“Father,” she had said, “you shamed me.”
“What?”
“You threatened poor Nu, who has done nothing.”
“If he’s done nothing, he shouldn’t be afraid, and you shouldn’t be ashamed.”
Bener rolled her eyes. “Please, Father. Remember how you felt about Great-Aunt Cherit.”
“Hmm.”
Bener was too clever. That conversation had convinced him to make a decision over which he’d been hesitating for months. He needed to have Bener and Isis where he could keep a vigilant watch over them. He was trying to think of a diplomatic way to inform Idut of his decision when he noticed a chariot with two men coming down the avenue toward the house. It passed through the gate, and as it came nearer, he recognized the driver: Kysen. And Nento.
He hadn’t seen Nento in a while, but he would always recognize that ostrich-egg head and watermelon-shaped body. From here Meren could even see his neatly combed and oiled mustache. Nento was one of the few men who annoyed Meren because of his smell. It wasn’t that he reeked; Nento was the kind of man who rarely exerted himself and took care to use deodorants and scent. So he always smelled like cinnamon.
Meren studied his son for signs that all was well. Kysen appeared unconcerned, but he was still some distance away. He turned to descend the stairs and meet Kysen but whipped around to face the gate again when something caught his eye. Across the river, the sun had disappeared. But there was still a soft, diffuse glow that cast vague shadows in the groves of trees to either side of the road that led from the river to the house. There was a lull in the traffic along this path.
A tall palm sat next to the road, its trunk a dark shadow. The shadow was too dark, and it moved, separating from the tree. A man stepped onto the road for a moment and raised his eyes to the roof of the house. Meren took in his great height, the ebony hue of his skin, the athletic grace of his movements—and cursed. Raising his hand, he gestured toward the rear of the house. The black figure vanished.
“Demons and fiends,” Meren hissed to himself. “Son of a dung-eater, damnation.” He raced across the roof, around an awning beneath which lay cushions for lounging, and to the back outer stair.
Taking the steps two at a time, he landed at their base to surprise a group of kitchen helpers bearing feast cakes into the house. Waving them aside, he gathered his composure and walked swiftly down the path that ran between the garden wall and the kitchen and well court. He stopped at a long, single-story building and stuck his head inside.
“Reia, Iry, come with me to the back gate.”
He led them to the door that pierced the back wall, turned, and spoke in a low voice. “Let no one come this way.”
They took up sentry positions while Meren unbolted the door and slipped outside. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of a refuse pile that grew just beyond the wall. Hurrying around it, he searched his surroundings. Beyond the house sparse grassland soon gave way to the desert. Pens for goats, cattle, and other animals dotted the landscape. A herder was driving several cattle toward a nearby village, but everyone else seemed to be busy inside the compound. The herder was soon gone.
A few thorny acacia trees clung to the edge of the barren pasture a few paces from the refuse pile. Meren walked toward them. As he reached their sparse shelter, a giant Nubian stepped into view. Meren cursed again and stepped behind the largest trees.
“Come back here,” he said angrily. “Stay behind the trunks, or someone may see you.”
The visitor loomed half a cubit taller than Meren, who looked up to meet his eyes. For a moment neither man spoke. The Nubian contented himself with folding his arms over his chest so that the muscles bulged as large as those in Meren’s thighs. Undisturbed, Meren scowled at him.
“Please tell me you’ve brought a letter.”
He got a head shake in reply.
“A spoken message?”
No reply. Meren felt his body grow cold, and scorpions seemed to sting a path down his spine.
“Then I’m right?”
A low rumble signaled the Nubian’s first words. “Yes, lord.”
“By all the fiends of the desert.” Meren shut his mouth and thought furiously for a few moments. “I cannot believe you’ve done this. Leave. Before someone sees you. Meet me at the dock tonight. I’ll come as soon as this cursed feast is over. You know about the feast, I assume.”
“Aye, noble one.”
“Very well. Go, and pray to all the gods you don’t pay for this with your life.”
“I already have, lord.”
Meren hastened back inside the gate, instructed Reia and Iry to have the charioteers ready, and headed for his rooms. By now Kysen would be there. At least he’d be able to share this terrible new fear. Unfortunately, neither of them could control its source.
Kysen was waiting for him, but they weren’t able to talk privately until Zar had been allowed to dress Meren for the feast. With his patience strained near to breaking, Meren hastily garbed himself in a transparent, pleated robe of the finest Egyptian linen. He slipped into gilded leather sandals and tried to stand still while Zar loaded him down with a gold necklace, heavy bracelets of gold and lapis, and the thick tresses of a court wig. He waved the servant away when the man approached with a garland for his head.
“I’ve got gold hanging from my arms, legs, shoulders, and ears, Zar. That’s enough. Now go away.”
Once the servant was gone, Kysen said, “I couldn’t believe it when you wrote about Idut’s feast.”
“Forget the feast. You’re late.”
“Lord Paser was following me. I almost had to sail to Abydos, but he broke off his pursuit. He never did have much patience.”
“Curse it. I thought he’d gone.”
“You saw him too? I sent men after him to make sure he keeps sailing north.”
“Good, because we’ve another difficulty—no, not a difficulty, a disaster.” Meren threw up his hands. The gold and jewels on his body glittered in the lamplight. “Just now I found—”
His chamber door banged open. Meren shut his mouth as his sister swept into the room along with Bener and Isis.
“I knew you’d be here instead of in the reception hall where you’re supposed to be. Come along, because I’m not leaving without you.”
“I’ll be there in a moment,” Meren said, but Idut snatched his arm and dragged him along in her wake. Bener grabbed his other arm, while Isis grasped Kysen’s hand and started chattering.
Idut pulled him out of the room. “Now, Meren.”
He soon found himself standing amidst his family in the reception room, performing the ceremony of greeting for an unending procession of guests. The soothing strains of a harp filtered in from the central hall. Servants decked each guest in garlands. Others offered scent cones, those coveted unguents that, when placed on the head, melted and spread soothing oil over the guest. In this season of unremitting and desiccating heat, the unguent provided relief and soothed the skin.
Meren breathed in the scent of myrrh, lilies, and frankincense as Great-Aunt Cherit hobbled over to him on the arm of a slave.
“I want to talk to you, boy.”
“Blessings of the gods, Aunt. May you feast well this night.”
“Nebetta told me what you said to her. It’s time someone took you in hand.”
Meren glared at the slave. The woman tugged on her mistress’s arm, and Idut intervened by draping a garland around Cherit’s neck.
Kysen slipped away from Isis to stand beside him and stare at the group coming toward them. “By the gods, she’s invited the Antefokers. Isn’t that the family that’s brought suit against Anhai?”
“Smile, my son. Yes. She cheated them on the weighing of the final payment for some land. Used false weights to make the copper deben seem more then they actually were. Unfortunately for Anhai, Antefoker has Syrian merchant’s blood and can smell a false weight like a crocodile scents prey, and he’d rather lose his sons than one-tenth of a d
eben of copper. He almost attacked our cousin’s dear wife. Ah, Antefoker, Mistress Nofru, how good of you to bring all three of your sons and your daughter.”
Antefoker, a robust man with the square build of a block statue, hardly bowed to Meren. “I want to talk to you.”
“Of course, my friend, talk, eat, drink, dance. We’ll make merry the whole night. Have an unguent cone. Kysen, our good friend Antefoker and his family are here.”
“Where is that woman Anhai?” Antefoker demanded.
Meren didn’t answer. Turning to greet the next arrival, he was taken by surprise. Bentanta walked over to him with her graceful stride that always reminded him of the long-legged pace of a Nubian warrior. But something about her was different. Richly dressed for the feast, she wore gold ring beads threaded through her hair and an elaborate pleated robe. No, it wasn’t her dress that seemed different. Usually she disturbed him with her air of calm amusement, but as they spoke, he realized that her salutation was carried out in a distracted manner. She hardly looked at him or at Kysen when his son addressed her. Then Sennefer came in with Anhai, and he forgot his curiosity.
“Don’t look so disgusted, Meren,” Sennefer said. “I don’t see how you can when you’re surrounded with such beauty.”
Anhai gave her chimelike laugh. “He means his own wife. Do you not, Sennefer?”
Sennefer’s smile became fixed.
“Pay her no heed. I mean all these ladies with smooth skin and, and …”
Sennefer’s words faded as he encountered Meren’s gaze. Bentanta had been talking to Kysen, but both broke off at the abrupt silence.
“I’m sure your compliments are intended for your wife,” Meren said at last.
He would have continued, but Wah bustled into the room and swooped down on them. He was forced to introduce the man to the others.
“I know Wah,” Anhai said. “He was Queen Nefertiti’s steward at the North Palace when I attended her.”
“Yes,” Sennefer said. “My wife has spoken to me of you often.”
The mention of Akhenaten’s queen brought a glance from Kysen. Wah opened his mouth, but snapped it closed as Anhai praised the dead woman. Nefertiti had been a woman with the beauty of Hathor and a wisdom blessed by Toth. The delicacy of her face had masked the power she wielded through her influence over Akhenaten.
For years she had advised moderation and caution when the king wished to embark upon some mad course demanded by his god. But finally Akhenaten’s appetite for extremity devoured her. She lost favor and was banished to the North Palace at Horizon of Aten. There she lived for a while, until one of the plagues sweeping across the kingdom from Syria took her. And with her went any hope of curbing Akhenaten’s excesses.
Wah shifted from one foot to another like a giraffe with sore hooves. “Good lady,” he said, interrupting Anhai, “I’m sure Lord Meren doesn’t wish to dwell on death tonight.”
“Meren lives with murder and death,” Anhai retorted. “He likes killers, plots, and blood. Our poor queen’s illness isn’t likely to disturb him.” She continued with her account.
Left to his own thoughts again, Meren recalled his gratitude to the queen. He’d always suspected that Nefertiti had spoken to the king on his behalf after his father’s death, and that it was her influence as much as her father Ay’s that had saved his life. He had mourned the day she died, and long after. So many at court had been taken by that plague, which had come to ravage Egypt.
“I hate to remember her like that,” Anhai was saying. She had moved next to Wah and plucked a date from the basket he carried. “You remember, Wah. The plague turned her skin red and dry, like she’d been staked out in the desert. You could hear the voice of her heart, and she had visions from her fever.”
“Let us not dwell on unhappy memories.” Wah smiled at Anhai, revealing his slightly brown teeth and the tip of his tongue.
Anhai examined the date and went on unperturbed. “But we all have happy memories of the Great Royal Wife Nefertiti, don’t we, Wah?”
“But we’re here to rejoice at Lord Meren’s homecoming,” Wah replied.
“I agree,” Meren said. “Come, my friends. I think it’s time to go in and partake of that ox my sister had sacrificed. And I hear she’s brought in wine from the vineyards at Buto.”
Waving the whole group forward, he herded them toward the central hall and the other guests. Inside waited tables heaving with roasted quail, beef, heron, and duck, along with grapes, stewed figs, cakes, and melons. He paused just before entering the hall, sighing and wondering how he was going to avoid being ambushed by his various relatives and the importunate Wah.
All at once there was a great crash behind him. A crowd of young men beating hand drums, barking with laughter, and stumbling over their feet invaded the room. One had fallen over a water jar stand. Another tripped over the fallen man and landed in the water, unable to right himself because he was beset with giggles. More young men streamed toward Meren, uttering hoots and imitating the cry of a hawk. Several paraded around the room with garlands and streamers of flowers. Last of all, borne on the shoulders of his comrades, brandishing a golden goblet, and singing a hunting song, came the leader of this band of drunks.
“Carry me to my host!” the leader shouted.
Meren glanced over his shoulder to find that half his guests had crowded out of the hall to witness the drunken arrival. The newcomer slid off the shoulders of his bearers to land on his feet, but his knees buckled, and he sat down hard.
“Goat’s dung! My ass will be sore for a month.”
Eyes red and watery, mouth slack, hard body turned flaccid with drink, he leered up at Meren and stuck out his hand.
“Help me up, O great lord, O noble prince, O Sole Companion, O great one, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.”
Meren grasped his hand, yanked the younger man to his feet, and said coolly, “I didn’t think you were coming to my feast of rejoicing. Welcome, dearest brother. Can it be that you’re drunk with the happiness of seeing me again?”
Chapter 6
Meren stared at his brother while Ra’s friends staggered past them to join the guests in the hall. The women returned to the cushions and chairs reserved for them on one side of the room, while the men went to the other side. This separation wouldn’t last, and the more beer and wine were consumed, the more convivial the two sexes would become. Idut called for the acrobats, and the two men in the reception room were left to themselves.
Meren gestured to a servant who had been clearing away the broken fragments of the water jar. The man vanished. So did the porters at the front door. Folding his arms over his chest, he waited for his brother to speak. Ra gulped down the last of his wine, turned his back on Meren, and went to a stand upon which rested a round-bottomed wine jar. Lifting the pottery jar, he filled his goblet to the brim. When he brought the vessel to his lips, some of the wine spilled down his chest and onto the floor.
Still sipping, with the goblet obscuring his view, he swayed a few steps. He thrashed about with his free hand. It hit a column. Using it for support, he took another couple of steps and bumped into it. Frowning at the pillar, he put his back to it, bracing himself there as he slowly sank to the floor, drinking all the way down. Once he was seated, he held out the goblet to Meren.
“Get me some more, will you?”
Meren walked over to stare down at his brother. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I wasn’t, but I heard that my favorite relative was going to be here, so I changed my mind.”
“What favorite?”
“Anhai,” Ra said, waving his goblet. “That lovely scorpion Anhai. Poor Sennefer. He never should have married a woman with more wit than he, and certainly not one more ruthless than a Hittite.”
Ra pointed with his goblet to the scene in the hall. Through the open double doors the women’s side of the room could be seen. Anhai was seated among the ladies on a chair carved of cedar and inlaid with ivory. From the wary glances she el
icited from the other women, Meren could tell that she affected them like a hawk among pigeons. Meren could sympathize, for Anhai’s character was disturbing.
Cool, humorous, articulate, she could hold an audience’s attention with her stories and jests. Yet beneath her humor lurked viciousness that could lash out without warning. Once aroused, Anhai used her tongue like a scorpion’s stinger. Once Meren had seen her reduce a princess to tears with an offhand remark of unexpected malevolence.
Her extraordinary character was matched with an ordinary appearance that belied her power to attract attention. Her hair was plain brown rather than glossy black, her eyes the same. Her nose was neither too long nor too short, but sharp, like a sparrow’s beak. Of middle height, she never caught interest because of either long legs or diminutive stature. And yet despite her modest looks Anhai had attracted Meren’s brother.
A maid placed an unguent cone on Anhai’s gleaming black wig while the lady sniffed a lotus flower. She glanced up from the petals, her eyes meeting Ra’s directly and without any pretense that the exchange was an accident. Ra gave her a loose-lipped smile. Meren had seen enough. He unfolded his arms and stepped in front of his brother, blocking the link between the two.
“You’re interfering with a married woman, your cousin’s wife?”
Ra gave him a resentful look. “She understands my burdens and trials.”
“What burdens?” Meren could feel exasperation building inside him. Just receiving one of those I-have-suffered-so-much looks from Ra was enough to make him want to kick his brother. “What burdens, Ra? Having to visit three taverns a night? Enduring the trials of hunting and fowling instead of serving in government or the army or the priesthood? Those burdens?”
“Unlike you—”
“I offered to sponsor you in any office you cared to pursue. I did sponsor you, but when you entered the charioteers, you refused to accept training. A charioteer does have to train, you know. Otherwise he gets himself and his fellows killed. You’re not stupid; you could achieve anything, if only you’d work.”
Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing Page 6
