“Aye, divine majesty.” Meren sat up and glared at the king. “I am furious.”
“I am pharaoh, you know. My will is as the will of my father, the king of the gods.”
At once Meren smoothed the wrinkles of anger from his face and bent to touch his forehead to the floor again. “Thy will is accomplished in all things, golden one. May you have life, health, and strength forever. What is thy will?”
“Vulture dung! If you hide behind ceremony, I’ll lose my temper.”
Sitting up again, Meren put his fists on his hips. “Then I may speak to the divine one as a friend?”
“Yes, yes. You win.” Tutankhamun cast aside the sword and jumped to his feet.
Meren stood as well and threw up his hands. “Then will you tell me, by all the enemies of Egypt, how have you come to be here and why, O divine one?”
The king laughed. Picking up the sword, he deposited it in a long box.
“I gave Ay a choice. He either allowed me to sneak away to see you or allowed me to pursue a horde of Libyan nomads who have been raiding villages south of Memphis. I’m supposed to be sick and confined to my apartments in the palace.”
“Do you know that when I saw Karoya at my door, I nearly fell off the roof of my house?”
Tutankhamun gave him a quick glance, and in that brief exchange Meren glimpsed old hurts, dark and painful anxiety, and fear. He should have known that only the gravest of reasons would draw the king away from the possibility of engaging in his first real battle. This wasn’t the time to play the stern adviser. Most of the king’s life had been spent in duty, in preserving a remote divinity, and in learning diplomacy; how to manipulate powerful princes and kings, how to conciliate factions within his kingdom. But there was a limit to the maturity of even a divine king when that king was only fourteen.
Drawing closer to the youth, Meren said softly, “What has brought thy majesty to my house in secret?”
Tutankhamun lowered his gaze and hesitated. His face had yet to lose the gentle rounding of boyhood, yet his eyes were filled with the brooding sadness of a man thrice his age. The king looked up at Meren and began to speak in a whisper.
“I have to see him.”
“Majesty?”
“My brother, you said the criminals had—had desecrated his body. I know the priests have restored him, but still, I failed him, Meren. I was supposed to guard his house of eternity and preserve his body so that his ka could live forever, and I failed. I have to see for myself that he’s restored.” Tutankhamun turned away. “And I have to face him myself and ask him to forgive me.”
“Majesty, thy divine brother is with …”
Meren stopped because he wasn’t sure where Akhenaten was. Akhenaten had tried to rid Egypt of the old gods who had formed the world and watched over the land from the beginning of time. He’d tried to establish his sun-disk god, the Aten, in their place. Had the Aten taken his disciple to some sun-disk netherworld? Or had the old gods punished the heretic and fed him to the Devourer when he reached the hall of judgment?
“Thy divine brother is … with the Aten, and he is a god. He knows who the true criminals were.”
Turning quickly, the king burst out, “But don’t you see? If I’d been stronger, or if I’d driven out the priests of Amun, Tanefer would never have dared plot such a crime.”
“Evil finds weak hearts in which to lodge, majesty. Even you cannot prevent this.”
He got a tortured look instead of a reply.
“Very well,” Meren said. “Thy will is accomplished, divine one. You and Karoya and five of the royal bodyguard will come with me.”
“You understand.”
“Aye, majesty. But you will return to Memphis at dawn?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be wise to visit your house?”
Meren shook his head. “Not if thy majesty wishes to preserve the secret that has brought us here.”
“Then I’ll go.”
“Thy majesty is wise.”
“Wise, ha! What wisdom is there in doing what I know you’ll make me do anyway?”
“I would never force the divine one to do anything.”
“And I’m a baboon in a fig tree. Don’t answer, Meren. Pharaohs should be allowed a little humor. I’m going to need it before this night’s work is through.”
In little more than an hour Meren was on the journey he’d been anticipating for weeks, the one he’d expected to make unaccompanied and free of distractions from annoying relatives and from the presence of a living god.
The king’s ship had carefully crossed to the west bank. Meren, the king, and their escort traversed the fields quietly, by foot, and set off into the desert. Their path skirted the mortuary temples of Meren’s family and the modest tombs of the local villagers. The desert floor rose gradually to meet the limestone cliffs that formed a towering wall on the horizon. They climbed a ridge and walked down into a small valley formed by an ancient tributary. As Meren approached the valley he began to make out the walls of the old temple. Here, far from the sight of the river, surrounded by barren rock and dust, it had lain for countless centuries. The evil west winds had blown sand around its base and into its chambers. Time and weather had eroded its walls so that their tops were jagged.
Yet the place still stood, possibly because its unknown builders had used clay instead of mud in its bricks. One could still make out its facade—a series of buttresses and recesses like those of an ancient palace, like those he’d seen in Babylon. Like Babylon, the temple was alien, foreign, disturbing in its mystery. Around it lay a series of sand-covered mounds. And the wind was continually scraping the surface of the land to expose strange deposits of crudely painted pottery that bore images of sticklike figures in curved boats or engaged in warfare. Meren couldn’t help feeling that whoever had made this place had done so long before the old ones recorded the deeds of the first pharaoh. The temple belonged to a time of darkness about which little was known.
Was it even a temple? The local villagers said that it was one of the resting places of Osiris, but that when his brother Set killed him, the god went to rule in the netherworld. After that Set sent the spirits of the dead to haunt the former domain of his rival. Even the steward Kasa claimed to have seen foul monsters abroad in this place at night.
As they emerged into the valley, the wind picked up, scouring the desert floor, flinging grit in their faces. Meren paused to bring a length of his headcloth over his face. Then everyone went still as a strange sound traveled to them with the breeze. It was like the distant, hollow call of trumpets heralding the approach of ghostly armies. And behind the trumpeting came high, thin wails, crashing upon them with infernal discord. Several bodyguards drew closer to the king, facing outward and gripping their spears. Karoya set himself at the king’s back, and Tutankhamun cast a wild, questioning look at Meren.
Meren smiled at him. “I’ve been here many times as a child and youth, majesty. Never have I met a demon or a netherworld monster.”
“Never?”
“Never, but the villagers are afraid of this place. They say those who stumble upon the haunted temple return cursed with madness, or never return. Remember, that’s why I chose it.”
“Oh,” the king said faintly. “Yes, how clever.”
“Majesty, my cousins and I even spent an entire night in the temple. Djet dared us, and we dared him. We stayed the whole time and saw not one fiend.”
“Of course. I’m not afraid, you know.”
“Of course, majesty.”
Meren led the way, approaching the temple’s only entrance, a gap in the walls that must have been a door at one time. As they neared the structure, men rose from behind the mounds the surrounded it and saluted him.
“Reia, all is well?”
“Yes, lord, we—pharaoh!”
Figures appeared from behind various hiding places and dropped to the ground.
“Rise, Reia,” Tutankhamun said, “and tell the men to keep silent. We’re going ins
ide.”
Meren followed the king as he stepped through the gap in the temple walls. Before them lay a vast empty space, dark except for one lamp held by the waiting Kysen. Nento was beside him. When the king appeared, the men inside dropped to the ground. The lamp faltered as Kysen set it down, making shadows dance on the walls.
The king nodded at Meren, who gave permission for the charioteers to withdraw. Kysen and Nento stood, their eyes downcast. Oblong crates filled much of the interior.
“His majesty wishes to see for himself the results of the restoration.”
His thighs brushing together, oiled hair covered in a film of dust, Nento bustled over to Meren and the king and bowed. “This humble cup-bearer greets the Lord Meren. I am Nentowaref, Scribe of the Royal Treasury, Overseer of the Seal, Overseer of the Magazines of the Temple of Amunhotep III. No effort has been spared by the priests, O divine one, but—”
“We know who you are, Nento,” Meren said. “This is not the time for ceremony. It is the time for silence and hidden actions. Please show the golden one what he wishes to see.”
Nento clamped his mouth shut and nodded. Bowing and shuffling, he conducted them to a tarp-covered mass set in the middle of the temple. Kysen lit the way with his lamp. Nento drew off the covering and the fine linen shroud that lay beneath.
There was a splash of reflected light as it hit a golden body. Meren heard the king suck in his breath. Nento began to chant spells from The Book of the Dead in a trembling whisper.
Like the body that lay within, the coffin had been cleaned and restored, and Meren thanked the gods that he’d ordered most of the work done before it was taken from Horizon of Aten. The old, solidified unguent, torn shrouds, and dead floral wreaths had been removed. Yet the coffin remained a strange sight.
Akhenaten had designed it, departing from the traditional form of the body of the god Osiris. Instead he’d used his own image, lying with his arms crossed over his hollow chest and holding the scepters of Upper and Lower Egypt. His figure, never the classic one of traditional art, emphasized wide hips, plump thighs, and spindly legs. Instead of being wrapped in the protecting wings of the goddesses of Upper and Lower Egypt, the heretic had wrapped himself in the symbolic rays of the Aten. The rays ended in stylized hands holding the ankh, the symbol of the breath of life.
“Meren, I want to see him.”
Help was summoned so that the coffin could be opened. Pins of solid gold were removed, but it still took nine men to lift the lid. Meren dismissed the charioteers again, and he and the king went to stand by his brother’s head. The body had been covered by another shroud, but one so sheer that the gold mask covering Akhenaten’s face could be seen. True to his own doctrine, the king had ordered the mask in a style that exaggerated his already gaunt face, fleshy lips, and narrow, slanting eyes.
“See, majesty. The embalmer priests have made him whole again.”
Meren asked forgiveness of the gods for this lie. The inlaid gold bands that surrounded the body were replicas, the originals having been stolen by the desecrators. Most of the outer protective amulets were also new. The gold covering on the hands concealed wads of linen bandages molded in the correct shape. The thieves had torn the arms off in their quest for the heavy gold bracelets and rings that covered them.
The king uttered a long sigh. “Indeed, they have made him whole. I was afraid there would only be pieces of him left.”
“No, majesty. We discovered the atrocity before they could complete their evil work.” Another lie, but if it would lift the burden of guilt from the king’s spirit, a lie well told.
“And the queen?”
“If thy majesty commands, we will open her coffin as well, but there was no damage to her. I suppose they hadn’t the time.”
Tutankhamun gazed at the heavy-lidded, inlaid eyes of the king’s mask. “I was so young when he died, and I’d almost forgotten what he looked like.” The king lowered his voice. “Do you know how many times I’ve wished he and Smenkhare hadn’t died? The priests of Amun and Osiris say the gods sent the plague to him because he tried to wipe them out. Perhaps they’re right. But I wish they’d spared Nefertiti.”
“She didn’t suffer long, majesty.”
“They wouldn’t let me near her, you know. And because I wasn’t there, I had to imagine what happened to her. Tell me what happened to her, Meren.”
Tutankhamun’s mother had been Tiye, the powerful Great Royal Wife of Amunhotep the Magnificent. Tiye bore her youngest son late and died when Tutankhamun was still a naked babe. Nefertiti had taken charge of him, and he remembered her more than his real mother. Meren had always feared pharaoh would ask such questions one day. The time had come to give part of the truth.
He glanced across the coffin to where Nento was still chanting spells. Then he began to whisper to the king. “I know little, majesty, except what my cousin’s wife has told me. Anhai was in attendance on the queen when she fell ill. Ay has never spoken of it. I think his daughter’s death still pains him.”
“Did she suffer much?”
“Please, majesty. I know you’re troubled by this terrible crime, and—”
“I want to know, and I can’t ask Ay.”
Sighing, Meren drew nearer the king and lowered his voice. “As with others, the plague allowed demons to enter the queen’s body. She saw visions of them and yet couldn’t see her surroundings. She was fevered, and the voice of her heart grew so loud it could be heard by those standing a few paces away.” He hesitated at the pain in the king’s eyes, but the boy had asked for the truth. “Her ka tried to fight the demons, and the struggle made her body convulse. She fought hard, but lost and lapsed into the deep sleep.” The queen had died a few days after she came down with the sickness.
When Meren finished, the king said nothing. Meren stared at the mass of solid gold that housed the body of Nefertiti. Her features had been lovingly replicated by the artisans of the royal workshops—the hollow, fragile jaw, the long neck and full lower lip. She had been the embodiment of Hathor, goddess of love and beauty, and her ka had housed a spirit as sage and clever as Toth, god of learning and wisdom. A tragic end, and one upon which Meren never cared to dwell.
“Leave me for a moment,” the king said.
Meren beckoned to Kysen and Nento, and they went to stand by the temple entrance. The king stood in the pool of gold cast by the lamp and the coffins, closed his eyes, and began to chant silently. It was Meren’s misfortune that Nento couldn’t be silent as well. The man uttered a litany on his responsibilities and excellent performance in an urgent whisper.
Like Wah, Nento had been a courtier at Horizon of Aten. But unlike his fellow servant, Nento had been clever enough to secretly desert the heretical faction once opposition to the king gained overwhelming strength. He constantly watched the shifting currents of power in royal circles, hopping from one nest of influence to another depending upon the ascendancy of one great man or another. Nento wasn’t evil, just possessed of an all-consuming interest in his own advancement. Were pharaoh to suddenly declare that there were no gods at all, Nento would be the first to trumpet his agreement. Meren didn’t like him much.
“Nento, I’m well aware of your work, now be silent. Kysen and I must return to Baht. Reia will be in charge of the charioteers here. In a few days you will sail south with the barge and complete the trading run as planned. I’ll send for you if I need you.”
Kysen coughed behind his hand. Giving him a suspicious glance, Meren decided that his son was trying to stifle a laugh. He frowned at the young man.
“You will meet me back at the house, and quickly. I don’t want our guests to know we’ve been gone.”
The king finished his prayers, cast a last, regretful glance at Nefertiti’s beautiful features, and joined them. They all stepped outside into a world lit by stars. The moon had vanished, and with it the evil west wind. The men on guard had disappeared as well, hidden by rocks and slopes.
Karoya was waiting just outside th
e entrance. He scoured Nento with a contemptuous stare until the king dismissed the poor man and Kysen as well.
“Thy majesty has promised to return to court upon the morrow,” Meren said.
“I know. But I’m not going to hurry.”
“As thy majesty wills.”
The king’s escort awaited them behind one of the mounds that surrounded the temple. As they began the walk out of the valley, a high, laughing whine filled the night’s emptiness. Another joined it, and another. Everyone stopped, and the guards formed a circle around Meren and the king. Hyenas usually preyed on carrion, but when food was scarce, they dared to attack children, the weak, or the unwary.
Meren surveyed the rocky slopes of the valley. It was too dark to make out much, but he thought he detected movement. Something on an incline to his right dislodged gravel and sent it tumbling toward them. Meren drew his dagger. Spears pointed in the direction of the rockfall.
Hardly breathing, Meren surveyed the starlit boulders. Another chorus of wails echoed off the rocks. Then he saw a black shape detach itself from the slope and scramble away on all fours. More shapes loped off in the same direction, and Meren sheathed his dagger.
“They’re gone, majesty, but we should make haste for the river.”
He escorted the king back to his yacht and exacted another promise that pharaoh would take himself back to Memphis the next day. By the time he got back home, Meren was exhausted. Having to sneak back into his own house didn’t improve his mood either. Nevertheless, he was asleep by the time Zar had closed the door to his chamber after helping him undress and wash.
He seemed to have just closed his eyes when Zar roused him again. He sat up to find Kysen standing beside the body servant. It was still dark, and Zar’s chest was swollen with disapproval as he stepped aside, holding an alabaster lamp.
“I’m sorry to wake you, Father, but there is a small difficulty.”
“Small difficulty!” Sennefer pushed Kysen aside. “Is that how you describe it? My wife is missing, and he says it’s a small difficulty.”
Meren’s head felt as if it were stuffed with natron and linen bandages. “Wait, Sennefer. Give me a moment.”
Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing Page 8