“Perhaps thy majesty desires to speak privately with his envoy to Palestine and Syria?”
Tutankhamun paused a moment, glanced at Meren, and said, “Yes, my majesty desires it at once. Huy, Khai, Maya, go away for a while. We will summon you again.”
In a short time only a few confidants were left—the vizier, Horemheb, Prince Tanefer, and his companions, Prince Rahotep and Prince Djoserkarenseneb, called Djoser. Prince Hunefer stalled beside the king.
“Why must I go?” he whined.
Meren raised his eyes to the ceiling. Hunefer possessed the wits of a beer vat, but suffered from the fantasy that he deserved rewards and honors though he’d done nothing to earn them.
Tutankhamun gritted his teeth and scowled at Hunefer while he tapped his sandaled foot. “You have to go, half brother, because I told you to.”
Meren slipped to Hunefer’s side and smiled at him. Hunefer started at his sudden appearance, refused to meet Meren’s gaze, and sidled out of the room. Meren made sure the overseer of the audience hall had closed the doors and that the royal sentries were in place beside them. When he returned, Tutankhamun had taken his chair again. Tanefer, Rahotep, and Djoser stood in front of him with the others gathered behind, all except Ay. The vizier’s age and revered status allowed him to sit on a stool near the king when in private. Meren joined the group as Tanefer began.
“Majesty, Karkashar has fallen to the Hittites.”
Tutankhamun gripped the arms of his chair and cursed. “You’re sure?”
“Aye, divine one,” said Rahotep. “We scouted the ruins ourselves. They burned and razed the city and carried off the women and children.”
Rahotep’s glance slid away from the king. His opinion was unspoken but known to every man there. He could have prevented the disaster had he been pharaoh instead of Tutankhamun. But then, as far as Meren knew, Rahotep felt he could do anything better than anyone else.
Djoser shuddered. “Not one man was left alive, majesty. You should have seen the battlefield. At first I thought I saw some of the bodies moving, and then I realized it was the … the flies and maggots.”
Meren eyed Djoser, who was pale under his layers of dust. Djoser, like Tutankhamun, Tanefer, and Rahotep, was the son of Amunhotep the Magnificent. But he was a half prince, the son of an Egyptian noblewoman rather than a princess. A scholarly man in his early twenties, he had gone on this expedition in a misguided attempt to become a warrior. He had returned with a limp and an air of one haunted by netherworld monsters. Meren didn’t think he would attempt battle again, no matter how much he envied the king and Tanefer their warrior’s skills and allure.
“Then we are left with the cities of Palestine between us and the Hittites,” the king said.
“Not for long, majesty,” said Tanefer.
“Yes,” Horemheb said, “not for long. I can begin preparations for the army and navy at once. By next harvest we’ll—”
Ay raised his hand. “There’s no need for haste. After all, pharaoh doesn’t need the allegiance of vassals whose only desire in life is to wheedle gold from his coffers and murder each other. These northern peoples know nothing of peace and harmony. Let them devour each other while we play one against the other.”
Meren stepped aside as Tanefer abruptly bowed himself out of the group of men who burst into argument. He followed the prince, who ducked behind a column, and found him standing with fists balled, arms rigid, and eyes closed. Hearing the deliberately controlled deep breaths, he waited a moment before speaking.
“He doesn’t mean to offend you.”
Tanefer opened his eyes and gave Meren a mock smile. “Meren, my love, my old friend. Think you he’s forgotten that my mother was a princess of Mitanni?”
“Perhaps.” Meren leaned against the column. “You look too much the Egyptian, my friend, and more like your royal father than the king does.”
They stood together in silence while the king and his councillors argued. Meren had always felt sympathy for the princes and half princes of the kingdom. Only the sons of the great royal wife had a right to the throne, so these men were cast aside, regardless of their talent. Some, like Tanefer, preferred a warrior’s life of freedom to the responsibilities of kingship. Some such as Djoser were temperamentally unsuited from birth to govern, while Rahotep and Hunefer lived lives of resentment and envy because their concubine mothers’ blood cost them a throne.
In contrast, Tanefer’s great passion was surrounding himself with objects of beauty. His attitude toward statues and luxurious furniture and jewelry was odd; he wanted to look at them rather than use them.
To Meren and everyone else a statue had a purpose: a gift to the gods, a repository of one’s spirit, an image that enlivened one’s soul for eternity. Jewelry was for adornment and for magic. Furniture was for convenience. Luxurious materials symbolized a man’s status.
Tanefer wanted to look at these things as one looked at a beautiful woman. In the same way, he reveled in the artistry of the cavalry and was one of pharaoh’s most accomplished charioteers. At twenty-eight, six years younger than Meren, he was rising fast in the military and had a reputation as a brilliant strategist. Meren thanked the gods for such as Tanefer, for the heretic pharaoh, Tutankhamun’s dead brother Akhenaten, had left the empire weakened.
“Tanefer,” Meren said, “it was not Ay who refused to come to the aid of Mitanni.”
“I know, brother of my heart, but Tutankhamun can’t let the destruction continue. The Hittites will eat away at the edges of the empire until we find them at our very borders.”
Tanefer turned to face him, and Meren saw the uneasiness he’d concealed from the king. “Listen to me, Meren. The Hittites fight differently than we do. They use a three-man chariot that’s heavier than ours. It carries two warriors instead of one and a driver. They’re slower and less maneuverable, but they can destroy a line with a massed charge. With three men they can devastate us at close quarters. Meren, the Hittites might be able to—”
“Take Egypt,” Meren nodded. Tanefer had confirmed what he’d been hearing from other sources. “You may be right, old friend, but they won’t do it today, or tomorrow, or even next year Akhenaten allowed the army and navy to fall to pieces. Horemheb and Nakhtmin need time to rebuild.”
“But—”
Meren pushed away from the column and squeezed Tanefer’s arm. “Be at ease. I’ve heard you, and I believe you.”
“There isn’t much time. Right now they’re fat with victory, and complacent. If we attacked now, we might even push them out of Mitanni.”
“And put you in place of the Hittite minion who rules there now?” Meren grinned at the astonishment in Tanefer’s face. “Oh, don’t look so worried. I but jest with you. For a man who lives on merriment and lightness, you fail to recognize another man’s joke too often.”
Tanefer shook his head and pointed at the king, who was listening to Ay. “I can see it already. Ay will convince him to delay. Delay and negligence lost my uncle his kingdom and cost him his life.”
Meren stood beside Tanefer and gazed at the king. “And haste, dear Tanefer, could cost pharaoh his.”
Chapter 3
Unas scurried through the black streets of western Thebes, his ka lighter than it had been in two days, for he was no longer afraid. He was unsuspected; he could continue at the temple without risk Yesterday he’d seen Lord Meren among the attendants of pharaoh and had almost spoken to him. Luckily he’d lost his courage; the man he feared gave no sign of disturbance.
In the darkness of the hour before dawn he could barely make out the shapes of the sphinxes that lined the avenue before the temple. He walked between two of them and down the street toward the first pylon, the gate of the god. It was still early, and there was no one about.
Unas approached the colossus. It stood surrounded by scaffolding, ready to be finished. Most of it had been carved at the quarry far to the south near Aswan, but it still had to be polished. Soon master stoneworkers and their
apprentices would arrive with their rubbing stones and buckets of crushed quartzite to smooth and polish what surfaces weren’t to be painted and adorned with gold.
Nearing the ladder that scaled the statue to the platform surrounding its head, Unas paused as he heard a loud snore. He poked his head around the base of the sculpture. The noise was coming from the gate between the pylons. That lazy porter was asleep again. Sniffing, Unas patted the list of tools and supplies he’d folded and stuck in the waistband of his kilt. The sentries must be pacing their route on the far side of the temple. Not that they would disturb the porter, who could sleep through the howling of fiends.
Unas, on the other hand, always woke early, a habit that benefited him this morning. Last night the master sculptor had sent a boy with a message asking that they meet early to go over the day’s work plan. He grasped the ladder and began climbing.
Halfway up, he paused and glanced around. He could see lights in houses now, and far off a donkey brayed. He continued up the ladder, smiling. Being the first to arrive and the last to leave afforded him much pleasure, for his industrious habits had attracted the attention of the prophets of the god. In their hands lay all opportunities for advancement.
His head reached the floor of the top scaffolding. He grasped the ends of the ladder and put a foot on the floor Pharaoh’s granite eyes, as large as Unas’s head, stared at him.
As he hoisted himself onto the scaffolding, he heard the creak of wood. Something white dashed at him as he straightened up with his feet planted on the edge of the platform. Unas’s mouth fell open, but the man who leaped from behind the giant head of the colossus was too fast for him.
Unas screamed, flailed his arms, and plummeted. He felt one last jolt of pain, and then nothing.
The man on the scaffolding peered over the edge at the body below. Then he surveyed the area around the statue, keeping his head cocked in the direction of the god’s gate and the porter. A loud sucking noise floated toward him, signaling continued slumber, and he quickly climbed down. He stood over the body for a moment before turning and melting into the darkness beneath the high wall that surrounded the temple. What was left of Unas lay undisturbed except for visits from flies.
As light appeared behind the eastern temples of the sacred precinct, several priests walked down the avenue to the pylon. They didn’t glance at the base of the statue, and in any case the body lay on the far side, away from the gate. The priests roused the porter, scolded him, and went into the temple.
Not long afterward, a group of men arrived at the quay in a skiff. Disembarking, they shouldered baskets and sacks and headed for the pylon. As they approached, talking and laughing, they veered aside and directed their steps toward the colossus.
They passed granite feet larger than two men, rounded the corner of the base on which they stood, and came to an abrupt stop. Silence enveloped the group, broken by the buzzing of flies. Then they all chattered at once.
“It’s that priest, Unas.”
“What happened? Did he fall?”
“Look at his head. His meat has spattered all over the flagstones.”
“He must have lost his footing.”
The oldest man, whose skin was cracked, split, and scarred from years of working with stone in the sun, raised his voice for the first time. “Quiet, all of you!”
He walked over to the body and stared at it while the others kept their distance. In his years as master stone sculptor, Seneb had seen many wonders—the colossi of Amunhotep the Magnificent’s funerary temple, the arrival of the Mitanni princess Gilukhepa and her hundreds of waiting women at the court of Thebes, even water turned to cold clouds of white snow in mountaintops far to the north. Never had he seen a dead priest at the base of a statue.
He looked from the body, up the ladder to the platform that surrounded the neck of the statue. He rubbed his chin, then dropped the basket he was carrying. Old Unas had been a scribe, and scribes could stumble over their own toes.
“I’m going to see the priests. All of you stay here and let no one touch the body.”
“But, Seneb—”
“Stay here, I said.”
Seneb broke into a trot. He went to the gate and confronted the porter, who was leaning against a stone wall, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It took him several attempts to make the man understand, but eventually he was allowed inside and encountered a servant sweeping flagstones.
The servant conducted him to a pure one, who handed him over to his chief, who listened to Seneb’s report without comment. Then he was left standing under a papyrus column while the priest vanished into the black inner temple. After a while the man reappeared, trailing behind a tall priest in a luxurious wig and gold headband.
He moved with slim, almost fragile grace. His bones were thin, giving him a deerlike aspect. The gauntness of his face and its length reminded Seneb of the old heretic Akhenaten. The sheer quality of the linen he wore along with the gold scarab pectoral at his breast put Seneb at ease. Here was a priest of rank. This man wouldn’t pass off responsibility, and he’d know what to do.
“I am Qenamun, chief overseer of the god’s treasury and lector priest of Amun. You’ve found one of our pure ones?”
“Aye, master. It’s the priest who was working with us on the statue of the living god. Unas was his name. He’s fallen from the scaffolding.”
“Fallen? Are you sure? Amun protect us. Conduct me to him at once.”
Seneb discovered that “at once,” to a lector priest, meant a stately progress out of the temple, with care taken not to get dust on his priestly overrobe and fine sandals.
The group of artisans around the body parted so that he and Qenamun could see. As moments passed, more and more laborers, priests, and visitors to the temple clustered nearby, muttering among themselves. Seneb watched the lector priest survey the body.
It was obvious to him that Qenamun was one of those whose priestly station was inherited through a noble family. His bearing and his dress spoke of privilege. His elaborate wig, worn over a shaved head, had its braids bound by hundreds of bronze rings. His parched-looking skin had been oiled. No doubt it soaked up moisture like the desert floor.
Seneb was about to explain how they’d found the dead man when Qenamun stooped over the body and began to make magical signs. The artisans backed farther away as a group. Seneb, conscious of his station as their leader, only retreated half the distance of the others.
Qenamun turned away from the body and addressed him. “This is a most unfortunate accident. You said he must have slipped and fallen from the top of the ladder?”
“Yes, lector priest.”
“Very well. You and your men will remain here on guard. He’s one of those under my command. I’ll send servants to remove him to his house.”
“Yes, lector priest. And then I must report to the office of the treasurer, Prince Maya.”
He cringed inwardly when, without warning, the priest rained white coals of fury on him.
“By the gods, you will not!” Qenamun’s voice hissed and spat venom. “Insolent lowling, this is a matter for the servants of Amun, not a breaker of stones. You’ll do as I command and nothing more, or I’ll see you condemned to the stone quarries in the eastern desert.”
Qenamun turned on his heel and left Seneb standing in an empty space between the body and his fellow artisans. His gut squeezed and did a few somersaults before he regained his composure. He glanced over his shoulder to find everyone staring at him. He glared at them.
“What are you looking at, dung-eaters?”
He ordered them to form a cordon around the body and took his place with them, facing away from the dead man. Several curious boys on their way to the school in the temple tried to shove between their legs, thus offering him an opportunity to swear and shout at someone. As minutes passed and no one came to take the body away, Seneb had time to think.
He was a royal artisan, answerable to his overseer in the royal workshops, who was answerable
to another superior, who eventually was answerable to Prince Maya, chief of the treasury and Friend of the King. To whom did he owe allegiance, Maya or that scorpion of a priest Qenamun?
He turned to his son, who was also his apprentice, and spoke quietly. “Djefi, you will go back to the royal workshops at once and report this matter to the overseer of stonemasons. Say to him that I’ve done this in spite of being forbidden by the lector priest. See to it that he understands none of us are to blame, but that we must report anything that happens regarding the image of the living god, may he have life, health, and strength. Can you remember to say that?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then go now, before the priests come back. Hurry!”
He followed his son’s progress until he disappeared into the crowd. Curse all priests. Why did this one have to die on Seneb’s statue and call down upon his head the notice of great ones? He knew from experience that their attention was as the attention of hornets, and much more dangerous.
Meren rose from his stool and began to stretch his arms and legs as he listened to the treasurer’s objections to the king leading an army into Syria himself. Since they’d first discussed the prospect, Maya had become more and more worried that pharaoh would get himself killed in battle. He wanted no part in urging the king to take such a risk.
The councillors had broken from their meeting after more than four hours of debate. The king had led them outside to the reflection pool. Whenever he could, Tutankhamun sought the outdoors. Having three daughters and an adopted son, Meren understood the king’s restlessness. No youth forced to spend hours dealing with matters of finance, law, and diplomacy could be blamed for longing for physical release.
He moved closer to a servant who plied an ostrich feather fan in his and Maya’s direction. Thrusting out his arm, he pressed it across his body with the opposite hand in a stretch while he gazed across the pool over blue and pink lotus flowers. Under a baldachin that shaded him from the sun, the king was listening to Ay. Even from this distance Meren could tell that Tutankhamun was growing angrier.
Murder at the God's Gate Page 3