Murder at the God's Gate

by Lynda S. Robinson

  “It will do you no good, all this poking and prying,” Ebana said. “Do you know how many people come and go from this temple every day? Hundreds, nay, thousands, from all parts of the empire. Worshipers, supplicants, stewards and officials from the estates of Amun, government officers, sacred singers, priestesses, students and their teachers, subjects in need of official wills or other legal documents. I could go on.”

  “No, just tell me who might want Qenamun dead.”

  Ebana walked over to Meren and leaned on the table beside the casket. “Qenamun was a lector priest. I suppose he might have offended someone in his practice of magic. Look on the table beside his body. That wax figure is of the Hittite king.”

  Kysen picked up the figurine and read the inscription. “He’s right.”

  “A most secret request from General Horemheb,” Ebana said. “So you see it could even have been a foreigner who put the cobras in Qenamun’s way.”

  “I’ve found, cousin, that murder is often a crime of intimacy. In this instance, someone who was familiar with Qenamun’s possessions and habits. Someone who knew his way to this room, knew when he could expect Qenamun to be absent from it and for how long. Someone like a priest.”

  Kysen wandered over to them. “And someone who had cause to hate him. Someone who, if I remember rightly, detested him because he created discord as lovingly as a spider spins a web.”

  Meren lifted a brow. “Ah, yes,” he said. “How did you describe Qenamun, a scorpion? Did he do more to you than ruin one of your promising assistants? Was he a danger to you?”

  With an abrupt lunge, Ebana stepped between Kysen and Meren so that his body blocked Kysen’s view. He grabbed Meren’s arm and twisted it to reveal the sun-disk scar. Only Meren heard his whisper.

  “Dearest cousin, that scorpion was just as much a danger to me as the old king was to you.”

  Meren winced as Ebana’s fingers dug into the flesh around the scar. Ebana knew the old heretic king had branded him with the symbol of his personal god. Was he merely telling Meren that there had been no danger, or was he implying knowledge of Akhenaten’s death?

  For a moment, the workroom faded as his inadvertent role in the old king’s death flashed through his thoughts. He felt the sting of remorse, the shame of a defiled ka. Then he caught hold of his wits and jerked his arm free of Ebana’s grip. But not before he saw satisfaction flicker across his cousin’s face.

  Meren turned back to the casket and lifted its gabled lid into place. “I’m not concerned with the past. My concern is that of pharaoh—the harmony and balance of the Two Lands. And most of all my concern is finding and destroying those who would threaten pharaoh, the living son of the god.”

  Ebana smiled with his mouth, if not with the rest of his face, as he walked away from Meren to the door.

  “And since I serve Amun, father of the king,” Ebana said as he left, “our concerns are the same.”

  Meren stood staring at the empty doorway for a while before uttering a quiet curse.

  “Do you think he did it?” Kysen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Meren replied. “It’s as he says. Countless numbers of people pass into the temple each day. By the gods, Rahotep was here when it happened. But I won’t believe that the two deaths have nothing to do with each other. They worked together, master and underling. Unfortunately, the secrets of the temple are as hidden as the underworld.”

  Kysen’s gaze dropped to the tips of his sandals. “Rahotep. Ah yes, Rahotep.”

  Hearing a reluctance in Kysen’s voice, Meren turned to stare at his son.

  “About Rahotep. And Ebana. And Qenamun.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  Kysen cleared his throat and embarked upon an explanation of his adventures at the house of Unas, his near-encounter with the masonry, and the meeting at the market with the priests and Rahotep.

  “Damnation and fires of the netherworld! Did I not warn you never to go alone when making inquiries like that? No, don’t speak.” Meren expelled a long breath while silently reciting a prayer to Toth in an effort to govern his temper. Kysen knew his error, and he shouldn’t be scolded like a child. “You’re saying that any of them could have tried to kill you—Ebana, Rahotep, Qenamun, or one of the others.”

  “Aye,” Kysen said.

  “Rahotep,” Meren said quietly. “I’d forgotten how belligerent he was while he was away so long with Tanefer. But perhaps he really has gotten worse—offensively boastful unto madness.”

  “He’s much more hot-bellied than he used to be,” Kysen said.

  “I can’t believe these two deaths are unrelated,” Meren said, “but neither can I believe that Rahotep would have reason to kill them.”

  “We don’t know why either of them was killed.”

  Meren walked over to the body of the lector priest. “Not yet, but I’m going to find out.”

  They examined the workroom silently for a while before Meren picked up the casket and prepared to leave. Kysen took the box from him, forcing Meren to meet his gaze.

  “What was going on when we came in?”

  Meren glanced over Kysen’s shoulder at the basket containing the cobras. It hadn’t moved since Parenefer last touched it.

  “I’m not sure, but you may have saved my life.”

  He smiled at Kysen’s slack jaw. “Those cobras in the basket aren’t the only ones we have to worry about.”

  Two days after Qenamun was killed, Meren’s men had questioned dozens of priests and visitors to the House of Life. Meren and Kysen had dealt personally with those of higher rank. After that first day, Parenefer had left them to their tasks while he kept to the high priest’s residence and other parts of the temple complex, well away from the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.

  Meren was in his office between the house and the charioteers’ barracks, listening to Kysen read a list of those who had been at the House of Life the day before Qenamun was killed. Qenamun had left the temple for the last time that day an hour before sunset.

  “Everyone knew he left early on that day of the week in order to receive private commissions at his home,” Kysen said. “If you wanted to tamper with his possessions, you would wait for that day.”

  “I hadn’t expected our shard rumor to produce such evil results,” Meren said. “An ugly death, even for Qenamun. And—and, if indeed the rumor precipitated this murder, I’ve failed to divine its significance.”

  “It would take a god to understand the significance of a few pieces of pottery,” Kysen said.

  Meren sighed, set aside one of Qenamun’s dream books, and rose from his chair Both of them had spent hours examining the shards, to no avail. He went to a box inlaid with ivory, took out his leather juggling balls, and set them in motion.

  “A lector priest of Qenamun’s reputed power is privy to many secrets. And from what Ebana said, he was the kind of man to use what he knew to gain power and create discord.” Meren followed the course of the balls as they whirled in front of him. As their speed increased, so did the pace of his thoughts. “If he was as Ebana says, he could very well have been the one who tried to kill you, which might mean he rifled Unas’s house, and might mean he was Unas’s killer.”

  “But we’ve found no indications of any of that at his temple workroom or at his house,” Kysen said.

  Meren weaved back and forth, trying to keep the juggling balls in line with each other. “Nor at anyone else’s house. I’m tempted to ask pharaoh for permission to investigate Rahotep.”

  “Gods,” Kysen said. “What a storm of fury that would bring.”

  “And I have no real evidence to present to the king when I request permission to treat a half-royal prince like a criminal.”

  Kysen snorted. “You might as well ask to throw Parenefer in gaol.”

  “I see you understand the difficulty.”

  Kysen threaded his fingers through his hair and then ran his finger down a list of names on the papyrus he was holding. “I’ve marked off those who see
m to have no connection with Qenamun, which leaves us with over thirty others who either knew him or worked with him and were at the temple the day before he was killed.”

  Meren began walking around the room, tossing the balls ahead of him.

  “Ebana was right. The temple provided perfect concealment. Someone could have conveyed the cobras in a casket or bag, and it would appear like any other offering meant for the god. Still, it would have to be someone whom the priests wouldn’t question if he appeared at the House of Life. Another priest, or a nobleman, or a priestess.”

  “Abu says he still hasn’t found evidence of cobras being kept at anyone’s house or at the temple,” Kysen said.

  “They have to have been kept somewhere.”

  Kysen got up and went to a table where Qenamun’s cedar-and-ebony casket sat. Its contents lay spread over the table, except for the rush pens, which had been left in the bottom of the box. He lifted a weight that secured a stack of papyrus rolls and leafed through them.

  “There are texts here for Prince Djoser, Rahotep, General Horemheb, and Ahiram.”

  “I know,” Meren said. “I’ve read them, but they’re only dream interpretations and calendars that set out each day according to their portents, either good or bad. I can see nothing that would provoke someone to murder. Everyone has calendars and dream interpretations. Horemheb consults five or six lector priests each year.”

  Meren’s juggling slowed. He listened to the soft pat-pat of the leather against his hands.

  “Horemheb. I’ve been thinking about Horemheb.”

  Kysen glanced up from the stack of papyri, but remained silent, waiting. Finally Meren’s hand fumbled, and a ball dropped and rolled under the table. Meren caught the remaining balls, but stood staring at nothing.

  “I was at Maya’s, just before Tanefer came to tell me about Qenamun. You know Maya. He loves to listen to intimate problems, and he was trying to get me to tell him mine. When I wouldn’t, he began to talk. And he said something about Horemheb—that he chaffed at the constraints put on him. That he’s furious at how the army and empire had been neglected. It’s rumored that he thinks Ay is too old to be vizier, and pharaoh’s councillors too cautious.”

  “We know this,” Kysen said.

  Meren glanced at his son. “Now it appears that the whole court knows it, and the army. And what worries me more is that Maya said Horemheb thinks Egypt needs—if I remember well—a bold leader of prime years. Tanefer interrupted us, but I think he was going to say, a leader of prime years instead of a boy.”

  Meren and Kysen regarded each other in silence. Outside, the sounds of the barracks could be heard—horses whinnying, the harsh laughter of the charioteers, the slam of a door.

  “What do you think?”

  Meren stooped to pick up the ball he’d dropped and began to juggle again. “Such rumors grow and spread like reeds in a marsh. Most are distortions bearing no resemblance to the truth.”

  “But when the rumor concerns General Horemheb …”

  “Then,” said Meren as he tossed a ball high above his head, “then we must find out how great is the distortion, and what was the seed of truth from which this flower of rumor sprang.”

  “But Horemheb? He fought beside you, and he’s defended the empire against its enemies for years.”

  “I know,” Meren said, hearing his own voice snap with temper He stopped juggling and tossed the balls into their box. “I know, Ky, but pharaohs cannot afford to trust anyone blindly, and it’s my duty to see that every hint of risk is investigated.”

  Kysen went back to his chair and picked up a closed leather dispatch case. “Have you thought that Maya might be lying?”

  “Of course,” Meren said. “But Maya has nothing to gain because he has no greater ambition than to be what he is. I’m more inclined to think of him as a furrow through which water carries the silt of rumor and intelligence, all jumbled together without regard to legitimacy.”

  Meren pulled his chair nearer to Kysen’s, sat down and began to rub his forehead. “Gods, these endless intrigues and quarrels will drive me into madness one day.”

  He heard one of the epithets Kysen had learned from his training as a charioteer and looked up quickly. Kysen was holding a dispatch bearing the seal of one of the commanders at the frontier forts between the delta and Palestine and Syria. He handed the report to Meren.

  It detailed an increase in activity, traffic on the desert roads, raids by new groups of bandits—former soldiers of the armies of the fallen Mitanni empire had wandered south and were now reaching the frontier. They, along with outlaw nomads, were raiding isolated villages as well as attacking travelers, especially merchant caravans. Egyptian troops had clashed with the Mitanni and routed and pursued them, but lost their trail in the desert. The commander was concerned because of the unusually large number of these bandits. Some groups almost constituted a small army.

  Meren handed the dispatch back to Kysen, thrust himself out of his chair, and walked back and forth between it and the table. “Curse it. Very well. Find Abu and have him make copies of the report. Then send him to Horemheb and General Nakhtmin. He is to see them personally and alone. They will reinforce the border garrisons.” Meren stopped beside Kysen’s chair and glanced down. “I may have to go north myself. I don’t like this talk of renegades at our borders, and I’ve a need to question a Hittite, if I can find one.”

  “You’re going to the frontier alone?”

  “I don’t wish to be noticed and have my presence announced to the Hittite king or his allies among the Syrian princes.”

  “But you can’t go without protection! If you’re recognized—”

  They turned at the same time as a knock interrupted.

  “Enter,” Meren said.

  Abu came in, only to glance over his shoulder in surprise as Tanefer sailed into the room after him. Abu gave Meren a startled look, but Meren shook his head.

  “Your man told me to wait, but you know how I hate that,” Tanefer said as he dropped into Meren’s chair and glanced at the papers Kysen had left in his own.

  Kysen stooped and picked them up, and Tanefer grinned at him.

  “Fear not, young one. I’m not a spy. I’m a simple soldier, good at killing, but not skilled at intrigue and deceit.”

  “Tanefer,” Kysen said as he handed the papers to Abu, “you’re a walking scandal.”

  “An accomplishment at which I labor ceaselessly.”

  “You haven’t come to give me news of another murder, have you?” Meren asked.

  “No, brother of my heart. Ay asked me to try to keep the king distracted. The divine one is anxious to be off on his first skirmish, but the viceroy of Kush is due any day with a fleet laden with tribute, and the king must be here for the reception ceremony.”

  Tanefer rose and slapped Meren on the back. “So I have organized a hippo hunt. There’s a rogue male preying just south of the city. Killed three fishermen today. So we’re all to hunt tomorrow morning. The king commands your presence, both of you.”

  “I have much to do,” Meren said.

  Tanefer nodded. “Ah, the lector priest. Have you found out who killed him?”

  “No.”

  Kysen threw up his hands. “It seems as if the whole city visited the temple of Amun on the day those cobras were put into Qenamun’s casket.”

  “The answer may be simple,” Tanefer said. “Was Qenamun bedding another priest’s wife? Did he stand in the way of another’s advancement or threaten a superior?”

  “No doubt he did all of those things,” Meren said.

  Tanefer wandered over to the table bearing Qenamun’s documents and began to peruse them.

  Meren quickly walked to the door and swept his arm in the direction of the house. “Will you take the evening meal with us?”

  Tanefer looked up, then preceded Meren outside.

  “You’re as secretive as a virgin with her first lover, Meren.”

  “And you’re too curious
for a simple soldier.” As Tanefer walked back toward the house, Meren whispered to Kysen. “Give Abu his instructions and then follow.”

  Meren walked beside Tanefer on the path that led from his office, between the servant’s quarters and through a small gate in the wall surrounding the reflection pool and pleasure garden.

  Tanefer paused beside the pool to gaze at a blue lotus floating in a nest of deep green leaves. The fiery solar barque of Ra had passed its peak in the sky and was chasing the western horizon. Meren thought of these moments just before dusk as the golden time of day, because the sun’s rays turned the air and water to gold. Tanefer knelt suddenly and reached out to touch the petals of the blue lotus.

  “I come from a line of warriors, Meren.”

  “The Mitanni have always been great fighters.”

  “Unfortunately, my uncle and his lineage never learned when to stop and negotiate. That’s why he lost his throne.”

  Tanefer dipped his hand in the water and looked up at Meren. His eyes held the sadness Meren had seen when he first returned home from Syria.

  “The empire is crumbling. A rival lineage seeks the favor of the Hittite king Suppiluliumas, and now Egypt will soon feel the edge of the barbarian blade.”

  “Suppiluliumas isn’t a fool,” Meren said. “He won’t attack Egypt directly yet.”

  Tanefer got up and wiped his hand on his kilt. “No, thank the gods. Egypt will be spared, and the Nile won’t turn red with blood as did the Euphrates.” He gave Meren a half smile. “But how long do we have?”

  “It’s not like you to be so low of spirit.”

  Gazing across the water, Tanefer shook his head. “I tried to make Ay understand, but he won’t listen. You know the Hittites, Meren. You know their unparalleled appetite for carnage. How long can we sit in our palaces and squabble like spoiled children?” He sighed. “It’s Ay’s fault, you know, for allowing pharaoh and his advisers to cavil and pick at trifles while ignoring the rest of the world.”

  “You think Ay is too much like Akhenaten.”