What liveliness and beauty she’d inherited had been washed away in a continuous bath of bleaching morality. It was said that Nebetta had acquired her rectitude from Hepu, and Meren had to admit that of the two, Hepu was the more obvious and overbearing. It was Hepu who respected his own excellence so much that he wrote books of instruction to be passed down to succeeding generations. He produced these tomes continually, and donated them to various schools and libraries in every major temple, whether asked to or not.
For most of his life Meren had ignored their pomposity and belief in their own worth—until the day Nebetta and her husband disowned Djet, when he was thirteen. Without warning and with no explanation Djet was cast out, banished from the favor of his parents. He had sought refuge with Meren’s family, his face drawn with grief. Blue shadows highlighted Djet’s dark eyes, and he lost weight. His sarcastic humor vanished. And no matter how much Meren coaxed him, he refused to speak of the thing that had cost him the love of his father and mother.
Years passed, but the rift only grew worse, until one day, soon after Meren had recovered from being tortured, Djet drank poison sweeter than the sweetness of his mother’s voice. What kind of woman so reviled her son that she would drive him to kill himself? What kind of father would do the same? And what insane reasoning allowed his sister to think Meren would enjoy being welcomed home by these two?
Idut was talking to him. “Meren, you’re not drinking your beer. Don’t you like it?”
They were sitting in the reception chamber amidst carved and gilded chairs and beer jars festooned with wreaths of water lotuses, cooled by maids waving ostrich-feather fans. Nebetta was talking with Bener while old Hepu was speaking to—lecturing—Isis. Hepu didn’t carry on conversations; he discoursed.
“Meren, I asked if you liked your beer,” Idut said.
“I want to talk to you,” he replied. “Now. Alone.”
“Good, because I want to speak to you as well.”
Surprised, he followed his sister back outside to the shaded walk that bordered one of the twin reflection pools. The sun was dropping below the front west wall, but the heat of its rays seemed as strong as at midday. Idut waved away two maids who had followed with fans, and they were alone.
Before the maids were out of sight, Meren burst out, “Did I not write you to say I wanted privacy? Did I not say I wanted to spend time with the girls? Don’t you ever read what I write? No, of course you don’t. You only read what you wish to read. And you invited Nebetta and Hepu. You know I don’t like them. You don’t like them. This house will be stuffed full of interfering, squabbling relatives.”
“Families should be together,” Idut said airily. “Relatives should continue in harmony.”
“You sound like one of Hepu’s books of instruction. The fool fancies he’s written another Instruction of Ptahhotep.”
“That’s not respectful, Meren.”
“You have to make them go away. All of them.”
Idut touched his arm. “I must speak to you of something far more important.”
“Don’t avoid the subject—”
“Bener has a lover.”
A goose honked. It spread its wings, flapped them at a rival, and hissed. Meren strove to comprehend what his sister had just said.
“Explain.”
“You know how much she loves writing and ciphering. She spends too much time with the steward and his scribes.”
His steward, Kasa, managed the fields of Baht, its tenants and laborers, and the production of commodities upon which the manor survived. He’d been in charge since before their father died. His two sons had been trained to follow him.
“One of Kasa’s sons?”
Idut shook her head. “An apprentice scribe, Nu.”
“I don’t remember this Nu.” His head was beginning to ache.
“He’s the grandson of your old nurse.”
“Are you sure, Idut?”
“They spend hours together every day in the steward’s office.”
“But that’s all?” he asked.
“You know what it’s like to be in love fever, Meren. Who knows if that’s all?”
He gazed out over the blue surface of the water. Fish shimmered beneath its surface. A cloak of calm settled over him. He dared not examine what lay beneath. Meren nodded to his sister.
“Very well. Now you listen to me, Idut. Get rid of all these—these guests.”
“I can’t … the feast!”
“After the feast. Lie, Idut. Tell them the servants have a plague.”
“Oh, Meren.”
“Do it, or I will, and I know you won’t like how I manage the task.”
“I don’t know why you have to be so discourteous.”
“And I don’t know why you insist upon ignoring the evilmindedness of most of the people you’ve invited. Now where is this Nu?”
“He’s probably still in the steward’s office.”
He went quietly. Passing out of the gate, he walked quickly to the modest house that lay a few yards to the south. Commanding silence from the porter and servants, he slipped into the room that served as Kasa’s office. Neither the steward nor his sons were there.
He was about to leave when he heard the scrape of a rush pen. Through an open door lay a porch on which were stacked sheets of papyrus anchored by smoothing stones. Meren walked outside. Leaning against a column, head bent over a sheet of papyrus stretched across his crossed legs, a youth dipped his pen in black ink and resumed writing.
“You’re Nu.”
The pen jerked. A wide slash of black disfigured the neat script. The boy looked up, eyes on fire with rage. Then he realized who was standing there. He dropped the pen and paper and scrambled to his feet to bow deeply with raised hands.
Ignoring the boy’s discomfort, Meren asked, “Are you?”
“Aye, lord. I am Nu, grandson of Herya, apprentice to master Kasa.”
Meren turned his back on the youth. He hadn’t thought about what Nu would look like. He wasn’t pleased. A scrawny student with a squint, that’s what he would have preferred. Nu wasn’t scrawny; his eyes were large and sad, and he looked as if he belonged in a chariot facing a Hittite army. This menace needed curbing without delay.
Meren turned around and walked toward the boy. “Nu, you’re a fortunate lad.”
“My lord?”
Nu backed up and hit the column with the back of his head. Meren stopped within arm’s reach, studying his quarry in silence until Nu swallowed and lowered his gaze to the floor.
“Look at me.”
Nu lifted his eyes to meet Meren’s, and they widened as Meren smiled at him.
“Yes, you’re a fortunate lad, Nu. Most men would have killed you for interfering with their daughters.” He paused upon hearing a choking sound from Nu. “I, however, am not a hot-bellied man. I ask for explanations before I kill. Explain, Nu.”
Nu’s mouth worked, but nothing came out of it.
“I can’t hear you, boy.”
“I, I, I …”
The slap of sandals on the packed-earth floor saved Nu for the moment. Meren turned to find Bener rushing out of the house, breathless and wild-eyed.
“What are you doing here?” Meren snapped.
“A message, Father.” She thrust a folded and sealed packet at him.
Meren snatched it from her, glaring. He was about to order her home when his eye caught the inscription on the letter: Kysen. He opened it and read swiftly.
“Everlasting damnation. Fiends of the netherworld!”
Nu scuttled behind the column while Bener gawked at him.
Meren rounded on her and pointed. “Go home, daughter.”
“But Father, Nu is only an apprentice. Aunt has imagined things. And she’s only trying to distract you because you’re angry with her.”
“Go, at once!”
Bener vanished, and he turned on Nu. “Come out of there, you worthless little sneak.”
Nu stumbled from behind the column and sank to
his knees. Touching his forehead to the floor, he waited in silence. Meren touched the sheath that housed his dagger, but the cold metal didn’t spur him to action. It brought him back from the brink of violence. Reason returned. He knew his daughter, and she’d been telling him the truth. Most of it.
“As I said, you’re a fortunate lad. My daughter’s word is as the word of the goddess Maat, lighter than the feather of truth. You may go.”
Nu rose and slunk past him, only to start when Meren lifted a hand.
“This isn’t the end of our conversation.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Nu scurried away, leaving Meren alone on the porch staring into the distance. Worry over his daughter warred with a new concern. Kysen was coming. No doubt he’d arrive before Meren could rid himself of this infestation of relatives. Nento would be with him. Both were ostensibly traveling with the trading flotilla for convenience. No one would think it odd that Kysen had invited Nento to break his journey at his father’s house.
But curiosity had always been a family trait. All Meren could do was pray to all the gods of Egypt that his unique preparations would be enough protection against the invasion his sister had arranged for the feast of rejoicing. But prayers wouldn’t be sufficient.
He would send Reia and his men out to patrol the countryside. Lord Paser’s ship had sailed past him this afternoon again. Paser could have moored farther south and even now be lurking about, spying. But he was more worried about others. The powerful priests of Amun had vowed a truce in their relentless and secret warfare against the boy king Tutankhamun.
Meren wasn’t sure their promise extended to the heretic king who tried to banish Amun and the other gods from Egypt. Akhenaten, Tutankhamun’s brother, had denuded the fabulous temple of Amun, wiped out his name, beggared his priests. These acts had made Akhenaten’s very name anathema. And there were those among the restored priesthood who would give their lives if they could destroy Akhenaten’s body and thus deprive him of the afterlife. Ultimate vengeance. A vengeance that Meren had sworn to the king he would prevent.
Unfortunately, he’d experienced the cruelty of which Akhenaten had been capable. His own cousin Ebana had suffered a far worse fate. Determined to wipe out any potentially powerful enemies of his heresy, Akhenaten had ordered Ebana assassinated. Ebana had escaped, but his wife and son hadn’t. To Meren’s dismay, his cousin had blamed him for not preventing the attack, and nothing he said had ever changed Ebana’s attitude. Ebana currently served the high priest of Amun in opposition to pharaoh, while an incongruous twist of Meren’s fate had put him in the position of protecting the body of the man who had killed his father and nearly brought about his own death.
He folded Kysen’s letter and smiled. If he didn’t love the king as a son, would he be fighting so hard for Akhenaten’s life in the netherworld? A difficult question, and one to which he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Chapter 3
Before dawn on the third morning after confronting the apprentice scribe, Meren slipped out of the house with a tray bearing food, wine, and an alabaster lamp. He walked swiftly down the avenue between the reflection pools to the small chapel where lay shrines to the gods and to his ancestors. A flight of steps took him to the entrance, which was flanked by two painted columns. Shoving open the carved doors with one hand, he entered.
The yellow glow from the lamp illuminated the painted murals on the walls, pictures of his family, his parents, his grandparents, and those who had gone before them. Deep in the heart of the chapel lay golden shrines housing images of Amun; of Osiris, god of Abydos; of Montu, god of war; and others. But it wasn’t these Meren intended to visit. Instead, he turned to his right and went to a narrow niche in the wall.
There stood a double statue of his parents, together in death as they had been in life. The sculptor had carved them in their finest clothing, sheer linen draping their bodies. Ornate wigs covered unruly hair; gold hung from their necks, wrists, and ears. Meren whispered prayers for the dead and offered food and wine. When he was done, he stared at the images, wondering why he never felt like they heard his invocations. Yesterday before dark, he’d visited Sit-Hathor’s eternal house. He always felt that his wife listened to him. He’d told her all the things he could tell no one else, and he never worried that she might disapprove. She’d always been on his side—after she’d learned to love him, that is. When they first married, Sit-Hathor had thought him a nuisance. But she’d changed her opinion, unlike his father.
In life he had rarely pleased his father, whose quick temper and demands for perfection had made Meren want to fight him rather than comply. And his mother? What he remembered most about her was her constant pleading. Do as your father says. Don’t make trouble. Why must you disagree with your father?
One of his earliest memories was of playing in the garden and being called inside by his nurse, Herya. The woman was washing his face when, with sudden violence, his father burst into the room carrying his toy hippopotamus. Appearing like a giant demon from the underworld, Amosis hurled the wooden miniature to the floor. It hit with a loud crack, making Meren scream and burst into tears while Amosis railed at him for cluttering up the garden.
Of course, Meren hadn’t understood what Amosis was saying. The sudden terror wiped out all else from his heart. And when his mother came to comfort him, all she said was that Father didn’t like him to leave his toys lying around. Don’t make trouble, don’t provoke Father’s temper.
What was it in his makeup that made Meren refuse to placate tyranny? Even so young, he had resented unreasonable abuse. And as the years went by, resentment grew until one day—he couldn’t have been more than twelve—Meren realized that he didn’t respect his parents. He resented the deference the world demanded he pay to them, disbelieved his father’s glamorous reputation as a courtier, governor, and warrior. The gods had proved Meren right. The day came when Amosis’s temper pitted him against a heretic pharaoh and cost him his life.
Useless to be proven right at such a cost. Meren glanced down the line of figures arrayed beside his parents until he came to one standing apart on a pedestal in the corner. Djet stood as he had in life, wide of shoulder, long, striding legs, that sad, brooding expression. After Djet had died it was Meren, not Djet’s parents, who had provided for his cousin’s afterlife. He’d commissioned the statue from the royal sculptor who had carved so many hauntingly beautiful images of the royal family at Horizon of Aten.
“Greetings, Djet,” Meren whispered. “I’ve brought your favorite spice bread, and some good Delta wine. And I’ve come to ask you a favor. Could you intercede with the gods to make my relatives vanish? Your cursed mother and father are here, and Idut has invited your brother. You know what an ass Sennefer is, trying to mount every pretty serving woman on the manor, bragging, expecting me to play witness to his prowess.”
Tearing off a piece of bread, Meren took a bite and sighed. “Fortunately Uncle Thay, Uncle Bakenkhons, and their families couldn’t come. I’ve managed to avoid the others by taking the girls sailing two days in a row. But tonight there’s a feast. That’s Idut’s fault. You know how she is. She ignores how everyone quarrels and just proceeds as if the family were loving and cooperative.”
Taking a sip of wine from the glazed pottery cup, Meren sank to the floor and gazed up at Djet’s unmoving features.
“I thought I had everything arranged. I would come home to quiet and peace. No great crowds, no danger, away from the spies at court and in the temples. Now the house is stuffed with prying relatives. I made Idut promise to get rid of them after tonight’s feast, but if she doesn’t, I’m going to have to send them away myself, which will get me into even more trouble. I might as well throw myself to the Devourer right now.”
He stood and put the bread back on the altar in front of Djet’s image. “I miss you, Djet. Ebana hates me now, you know. Why did I have to lose the two of you? Both of you were more brother to me than Ra. Of all the family, he’s the only on
e who hasn’t promised to come. He left so he wouldn’t have to see me. And on top of everything, Great-Aunt Cherit says Grandmother Wa’bet has decided I should marry again.” He sighed. “I think I prefer court intrigue, royal machinations, and murder. I can’t think clearly when I’m surrounded by relatives.”
Drawing closer to Djet, Meren lowered his voice so that it was barely audible.
“If you have any answers, send them to me in a dream.” Shoulders slumped, Meren turned away. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d asked Djet to answer one imperative question—why he’d killed himself. In the last few years, he’d stopped asking. What did it matter? Djet was gone.
“Stop brooding, you fool,” Meren said to himself. Kysen would be here soon, and he would have to be alert. Heading for the door, Meren stepped in a patch of light coming into the chapel from one of the windows set high in the walls. Bright sunlight. How long had he been in here?
Leaving his offerings, he stepped outside into a world already bereft of what little coolness the night offered. Before him lay the entry gate, to his left, the sprawling white facade of the main house. The loggia was supported by papyriform columns, while the doorway was decorated with a frieze of red-and-green palmetto leaves. Inside lay the family quarters, the great central hall, and his office. To either side of the house, in courts separated by gated walls, lay giant granaries, cattle pens, and a well court. To the rear were the kitchen, storage rooms, servants’ quarters, and stables.
Baht wasn’t so much a house as a small village. The smaller houses used by his uncles, cousins, and other relatives clustered beside the main one, just outside its walls. Already a train of donkeys bearing grain baskets was plodding through a side gate on its way to the granary court. As Meren walked back to the house, he saw the steward Kasa marching around the corner of the house on his way to the cattle pens. He was at the head of a line of assistants—his two sons, three cattle herders, and the unfortunate Nu.
Seeing the youth reminded Meren of another problem. Bener had tried to persuade him that she spent so much time with Kasa because of her interest in writing. Meren wasn’t convinced. But he’d reserved judgment because he feared he’d been hasty. Perhaps he’d spent too much time steeped in intrigue and deception not to look for it where it didn’t exist. Bener wasn’t a deceitful girl. She wasn’t a fool. He shouldn’t assume she would succumb to Nu’s pretty face.
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