Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing

by Lynda S. Robinson

  Pharaoh waited until Meren was in the middle of a sip of wine to speak. “You’re avoiding reading the desert patrol reports so that you won’t find bandits that need hunting.”

  Meren paused with wine in his mouth. He glanced up at the king. Deceptively, the boy’s cheeks still held the roundness of childhood. His mouth was a replica of the full lips and downward-pointing corners of Queen Tiye’s. The richness of eyes and mouth, the oversize, puppylike hands and feet, created an impression of youthful vulnerability. Sometimes Meren forgot that Tutankhamun came from a line of warriors, conquerors, and masters of strategy. He swallowed his wine.

  “How did the divine one know?” Meren asked lightly.

  “After you promised to take me on a raid to gain battle experience, I bethought myself of how you might wish to delay in hopes I’d forget. Then I sent inquiries to the chief of royal messengers, who confirmed my suspicions. So I dispatched members of my war band to the villages where there has been trouble in the past. Word of any marauding will come directly to me.”

  Meren slid to his knees and bowed, touching his forehead to the floor. “Thy majesty has surpassed me in wisdom and craft. I await thy discipline, O Horus, Strong-Bull-arisen-in Thebes, Gold Horus, Mighty-in-strength, Majestic-in-appearance, Lord of the Two Lands—”

  “Meren, be quiet and sit up.”

  “Yes, majesty.”

  “Do you think it easy to balance between childhood and manhood, apprenticeship and kingship? You, Ay, Maya, and General Horemheb must stop protecting me. I can’t learn to lead my armies from this pavilion.”

  “I know, majesty. And thy majesty knows what will happen if he dies on some petty raid, without an heir, without guiding Egypt back from the chaos of thy brother’s—of the last few years.”

  “You will be there to protect me. I will hear no more protests. And I will punish you by making you sponsor Lord Reshep at court. You’ve met him?”

  Sighing at this tedious assignment, Meren nodded. “A few times, golden one. The last time at the feast of welcome Prince Djoser held for him. It is said he seeks a place at court after being raised in the country. And I know he has stirred the women of the court.”

  “Yes,” the king replied. “Unfortunately, he’s stirred one of the daughters of Queen Nefertiti’s sister. My majesty has no quarrel with Reshep, but he will not court a lady of the royal family. See to it that he meets many eligible women, and obtain an appointment of some kind so that his hours are filled with something besides the sighs of princesses. Later, if your opinion of him is favorable, my majesty will allow him into my presence. This tedious work is your punishment. Next time you won’t underestimate me.”

  Meren thought about the dangers of searching out and attacking desert bandits. “The Generals Nakhtmin and Horemheb and I have spent years training the golden one in the arts of battle, but all the training and precautions we can provide may not be enough, should Set, god of chaos, create disaster.”

  The king gave him a dark look, and Meren hastened on.

  “All will be as thy majesty commands.” He inclined his head. “Especially if thy majesty in his graciousness will grant his humble cup bearer leave to make a short journey, no more than two days.”

  “Why?”

  “A matter less important to thy majesty than a beetle beneath the royal sandal. The nurse of my childhood grows aged and weak, and she begs me to visit her before she goes west to join her ancestors.”

  “My nurse used to tell me stories about Horus the hawk until I fell asleep. Of course, go. But don’t forget the raid.”

  Tutankhamun rose, then stooped and grabbed Meren’s arm. Startled, Meren allowed the king to pull him to his feet.

  “You look as if a desert fiend just offered you its hand,” the king said.

  “Thy majesty has honored me with his touch.”

  Rolling his eyes, Tutankhamun said, “Have you not saved my life more than once? Discovering Prince Tanefer’s treachery alone merited reward. But you keep warning me how dangerous my favor can be to the health of a nobleman. Only fear for your safety has prevented me from acknowledging my debt to you.”

  “Thy majesty is more generous than the bounty of the fields. But if I have to worry about the jealousy of rivals at court, I cannot devote myself to the service of the golden one with complete freedom.”

  “Very well, then you may go to this aged nurse of yours. But return quickly. I expect to get word of bandit raiders at any moment.”

  “As thy majesty wishes. I will leave in a few days and return with haste.” Meren bowed low and retreated from the royal presence. He was halfway to the gate when a strong young voice called after him.

  “And don’t forget Lord Reshep!”

  NIGHT CAME LATE and hot on the day pharaoh castigated the emissary of the hated Hittites. By moonrise, tidings of the confrontation had flown from the palace district, sailing to other courts with royal and foreign ships, leaping from mouth to mouth around the mansions, houses, and huts of Memphis. Soon princesses and dockworkers, scribes and barbers, were laughing and exulting over the boldness of their young king.

  One who had not heard the news was the tavern woman called Anat. She walked through the open south gate of the city, waving to the chatting guards who leaned against the wall. By moon- and starlight, she directed her steps down a path that climbed to the barren higher land at the border between the desert and cultivated fields. As soon as she left the massive ramparts that guarded the capital, her shift was blown against her legs by a strong north breeze. She turned and lifted her face, breathing the water-scented air.

  Anat set down the small sack of barley the tavern owner had given her for her night’s work. It also contained various items some of the men had given her. She had been busy this night.

  Sighing, Anat was about to pick up her sack and trudge the rest of the way to her mother’s house. Then the wind picked up. She widened her stance and opened her arms so that she could feel the coolness. The breeze was so strong that it brought relief from the heat still rising from the sun-scorched earth. Without the wind, heat from the ground penetrated her thin papyrus sandals to bake her feet.

  Tonight had been a busy night, a good night. With a few more nights like this one, she would have enough goods to quit the tavern and provide a handsome marriage share. There would be enough to attract a man of stature such as a master sculptor, or even a scribe. Then her widowed mother, who was a servant in the household of a village headman, could come to live with Anat and her new husband. Mother was too old to crush grain with a heavy grinding stone.

  Bending over her grain sack, Anat opened it and took out a small bundle wrapped in a scrap of old linen. Inside lay trinkets from the men—faience ear studs and a kohl tube of the same dark blue material, a small oval bottle of scented oil for the skin, and a set of copper tweezers, hair curler, and a tiny spatula for mixing eye paint.

  The scented oil was the most valuable gift, for it was oil of lilies scented with myrrh, cardamom, crocus, and cinnamon. She remembered the one who had given it. A splayfooted, sweaty old priest of Ptah who chafed at the requirement of his profession that when on duty, one practice celibacy.

  Anat replaced the bundle inside the grain sack, picked it up, and resumed her walk to the village. It had indeed been a good night, but a hard one. She had entertained three scribes, a coppersmith, a physician’s apprentice, a brewer, a goldsmith and an incense roaster, the priest, and two of his fellows who served the goddess Sekhmet. Then there had been a scribe from the mortuary temple of one of the dead pharaohs, with his friend the stonemason. And she couldn’t forget that hot-bellied woman who had burst into the tavern looking for her husband.

  It had been Anat’s ill luck that he’d been the second priest of Sekhmet. The wife, whose arms and legs might have belonged on the body of a quarryman, had chased Anat and the priest out of the upstairs chamber, wielding a stave longer and thicker than a warrior’s javelin. Dodging that stave had wearied Anat. She’d left ea
rly, much to the annoyance of her next customer, a man of fine clothing but not so fine manners. And the tavern keeper, he’d been furious. Anat didn’t care if he was angry. There had been plenty of customers, noble ones and prosperous merchants, to whom he could serve his watered beer.

  Her mother’s house stood on a patch of level ground at the outskirts of the village. It was a simple, flat-topped rectangle with a small front court. The court was used for everything from grain storage to cooking. The gate in the front wall of the court hung slightly askew. Its latch had fallen off, and Anat hadn’t had the time to repair it.

  She shoved the door open. The end slat touched the ground and slid along the dusty groove it had worn into the packed earth. Anat sighed and called to her pet cat. He was a foul-tempered menace, but he waited for her on top of the court wall each night. No sleek black body leaped down and came padding toward her. She called again, listening for his irritated yowl.

  Then something sailed through the air past her shoulder to land at her feet. Anat bent down to scold the cat, squinting in the light of the full moon. She touched something wet, smelled blood and fur. Gasping, she jumped up and backed away from the lacerated carcass of her pet until she hit the rickety door. The panel rammed into her back with so much force she was propelled forward.

  She stumbled and fell to her knees beside the cat’s body. As she fell, Anat heard a deep-throated snarl. Terrified, she pushed herself to her feet and whipped around to face her attacker. She still had her grain sack. Grabbing the top in both hands as she spun, Anat drew her arms back, ready to swing the bag in a blow that would stun. Then she saw what was in the courtyard with her.

  Anat hesitated, her mouth opening in a wordless scream. There was a blurred movement of razor claws. Anat’s mouth worked. She dropped the grain sack, spilling and shattering its contents. She remained on her feet, poised between life and the unknown, staring at the thing that had waited for her. Then she plummeted to her knees again. Her eyes were sightless when the blood-drenched claws descended.

  THE CHIEF OF watchmen was ensconced in his cushioned chair, rush pen poised over a sheet of papyrus as he listened to the summaries given by the night’s watch leaders. He wiggled his sagging belly until it fit beneath the fragile writing table. His wig was already askew because he’d stuck a stubby finger beneath it to scratch his sweating scalp.

  The last of the watch leaders withdrew. The first of the private citizens with complaints entered. A silver-haired old one wearing more wrinkles than a thrice-worn kilt hurried in. To Sokar’s annoyance, the old one didn’t wait for him to bark questions. He launched into a babbled tale of the death of some woman from one of the outlying villages.

  Sokar pounded on the table, producing a loud crack. “Peace, old one!

  The villager started and fell silent to gape at Sokar. Mollified by the old one’s fright, Sokar smoothed his sheet of papyrus. Carefully and with time-consuming leisure, he swirled his rush pen in the black inkwell of his scribe’s palette. With the pen poised over the sheet, Sokar grunted his satisfaction.

  “You may continue, aged one. Begin with who this woman was.”

  “Anat, master.”

  “And who is this woman Anat?”

  “She—she was employed at the beer tavern called Mansion of Joy. She came home late, in the middle of the night.”

  The old one stopped when Sokar glared at him and held up a hand.

  “Wait.” Sokar drew his thick oily brows together and snarled, “Are you speaking of some tavern woman? Some unknown woman who prances about the streets alone at night? Do you know how many petty tavern brawls erupt every night in this city?”

  “But she’s dead!”

  “In her village, you said. It’s not the concern of the city watch.”

  “But there is a feather, and her chest—”

  “By the gods!” Sokar leaned toward the old one, and his belly shoved the table as he moved. “Aide!” he bellowed, causing the old one to jump and retreat. Sokar’s assistant appeared. The chief of the city watch had turned the color of raw beef. “Throw this fool out, and see that he doesn’t return.”

  The aide grabbed the visitor by the arm and thrust him from the office. Sokar pulled his writing table back. Wiping his face with a scrap of linen he used to clean his pens, he grumbled to himself.

  “Bothering a great man like me with such vulture’s dung. Must be more than a hundred taverns, countless tavern women, all making trouble, disturbing the order of the city, making me write reports.”

  Commiserating with himself for his burdens, Sokar picked up a water jar and drank from it in big gulps. Water dribbled down his thick neck. Breathing hard, he set down the jar, wiped his face and neck. A drop spilled on the papyrus.

  Sokar carefully blotted the water, took up his pen again, and made an entry in the section for deaths. “A tavern woman, not of the city.”

  EATER OF SOULS had fed, and now she slept. But the gods had bestowed upon her a link to the favored one, and this connection brought wisps of memory, like tendrils of smoke fed by damp wood.

  There is a mother. She is like a newborn bird, ravenous, demanding, never filled. The favored one tries to satisfy the hunger. The hunger doesn’t ebb; it grows and grows. The bird clamors for more, cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep. The noise careens around inside the favored one’s head, growing louder, more shrill, more painful. Cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep. Something inside the favored one breaks. He bashes in the mouth that will not close, stopping forever that ravening appetite and those maddening cheeps.

  Buy Eater of Souls Now!

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Dr. Charles van Siclen for reviewing this manuscript and for the wonderful discussions on such arcane topics as ancient Egyptian beards and chariot stability. His professionalism, kindness, and patience were much appreciated. Any errors remaining are mine.

  In writing a novel set in ancient Egypt, there are many problems a writer must solve. For example, there are those long, incomprehensible proper names. Names of historical figures such as Tutankhamun or Ankhesenamun can’t be changed, but for fictional characters I try to select shorter ones or use nicknames in order to facilitate readability. In addition, a writer can’t use too many names beginning with the same letter without risking confusion. Such requirements reduce the pool of usable names from which I can choose. Also, many times scholars disagree about how information should be interpreted. Often on disputed points I select the interpretation that seems the most logical, the most probable, or the one that fits with the fictional world I’ve created in the Lord Meren series. This is where literary license comes in, and this is where the ex-anthropologist in me struggles with the writer.

  Whatever the difficulties, the quality and the sheer amount of published information on ancient Egypt are overwhelming. I would like to express my gratitude to the many scholars whose works have helped me re-create ancient Egypt. They are too numerous to list here. Without them I couldn’t make the world of Tutankhamun accessible to readers and tell the story of an amazing people who were, despite being separated from us by thousands of years, not so very different from us.

  About the Author

  Lynda S. Robinson is an American writer of romance and mystery fiction. She is best known for her series of historical whodunnits set in ancient Egypt during the reign of Tutankhamun and featuring Lord Meren, “the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.” Robinson lives in Texas with her husband and has a doctorate in anthropology from the University of Texas at Austin.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, event
s, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1995 by Lynda S. Robinson

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-6657-0

  This edition published in 2021 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  180 Maiden Lane

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