Eater of souls (30 page)

The first time he'd seen Zulaya had been over a year ago. A fine pleasure yacht had docked near the village, and the cook from the kitchen boat that served it had come seeking fresh fruit and meat. Tentamun was drawn to the ship, which was painted a deep lotus-leaf green. It had a white deckhouse with a painted gold frieze around it. The people on board wore filmy, cloudlike clothes and jewels that glittered more than sunlight on water. He had never seen the like.

For hours Tentamun watched the ship, a craft built only for leisure, and the richly dressed occupants who seemed to have nothing to do but sit beneath multicolored awnings and sip cool drinks while slaves fanned them. Then he looked down at his own loincloth with its patched tears and soiled spots that no scrubbing could remove.

That day he had promised himself that someday he would own such a ship. It would be just like this one, a shining green leaf forever floating in the gentle current. And he would rest on a gilded couch, his body cool from the breeze of a dozen fans, his eyes closed against the glare of the sun, with no work to do and only orders to give that work should be done. No more trudging behind an ox pulling a plow. No more threshing grain beneath the withering white eye of the sun.

As he dreamed of a life of riches and laziness, Zulaya had appeared, crossing the plank to shore like a god stepping out of the sun boat of Ra. He'd been dressed in a foreign robe tied at the shoulder and secured by a golden lion pin. Tentamun remembered the robe's color, a deep, dark red like the finest jasper. But what he remembered most vividly were Zulaya's hands. Clean, long fingers without the disfigurement of large knuckles, they had been free of calluses and scars. Unlike Tentamun's, the nails were unbroken and free of soil.

Zulaya said he'd noticed Tantamun's interest. He offered employment. Tentamun didn't hesitate. Because he had wanted a boat of lotus-leaf green and clean hands without blemishes.

Nebra came in through the tall double doors of Zulaya's apartments and beckoned. Tentamun disliked Nebra, although he'd never spoken to the man. He disliked Nebra because he moved like a cobra and had eyes like the false glass ones used by artisans for statues and death masks. Nebra seemed to have no position about the household or tasks to perform. He appeared suddenly and stayed for many days, during which his only occupation seemed to be secret conferences with Zulaya. Then he vanished again.

Nebra had an Egyptian name, but his skin was a shade lighter than most men's, and his hair had an auburn tint. It was a natural color, similar to that hairdressers achieved with henna. But what was most disturbing about Nebra was his youth; he was only a few years older than Tentamun.

In spite of his age, however, his appearance always caused a stir in Zulaya's household. Servants grew jittery and dropped things. Guards found patrols in the fields and desert suddenly rewarding. Slaves sent to wait upon Nebra went unwillingly and returned with great speed. And yet Nebra was quiet, undemanding, courteous.

As he passed Nebra in the doorway, Tentamun glanced quickly at him. It was obvious that Tentamun hardly existed in whatever landscape those glasslike eyes surveyed. Tentamun shivered, for he suddenly realized that Nebra reminded him of a shabti, a statuette provided in a tomb so that it would perform any labor demanded of the deceased by the gods. With his vivid coloring and almost total lack of facial expression, Nebra could be a magically animated statuette. When he was still, Nebra gave the impression that he was waiting and would wait for eternity to perform some mysterious and frightening task for his master.

Tentamun had hoped that Nebra would leave once he'd admitted him, but he guided him into a room of high columns and bright airiness. Leaving Tentamun, Nebra crossed the chamber to the long, low window that formed a kind of balcony running most of the length of the room's west wall. Zulaya was there, a hand resting on a low balustrade as he gazed out at the Nile. Nebra whispered to him, then retreated to lean against a column on the balcony. Zulaya beckoned without looking at Tentamun.

"Come."

Tentamun went cold, but forced his legs to take him to his master. Zulaya still didn't look his way. The balcony overlooked the lapis lazuli band of the Nile, and Zulaya seemed fascinated by the activity on the bank. There a freighter had docked. Hundreds of pottery jars had been stacked on the ship's deck in an orderly mountain. Sailors perched on the slope of the mountain, on the deck, and ashore in a line, swinging the vessels to each other in a chain of motion.

Farther along the bank where the ground was level, workmen scooped up rich, dark mud and slapped it into wooden brick molds. Line after line of drying bricks marched up the slopes of dry ground. Beyond the brick molds, gangs of laborers shored up canal banks and dikes, for Inundation would soon turn the Nile into an inland sea.

Zulaya suddenly leaned out and pointed across the river, beyond the west bank, at a trading caravan. Dark-robed, herding a long line of donkeys bearing panniers, the group trudged away from the Nile on its way to one of the desert oases. Two of their company struggled with several bulky parcels wrapped in tattered sailcloth. Finally the last bundle was strapped into a pannier and the donkey persuaded to join the line plodding out to the sand.

"There," Zulaya said with quiet satisfaction. "A scene of peace and beauty. I never fail to gain pleasure from watching the life of the Nile." He cocked his head to the side and smiled at Tentamun. "And of course, it pleases me that we're rid of that annoying spy you brought me."

"Rid of him, master?"

Zulaya wasn't paying much attention. His gaze had returned to the caravan. "Yes. The desert will swallow what we no longer have use for. It was fortunate one of my parties was about to set out."

A lump formed in Tentamun's throat as he darted a look at the last donkey plodding along, its tail flicking back and forth, the panniers on its back bobbing gently as it walked. Was Zulaya referring to the cargo loaded on that donkey? Tentamun couldn't make himself ask. He might get an answer he didn't want.

Zulaya closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "When my affairs become too pressing or I find myself growing annoyed or weary, I come here. Gazing upon the Nile is like a small rebirth." Zulaya glanced down at Tentamun, his smile fading only slightly. "And now that I've renewed myself, we will talk. We've never done that, have we?"

"No, master."

"Come, then. You may sit on that stool. Don't concern yourself with Nebra. He too enjoys the scene from my window, and he's most interested in what you have to say."

"But I know nothing more than what I've told you, master."

"Oh, I'm not talking about that spy you brought. He was persuaded to confess the nature of his interest in your village. Forget him."

Tentamun lowered himself to the stool, glad that he wouldn't have to keep his knees from folding but more alarmed than ever. A master did not allow an underling to sit in his presence, especially not on a stool. Zulaya sat in a chair fitted with cushions of the softest leather and placed his feet on a padded rest. His robe, long, loose, and decorated with borders of electrum roundels in the shape of rampant bulls, settled around his legs. The material made a hushed, rustling sound that increased Tentamun's tension.

"Now, my dear youth, are you quite comfortable?"

"Yes, master." He was going to die, and Zulaya was playing with him for amusement. What master asked after the comfort of a hired man?

Zulaya picked up a faience cup from a tray beside his chair. "You may have water, but no beer. I want your heart alert."

Tentamun's palms were damp as he took the cup and sipped. All his thoughts seemed to falter, then stop, although Zulaya remained gracious and seemed unconcerned.

"Are you hungry?"

Tentamun wished the man would simply kill him. "No, master."

"Good."

Zulaya arranged the folds of his robe, then rested his hands on the arms of his chair. His fingers spread over the gleaming cedar. Each of them was encircled with a ring. The rings all consisted of a tinted red-gold hoop threaded through an engraved bezel of lapis lazuli, malachite, or amethyst. Tentamun watched the splayed fingers slowly curl around the chair arm, then open, then close again. When the movement ceased and the hands went limp, Tentamun lifted his gaze.

His master leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone. "Now, dear youth, we will begin again. I want you to search your heart. Think carefully, with precision and clarity, back to that day when the scribe came seeking the former royal cook. I am going to listen to your tale again and again. And you, my dear youth, are going to repeat all you know until you can describe this unknown scribe in a much more accurate manner than you have previously."

"But I have described him, master."

"Not well," Zulaya said, his smile recalling delightful childhood games. "I want you to do it well, in the manner of harpists who compose songs and epics of the gods."

"But—"

"And if you find yourself unable to comply, I'm sure Nebra will be happy to help you find the words that will give me a most vivid image of this mysterious scribe."

As Tentamun rubbed his damp palms on his thighs, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Zulaya's gaze. He met the colored-glass stare of Nebra, who gave him a smile that was the mirror of Zulaya's.

"I find that Nebra's presence somehow inspires people to great descriptive feats," Zulaya said while Tentamun remained trapped in that lifeless stare. "I'm sure he will do the same for you, dear youth."

Sokar paced around his office. His was an irregular route because of the chests and wicker boxes strewn across the, floor. A plague of charioteers had descended upon him after he'd fallen into disfavor with the Eyes of Pharaoh. They'd taken every note and document from the last six months and left without telling him his fate.

He was so disturbed that he'd been imagining monsters in the dark. Of course, he'd been drinking to assuage his sorrow at being so unjustly treated. That was why the shadows had jumped at him in ghastly forms. That was why.

But his men had seen the monster too. They said it was the demon that was preying in the city. Should he tell anyone? No. They would think he was telling a tale to get himself noticed after incurring the wrath of Lord Meren.

"Min is to blame for this. Oh, misfortune and ruin. I'm undone, and all because of a few lowborns."

Sokar wiped sweat from his upper lip and dried his hands on his kilt. He tried sitting on his stool, but that only brought him a better view of the wreckage of his office. He got up and hurried to a table where his aide had left food for him, including a fresh date cake. Breaking the loaf in half, Sokar took a bite and lapsed into the thoughtless haze that often accompanied his eating. More comfortable, he wandered back to his stool and sat down again. He shouldn't become so upset over a scare in the night.

He was almost through with the cake when he glimpsed a small pile of ostraca, the pottery shards and flakes of limestone upon which notes were often taken. On top of the pile lay a large shard from a water jar. It was covered with notes, notes he'd forgotten. The remains of the cake dropped from his fingers. He licked crumbs from his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sokar maneuvered himself to his feet and picked up the shard.

"The two old dead ones from the house."

He had refused to go when one of his men reported these deaths. He'd had enough to do without dragging himself across the city to look at corpses of two old fools who'd gotten themselves killed, probably by a thief. What if this incident was like those others! Sokar scanned the notes. No, the old ones had been stabbed. Sokar sighed and tossed the shard back on the pile.

"Amun be praised. I'm safe. Or am I?"

He thought hard. Had he remembered to include this case in his report? Yes, yes, he had, and he'd even inquired if the couple had family in the city. They didn't, so he'd ordered them given burials in the cemetery reserved for the poor. Certainly they wouldn't get embalmed. There would be no elaborate rituals performed by funerary priests, but that was the fate of the poor and the unknown. It wasn't his fault. Nobody could say it was his fault.

Sokar's body slumped as he sighed again and went to his food table. He reached for a water bottle. Downing most of its contents, he picked up the remaining half of the date cake, a jar of beer, several spice buns, and some figs. Piling these on a tray, he added fish cakes, a honey loaf, and a melon. He picked up the tray and went back to his stool, where he placed it on the table next to him and began eating.

He'd been so worried after having offended Lord Meren that he hadn't eaten very much. But time had passed, and no demand that he be replaced had come.

Either Lord Meren had forgotten him, or the Eyes of Pharaoh had decided that Sokar's offense wasn't so very great.

"After all," he said to himself with his mouth full of fish cake, "who were they but common laborers? And a cursed barbarian Hittite."

He would go about his business, perform his duties as usual. He couldn't be blamed for anything. Sokar gulped down some beer and yelled for his aide.

"Get in here and clean up. How can I work in this refuse heap?"

Kysen strode out of the house with Bener and Isis close behind him. On the loggia Abu waited with a chariot and a squad of men.

Bener spoke before he could. "You found Father. Where is he?"

"The lord is in his sailing boat, lady."

Isis let out a sigh, and Bener turned to Kysen with a smile of relief. "I told you he wasn't in danger. He's weary of being surrounded by guards. You know how he craves solitude."

"On the river?" Kysen asked. His father had eluded the men guarding him not long after the banishing ceremony performed by pharaoh.

"He could have told us what he intended instead of vanishing in the middle of the city," Isis said. Her eyebrows climbed her forehead as they did when she was vexed. "Father never thinks of us, only of himself."