Meren set the bird papyrus down and placed polished stone weights on it to keep his place. He hurried to another of the great chests in which the documents and texts were kept. This one was set apart from the others and made of precious ebony inlaid with ivory. Scenes on its sides depicted the ruler of the netherworld, Osiris, and his companions, Anubis, Toth, and Horus, son of Osiris, and his wife Isis. Stopping beside the chest in which sacred writings were stored, Meren whispered a prayer of praise as he pulled out a thick roll. Opening the Book of the Dead, he began to skim the chapters of spells.
He skipped over the hymns to Osiris and Ra, the chapters devoted to restoring the dead, not letting one’s soul be taken from him, the ones that opened the tomb and allowed the dead man to go out into the living world. More hymns, a spell for being changed into a falcon of gold.
“Here it is.”
Meren held the papyrus closer to a lamp mounted on a column. This was a new copy of the Book of the Dead, and the papyrus from which it had been made was thin, yet strong, and of so fine a quality that his father had refused to let Meren touch it until he had completed his education as a scribe. The scene of the Hall of Judgment stood out in brilliant colors—red for men’s skin, yellow for women, pure white clothing. Registers of sacred black hieroglyphs bordered a painting of a balance scale. Anubis knelt under one arm of the scale. In one pan lay the heart of the dead person. In the other, the Feather of Truth, its shape resembling that of an ostrich feather.
“But the killer hasn’t used ostrich feathers.” He started to roll up the papyrus, but his hands went still when he saw the beast crouching behind Toth, the recorder of verdicts in the Hall of Judgment. “Ammut, the Devouress.”
A fantastic monster was Eater of Souls. She was composed of the three most deadly animals—the crocodile, in whose jaws so many Egyptians perished; the lion, whose claws ripped flesh as if it were melon pulp; the hippopotamus, giant terror of the waters, who could crush a victim flatter than a papyrus sheet with one stomp. This demon lurked by the balance scales, ready to devour all who were not judged true of voice.
Closing his eyes, Meren imagined Eater of Souls. Wet yellow teeth, stinking breath. He knew the pain of a lion’s strike and still remembered the lacerations across his ribs. Faint, ragged white lines in his skin reminded him of the agony he felt when those claws ripped through his flesh. As they cut, his skin and muscle tugged. Then they were dragged along with the claw as it moved, making him feel as if he were being peeled.
The papyrus snapped closed. Meren blinked and looked down to find that he’d been rolling up the book while deep in the memory of the lion attack. He replaced the book and went back to the bird text. While he read, he muttered to himself.
“The evil one has no ostrich feathers. Too poor to get them, or too clever of heart to reveal that he has such a luxury? White-feathered birds, white feathers. Heron, egret.” He’d seen egrets following a farmer’s plow and eating insects turned out of the soil by the blade.
He moved a weight stone and revealed a drawing of the sacred ibis, beloved of Toth. The bird had a pure white body, black neck, bill, legs, and wing tips. Black and white; good and evil.
“An appropriate choice,” Meren said.
There were more white birds. The spoonbill, which was used as a decoy in fowling, and the Egyptian vulture. This was a disgusting bird with a bare-skinned head and hooked bill. It lurked in rubbish piles and fed on the excrement dumped there.
Meren let the papyrus roll closed. This was a useless study. Egypt teemed with birds, especially when foreign places of the north turned cold. They flew to the land of the Nile seeking refuge, and anyone could collect feathers, anyone who could hunt or who could purchase a freshly killed fowl in a market.
Feathers were used to adorn dresses and to make fans, as stuffing for cushions to cover chairs and stools, as pallets and mattresses for beds. Birds of all kinds were kept in walled yards, pens, and cages, fattened, and then slaughtered. Birds inhabited the desert, the Nile, the swamps and marshes. The royal menagerie was full of birds, as were those of many nobles. All over the kingdom they were collected and sacrificed as offerings to the gods. Unfortunately, white-feathered birds were almost as numerous as flies.
“I’m becalmed, adrift without oarsmen or helmsman,” Meren whispered to himself. He would ask Bener which of his own fowlers might be able to discern more about the feathers.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Meren listened to the wind. The severe blasts had died down for the moment. He rolled his shoulders. They ached, and he was weary of trying to make sense of crimes that appeared to have been done for no reason. Never had he been faced with evil devoid of purpose. Evil born of chaos lodged within a mortal—such a man was surely demented.
What kind of man chopped out the hearts of strangers? For the victims hadn’t been of the same family, village, or city. And there couldn’t be more than one criminal at work. That several could be responsible for such horror was surely unlikely. Apart from Mugallu, none of the dead ones had mortal enemies. According to what his charioteers and the watchman Min had been able to learn, each had been unremarkable, passing through life without either creating great disturbances or performing great accomplishments. These people weren’t worth killing, so why do it?
Nothing he knew seemed to give a sign of who or what Eater of Souls was. Perhaps this was one of those instances where ordinary investigation wouldn’t suffice. He always tried to use orderly reasoning in his inquiries, but if he was dealing with the anger of the gods, would orderly reasoning be of use?
He felt the rise of irritation. Confusion always sparked a fire in his chest and made him want to drive his fist through one of the mud-brick walls of his office. He had to get out of the house. On a table beside his chair lay his scribe’s palette, a stack of blank papyri, and a box no one but he ever touched. It was of stained cedar and decorated with his name in gilded hieroglyphs. Snatching it up along with a lamp, Meren strode out of the room, downstairs, and out of the house.
The grounds were quiet except for an occasional whinny from the stables, lowing from the cattle pens, and the rustle of palm and sycamore leaves in the wind. The breeze whipped his long, transparent robe around his legs. He’d taken off his wig and much of the heavy jewelry with which his body servant, Zar, had burdened him that morning, but Zar had replaced them after Meren had bathed this evening. He’d been too preoccupied with the heart thefts to notice. When he had, he’d removed some.
His wig was somewhere in his office along with at least two electrum-and-amethyst armbands and three rings. He’d kept only his seal ring. He strode down a path lined with small pomegranate trees, a recent addition ordered by Isis and Bener, both of whom intended to learn the mysteries of making wine flavored with the fruit. Meren suspected they were interested only because they were learning from his childhood playmate, Lady Bentanta. His daughters liked Bentanta. They hinted that she would make an excellent wife. They didn’t know Bentanta like he did.
Meren reached his private garden, where he dismissed the porter whose task it was to patrol this area of the estate. He didn’t want the man walking in on him when he opened the gilded cedar box. Once inside the refuge, he placed the lamp and the box on a table beneath a wooden awning supported by four painted poles beside the largest reflection pool. Glancing around, he saw no one.
The garden was his attempt to capture the beauty and teeming life of the Nile and bring closure to his life. This way he could renew himself, drawing strength from pleasure in the water, the animals and plants. The moon sprayed silver light across the water. Undulating dark shapes were barely discernible in the depths, but he caught a glimpse of a talapia, a fish that hatched its eggs in its mouth, a symbol of rebirth.
A heron with a smooth, ornamental crest behind its head goggled at him from the water, then stalked away on its measuring-rod legs. Several Egyptian geese paddled by. The trees and pools in his garden, along with the reeds and lotus plants, were the haunt of p
intails, rock pigeons, doves, and pied kingfishers.
Satisfied that he was alone, Meren lifted the hinged lid of the box. Within lay another hinged lid that swung open to reveal four paneled compartments. Each contained an orb that gave off a golden luster in the lamplight. Meren took three of them, two in one hand, one in the other. He tossed the single orb in the air and caught it, then repeated the action, establishing a steady cadence. Quickly he threw the second and third into the air so that they spun above his head.
Then, his juggling rhythm established, he walked slowly down the paved path that bordered the reflection pool. He moved toward the shorter end nearest the gate in the wall. The orbs made a satisfying pat as they hit his hands briefly before he tossed them again. Pat pat pat, pat pat pat.
A breeze arose suddenly, making the limbs of the sycamores and acacias scrape against each other, thousands of leaves breathing hissing murmurs. Swaying flowers and shrubs accompanied them with the whisper of their leaves and petals. Seeking to empty his heart of agitation, Meren continued to juggle while listening to the refrain.
At his feet dead grass blades and leaves danced as he reached the corner of the pool. Then he hesitated, juggling in place while he frowned. Catching the balls as they fell, he held them and listened. Beneath the gentle creaking of limbs and the mesmerizing strain of leaf and petal he had heard something else. Something faint, but as discordant as a snapped harp string. It hadn’t been a bird. Holding still, Meren concentrated, keeping his breathing shallow to eliminate any distracting sound.
Still nothing. He turned, looking around the garden at the secluded arbors, the tree-shrouded pavilion, the small orchard filled with more pomegranate as well as persea and nabk-berry trees. He searched arbors heavy with grapevines, stands of palms, and smaller pools with their lotus and papyrus thickets, ducks, egrets, and geese.
“You fool,” he whispered aloud. “You’re imagining demons and spirits where there are only fish and birds.”
He turned and flung the first golden ball in the air. Without warning the wind surged, sending a furious blast across the garden. With it soared the biting desert grit. The west wind howled through the desert escarpments, soared through steep valleys created by the stylized mountain ranges that were the pyramids and cemeteries of Memphis. And under the howl came a noise like an animal’s grunt. Meren heard it, caught the orbs again, and turned to the west.
Had he heard the rasp of metal, or was it simply branches scraping together? The air smelled of water, dust, and some animal odor. Perhaps it was wet duck or decaying water plants. The garden was alive with movement, but the west wind subsided. Trees and reeds settled down. After a few moments, Meren decided the only thing he’d heard was the wind and resumed his walking and ball tossing.
After one circuit of the reflection pool, the wind picked up again, but not enough to stop him from juggling. He had to pursue this interest in secret, for great nobles did not perform feats of entertainment like commoners. Meren wasn’t certain what pharaoh would think if he learned that his Eyes and Ears tossed brightly colored balls like the troupe in the royal palace.
And Zar disapproved. He acquired a look like a bilious toad and said things like, “Great lords do not toss balls like naked children” and “One so noble of lineage cannot sustain his dignity while chasing after toys as the baboon chases cats.” Zar had served royalty and understood the importance of decorum, splendor, and reserve in supporting a great one’s power.
But Meren needed this pastime. It forced him to concentrate on balance and rhythm while it relieved his heart of burdens, fears, and confusion, if only for a brief time. So he juggled when he was alone.
Unfortunately, this time he couldn’t distract his heart from the deaths, the missing hearts, the feathers. If he tried, he ended up trying to make sense of old Satet’s demented opinions about where her sister could be. Every time he pressed the old woman for answers, she gave answers that were increasingly absurd. He dared not press her too hard for fear of permanently confusing her wits.
He’d been forced to take the men assigned to searching Memphis for her sister and divert them to the hunt for Eater of Souls. Unsnarling the tangle of Nefertiti’s death was going to take a long time. Every day that passed in which he sent out requests for information, asked friends about old memories, and culled old records of the household of the Great Royal Wife increased the chance that the wrong person would discover that Meren was interested in a queen long dead.
“Cease!” Meren hissed to himself. “You’re to think of balance and speed, not killings.”
He turned a corner of the pool and started down the long side of the rectangle. Moving slowly, he approached the next corner. There an artificial papyrus marsh had been constructed on a base of Nile mud. Rising to double Meren’s height, the thicket of triangular reeds with their frothy, tufted crowns bowed and bobbed in an isolated gust of wind. Meren reached out to catch a ball that had been blown slightly off its course and tossed it up just in time to catch the one that followed.
As he neared the papyrus marsh, his foot came down on something soft, wet, and cold. He cried out, withdrew his foot, and staggered sideways. The golden orbs bounced in all directions. He heard a plop as he regained his footing and watched one of the balls sink into the water. As the wind ceased, a giant toad croaked at him. It scrambled to the edge of the pool and jumped in.
“Cursed water monster.” Meren rubbed his ankle. His foot was wet from the toad, so he went to the pool and dipped his foot in the water.
As he bent his knee, the papyrus reeds stirred, producing a rattlelike sound. There was no breeze! Meren pulled his foot out of the water and reached for his dagger, but he was too late. Several dark figures erupted from the marsh and rounded the corner of the pool. As Meren drew his weapon, a fist hit his arm. He dropped the dagger, but three swords jabbed him.
Expecting to feel metal pierce his flesh, Meren froze. When the sword points remained embedded in his robe, he pulled himself up, dropped his arms to his sides, and turned to face a man who stepped closer.
He looked like a mastaba, one of the short, wide tombs of ancient nobles that resembled benches. His eyes bore an expression that said he understood his own importance in the world, and that it was greater than that of anyone he’d met so far. Bronze armor was wrapped around his torso. It covered his lower legs and encrusted his helmet, but his body seemed hard enough that the metal protection might prove unnecessary.
“General Labarnas,” Meren said. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be so foolish as to attack one of pharaoh’s servants in the middle of his city.”
The Hittite threw back his head and laughed once. Then his smile vanished. “Perhaps, Egyptian, I’ve come to avenge Prince Mugallu, whom you slaughtered like one of your sacred bulls.”
“Have you ever heard of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh attacking anyone like a hyena after a carcass?”
Labarnas was only a silhouette of lighter darkness in the night. Meren watched him twitch his head to the side as an eagle does when scouting for prey. He heard him slide his sword into its sheath.
“I didn’t come out in the evil breath of this desert wind to listen to the poison and lies of an arrogant Egyptian prince.”
“I cannot understand why you’re here at all,” Meren said. “My son told you we were doing everything we could to find the one who killed Prince Mugallu.”
Labarnas darted toward Meren, shoving aside one of his men. “My father died at the hands of an Egyptian dog at Kadesh.”
“Neither he nor any Hittite should have been in Kadesh,” Meren said. “Kadesh belongs to pharaoh.”
“Miserable perfumed catamite!”
Meren smiled his indifference and touched one of the Hittite sword blades. “Enough of this useless and petty debate. What do you want?”
Labarnas said something in his own language to one of Meren’s guards. The man dashed behind the papyrus thicket and returned with a basket large enough to hold half a bull’s c
arcass. He set it down near the general and removed the lid. Labarnas swept his arm toward the container.
“O perfected prince, true of voice, beautiful of aspect, great Eyes of Pharaoh, get into the basket.”
It took Meren a moment to understand, as no one had ever dared to insult him in this manner.
“Are you possessed by a mad spirit?” he asked.
“I’m leaving this cursed city, Egyptian, and you’re my letter of safe passage. My men and the rest of the delegation are waiting for us, and once I have you back at the royal visitors’ house, pharaoh will have no choice but to allow me to leave.”
“How do you know he won’t hurl a dozen companies of infantry at you?”
Labarnas planted his fists on his belt. “Why is it that you Egyptians think all Hittites are dense of wit? The great king, Suppiluliumas, knows the secrets of his brother. Not that pharaoh’s affection for you is a secret.”
“Perhaps,” Meren said lightly. “But I know the living god far better than your king, and I can promise you that trying to compel him to do anything, much less to bend to your will, is a mistake. One does not order a god-king. Not unless one is prepared to suffer—possibly I should say—divinely.”
“I weary of talk. Egypt has lost the will and the fire needed for conquest, wasted it on dalliance, perfume, and jewels. Get in the basket, curse you, before I order you bound and silenced.”
“I suppose you’ve killed all the men on guard,” Meren said as if carrying on a pleasant conversation with a banquet guest.
“Not all of them. Some will live.”
At last Meren allowed himself to look away from Labarnas to the walls surrounding the garden. “By the great Amun, general, you’re right.”
Fire rained down on the group by the pool. Meren remained still while flame-tipped arrows stabbed into the ground in a circle around them. The soldiers holding Meren at sword point stepped back, then stopped, fearing to move. Their blades dipped toward the ground as they searched the top of the wall.
Eater of souls Page 20