Murder at the God's Gate

by Lynda S. Robinson

  “What do you mean, not clear?” Rahotep’s voice began to rise. “Either he’s dead, or he’s not. Did you kill him?”

  This last had been said in a loud voice. Silence fell over those nearest them, and Meren saw a priest of Ra and several officers of the infantry look their way. Rahotep had clamped his mouth shut and was gawking at him as if he couldn’t believe he’d blurted out the accusation. Meren directed a regal stare at the prince.

  “You’re overexcited, Rahotep. Maybe this is an inauspicious day for you, and a sacrifice to Amun or Toth would aid your disposition.” He paused while he watched Rahotep try to shrink into himself. “Or perhaps you should just go home.”

  He left the prince standing in the small clearing his outburst had created and continued to weave his way through the crowd toward the tall double doors in the palace entry way. These portals were of cedar of Byblos overlaid with sheet gold, which showed scenes of the king in his chariot making war on the nine traditional enemies of Egypt. He forced himself not to glare at the image of Tutankhamun.

  So great was his concentration that he almost ran into Tanefer and Maya when they appeared in front of him. They fell in step with him as he walked outside to the courtyard and called for a groom to bring his chariot. When the groom had gone, both men faced him.

  “What have you done, Falcon?” Maya asked in a whisper. “We just came from the king, and he’s furious with you. I’ve never seen him furious with you.”

  Tanefer gave Maya an irritated glance. “You know he’s not going to tell you, nor should he. Did you find Ahiram?”

  All this interest in Ahiram was only natural. Still, Meren watched both men as he responded. “I found him.”

  Both men gazed at him with frank interest, which told him nothing.

  “Well?” Maya said. “What was his reason for fleeing the court? Have you made him talk? Gods, Meren, you’ll have to tell us sometime, and if you don’t, we’ll find out anyway. I’ll get it from Ay.”

  “Ahiram is dead.”

  Maya fell silent, staring at him, while Tanefer sighed.

  “What did you think would happen?” Tanefer asked the treasurer “Only the guilty run away. The innocent have no reason to flee. Therefore Ahiram was guilty of something, some great evil. He wouldn’t take flight for a lesser crime.”

  Tanefer paused and glanced at Meren, who kept his expression benign.

  “Did you find him dead somewhere, or did you kill him?” Maya asked. “Were you able to question him?”

  The treasurer still regarded Meren with anxious curiosity, but Tanefer smiled as he directed an assessing gaze at him.

  “He’s not going to tell you,” Tanefer said. “Peace, Maya. You’ll have to wait, for something of great import must have happened, or our divine one wouldn’t at this moment be storming about the royal apartments in a temper and refusing to begin his royal duties. I’ll wager Meren found Ahiram and learned something none of us is going to like.”

  “Look at him,” Maya said to Tanefer. “I might as well try to talk to a stela for all I can read in that face. Has someone turned you to granite, Meren?”

  The golden doors of the palace swung open, and Ay appeared from the shadowed interior, followed by a flock of scribes and servants. He waved them back inside and joined the three men in the courtyard. At the same time, Meren’s chariot arrived. The groom hopped out of it and stood holding the reins.

  “There you are, Maya,” Ay said. “The golden one has summoned you again. Tanefer, go with him.”

  “What’s wrong?” Maya asked the vizier. “I should be told, you know. I’m a king’s councillor too.”

  “Then go council the king,” Ay said.

  Maya was growing red with annoyance. Meren remained silent even though he knew his friend was taking offence. But the risk was too great. He wanted no one to know how much or how little Ahiram had said before he died. And if everyone assumed he had killed the prince, well, it didn’t hurt for people to fear him. Not if there was some plot against the king brewing between the court and the temple of Amun.

  Tanefer pulled Maya away toward the palace. Meren took the reins from the groom and dismissed the man. Ay clutched his arm and they began to walk across the courtyard, the horses pacing slowly beside Meren.

  “You mustn’t be angry with his majesty,” Ay said.

  Meren glanced around the courtyard, but all the sentries and grooms and arriving courtiers were out of hearing range.

  He spoke to the vizier without glancing his way. “Gods, spirits, and fiends preserve me from your admonitions.”

  “I know he’s being unfair, but he will calm. You see, he’s heard the rumors about Horemheb.”

  Meren slowed, then stopped and turned to face Ay. “What has he heard?”

  “That Horemheb thinks he’d make a better pharaoh. That he could lead the army now, march all the way to Carchemish, and kick Suppiluliumas back to his frozen Anatolian mountains. So you can see why Tutankhamun is fearful. If his generals are dissatisfied, he is indeed in danger. And he thinks the only way to fight this threat is to make war himself.”

  The rumor hadn’t died as he thought it would. Most flew about the court like a desert breeze and then vanished; this one hadn’t. Instead, it had grown, whirling around, gathering intensity, feeding on the refuse it picked up in its wanderings. He glanced at Ay, who was examining the golden head of his walking stick.

  “Horemheb is a commoner,” he said. “He’d never even imagine himself on the throne.”

  “Any man who marries the royal heiress can come to the throne. You know that. It has happened.”

  Meren shook his head. “He saved my life when we were youths in the charioteers. It was a skirmish against Libyan rebels at the el-Kharga oasis. I fell from my chariot when it hit a rock, flew up like an arrow, and hit the ground like a boulder. Got the wind pounded out of me, and while I was dazed, a Libyan pounced on my chest and would have slit my throat if Horemheb hadn’t chopped his head off.”

  A squad of infantry marched toward them, parted, and flowed around them as Meren and Ay stared at each other.

  “I don’t want to believe the rumor either,” Ay said. “But neither of us can afford to ignore it.”

  “He would never betray the king.”

  “We must discover what is going on soon.”

  Meren patted his horse’s muzzle as he thought. “Look at what’s happening.”

  “I have been,” Ay replied.

  “No, I mean, what the result has been. Pharaoh no longer trusts two of his most intimate advisors.” He brushed his cheek against the softness of a big muzzle. “Horemheb, and me. Someone is trying to separate the king from his closest and most trusted friends. Why? Not just to gain influence over a boy who is king, but possibly to render him—”

  “Vulnerable,” Ay said.

  Meren nodded. “And to force him to put his trust elsewhere, in the wrong people, who will then betray him.”

  “Which is why I’ve warned Karoya and put the king’s war band on guard duty at the palace. I’ve asked Tanefer to stay in Thebes and add his men to those at the palace. He was going to his estate near Bubastis. Hasn’t been home in nearly eight months and wanted to see his wife before he was sent away again on some campaign. But he’ll stay as long as we need him.”

  “Good.” Meren got into the chariot and leaned down to Ay. “I can do no good here while the king is so unreasonable.”

  “It’s only the fear.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s as if Kysen had accused me of trying to kill him. No, don’t say anything more. Since the king no longer listens to me, I’ll work on solving these murders. Someone powerful has committed this great evil, and I’d better find out who it is before he strikes again, at the king, directly.”

  The man spoke only the language of the Mitanni.

  Kysen studied the prisoner. Although near him in age, the prisoner wore a beard and curled locks. A once-fine robe of red and green, interwoven with gold thread, was
wrapped around his body, but it had been torn in combat. It was stained with sweat and blood from a gash in the young man’s upper arm.

  He had been called to the barracks, a long, low building with a central hall, cells, and quarters for the charioteers. Two weary men had brought the prisoner in after chasing him down the Red Sea road. Evidently, after the skirmish he’d circled around and tried to reach the coast. They had tried to question him, only to find that he spoke no Egyptian.

  Kysen walked back and forth in front of the man, impatient and worried. This man might know who was responsible for Ahiram’s death and for the desecration of Akhenaten’s tomb, and he couldn’t understand him. The longer they remained in ignorance, the greater the danger to pharaoh and to the Two Lands.

  His guards had thrown the Mitanni to the floor at Kysen’s feet. Now he was crouched there as if ready to spring. His date-shaped eyes reflected the golden light and black shadows created by a lamp sitting on a wooden stand that reached almost to Kysen’s shoulder.

  High rectangular windows let in little light to aid that cast by the lamp. The prisoner darted glances at the guards standing to either side of him and at Kysen. Abu and Reia waited near the columns between Kysen and the door.

  “The lord Meren was right,” Abu said. “Mercenaries. We had heard that soldiers of the Mitanni were fleeing in the face of the Hittite invasion.”

  “Send to the office of the vizier for a scribe who can talk to the man,” Kysen said to Reia. “But not one who only knows how to translate written documents. And Reia, hurry.”

  As Reia left, Kysen studied the prisoner. His lips were cracked and swollen. Dried blood had gathered at the corner of his mouth.

  “You’re sure he was one of these so-called bandits who attacked Prince Ahiram.”

  “Aye, lord,” said one of the guards. “We followed him from the skirmish, but his horses were swift, and he outran us until one of them went lame.”

  Turning away from the prisoner, Kysen poured a cup of water from a jar by one of the columns. He approached the prisoner, who watched him, his body growing more tense as Kysen closed the distance between them. Kysen stopped a pace from the man and held out the cup. The young man didn’t move. Sighing, Kysen took a sip of the water, then offered the cup again. A hand snaked out and grabbed it.

  Gulping noisily, the prisoner drank the entire cup and held it out to Kysen. Kysen almost smiled at the gesture. Few prisoners found the courage to make demands. But then, this one looked at his captors with contempt. Kysen could see it in the way he almost smirked at his guards.

  As he refilled the cup, the Mitanni spoke for the first time. He spat out unintelligible words like invisible javelins. Kysen understood none of it, and only caught one word that made sense—Saustatar. Saustatar had been a great Mitanni king, a conqueror who had battled the ruthless and bloodthirsty Assyrians and looted the royal palace at Ashur. Furrowing his brow, Kysen contemplated the young man. Of what relevance could a dead king have to this soldier, who most certainly should be worrying about his impending death?

  Kysen turned to Abu. “Why—”

  The door opened before he could finish. Reia ushered Rahotep and Tanefer into the hall.

  “What have you here, Ky?” Tanefer asked. “Reia said you had need of my eloquent tongue.” He then said something in Mitanni and bowed mockingly to Kysen.

  “A bandit?” Rahotep asked as he went over to inspect the crouching prisoner.

  Reia said, “You were in haste, lord, and I met Prince Tanefer in the street.”

  Trying not to glare at Reia, Kysen hesitated. How was he going to refuse without offending? Before he could think of something, a stream of chatter burst from the prisoner Tanefer’s head came up. He went still and stared at the Mitanni, then he said a few words to the man. The prisoner responded with an avalanche of babbling in which Kysen could only make out the word “Saustatar.”

  “What is he saying?” Kysen asked as they both walked over to the Mitanni.

  “He’s speaking too fast,” Tanefer said. “You have to remember, Ky, that only my mother spoke our language to me, and she’s been dead for years. Let me ask him to slow down.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Kysen said, but Tanefer was already speaking.

  He said a few words, quietly and slowly, while Rahotep walked around the prisoner and inspected him as if he were a sacrificial goat. Suddenly the Mitanni launched himself at the lamp stand, sweeping it aside with one arm as he dove for Rahotep. The lamp crashed to the floor. Oil spilled, flamed, and went out, leaving the hall in near darkness.

  At the prisoner’s first move, Kysen and Tanefer had sprung at him, but he’d darted away quickly. Then the darkness engulfed them. Kysen stopped abruptly to gain his bearings. He listened to the sounds of a scuffle and a scream of foreign words that rose higher and higher. Someone barreled into him. He fell as hands fastened on his neck and squeezed. Then the door opened, shoved by Reia, and he looked up at his attacker.

  “Abu, get off!”

  “Forgive me, lord. I thought you were the mercenary.”

  They got to their feet and beheld a pile of bodies. Rahotep shoved himself off the mercenary, then pulled the prisoner off Tanefer. The prisoner rolled on his back, gurgling, to reveal a dagger in his chest. His hands were wrapped around the hilt of the dagger as he died.

  Kysen dropped beside Tanefer, who was moaning. He pulled his friend to a sitting position. His broad collar and chest were wet with blood.

  “Are you hurt?” Kysen asked.

  “I hit my head,” Tanefer said. “I think he fell on me.”

  They both looked at the dead man.

  “I should have warned you,” Tanefer said. “But he was too quick for me. He was saying that he wouldn’t allow Egyptian dogs to torture him and then kill him. He wanted to die a warrior, but I didn’t think he’d kill himself.”

  “Nor did I,” Kysen said as he gave Tanefer a long glance.

  He went to the dead man and pulled the dagger from his body. It was a fine one with a gold hilt. Not the ordinary weapon of a charioteer on duty. He had his own still, as did Tanefer. Kysen turned to Rahotep, who was staring at the blood on Tanefer’s broad collar.

  “This is yours.”

  Rahotep glanced at the dagger and nodded. “When he jumped on me, he must have taken it.”

  “And did you fight him for it?”

  “Of course, but we ran into the column, and then Tanefer. But I didn’t have the chance to kill him. If Tanefer didn’t, then he must have done it himself.”

  Cursing under his breath, Kysen gave orders for the body to be removed to a cell. He should never have allowed Rahotep and Tanefer in the barracks. Furious at himself and at Reia as well, Kysen wondered how he was going to tell Meren he’d lost the only living witness to this tangled series of crimes.

  And where was Meren? He’d been gone since morning, and it was now midday.

  Chapter 16

  Meren left the offices of the vizier, directing his team of horses down a street that twisted back on itself due to the accretion of government buildings over the centuries. He’d accompanied Ay here so that they could confer about the reliability of the men now guarding pharaoh. Now, without this distraction, his suppressed anger and grief at the misunderstanding with the king surfaced.

  Only a short time ago, during the investigation of the murder in the place of Anubis, he remembered Kysen making a remark about those foolish enough to steal from a dead member of pharaoh’s family. Better to steal from royalty long dead, whose very names had been forgotten. Yet now the unimaginable crime had been committed. Why now?

  Ahiram had long hated Akhenaten for his failure to support Egypt’s ally of many years, the prince of Byblos. But as the years passed after Akhenaten’s death, Ahiram seemed to put aside his wrath and accustom himself to his new life. Having come to Egypt as a youth to be trained with the other royal children, he’d been back and forth between the rich trading city and Egypt for years, until on
e day the trouble with the Hittite-backed raiders made it too dangerous to return home.

  Ahiram had lingered at court, receiving more and more harried and desperate messages from his father. He had pleaded with Akhenaten to intercede, to send the fabled Egyptian army to his father’s aid. But Akhenaten preferred the isolation of peace to expensive warfare. Meren remembered the king telling Ay that he could trade with whoever won, for Byblos needed Egyptian gold no matter who ruled it. And so Ahiram had been unable to help his father Rib-Addi, longtime friend of faithless Egypt.

  Had Ahiram’s fury caused him to seek vengeance upon Akhenaten? Had he even taken a role in the king’s death? A pointless speculation, given how little Meren knew of the circumstances of that event.

  He guided his chariot through an intersection crowded with the stalls of vendors of fruit, beer, fish, and other commodities. One man had even leaned his awning against an obelisk erected at the crossroads by some long-dead king. Pedestrians gave way before Meren while several vendors tried to catch his attention, but he was too caught up in his thoughts to do more than wave them away.

  Why try to kill Akhenaten’s soul now? And what about Qenamun and the other priests of Amun? Without evidence of their complicity, he couldn’t accuse them of conspiring with Ahiram in the desecration of the royal tomb. They had been behind it, though. He would have wagered anything on that. He needed to question Ebana, Parenefer, and Rahotep, but without pharaoh’s confidence he lacked the power to intimidate them into answering him. However, he could talk to Tanefer privately, for he knew all these men and Qenamun as well.

  Why desecrate Akhenaten’s tomb now? Had Parenefer finally succumbed to his craving for vengeance? Perhaps Tutankhamun had provoked this retaliation, offending the old man with his youthful arrogance. Planting that colossal statue in front of the god’s gate hadn’t improved Parenefer’s temper either.

  Or had the high priest simply fed his feelings of maltreatment and resentment until he lost all sense of caution? Parenefer’s appetite for riches had grown since Amun had been restored. No matter how many of his vast estates pharaoh allocated to the god —Amun had more farmland than anyone except pharaoh, several hundred orchards, almost half a million head of cattle, countless villages, ships, and workshops, and almost one hundred thousand laborers—the priest was never satisfied.