“Thy majesty is as generous as the goddess Isis. I am unworthy.”
“No, Lord Meren. You were right not to trust me.”
Meren’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. The queen’s own eyes glittered with green malachite and black kohl, and behind them flitted hints of grief and indefinable emotions that twisted and writhed briefly, and then vanished.
“I was intolerant, and I was angry at having to abandon all I knew in Horizon of the Aten to come here among those who hated my father and therefore hated me. But, slowly, I have come to understand the necessity.” The fan stopped, and Ankhesenamun slapped it against her palm, giving Meren a smile he’d never seen before, one of teasing mischief. “Besides, I like Memphis. So many colorful foreigners live here, and it’s closer to the oases, which I love.”
“I’m glad, majesty.”
“So we must begin again, you and I.”
Meren bowed. “Of course, majesty.”
The queen turned to leave. “You don’t believe me. No, don’t protest. I didn’t expect you to. You will in time. A good evening to you, my lord.”
The little girl with the harp scurried after her mistress. Meren raised one eyebrow and wondered what had brought about the queen’s new strategy. Ankhesenamun had never been fond of compromise, conciliation, or forgiveness.
The daughter of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, she had grown up in Horizon of the Aten. Nefertiti had protected her daughters from the conflicts and intrigues that festered in the royal court, but in doing so she isolated them from all disagreement and contrary opinions. Ankhesenamun grew up listening to her father expound upon his beliefs. She still followed the precepts of his religion. Akhenaten had made her his favorite; Ankhesenamun had loved and believed in him without question. Unfortunately she had also absorbed his fanatical intolerance, and she deeply resented Tutankhamun and his ministers for leaving her father’s ideal city and reconciling with the old gods, especially Amun. To her the priests of Amun, who had led the resistance against Akhenaten, were traitors, unbelievers, and eternal enemies.
Meren refused to believe that she’d changed so much in so short a time. He was prepared to believe, however, that she’d adapted to her new situation after her treachery had been thwarted, and waited for a more auspicious moment in which to assert herself. She must have a new advisor who’d convinced her that the way to power lay in changing her conduct. He would have to find out who this advisor was; he would bear watching, for the king’s sake.
Karoya appeared and led Meren into the royal presence. The doors closed at his back, and Karoya disappeared into the shadow of one of the four painted columns that soared to the roof. At Meren’s feet stretched a brilliant painting of a pool brimming with fish and water plants, and the whole room swam in light provided by alabaster lamps. At the opposite end, on a couch bearing gilded leather cushions, sat Tutankhamun, pharaoh of Egypt.
For a moment Meren held still, caught off guard by the fact that the king’s flesh seemed to have turned to gold. The yellow metal was eternal; it never tarnished or succumbed to rust. The gods had flesh made of gold, and the king was the son of Amun by a mortal woman. It was the sign of immortality and divinity. Shimmering, eternal gold, flesh of the gods.
Tutankhamun moved, and the spell broke. Kneeling to touch his forehead to the floor, Meren chastised himself for falling prey to ignorant fancies. Of course the king was divine, the golden Horus incarnate. There was no need to imagine him literally turning to gold on earth.
“Come, Meren, and sit.”
Meren joined him on the floor beside the couch. The king was holding a papyrus roll, and he’d been reading it by the light of half a dozen lamps, which accounted for the golden glow. Pharaoh had cast aside the weighty accoutrements of kings in favor of a simple kilt held by a belt with a buckle of openwork filigree red gold. On his right hand was a silver signet ring engraved with the royal cartouches. Heavy earrings lay on a table beside the couch along with a wine flagon and goblets of electrum. A servant appeared and poured wine. Tutankhamun clapped his hands, and Meren heard unseen attendants file out of the chamber. He glimpsed Karoya moving to close a door and stand beside it, his gaze as impassive as ever. They were given as much privacy as the king could ever expect.
Tutankhamun leaned against the high back of the couch, the papyrus still held loosely in one hand. “You’re sailing tomorrow even though you’re not fully recovered.”
“I’m well, majesty.”
“I’m not going to argue with you anymore. My physician has told me that forcing you to remain idle any longer would do little good.”
“Thy majesty is wise.”
“Wise enough to know you’re up to something. You’re going to Syene. Why?”
The king often knew what he was going to do before Meren told him. Ay, Meren, and the boy’s other mentor, Horemheb, had trained the king to keep himself independently informed as a protection against anyone who might attempt to manipulate him. Still, it was disconcerting that Tutankhamun discovered things so quickly.
“I’m going to find Queen Nefertiti’s chief bodyguard, Sebek.”
“He’s in Syene? You showed me old documents that recorded a gift of land in the Hare nome when he retired.”
“But he’s not there now,” Meren said. “I suppose he must have traded the gift for a property in Syene. The cook’s sister, Satet, told me about him. I talked to her frequently, hoping to spur her memory, and for once I was successful.”
“And then she fell down a well,” the king said.
“Yes, Golden One.”
“An accident?”
“Majesty, there is no way to know.”
Tutankhamun picked up the two goblets and handed one to Meren. The king took a sip of wine, then stared into the pool of dark liquid. His eyes were large, heavy-lidded, with thick lashes that often hid the sensitivity that made the burdens of a god-king heavy to bear. In this private moment he’d abandoned the stateliness that was so much a part of him, yet even now Meren felt the gravity and personal dignity that warred with the normal impulses of youth.
The king’s cheeks hadn’t lost all the roundness of youth. His lips had that lush fullness for which his mother, the great Queen Tiye, had been so famous. Even had he not been king the ladies of the court would have sought his favor, for he was wide of shoulder, lean from many hours on the practice field, and graceful in a way that would make him a formidable warrior in time. But those shadows were still there under his eyes, and he had a haunted air that worried Meren. As if to confirm his concern Tutankhamun turned abruptly, set down his goblet, and uttered a wordless sound of frustration and pain.
“When will this end—the killing, the treachery? Must I live my whole life looking over my shoulder? And how can I bear it, knowing that Nefertiti died at the hands of some faceless animal who sneaks and skulks and waits for an unguarded moment in which to strike?”
Tutankhamun whirled around to face Meren and spoke in a fierce whisper. “I want to be the one to find this murderer, to avenge my beloved second mother, but I can’t. My majesty must sit in splendid idleness while others do what I should be doing. I fear that the queen’s ka is suffering while I do nothing.”
“That isn’t true, majesty.” Meren drew near the king. “All that I do is done by your command. I am thy majesty’s eyes and ears.” Meren lowered his voice. “And it is by thy wish that I will avenge the incomparable Queen Nefertiti, may her ka live forever.”
Tutankhamun looked at him for a long time, his body tense, his gaze full of turmoil. At last he spoke through pale lips. “And what are you going to do now in my name?”
“Golden One, I must find someone who can link the steward Wah and the cook to the one who gave the order to kill her. Or I must find other proof such as a document that does the same thing.” Meren hesitated, then went on. “I’m going to search for old records at Horizon of the Aten.”
Tutankhamun winced, but said nothing. Meren disliked reminding the king of his former resi
dence. Like Ankhesenamun, the king hated leaving Horizon of the Aten. He remembered no other home, and he had played among the date palms, acacias and incense trees, sunken gardens, ponds, and reflection pools that formed an idyllic playground for the royal children.
Meren understood how difficult it had been for pharaoh to leave Horizon of the Aten, but Tutankhamun had accepted that in order to bring peace to Egypt he had to heal the schism created by Akhenaten. One of the most important steps toward that goal had been to move the capital of Egypt back to the great city of Memphis where it had been for millennia. By making such public gestures pharaoh reassured his people that Maat, order and rightness of existence, had returned to Egypt.
The king looked away and whispered. “I wish I could go with you.”
“Majesty…”
The king inhaled sharply and lifted his shoulders. Meren watched the boy’s expression change. Personal grief vanished beneath the distant visage of the ruler of an empire.
At last the king spoke. “Very well. It’s best you make a quiet detour on the way to somewhere else. A trip with Horizon of the Aten as its only destination would attract speculation.”
“Yes, Golden One.”
“I’m glad Anath is going with you.”
Meren turned to look at the king. “The Eyes of Babylon is the source of thy majesty’s knowledge.”
“Of course.” Tutankhamun smiled at him. “You taught me well, Meren. I’d know if you purchased a new horse or caught an ague.”
He took another sip of wine. “Enough of this misery. On to another trouble. Burnaburiash of Babylon has sent me a letter complaining that I received emissaries from the king of Assyria. He’s furious that I saw them when they’re his vassals. He says they should communicate with me through him. Anath told me the old devil’s health isn’t good, and he’s becoming possessed with dread of rivals. She recommends that I assuage his fearfulness so he won’t be tempted to seek out a Hittite alliance.”
“The Eyes of Babylon knows the old king well, majesty. I’ve never had cause to regret following her advice.”
Setting his wine down, Tutankhamun nodded. A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I want this evil business over with, Meren. Find out who caused Nefertiti’s death, or I think I shall go mad with the uncertainty.”
“I won’t stop looking until I know the truth.” Meren bowed from his sitting position. “I swear by all the gods, majesty.”
The king smiled at him, but the smile faded as his gaze dropped to the place where the arrow had entered Meren’s body. Meren looked away, wishing he didn’t remember what had caused the wound. A few weeks ago Nefertiti’s murderer had launched a campaign to disgrace Meren and implicate him in an attempt on Tutankhamun’s life. He’d been trying to prove his innocence to pharaoh when an assassin in the service of the evil one had shot an arrow. The man’s aim had been off, or the arrow would have killed the king instead of Meren.
“If you hadn’t grabbed me and taken that arrow, I’d be dead,” the king said. His eyes brightened with unshed tears. “I’ll never forget that.”
“I did no more than any of thy majesty’s servants would.”
Tutankhamun shook his head gently. “I must find a way to show my gratitude.” He raised his hand to prevent Meren from speaking. “No more of your protests.”
“Yes, majesty.”
The king’s gaze fell to the papyrus he’d allowed to fall beside him on the couch. Picking it up, he unrolled it to reveal a text with painted decorations. Meren saw the Aten disk, and his heart banged against his ribs and he felt light-headed. Setting his wine on the floor, he covered his scar with his hand. He always wore an armband or bracelet over it, but the gesture was unthinking. Tutankhamun saw the movement and frowned. Regret was plain in his expression.
“Akhenaten gave this to me a few months before he died. It’s in his hand, a copy of his Hymn to the Aten.”
Meren nodded and made himself drop the hand that covered the old brand. Tutankhamun had few in whom he could confide his real feelings about his family. He wouldn’t punish the boy for Akhenaten’s transgressions.
Tutankhamun was gazing at the lines of the hymn. “It’s beautiful, what he says about all people being creatures of the sun god, how he made them diverse in speech, habits, and color. The Aten makes the Nile in Egypt and rain in other lands; his rays make the fields grow, the seasons pass; and he sheds light on all the world.”
“Indeed, Golden One. Thy brother the king was divine in his writings.”
Meren didn’t add that Akhenaten had appropriated all communication with the Aten to himself. Everyone else had to worship the king, because only Akhenaten knew his father, the sun. The Aten created the cosmos, but after that, the sun disk must have forgotten about it, because the rest was left to Akhenaten. Only he knew his father’s thoughts and wishes, and he interpreted them for everyone else. All worship was directed to the Aten, and to his son, Akhenaten. The heretic even had priests in charge of worshipping himself. Over and over Akhenaten stressed that the bounty of Egypt and its well-being depended upon him and the Aten only.
Meren remembered the other hymns and the inscriptions dictated by Akhenaten to be carved in his courtiers’ tombs. Paeans to himself, they were. Akhenaten was the living disk, unequaled, and there was no other. The king, the sun, was the source of all power, and none could escape his dominion. He remembered the tomb reliefs, in which everyone worshipped Akhenaten, and Akhenaten worshipped the Aten.
Something else stirred in Meren’s memory, something important, but it vanished when the king sighed and released one end of the papyrus. It rolled shut.
“Take care on this journey, Meren. Horizon of the Aten is now a place of misfortune, I think.”
Pain lanced into Meren’s heart as the king’s eyes became glassy with unshed tears. “Remember what they did to my brother’s body.”
“I do, majesty.”
Rabid with lust for vengeance, the heretic’s enemies had tried to destroy his soul and that of Nefertiti by destroying their mummified bodies. They hadn’t succeeded in destroying the bodies completely, but Meren didn’t think that mattered. When Akhenaten died and his ka journeyed to the netherworld, he faced the judgment of the very gods he tried to destroy. Meren shivered as he contemplated Akhenaten’s fate.
Absolute annihilation. His soul must have been obliterated. Meren tried to imagine the absence of existence, the nothingness, of an erased ka. It was as if he stood on the brink of a cliff looking over the edge into an endless void. This was surely Akhenaten’s fate. Meren only hoped it had not been Nefertiti’s. They looked at each other, he and pharaoh. This unspoken fear lay between them, binding them, driving them. He waited for the king to speak of it, but Tutankhamun had done with exposing his innermost secrets. The boy disliked making himself vulnerable, even to Meren in whom he confided much. He almost started when Tutankhamun touched his arm gently.
“My majesty wishes you to guard yourself well on this journey, Meren,” said the king.
Meren smiled. “Thy majesty may be correct that the gods look with ill favor upon those who go to Horizon of the Aten. But I won’t be there long, and I’ll have Anath to protect me.”
“Good. Anath is worth an entire company of charioteers. There is no other woman like her.”
Chapter 4
On the evening of the day his father sailed for Horizon of the Aten, Kysen dallied on a wharf near the Caverns. He heard the noise of hammers coming across the river. Someone was working at the naval docks by torchlight.
At the moment he was disguised as Nen, a scribe fallen on hard times who dealt in other people’s secrets. Nen sold information for valuable goods—metals, expensive woods or stones such as malachite and lapis lazuli. Nen lived in the dark world of thieves, corrupt government officials, whores, and murderers. He was supposed to be the sixth son of the assistant to the steward of a minor noble. From a family with numerous children, he had little wealth, but a taste for luxuries, and he didn’t car
e how he acquired them. In the Caverns he was known for his clever heart and dislike of hard labor.
Nen dressed in a kilt with slightly tattered edges and a plain leather belt that had been mended in several places. His wig was one he’d gotten secondhand. It fit with the character he sought to portray. Once the wig had been finely plaited, and its tresses were cut short in back and were longer in front. Now the wig looked worn, and some of the locks were coming loose from the net of threads to which they were attached. Nevertheless, it was surely the castoff headdress of a nobleman.
Secure in his disguise Kysen strolled down the Street of the Ibex and into the foreign quarter. The buildings in this area had been built tightly against each other in long, irregular rows, scarcely big enough for two people to squeeze by. The roads were dusty and littered with refuse and slops. More than once he had to dodge a cloud of dust from the broom of a homeowner or shopkeeper who used the street as a waste receptacle.
He shouldered through a group of sailors speaking one of the languages of the Asiatics outside a beer tavern, and turned down a passageway that led to an alley. He dodged an inebriated Syrian merchant who stumbled out of a house and tried to vomit, then lurched back inside. The door slammed, and Kysen was alone. He remained motionless, waiting. Soon other figures appeared in the passageway. One of them flitted up to him.
“We’re all here, lord.”
“Excellent, Reia. Five of us should be enough to deal with one fat merchant, don’t you think?”
“Yes, lord.”
Reia smiled at him. One of Meren’s most trusted charioteers, he ranked highest after Abu. Reia had risen through the ranks of the royal bodyguard. His father was a physician’s assistant, not a nobleman, and Kysen felt more at ease with him than with the charioteers who came from aristocratic families. Competition to become one of the company serving the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh was fierce, but Meren selected men by their character and skill as well as their lineage.
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