Paser was one of a faction at court that was growing around Prince Hunefer. Hunefer fancied himself better fit to advise pharaoh than the vizier Ay, who was the craftiest of statesmen. Although Hunefer’s heart was far from clever, dissatisfied place-seekers had flocked to him in hopes of using the prince to topple Ay.
The question was, why would Paser follow Meren? He was only going home to rest and give the shoulder wounds Tanefer had given him a chance to heal. Everyone knew that. Everyone should know that.
Meren was considering the unlikely possibility that either Paser or Hunefer was more clever than he’d thought when Reia gave a startled exclamation and pointed to the canal that ran beside the royal mooring place.
“Look, lord!”
A skiff floated up to the bank and unloaded three figures, a man and two girls. The girls hopped ashore and started running. They vanished inside the way-station gates before their companion could tie off the skiff.
“What—why—?” Meren glanced at Reia, then at Iry. Both men appeared expressionless, but he could see the corners of Reia’s eyes crinkle in amusement.
Pressing his lips together, Meren composed himself. He would remain where he was and let his two youngest daughters find him. He wanted an explanation. They were supposed to be at home, waiting for him, not sailing on their own with but one servant to accompany them. He hadn’t long to wait before the two came racing toward him across the platform, long tresses flying behind them.
The older girl, Bener, slowed as she approached, but Isis flew past her and flung herself into his arms.
“Father, Father, I knew we’d find you! Aren’t I clever? I said you’d be delayed, and here you are. Bener thinks she’s the chosen one of Toth, with her writing and her ciphering, but I’m the one who found you. It was my idea, and she thinks she’s so quick-witted.”
Meren hugged his youngest child, and as her words streamed over him, he forgot his resolution to be stern. He’d spent months maneuvering through vicious intrigues, guarding his every word for fear of betraying his king, keeping his senses alert for danger. Until now he hadn’t known how great the strain had been.
Kysen and Tutankhamun had both warned him of his weariness. He hadn’t listened. But as Isis babbled to him in her golden voice, the muscles in his neck and shoulders loosened. He’d lived with them twisted as tight as the rope of a wine press. The demons that jabbed spikes in his temples vanished.
Isis squeezed his neck. “I missed you, Father.”
“And I you, my little goddess.” He loosened his grip on Isis and looked over the top of her head at Bener, who had walked up to them sedately. She was standing with her arms at her sides, radiating composure. Was this his little girl, the one who climbed palms and stole pomegranates from the kitchen? She was almost as tall as Kysen.
He held out his arms. “Bener, my sweet.”
To his consternation, she met his eyes, then glanced at Reia and Iry as if asking for their dismissal. Hoping his jaw hadn’t fallen open, Meren waved the young men away. Once their backs were turned, Bener chuckled and floated into his arms.
Laying her head on his shoulder, she murmured, “I’ve missed you, Father, and I know you’re angry at finding us here, but we had to warn you.”
“It was my idea,” Isis said as she tugged on his kilt.
Bener drifted out of his arms too soon, leaving him disturbed by her composure. She glanced down at her sister.
“I told you not to throw yourself at Father like a monkey. You’re never dignified.”
An argument erupted, but Meren was too busy studying his daughters to interfere. They had changed in the few months he’d left them in his sister’s charge. Idut had warned him, but he hadn’t taken her seriously. He should have. Bener was a woman now, tall and slender as a papyrus reed, but her arms and legs bore the elongated muscles of a leopard. Her face still held some of the plumpness of childhood, but she moved with the stateliness of a priestess and seemed to cultivate the demeanor of a woman three times her age. She reminded him of her great-grandmother.
And Isis. Isis frightened him, for she was beautiful, and he knew the dangers the world held for beautiful women. She had always been pretty, but she had matured into a double of her mother, who had always startled people by her resemblance to the fabulous Nefertiti. Once she left behind the immaturity of childhood, Isis would make men step on their tongues when she passed.
He was imagining trouble before it arose. He’d drive himself mad.
“Enough quarreling,” he said quietly. His daughters immediately broke off their exchange, which aroused his suspicions. “How did you get here, and why are you here? No, Isis, let Bener speak.”
Bener exchanged a quick, apprehensive glance with her sister, wet her lips, and began. “It’s not our fault.”
“What isn’t your fault?”
Again that quick glance.
“Remember your letter to Aunt announcing that you were coming home?” Bener asked. “Um, you see … That is, Aunt didn’t pay attention to the part about how you wished your return to be private, just for us.”
Isis burst in with an aggrieved tone. “I knew she’d ruin everything. We haven’t seen you in months, and she’s ruined everything.”
“Father,” Bener said, “Aunt has arranged a great feast of rejoicing in honor of your homecoming.”
Meren leaned against the defensive wall at his back and scowled. “I made myself plain. I sent instructions.”
“Aunt says she forgot,” Bener said with a lift of her arched brows.
Isis kicked the wall with one sandaled foot. “My ass, she forgot.”
“Isis!”
His youngest daughter lifted her delicate face to him, and he noted the way her fragile jaw set in place as if mortared there.
“She’s ruined everything. How can we go sailing and fowling or even talk to you at all with all of them coming?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Meren asked, “Who? Who has she invited?”
“Everyone,” Isis said.
“Don’t be a goose-wit,” Bener replied. Isis ruined the elegance of her features by sticking out her tongue.
Meren fixed her with a stem glance. “Out with it.”
Twirling a lock of hair around her fingers, Bener hesitated, then began a list that included Idut’s son Imset, who was supposed to be studying in Memphis, Meren’s cousin Sennefer and his wife Anhai, three of his uncles and their wives, and over a dozen of the local nobility. She didn’t include the family retainers and supporters, tenants, and servants who would flock to this grand celebration.
“Oh, and I almost forgot, Great-Aunt Nebetta and Great-Uncle Hepu.”
He kept his expression blank as she spoke the two names he least wanted to hear. Surprise made him vulnerable to the burn of old, festering hate. How could Idut have invited Nebetta and Hepu? She knew he never wanted to meet them this side of the netherworld. She knew what they’d done to their own son. His beloved cousin Djet was dead, and they had killed him as surely as if they had stuck a dagger in his heart.
No, don’t think about it. Your anger will grow until it swallows you. This isn’t the time. Old grief compounded new—the loss of his companion in war and in celebration, the bright, merry, traitorous Tanefer. Djet and Tanefer, both gone. He might forget Tanefer one day. He would never stop grieving for Djet. He used to tease Djet that they were each other’s twin soul. They had learned to shoot the bow together, to hunt, to fish, to sail. He and Djet had shared those early discoveries of the body that every boy experiences. They had even spent the night in the haunted temple near Baht on a dare. Together they had braved that isolated valley, slept within the crumbling walls of the temple, and screamed when, in the blackest part of the night, the desert fiends howled down the valley on the wind.
“Father, is something wrong?” Bener asked.
He shook his head and smiled. “Naught is wrong, my little geese. Now tell me how you got to the mooring place of pharaoh.”
“That was my idea too,” Isis said. “Uncle Ra was going home, and I begged him to take us this far.”
“Ah,” Meren said faintly.
He turned his back and gazed out over the river. Fishing boats, skiffs, barges, and pleasure craft sailed with and against the current. One of the yachts that floated past with its elongated rectangular sail unfurled to catch the north breeze had been his brother’s. Ra hadn’t even stopped. The reason was obvious to Meren, who knew his brother well, so well that from childhood he’d called the younger boy Ra after the powerful sun god. Ra didn’t want to be there for Meren’s grand return. He didn’t want to see crowds rushing to the dock to greet Meren, didn’t want to hear the cheers, hear Meren’s name called, see countless backs bent in homage. And Ra knew how much his absence would hurt his older brother.
Meren’s thoughts veered away from that idea. He had a more immediate problem. His private homecoming had been transformed into a grand celebration. Privacy was necessary, and not just for him and his daughters; quiet and calm, a sedate, unremarkable visit, these were conditions upon which he’d counted. If the feast interfered too much with his plans, he would have to leave his country house far sooner than he wished.
He hoped Isis wasn’t right. He hoped his sister hadn’t ruined everything. If she had, Meren was the one who was going to pay.
Chapter 2
Late that afternoon Meren left the deckhouse at Bener’s call and joined his daughters at the bow of Wings of Horus. He’d been contemplating the prospect of doing anything in secret with a house full of curious relatives. The elders still thought of him as barely old enough to leave off the sidelock of youth. Just as worrying was the certainty that the house would turn into a teeming anthill in which he would find no place to carry on private conversations with his daughters.
The ship sliced through the water, angling toward the east bank, and he caught sight of Baht, the country home of his family for countless generations. It lay between the narrow strip of cultivated fields and the desert that forever threatened to invade. Baht, like the houses of most noblemen, was a continually growing collection of family dwellings, servant’s quarters, granaries, stables, cattle pens, and outbuildings surrounded by whitewashed walls and refuse heaps.
From this distance all he could see were the carefully tended trees his ancestors had planted, and through them, blank walls and roofs. Within, in the main house, lay a paradise. At least, that was the way he imagined it. In truth, he’d spent little time there since his father had sent him, as a boy of eight, to court to become a Child of the Nursery, one of the favored few privileged to share the training of royal princes.
He remembered being very small and living here with his mother. He remembered days of quiet, of peace, listening to his mother’s gentle voice directing the servants, listening to the rhythmic shushing sound of the winnowers as they bent, scooped grain into winnowing fans, and tossed it in the air. He still dreamed of hot, silent days like today, in the season of Drought, when the harvested fields baked into dust and there was nothing to fear but the bite of the desert wind.
A cry jolted him out of his reverie. A fisherman had recognized Wings of Horus. His call was taken up by laborers making mud bricks on the east bank and passed on to farmers and servants. From all directions he could see scurrying figures. Isis danced on her toes and waved until Bener scolded her. She maintained her dignity for a moment, then tugged on Meren’s hand.
“There’s Tetiky, Father. He’s even more prosperous than when you left.” She pointed at a farmer trotting alongside a canal toward them.
“Yes,” said Bener, “and you mustn’t speak to him, for he has brought a complaint against Pemu, and he’ll have you sitting in judgment on the dock.”
Meren grinned as he nodded to the fast-growing crowd. “Old Pemu, lazy as a male lion and still moving boundary stones when he thinks no one’s looking.”
Isis began chattering again, and she was still talking when they stepped onto the dock. But the moment he lifted a hand for silence, she closed her mouth. She and Bener dropped behind him, suddenly acquiring the dignity of princesses. The wind caught the diaphanous folds of his overrobe and swirled it around his legs. Zar, his body servant, had insisted he wear court dress for the arrival, when all he wanted to do was hop off the ship and run all the way to the house. He hadn’t had the freedom to do that in many years.
Instead he stood receiving the obeisance of laborers, fishermen, servants, and farmers while his golden wristbands, rings, and broad collar captured the sun’s heat and burned his skin. He fingered the hilt of the dagger in his belt as he listened to humble greetings from men who remembered him as a naked child. He tried to conceal his impatience and make a gracious reply. These were the people whose labor was his to command, but he’d learned long ago that their industry depended much upon their contentment. Still, he was glad when his steward, Kasa, arrived with a chariot and a band of servants to assist in transferring his belongings to the house.
He left Kasa to handle the arrangements with Zar and drove with the girls down the road beside the main canal. It soon turned into a graded path that left the fields and ended up at the white-plastered and painted gates of Baht. The tree-shrouded house was an oasis of cool shade in the blistering heat. A group of naked toddlers and children shrieked at them from the protection of a palm near the entrance. Bener waved, and the young ones burst into a run behind the chariot. Porters had already swung the heavy gates open and were bending low as they drove inside.
Meren walked the horses down an avenue of sycamores. To either side lay twin reflection pools shaded by trees older than he was. Geese swam in the pools while herons stalked across them. He breathed in warm, water-sweetened air. Bener slipped her arm around his waist, and he looked down at her. In her eyes he saw his own pleasure reflected. Abruptly he realized that she shared his love of simple pleasures of the senses—the smell of freshly harvested grain, the sound of water lapping against the side of a reflection pool.
Her expression changed as she glanced toward the loggia that sheltered the entrance to the main house. The corners of her mouth drew down, and her eyes widened. Then the frown was gone behind a mask of pleasant welcome, and Meren was left to wonder just how much more he had in common with this daughter who had transformed herself into a woman without his permission. Bener knew when to conceal her thoughts to suit her own needs. Of this he was certain. But then, she’d always been quick of wit.
Vowing to solve this small mystery, he pulled up to the loggia and descended from the chariot. This was the moment he’d been dreading since the girls had broken the news of the feast to him. He’d expected all three of his uncles and their families, their children—except for his enemy-cousin Ebana—and his aunt Nebetta and her husband. None of them stood on the steps waiting for him. Was it too much to hope they hadn’t come? Only Idut, her son, and his great-aunt in her carrying chair waited for him, along with a half-dozen servants.
He handed the chariot reins to a groom and received a welcoming kiss from his great-aunt. The old woman laid a dry hand grooved with crevicelike wrinkles on his cheek and studied him with mottled, nearsighted eyes. Cheritwebeshet was ancient, older even than his grandmother. Her shift hung around her frail body like a slack sail, and her hands shook as she touched him. But her voice was sharp.
“So, they haven’t killed you yet. You’re smarter than your father was.”
“May the gods protect you too, Aunt Cherit.”
“And still too pretty for your own good. Not married, adopted a plain-blooded son of a butcher, consorting with that fool Ay.”
“Kysen wasn’t a butcher’s son, Aunt.” He bent down and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
“Why couldn’t you marry again and produce a son, that’s what I’d like to know? It’s not as if you lack for women in your bed. Ah! You didn’t think I knew, did you? These old ears hear like a hyena, and I have lots of friends at court. Now don’t put on your offended princ
e’s face. I’ll be quiet. For now.” Cherit tapped one of her bearers on the shoulder. “Carry me back to my chamber. It’s too hot out here. Welcome home, boy.”
Bener was still standing beside him.
“I remember promising myself not to harangue my children that way,” he whispered to her. All he got in response was an eloquent lift of her brows.
“Meren, Meren, you’re a day late,” Idut said.
He hugged his sister and ignored her complaint. Idut was a head shorter than he and several years younger. His gaze took in her grave countenance without surprise. Idut had always been something of a mystery to him. She seldom smiled, except when entertaining, and was given to long silences that disturbed him. She always seemed to be brooding about something, but he could never figure out what she was brooding about.
Like Isis, Idut had the fragile facial structure that so reminded him of Nefertiti, but her chin came to a decided point. When they were children he used to tease her that she could poke holes in a copper target with her chin. He noticed a fan of tiny lines radiating from the corners of her eyes, and she still had the habit of curling her toes under when she stood for any length of time.
“Idut, I want to talk to you about this feast.”
“Imset, come here and greet your uncle.”
He frowned at his sister, but accepted Imset’s speech of welcome. Idut was proud of her son, and Meren had to admit that he was brilliant of wit. He had managed to acquire the skills of a scribe twice his age at the school in the temple of Osiris in nearby Abydos. But Idut confused intellect with maturity.
The youth stood goggling at him with the heavy-lidded stare of a frog. Bener ignored her cousin, and Isis had disappeared. He tried to engage Imset in conversation as they all walked inside, but the youth had exhausted his social talents with the completion of his memorized speech. Idut saved him.
“I know what you’re thinking, Meren, and you’re wrong.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking I’m going to pester you about an appointment for Imset, but I’m not.” Idut lifted her chin and gave him a triumphant look. “My suitor, Wah, has found a post for Imset with the viceroy of Kush. That’s something you, his own uncle, should have been able to do, but wouldn’t. He’s leaving at once and only stayed to give you greeting.”
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