“And Ky—” Meren was looking at Tcha, who was still crouched in his corner looking dirty and miserable.
“Yes, Father?”
“Go home first and put on your amulets of protection.”
The overseer of the Audience Hall controlled access to pharaoh. His lineage was said to extend back to the rulers of the delta before the Two Lands became one. Called Userhet, he was of an age to be pharaoh’s grandfather, steeped in dignity and knowledge of protocol, and impossible to coerce. He had been at court since the years in which pharaoh’s father had earned the name Amunhotep the Magnificent. Thick, furry eyebrows dominated his face in spite of his wedge of a nose. A mane of silver hair was receding toward the crown of his head except at the spot over the middle of his forehead. This pattern made his forehead seem higher than it was.
Userhet wore sandals with specially padded soles so that the hours he spent standing in front of doors that gave access to the king wouldn’t ruin his feet. Known for his aversion to children, youths, and young maidens, he had the habit of keeping dried chickpeas in a beaded pouch suspended from his belt. If a noble child became too boisterous, he would pelt the offender with a chickpea. Despite his years, the overseer retained much of his strength. It was put to use occasionally when a rowdy courtier disturbed the serenity of the palace or when Userhet was called upon to eject some unfortunate who incurred pharaoh’s wrath. Courtiers and government officials alike feared him.
At the same time, they sought his goodwill, assuming that he could—if he pleased—get them past whatever closed door barred their way and into the sacred presence of the king. Userhet had never denied the truth of this assumption; neither had he affirmed it. He simply let the assumption remain and the rumors of his influence sail around the court.
At the moment the overseer had taken up his position before a door in the massive walls surrounding one of the royal pleasure gardens behind the palace. Outside the walls, courtiers walked up and down paths lined with incense trees, palms, and sycamores. The royal bodyguard lined the entire perimeter of the garden. Userhet leaned on his staff of office and patiently listened to Prince Djoser and Lord Reshep.
Djoser had been born into a family famed for its warrior pharaohs, but having failed as a warrior, he had acquired a desire to insert himself into pharaoh’s most intimate circle. Obtaining royal access for Reshep was but his latest step toward his goal of being seen as a man of power. How Reshep would further Djoser’s aspirations was a mystery to Userhet. Perhaps the prince expected the man to use his fabled charm on pharaoh for Djoser’s benefit.
Userhet was good at listening to noble outrage and entreaty; he could do it for hours. Such endurance wasn’t usually necessary, but in Djoser’s case, Userhet’s stamina was being severely tested. His patience was failing; the prince was making the mistake of whining. Userhet detested whiners.
“Why, why why?” Djoser moaned. “I was to be allowed into the presence of the divine one at this very hour.”
“Thine is the voice of truth, O prince,” the overseer said without moving away from the door he blocked.
Lord Reshep sighed. “Tell him who I am.”
“I know who you are, Lord Reshep. No one may enter.”
Lord Reshep engaged in a staring battle with Userhet. Userhet won when Reshep turned away to whisper something to Djoser. Djoser squinted at the older man.
“Has anyone bribed you to keep me from the king?”
Userhet had been resting most of his weight on his staff; now he drew himself up as straight as this sign of office and turned his back on the two men. Walking to the double doors of the garden wall, he placed his back to the sheet gold covering them and banged the staff three times against the ground.
“All here present harken to the words of The Living Horus: Strong Bull, Arisen in truth; Gold-Horus: Great of strength, Smiter of Asiatics, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt: Nebkheprure Tutankhamun; the Son of Ra, Tutankhamun, Lord of Thebes, beloved of Amun. It pleases my heart to hold no audiences for the remainder of the morning.” Userhet pounded the staff again. “Thus saith the living Horus, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, beloved of Ptah, beloved of Amun, given life forever and ever.”
Djoser reddened, and he muttered something.
“Forgive my aged lack of hearing, O mighty prince,” said the overseer. “Did you address me?”
Fists clenched, Djoser walked up to Userhet. “I’ll tell you what I said.”
Lord Reshep, who had gone pale rather than red, grabbed Djoser’s arm and pulled him away. They hovered nearby, brushing against a rare incense tree and causing some of its branches to break. Userhet watched them hiss and whisper to each other while he fingered the chickpeas in the pouch on his belt.
The overseer was debating the consequences of pelting Prince Djoser and Lord Reshep when the stream of promenading courtiers before him on the path began to undulate to the left and right. Someone was coming, someone whose progress made even generals and ministers give way.
Moments later Userhet saw a gleaming black wig surrounding the harsh features of Lord Meren, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, Friend of the King. Meren paused to speak to General Nakhtmin, then proceeded on his way.
His progress was halted by Djoser. Reshep was nowhere to be seen. Userhet stared straight ahead, but he directed his attention to the two and tried his best to hear what they were saying. Djoser was standing in Meren’s way.
“Why have you refused Reshep for your daughter?” Prince Djoser demanded.
For a brief moment Lord Meren’s composure slipped, and Userhet witnessed astonished outrage quickly mastered. Meren stared at the prince with indignation of such majesty that had Userhet been its recipient, he would have skulked away and hidden for a century. Evidently Djoser lacked Userhet’s sensitive qualities, for he repeated his question. By now a few courtiers had paused to listen, and even more were directing their steps in circles that kept them within hearing distance. Meren resolved the confrontation in his characteristic way. He drew close to the prince and began whispering to him. As he spoke, Djoser went pale. Sweat broke out on his forehead and dribbled into his eye paint. The muscles of his neck writhed as he tried to swallow. Meren drew back, gave the prince a sweet, endearing smile, and continued on his way. Djoser was left standing alone looking sick, staring at Meren’s back, his arms limp at his sides.
Lord Meren walked up to Userhet as if nothing had happened. Before he could utter a word, Userhet moved aside, pulled open the door, and bowed.
Meren gave him a look of surprise. “You knew I was coming?”
“No,” Userhet replied. “But the divine Horus wishes to have speech with you. Go.”
Userhet began pushing the garden door closed, forcing Meren to enter. Giving the door a final, satisfying bang, Userhet turned around and planted his staff in the earth. As he did so, he looked back at Djoser. Sometimes it did courtiers good to be shown how low their rank really was. As for Meren, he would have to rely upon the well-known discretion of the Eyes of Pharaoh.
Meren stopped just inside the garden, where royal bodyguards examined him as if he were a Libyan assassin. Too many strange things had been happening lately. He was still reeling from Djoser’s unconscionable intrusion into his affairs. Now the overseer of the audience hall had taken a serious risk by allowing him in unannounced. Such a breach usually occurred only with pharaoh’s permission, which meant something was wrong.
Meren felt as if a swarm of evil curses buzzed around his head. He had risked his life to search for Nefertiti’s former cook, only to find himself at the mercy of her demented sister. He’d tried several times to reason with Satet, but the old woman kept sailing back and forth in time and never moored herself to the present for long. For now he’d left her in Bener’s charge. Perhaps a few days in a normal household would do the woman’s reason some good. He hoped so, for he still couldn’t find the cook Hunero, or her husband, and now a new, more present danger threatened.
Who had killed Prince Mugallu? Who w
as murdering the citizens of Memphis? Evil was abroad in the city. Was it the twisted evil of men, or was it Ammut, risen from the netherworld? If Eater of Souls preyed upon the living, why had she come? Perhaps the gods were displeased with the people of the city, or perhaps some magician of great power had summoned her for purposes of his own.
The horror of Mugallu’s death made that of Nefertiti seem placid. He hoped a living mortal was responsible for the killings; the alternative left him helpless unless he could find someone powerful enough to banish Eater of Souls back to the netherworld. And he knew of only one powerful enough to do that—pharaoh. Unfortunately, deep in his ka, he hid the fear that even the power of pharaoh couldn’t help his people if the Devouress roamed the earth.
Meren heard someone call his name and looked up to find Rahotep striding down a path toward him. His legs were short in relation to his torso, so he took many more steps than Meren would to cover the same distance. Poor Rahotep had a difficult time looking princely. Without preliminaries, Rahotep launched into an inquiry.
“What are you doing here now? You’ll ruin everything.”
Immediately suspicious, Meren folded his arms over the transparent linen folds on his chest and said, “What am I going to ruin?”
“Go away,” Rahotep said. “Pester the living god with your intrigues and plots later. He’s with the Great Royal Wife and doesn’t wish to be interrupted.”
Knowing Rahotep, Meren grew alarmed. “By the wrath of Set, what have you done? No, not here.”
He retreated from the bodyguards to the shelter of a kiosk. Rahotep had no choice but to join him. Feigning unconcern, the prince swaggered to the nearest chair and plopped himself into it. Meren suddenly swooped down at him, planted his hands on the chair arms, and gouged Rahotep with a stare.
“What have you done?” he repeated quietly.
Rahotep tried to retreat through the back of the chair, then covered up his agitation by taking the offensive.
“I’ve done what you should have. I’ve begun a reconciliation between pharaoh and the Great Royal Wife.”
Meren’s brows rammed together. “You? You have served as peacemaker? Her majesty tried to replace pharaoh with a Hittite prince, you fool.”
Rahotep shoved Meren and got to his feet.
“Ha! That was a false letter, designed to be discovered and ruin the queen. Her majesty assures me of this.” Rahotep glanced over his shoulder at the guards, then whispered, “From her own mouth I heard these truths. She is the daughter of a living god and does not lie.”
“She’s the daughter of a heretic.”
“But a living god nonetheless. And she was wise to consult me. I managed to persuade pharaoh to listen to her explanation of that letter, and now he understands that someone wishes her majesty ill and seeks to divide her from her beloved king.”
“Just who is this mysterious enemy of the queen?” Meren asked.
“She hasn’t said.”
“Not even to her benefactor, the great Prince Rahotep, true of voice?”
“Don’t mock me,” Rahotep said, his voice rising.
Meren couldn’t help a sigh of impatience. “I haven’t time for your self-important games. Have you considered that her majesty has always condemned pharaoh for returning to the old gods? Why would she suddenly change and reconcile with the one she condemns for destroying her father’s grand vision? Think upon these questions, Rahotep, and while you’re doing that, you might want to ask yourself whose name the queen will whisper to pharaoh when he asks her who sent that letter to the king of the Hittites.”
Rahotep seemed to have lost the strength to shout. He swallowed, then found a water bottle hanging from one of the kiosk support poles and drank from it. He let water trickle over his face. Wiping his cheeks, he licked his lips and cleared his throat. Whatever he said was spoken so softly that Meren couldn’t hear it.
“Speak up, Rahotep. No one can hear.”
“I said—that is—well, you know how good I am at charming women.”
“No, I don’t.”
“No? Odd. Everyone else does.”
“What are you talking about, Rahotep?”
“I—um—I might have given pharaoh a few hints about how to manage the queen.”
Meren lost what was left of his patience. Reshep, Mugallu, Djoser, and now Rahotep. Gods.
“Rahotep, you have the wits of a maggot. Get out of my sight.”
“I did nothing wrong!”
“Your overweening pride has caused you to take liberties with pharaoh and insert yourself into the intimacies of the divine union upon which the kingdom depends. Leave, Rahotep, before my control gives way and I beat you like a grain tax cheater.”
Meren wasted no time making sure Rahotep did as he was told. He stalked down a path that took him into a grove of trees near the great lake at the center of the garden. Once beneath the branches of the grove, he turned and quickly skirted the tree line until he came to the point nearest the lake.
As he caught sight of the water, he realized that the king and queen were sitting in a gilded and painted pleasure boat floating on the water. Their heads were close together, and they were engaged in intimate conversation. Between the lake and Meren stood the Nubian Karoya, his back to the royal couple, a scowl disfiguring his features. Karoya didn’t like Ankhesenamun.
The bodyguard saw Meren as soon as he leaned out from behind a tree trunk. The Nubian never smiled, but his scowl did fade until he looked almost pleased. Meren was distracted from this unusual sight by movement in the boat. Ankhesenamun had gotten on her knees beside the king. She took his hand, which elicited a started look from Tutankhamun. Then she began to lean toward him.
Pharaoh, who was still only a youth despite his air of worldly responsibility, retreated. He bent backward as the queen continued to move toward him until his shoulder pressed against the curved stern of the pleasure boat. Unable to escape, Tutankhamun thrust out a hand to stop the queen. Ankhesenamun caught his wrist, then grabbed the other and pushed herself against the king.
Eyes wide, Tutankhamun turned his head aside. The queen smiled and breathed words into his ear before drawing a wet line on the skin of his neck with her tongue. The king gasped and jumped, which caused Ankhesenamun to lose her balance. She landed on her bottom, and her weight rocked the boat. Meren expected her to shriek at the king for causing her to fall; the queen familiar to him had little tolerance for accidents, mistakes, or the uncertainty of youth. But she didn’t yell; she laughed, gently, with loving humor.
Evidently his wife’s drastic change of nature was too much for pharaoh. He grabbed the oars and rowed the boat to the edge of the lake, talking rapidly the whole time. In moments Tutankhamun had helped his queen out of the boat, summoned Karoya, and had Ankhesenamun escorted out of the garden. Meren faded back into the trees.
Despite his serious nature and maturity, the king would find it difficult to face anyone so soon after that incident. Ankhesenamun always made Tutankhamun feel callow and gawky. On purpose, Meren had always believed. Having to deal with the news of the Hittite emissary’s death was going to be hard enough without the king realizing there had been a witness to the way the queen had routed him. Meren waited awhile in the trees and fell to wondering if any man could be responsible for what had been done to Mugallu. After a while, he thrust such naive thoughts out of his heart and walked openly out of the grove and into the king’s presence.
Chapter 10
The residence of the Hittite emissary boiled with activity, like a disturbed ant mound. Servants stood in corners and argued with each other. Guards marched around the privacy walls and hustled loiterers from the vicinity. Kysen arrived with the watchman Min and a squad of charioteers, to be told by the porter at the door of the death of a female slave and the disappearance of Prince Mugallu.
The chief of the prince’s military escort, General Labarnas, wasn’t in the house. With his own men behind him, Kysen strode across the kitchen yard to an area beside
a storage building. There the general stood over the body of the dead slave, arguing with his men.
The argument stopped abruptly when Kysen appeared. Labarnas, a man with an imposing military reputation and the usual ill-concealed Hittite arrogance, turned on Kysen and shouted.
“What have you done to Prince Mugallu!”
Kysen paused in midstride, then closed the gap between himself and the general before replying smoothly. “I know that his highness is missing, and I have brought news, general.”
They didn’t know. He and Meren had assumed word from the streets would have reached the Hittites. He’d expected outrage, the usual Hittite accusations and demands, but these men looked like they expected to engage in battle at once. The general and his officers were dressed in bronze armor and boar’s-tusk helmets. They bristled with swords, daggers, and spears.
“You Egyptians!” Labarnas snarled. “You beguile with your polished manners and sweet words, lure a warrior into taking his ease, and then, like cowards, strike when a man is most vulnerable. Prince Mugallu is dead, isn’t he? Don’t bother to spew whatever tale of accident and woe you’ve created.” Behind him, the Hittite officers muttered to each other and gripped their straight swords.
“General, I come with no tale.”
Labarnas stalked close to Kysen, causing the charioteers to close ranks. Labarnas ignored them and stuck his face close to Kysen’s.
“Very well, son of the Eyes of Pharaoh. Tell me what has happened so that I can return to Hattusha and repeat the lies to my king.”
He should never have come without a royal minister and a larger escort. Kysen looked down at Labarnas. Odd how a Hittite could seem as big as a colossus when he was at least three finger-widths less in height. It must be the relentlessly hostile temperament.
Kysen took a moment to marshal his wits. He drew in long breaths and released them without drawing attention to what he was doing. As he breathed, he called up scenes of Meren in the royal throne room sparring with a Babylonian prince, of his father facing down the poisonous old scorpion of a high priest of Amun in his own temple. He wasn’t the son of a common artisan; he was the son of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.
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