“I rejoice in your good fortune, sister.” To Imset he said, “May the gods bless your journey.”
All he got in response was another toadlike stare. Meren was still trying to think of something to say to Imset when two figures stepped into the cool darkness of the entry hall. He blinked rapidly to adjust his vision to the lack of sunlight, recognized the newcomers, and felt blood rush to his head. The voice of his heart, the pulse, pounded in his ears. Nebetta and Hepu. The only sister of his father, and her husband.
Time stopped; then the years flowed backward in less than a heartbeat. He was hot and swimming in a lake of misery, lying in pain, trying to wake, trying to open his eyes. He was too weak to accomplish this one small act, and the weakness frightened him. He tried to cry out for help. His lips moved, but his voice wouldn’t come out of his throat. He tried to speak again, and something cool and wet pressed against his mouth, bringing relief. The cold dampness brushed over his cheeks, forehead, eyes, and at last he could lift his lids.
Memory returned. His father was dead, and pharaoh had had him beaten into submission. Then Ay had saved him. Where was he? The damp cloth passed across his forehead again, and his blurry vision cleared.
His cousin Djet leaned over him and touched the cloth to his lips again. His cousin’s great height made him seem to bend like an acacia tree. They were close in age and shared the sharp, angular jaw of their grandfather. Djet’s eyes were more almond-shaped and glinted with biting humor. They had been close as boys, sharing the rough and raucous escapades of noble youths. Until the family had decreed that Meren take a wife. Soon after that Djet left, taking foreign posts that kept him out of Egypt. And yet, after all this time, there was no one Meren trusted more.
Djet set the damp cloth aside and sat back down on the ebony chair beside the bed. “You’re awake at last. No, don’t try to speak. I know what you want to say. Ay sent all the way to Babylon for me weeks ago. I know everything, damn you and your cursed uprightness and honesty. It’s near gotten you killed. Why couldn’t you have lied about believing in pharaoh’s upstart god?”
“Father’s d—dead.”
“Because he was a stubborn fool.”
Meren tried to get up. “My family!”
“Your wife and daughter are safe in the country.” Djet shoved Meren back onto the cushions of his bed. He needed little strength to do it; Meren was shivering with the effects of his ordeal, starvation, and tortured thoughts. He was about to sink into another stupor when Djet lifted his head and pressed a cup to his lips. Meren drank in hot beef broth that steamed its way down his throat to his stomach.
Meren shoved the cup aside. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t know the danger. The king is—”
“I know the danger. Now drink some water.”
“Why did you have to come back now? I’ve begged you to come home for years, and you never would. But you come back now, when you could get yourself thrown into a crocodile pit for a misspoken word. You’re mad. Go back to—uhhh!”
“You see. Babbling has cost you what little strength you have. Sleep, cousin. I’m here, and I’m staying until you’re well and safe.”
The words echoed through his weariness and pain, easing both, and giving him release from dread. No one would come upon him to do evil as long as Djet was there to keep watch. Djet was as formidable a young warrior as any in pharaoh’s chariotry. He could rest. For the first time since pharaoh had killed his father, he could rest.
Someone was calling his name. Meren blinked and pulled himself out of the memory, only to come face-to-face with Djet’s parents. He smiled coldly, hating the sight of them.
“Dear, dear Meren,” Nebetta said in a voice that had always reminded him of spoiled honey—much too sweet, and sickening.
Walking with her into the reception room, where cool beer and bread awaited, Meren observed Nebetta’s dead gray hair, faded eyes, and bulbous nose and cheeks. She had a lumpy body, and Meren was sure that its shape was caused by her having swallowed most of her character. For, like her husband, Nebetta was consumed with virtue. And all that tedious virtue and uprightness had collected inside her along with every unexpressed feeling of anger, every lie she never told, every fault she ever tried to squelch. She looked as if she was going to burst from swallowing all those sins. Meren was sure that when she came before the gods to give her confession, each denial of sin would be the truth, because Nebetta wasn’t interesting enough to have transgressed.
What liveliness and beauty she’d inherited had been washed away in a continuous bath of bleaching morality. It was said that Nebetta had acquired her rectitude from Hepu, and Meren had to admit that of the two, Hepu was the more obvious and overbearing. It was Hepu who respected his own excellence so much that he wrote books of instruction to be passed down to succeeding generations. He produced these tomes continually, and donated them to various schools and libraries in every major temple, whether asked to or not.
For most of his life Meren had ignored their pomposity and belief in their own worth—until the day Nebetta and her husband disowned Djet, when he was thirteen. Without warning and with no explanation Djet was cast out, banished from the favor of his parents. He had sought refuge with Meren’s family, his face drawn with grief. Blue shadows highlighted Djet’s dark eyes, and he lost weight. His sarcastic humor vanished. And no matter how much Meren coaxed him, he refused to speak of the thing that had cost him the love of his father and mother.
Years passed, but the rift only grew worse, until one day, soon after Meren had recovered from being tortured, Djet drank poison sweeter than the sweetness of his mother’s voice. What kind of woman so reviled her son that she would drive him to kill himself? What kind of father would do the same? And what insane reasoning allowed his sister to think Meren would enjoy being welcomed home by these two?
Idut was talking to him. “Meren, you’re not drinking your beer. Don’t you like it?”
They were sitting in the reception chamber amidst carved and gilded chairs and beer jars festooned with wreaths of water lotuses, cooled by maids waving ostrich-feather fans. Nebetta was talking with Bener while old Hepu was speaking to—lecturing—Isis. Hepu didn’t carry on conversations; he discoursed.
“Meren, I asked if you liked your beer,” Idut said.
“I want to talk to you,” he replied. “Now. Alone.”
“Good, because I want to speak to you as well.”
Surprised, he followed his sister back outside to the shaded walk that bordered one of the twin reflection pools. The sun was dropping below the front west wall, but the heat of its rays seemed as strong as at midday. Idut waved away two maids who had followed with fans, and they were alone.
Before the maids were out of sight, Meren burst out, “Did I not write you to say I wanted privacy? Did I not say I wanted to spend time with the girls? Don’t you ever read what I write? No, of course you don’t. You only read what you wish to read. And you invited Nebetta and Hepu. You know I don’t like them. You don’t like them. This house will be stuffed full of interfering, squabbling relatives.”
“Families should be together,” Idut said airily. “Relatives should continue in harmony.”
“You sound like one of Hepu’s books of instruction. The fool fancies he’s written another Instruction of Ptahhotep.”
“That’s not respectful, Meren.”
“You have to make them go away. All of them.”
Idut touched his arm. “I must speak to you of something far more important.”
“Don’t avoid the subject—”
“Bener has a lover.”
A goose honked. It spread its wings, flapped them at a rival, and hissed. Meren strove to comprehend what his sister had just said.
“Explain.”
“You know how much she loves writing and ciphering. She spends too much time with the steward and his scribes.”
His steward, Kasa, managed the fields of Baht, its tenants and laborers, and the production of commod
ities upon which the manor survived. He’d been in charge since before their father died. His two sons had been trained to follow him.
“One of Kasa’s sons?”
Idut shook her head. “An apprentice scribe, Nu.”
“I don’t remember this Nu.” His head was beginning to ache.
“He’s the grandson of your old nurse.”
“Are you sure, Idut?”
“They spend hours together every day in the steward’s office.”
“But that’s all?” he asked.
“You know what it’s like to be in love fever, Meren. Who knows if that’s all?”
He gazed out over the blue surface of the water. Fish shimmered beneath its surface. A cloak of calm settled over him. He dared not examine what lay beneath. Meren nodded to his sister.
“Very well. Now you listen to me, Idut. Get rid of all these—these guests.”
“I can’t … the feast!”
“After the feast. Lie, Idut. Tell them the servants have a plague.”
“Oh, Meren.”
“Do it, or I will, and I know you won’t like how I manage the task.”
“I don’t know why you have to be so discourteous.”
“And I don’t know why you insist upon ignoring the evilmindedness of most of the people you’ve invited. Now where is this Nu?”
“He’s probably still in the steward’s office.”
He went quietly. Passing out of the gate, he walked quickly to the modest house that lay a few yards to the south. Commanding silence from the porter and servants, he slipped into the room that served as Kasa’s office. Neither the steward nor his sons were there.
He was about to leave when he heard the scrape of a rush pen. Through an open door lay a porch on which were stacked sheets of papyrus anchored by smoothing stones. Meren walked outside. Leaning against a column, head bent over a sheet of papyrus stretched across his crossed legs, a youth dipped his pen in black ink and resumed writing.
“You’re Nu.”
The pen jerked. A wide slash of black disfigured the neat script. The boy looked up, eyes on fire with rage. Then he realized who was standing there. He dropped the pen and paper and scrambled to his feet to bow deeply with raised hands.
Ignoring the boy’s discomfort, Meren asked, “Are you?”
“Aye, lord. I am Nu, grandson of Herya, apprentice to master Kasa.”
Meren turned his back on the youth. He hadn’t thought about what Nu would look like. He wasn’t pleased. A scrawny student with a squint, that’s what he would have preferred. Nu wasn’t scrawny; his eyes were large and sad, and he looked as if he belonged in a chariot facing a Hittite army. This menace needed curbing without delay.
Meren turned around and walked toward the boy. “Nu, you’re a fortunate lad.”
“My lord?”
Nu backed up and hit the column with the back of his head. Meren stopped within arm’s reach, studying his quarry in silence until Nu swallowed and lowered his gaze to the floor.
“Look at me.”
Nu lifted his eyes to meet Meren’s, and they widened as Meren smiled at him.
“Yes, you’re a fortunate lad, Nu. Most men would have killed you for interfering with their daughters.” He paused upon hearing a choking sound from Nu. “I, however, am not a hot-bellied man. I ask for explanations before I kill. Explain, Nu.”
Nu’s mouth worked, but nothing came out of it.
“I can’t hear you, boy.”
“I, I, I …”
The slap of sandals on the packed-earth floor saved Nu for the moment. Meren turned to find Bener rushing out of the house, breathless and wild-eyed.
“What are you doing here?” Meren snapped.
“A message, Father.” She thrust a folded and sealed packet at him.
Meren snatched it from her, glaring. He was about to order her home when his eye caught the inscription on the letter: Kysen. He opened it and read swiftly.
“Everlasting damnation. Fiends of the netherworld!”
Nu scuttled behind the column while Bener gawked at him.
Meren rounded on her and pointed. “Go home, daughter.”
“But Father, Nu is only an apprentice. Aunt has imagined things. And she’s only trying to distract you because you’re angry with her.”
“Go, at once!”
Bener vanished, and he turned on Nu. “Come out of there, you worthless little sneak.”
Nu stumbled from behind the column and sank to his knees. Touching his forehead to the floor, he waited in silence. Meren touched the sheath that housed his dagger, but the cold metal didn’t spur him to action. It brought him back from the brink of violence. Reason returned. He knew his daughter, and she’d been telling him the truth. Most of it.
“As I said, you’re a fortunate lad. My daughter’s word is as the word of the goddess Maat, lighter than the feather of truth. You may go.”
Nu rose and slunk past him, only to start when Meren lifted a hand.
“This isn’t the end of our conversation.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Nu scurried away, leaving Meren alone on the porch staring into the distance. Worry over his daughter warred with a new concern. Kysen was coming. No doubt he’d arrive before Meren could rid himself of this infestation of relatives. Nento would be with him. Both were ostensibly traveling with the trading flotilla for convenience. No one would think it odd that Kysen had invited Nento to break his journey at his father’s house.
But curiosity had always been a family trait. All Meren could do was pray to all the gods of Egypt that his unique preparations would be enough protection against the invasion his sister had arranged for the feast of rejoicing. But prayers wouldn’t be sufficient.
He would send Reia and his men out to patrol the countryside. Lord Paser’s ship had sailed past him this afternoon again. Paser could have moored farther south and even now be lurking about, spying. But he was more worried about others. The powerful priests of Amun had vowed a truce in their relentless and secret warfare against the boy king Tutankhamun.
Meren wasn’t sure their promise extended to the heretic king who tried to banish Amun and the other gods from Egypt. Akhenaten, Tutankhamun’s brother, had denuded the fabulous temple of Amun, wiped out his name, beggared his priests. These acts had made Akhenaten’s very name anathema. And there were those among the restored priesthood who would give their lives if they could destroy Akhenaten’s body and thus deprive him of the afterlife. Ultimate vengeance. A vengeance that Meren had sworn to the king he would prevent.
Unfortunately, he’d experienced the cruelty of which Akhenaten had been capable. His own cousin Ebana had suffered a far worse fate. Determined to wipe out any potentially powerful enemies of his heresy, Akhenaten had ordered Ebana assassinated. Ebana had escaped, but his wife and son hadn’t. To Meren’s dismay, his cousin had blamed him for not preventing the attack, and nothing he said had ever changed Ebana’s attitude. Ebana currently served the high priest of Amun in opposition to pharaoh, while an incongruous twist of Meren’s fate had put him in the position of protecting the body of the man who had killed his father and nearly brought about his own death.
He folded Kysen’s letter and smiled. If he didn’t love the king as a son, would he be fighting so hard for Akhenaten’s life in the netherworld? A difficult question, and one to which he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Chapter 3
Before dawn on the third morning after confronting the apprentice scribe, Meren slipped out of the house with a tray bearing food, wine, and an alabaster lamp. He walked swiftly down the avenue between the reflection pools to the small chapel where lay shrines to the gods and to his ancestors. A flight of steps took him to the entrance, which was flanked by two painted columns. Shoving open the carved doors with one hand, he entered.
The yellow glow from the lamp illuminated the painted murals on the walls, pictures of his family, his parents, his grandparents, and those who had gone before them. Deep
in the heart of the chapel lay golden shrines housing images of Amun; of Osiris, god of Abydos; of Montu, god of war; and others. But it wasn’t these Meren intended to visit. Instead, he turned to his right and went to a narrow niche in the wall.
There stood a double statue of his parents, together in death as they had been in life. The sculptor had carved them in their finest clothing, sheer linen draping their bodies. Ornate wigs covered unruly hair; gold hung from their necks, wrists, and ears. Meren whispered prayers for the dead and offered food and wine. When he was done, he stared at the images, wondering why he never felt like they heard his invocations. Yesterday before dark, he’d visited Sit-Hathor’s eternal house. He always felt that his wife listened to him. He’d told her all the things he could tell no one else, and he never worried that she might disapprove. She’d always been on his side—after she’d learned to love him, that is. When they first married, Sit-Hathor had thought him a nuisance. But she’d changed her opinion, unlike his father.
In life he had rarely pleased his father, whose quick temper and demands for perfection had made Meren want to fight him rather than comply. And his mother? What he remembered most about her was her constant pleading. Do as your father says. Don’t make trouble. Why must you disagree with your father?
One of his earliest memories was of playing in the garden and being called inside by his nurse, Herya. The woman was washing his face when, with sudden violence, his father burst into the room carrying his toy hippopotamus. Appearing like a giant demon from the underworld, Amosis hurled the wooden miniature to the floor. It hit with a loud crack, making Meren scream and burst into tears while Amosis railed at him for cluttering up the garden.
Of course, Meren hadn’t understood what Amosis was saying. The sudden terror wiped out all else from his heart. And when his mother came to comfort him, all she said was that Father didn’t like him to leave his toys lying around. Don’t make trouble, don’t provoke Father’s temper.
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