Slayer of Gods (6 page)

Meren paced, weighing the risk of delay. “Very well, but if you’re coming with me, you’d better wear Egyptian clothing. I’m
trying to keep this inquiry a secret, and it won’t help if you parade around looking like the goddess Ishtar and call attention
to our movements.”

Anath planted her fists on her hips again and surveyed him. “Meren, you’re dressed in the finest linen Egypt can produce,
wearing a gold and carnelian headband and an electrum signet ring. If you aim to move about without attracting notice, you’re
going to fail.”

“I mean I don’t wish to provoke curiosity and suspicion.”

“Then you should never have become the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.”

Meren smiled slightly. “My dear Anath, I didn’t have a choice.”

Meren lay on his bed with his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep, but he needed to rest. Anath had left soon after their conversation
and he’d spent the rest of the day consulting with Kysen. His son would continue to prowl the foreign district in disguise
hoping to pick up more information on their suspects. Kysen also would conduct the affairs of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh
during Meren’s absence. The king had given his consent to this arrangement last year when it became clear that Meren’s son
would make an excellent successor to his confidential inquiry agent.

Bener had tried to convince Meren to delay his journey, and now she was supervising the preparation of the evening meal, grumbling
all the while. Meren shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position that wouldn’t cause his side to ache.
On the floor beside the bed lay several letters. One was from his eldest daughter, Tefnut, who was about to have her first
child. He planned to visit her and Isis, his youngest daughter, who was living with Tefnut. A few months ago Isis had nearly
gotten her father killed through her selfish conduct, and the shame of it had forced the girl to see herself clearly for the
first time. Isis wore her shame like a cloak of thorns, and Meren often worried about her.

Another letter was from Meren’s brother, whom everyone called Ra. It consisted of a plea for Meren to rescue him from creditors,
yet again. Ra had wagered a valuable field on his estate in a chariot race, which he lost. Without the field, his estate couldn’t
produce enough grain to support itself. The letter brimmed with protestations of reform, with promises of prompt repayment,
and grand plans for future riches once his debts were paid. Meren didn’t finish reading the letter. He had half a dozen similar
ones; none had resulted in reform or repayment.

The sun had dropped low enough to shine into the windows, and Meren covered his eyes with his forearm. He was thinking about
his brother when he felt his skin prickle, and he sensed another presence in the room. Without moving, Meren tensed his muscles
and listened. He heard something brush against the sheers hanging from the frame around the bed, twisted and dropped to the
floor while he groped for the dagger that always lay beneath the bed. As he moved he caught sight of a dark figure against
the pale curtains and froze.

“Karoya!” Meren remained crouched on the floor, the dagger aimed at the Nubian before him while he fought the rush of sensation
caused by alarm and battle readiness. Then he lowered his blade. “Damnation. Must you sneak into my bedchamber like that?”

“The Golden One commands the presence of the Eyes of Pharaoh.”

Meren rose and dropped the dagger on the bed. “Just because you’re the chief royal bodyguard doesn’t mean you must go about
frightening everyone the king wishes to see.”

Stately, impassive, and as tall as an obelisk, Karoya ignored Meren’s complaint. “The living Horus has sent a chariot for
you.” Turning on his heel, he left the bedchamber without waiting to see if Meren was behind him.

It was nearly sunset when Meren followed Karoya through antechambers and reception halls, the cavernous throne room, and more
antechambers of the royal palace until he came to the king’s suite. Rows of guards stretched to either side of the gilded doors
through which Karoya vanished, and Meren waited there, studying the glazed tiles in the lotus frieze along the walls of the
antechamber. Lamplight cast wavering shadows across the impassive faces of the guards. Meren nodded at the captain, a man
known for his valor in battle. The captain saluted him and spoke quietly.

“The lord is well?”

“It was only one arrow, Yuf.”

“We thank Amun for protecting you, lord.”

Meren inclined his head, glancing at the others in Yuf’s company. “Your concern honors me.”

Suddenly the gilded doors swung wide, and a young woman swept through them. Clad in a shift and transparent pleated overrobe,
she gleamed with electrum and precious stones. A braided wig framed her face with its pointed chin and gazelle’s eyes. She
moved with stately confidence, and her heavy jewels clicked together as she walked. She paused when she saw Meren, who bowed
low before her.

“Ah, Lord Meren,” she said in a low voice as a girl bearing a harp made of costly wood and ivory appeared behind her.

“Great royal wife, may you live forever in health and prosperity.”

“You’re better. Nebamun has driven out the fever demon that attacked you.”

Meren kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his back bent. “I am unworthy of thy concern, majesty.”

“Nonsense. Straighten up, my lord. I don’t want my husband to hear I kept you in an uncomfortable position when you’re not
yet fully recovered.”

Meren straightened and said, “All of Egypt knows the kindness of thy majesty.”

Ankhesenamun waved her attendant away and walked across the chamber. “A word, my lord.”

Meren reluctantly followed the queen. Ankhesenamun had never liked him. A follower of her father’s heresy, she blamed Meren
among others for advising the king to abandon the Aten and return to the old gods. More recently he’d foiled her attempt to
replace Tutankhamun with a Hittite prince, and it had taken her a long time to convince her husband of her contrition.

Meren didn’t believe in her reformation. He could see the same obsidian fire in her eyes that had burned in her father’s.
That black void of chaos had haunted him since Akhenaten had his father killed for refusing to conform to the heresy. Sometimes
his dreams consisted solely of those eyes chasing him, tearing into his soul, ferreting out its deepest secrets, ravaging
him until he longed for extinction. No, he didn’t believe Akhenaten’s favorite daughter had reformed. She was too much like
him.

“How may I serve thy majesty?”

“It is a small thing, and yet a great one, my lord.”

Ankhesenamun held a fan that she plied gently, sending a small breeze toward him that carried the scent of myrrh, cinnamon,
and oil of lilies. Her bracelets clicked rhythmically, and the tension he’d felt ever since encountering the queen faded with
the mesmerizing scent and sound. Ankhesenamun’s throaty whisper joined the motion of her fan and the pleasing sound of her
jewels.

“I’ve had much time to think, my lord. You and I have been rowing in opposite directions for some time, but my husband has
spoken to me of your care of him, how you guard him with your life. For that I’m grateful, and I regret our past differences.”

“Thy majesty is as generous as the goddess Isis. I am unworthy.”

“No, Lord Meren. You were right not to trust me.”

Meren’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. The queen’s own eyes glittered with green malachite and black kohl, and behind them
flitted hints of grief and indefinable emotions that twisted and writhed briefly, and then vanished.

“I was intolerant, and I was angry at having to abandon all I knew in Horizon of the Aten to come here among those who hated
my father and therefore hated me. But, slowly, I have come to understand the necessity.” The fan stopped, and Ankhesenamun
slapped it against her palm, giving Meren a smile he’d never seen before, one of teasing mischief. “Besides, I like Memphis.
So many colorful foreigners live here, and it’s closer to the oases, which I love.”

“I’m glad, majesty.”

“So we must begin again, you and I.”

Meren bowed. “Of course, majesty.”

The queen turned to leave. “You don’t believe me. No, don’t protest. I didn’t expect you to. You will in time. A good evening
to you, my lord.”

The little girl with the harp scurried after her mistress. Meren raised one eyebrow and wondered what had brought about the
queen’s new strategy. Ankhesenamun had never been fond of compromise, conciliation, or forgiveness.

The daughter of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, she had grown up in Horizon of the Aten. Nefertiti had protected her daughters from
the conflicts and intrigues that festered in the royal court, but in doing so she isolated them from all disagreement and
contrary opinions. Ankhesenamun grew up listening to her father expound upon his beliefs. She still followed the precepts
of his religion. Akhenaten had made her his favorite; Ankhesenamun had loved and believed in him without question. Unfortunately
she had also absorbed his fanatical intolerance, and she deeply resented Tutankhamun and his ministers for leaving her father’s
ideal city and reconciling with the old gods, especially Amun. To her the priests of Amun, who had led the resistance against
Akhenaten, were traitors, unbelievers, and eternal enemies.

Meren refused to believe that she’d changed so much in so short a time. He was prepared to believe, however, that she’d adapted
to her new situation after her treachery had been thwarted, and waited for a more auspicious moment in which to assert herself.
She must have a new advisor who’d convinced her that the way to power lay in changing her conduct. He would have to find out
who this advisor was; he would bear watching, for the king’s sake.

Karoya appeared and led Meren into the royal presence. The doors closed at his back, and Karoya disappeared into the shadow
of one of the four painted columns that soared to the roof. At Meren’s feet stretched a brilliant painting of a pool brimming
with fish and water plants, and the whole room swam in light provided by alabaster lamps. At the opposite end, on a couch
bearing gilded leather cushions, sat Tutankhamun, pharaoh of Egypt.

For a moment Meren held still, caught off guard by the fact that the king’s flesh seemed to have turned to gold. The yellow
metal was eternal; it never tarnished or succumbed to rust. The gods had flesh made of gold, and the king was the son of Amun
by a mortal woman. It was the sign of immortality and divinity. Shimmering, eternal gold, flesh of the gods.

Tutankhamun moved, and the spell broke. Kneeling to touch his forehead to the floor, Meren chastised himself for falling prey
to ignorant fancies. Of course the king was divine, the golden Horus incarnate. There was no need to imagine him literally
turning to gold on earth.

“Come, Meren, and sit.”

Meren joined him on the floor beside the couch. The king was holding a papyrus roll, and he’d been reading it by the light
of half a dozen lamps, which accounted for the golden glow. Pharaoh had cast aside the weighty accoutrements of kings in favor
of a simple kilt held by a belt with a buckle of openwork filigree red gold. On his right hand was a silver signet ring engraved
with the royal cartouches. Heavy earrings lay on a table beside the couch along with a wine flagon and goblets of electrum.
A servant appeared and poured wine. Tutankhamun clapped his hands, and Meren heard unseen attendants file out of the chamber.
He glimpsed Karoya moving to close a door and stand beside it, his gaze as impassive as ever. They were given as much privacy
as the king could ever expect.

Tutankhamun leaned against the high back of the couch, the papyrus still held loosely in one hand. “You’re sailing tomorrow
even though you’re not fully recovered.”

“I’m well, majesty.”

“I’m not going to argue with you anymore. My physician has told me that forcing you to remain idle any longer would do little
good.”

“Thy majesty is wise.”

“Wise enough to know you’re up to something. You’re going to Syene. Why?”

The king often knew what he was going to do before Meren told him. Ay, Meren, and the boy’s other mentor, Horemheb, had trained
the king to keep himself independently informed as a protection against anyone who might attempt to manipulate him. Still,
it was disconcerting that Tutankhamun discovered things so quickly.

“I’m going to find Queen Nefertiti’s chief bodyguard, Sebek.”

“He’s in Syene? You showed me old documents that recorded a gift of land in the Hare nome when he retired.”

“But he’s not there now,” Meren said. “I suppose he must have traded the gift for a property in Syene. The cook’s sister,
Satet, told me about him. I talked to her frequently, hoping to spur her memory, and for once I was successful.”

“And then she fell down a well,” the king said.

“Yes, Golden One.”

“An accident?”

“Majesty, there is no way to know.”

Tutankhamun picked up the two goblets and handed one to Meren. The king took a sip of wine, then stared into the pool of dark
liquid. His eyes were large, heavy-lidded, with thick lashes that often hid the sensitivity that made the burdens of a god-king
heavy to bear. In this private moment he’d abandoned the stateliness that was so much a part of him, yet even now Meren felt
the gravity and personal dignity that warred with the normal impulses of youth.