Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing

by Lynda S. Robinson

  Raised voices interrupted his worried thoughts. Bener and Isis were arguing as they breakfasted on hot bread, figs, and barley porridge. Holding a rush pen, Bener munched a piece of bread while composing a list of items on a scrap of used papyrus. She glanced up to smile at her brother before responding to Isis.

  “You’re too young. Barely fourteen.”

  “I’m not too young. You’re just jealous. Lord Reshep is the most pleasing of any at court, and he hasn’t even looked at you.”

  Bener wrote another word in her fine cursive script and contemplated it as she replied calmly. “It would be hard for him to do that, since we’ve never met.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “Have you seen father?” Kysen interrupted before Isis succeeded in provoking her sister.

  “Not this morning,” Bener said as she added another item to her list. “Did you know that the steward has been obtaining watermelons from a street vendor?”

  Kysen, already on his way out of the hall, answered with impatience. “No.”

  “The kitchen garden produces abundant melons.”

  “Then I suppose we use more than we grow,” Kysen snapped without turning.

  Bener’s voice rose. “We don’t. Damnation, Ky, who has been looking after the accounts while we were in the country?”

  “I don’t know,” he shouted back.

  “Find out!”

  He didn’t answer. If he’d argued with Bener, saying such small matters weren’t important, she would have contradicted him and pointed out why watermelons were important. Then she’d have proved her assertion with so well-reasoned a series of statements that he’d feel like a fool for questioning her judgment. Bener had grown into womanhood in the few months they’d been separated, and he’d learned not to challenge her. She’d been right about too many things, even about the culprit in a murder a few weeks ago. He would have to control his temper, or Bener would notice and try to make him tell her what was wrong. She didn’t give up once her curiosity was aroused, and he hated lying to her.

  Where was Meren? Kysen looked in the master’s office, the scribes’ rooms, the library, even a few storerooms. All he found were servants, slaves, and old Hapu, the household steward. Finally he realized he was wasting time and climbed an inner stair that rose the height of the house. Coming out on the roof, he left the shelter of an embroidered awning and strode toward the wall, which came up to his waist. He noticed his pace. It had quickened as he searched, and he’d almost run up the stairs.

  He made himself slow down. It would do no good to confront his father in this agitated and inflamed state. Meren would observe it, lift one brow in that understated and unmistakably noble and elegant manner of his, and refuse to talk until Kysen had calmed.

  He reached the eastern roof wall and forced himself to pause, turn his thoughts elsewhere, so that he could absorb even the smallest sand grain of peace. Looking over the landscape, he beheld a sight that always provoked his awe. Across the dark ribbon of the Nile was baked black land, fertile, life-giving. Beyond that came the east bank villages, and then the red and cream of the desert.

  Ra, in his solar boat, approached the horizon of the living world, showering Egypt with his amber-and-gold light. And all around him lay Memphis, greatest of the cities of Egypt, city of Ptah, the creator god in his vast stone-and-gold temple, city of palaces unrivaled even by those of rich and powerful Babylon; Memphis, city of princely mansions and vast foreign trade.

  Kysen turned to gaze out beyond the protective walls of Golden House to that other, even greater city, the Memphis of the dead. In the west, up and down the river as far as he could see, stretched tomb after abandoned tomb, deserted mortuary temples, aged and decaying monuments erected by the ancient ones. These had been intended to carry on the mortuary rituals of kings, queens, and nobles whose very names now had vanished from memory. The new cemeteries invaded those of the ancients. Even the uncompleted tombs of great ones like General Horemheb seemed like brash little children clinging to the legs of stronger, wiser old ones.

  Kysen watched, holding his breath, as Ra sailed higher. The sun’s rays hit the sheer, polished faces of the giants of Memphis—the pyramids. He released his breath, annoyed with himself for feeling so insignificant at the sight. Though distant, the stone triangles loomed, thrusting out of the desert floor. They ascended so high and their bases covered so much ground that even after all the centuries that had passed, nothing had been built to equal them.

  His jaw had gone stiff. Kysen had to force himself to stop grinding his teeth. It had been ten years since his father had adopted him at the age of eight, taking him away from the blood father who had beaten him. But he wasn’t used to Memphis, White Walls, the royal city, named for the vast protective ramparts of plastered mud brick that protected palace and temple alike. He’d never become accustomed to such grandeur. How could he when he’d been born of a common artisan, a carpenter among the tomb makers in Thebes?

  Kysen breathed in the last cool air of morning. Before long, the power of Ra would sear it to the temperature of a furnace. He glanced once more at the pyramids, the walled cities and temples that accompanied them, the first smattering of houses of the living. Then he transferred his gaze to the Golden House compound.

  He leaned forward and looked over a white enclosure wall set some distance from the main house. Meren’s private garden. He should have guessed. Still as the water of a delta marsh, a tall, lean figure in a pristine kilt and sheer overrobe cinched by a jeweled belt stood beneath a palm.

  Placing his cupped hands close to his mouth, Kysen emitted a short, rough panther’s cry. Meren turned quickly, looking up at him. Kysen saluted, and Meren nodded, then began to walk slowly to the garden gate. Kysen would await him on the roof, for lately Meren hadn’t welcomed anyone into his garden.

  As he watched his father’s progress across the far-flung grounds, Kysen remembered the first time he’d come here. He’d thought it the most magnificent house ever built, and the largest. And even after having spent years attending court at the various royal palaces of pharaoh, he still felt a jolt of astonishment at its size.

  How could Meren have adopted him, made him firstborn son in a house that almost rivaled that of pharaoh? The place was vast, from its columned verandas that surrounded the central house to the five reflection pools, the protective verge of palms, sycamores, and acacias, and the jewellike furnishings. When he’d first set foot inside the high front gate, he had mistaken the private family chapel for the main house.

  Small as it was compared to Golden House itself, the chapel was many times the size of the narrow abode in which he’d been raised. To him, Golden House had been a small city complete with granaries, stables, servants’ quarters, barracks for charioteers, and a well with winding stone steps leading down to water level. It had taken him years to grow accustomed to his new life, years to forget the beatings, years to believe the love Meren offered so freely.

  Now he believed. Now he returned that love, and now he was afraid. Meren had discovered that pharaoh’s sister-in-law, the great and powerful Nefertiti, hadn’t died of a plague as assumed but had been poisoned. The crime had happened years ago—before the heretic king Akhenaten, Nefertiti’s husband, had died—in Akhenaten’s new planned city, Horizon of Aten. But those responsible had survived the furor of their heretic king’s death. One had been killed only a short time ago, after secretly confessing to Meren that he’d poisoned the queen.

  Young as he was, Kysen knew that more people must have been involved in such a crime. The murderer hadn’t been powerful enough to order the slaying of the Great Royal Wife; whoever had been responsible for such a decision might still be alive. He and Meren had been aware of this possibility for weeks. But what alarmed Kysen was that since learning the evil secret of Nefertiti’s death, his father had grown more and more tense, silent, wary. He’d even stopped juggling, a pleasure he had to enjoy privately since a great noble could not be seen tossing brightly c
olored leather balls like a common entertainer.

  Kysen’s brow furrowed as he gripped the edge of the wall and heard the voice of his heart pound in his ears. He’d seen what happened to those foolish enough to stumble upon hidden wickedness or trade in it. He squeezed his eyes shut at the vision of a man at the Nile’s edge, stumbling. A long, dark snout shot out of the water, rigid jaws flying open, snapping as the creature lunged. Long ivory teeth punctured flesh; that powerful body hurtled backward into the water, dragging the man, who howled in unremitting pain and terror. Then the victim’s cries changed to short repetitive screams. Even when he was dragged beneath the waves, he screamed into the blue-black waters.

  “Ky?”

  He jumped and whirled, breathing hard, ready to fight. His vision focused on a man bathed in newborn sunlight—the sharp jaw angle, the smooth obsidian hair, the muscled body wrapped in transparent linen.

  “Father,” Kysen said, forcing his lips to curve upward.

  Meren ignored his smile. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I was deep in a memory—that man who was killed by the crocodile at the country house.”

  Joining Kysen by the wall, Meren leaned on it and gazed into the distance. A few moments of silence passed as they watched the pyramids of the ancient ones burst into white stone flame. Kysen glanced once at his father, who seemed far more calm than any mortal ought to be given their predicament.

  “You’re still worried.” Meren spoke with the tranquillity of a sunbathing lion.

  Kysen tried to match his father’s composure with a light tone. “Worried? No, not worried.” He turned to skewer Meren with a look. “Not worried—terrified.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “The queen’s murderer was careful, and he’s dead. The Great Royal Wife was powerful, clever, and careful, and she’s dead.”

  Meren shoved himself away from the wall, turned his back, and strolled into the shade of an aged sycamore whose branches arched over the roof. Wind whipped the gossamer robe around his legs and ruffled his hair. He had yet to don a formal wig or the rest of the jewelry befitting one of his rank. Without these it was easier to see the long cords of muscle in neck, shoulders, and arms, kept taut by hours’ practice with scimitar and dagger, and yet more hours mastering chariot, bow, and spear. Meren turned back to Kysen, his expression severe.

  “The slaying of a queen is a foul sin against the proper order of the world—Maat—the harmony and balance of life as the gods ordained.”

  “People are killed every day,” Kysen snapped.

  “Not queens!”

  Meren’s voice rang out, startling birds into flight from the sycamore. With Kysen giving him a round-eyed look, Meren shut his mouth, thrust his fists behind his back, and went on.

  “Forget high principles. I told you, Ky. Whoever ordered the queen killed had to be well placed at court. Someone that powerful probably survived the purge of those who supported the heretic and his attacks on the ancient gods. And he—they—are most likely still at court or close to it.”

  “But now we have the golden one,” Kysen replied. “Tutankhamun, may he have life, health, and prosperity, grows in power daily. Pharaoh is favored by the great gods, beloved of the people. What good will it do to risk your life when Nefertiti has been dead so long?”

  Meren strode back to Kysen, halted within an arm’s length, and planted his fists on his hips. “You know why I have to find him, this murderer of queens. If he would dare to kill a Great Royal Wife, he would dare an even greater anathema. Such a criminal might dare to kill a pharaoh.” Meren inclined his head as he gazed at his son. “You’ve been training as the Eyes of Pharaoh for a long time. Why are you so worried now? This is what we do—inquire into dangerous secrets, offenses, and transgressions, shield and defend the king.”

  “Of course I know,” Kysen said. He drew nearer to his father, hearing his voice lower and at the same time strengthen in tone. “But something’s different. You’re different. I see it in your eyes, in the way you take refuge in isolation and the way you stare into nothingness, as if you see something so frightening you can’t look away.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I have seen you afraid, afraid for me, for my sisters, for pharaoh. But now you’re not frightened for someone. You’re frightened of someone, or something, so frightened that you won’t even speak of it, for fear of giving this mysterious terror power. It’s as if you’re afraid speaking of it will let this evil that tortures you loose to ravage without hindrance and destroy us all.”

  Kysen kept his gaze fixed on Meren’s. As he’d spoken, Meren had drawn over his features a mask of diplomacy, courtliness, and artifice. Kysen had seen him do this when confronted by intrigue among his fellow nobles or when playing a part to draw out victims suspected of anything from stealing royal grain to plotting pharaoh’s death, but he’d never been subjected to it himself. That his father would use this mask against him chilled his bones as if they were encased in that frozen whiteness he’d seen on foreign mountains. His hurt and bewilderment must have shown, for Meren turned away, lowered his head for a moment, then faced him, his features released from cold composure.

  “I’m sorry. You’re not the enemy,” Meren said.

  Kysen sighed his relief. “Then you’ll let this old evil rest.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” Meren closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and went on. “I’ve had someone search the tax rolls and found Queen Nefertiti’s favorite cook. She and her husband have retired to a family farm south of the city. I’m going there to begin our search.”

  “And what will pharaoh say when you leave court to visit a humble cook?” Kysen said, throwing up his hands.

  “I’m going as an ordinary scribe.” Meren held up a warning finger. “No objections. You’re going to be too busy to fret about me. You’re going to prowl among your friends in the dock taverns and beer houses. Find that woman—is her name Ese? Find Ese and ask her about the old days when the heretic ruled. I don’t have to tell you what methods to use.”

  “Ese is mistress of a tavern. What could she know of the wife of a living god?”

  It was Meren’s turn to sigh, only with an air of tried patience. “You know very well that common villains often are privy to unspeakable evil long before royal ministers. I leave in a few days. And you, my son, will do as I command. You will also abandon these foolish suspicions that I’m hiding something from you.”

  Pressing his lips together to stop himself from protesting again, Kysen nodded, a slight, grudging gesture.

  Meren eyed him suspiciously. “I’m determined on this, Ky.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And your worries are groundless.”

  “Of course, Father. If you declare it, it is so.”

  He bore Meren’s inspection with calm, knowing Meren would soon be distracted by the business of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. Then he’d have to take certain measures without his father’s approval or advice. It was a thing he’d never done.

  Egyptian sons followed the paths of their fathers. They obeyed, or they were disciplined. Kysen knew Meren would expect no less of him. It had taken him years to accept Meren, but once he had, he’d realized that his father was a man of great discernment and authority.

  As Meren began to speak of the day’s duties, Kysen’s thoughts strayed. Unlike his blood father, Meren had never raised his hand against Kysen. Everyone obeyed Meren. It would never occur to his father that they wouldn’t. This attitude, Kysen had discovered, was one of the most important sources of a great man’s power. Another, even greater source arose from the fact that, if he chose, Meren could decree punishments far worse than any his miserable blood father had produced.

  Kysen remembered stealing pomegranates from the kitchen with Bener years ago. Meren had made him copy the unending precepts of the sage Ptahhotep five times. To Kysen it had seemed like five thousand copies. He had suffered sore fingers and excrucia
ting boredom. But never once had Meren struck him. If Meren was in danger, Kysen would protect him at the cost of his own life.

  “Are you listening to me, Ky?”

  Kysen blinked once. “Of course, Father.” He smiled for the first time in two days. “I was remembering how Bener and I used to steal pomegranates.”

  Meren grinned at him.

  “I must confess something,” he said. “Sometimes I’d tell the servants to let you steal them without complaining.”

  “Did you, by the gods? Why?”

  Shaking his head, Meren said softly, “Sometimes a child needs the freedom to be just a little wicked.”

  Perplexed, Kysen studied his father, who looked away toward the reflection pools and gardens in front of Golden House. Then he sucked in his breath. “We are visited.”

  “By whom?” Meren asked.

  Kysen pointed to an ebony-black Nubian wearing a short military kilt and thick gold wrist- and ankle-bands and carrying a spear. It was like watching a colossus walk, for Karoya was a royal guard, member of a select and secretive group. Karoya was one of the few men in the world who answered to no one, not even Meren or the great minister Ay. He was personal bodyguard to the golden Horus, the living god, ruler of the empire, the pharaoh Tutankhamun, aged fourteen years.

  Chapter 2

  Sokar, chief of watchmen of the city of Memphis, rounded the corner of a street crowded with sailors, foreign merchants, vendors, and donkeys. He took big steps, leading with his ample belly, and changed course for no one. Children playing in the road scattered before his walking stick, which jabbed into the earth with a smack, sending flakes of packed earth into their faces.

  One of his underlings hurried before him, shouting to warn of his master’s approach. “Way! Make way for the chief of watchmen. Move your carcass, mongrel of the desert.”

  Each time his stick nearly impaled a passerby, each time his attendant snarled at some unsuspecting citizen, Sokar’s shoulders lifted a bit higher and his chest expanded. He wasn’t a man of great stature. An onlooker would note that most of Sokar’s growth had taken a sideways path. He had a head like a fat mud brick, big, fleshy red lips, and a sparse forehead beneath a wig fatter than his head. His feet, encased in papyrus sandals, hadn’t seen a washbasin or cloth in weeks, and he proceeded through the growing street crowds with the gait of a duck that has reached the end of its fattening period.