The house lay on the outskirts of the city west of the temple district. Here the great one had caused part of the city wall to be removed to make room for his villa and hadn’t yet bothered to rebuild it. Tcha and his friend were to meet at the refuse mound so that they could divide their loot.
Their arrangement was that Pawah would sit sheltered from the refuse mound by a piece of the wall from the collapsed dwelling. By moonlight Tcha had a clear view of his surroundings, the oil jars being situated on a rise near the protective wall of the astronomer’s house. He looked out on a vista of waste that formed scattered smaller hills around the great mound, rather like the sacred cities that once surrounded and served the pyramids.
But the little hills and mounds weren’t as deserted as the pyramid cities. Beetles, ants, and spiders clambered in and out of the whole field of refuse, filling the narrow footpaths that wound through the area. Dogs and cats crept up to the freshest spills in search of delicacies. Sometimes they disturbed hawks or vultures perched on a fresh carcass. Then shrieks of fury sailed through the air and caused night terrors among those sleeping in nearby houses.
“Never know if one of them dogs is really an underworld fiend,” Tcha mumbled to himself while he scanned the refuse field. “Where is that donkey’s arse?”
He rose to see over the wall fragment. No Pawah. A scrutiny of the refuse field revealed a cat fastidiously picking its way through a dump of table scraps, an ant mound the size of a sarcophagus, and the same irregular and noxious landscape as before.
His uneasiness was growing. Had Pawah taken their stores of wealth and run away? Yes! That was why he’d taken those valuables; and he’d left Tcha behind to face any inquiries.
“Hathor’s tits!” Tcha scrambled over the oil jars, startling the dining cat into flight.
His legs churning, his heart angry, Tcha darted from one heap to another in case Pawah was squatting behind one of them. When he reached the giant mound, he was breathing hard and gulping in putrid fumes. He crept around the base of the hill of rubbish. On the side away from the house wall, between it and the blank expanse of barren ground that became the western desert, lay their hiding place.
The mound had expanded over the uneven ground formed by more collapsed mud brick. Since before the days of the pyramid builders, people had lived in Memphis. When a house aged beyond repair, its sun-dried mud-brick walls were shoved down and became the new ground. Crumbling mud brick stuck up at odd angles on this side of the refuse mound. Scorpions nested there, and cobras burrowed into the aged earth. Few would risk treading here when they could dump their garbage on the nearer side of the mound.
Tcha had dug a hole beneath a slumping corner formed by the remnants of two old walls. Pawah had lined the hole with pottery shards and placed a wicker lid over it. The lid was weighted with and concealed by dirt. Tcha had made sure that the spot would be left alone by digging an imitation of a cobra’s nest into the mud-brick corner.
Tcha cast a quick glance around, then dropped to his knees and scrabbled through the dirt. He found the wicker lid and pulled it off. His hand reached inside and touched rough sacking. He grunted and pulled out one of the packages. Fingers clumsy, sweating with agitation, he unknotted the twine that bound the package. Out spilled the spoils of last night, the bronze bowl and faience plate, and even the gold ear studs and amethyst scarab bracelet.
“By the gods,” Tcha murmured. If the valuables were here, then Pawah was here. Somewhere.
Tcha hurriedly replaced the package in the shard-lined hold, put the wicker lid back, and shoved dirt on top. Rubbing his hands on his kilt—it was never clean—he turned in his squatting position to examine the side of the great mound. It rose above him like the soaring ramparts of pharaoh’s fortress-palace. Tcha wrinkled his nose; the mountain of filth stank like a row of crocodiles on a mud bank when the sky was hot.
He turned back to the hiding place and heard something that caused his flesh to dimple and torn cold—the eerie call of a jackal. More frightening even than the howl of a hyena, it was the scream of a ka burning in a lake of fire in the netherworld. Tcha took a step backward, then went still with fear as he glimpsed movement behind his hiding place.
His mouth popped open to emit a scream that never cleared his throat. Numerous slender, doglike forms crouched over something. One lifted its head to reveal a long nose and upright, pointed ears, then ducked again. Working together, they dragged their prize away from the corner toward the gap in the city wall, ignoring Tcha. The distant call erupted again. This time one of the creatures lifted its head and howled an answer. Jackals.
Afraid to move, Tcha watched them haul something out into the silver light of the moon. It had to be a carcass; that was the only thing for which a jackal would risk approaching the city. One grabbed something long and thin and pulled. Tcha gave a strangled cry as the dim light revealed the gnawed face of Pawah.
Still tethered by his fear, Tcha tried to swallow with a mouth as dry as a desert quarry. His jaws worked, then fell open when another effort by the jackals pulled his friend’s torso into view. Tcha sucked in his breath along with a great draft of foul-smelling air. He gagged, then whirled and fled the refuse field at a stumbling run.
This time he ran hard, his sandals flapping. Not caring if he made noise, Tcha hurtled through the streets, seeking the least shadowed, the broadest, the most direct. He didn’t stop until he reached the three-story edifice where he worked. Staggering around to the back, he hoisted himself over the wall and into Mistress Ese’s domain. He crept into the servants’ block and dropped onto his pallet in one of the storage rooms. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Tcha wrapped his arms around them and rocked back and forth, staring into nothing, and whimpering.
With ceremonial graciousness, Meren took his youngest daughter’s arm, drew her to his side, and favored Lord Reshep with a smile. His lips curved up, but the smile was fastened onto his face like the gold roundels sewn to pharaoh’s robe.
“Lord Reshep, this is the littlest of my children, Isis.” Meren felt her stiffen at being named a little child.
Reshep bowed low, and as he rose, he continued to stare at Isis. “I am blessed by the gods to be allowed acquaintance with such a handmaiden of Hathor, goddess of love and merriment.”
“Thank you, Lord Reshep.” Isis inclined her head.
When she failed to say anything else, Reshep gave her another compliment. As he listened, Meren tried to understand why he was so furious with Isis. Certainly she had attracted attention before, and the guests had gone back to their eating, music, and conversation quickly after her appearance. But this time Isis was different. She didn’t look the same.
Keeping part of his attention on the conversation, Meren pursued this alarming thought. What was different? He studied Isis for a moment before he realized that unlike all the other women, she had worn a simple shift. The dress had narrow shoulder straps and a low, straight neck that cut across her chest at the point where her breasts began. Sewn into the linen were thousands of tiny lapis, turquoise, and gold beads.
The garment was so heavy it clung to her body and moved with even the slightest breath. The current fashion was length upon length of finely pleated and transparent linen beneath which a woman’s body was an intriguing blur. Isis revealed nothing except bare, firm arms and a bit of leg, ankle, and her bare feet. And she wore no sandals. Anklets that matched the dress beads drew attention to the muscles in her calves and the perfection of her feet.
Meren scowled at one of the anklets as he realized his little daughter knew more than he’d realized about how to entice and intrigue.
He’d sent her and Bener to his sister to learn the management of a large household. Only three months had they passed in the country, yet each had returned more woman than girl in far too many ways. He was losing control of them.
Isis was speaking now that she had extracted a treasure-load of compliments from Reshep. “Are others of your family here?”
“
Unfortunately, both my parents have gone west, O matchless one. First my father, then my mother, and I am their only son. Father was a great noble, but retiring. He preferred managing our lands to seeking power and fortune at court. He was a master at producing from the land, of course. And Mother, everyone told me she was even more beautiful than the queen she once served, or even the fabled Nefertiti. She was wise and good and loving, and I miss her.” Reshep paused to give Isis an appreciative glance. “Until tonight, I thought her the most beautiful woman in Egypt. Still, I miss her.”
“Then we must see that you have so much to do that you have no time to miss her.” Isis glanced at her father for the first time since the conversation began, then quickly looked away with a brittle smile at Reshep. “Am I not right, Father?”
“What? Oh, of course. I believe Kysen wished to suggest an outing of some kind, perhaps a hunt. We will send word to you,” Meren said.
“You honor me, my lord.” Reshep held out his hand, and a fan appeared in it. His slave withdrew again. “I’m certain Kysen will be an excellent companion. Truthfully, I find it difficult to hunt with most men. My skills overmatch most of them.”
“Have you killed many wild fowl?” Isis asked.
“I stopped counting, O incomparable lily,” Reshep said. “Although I have kept count of the lions, crocodiles, and hippos. I believe I’ve killed seven lions, thirteen crocodiles, and eight hippos.”
Isis gave Reshep a wondering look. “You’re skilled indeed.”
“At more than the hunt, my—”
“Reshep,” Meren said sharply. Lord Reshep’s mouth closed as swiftly as a fishnet.
“I see my older daughter about to begin an enactment of the Tale of the Five Temple Traders. Yes, she needs her sister’s help. You may go, Isis.”
When she was gone, Meren signaled to a slave for wine and led Reshep to the sitting area formed by the awning in front of the deckhouse. Woven cushions surrounded two chairs carved of imported cedar of Byblos and inlaid with ivory and ebony designs that formed the hieroglyphs of Meren’s name. Meren took one of the chairs, settling into soft cushions, and offered the other to Reshep. His guest folded himself into the seat gracefully.
Dismissing the slave, Meren watched Reshep sip the imported Syrian wine. “My daughter has but fourteen years, Reshep. A marriageable age, I’ll allow. But she has yet to gain the wisdom or the maturity I would wish for her.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“No,” Meren said as he leaned back in his chair, lazily stretched his legs, and crossed his ankles. He half closed his eyes and impaled his guest with a stare. “No, I don’t think you do. Neither of my daughters has chosen a lover or a husband. Isis is not ready. Of this I am certain. And if she were, I would not wish her to accept someone of whom I know so little.”
Reshep lowered his gaze to the pool of dark crimson in his wine goblet. Meren saw his neck and jaw slowly approach the hue of his wine. From what he’d seen of this man, he expected him to take furious offense. Yet the crimson stain ebbed rapidly from his face and neck. Reshep looked up at him, revealing a quiet smile. He spread his arms and tossed his head.
“I should have guessed. Forgive me, Lord Meren. This happens so often that I forget how disconcerting it must be to the fathers.”
“What happens so often?”
Reshep turned a little in his chair, rested an elbow on the chair arm, and waved his goblet. “Young women— girls, if you prefer. Becoming instantly taken in love for me.” Reshep held up his hand when Meren tried to speak. “I assure you, my lord, I use no spells or amulets. I’ve no need of them.”
“In truth,” Meren replied mildly.
“Reshep!” Prince Djoser appeared, breathless and eager. “Come, show my friends how to perform that hunting dance. Lady Isis has requested to see it.”
Reshep glanced at Meren, who rose. “A host doesn’t prevent his guests from seeking merriment.”
When Reshep and Djoser were gone, Meren searched the crowded deck, caught the eye of his son and a charioteer, and resumed his seat. Kysen and Simut approached.
Staring over a table piled with pastries and dessert breads, Meren watched Isis drape herself across a couch, arms propped on cushions, one leg bent to display the curve of her hip. “Simut, I was wrong not to assign someone to keep watch over my daughter during this feast.”
The charioteer didn’t ask to which daughter Meren referred. He spun around and began working his way toward the group of young people watching Reshep lead a men’s hunting dance. Kysen let out a short burst of laughter that elicited a scowl from Meren.
“I find your source of amusement unfitting.”
With difficulty Kysen mastered his laughter, but couldn’t seem to get rid of his smile. “Forgive me, Father. Perhaps we should discuss something else. How did you find this country lord, Reshep?”
“Of little interest,” Meren replied. “He’s ornamental, pleasant, but he seems to have no other topic of conversation but himself.”
“Indeed.”
They both turned to find Bener leaning against one of the slender lotus columns that supported the awning. She bore a tray of pastries, which she offered to them before sinking to a cushion beside Meren.
“You agree?” Kysen asked. He looked in Reshep’s direction. The dance had finished, and the newcomer had been surrounded by women. Not Isis, however, or Princess Tio, each of whom had their own court of admirers. “Most women seem to find him godlike in his magnificence.”
“He wouldn’t make a good lover, or a good husband,” Bener said with a certainty that caused Meren to sit up straight.
“Why?” he asked.
Bener picked up a fruit pastry and bit into it. “Because he will always be more in love with himself than any woman.”
“Rather like Isis,” Meren said with a slight smile. “Their kas are much alike.”
Kysen shook his head. “I never thought to say this, but Reshep is worse than Isis.”
Meren was about to agree, but he happened to glance across the deck and saw Princess Tio walking toward them. Her height and disdainful expression caused everyone in her path to step aside, so that it appeared that she moved through a wave of white linen and jewels.
“Kysen, Bener, go away, quickly.”
“What’s wrong?” Bener asked.
Kysen stood up and pulled his sister to her feet. “Don’t argue. You know that tone.”
“Ky,” Meren said as his son followed Bener from the sitting area. “Tell the captain to begin the return trip to the quay.”
Tio arrived as Kysen left, and Meren rose to bow to her.
“Princess,” he said.
She walked past him into the deckhouse. Meren stared after her. She wanted to talk to him alone. He heard trumpets blare a warning, and jackals howled, making his ka writhe. Tio was dangerous. Her mistress, the Great Royal Wife, was dangerous. Cursing silently, Meren followed the princess into the deckhouse.
He stepped inside a miniature reception hall fitted with brightly woven hangings, couches, and piles of cushions. Garlands hung from the ceiling and the furniture, and decorated a table bearing refreshments. Tio stood with her back to him beside an alabaster wine jar half her height that rested in a bronze stand. One hand caressed a rose lotus from a wreath that decorated the neck of the jar. Meren watched her long, dark fingers stroke a pink petal. Her palms were tinted with henna. Her head was turned to the side, revealing a high forehead, the delicate curve of her nose, the lips that, for all their plumpness, contributed to the impression of unyielding remoteness he always gained from Tio.
She was trying to unsettle him by making him wait, by remaining silent and forcing him to speak first. Unfortunately for Tio, he used this maneuver himself when trying to intimidate ministers, evildoers, and his children. He turned away from her and dropped onto a gilded couch. Propped up on one arm, he snatched an electrum bowl filled with dates and popped one in his mouth. He was on his third date when Tio whipped around to f
ace him, her expression still unreadable. At that moment the ship leaned as it turned back toward the west bank of the Nile. Tio stumbled and lost her balance.
Meren lunged off the couch, grabbed her arm, and lifted her. He was grinning. “Have you had too much Syrian wine, O mighty princess?” Tio jerked her arm free.
“You always did have the manners of a furnace tender.”
Meren gave her another bow. “And you, Tio, are a lady without equal. O rising star of a fortunate year, with hair like lapis lazuli, with voice finer than gold, thou art more fair than the rose lotus, more delicate than the blue lotus, O mistress of captivation.”
“You dung-eating pestilence, I’ll hear no more mockery.”
Laughing, Meren dropped back onto his couch and picked up the bowl of dates. “What do you want, Tio?”
Tio let her arms fall to her sides. Then she laced her fingers together and resumed her detached expression. “The Mistress of the Two Lands, beloved of the living god, great king’s wife, may she live forever, Ankhesenamun, wishes to reward the Friend of the King, Count Meren, for his loyal service to pharaoh. She will take unto her a handmaiden, the daughter of Count Meren, Lady Isis.”
“How wondrous,” Meren said softly. “I am prostrate with gratitude for this undeserved honor.” He thought quickly. The queen hated him for ruining her plan to replace Tutankhamun with a Hittite prince. It had taken her months to convince pharaoh of her contrition, and now that she had gained back some of the king’s favor, she made this move.
“Unfortunately my daughter is still quite immature. Her body is that of a woman, but her ka remains childlike. I fear that she would be of little service to the queen.”
“That is for the Great Royal Wife to decide,” Tio said.
Meren set the bowl of dates aside and poured himself a cup of water. “Her majesty is gracious, but—”
Eater of souls Page 7