Unas scurried through the black streets of western Thebes, his ka lighter than it had been in two days, for he was no longer afraid. He was unsuspected; he could continue at the temple without risk. Yesterday he'd seen Lord Meren among the attendants of pharaoh and had almost spoken to him. Lucidly he'd lost his courage; the man he feared gave no sign of disturbance.
In the darkness of the hour before dawn he could barely make out the shapes of the sphinxes that lined the avenue before the temple. He walked between two of them and down the street toward the first pylon, the gate of the god. It was still early, and there was no one about.
Unas approached the colossus. It stood surrounded by scaffolding, ready to be finished. Most of it had been carved at the quarry far to the south near Aswan, but it still had to be polished. Soon master stoneworkers and their apprentices would arrive with their rubbing stones and buckets of crushed quartzite to smooth and polish what surfaces weren't to be painted and adorned with gold.
Nearing the ladder that scaled the statue to the platform surrounding its head, Unas paused as he heard a loud snore. He poked his head around the base of the sculpture. The noise was coming from the gate between the pylons. That lazy porter was asleep again. Sniffing,
Unas patted the list of tools and supplies he'd folded and stuck in the waistband of his kilt. The sentries must be pacing their route on the far side of the temple. Not that they would disturb the porter, who could sleep through the howling of fiends.
Unas, on the other hand, always woke early, a habit mat benefited him this morning. Last night the master sculptor had sent a boy with a message asking that they meet early to go over the day's work plan. He grasped the ladder and began climbing.
Halfway up, he paused and glanced around. He could see lights in houses now, and far off a donkey brayed. He continued up the ladder, smiling. Being the first to arrive and the last to leave afforded him much pleasure, for his industrious habits had attracted the attention of the prophets of the god. In their hands lay all opportunities for advancement.
His head reached the floor of the top scaffolding. He grasped the ends of the ladder and put a foot on the floor. Pharaoh's granite eyes, as large as Unas's head, stared at him.
As he hoisted himself onto the scaffolding, he heard the creak of wood. Something white dashed at him as he straightened up with his feet planted on the edge of the platform. Unas's mouth fell open, but the man who leaped from behind the giant head of the colossus was too fast for him.
Unas screamed, flailed his arms, and plummeted. He felt one last jolt of pain, and then nothing.
The man on the scaffolding peered over the edge at the body below. Then he surveyed the area around the statue, keeping his head cocked in the direction of the god's gate and the porter. A loud sucking noise floated toward him, signaling continued slumber, and he quickly climbed down. He stood over the body for a moment before turning and melting into the darkness beneath the high wall that surrounded the temple. What was left of Unas lay undisturbed except for visits from flies.
As light appeared behind the eastern temples of the sacred precinct, several priests walked down the avenue to the pylon. They didn't glance at the base of the statue, and in any case the body lay on the far side, away from the gate. The priests roused the porter, scolded him, and went into the temple.
Not long afterward, a group of men arrived at the quay in a skiff. Disembarking, they shouldered baskets and sacks and headed for the pylon. As they approached, talking and laughing, they veered aside and directed their steps toward the colossus.
They passed granite feet larger than two men, rounded the corner of the base on which they stood, and came to an abrupt stop. Silence enveloped the group, broken by the buzzing of flies. Then they all chattered at once.
"It's that priest, Unas."
"What happened? Did he fall?"
"Look at his head. His meat has spattered all over the flagstones."
"He must have lost his footing."
The oldest man, whose skin was cracked, split, and scarred from years of working with stone in the sun, raised his voice for the first time. "Quiet, all of you!"
He walked over to the body and stared at it while the others kept their distance. In his years as master stone sculptor, Seneb had seen many wonders-the colossi of Amunhotep the Magnificent's funerary temple, the arrival of the Mitanni princess Gilukhepa and her hundreds of waiting women at the court of Thebes, even water turned to cold clouds of white snow in mountain-tops far to the north. Never had he seen a dead priest at the base of a statue.
He looked from the body, up the ladder to the platform that surrounded the neck of the statue. He rubbed his chin, then dropped the basket he was carrying. Old Unas had been a scribe, and scribes could stumble over their own toes.
"I'm going to see the priests. All of you stay here and let no one touch the body."
"But, Seneb-"
"Stay here, I said."
Seneb broke into a trot. He went to the gate and confronted the porter, who was leaning against a stone wall, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It took him several attempts to make the man understand, but eventually he was allowed inside and encountered a servant sweeping flagstones.
The servant conducted him to a pure one, who handed him over to his chief, who listened to Seneb's report without comment. Then he was left standing under a papyrus column while the priest vanished into the black inner temple. After a while the man reappeared, trailing behind a tall priest in a luxurious wig and gold headband.
He moved with slim, almost fragile grace. His bones were thin, giving him a deerlike aspect. The gauntness of his face and its length reminded Seneb of the old heretic Akhenaten. The sheer quality of the linen he wore along with the gold scarab pectoral at his breast put Seneb at ease. Here was a priest of rank. This man wouldn't pass off responsibility, and he'd know what to do.
"I am Qenamun, chief overseer of the god's treasury and lector priest of Amun. You've found one of our pure ones?"
"Aye, master. It's the priest who was working with us on the statue of the living god. Unas was his name. He's fallen from the scaffolding."
"Fallen? Are you sure? Amun protect us. Conduct me to him at once."
Seneb discovered that "at once," to a lector priest, meant a stately progress out of the temple, with care taken not to get dust on his priestly overrobe and fine sandals.
The group of artisans around the body parted so that he and Qenamun could see. As moments passed, more and more laborers, priests, and visitors to the temple clustered nearby, muttering among themselves. Seneb watched the lector priest survey the body.
It was obvious to him that Qenamun was one of those whose priestly station was inherited through a noble family. His bearing and his dress spoke of privilege. His elaborate wig, worn over a shaved head, had its braids bound by hundreds of bronze rings. His parched-looking skin had been oiled. No doubt it soaked up moisture like the desert floor.
Seneb was about to explain how they'd found the dead man when Qenamun stooped over the body and began to make magical signs. The artisans backed farther away as a group. Seneb, conscious of his station as their leader, only retreated half the distance of the others.
Qenamun turned away from the body and addressed him. "This is a most unfortunate accident. You said he must have slipped and fallen from the top of the ladder?"
"Yes, lector priest."
"Very well. You and your men will remain here on guard. He's one of those under my command. I'll send servants to remove him to his house."
"Yes, lector priest. And then I must report to the office of the treasurer, Prince Maya."
He cringed inwardly when, without warning, the priest rained white coals of fury on him.
"By the gods, you will not!" Qenamun's voice hissed and spat venom. "Insolent lowling, this is a matter for the servants of Amun, not a breaker of stones. You'll do as I command and nothing more, or I'll see you condemned to the stone quarries in the eastern desert."
Qenamun turned on his heel and left Seneb standing in an empty space between the body and his fellow artisans. His gut squeezed and did a few somersaults before he regained his composure. He glanced over his shoulder to find everyone staring at him. He glared at them.
"What are you looking at, dung-eaters?"
He ordered them to form a cordon around the body and took his place with them, facing away from the dead man. Several curious boys on their way to the school in the temple tried to shove between their legs, thus offering him an opportunity to swear and shout at someone. As minutes passed and no one came to take the body away, Seneb had time to think.
He was a royal artisan, answerable to his overseer in the royal workshops, who was answerable to another superior, who eventually was answerable to Prince Maya, chief of the treasury and Friend of the King. To whom did he owe allegiance, Maya or that scorpion of a priest Qenamun?
He turned to his son, who was also his apprentice, and spoke quietly. "Djefi, you will go back to the royal workshops at once and report this matter to the overseer of stonemasons. Say to him that I've done this in spite of being forbidden by the lector priest. See to it that he understands none of us are to blame, but that we must report anything that happens regarding the image of the living god, may he have life, health, and strength. Can you remember to say that?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then go now, before the priests come back. Hurry!" He followed his son's progress until he disappeared into the crowd. Curse all priests. Why did this one have to die on Seneb's statue and call down upon his head the notice of great ones? He knew from experience that their attention was as the attention of hornets, and much more dangerous.
Meren rose from his stool and began to stretch his arms and legs as he listened to the treasurer's objections to the king leading an army into Syria himself. Since they'd first discussed the prospect, Maya had become more and more worried that pharaoh would get himself killed in battle. He wanted no part in urging the king to take such a risk.
The councillors had broken from their meeting after more than four hours of debate. The king had led them outside to the reflection pool. Whenever he could, Tutankhamun sought the outdoors. Having three daughters and an adopted son, Meren understood the king's restlessness. No youth forced to spend hours dealing with matters of finance, law, and diplomacy could be blamed for longing for physical release.
He moved closer to a servant who plied an ostrich feather fan in his and Maya's direction. Thrusting out his arm, he pressed it across his body with the opposite hand in a stretch while he gazed across the pool over blue and pink lotus flowers. Under a baldachin that shaded him from the sun, the king was listening to Ay. Even from this distance Meren could tell that Tutankhamun was growing angrier.
In the council meeting a division had emerged between the king's advisers. General Horemheb and Prince Tanefer favored a military campaign against the rebellious vassals of Syria and Palestine. Everyone agreed one was necessary. But the king wanted to lead the army himself, and Horemheb and Tanefer concurred. After years of neglect on the part of the heretic Akhenaten, the army needed training, and it needed a warrior pharaoh at its head. Ay and Maya understood this, but both kept repeating one refrain-the king was too young.
Meren bent over and touched the ground with his fingertips. He straightened when he heard the king's voice carried over the water.
"I'm not too young, old man. And whatever my years, I'm still pharaoh, and I'll do as my majesty pleases!"
Tutankhamun burst out of his gilt chair. It flew to the side and hit a table that bore an electrum flagon and goblets, sending everything crashing to the tiles that bordered the pool. Ay dodged a rolling goblet as the king stormed away from him. The vizier watched his charge stalk back into the palace, then glanced at Meren.
Shaking his head, Meren walked around the pool to join the vizier as a guard escorted a treasury official out to meet Maya. He was still shaking his head as he met the vizier under the baldachin.
"Ay, Ay, Ay."
He'd known Ay all his life. The brother of the king's mother, the great Queen Tiye, wife of Amunhotep the Magnificent, the vizier was famed throughout the Two Lands for his skill in government. He was even more renowned for surviving the reigns of Amunhotep the Magnificent, Akhenaten, Smenkhare, and now Tutankhamun. His eyebrows slanted upward along with his eyes, giving him a startled appearance.
In Meren's opinion he hadn't been surprised since the age of the pyramids. The knuckles on his hands were swollen and ached, and his back curved like a scythe. The vizier's body moved slowly, except for his eyes, which never rested. His gaze skittered across Meren now, then darted back to the place where his royal nephew had vanished.
Ay's aged voice grated out his words. "He's too young, and the little cock knows it." Ay stopped talking and lowered his skeletal frame into a chair as servants righted that of the king. When they'd gone, he continued. "And sometimes I wish he was still young enough to require a regent."
"The quarrel would be the same," Meren said as he leaned against one of the support poles of the baldachin. "When you and Horemheb were vice regents, you always favored caution, like the oryx on the plain, while Horemheb favored action, like the lion who hunts the oryx."
"But at least he listened to me, young one."
"The divine one still listens, but he's growing into a man. If you don't let him test himself, he'll cast aside all your counsel and do something even more dangerous than usual."
Ay scowled at him. "Then you don't think he's too young for battle?"
"Of course he's too young."
"By the womb of Isis, then why do you chastise me for telling him so?"
"Ay, where is your fabled diplomacy? The king is an untried youth in need of experience and all too aware of a kingdom watching his performance. His mistakes and embarrassments are discussed from the delta to Nubia, over every morning cup of beer, in every tavern, stable and cattle pen. Offer him something else besides opinions about his lack of prowess."
Ay sighed and lowered his chin to the palm of his hand. "I'm too old. I forget what it was like to be so young. That's why I'm glad you're here. He needs you young ones about him."
"Like Tanefer?"
"Tanefer? That wild colt? Half the responsibility for this quarrel lies upon his shoulders."
"We have to do something, Ay."
"I know. I know. Now go away and let me think, young one."
Meren returned to a chair at his shaded place on the opposite side of the pool, only to find Maya in a fit of irritation. His hollow jaws worked, and his mouth slanted down even more than usual while he ranted at his aide.
"Why must you disturb me about so inconsequential a matter when I'm in counsel with his majesty? Handle the matter yourself."
"But the overseer of stonemasons is upset," the aide said. "And you always told me that master craftsmen can create much havoc if they're disturbed. And after all, the priest did fall off his majesty's image right in front of the temple of Amun."
Meren had been downing a cup of water when he heard this. He wiped his mouth. "What's this?"
Maya threw up his hands and said, "Some priest has fallen to his death from the scaffolding around the colossus of the king in front of the temple of Amun. An accident about which I don't wish to know and don't care."
"What priest?" Meren asked before gulping down more water.
The aide consulted a scrap of papyrus. "A pure one, my lord. The pure one in charge of the supplies of precious stones and metals to be used on the statue. His name was, hmmm, his name was Unas."
"I don't care what his name was," Maya said. He sat down, crossed his legs at the ankles, and glared at the aide. "Go away."
The aide turned, but Meren held up his hand so that the man paused.
"Maya, I think I understand why the matter was brought to your attention. If you will recall the delight the king takes in this brilliant image of himself, its monumental size-and its strategic position in front of the temple?"
Maya groaned and rubbed his temples. "His majesty will be furious. By the staff of Ptah, he's already angry, and now… I don't want to add to his frustration."
"You're right," Meren said lightly. He glanced at Maya out of the corner of his eye and went on in as negligent a tone as he could produce. "However, if he knew the matter was already being taken in hand?"
"Ah!" Maya's pained look vanished, and he sat up. "You'll investigate? I know it's an insignificant matter, one you'd hardly touch yourself if it weren't for the king. Could you?"
"If you like."
"Excellent." Maya waved his aide away and beamed at Meren. "My thanks, Falcon."
As Maya chattered on, Meren nodded and smiled while he thought furiously. He'd recognized that name. Unas. Unas was the name of the informer paid by his aide, Abu. Only a few weeks ago he'd seen him in the temple of Amun when investigating the murder in the place of Anubis. His informer among the priests of Amun was dead. Now he remembered. Yesterday he'd seen the little man with the pointed skull staring at him from the base of the statue, and now he'd fallen off it.
Meren didn't like the conjunction of events. He didn't believe in accidents, not ones that happened to his informers. And yet it could be a simple accident. He'd been too long among courtiers who would murder their own husbands and wives to gain power. After all, Unas was one of thousands of pure ones in the service of Amun. Still, he had to be sure the death was an accident. Which was why he'd maneuvered to take charge of the investigation, an easy task, considering how much Maya disliked upsetting the king.
Maya was almost as protective as Ay. Tanefer was right when he accused them of holding the king back, of nursing him like a sick calf. One had to be careful and suspicious if one wanted the king to live to reach manhood. Pharaoh lived with too many enemies-even his own wife. No, it was better to be suspicious than foolishly trusting. He would inform the king of the priest's death, but he wouldn't be able to investigate himself. His presence might arouse the hostility of the high priest. He'd send Kysen.
Having decided his course of action, Meren closed his eyes and listened to Maya's analysis of the risks to the king in warfare. He was nodding his agreement for the third time when a familiar voice spoke from somewhere above his head.
"Wake up, cousin."
Meren's eyes flew open, and he stared into the face of Ebana, so like his own except for the scar that arced across it. His cousin stood over him, an elegant and regal figure in gold, lapis lazuli, and transparent robes. Wide of shoulder, as fit as any charioteer, and as deadly, Ebana raked him with a black, black gaze.
Meren clamped his hands on the arms of his chair, every sense awake, his body thrumming with the beat of alarm. Ebana, who hated him, who served the powerful high priest of Amun.
Ebana gave Meren a cobra's smile. "Prepare yourself, cousin. Your spy in the temple is dead."