Murder at the God's Gate

by Lynda S. Robinson

  On the water, a second skiff approached that of the king. Two men used poles to maneuver their craft in a charge at the king while a third attacked with a staff. The attacker was only a little over the height and weight of the king. Tutankhamun raised his own staff and blocked an overhead blow, then brought his weapon underneath to rap his opponent on the thigh.

  The opponent swept his staff in an arc, aiming for the king’s chest, but Tutankhamun used the momentum from his last blow; his staff swung up and cracked against the other. At the same time, the king leaned back, lifted his leg, and rammed his foot into his opponent’s chest. The man overbalanced. His arms flailed, knocking one of his comrades with his staff as he lost footing and plummeted into the water. A cheer went up from the charioteers.

  Meren smiled as the king waved his staff at them. The victory had been real. It would do the boy no good to allow him false accomplishments. Indeed, to flatter him unnecessarily would ruin any chance of his developing into a warrior who could lead the army and the kingdom. While the king’s skiff headed for shore, the royal charioteers broke into groups for archery practice.

  Meren turned back to Horemheb and Tanefer. “His majesty seems more cheerful than he has been of late.”

  “Ha!” Tanefer slapped Horemheb on the shoulder. “That’s because we persuaded Ay to sit in judgment of Prince Hunefer’s suit this morn instead of the king. His majesty hasn’t seen a dispatch or treasury report or a foreign emissary since midday yesterday.”

  “Good,” Meren said.

  Horemheb grunted and sliced at reeds with his riding whip. “Enough of these pleasantries. I’ve let you be long enough, Meren, and you know why the king’s majesty sent for you.”

  “Your mood is as foul as that of a wounded ox,” Meren said.

  Tanefer chuckled. “He’s unaccustomed to someone disagreeing with him. He spends all day with soldiers who do nothing but agree and all night with a wife who sees nothing but perfection in him.”

  Meren held up a hand before Horemheb could retort.

  “I know my fortnight is up, old friend.” He glanced at the river to see that the king’s skiff was almost with them. “Where is Maya?”

  This time Horemheb snorted like one of the chariot horses. “Hiding. You know how he dislikes proper argument. He sent word that the burdens of harvest recording would keep him away from the council for a few days.”

  Meren forbore from mentioning that Maya had invited him to his house for the afternoon meal. He was accustomed to the treasurer’s wriggling out of situations in which he would have to directly confront more forceful characters than himself. And Horemheb was by far the most forceful of the king’s councillors, emphasizing his points and views with growls, shouts, and hammerings of any object within his reach. Yes, Maya disliked such violent manners. If Horemheb was losing his temper frequently, Maya would bolt into a hole until the warrior calmed a bit.

  As the general opened his mouth to question Meren again, the king’s skiff came aground. Councillors, priests, and officers bowed, but Tutankhamun ignored them, leaped ashore regardless of water and mud, and stamped toward the group that included Meren. As he reached them, he signaled to Meren and kept walking.

  “Lord Meren will attend my majesty. Tiglith, water.”

  The king’s Syrian body slave darted forward with a golden cup. Tutankhamun snatched the cup and kept walking. Meren gave Tanefer and Horemheb an inquiring glance, but they shook their heads. He followed the king to the shade of a palm tree, wishing he was with Kysen inquiring into a simple priest’s death.

  “Well?” Tutankhamun said as soon as he reached the tree.

  “What is thy will, O golden one?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand what I’m asking, Meren.”

  The king emptied the cup of water down his throat, and Meren took the cup from him.

  “Very well, majesty.”

  “Then what’s your answer? Do we campaign next year?”

  “It is necessary, divine one.”

  He saw the spark that glinted in the boy’s eyes and inhaled deeply. “However, I can’t recommend that the golden one lead the campaign without first giving him at least some prior experience.”

  That spark fanned into a fire, and the king’s jaw began to work.

  “And just how does the golden one obtain battle experience without going into battle?”

  “Indeed, majesty, thy heart guides thee to the crux of the question.” Meren rushed on as Tutankhamun began to swear under his breath. “Therefore I recommend that thy majesty begin to attend small campaigns against the bandits and renegades that plague our villages from time to time, and perhaps the greater ones conducted against the barbarian tribes of Kush that threaten our southern forts.”

  The king burst into smiles, then laughed and clapped Meren on the back “I knew you would change your opinion.”

  Meren held up his hand. “A moment, majesty. There is more.”

  “What is it?”

  “If thy majesty excels in these maneuvers and encounters, all will be according to thy wish. But if not …”

  The king made a rude gesture such as all boys make. “By my ka, Meren, you’re a worrying grandmother I’ll do excellent well.”

  Meren felt a twinge of remorse for the way he closed in on the boy, but he did it anyway. “Then the divine one will deign to give me his word that, should ill befall him in these skirmishes, he will abide by my decision to keep him from battle for another year?”

  The smile vanished. “You tricked me.”

  “No, majesty,” Meren said. “Consider this a wager between the two of us. Against a year’s delay, you wager that you’ll gain the skill necessary to lead the army by the end of Inundation next year.”

  “Horemheb, Tanefer!” the king shouted.

  The two men ran over to them while the king began to stomp back and forth in front of Meren. When they arrived, he pointed at Meren and glared.

  “He’s tricked me. I must practice at war on thieves and barbarians.”

  Meren inclined his head. “The divine one has seen the wisdom of gaining experience in small skirmishes against bandits and the southern tribes before facing the trained armies of the Asiatics.”

  Meren could see that Tanefer was having difficulty suppressing his amusement, but Horemheb gave him a sharp look before he replied.

  “Lord Meren but recommends the course of training followed by all great warriors, including himself, majesty. It’s the path followed by Thutmose the Conqueror thy mighty ancestor.”

  He would have to thank Horemheb when they were alone, for Tutankhamun’s anger vanished at once.

  “The Conqueror, you say? I didn’t know.”

  Tanefer slid into the conversation with the ease of the royal skiff floating on the Nile. “And of course it’s the path followed by this humble subject and General Horemheb as well.”

  “There is more,” Meren said. “Thy majesty must consult the records of battle contained in the House of Life, those of the Conqueror, of the great Ahmose who freed Egypt from the foreign Hyksos, and certain reports from my intelligencers regarding the practices of the Hittite armies.”

  His voice faded as an idea formed. He would send agents north to the outposts in Syria with instructions to capture Hittite officers alive; perhaps he would go there himself to question them.

  “Excellent,” Tutankhamun was saying. “At last we advance. This endless quibbling was about to drive me mad. What else must we do?”

  “Thy majesty must issue orders for the calling up of reserves,” Meren said. “All the soldiers who have been allowed to return to their homes and lands must be summoned.”

  “And I must begin to recruit more men,” Horemheb added.

  “Which means,” Tanefer said, “that the divine one will hold a great Enrollment of Recruits.”

  Meren nodded his agreement. “Then, of course, we must inventory all weapons and equipment and issue orders for more, and then all the troops must train ev
en as thy majesty trains. There’s much work to be done.”

  The king grinned and set out in the direction of his tent. “And after it’s done, I will go to war.”

  Meren exchanged glances with Tanefer and Horemheb. None of them was smiling.

  Ebana walked into the House of Life with Rahotep. Qenamun was a few steps ahead of them. Rahotep had returned with them to the temple to obtain a new book of dream interpretations from Qenamun, who was known for his power in interpreting the ancient scripts and magical signs. Rahotep was detailing his latest grievance, which was that the king hadn’t given him an important command in Kush, the lands to the south of Egypt and the source of the rivers of gold that flowed into the royal coffers.

  Qenamun paused to speak to one of the scribes in charge of making copies of the Book of the Dead. Ebana pretended to listen to Rahotep while he speculated upon the meaning of Kysen’s sudden appearance in the quay market earlier. The boy had said that the house of Unas had been searched and disrupted. How had he found out? Meren must have alerted the city police of his interest in any matters pertaining to the dead priest. Or his spies had told him. Meren indeed had spies everywhere.

  And now his cousin’s attention had been drawn once again to the temple, and to the priesthood. Ebana called down the wrath of Amun upon whatever demon was causing his ill fortune. What was worse, Kysen now blamed him for that incident of the falling bricks. Why couldn’t the boy simply realize that old walls crumble and masonry falls?

  “So now I’m left with this paltry command in the Division of Amun,” Rahotep was saying.

  Ebana rolled his eyes. Rahotep seemed oblivious of the insult to the good god and to Ebana, but then, Rahotep had never been sympathetic to the feelings of others.

  “Your burdens are indeed great,” Ebana said with solemnity. “But come.”

  Qenamun had resumed his progress between the rows of columns. They followed him and turned down a corridor that led to the priest’s workroom. Ebana disliked going into this chamber, where he would be at close quarters with so many magical implements. Qenamun’s workroom tables groaned with the weight of grinding stones used to crush bones, herbs, stones, and other, less identifiable materials. Every corner was cluttered with jars and bowls filled with roots, wax, pigments, and pastes. One bowl seemed to be dedicated to growing a noxious mold Ebana suspected of being poisonous.

  He allowed Rahotep to precede him. The priest went to a wall of shelves to the left and pulled out the casket containing his scribal equipment and his current commissions. The box was made of polished cedar edged with ebony so that the red wood stood out against the black. The gabled lid and side panels were all bordered with ebony inscribed with hieroglyphs. Carved in shallow relief on the cedar was the figure of Qenamun making offerings to the god of learning, Toth.

  “I have but to inscribe the book with your name and titles, Prince Rahotep,” Qenamun said.

  Ebana paused at the threshold while Rahotep wandered to the first worktable and touched a wax figurine. Qenamun glanced at him as he set the casket on a work surface that projected from the middle of the shelves.

  “The First Prophet has given me the task of cursing the rebellious Nubians who attacked that fort last month,” the priest said.

  Ebana pursed his lips. Qenamun was exactly the kind of man he would have forbidden to specialize in magic. How could Parenefer favor him so? True, the man could interpret dreams better than anyone, but so devious a heart should be kept from the power of great knowledge.

  But he mustn’t allow his thoughts to drive him, or they would show in his features. Ebana forced himself to give the lector priest a half smile as he watched him lift the cedar-and-ebony lid and reach inside the casket. He heard a hiss, then silence.

  In the space of a breath, Qenamun’s face went blank, then contorted as he screamed. His hand came out of the casket bearing dark, writhing tentacles. The priest’s screams bounced off the stone walls as he threw the dark, wriggling mass away from his body.

  Ebana saw the flare of a hood, horizontal stripes. Cobras! Ebana shouted at Rahotep, who was already running past him. Qenamun had jumped onto the nearest worktable, moaning and clutching his arm. Ebana darted out of the path of a fleeing snake and yelled at a group of priests who had come running at the noise. They turned as a body and fled back down the corridor as Ebana called to them to fetch a guard. He ran out of the room, turned, and clutched the edge of the open door. He searched the floor for cobras, but most of them had fled to dark corners underneath furniture and shelves.

  Qenamun was still on the table amid vials, wax figures, and herb jars. He had curled into himself, still gripping his arm, which bore at least five strike marks. Ebana called to him, but he received only a moan in answer He moved closer, but shrank back from the door when a long, narrow body rose up from behind a jar, hood flaring.

  Down the corridor a guard arrived with spear in hand and was poking it into shadows as he inspected room after room. As the moments passed, he could hear Qenamun’s breathing increase until it sounded like the pant of a dog. The guard reached him, and Ebana pointed to the cobra behind the jar.

  “I think there are four others, maybe more.”

  The guard swallowed, then drew a knife from his belt, took aim, and threw. The knife hit the jar, and the cobra slithered behind a basket under the table where Qenamun lay. Ebana halted the man when he would have thrown his spear.

  “Look.” He pointed at Qenamun.

  The priest’s body had begun to jerk. His foot hit a jar and kicked it off the table. The crash sent the cobra slithering between two tall oil jars. They watched in horrified captivation while Qenamun’s body twitched with violent spasms. Two more guards joined them with knives and spears while a servant came bearing three of Parenefer’s hunting cats.

  Ebana ordered the hunting cats released into the workroom, and everyone watched and waited while the creatures calmly set about stalking the cobras. There was no hurry now, for everyone could see the number of strike marks on Qenamun’s body. A man might survive one, but not seven.

  As the cats stalked and pounced, the priest lapsed into a stupor. By the time they were finished, so was the life of Qenamun.

  Chapter 10

  Meren leaned back in his chair and gazed up at a column shaped like a bundle of lotus flowers. Beyond the loggia where they were finishing the afternoon meal, real flowers, the blue and rose lotus, floated on Maya’s pleasure pond in the glare of sunlight. He had arrived a short time earlier after watching the king at archery practice.

  While he, Tanefer, and Horemheb had watched the king, Prince Djoser joined them and immediately mentioned the pottery shard story Kysen had begun to foster While Tanefer and Djoser speculated on Meren’s odd interest in pottery, Ahiram appeared, boisterous and in determined good spirits.

  He’d been watching the wrestlers and now put forth the opinion that Meren saw plots and conspiracies in every shadow and whisper. The fool priest had probably tripped over his own kilt when he fell off the king’s statue. Meren did his best to appear as if he knew more than he was telling and then turned his attention back to the king.

  Tutankhamun had chosen a heavier bow than usual, and the practice hadn’t gone well. With every miss, the boy’s mouth had settled into a tighter line until it resembled the seam between two pyramid blocks. The tighter the line, the more quiet grew the warriors and officials around the king.

  Ahiram had made things worse. At the last miss, he’d spoken up to say that the fault lay in whoever gave his majesty that bow, which was far too heavy for one so young. Tutankhamun had reddened and snapped the bowstring past his wristguard, causing a nasty burn. That ended archery practice. The priest of Montu had rescued everyone by divining in the remains of his sacrifice that today was not a good day for the bow and arrow.

  With the king’s young pride assuaged, Meren left the court. He’d noticed that the priest had offered his explanation after Tanefer had strolled over to have a quiet word with him. M
eren decided to speak with Ay about Tanefer’s diplomatic abilities. They could be of use in a position of greater authority, if the prince could be persuaded to accept the responsibility.

  Now Meren lifted his silver cup to a servant, who hefted a wine jar out of its stand and poured dark, sweet liquid into it. He was stuffed with mutton and fresh bread, which meant that at any moment Maya would abandon inconsequential chatter about his family. He thrived more on the discussion of people’s problems than on food, and had a habit of plying his confidants with rich victuals on the supposition that a full stomach encouraged a loose tongue.

  Maya knew this strategy didn’t work on Meren, but he tried anyway. He’d been trying for years. His latest interest appeared to be Meren’s lack of a wife.

  “It’s been too many years, my Falcon. Sit-Hathor lives in the netherworld, and you’re still here.” Maya glanced at him sideways with heavy-lidded, tilted eyes. “Lady Bentanta, now, there’s a woman worth marrying. As beautiful as the Nile.”

  “Change the subject, Maya.”

  “Very well.”

  Maya had agreed too readily, making Meren immediately wary.

  “Don’t you think that this argument about the king leading the army has been going on far too long?”

  Meren glanced at his friend, said nothing, and lifted a brow.

  “This incessant quarreling is giving me foul humors,” Maya said when he realized Meren wasn’t going to respond. “It disturbs my ka to have Horemheb shouting in my ear for several hours each day. I’ve been to war too, you know. I understand the risks, and that’s why I recommend caution. But I tell you, I’m thinking of going to the king if my courage is questioned once more by that son of a commoner.”

  This time Meren straightened up in his chair. “There’s no need. Today I suggested a plan by which the king can practice at war without actually engaging in it.”

  He explained his design to Maya, whose whole face brightened as he realized the compromise Meren offered.