now there was less green and more yellow-gray. That was the color of the earth here and the brick the city was built from.
Palms added greenery—the local heat was nothing to them. The mountains around Ugarit were covered with sickly grass and harsh shrubs, and the finest beach sand seemed completely lifeless.
The emerald-blue sea threw one wave after another at it, not stopping its movement for a minute.
The city of Ugarit was a cluster of brick houses with flat roofs, one or two stories, hiding from neighbors behind high fences.
Inside rich estates were courtyards paved with stone slabs, palms and porticos giving blessed shade.
They all huddled around a gigantic palace with over a hundred various chambers.
The palace of kings was a true miracle. It had survived from the times when the lords of the sea, the Cretans, had set the fashion for luxurious living.
There was plumbing and sewage here, and the waste of hundreds of people flowed beyond the wall through stone channels and ceramic pipes.
The palace housed guard barracks, a temple, the royal tomb, an archive and a kiln for firing clay tablets.
The inner courtyards of the huge complex were covered with stone-hewn slabs.
Kings who for centuries had held a large chunk of Mediterranean trade in their hands had once been unimaginably rich.
But their wealth had long since sunk into oblivion. Now they had completely different concerns.
King Ammurapi was dictating a letter to a scribe who stood with the most respectful air, holding a wet clay tablet in one hand and a writing stick in the other.
"A cruel famine rages in the land of Ugarit. May my lord save it, and may the king give grain to save my life and save the inhabitants of the land of Ugarit."
The throne room, to the end of which Rapanu could barely throw a stone, seemed to the kid like a forest of thick stone columns.
They held beams of Lebanese cedar on which the second floor rested.
Ugarit had been an Egyptian colony for centuries, so the walls here were decorated with strange flat figures standing sideways. Little beards resembling cat tails would seem very funny, but on the walls masters invited from Egypt had depicted their king, and nobody here would think of laughing at the pharaoh himself.
Egyptian culture and religious philosophy were considered unattainable by absolutely everyone.
And Egypt had lots of grain, and the petty kings of the Near East did the same thing every year: they begged for at least a little barley just to not die of hunger.
Both father and son froze motionless, not daring to enter while the king of Ugarit was at work.
They couldn't see him behind the forest of columns, and he couldn't see them. They waited respectfully, hearing every word.
"If there is kindness in your heart, then send at least the remains of grain that I asked for, and thus save me," the king dictated the next letter.
"The Shikalayyu people living on ships, of unknown tribe, have set up their camp not far from the city. My father, help, send warriors. Don't you know that my chariots are now in Lukka by order of the great king?"
This letter was to go to the king of Alashiya, to Cyprus.
"Send me forces and chariots, and may my lord save me from the forces of this enemy," merchant Uertenu heard, paling with each minute.
This letter was meant to be sent to the neighboring kingdom of Carchemish.
"A letter from Hattusa, greatest one," came the obsequious voice of the scribe. "The king of kings is pleased to be angry that we do not prostrate ourselves at his feet."
"Read," the king's answer sounded remarkably gloomy. "We have no time to prostrate ourselves, we must hold the city. No help from the great king! Only demands for army and grain."
"You belong to the Sun, your lord. You are his servant, property... To me, the Sun, your lord, why have you not come for one year, two years?"
"There will be no answer to the Hittites," the king Ammurapi, invisible to the merchants, said wearily. "Write on:"
"May my lord know, we are doomed, seven came, seven sails became seven times seven and seven. May my lord save me! May my lord allow me to live! Help, I beg for help."
"Where should it be sent?" came the scribe's voice.
"His majesty the pharaoh is now with his army in Byblos," the king said. "If the gods are favorable, he will protect us."
"Father, it seems we unloaded the grain for nothing," Rapanu whispered. "Our king has also quarreled with the Hittites. Maybe we'll come here tomorrow? The lord doesn't yet know we've arrived."
"Excellent thought," the merchant stroked his beard, and the bracelets on his arms clinked dully. "Let's load the grain back before it's too late."
"And the most valuable of what we have," Rapanu looked at him intently. "I suggest we send our goods to Dardanus. I believe that guy, my dear father. He's a relative of the king, and in those lands they honor the law of hospitality. If the Shikalayyu living on ships approach the city, Ugarit won't hold."
"Dardanus is too far," the respected merchant waved it off. "I'll take the goods to Sidon. Respected Baalshamem lives there, I've done business with him for many years. We'll return here tomorrow... Or the day after... Probably... If it's the will of the gods. Let's get out of here quickly, Rapanu, I'm tormented by remarkably bad premonitions."