“Now you listen to me. I know Meren far better than you do, and I know Kysen. Neither will be fooled by your clumsy machinations. I’m going to the feast of rejoicing, which is where Kysen is going. You, conversely, are going to turn this green-and-yellow gourd of yours around and sail back to Memphis, or I’ll dump you in the mouth of the next hippo we pass.”
Paser slapped the dagger away. “I’m not your minion. I’ll do as I wish.”
“You’ll do as I say.” The guest stepped back, releasing Paser. “I’ve lost much because of Ay and Meren and the changes that came with the new pharaoh. But Meren is going to alter his opinion of me, and I’m not going to let you ruin my chance for gain. Go back and report to the prince. I’ll follow when I’ve finished with Meren.”
The guest sheathed the dagger. “Do what I say, Paser. Any other choice would be unhealthy.”
Meren felt better after bathing and having Zar rub his skin with oil. At least in his apartments he was safe from annoying relatives and unexpected guests. And he enjoyed his rooms at Baht. They had once been his father’s, but Sit-Hathor had had them refurbished.
Patterned friezes decorated the tops of the walls, long series of lotus blossoms in blue, white, and green. Brilliant blue faience tiles bordered the bottom of the walls. In his bedchamber there was a mural of a papyrus marsh depicting ducks, geese, and herons in flight. The remaining walls were plastered and bore a wash of pale blue.
He and Sit-Hathor had shared a love of simple, cool beauty. He remembered feeling so grateful to her for this gift when Djet brought him home after the nightmare of Horizon of Aten. To these rooms he would retreat if he began to lose his temper at the feast tonight.
Meantime he would slip out of the house and go spearfishing. That way he wouldn’t have to play host when the trickle of arriving guests became an invasion. He was particularly anxious to avoid his neighbors in the district, most of whom—knowing that he had the trust of pharaoh—tried to ingratiate themselves. He hated unctuous sycophants. Once he was on the river, he’d send for the girls. And he’d take the opportunity to explore further Bener’s relationship with Nu, for it now seemed likely he wouldn’t have the chance to see the boy before the feast.
“The lord’s robe is ready.”
Meren glanced at the long garment with its waterfall of pleats. Zar had laid it on the gilded bed, along with a broad collar, belt, and bracelets consisting of thousands of tiny lapis, gold, and turquoise beads.
Meren frowned at the servant. The years had eroded away his hair in two scoops on either side of his head, leaving a sparse fan of gray hair like a tongue in the middle of his forehead. In contrast, the hair of his eyebrows grew in abundance, as if to make up for its laziness elsewhere. His body was short and compact, his stomach slightly rounded from excesses at the table. He was giving Meren one of the disapproving looks that made him look as if he’d just smelled a chamber pot.
Since Zar and his family had served Meren’s for generations, he considered himself an authority on noble demeanor and appropriateness. No one knew more about court ceremony, proper address and manners, appropriate dress and protocol. And he cared about these things, for Meren’s distinction and importance added to his. When Meren succeeded his father, Zar’s life became a series of trials, for Meren would rather avoid the luxury, ceremony, and formality that Zar considered the embodiment of a happy life.
“Zar, I’m going spearfishing.”
The body servant rocked back and forth on his heels while studying the heavy, luxurious wig he’d just removed from its box. “Noble hosts do not vanish upon the hour of their guests’ arrival.”
Meren waved a hand at the servant, walked to the door of the bedchamber, and cracked it open, listening.
“His honored visitors will expect the gracious hospitality and manners of a Friend of the King, a Sole Beloved Companion, a Fan-bearer at the Right of the King, one who should not disgrace his heritage, one who—”
“I don’t hear anything. Zar, go out to the hall and also to the front porch and see who’s about.”
Zar replaced the wig in its box and left with an aggrieved expression. He returned while Meren was shoving a dagger in his belt.
“The noble Hepu and Nebetta are taking their leisure beside the garden pool, along with the noble Sennefer, Lady Anhai, and Lady Cheritwebeshet, my lord. Mistress Idut is giving instructions in the kitchen, and your noble daughters attend her. There is no one in the forecourt or at the gate.”
“Good. Send word to the overseer of fowling and fishing, then send Reia to me at the riverbank, and bring my daughters to me without letting the entire household know where they’re going.” With great care, Meren pushed the door open and slithered into the corridor. Hugging the wall and walking swiftly, he reached the central hall, which was filled with servants lugging in great jars of wine and beer and maids bearing flower garlands. He sped through the reception room and, without stopping, rushed out onto the columned front porch.
He should have been more careful, for he dashed into the open in full sight of a group coming up the steps. Meren almost ran into a lanky figure draped in a fine Upper Egyptian linen robe.
“Ah, Lord Meren, how good of you to come before the lady, your sister, to greet me.”
Meren backed up, glanced to either side for an escape, then realized he was trapped. “May the favor of Amun be with you, Wah.”
While Wah began a long-winded inquiry into the health of his family, Meren cursed his ill luck. Had he been a bit quicker, he’d have been out of the house before Wah arrived. Now he would have to play the host, because Wah was Idut’s new suitor.
A glance at the guest left Meren wondering for the hundredth time how Idut could contemplate marrying one who had the reputation of being the kingdom’s premier toady. When Meren had been a youth at Horizon of Aten, Wah had been one of the new men who rose to preeminence through their espousal of the Aten heresy. He still remembered the day he’d walked into the office of pharaoh’s accounts to find Wah poring over a vast papyrus roll on the floor.
Wah had looked up from the document and said, “Ah, young Lord Meren, come see what I’ve done.”
He shoved the papyrus, causing it to unroll across the room. An assistant stopped it and placed a weight on the end. With a sweep of his arm, Wah indicated the endless lines of cursive hieroglyphs.
“It’s nearly finished, the accounting of the estates of the old gods. I’m working on the decree of transfer.”
Meren said nothing, but Wah took no notice.
“Think of it. The whole of the vast estates of Amun will soon be transferred to the service of the one god, the Aten. Think of it.” Now Wah seemed to have forgotten Meren and began speaking to himself. “I’ll be overseer of the cattle of the Aten.”
“All of them?” Meren asked. “You’re taking the estates of all the gods? What will the priests do? And the artisans, the laborers, their families? They can’t all work in the temples of the Aten. How will they live?”
“I’m busy, Lord Meren.”
Yes, Wah had been one of the busy officials of the new order. He had prospered, receiving estates and offices for his labors. Uncle Hepu had also prospered. Unlike his brother Amosis, Hepu had measured the ruthlessness of the heretic pharaoh accurately and conformed, eschewing all other gods but the Aten. Meren remembered Hepu’s devotion. It had seemed as convincing as his current devotion to the old gods. But then Akhenaten had died, and the wrath of the kingdom fell upon those most directly connected with the disestablishment of the old gods. Self-serving as ever, Hepu had retired from court before the storm of retribution broke. Wah hadn’t been as clever. He’d been trying to get his place at court back for five years.
Meren was one of those Wah had importuned in his efforts to regain favor. Having few good memories of his time at Horizon of Aten, he wasn’t anxious to further the career of a man so closely allied with the heretic king. Akhenaten had killed his father, nearly killed him. Meren still had nightmares in which Akhenaten’s b
lack eyes appeared, staring at him with that eerie look of obsidian fire. And always there was that secret burden of guilt over Akhenaten’s death. He had allowed Ay to send him away from court when he suspected a movement to rid the kingdom of Akhenaten. When he returned, pharaoh was already dead. Ever since, Meren had wondered if he could have prevented the king’s death if he’d stayed. Would he have tried to save Akhenaten, or let him die? Did he really want to know?
As Meren replied to Wah’s inquiries about his family’s health, he was conscious of renewed annoyance at the way Idut had ambushed him with this feast. Of all the guests, this one made him the most uncomfortable by inciting haunted memories. But even if Wah hadn’t reminded him of old wounds, he was still tiresome.
He didn’t like Wah. He didn’t even like the way the man looked. His ears looked like a pair of dates. His cheeks had pronounced folds that deepened into caverns when he smiled, and there were folds over his eyes that made his deep-sunk eyes almost vanish when he smiled. He was so long and thin he had to fold himself into chairs, and his knees stuck up high when he sat on a stool.
Worst of all, Wah had a nasal voice and eyes that watered so that the kohl around them was always streaked. However, the habit Meren couldn’t forgive was the way the man kept a pouch or basket filled with dates about his person and continually popped the fruits into his mouth. He was constantly chewing, so that conversing with him was like talking to a cow.
Meren’s luck improved when Idut appeared just as Wah finished his long list of inquiries.
“Ah! Here’s Idut.” He was already leaving the porch as his sister joined Wah. “My apologies, Wah, but I just remembered I have some royal correspondence to attend to. Idut will give you a proper welcome.”
Ignoring his sister’s warning looks and Wah’s open mouth, Meren scurried through the reception room and the central hall and back to his rooms. He darted around a slave carrying a tray of used dishes. Shoving open the door, he was about to close it when a thick-fingered hand planted itself on the portal and shoved it back open.
“There you are,” said Hepu. He called over his shoulder, “You were right, my dear, he’s in his rooms.”
Meren pushed at the door. “I’m busy, Hepu.”
Hepu pushed back, catching Meren off balance. “Not too busy for your old uncle and aunt.”
Meren tried to shove the door and Hepu without success. Nebetta crowded in behind her husband, and the battle was lost. Retreating into his bedchamber, Meren summoned Zar and requested his scribe and the cases that contained his correspondence.
“You have to forgive me, uncle, but I’ve much work to do. I’ve just received letters from pharaoh, may he have life, health, and prosperity. They must be answered at once.”
Nebetta waddled over to Meren’s favorite chair, one of those Sit-Hathor had designed for him, and settled herself in it. The woven seat creaked, making him wince.
Hepu, who had an armful of papyri, handed a few rolls to his wife and said, “You’re being most negligent in your duties as a host, nephew.”
“I told you I have correspondence.”
“Dear, dear Meren, we’re worried about you,” said Nebetta in her breathy, too-sweet voice.
“Yes, my boy,” Hepu said. “I see you’re still favoring your shoulder. No doubt it’s those wounds that make you so discourteous to your elders. Aunt Cherit complains that she hasn’t seen you since you arrived.” Meren tried to speak, but Hepu held up his hand and plunged on. “No, no, no, don’t beg my forgiveness. In a way, your conduct has benefited me and soon many others, because I’m going to write an Instruction on the proper behavior of a noble host.”
“But that’s not what we want to speak to you about,” Nebetta said. “I think you suspect our little plot already. Come, you can’t pretend you didn’t know we want you to marry again.”
Meren stared from Nebetta’s lumpy face to Hepu’s self-satisfied one. Nebetta was one of the few people he knew who might undergo the judgment of the gods in the Hall of the Two Truths and utter the negative confession without protective spells. As far as he knew, she had never done crimes against anyone, blasphemed a god or robbed the poor, killed or damaged offerings in the temples, or committed any of the other sins that could get one fed to the Devourer.
But if she or Hepu passed the weighing of the heart against the feather of truth and were admitted into the netherworld, he would throw himself to the Devourer. He’d rather be eaten by that monster, part lion, part crocodile, than spend eternity with these two.
Nebetta left her chair to stand beside him, touched his arm with a cold, damp hand, and regarded him with faded eyes. “Dear, dear Meren, it’s been a long time since Sit-Hathor went to the West. And you’re still alone. It’s time you married again. End this lonely existence.”
“Yes,” Hepu said as he set his bundle of papyri down on a table. “I’ve made a list of suitable alliances. It’s in here somewhere. Of course, we were hoping you’d think of Bentanta. After all, her family is connected to Treasurer Maya’s and contains royal blood as well. Distant royal blood, but royal nevertheless.”
What little tolerance he possessed was obliterated under this tide of muck. Meren turned his back on Nebetta, went to stand on the dais that contained his bed, and gripped one of the gilded poles that supported the canopy around it. “We had this conversation years ago. I’m surprised the memory of it faded so quickly. Do you recall what I said to you about interfering in my affairs?”
“Now—now don’t curse the cool north breeze, dear Meren,” Nebetta began.
Hepu was scowling at him. “We’re only thinking of your welfare.”
“And think of the strong sons Bentanta could give you,” Nebetta said. “Why, hers are healthy and handsome, and—”
“By Hathor’s tits!” Meren gripped the hilt of his dagger and left the dais to swoop down on the two. “I knew you weren’t trying to plan my life for my benefit. You care naught if I’m happy or not. You want me to marry again so that I’ll spawn noble-blooded sons and get rid of Kysen.” He ended with a string of soldier’s curses.
Hepu drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, while Nebetta retreated behind him.
“Watch your tongue, my boy,” Hepu said. “Everyone in the family thinks the same. I’ve been delegated to speak for them.”
Meren’s voice quieted and took on a smooth, even tone that should have warned Hepu. “I see. Tell me, just who are these family members?”
“Oh, your uncles, Aunt Cherit, your grandmother.”
Turning away from them, Meren walked to a table and poured himself a cup of wine. Taking a sip, he glanced back at the two. They were watching him, Nebetta with apprehension that made her bulbous cheeks twitch, Hepu with righteous determination.
Running a fingertip around the rim of his faience cup, Meren spoke in a musing tone. “Do you know what made me notice Kysen? I was in Thebes at a market when his bastard father put him up for sale. He was a scrawny little thing, covered in white dust, sweat, and blood from his latest beating. But as I passed him, he looked at me with Sit-Hathor’s eyes. Two half-moons of obsidian, lakes of fire just as defiant as hers, set in a face of suffering.”
“Oh!” Nebetta waddled over to him, wringing her hands. “You mean he’s Sit-Hathor’s bastard?”
Meren’s hand squeezed the hilt of his dagger, almost drew it from his belt. Dragging his gaze from Nebetta, he looked up at Hepu. “She can’t be that stupid. Get out, now, before I—just get out.”
“We’re leaving,” Hepu said, “but you should think about what we’ve said. You should have forgotten your grief by now. The family thought this nonsense with Kysen would pass. You can endow him with estates and get rid of him. The family needs an heir it can be proud of, Meren.”
“By all the gods, no wonder Djet killed himself.”
Hepu flushed as he ushered Nebetta to the door. She scurried out, with her husband close behind, then stuck her head back over the threshold like a belligerent sow.
Gaping at her, Meren swore. “What do you mean?”
A slammed door was all the answer he received.
Chapter 5
He had little time before the feast of rejoicing began, and already the house was full of tension. He didn’t know what Nebetta had meant by his having been responsible for Djet’s death, but after he’d accomplished his most urgent tasks, he was going to find out.
Meren stood on the roof and gazed out over the countryside that was his hereditary domain. North and south, for many hours’ sail it stretched along the river, a land now baked under the force of Ra’s heat. After Inundation the fields would burst into green life, defying the threat of the deserts that menaced the valley.
He turned to face the setting sun across the river. There lay the family tombs and those of preceding generations who had gone to the Land of Eternity to dwell in peace and luxury. There also lay the haunted temple of the old ones that so frightened the villagers of the region.
As the north breeze caused the palm trees to flutter their leaves, Meren thanked the gods for one blessing in this disaster arranged for him by his sister—Nebetta, Hepu, Sennefer, and Anhai weren’t staying in the main house. They and Bentanta had taken up residence in a smaller building that huddled next to the walls of the larger compound; at least they weren’t ensconced in chambers near him.
His glance dropped to the front gate, where musicians were entering. They carried harps, flutes, castanets, drums, and cymbals. Behind them came a chattering group of dancers and acrobats.
The young women reminded him of Bener. He had never escaped to the river with his daughters. His steward had cornered him, and he’d been forced to deal with accounts, disputes among farmers, and decisions in criminal cases. Bener had appeared at the steward’s house, where he’d gone to administer his judgments. She had watched him work for several hours, a vision of injured sadness. When he finished, they walked back to the house together.
Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing Page 5
