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 Horns. 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 fanners 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 wel-come, 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 prince'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."
"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 commodities 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.