Murder at the God's Gate

by Lynda S. Robinson

  In the council meeting a division had emerged between the king’s advisers. General Horemheb and Prince Tanefer favored a military campaign against the rebellious vassals of Syria and Palestine. Everyone agreed one was necessary. But the king wanted to lead the army himself, and Horemheb and Tanefer concurred. After years of neglect on the part of the heretic Akhenaten, the army needed training, and it needed a warrior pharaoh at its head. Ay and Maya understood this, but both kept repeating one refrain—the king was too young.

  Meren bent over and touched the ground with his fingertips. He straightened when he heard the king’s voice carried over the water.

  “I’m not too young, old man. And whatever my years, I’m still pharaoh, and I’ll do as my majesty pleases!”

  Tutankhamun burst out of his gilt chair. It flew to the side and hit a table that bore an electrum flagon and goblets, sending everything crashing to the tiles that bordered the pool. Ay dodged a rolling goblet as the king stormed away from him. The vizier watched his charge stalk back into the palace, then glanced at Meren.

  Shaking his head, Meren walked around the pool to join the vizier as a guard escorted a treasury official out to meet Maya. He was still shaking his head as he met the vizier under the baldachin.

  “Ay, Ay, Ay.”

  He’d known Ay all his life. The brother of the king’s mother, the great Queen Tiye, wife of Amunhotep the Magnificent, the vizier was famed throughout the Two Lands for his skill in government. He was even more renowned for surviving the reigns of Amunhotep the Magnificent, Akhenaten, Smenkhare, and now Tutankhamun. His eyebrows slanted upward along with his eyes, giving him a startled appearance.

  In Meren’s opinion he hadn’t been surprised since the age of the pyramids. The knuckles on his hands were swollen and ached, and his back curved like a scythe. The vizier’s body moved slowly, except for his eyes, which never rested. His gaze skittered across Meren now, then darted back to the place where his royal nephew had vanished.

  Ay’s aged voice grated out his words. “He’s too young, and the little cock knows it.” Ay stopped talking and lowered his skeletal frame into a chair as servants righted that of the king. When they’d gone, he continued. “And sometimes I wish he was still young enough to require a regent.”

  “The quarrel would be the same,” Meren said as he leaned against one of the support poles of the baldachin. “When you and Horemheb were vice regents, you always favored caution, like the oryx on the plain, while Horemheb favored action, like the lion who hunts the oryx.”

  “But at least he listened to me, young one.”

  “The divine one still listens, but he’s growing into a man. If you don’t let him test himself, he’ll cast aside all your counsel and do something even more dangerous than usual.”

  Ay scowled at him. “Then you don’t think he’s too young for battle?”

  “Of course he’s too young.”

  “By the womb of Isis, then why do you chastise me for telling him so?”

  “Ay, where is your fabled diplomacy? The king is an untried youth in need of experience and all too aware of a kingdom watching his performance. His mistakes and embarrassments are discussed from the delta to Nubia, over every morning cup of beer, in every tavern, stable and cattle pen. Offer him something else besides opinions about his lack of prowess.”

  Ay sighed and lowered his chin to the palm of his hand. “I’m too old. I forget what it was like to be so young. That’s why I’m glad you’re here. He needs you young ones about him.”

  “Like Tanefer?”

  “Tanefer? That wild colt? Half the responsibility for this quarrel lies upon his shoulders.”

  “We have to do something, Ay.”

  “I know. I know. Now go away and let me think, young one.”

  Meren returned to a chair at his shaded place on the opposite side of the pool, only to find Maya in a fit of irritation. His hollow jaws worked, and his mouth slanted down even more than usual while he ranted at his aide.

  “Why must you disturb me about so inconsequential a matter when I’m in counsel with his majesty? Handle the matter yourself.”

  “But the overseer of stonemasons is upset,” the aide said. “And you always told me that master craftsmen can create much havoc if they’re disturbed. And after all, the priest did fall off his majesty’s image right in front of the temple of Amun.”

  Meren had been downing a cup of water when he heard this. He wiped his mouth. “What’s this?”

  Maya threw up his hands and said, “Some priest has fallen to his death from the scaffolding around the colossus of the king in front of the temple of Amun. An accident about which I don’t wish to know and don’t care.”

  “What priest?” Meren asked before gulping down more water.

  The aide consulted a scrap of papyrus. “A pure one, my lord. The pure one in charge of the supplies of precious stones and metals to be used on the statue. His name was, hmmm, his name was Unas.”

  “I don’t care what his name was,” Maya said. He sat down, crossed his legs at the ankles, and glared at the aide. “Go away.”

  The aide turned, but Meren held up his hand so that the man paused.

  “Maya, I think I understand why the matter was brought to your attention. If you will recall the delight the king takes in this brilliant image of himself, its monumental size—and its strategic position in front of the temple?”

  Maya groaned and rubbed his temples. “His majesty will be furious. By the staff of Ptah, he’s already angry, and now … I don’t want to add to his frustration.”

  “You’re right,” Meren said lightly. He glanced at Maya out of the corner of his eye and went on in as negligent a tone as he could produce. “However, if he knew the matter was already being taken in hand?”

  “Ah!” Maya’s pained look vanished, and he sat up. “You’ll investigate? I know it’s an insignificant matter, one you’d hardly touch yourself if it weren’t for the king. Could you?”

  “If you like.”

  “Excellent.” Maya waved his aide away and beamed at Meren. “My thanks, Falcon.”

  As Maya chattered on, Meren nodded and smiled while he thought furiously. He’d recognized that name. Unas. Unas was the name of the informer paid by his aide, Abu. Only a few weeks ago he’d seen him in the temple of Amun when investigating the murder in the place of Anubis. His informer among the priests of Amun was dead. Now he remembered. Yesterday he’d seen the little man with the pointed skull staring at him from the base of the statue, and now he’d fallen off it.

  Meren didn’t like the conjunction of events. He didn’t believe in accidents, not ones that happened to his informers. And yet it could be a simple accident. He’d been too long among courtiers who would murder their own husbands and wives to gain power. After all, Unas was one of thousands of pure ones in the service of Amun. Still, he had to be sure the death was an accident. Which was why he’d maneuvered to take charge of the investigation, an easy task, considering how much Maya disliked upsetting the king.

  Maya was almost as protective as Ay. Tanefer was right when he accused them of holding the king back, of nursing him like a sick calf. One had to be careful and suspicious if one wanted the king to live to reach manhood. Pharaoh lived with too many enemies—even his own wife. No, it was better to be suspicious than foolishly trusting. He would inform the king of the priest’s death, but he wouldn’t be able to investigate himself. His presence might arouse the hostility of the high priest. He’d send Kysen.

  Having decided his course of action, Meren closed his eyes and listened to Maya’s analysis of the risks to the king in warfare. He was nodding his agreement for the third time when a familiar voice spoke from somewhere above his head.

  “Wake up, cousin.”

  Meren’s eyes flew open, and he stared into the face of Ebana, so like his own except for the scar that arced across it. His cousin stood over him, an elegant and regal figure in gold, lapis lazuli, and transparent robes. Wide of shoulde
r, as fit as any charioteer, and as deadly, Ebana raked him with a black, black gaze.

  Meren clamped his hands on the arms of his chair, every sense awake, his body thrumming with the beat of alarm. Ebana, who hated him, who served the powerful high priest of Amun.

  Ebana gave Meren a cobra’s smile. “Prepare yourself, cousin. Your spy in the temple is dead.”

  Chapter 4

  Meren shook his head, leaned back, and loosened his grip on the arms of his chair as he smiled. “Ah, cousin, we’ve just heard of this accident at the temple. My spy?” He gave Maya a glance that held both amusement and resignation. “Why is it that everyone at court believes that I have spies in their households and in every temple in the kingdom?”

  “Because you do,” Maya said calmly.

  Meren would have liked to cuff the treasurer on the ear, but Ebana interrupted.

  “I saw your man speaking to him only a few weeks ago. It’s not like you to expose your minions so carelessly, but I had him watched after that.” His eyes glittered and fixed on Meren’s face. “And now he’s fallen to his death from the top of the king’s statue. No doubt the good god avenged himself upon his traitorous servant.”

  Sighing, Meren said, “Unas wasn’t my spy.”

  “You know his name.”

  “Gods, Ebana,” Maya said. “We just learned it together a few moments ago.”

  Meren had been watching his cousin through his lashes. If something weren’t done, Ebana would create a scandal that could eventually involve the king. He sighed again and gave Maya an apologetic look.

  “Would you mind, old friend, if I spoke to my cousin alone? Family quarrels and rivalries, you understand.”

  Maya registered no surprise, nor did he object at being edged out of a matter that involved his underlings. With a smooth acquiescence, he left them alone. Meren knew he would be inundated with queries later, which was why Maya could keep his curiosity under rein now. When he was gone, Meren rose so that Ebana could no longer look down on him.

  He turned away and, beckoning a slave, whispered that Kysen be summoned. Then he dismissed the servants with their fans and walked away from the chairs. He stopped when he reached one of the sycamores that surrounded the reflection pool in orderly rows.

  He glanced back at his cousin. Wide of shoulder, with a flat belly and long legs, Ebana had a body that closely adhered to the canon of proportions painters used to depict gods and kings. People said the cousins looked alike. Meren had never paid much attention to their resemblance. He did remember how Ebana used to laugh at him for being embarrassed when girls would linger in doorways and drape themselves on rooftops as they drove their chariots through the city.

  That had been when they were like brothers. Leaning his shoulder against the tree, he waited for Ebana to join him.

  “I haven’t come for a loving family talk,” Ebana said. He confronted Meren with arms folded across his chest. “I’ve come to report to his majesty.”

  “You know well that I was only pursuing a murderer when I talked to that priest. I talk to priests of Amun all the time, Ebana. Do you suspect each of them? And if you do, perhaps I should suspect you of killing this one.”

  Ebana flushed. “I’m no murderer, and don’t try to distract me.”

  A breeze caught and tossed the leaves of the sycamore. Meren breathed in cool air, closed his eyes, and raised his face to sunlight dappled by leafy branches. “Follow your own reasoning. Of all the priests of Amun, you’re the one I talk to the most. Therefore, you’re the one most likely to be my spy. Does Parenefer suspect you?”

  When Ebana didn’t answer, Meren opened his eyes. Had he not shared a childhood with the man, he couldn’t have read anything in his expression. Ebana’s eyes weren’t simply the dark brown of Egypt. They were true black, like the Nile at night. Only Meren could catch a glint as if the full moon had dropped into them, and the skin around them seemed pale from tension.

  “I didn’t know,” Meren said softly.

  “You know nothing. I have orders to report to the king. I could tell him what I know of your spy.”

  “Don’t,” Meren said as he began to rub the scar on his inner wrist. “You’ll only annoy him and create further strain between the temple and the court.”

  “Amun has no fear of—”

  “Ebana, sometimes you’re wearisome beyond endurance. I’ve had a letter from my sister She’s at home with Bener and Isis and says they’re both learning the running of an estate quite well. I have to admit that I didn’t think Isis would do well. You have daughters. You should understand how the youngest always manages to slip away from responsibilities.”

  “The way you slipped away from yours to me?”

  Ebana touched his temple where his scar began. It crossed his left cheek and slanted down his neck, where it disappeared under a gold-and-carnelian broad collar.

  Meren shoved away from the tree trunk and planted his feet apart. “Damn you. I tried to warn you, but I found out too late.”

  “I’ll never believe that you didn’t know Akhenaten had condemned me. You knew how unpredictable were his humors.”

  “Why won’t you understand? He almost killed me as well. I’d only been released a few days when I found out he’d sent men after you. I could barely stand, yet when I heard he’d taken it into his head that you sympathized with Amun, I tried to come to you. I could trust no one with a message, so I tried to warn you myself.”

  Ebana wasn’t looking at him. His gaze had gone distant. His mouth contorted as he sank into the memory.

  “You found them, didn’t you? My wife. My son. The guards dragged me away from their bodies. I never saw them again.”

  Slowly, Meren reached out. He touched his cousin’s arm, but Ebana shook him off.

  “You know I took care of them. Did I not conceal them and have them taken to Thebes? The old king never found their bodies, did he? I tried, Ebana.”

  “Did you?”

  Meren met his cousin’s gaze. For a moment he glimpsed the old Ebana, his friend and companion, the one who had studied with him, hunted with him, sailed with him. Then the pit of distrust and old hurts opened between them again. Meren subdued the pain of loss he always felt during one of these confrontations. Ebana chose to live in a netherworld of timeless grief and hatred. He couldn’t make his cousin whole again.

  “Leave it,” Meren said softly. “Leave it before it destroys you.” Ebana said nothing, and Meren veered away from the matter, glancing over his cousin’s shoulder in the direction of the palace. “Difficult as it is to believe, I’ve other tasks of greater importance than this accident. However, as a favor to Maya, I’m sending Kysen to inquire into the happenings at the god’s gate.”

  Ebana looked over his shoulder to watch Kysen’s approach. “Ah, your peasant son. Have you no seed left in your loins, that you have to adopt the spawn of a commoner?”

  Meren stepped close to Ebana. “Shut your teeth, cousin, or I’ll reach down your throat, pull your spine out, and make you eat it.”

  Moving back, he smiled sweetly at Ebana before welcoming Kysen. He heard Ebana curse him, but by the time Kysen greeted him, his usual mask of unconcern had settled over his features. With Ebana lurking beside him, he couldn’t warn Kysen of the significance of this death. He could only hope that Ky had learned enough to recognize danger without help.

  Kysen approached the statue of the king before the gate of Amun, his head throbbing from a night spent drinking beer and losing wagers at games of senet to Tanefer, Ahiram, and several other friends. He should have looked at a calendar this morning, for surely today was a day of misfortune for him. He knew his eyes were red-rimmed. His head felt like it had been filled to bursting with swamp water. And now he had to spend the day with his father’s serpent of a cousin.

  The noise of the temple aggravated his pain, for the house of Amun was more a city within a city, its great walls enclosing not only the home of the god but lesser shrines, the House of Life, workshops, a
treasury, libraries, the high priest’s residence, and service buildings. In addition there was a sacred lake, and every building contained its own staff of busy priests, servants, slaves, and sometimes priestesses.

  Blinking against the sun’s glare, he shaded his eyes and tried not to kick up dust as he walked. Something was wrong. Ordinarily the death of a lowly pure one wouldn’t concern the great Servant of the God, Ebana. Neither would it have attracted his father’s attention. Yet both men had been reserved as they gave him the task of investigating the accident.

  Meren rarely spoke of Ebana. His silence hadn’t kept Kysen from recognizing the violence of whatever secret lay between the two men. Nor had it disguised the place Ebana still held in Meren’s affection. Few had such a claim on his father. Kysen had learned long ago that Meren guarded his ka against deep attachments outside the family. He suspected the reasons lay in too many losses—father, mother, a beloved wife and infant son, comrades in warfare.

  The sun was rising high above the walls of the temple now, glinting off the gold-and-silver inlay of the god’s gate. The light sent jabs of pain spiking behind Kysen’s eyes. He squinted and stepped into the shadow cast by the statue of pharaoh. Workmen crawled over the great stone figure, climbing the scaffolding, carrying baskets of tools and waste flakes.

  Kysen stopped beside the base and studied the ground. “You let them move the body? Where is it, and where was it found? Gods, they’ve tramped all around here.”

  Ebana rounded on him.

  “Don’t address me as if I were a fruit seller, boy. Surely Meren has beaten some civilized behavior into you by now.”

  A white-hot poker drilled its way through Kysen’s skull, and he felt his cheeks burn. Ebana always managed to make him feel like fish dung, but he’d learned a little from watching his father.

  He inclined his head at Ebana and said, “I was abrupt. However, I doubt anyone could rid me of my plain blood, adopted cousin.” He paused to lift his head and stare dagger-straight at Ebana. “It sometimes makes me—unpredictable—to those whose raising was softer.”