He was jolted out of his musings when a woman on the roof of a house he was passing hurled a rug into the air and flapped it, showering him with dust. He cursed and coughed at the same time. Gripping the side of the chariot, he dusted himself as the horses slowed, then stopped. She looked down at him, put her hand over her mouth, and vanished down an interior stairway. Rushing into the street, she threw herself to the ground, babbling apologies.
“It was naught but an accident, mistress.” He nodded to her and slapped the reins.
Soon he turned down a wider street, taking care to stay in the middle, out of reach of tidying women. Slapping the reins again, he urged his team into a trot. Threshold after threshold passed. The street seemed deserted. The sun was directly overhead. Heat rose from the packed earth beneath the chariot wheels and flowed toward him from the high, uneven walls of houses that rose three and four stories above his head.
The horses were lathered and had suffered from the heat while he mused. Berating himself for his negligence, Meren urged the team to gather speed. He wasn’t far from home now. As he reached the end of the street, he saw a flash of bare skin and a white loincloth.
Shouting, he hauled on the reins hard as a child dashed in front of the horses. They hardly slowed, then rose on their hind legs, screaming in alarm as they saw a blur of movement in their path. The chariot swerved to the right. It tipped on one wheel while Meren fought to regain his balance and control the horses at the same time.
His shoulder hit the side of the chariot. Then he shoved his feet against the floor and threw himself to the other side of the vehicle. The reins slipped from his hands as he hit, but the chariot settled on both wheels. Not waiting to regain his breath, Meren jumped to the ground, intent on grabbing a harness, only to find himself surrounded by soldiers. Long kilts, scimitars, spears.
Foot soldiers, not charioteers. Meren counted nine men. He hadn’t a chance. Two of them grabbed his team and calmed them. He heard the snort of another animal, and glanced up to see a chariot coming down the street. Horemheb stood beside his driver, his face blank. He jumped out of the moving vehicle as it passed Meren.
Meren scowled at him. “What are you doing, damn you?”
“Come with me.”
Glancing around the circle of soldiers, Meren shook his head.
Horemheb’s lip curled. “What ails you? Don’t you trust me? No, I can see you don’t. Then come because you have no choice.”
Meren watched Horemheb turn and vanish into the black depths of the house by which he’d stopped. Three men took a step toward him. He gave them one of the looks he reserved for callow recruits who have committed some inane error. They halted, and he followed Horemheb into the house. As he left the street, he glanced over his shoulder. Except for his escort, all the soldiers and both chariots had vanished.
A woman turned into the street, leading a donkey. Meren hesitated, estimating the chances of escape, but a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into darkness. He gripped his dagger, but the hand released him.
“Let go of it, Meren,” Horemheb said. “You’re against spears.”
He held his hands away from his body. Someone closed the door. Another soldier appeared from the interior holding two lamps. Horemheb’s rough features and crooked nose appeared in a flickering shower of light. The yellow flame seemed to lighten his already sun-bleached hair. Then, abruptly, they were alone.
“I want to talk to you,” the general said.
Meren whirled, marched to the door, and put his hand on the latch.
“So you believe the lies too.”
He released the latch, turned, and put his back to the door.
“What lies?”
“I may be common, Meren, but I’m not stupid. You above all hear rumors, so I know you’ve heard the ones about me. I’m dissatisfied, afraid Egypt will fall under Hittite rule. I think the kingdom needs a strong leader, and that I’m the one.”
“We’ve been friends since we were youths.”
“Aye.”
“You saved my life.”
Meren didn’t move as Horemheb came nearer, never dropping his gaze.
“Aye, I did that,” Horemheb said.
“And we’ve served pharaoh together.”
“What are you saying?”
“And in all that time,” Meren said, “you’ve never abducted me and forced me to do your bidding.”
Horemheb cursed, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and studied the floor After a while, he raised his gaze to Meren again.
“Forgive me, old friend. These rumors have driven me near to madness. Even Maya looks at me with suspicion, and today the king refused to give me an audience. Ay says to be patient, but I know what happens to men who lose the confidence of pharaoh.”
“Have you left the city in the past fortnight?”
“What?” Horemheb gave him a confused glance. “How could I leave? We’ve been making plans for this campaign you hate so much.”
“So you never left Thebes.”
“I said so, didn’t I? What are you talking about?”
“Ahiram is dead.”
“Dead! I thought he’d run himself into debt or fathered a child on a virgin princess. Why dead?”
Meren continued to stare at Horemheb. “Someone hired mercenaries to track him down and murder him.”
Nothing. Not a flicker of an eyelid, not a twitch of a muscle.
“A powerful enemy, had Ahiram,” Horemheb said.
“Yes. One who could send soldiers after him. Not unlike what you just did to me.”
The quiet was broken only by the sound of their breathing.
“There’s one difference,” Horemheb said softly.
“What is it?”
“You’re still alive.”
Meren lifted his chin. “Am I going to stay that way?”
“Not if you don’t quit snarling suspicions at me, damn you. How could you ask me that? I’ve come to you for help, may the gods curse your hide. Now I think I’d rather beg it of that old mound of vulture’s dung, Parenefer.”
At last Meren smiled. Curbing his temper and asking for help, two accomplishments that came hard for Horemheb.
“I might not have the power to help you for long. I too have incurred the disfavor of pharaoh.”
“You? How?”
Meren didn’t answer at once. If he confided in Horemheb, he might be trusting the traitor Ahiram had warned him about. However, if that was true, it was already too late. He couldn’t believe that his friend was behind whatever plot was fermenting around him. Had Horemheb wished to seize power, he could have done so at Akhenaten’s death, when Tutankhamun had been a child and the government in disarray.
Did not a man’s actions speak of his character? Horemheb had saved his life, had devoted himself to protecting the Two Lands. Sometimes one had to take risks, trust one’s friends. Slowly, Meren began to tell what he knew of the deaths of Ahiram, Qenamun, and the pure one, Unas.
“So I think Ahiram put the cobras in Qenamun’s box, but the servant who helped him was killed with his master. So far there are no others who witnessed his actions. The porter only knows that he and one other servant were told not to go near the wicker baskets.”
They were sitting on the floor with a lamp between them. Horemheb had dismissed his men. The general handed Meren a cup of beer and grunted.
“So, you think all three deaths and the discord at court are connected.”
“Aye,” Meren said. “But I can’t weave the pieces into whole cloth. No one would admit to having seen anything on the morning the pure one was killed. We never found the boy who carried the message for Unas to go to the temple before dawn. When nothing happened, I almost decided that the death was an accident. Then Unas’s house was ransacked by a tall, shaved man who smelled of cone scent.”
“It could have been the lector priest.”
“You’d never make a good inquiry agent, Horemheb. You assume too much.”
“What do you me
an?”
“I mean the description is too vague and could fit many men, even you, or my cousin Ebana, or that too-friendly neighbor, Nebera. So we spread the rumor that Kysen had found those pottery shards.”
“To flush your quarry,” Horemheb said.
Meren nodded. “But if it succeeded, it succeeded too well, for when Kysen went to examine Unas’s house, someone tried to kill him.”
“By the gods! Did you catch him?”
“No, and I thank the gods Kysen wasn’t hurt. I had questioned Qenamun earlier. He seemed honest, open, ingenuous.”
“Doesn’t sound like a priest of Amun.”
“No,” Meren said. “And what’s worse, it was shortly after this questioning that the attempt on Kysen was made. I like it not that Qenamun, Ebana, and also Rahotep were nearby when someone tried to drop part of a wall on my son’s head. Kysen was so furious that he confronted them about the attempt on his life.”
“Rahotep. Our prince who knows all, who never quibbles at telling us so, who thinks he’s more royal than he is.”
They stared at each other quizzically.
“Later that same day, Qenamun was killed,” Meren said.
“The cobras,” Horemheb said. “I didn’t do it. If I want to kill a man, I use a more direct method.”
“But you had dealings with him.”
“Qenamun gave good dream interpretations.”
Meren smiled at his friend. “So think Djoser and Rahotep, and Rahotep was with him when he was killed. So was Ebana, again. It was just before I heard of Qenamun’s death that the rumors about you began.”
“By the balls of Set, I’ve done nothing!”
“Calm yourself. I accuse you of nothing. Anyone who knew Qenamun’s habits could have entered the temple on the day he left early and concealed the snakes. Of those with such knowledge, several are of high rank—Djoser, Rahotep, Ahiram, and you, among others.”
“Me again.”
Meren sighed. “Will you allow me to continue? How can I think if you’re barking at me? I should have gone home to do this.”
“No, no. I’ll be quiet.”
“And all this while you and I and pharaoh’s other advisers have been arguing about the unrest in Syria and Palestine, about the Hittites, and about whether the king should campaign. You know fugitives from the Mitanni empire are reaching our borders, renegade soldiers. Tanefer warned me that trouble was approaching, and now he’s proved right.”
“But what does that have to do with these murders?”
“Nothing. It’s just that the court was already unsettled, seething with rumors and unrest, and then Ahiram vanished. After the hippo hunt. I think he killed Qenamun and then lost his courage.”
“That doesn’t sound like Ahiram.”
“I know, but considering what he was hiding, it makes sense. Perhaps he thought the gods were angry, and that was why he almost got eaten by the hippo.”
“Aye,” Horemheb said. “Even I would lose my wits if I’d robbed and desecrated a pharaoh’s eternal house.”
“And before I could reach him, he was murdered by disguised mercenaries.” Meren stared at the lamp flame. “And this last murder opens the whole affair, because whoever killed Ahiram must have done it to keep him from exposing his fellow criminals, especially whoever is their master That person has a long reach, long enough to chase down and kill Ahiram, and the boldness to risk all to strike at a dead king.”
“We both know who that is. Parenefer.”
“I told you not to assume, my friend. There are too many gaps, too many things we don’t know. Who killed Unas and why? It could have been Qenamun, or Ahiram, or another If he was guilty, what was the real reason Ahiram killed Qenamun, and why did he run away when I gave no sign that I suspected him?”
“Meren—”
“Yes, Horemheb.”
“Your job is much harder than mine. I only have to fight wars. You have to peer inside men’s souls and foretell the future.”
Meren gave him a wry smile. “Your words are a great comfort to me.”
“You say Maya is behind these rumors about me?”
“No, he heard it from someone else, but Tanefer interrupted us about Qenamun’s death before I could ask him from whom.”
Horemheb rose and offered his hand to Meren. “I think I’ll go find Maya.”
“He’s at court.” Meren gripped his friend’s hand and pulled himself to his feet. “But don’t jump out at him as you did me. He’ll shriek so loud the palace roof will fall in.”
He went outside to find the boy he’d almost run over holding his chariot in the shade of an awning. He drove home slowly this time and tried not to lapse into thinking until he was there. He arrived to find the house quiet.
Even that small terror, Remi, was quiet, but that was only because he was napping. Meren grabbed bread and meat from the kitchen and went to his office. Grooms hurried into the stables. Charioteers fell to sharpening javelin points and swords as he passed them. His scribe ducked into the records room.
He was wary by the time he saw Kysen waiting outside his office. After a few moments of listening to his son, he was furious.
“What fiend put it into your head to allow Tanefer to translate?”
“It happened before I could stop it. I was going to refuse, but he started without my permission. I should have been more alert.”
“By the gods, you should have.”
Meren stalked over to a table where a jar of beer and its strainer rested along with cups. He grabbed one, then thought of the danger to which Kysen had exposed himself in that fight in the dark. Something cracked. Kysen cried out, and Meren blinked. He’d thrown the cup against the wall. A splinter of pottery had ricocheted off the wall to hit Kysen in the cheek.
Swearing, Meren grabbed a cloth from the table and went to his son. “No, remove your hand and let me see.”
He found a tiny piece of the glazed cup embedded in a cut high on the jaw. “Hold still.”
Drawing his dagger, he carefully used the tip to remove the splinter, then dabbed the cut with the cloth.
“Forgive me, Ky.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I don’t care. There’s no excuse for hurting you.”
“What’s happened?” Kysen took the cloth and held it against the thin line of blood on his cheek. “Something’s gone wrong. I can tell.”
Meren related the morning’s events. Kysen’s eyes filled with dread at the tale of the king’s wrath. He tried to say something, but Meren went on to speak of Horemheb. Kysen’s brow furrowed as he heard the story of his father being waylaid.
“You said someone with power is behind these deaths and the—the great crime.” He set the cloth aside. “Forgive me, Father, but it could be Horemheb, and he could have been trying to deceive you.”
“He isn’t.”
Meren looked away from the blood on his son’s cheek. On that day long ago when he’d seen Kysen’s scars and bruises and bought him from his blood father, he’d vowed never to use brutality against the boy.
“Don’t,” Kysen said.
“What?”
“It was an accident.”
Meren tried to smile. “I need time to think. We have to talk to Ebana, Parenefer, Tanefer, and Rahotep, but carefully, since I’ve no formal commission of inquiry for any of them.”
“We can talk to Tanefer without one,” Kysen said.
“I know, and I will, but Rahotep concerns me. He’s shown up in all sorts of odd places at significant times—the quay market after someone tried to kill you, the House of Life when Qenamun was killed, and now here, where our only witness to sacrilege and murder dies.”
“I’ll find him,” Kysen said as he walked to the door.
“Take Abu and his men with you.”
“I won’t need them against Rahotep.”
Meren swept to the door and caught Kysen’s arm. “That was not a request, my son.”
Kysen gave him a lops
ided smile. “As you command, O great one, O Eyes of Pharaoh, my lord. Only I wish you’d be on guard as well, even against Horemheb.”
“Go away, Ky. And be careful this time. Anyone who would kill a prince wouldn’t stop at killing my son.”
Chapter 17
After Kysen left, Meren decided to sort through the papers in Qenamun’s casket again. He was reading an interpretation of Rahotep’s dreams, the most numerous of which seemed to consist of various creatures whose sole desire was to eat the prince’s entrails. In others, Rahotep’s dead mother came to him to prophesy greatness for her son. Had Rahotep believed the prophecies and acted upon them? While Meren was reading, Remi marched in, dragging a toy hippo on a string and carrying a hand mirror in his other hand.
Meren thrust the interpretations aside, snatched the boy up in one arm, and took the mirror from him. Its handle of polished silver bore the image of the goddess of beauty and fertility, Hathor.
“Where did you get this, small fiend?”
“Don’t know.”
“Don’t know, or don’t want to tell?”
Remi began to wriggle in his arms, so he set the child down. A ray of light from the high windows flashed a beam into his eyes and he winced. Setting the mirror on the table next to him, he turned his back on it.
It had belonged to Sit-Hathor. Years ago he’d put away many of her possessions for the time when his daughters were old enough to make use of them. The most precious of these, the ones that reminded him of her the most, these he kept in his chamber in a chest.
Mutemwia must have been distracted for a moment. If she turned her attention away from the boy for more than the space of a breath, he scuttled away and got into trouble. He heard Mutemwia call Remi, who grinned and put both small hands over his mouth and crouched on the floor. Meren tried not to laugh but failed, and the sound brought the nurse into the room.
“Disobedient, wretched little baboon.” Mutemwia picked Remi up. “Forgive me, lord. I but paused to speak to the cook, and he was gone.”
Murder at the God's Gate Page 19