Slayer of Gods

by Lynda S. Robinson

  Finally he saw Marduk ahead. He shoved a young woman aside, almost ran into the stall of a cloth vendor, and stopped. His mouth dry, he shouted for Marduk to wait. The man turned and stared at him. Why was he staring? Kysen blinked sweat out of his eyes as he met Marduk’s gaze. Suddenly the Asiatic dashed into the crowd. Kysen tried to run after him, but he couldn’t lift his legs. He concentrated hard, in spite of the heat, the sweat, the pressing crowd.

  Someone was shouting at him. He turned to find Reia approaching, but the charioteer seemed to be running with a strangely slow gait, as if he were wading. Kysen finally got one foot to move. He took a step toward Reia and laughed. Reia broke through the thick air Kysen had been fighting and came up to him.

  “Lord!”

  Kysen laughed again, but the market seemed to tilt and spin, and he clutched a post of one of the vendor stalls. Reia said his name again. Now everything he heard seemed muted the way one perceived sounds when underwater.

  “Marduk ran away,” Kysen said.

  This was the most amusing thing that had ever happened to him, so he laughed again, only this time he couldn’t stop. He laughed until his stomach hurt.

  “Lord, you must come with me at once,” Reia said, grabbing Kysen.

  Kysen snatched his arm free. “I can walk. Watch me.”

  He took a step, and his bones turned to water. He hurtled toward the ground, but Reia caught him. Kysen flung his arm over the charioteer’s shoulder.

  “I think you’d better take me home.” He looked into Reia’s fear-filled eyes and smiled. “I can’t seem to keep my eyes open. Funny, I didn’t think I drank that much.”

  With a soft chuckle Kysen leaned heavily against Reia. As darkness enveloped him he grinned. At least his legs didn’t feel like granite anymore.

  Meren strode around the reception hall dictating orders and letters, business long neglected during his disgrace and illness. Bener had accompanied Anath home to gather a few belongings for her stay at Golden House. With great effort he concentrated on reports from vassal cities like Joppa, Megiddo, Jericho, and Hazor, trying to sift through rumor and fact. Close scrutiny was essential in these tumultuous times in order to catch the first hint of conspiracy before it led to open rebellion.

  Because of Akhenaten’s neglect, some of the petty princes had forgotten how far pharaoh’s arm might stretch in defense of his caravans and military outposts. The key to Tutankhamun’s policy was to maintain the empire without having to intervene with troops unless absolutely necessary. This meant using alternatives to the military, one of which was gathering intelligence and using it against the king’s enemies. Even more worrying was the threat the Hittites posed to the northernmost regions of the empire.

  Meren read a dispatch and sighed. “Answer to the captain of the garrison at Tyre. I have received your report and will intercede on your behalf with General Nakhtmin. Until the rations due your men can be delivered I authorize you to purchase bolts of cloth and other necessary provisions.” He glanced at Bek, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor and writing. “Remind me to send a message to the general so that he can send linen on the next supply ship, and write to the nearest agent. Have him investigate the supply situation at Tyre. Something is wrong, and I’m willing to wager that someone’s diverting ration goods before they’re unloaded at the dock. Also make inquiries at the delta port where the ships are loaded.”

  Sometimes minor snarls indicated a larger problem, one involving the corruption of royal officials. Meren hoped this wasn’t the case, because he was growing weary of chastising wrongdoers. Many of his friends felt the same way—Maya, Horemheb, Ay. His old mentor had seen much in his life, including the long reign of Amunhotep the Magnificent, and that of his successor, Akhenaten. Corruption was an ever-present threat, a disease that had to be exorcised lest it rot the kingdom from within. Sometimes Meren felt he was fighting a war for harmony and balance while almost everyone else seemed undisturbed by chaos and perversion.

  He dropped the dispatch on a pile near the master’s dais. A high, loud wail rolled toward him from somewhere inside the house. It was Remi, Kysen’s little son, protesting some correction from his nurse, but the sound penetrated Meren’s body like a spear. The cry reminded him of the sounds of grief made by mourners at a funeral, Nefertiti’s funeral, when Tutankhamun was little more than a babe and had been called Tutankhaten.

  The day they entombed the queen had been as bright and cloudless as any other. Dust blew across the sun-blasted plain in which Horizon of the Aten lay, but the funeral procession was not what Nefertiti would have chosen. Instead of a journey by funeral boat across the river to a tomb in the west, the land of the dead, her magnificent coffin was being taken east, in the direction of the rising sun.

  As he trudged along behind the royal family in their golden chariots, Meren heard again the long eerie moan, the sound of thousands of voices raised in grief for their queen. Stylized, slow of rhythm, it rose from the city and sailed upward, carried on the air to rebound off the cliffs as if the ghosts that inhabited the desert had risen to welcome another soul. An answering wail came from the princesses and their attendants, but Akhenaten, resplendent in his chariot, remained silent. This was his first public appearance since the death of the great royal wife.

  The journey to the royal tomb was long, and the route took the funeral cortege up the gradual rise of barren ground behind Horizon of the Aten and into the cliffs that marked the high eastern desert. The solar orb glared its light and heat directly above the mourners by the time the queen’s coffin arrived at the entrance to its new abode. Meren had to squint in order to watch the priests maneuver the funeral sledge toward the mouth of the tomb. As befitted a queen and pharaoh, Nefertiti had been encased in gold and precious jewels.

  Not long ago he remembered her saying, “Meren, I would trade all I possess, down to the tiniest jewel, for the return of just one of my daughters from the netherworld.” Now she was going to join them.

  At the tomb entrance Akhenaten was performing ceremonies to ensure his wife’s rebirth. He chanted a prayer detailing her journey to join the Aten. Nefertiti would have wanted the traditional rites so that she could make the perilous journey through the netherworld to the Hall of Judgment. But the old ways were not permitted, the old gods ignored. Meren only hoped the old ones would see the queen’s true heart and save her ka before Akhenaten’s heresy destroyed her soul.

  He heard a child crying. Little Tutankhaten was frightened, and Meren could see his nurse trying to quiet the child. Ay motioned to him, and Meren swiftly walked over and picked the boy up. Tutankhaten protested, but Meren put his hand on the back of the child’s head and guided it to his shoulder. The boy snuffled into his neck for a moment, and then subsided. Ay nodded his gratitude as another wailing refrain issued from the princesses.

  As Meren watched, Ay closed his eyes and bowed his head. Then Akhenaten finished his prayer, and to Meren’s astonishment he barked at the women. The mourners’ cries went silent, and the king raised his voice in praise of the Aten. Meren kept his expression carefully reverent. On his shoulder Tutankhamun slept. He gave the boy back to his nurse.

  Just then Ay lifted his bowed head. Meren had expected to see grief; he hadn’t expected rage that contained within it the horrors of the netherworld. Ay tore his gaze from the golden prison to which Nefertiti’s body had been consigned. It rose and settled on Akhenaten, and the pain and rage magnified. His creased face seemed to fold in on itself, and he staggered against the side of the tomb entrance. Smenkhare, Akhenaten’s brother and heir, supported Ay as Meren moved swiftly to his aid. The prince left Ay in Meren’s care as the ceremonial procession headed inside the tomb and down the long, rock-hewn corridor to the burial chamber.

  The last of the mourners vanished inside before Ay could stand. He leaned on Meren, took a step, and stopped to mutter under his breath. “I killed her.”

  “What?”

  “As surely as if I had driven a dagger into h
er heart.”

  Meren shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault she became ill.”

  Ay paused before the first step down the long ramp that led to the burial chamber and met Meren’s eyes. In spite of the dim light his gaze shone with a radiance born of near madness.

  “Be silent, my son,” he hissed. “I could have prevented all of this. And now I curse the day I agreed to wed my daughter to the son of pharaoh. Nefertiti died because of my ambition.”Ay’s voice rose. “I am responsible, and the gods will rightly punish me for my sin!”

  Meren roused from his memories when Anath and Bener entered the hall followed by servants bearing chests and baskets. Anath gave him a smile as she sailed by him on her way to a guest chamber. Bener gave directions to the servants, her brow furrowed with some lingering distress. Meren watched her, noting the way she clasped her hands tightly, how her stance had become rigid, her eyes sorrowful. She’d been far more cheerful before she left with Anath, but now her fear had returned. Bouts of distress would no doubt occur, which worried Meren and made him feel powerless, which in turn fed his fury at the evil one responsible.

  Bener finished giving instructions and came to him. “Father, I want to talk to you.”

  “You’re not going to change my decision,” he said. “You’re going to be watched for your own good.”

  “I know, but—Kysen!”

  Meren turned to see Reia and Abu carrying Kysen’s limp body. Meren rushed to them as they lowered him to the floor.

  “He’s unconscious, lord,” Reia said before Meren could speak. “We went to a tavern called the Heart Scarab and met a man called Marduk, who had been a servant of Dilalu. Lord Kysen drank with him to discover the whereabouts of the merchant. Marduk was leading us to him when Kysen fell ill.”

  A feeling of unreality settled over Meren as he searched Kysen’s face for signs of life. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t face another threat to a beloved child.

  “I’ve sent for the physician,” Abu added.

  Meren touched Kysen’s neck with the tips of his fingers, searching for the voice of the heart. He felt it, quick, but faint. Without a word he picked up his son and strode out of the hall. He reached Kysen’s bed, lay his son down, and whirled around to snarl at Abu.

  “Where is Nebamun?”

  “I’ve sent for him, lord. He’s on his way.”

  Bener hurried in with a bowl of water and a cloth. She began weeping as she bathed Kysen’s brow, and Meren swallowed hard as he watched his two children.

  So recently banished, the horrific feeling of impotence crushed his heart. Ignoring it, he snapped at Abu. “Take men and find this Marduk. Bring him to me. Don’t come back without him.”

  “Aye, lord.”

  Abu left, but returned at once holding a folded and sealed note, his expression grave. “Another message, lord. Given by a little boy paid to deliver it.”

  Meren stared at the blank seal, then broke it and read.

  Now you endure the punishment for disobedience. My hand is around his heart. If I desire it, he dies.

  The papyrus dropped from Meren’s stiff fingers. Dazed, he neither spoke nor moved when Bener picked up the message.

  “Oh,” she gasped. Tears streamed over her face, and she took Kysen’s hand in both of hers.

  From deep in her chest rose a long, keening wail, and for the second time that day Meren was back in a desert tomb, pierced by the mourner’s cry.

  Chapter 16

  Meren stood beside Kysen’s bed listening to his physician. Abu had gone in search of the one called Marduk, still hampered by the need for secrecy. Meren had debated the risk, considering that his earlier efforts at secrecy had failed, but desperation overruled caution.

  Bener still sat near her brother and held his hand. Kysen remained in a deathlike state, his face paler than desert sand, the voice of his heart faint. Meren watched Kysen’s chest rise slowly, then fall. Each pause between movements caused him agony.

  Without taking his gaze from the shallow movement he said, “So you don’t know what’s wrong?”

  “He has been given a poison of some kind, lord. Not poison of the tekau plant, but there are many herbs that could produce this state. Unless I’m certain of the cause, treating him might do harm. If he were awake I would make him vomit to rid his body of the evil it swallowed. For now, it is safer to watch and wait. He’s strong; his ka will fight the poison if I perform certain rites in his aid.”

  “Do so at once,” Meren said.

  As Nebamun busied himself with the contents of his physician’s box Reia came in and saluted.

  “You sent for me, lord?”

  With a last look at Kysen, Meren moved away from the bed. “Tell me what happened from the moment you left this house.”

  The charioteer related the day’s events, and Meren stopped him after he told of the visit to Othrys.

  “He saw the pirate alone?”

  “He said it’s difficult to see Othrys at all, and having a charioteer at his side would make it impossible.”

  “He’s right,” Meren said. “But he told you he had wine with Othrys.”

  “Yes, lord, but he didn’t become ill until after drinking with that Asiatic.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Reia glanced at Kysen’s prone body, and a spasm of remorse passed across his face. “When he left the pirate’s house he was agitated. He said he’d discovered that Othrys had been at Horizon of the Aten when the queen died. He said that—”

  Meren cursed. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, lord. He was disturbed, and said if we didn’t find Dilalu soon we would return and tell you about it.”

  A wave of chill dread passed over Meren, and the panic he’d fought against so long raged unchecked. “Damn you, Reia, if Othrys has been lying all along, and Kysen found out—”

  “The pirate,” Reia said.

  Their eyes met, and they both sprang for the door. Meren got there first and flung it open. He ran through Golden House with Reia at his heels, his heart burning with thoughtless rage. He burst onto the loggia and came to a sudden halt. Reia nearly ran into him. He stood still, distracted and uncertain. The pirate had never entered into his evaluation of the queen’s murder, and Othrys knew too much. If he was guilty, he posed a lethal threat. Reia was watching him anxiously.

  “I can’t take the chance,” Meren muttered. He glanced at Reia. “But I can’t rush to attack and risk him dying before I force him to tell me what he’s done to Kysen.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll do this another way.”

  Hurrying to his office, Meren penned a courteous note requesting a visit from Othrys. Reia left to give it to a porter. When he returned Meren gave him quiet instructions and returned to Kysen’s bedside to watch Nebamun cast spells of protection and healing. It was dark by the time Othrys arrived.

  Meren received the pirate on the master’s dais in the hall. Striding in as if he were walking across the deck of one of his ships, Othrys stopped at the steps of the dais, planted his hands on his hips, and gave Meren an annoyed scowl.

  “Greetings, Egyptian. What news have you that I must leave my table and my guests and rush across the city to hear it?”

  Meren made a concise motion with his hand, and charioteers appeared at every door to the hall. Othrys looked at them and narrowed his eyes.

  “What game is this?”

  Leaning forward in his chair, Meren spoke softly with a calm he didn’t feel. “My son has been poisoned. He lies near death, and if you are responsible, I will have the remedy from you or by all the gods I’ll tear your heart out with my bare hands. You have until the count of ten to confess.” Meren sat back. “One.”

  The charioteers began to close in on Othrys. His gaze darted from one group to the other.

  “Two.”

  “You’re mad,” he snarled.

  “Three.” The charioteers surrounded Othrys.

  “Four.”

  “I did nothing
!”

  “You failed to reveal your presence at Horizon of the Aten when the queen died. Five.”

  “It wasn’t important,” Othrys cried as the charioteers grabbed his arms and legs.

  “Six.” Meren stood. “Every scrap of information you gave to me could have been designed to lead me away from you. Seven.”

  “If I was who you say, I could have killed you when you came to me for help, you fool.”

  “You might have intended to kill me and were prevented,” Meren said as he came down the dais steps. “Eight.” He drew his dagger.

  Othrys was sweating as he strained against the men who held him. “I could have killed you the moment you stepped into my house, by the Earth Mother.”

  “Nine.” Meren positioned himself in front of the pirate.

  Othrys uttered an obscenity and spat on the floor. “You’re mad.”

  “You said that. Ten. I think I’ll chop your heart out of your chest in the manner of Eater of Souls.” Meren raised his dagger.

  “Wait!” Othrys rushed on when Meren paused. “I swear by the Earth Mother I did nothing to Kysen. I was at Horizon of the Aten. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to become involved in the contendings of great ones. It never pays. I did no wrong—toward the great royal wife, that is. I had no reason. She didn’t interfere with my affairs. She didn’t even know I existed.”

  Meren looked into the pirate’s sky-colored eyes and read fear, desperation, and anger, but nothing else. He shook his head, suddenly uncertain and too filled with his own dread to risk making a fatal mistake. He felt drained. A moment ago he’d been ready to kill this man, suffused with an ungovernable wrath that burned away all moderation, reason, and control. Othrys’s protests had broken through the clamor in his head, the urge to take some action, any action. With the return of reason came the feeling of powerlessness. Meren turned away.

  “Hold him in the barracks. Make certain he talks to no one.”

  Meren headed for Kysen’s room, the curses and protests of Othrys ringing in his ears as he was dragged out of the hall. Anath had joined Bener in the sickroom, and Nebamun was busy concocting some magical preparation at a table. Meren stood at the foot of the bed and gazed down at his son, who lay as still as a votive figurine. What would he do if he lost Kysen? He winced at the jagged tearing pain the thought provoked. For over ten years this boy had been a part of his life, ever since the day long ago when he encountered that old brute, Pawero, trying to sell his son in the streets of Thebes. He’d been on his way to a meeting with General Horemheb and passed a market in an open area around a well.