“The high priest will soil his pure white robes when he sees it.” Horemheb whispered.
Meren suppressed a grin. “And you’ll revel in every moment of his anguish.”
Tons of red granite scraped across the oiled and graded path toward the north half of the pylon. Meren glanced over his shoulder into the shadows of the gate. No sign of the king, who had disappeared into the sanctuary for the morning ritual. The welfare of the Two Lands depended upon the king’s intercession with the gods, especially Amun, and Tutankhamun performed the ceremony as had his ancestors throughout the centuries.
If the king were unable to attend, the high priest took his place. There was much urgent business, but the king hadn’t wanted to miss today’s ritual. If he had, he would have missed the arrival of his statue and its effect on the high priest, Parenefer.
Meren glanced at Horemheb with masked affection. They had been friends since they were youths training to be warriors, and had remained so when their duties separated them. Beneath his court wig, the general’s hair had turned light brown from long days spent drilling in the sun.
Horemheb wore his hair cut short and brushed back from his face, but it was so lively it stood up and away from his head like the feathers of an angry hawk. He had a rectangular face with three horizontal lines on his forehead. Meren had watched these lines appear and grow deeper over the years. His nose sat slightly askew on his face, the result of an injury when he got in the way of a stampeding chariot.
Horemheb bore a habitual expression of intense determination, as if he sensed a horde of Asiatic nomads lurking just over the horizon. He walked aggressively, almost stomping, as though dogging the steps of some negligent army recruit. He had a noisy temper when dealing with soldiers, allies, or friends and the biddable demeanor of a sleeping crocodile when in the company of strangers or enemies. Meren had seen him switch from fist-pounding fury to poison-sweet courtliness in half a heartbeat. And on the battlefield he possessed the guile of a leopard and a skill Meren hoped never to encounter pitted against him.
However, what was most intriguing about Horemheb was that it never occurred to him to regret his humble origins. He was Horemheb, general of the king’s army, royal scribe, councillor to pharaoh, a man of consequence. His common birth was unimportant.
At the moment, the general rocked back and forth on his heels and scowled at the temple quay. The barge upon which the statue had been shipped was docked there, and it had been the object of excitement for the crowd gathered to witness the king’s arrival. But Meren knew Horemheb. His friend had forgotten the statue; the general’s heart dwelt on the Hittite threat.
“Patience, old friend,” Meren said. “We’ve the rest of the day to argue about brigands, war, and troops.”
They both understood that the colossus served as important a function in its way as did the forays of the army, for this statue—so monumental that it almost rivaled the mighty pylons of the king of the gods—this image of the king was to stand before the temple. And in its magnificence and scale, it would tell the people of Egypt that pharaoh was more powerful than any priest who might dwell within the temple it guarded.
Thus, earlier, the statue’s arrival had caused the high priest of Amun to contort his face as if he’d swallowed an asp. His chagrin was echoed in the faces of the gathered priests. They huddled in clumps, like sullen pigeons, and scuttled back as the teams of laborers hauled the statue down the avenue.
As the complicated maneuvers that would slide the colossus into its correct position began, Meren saw a pair of royal guards emerge from the gate. A wave of movement started as spear-carrying men in bronze-and-gold armor gestured at the crowd. Courtiers turned, the statue forgotten. Heads lowered. Meren nudged Horemheb, and they both knelt.
Horemheb turned his head toward Meren and grinned. “I’ve been waiting for this ever since the king conceived the idea.”
“Just be careful Parenefer doesn’t see how much you enjoy his aggravation.”
The sudden silence of this moment always impressed Meren. It was as if the kingdom ceased to breathe. Then he heard the ching, ching, ching of sistrums, the beat of drums. Louder and louder the noise grew, until it seemed to beat inside his body. At last it stopped, and he heard a cheer. Concealing a grin, he rose and found Horemheb already on his feet. He only had to follow the glint of gold to find the king.
Tutankhamun stood before the gateway between the high priest of Amun and the vizier Ay and gave off a sunlike radiance. The cobra on his brow, the thick bracelets and ankle bands, the scepters he held in one hand, were all of gold. Even his sandals gleamed with the stuff. Gold symbolized the majesty and divinity of pharaoh, but Meren knew how useless such trappings could be. The king’s youth, his strength, his commanding soul, allowed him to wear the raiment of a living god without being dominated by it. Beside the king, Parenefer looked like what he was, a cracked and dried-up old coffin filled to overflowing with resentment and hate.
Meren watched the high priest as the king spoke to the crowd, telling them how the statue was intended for the greater glory of Amun, his father. Parenefer’s skull always shone due to the scented oils rubbed on it after shaving. The skin stretched tight across the bones as if to make up for the loose flesh at his jowls and neck. Age spots dotted his face, his arms, and the backs of his hands. Wrinkles furrowed his mouth, running from his nose down the flesh above his upper lip and into the mouth itself like wadis etched in a desert landscape.
Shortsighted, Parenefer jutted his head forward from his slumped shoulders and squinted at the world like a suspicious and wary vulture. His life and character had been marred by the dissolution of the temple of Amun by the pharaoh Akhenaten. Declared anathema, hounded and hunted as a criminal, Parenefer had survived in hiding, plotting and fomenting defiance of pharaoh, until Akhenaten died.
Although he and his god had been restored to their former prominence, the high priest’s ka had been warped. He couldn’t forget the deaths of his friends and his humiliation at the hands of Akhenaten, nor could he forgive Tutankhamun for being the brother of the heretic. Meren and Horemheb trusted the Hittite ambassador more than they trusted Parenefer.
Horemheb spoke, barely moving his lips. “See. I told you it was worth the wait.”
The high priest craned back his head and studied the face of the colossus, noted the straight, small nose and flared nostrils, the full, sensual lips and slightly rounded cheeks of youth. Parenefer’s lips pressed together in a tight seam. He turned vermilion, and his cheeks puffed out so that he resembled an elderly, indignant frog. He turned away.
“Well worth it,” Meren said softly.
Hearing the commander of the royal guard snap an order, he hurried to take his place behind the king as Horemheb went to the quay where the royal barge was moored. Meren fell in step with Maya, chief of the treasury. As they paused to allow the king to speak to several commoners, Meren glanced over his shoulder at the swarm of workmen around the colossus.
He found himself meeting the direct stare of a priest. His gaze traveled over hollow shoulders, wide hips, noted the way the man’s oversize ears stood out from his head like slices of dried melon. Narrowing his eyes, he felt a stab of familiarity. There was something about the man. Perhaps it was the way his shaved skull came to a point; perhaps it was only the fear in his eyes.
Meren was used to seeing fear in those who met his eyes. Then the priest opened his mouth and took a step. He stopped abruptly, looked to the side, and started. Without looking at Meren again, he plunged into the midst of the gang of workmen, artisans, and architects at the base of the statue.
Meren searched in the direction the priest had looked, but found only more priests and a few courtiers. Whatever or whoever had startled the man was unremarkable in appearance.
Maya put a hand on his arm. “Meren, the king.”
The king’s chamberlain was beckoning to him. He crossed the ramp to the royal barge and knelt before Tutankhamun.
“Y
ou may rise before my majesty.”
Meren stood and met the barely suppressed amusement of a king who, after all, was barely fourteen. He frowned as openly as he dared in response, and the amusement slid from the boy’s face. A mask of dignity and graciousness descended upon the king’s features, and he turned to accept the farewells of the high priest and chief prophets of the god. Meren allowed himself a silent sigh. Tutankhamun had already challenged the power of the priests once today. It wouldn’t do to arouse them any further.
As the barge moved away from the quay, Meren stood beside the king, his head bent to catch the low pitch of Tutankhamun’s voice.
“Did you see him?” the king asked. “Did you see how red he turned when he realized how great was the size of my image?”
Meren risked a sidelong glance at the king. Tutankhamun was maintaining a regal demeanor. He stared straight ahead at the west bank, away from the eastern city and its countless temples.
“Aye, majesty. Thy image is indeed that of a living god.”
Tutankhamun lifted a brow and met Meren’s bland gaze.
“It was your idea too,” the king said. “So don’t pretend you don’t enjoy his discomfort.”
“But our joy must be a silent one, majesty.”
The king sighed and turned to take a last look at the monumental image of himself Meren looked at it as well, then squinted. A priest had climbed onto the base of the statue and was facing them, staring at the royal barge as it retreated from the sacred precinct. Meren closed his eyes as the glare of the rising sun assaulted them, then opened them again.
The priest was still there, unmoving, and Meren could have sworn he was the same man whose fear had so impressed him only a few moments ago. There was something unsettling about that solitary figure. No doubt it was the contrast between the priest and that mountain of a statue; he did look rather like a beetle next to an elephant.
The king spoke to Meren, and he forgot the priest. When next he looked, the little figure had disappeared from the statue base, and he thought no more about him.
Back at the palace the king vanished into the royal chambers to divest himself of his crowns. Meren and several councillors remained in one of the smaller audience chambers. Light filtered through the high rectangular windows and illuminated the fluid scenes of the king hunting in the marshes that bordered the Nile. The deep blue of the river was re-created by the glazed floor tiles. Meren preferred this room to the great audience chamber with its vastness, its loftier columns, and its air of chilly sanctity.
He took a goblet of wine from a servant as Maya joined him. The treasurer was a favorite with Meren, for he was more interested in the efficiency of those who served under him than in his own advancement. From a family of ancient nobility, Maya felt he had little to gain in scrambling after more power. He had enough, and devoted his attention to meddling in the personal lives of those about him—for their own benefit, of course.
Having little patience with those who viewed life as a series of battles, Maya preferred enjoyments. He liked fastidious workers who saved him trouble. He liked music and feasting, acrobats and good stories. Meren felt he gave a much-needed lightness of spirit to pharaoh, who was surrounded by men of gravity and bore overwhelming responsibility of which he was too well aware.
Now Maya was nodding in the direction of Ay, who was engaged in a quiet quarrel with Horemheb.
“What’s happened, Falcon?” Maya whispered. He’d given the name to Meren years ago, observing that his friend’s intelligence was as quick as the falcon’s flight. “This sudden audience was your idea, wasn’t it?”
It was, but Meren wasn’t going to admit it. He’d had too many disturbing reports of unrest in the fallen kingdom of Mitanni on the northern Euphrates and among the vassal states and allies of the empire that stood between Syria and the borders of Egypt. Everyone knew the Hittites were behind the turmoil.
When Meren didn’t answer, Maya nodded at Horemheb. “He wants to campaign in Palestine and Syria after the next harvest.”
Meren took a sip of his wine. “That’s not what they disagree about.”
“Oh? What is it, then? Because we have to do something about the Hittites.”
“Indeed, but Ay doesn’t think the king should go on the campaign.”
“Too young yet?”
Meren inclined his head.
Maya, whose easy temperament and skills at organization had endeared him to the king and the vizier, turned toward Meren and frowned. “And what do you say? You’ve trained him.”
“No boy of his age, however godlike, can master a warrior’s skills in so short a time. Perhaps in another year. Until then …”
“And our beleaguered Horemheb says the empire can’t wait that long.”
“He could be right.”
“Then one of the other princes can provide a royal presence.”
Meren shook his head. “You know it’s not the same for the troops.”
He took another sip of wine and surveyed the audience chamber Huy, who served as one of the viceroys of Nubia—those lands to the south over which Egypt maintained dominance—stood talking with the Nubian prince Khai, who also helped govern the south. Nakhtmin, general and royal scribe, had joined in the discussion with Ay and Horemheb.
He was surprised to see Ahiram, a foreign prince, in attendance. Ahiram was the son of Rib-Addi, the king of Byblos, one of the ally princes whom Akhenaten had failed to support against insurrection. Rib-Addi had succumbed to the depredations of rebels incited by the Hittite king Suppiluliumas. Poor Ahiram had been sent to the Egyptian court to be educated, only to find himself fatherless and without a city or a throne to which he could return. Perhaps Ay had requested Ahiram’s presence, since the foreign prince was familiar with the country around Byblos and Tyre.
Everyone suddenly snapped to attention when the royal guards burst into the room, spears tapping on the floor tiles. Tutankhamun entered, marching smartly as only youth can, and clapped his hands.
“Yes, yes, get up, everyone. My majesty consents to dismiss ceremony. We’ll deal with Nubia first. Huy, what happened to that expedition to the gold mines?” The king dropped into a chair covered in embossed sheet gold.
Before Huy could answer, the overseer of the audience hall swung open the double doors and poked his head into the chamber Meren came to alert immediately, for the old man’s eyes gleamed as he sought the gaze of pharaoh. Tutankhamun nodded, and the overseer stepped aside to allow Kysen into the room. Upon seeing his son, Meren knew something had happened.
He’d left Ky in charge of the daily ordering of the affairs of his office—reading summaries of disturbances throughout the kingdom and receiving reports from their various intelligencers—while he attended this audience. Now Kysen hurried forward to cast himself at the king’s feet. He lifted his face from the floor, and Meren’s unease vanished. Kysen grinned at the king.
“O living god, divine and golden one.”
Tutankhamun swiped his hand to the side. “Please, Ky.”
“Majesty.” Kysen was grinning broadly. “They’re home!”
Tutankhamun thrust himself out of his chair and clapped his hands again. “Where are they?”
Kysen turned and nodded at the doors. Through them burst a noisy group of young men followed by musicians playing music to which several foreign women danced. These were followed by servants bearing inlaid treasure boxes.
The king burst out laughing and shouted, “Tanefer!”
The call was repeated by everyone in the hall. Meren ducked aside as a woman whirled her body at him. He smiled as he watched the young men stride toward the king. Disheveled, stained, and dusty, their leader nevertheless walked into the king’s presence easily, as if he frequented the houses of kings every day, which he did.
Prince Tanefer knelt before the king, who raised him. To Meren, the resemblance between Tanefer, who was older by fourteen years, and the king was apparent, especially in the large, rounded eyes and full lips.
They had gotten them from their father, the pharaoh Amunhotep, but Tanefer inherited the darker skin and softly curling black hair of his foreign mother.
The king and Tanefer exchanged a rough hug. Then Tanefer shouted an order, and the music rose. Drums beat out a sensual rhythm as Tanefer whispered something to the king. Then he began to clap his hands and sway.
Meren recognized the traditional warrior’s dance of the royal charioteers. He folded his arms and smiled as Tanefer snatched a goblet of wine, raised it to the king, and kept on dancing. Tutankhamun laughed and answered by swinging into line with Tanefer. The king grabbed Kysen, who obliged by falling into step and dragging another new arrival, Rahotep, with him.
Around the room they swirled, stamping and leaping, until Tanefer ran into Meren, who ducked under a flailing arm and swung into line beside him. He whirled quickly in a circle, then kicked out with one leg. Tanefer jumped over it, but Meren snagged his ankle and yanked. Tanefer dropped to the floor, yelped, and rolled as the line of men ran into him.
Tutankhamun offered his arm as he passed, and Tanefer grabbed it. Leaping to his feet, he bent over, planted his hands on his thighs, and puffed to catch his breath. The line broke up as everyone guffawed at Tanefer and sucked in air.
The king pounded Meren on the back. “That will teach him to parade before us like a Babylonian king.”
Tanefer raised his head and grinned at Tutankhamun. “But, majesty, in reality I should be a king, king of Mitanni after my deposed uncle. I would be if I didn’t find the Two Lands the chosen place of the gods. And besides, the divine one needs mirth and pleasure. It’s my task to provide them as a solace in his days of care for the empire.”
This last comment attracted Meren’s attention, as it was meant to. He stared at Tanefer, who was bowing to the king. As he straightened, Tanefer glanced at Meren, who read his meaning and faded out of the group. He circled around to Ay and whispered to the old man. Ay nodded. Leaning on his staff, he penetrated the crowd of young men and spoke to the king.
Murder at the God's Gate Page 2