North of Thebes, at the edge of the eastern city, the waters of the Nile had cut deep into the bank, causing eddies and slowing the current of the river. Here lay a small marsh, between the river and the beginning of cultivation. Ebana guided his chariot carefully along a road made of the back dirt produced by digging canals.
The going was slow, for it was late, and only the moon's light illuminated his way. Finally he pulled up and dismounted. He removed a spear from the case attached to the chariot and walked down a dike to the marsh, where a papyrus-stalk skiff awaited him.
Stepping into the boat, he shoved off, using the oar that lay within the vessel. Water rippled around him, obsidian-black and cool. His entry disturbed a hen-bird, who scrambled out of the water to the cries of her nestlings. Ebana glided between the tall papyrus fronds, taking care not to go too near the thick stands. The way his fortune had been going, he might disturb a crocodile or nudge a hippo.
The skiff slowed, then stopped. He sat quietly, listening to frogs and insects and the slap of water against the boat. He tightened his grip on his spear. If the need for secrecy hadn't been so great, he would never have risked crocodiles and drowning, not for the man he was to meet here.
A hazy dash of pink caught his eye-a rose lotus.
Moments went by, and as they did, it felt as if rats were doing a feast dance inside his gut. A curse wafted to ward him over the water. Backstroking with his oar, he turned the skiff to meet another, sliding into the marsh from the river. The two craft drew alongside each other.
The newcomer spoke without preamble. "He knows!"
"Absurd," Ebana said. "Don't let him drive you like a frightened ox, or you'll betray yourself and us."
"I was with him today, and I tell you Meren knows something. Why is he so vigilant? He doesn't dabble in every accident and abrupt demise that comes to his notice."
"Because he can smell intrigue as a hound scents the oryx. It's his way, and I have prepared for it."
"He hasn't smelled me," the other said, his voice rising. "I swear it. The fault isn't mine."
"What are you speaking of?"
"Naught, naught. By the wrath of Set, I hate marshes. Too many creatures of the night."
Ebana studied the newcomer, whose head jerked from side to side as if he expected to be swallowed by a hippo at any moment. The fool was losing what mettle he possessed, and for so little reason-unless he had something to conceal.
"Hark you," Ebana said in a quiet, precise voice, "if your fear-blind haste has exposed us, I'll kill you myself."
That swiveling head twisted back to face him.
"No, no. No. Don't disturb yourself. I'll deal with the matter."
"Just keep yourself haltered, you fool. We were counting on the king and the others being distracted by this Hittite quandary, but with Meren sniffing the air, the high one thinks we should bide a while."
"Too late."
"Why?"
A hand came out to grip the side of Ebana's skiff.
'Too late. I got word early this morning. The work has begun."
"Curse it."
"Now do you see? By the time I could reach them, the acts will already have been committed. I expect shipments within a few weeks."
Ebana glanced down at the hand strangling the bundles of papyrus stalk that comprised the edge of the skiff. He could feel the tautness in the other's arm through the fabric of the boat. Infusing his voice with calm, he leaned over and unfastened the hand from his craft.
"Nothing has changed. Go about your affairs as is your habit. That's all you must do. And don't let my cousin's machinations make you flinch. He knows nothing. Nothing at all. Now go. We're in greater danger from the river than from Meren."
Ebana watched his ally disappear through a screen of reeds. Something was wrong. Something more than just the inconvenient death of a priest. Whatever it was, he was beginning to think that this particular ally must be dealt with-but not until after he'd accomplished the task to which he'd been set.
They had climbed out of the wide ribbon of green that was the Nile Valley, high onto the desert floor, and then into a valley formed by steep limestone cliffs. Meren climbed down from his chariot and handed the reins to Abu, who led the team away to be watered. Behind him came Kysen and Tanefer, Djoser, Rahotep, and several others.
The morning had been spent downing ibex, ostriches, and deer. Tanefer had found this deep valley where enough moisture gathered to favor the growth of vegetation around a minute pool. By the end of harvest, the water would evaporate. Tanefer's hunters had erected a net at one end of the valley, and the hounds had driven the game in from the other end.
Meren took refuge beneath a portable sunshade. A body servant came forward with a water bottle. He poured some over his face, which was covered with a layer of fine sand grains and dust, before drinking. He wiped his mouth and watched Kysen and Tanefer direct a hunter who was lashing a gazelle to a carrying pole.
Tanefer had organized this hunt, and Meren was grateful for the distraction; he'd managed to extract a period of grace from the king. A fortnight to decide whether to risk allowing pharaoh to fight the Hittites. Had it been so long since the day the priest had been discovered at the foot of the statue at the god's gate? Meren gulped down more water as Kysen left his host and joined him.
Tanefer was busy directing servants, hunters, and hounds. Kysen took a water bottle from a servant, dismissed him, and dropped down on a reed mat at Meren's feet. They swigged water and watched the preparations for the return to the city. Not far off, other men retreated to the shade of canopies, joking and laughing.
"Where is Ahiram?" Kysen asked.
"He discovered that Rahotep was supplying a brace of hounds and refused to attend," Meren said. He wiped gritty sweat from his forehead, then touched a cut on Kysen's inner forearm. "You're holding your bow too close."
Kysen grunted. "My right wheel hit a rock and I lost my balance."
Meren nodded, and they lapsed into silence as a breeze riffled down the length of the valley and cooled their skin.
"Has nothing come of your conversation with the lector priest yesterday?" Kysen asked.
"Naught. Qenamun's manner is as deft as his reputed skill with magic."
"Ebana dislikes him."
"So you said. However, being a schemer hardly distinguishes Qenamun from the rest of us." Meren waved his hand toward a group containing Djoser, Tanefer, and Rahotep. "Who among our friends does not indulge in stratagems and maneuvers? Rahotep is jealous of Tanefer-though he spouts accolades to his own perfection-and seeks advancement over everyone from pharaoh. Djoser's blood is turning to bile as his envy of us all increases."
"But they're outmatched in scheming by Parenefer and Ebana."
Meren gave his son a glance of sympathy. Kysen had spent the last few days attempting to inquire among Unas's fellow priests about his work, movements, and sympathies, only to have Ebana insist upon being present at each exchange. Thus he'd learned nothing of consequence.
Their only progress had been Abu's discussions with Ipwet and Nebera. At the time her husband died, Ipwet was in the company of several other young wives making barley bread. Inquiries at the royal workshops resulted in Abu concluding that Nebera had arrived there too early to have made a side trip to meet and kill Unas.
"It may be that I'm seeing evil and scheming where there is none," Meren said.
"Still, the porter Huni was readmitted to duty just in time to sleep through a fall to the death. I don't like the coincidence. But when I questioned the chief of porters, he said he'd decided to give Huni another chance to serve. Since Ebana was there when I saw him, I can't be sure if he was telling the truth."
Meren sighed and took another sip of water. "Suspicions plague me as well, but we can hardly fall to beating the man with such little cause. He's under the protection of the temple."
"I hate inquiries among the great," Kysen said as he rubbed his injured forearm. "And that cursed temple swarms with people, yet no one admits knowing anything."
"You haven't found the boy who brought the message to Unas, have you?"
Kysen shook his head. "And no one at the temple admits sending for him. Ipwet says she paid little attention when the boy spoke to Unas, so she can't be sure what he really said."
"Poor Unas," Meren said. "He doesn't seem to have been important to anyone."
"Hark you," Kysen said. "That porter will have some accident soon, or vanish to one of the temple estates on the Nubian border."
Meren sat forward on his stool, rested his arms on his knees, and shook his head. "And if he does, we'll reconsider our approach, but I've other matters to worry about as well."
"Ah, your fortnight is up, and the king is going to demand that you take a stance on this matter of the campaign."
"He's going to be furious, and I don't like disappointing him. His life is so full of cares and duties."
"He lives the life of a god."
Meren glanced up at Kysen's disbelieving tone, but he didn't argue. Kysen's childhood before adoption had been as filled with pain as Tutankhamun's. His father had sold him after having failed to beat him into a state of craven submission. It wasn't Kysen's fault that he sometimes couldn't imagine the life of a king to be an ordeal.
Meren rose, wincing at the ache in muscles that had taken many jolts as his chariot raced across the desert floor.
"Time to return home. The calendar marked this as a day of fortune, so I'm hoping I'll be spared another evening listening to Horemheb and Tanefer plan the provisioning of troops and the supplying of border forts. And if I'm blessed, the king won't remember my promise to take sides for a few days."
They left Tanefer and the other hunters gorging themselves on roast gazelle, and by the time the sun had reached its apex and begun its descent, they reached the house. In a short time Meren was standing in his bathing stall while a servant poured jar after jar of cool water over him. Reluctantly he signaled an end to the luxury and stretched out on the massage table nearby while his body servant rubbed oil into his skin.
While he was lying there, he perused several letters from his family. There was one from his sister, complaining that he neglected his daughters and should have visited them long ago. Was he neglectful?
Isis and Bener had to learn the skills of running a great estate and women's accomplishments that he couldn't teach them. Tefnut, his eldest, lived far away, in the delta with her husband. He missed them all, especially at night when he came home and caught himself listening for their bright laughter.
There was another letter, from his younger brother Nakht, whom he'd always called Ra. Meren unfolded the papyrus, skimmed the first few lines, and let it drop to the floor. More complaints about how Ra's judgment was always questioned by their steward.
Meren lowered his head to his crossed arms. He felt pressure build up at his temples, as if his head were being squeezed in a grape press. It was as if the members of his family grasped his arms and pulled in different directions; he felt that he was about to split down the middle. He whispered a request to his servant, who began to rub his head.
He was drifting off to sleep when the rubbing at his temples stopped. His eyes flew open, and he tensed and raised his head to see Abu entering the chamber, carrying a flat limestone flake, an ostracon, used to take notes to conserve papyrus. Meren sat up and wrapped a bathing sheet around his hips. His body servant vanished into his bedchamber.
"Forgive me, lord, but a report has arrived from the city police. The house of Unas has been robbed, or rather, it has been rifled. They don't think anything was taken."
"Have they caught anyone?"
"No, lord. The wife was visiting her parents, and the neighbor, Nebera, reported the crime."
Abu held out the ostracon. Meren took it and perused the report. Had it occurred at any other house, such a petty offense would have never been brought to his attention. He handed the report back to Abu as Kysen came in, freshly dressed, his hair damp.
"You've heard?" he asked. "I think Abu and I should visit the house tomorrow."
"I hope you discover more than the city police did," Meren said.
His thoughts racing, he stood and padded into his bedchamber. The others followed. He dropped his bathing sheet and allowed his body servant to wrap a clean kilt around him. Kysen tossed him a belt, and he waved his servant out of the room before wrapping it around his waist.
"I grow weary of sparring with intransigent priests," he said.
Kysen looked up from his perusal of the theft report. "But you said we couldn't provoke an open quarrel."
"That was before this new stroke." Meren rubbed the sun-disk brand on his wrist as he thought, then slipped a leather-and-bronze wrist band over it. "We must flush the birds from the marsh, Ky."
"The shards?"
"Aye, the shards. If they're significant, they may be just the goad we need to harry our prey into the open. But we can't tell the priests about them too directly. I suggest you let slip the tale of your discovery when we attend this evening's banquet at Prince Sahure's."
He smiled at Kysen. Many courtiers also served as priests in different temples. Word would spread to the priests of Amun like the blast of a desert storm.
"You think someone will come to rifle our house?" Kysen asked.
"No, but someone may make a mistake."
Later that evening Meren made polite conversation with Lady Bentanta at the banquet, all the while watching Kysen laughingly scatter the story of his discovery among the guests. He stood beside a column, a full wine cup in his hand, cursing his ill luck. Bentanta had run him to ground before he could vanish into another room.
"You're worried."
His attention swerved to the woman in front of him. She was lithe and tall, like a papyrus reed, and she teased him. No other woman had the temerity. She'd been widowed several years, had youth and wealth and several sons and daughters to keep her company. What was worse, she was as clever and perceptive as ever old Queen Tiye had been. He'd known her at a distance since childhood, but he had been betrothed young, at fifteen, and she was already married at thirteen. Meren regarded her with wariness. What had she noticed, and how?
"You imagine it, lady."
Bentanta made a disgusted sound, which irritated Meren even more.
"I've known you since you wore the sidelock of boyhood, Meren."
She drifted closer, and he smelled myrrh.
"Your eyes," she said in a whisper. "I've known you long enough to read your eyes when the rest of your face is a mask. Does the contention among pharaoh's councillors weigh upon you?"
He backed up until he hit the column. "You should know, since it's written in my eyes like the glyphs on a temple wall."
"Why, Meren, my warrior, prince, and Friend of the King, you're afraid of me."
He opened his mouth, scowling, but Bentanta chuckled softly. She left him then, allowing her arm to brush his as she floated away in a mist of sheer linen and perfume. He glared after her, but soon rearranged his features into a more pleasant guise and slipped deeper into the shadows beyond the reach of the lamps scattered about Sahure's great hall. Musicians struck up a tune, and a line of dancers snaked its way into the room.
Meren grabbed a spice cake from a pile on a table and tore it in half, wishing it were Bentanta's neck. The woman was too clever to be borne. She reminded him of Qenamun. Both had a way of discomfiting, of sliding between bones and tendons with words that should have been innocuous. Qenamun's motives, however, were even more unfathomable than Bentanta's.
He remembered his interview with the man the previous day. He'd sent for the priest because neither Kysen nor Abu had made progress in the matter of Unas's death. In retelling the story of the discovery of the body, Qenamun had been urbane, forthcoming, and open. He'd given no cause for complaint of a lack of cooperation, and aroused in Meren a deep suspicion of his motives. No priest of rank in the temple of Amun was so agreeable without good reason.
Qenamun had been born to his position; his father and his grandfather had been priests in a line stretching back almost to the time of the Hyksos invasions. A distinguished family, moderately wealthy, full of men who managed to survive wars, famines, political havoc. Of them all, Qenamun appeared the most successful. His detractors seemed prey to misfortune, his friends wary of thwarting him. Ebana said Parenefer was considering advancing him to the position of Servant of the God. This was Ebana's rank, and he wasn't pleased.
Qenamun had stood during the whole interview, hands folded in front of him, looking ingenuous in his fragile elegance, his luminous, dark eyes suffused with tranquility.
"I regret not speaking to you sooner," Meren said. "But matters of great weight interfered."
"The Lord Meren is gracious to concern himself with so small a matter."
"A death at the foot of the king's statue is more than a small matter."
Qenamun inclined his head. He resembled a gazelle bending down to take water.
"As you say, lord. But I have performed rites of purification all around the temple. Forgive me, but my experience has been that the evil aroused by sudden death can be expunged most effectively. There are several spells of great power for the purpose."
"Your reputation comes before you," Meren said. "I hear from many sources that your skill at magic and divination is a boon to the good god."
Actually, Qenamun had as great a reputation for instilling fear of his power as for doing good. His rise to prominence at the temple had a great deal to do with his skill at ruining the reputations of those in his way.
"My gift comes from Amun," Qenamun said, "and I have sought to use it in this matter that so concerns you, lord. For Amun is great of will, terrible and mighty of power. He guards his flock and casts into the lake of fire those that would oppose him."
Qenamun cocked his head to the side. His gaze melted over Meren like warm honey. Under that stare, Meren felt as if the distance between them somehow closed and the air he breathed grew hot. His lungs seemed to burn.
The priest was still speaking to him in a low voice. "Beware ye of Amun, king of the gods. His wrath is terrible against his enemies."
The closeness and heat alerted him to what Qenamun was doing. Anger spurted through his body like molten copper.
Tempted to find his whip and lash the priest for his effrontery, he lifted one brow and gave a soft chuckle. "As you say."
Qenanum lowered his lashes, breaking the lock of their eyes. Meren turned away from the priest to summon his aide.
"I thank Parenefer for allowing you to attend me. It appears that the pure one's death was indeed a simple accident."
"The lord is wise."
"You may go."
Qenamun bowed, lifted his hands. "May Amun-Ra, greatest of heaven, lord of truth, father of the gods, bless thee, my lord. And should the need occur, I would beg you to allow me to offer my skills for your service."
"I'll remember your offer."
A dancer twirled by him, tapping on a drum. The noise roused Meren from his reverie, and he looked down to find the spice cake still in his hand. The priest had disturbed him. Lector priests were scholars and magicians, but this one-this one was more. Seldom had Meren met one who could project power with his gaze in such a manner. The attempt to dominate had been subtle, wordless, and he detested the man for it.
Feeling guilt at abandoning Kysen didn't stop Meren from skulking out of the hall and returning home. He'd had enough of pleasantries, drinking, and the attentions of the amused Bentanta. Besides, the king was expected, and he didn't want to be questioned about his stance on the military campaign in the middle of a feast. Near dawn the next morning he indulged himself by playing with Kysen's son, Remi, before he was due at court for an audience. He would rather have gone with Kysen to Unas's house or, better yet, avoided his duties and cavorted with the child. The boy spent his mornings playing in the courtyard by the reflection pool outside Meren's bedchamber. He was a top-heavy little devil of three, the scourge of his nurse and all the servants. At the moment he was hurling a leather ball into the pool despite Meren's scolding.
Meren scooped the boy up before he could jump into the water. Straightening, he settled Remi on one hip and found Abu coming toward him, leading a royal servant. The man stared past him at a point somewhere over Meren's shoulder.
"Lord Meren is commanded to the palace." Meren sighed and stood Remi on his feet. "I'll come at once."
The man left, and Meren went to his chamber to finish dressing. As he donned elaborate court dress, Abu handed him a ceremonial dagger. Only he and Kysen knew that its edge was as sharp as a battle sword, or that the gold of its blade covered a functional bronze core.
"I suppose you'd better come too," he said to Abu. "It seems my respite is at an end, and I must throw myself into a crocodile pit this morning."