Murder at the God's Gate

by Lynda S. Robinson

  “Why should I make this bargain?”

  “For several reasons,” Ebana said. “One is that you’ve no proof that anyone else from the temple has committed any transgression.”

  Ebana eyed him as he said this, but Meren wasn’t about to agree or disagree.

  “Another reason is that with the threat of the Hittites growing and the invasion of all these renegade soldiers and bandits, you can’t afford to be at odds with Amun as well.”

  Meren began to scowl as he realized the truth of Ebana’s reasoning. Then his cousin lowered his voice and stepped nearer so that he could almost touch Meren.

  “And also, my suspicious, cynical, and jaded cousin, because I might have saved your life simply because it was yours.”

  Meren studied Ebana, his gaze traveling over that lean jaw, the thin white line of the scar. What real evidence did he have that the priests of Amun had been involved in the desecration of Akhenaten’s tomb? Words spoken to him by Tanefer, who was now dead, and who had confided in no one left alive. Fragments from a bowl with mere traces of writing that could be explained away by anyone as clever as Ebana. The murder of Qenamun by Ahiram implied that they had participated in the crime together. Yet without the capture of the actual thieves who had dug into the royal tomb, he could hardly expect the powerful priesthood of Amun to admit guilt.

  So far none of the search parties sent after the thieves had found them. Meren suspected that they’d fled by way of the Red Sea already. To accuse Ebana or Parenefer he needed more, and the priests seemed to have concealed their actions well, even Qenamun. Qenamun! The gold pen holder.

  “Well, cousin?” Ebana said.

  Leaning on Kysen, Meren turned to the house. “Come with me.”

  He led them back to Ahiram’s bedchamber and to the shrine of Ishtar. Releasing his hold on Kysen, he plucked the pen holder from the niche. He swayed a bit, causing Kysen to slip his arm around his waist. Summoning his remaining strength, he opened the top of the case and tipped it. Nothing fell into his hand. Meren stared at the blood drying on the back of his knuckles, then gave his head a little shake. He slipped a finger into the tube and drew out a papyrus wound into a tight roll. He handed the pen holder to Ebana.

  “No doubt you recognize this?”

  “No,” Ebana said.

  “Come now. You must have seen it many times in the House of Life.”

  “Don’t be irritating, Meren. I assume you mean this is Qenamun’s.”

  Meren was unrolling the papyrus. He skimmed the flowing script that filled the sheet, studied the name written at the bottom, and lifted his gaze to Ebana’s.

  “I should have expected him to blame Ahiram and Tanefer and keep silent about—”

  Ebana stopped him by reaching out and grabbing his forearm. “Don’t say it. You’ve no evidence, so don’t be foolish.”

  Meren yanked his arm free and handed the papyrus to Kysen, who read it aloud.

  “I, Qenamun, lector priest of Amun, call upon the good god as my witness. Amun came to me in a dream and said unto me: Go forth and cause me to be avenged upon the great heretic for his sacrilege. I have done this, with the aid of Prince Ahiram.” Kysen broke off. “There’s more about Akhenaten’s heresy, but no mention of anyone else at the temple.”

  Wincing, Meren leaned against the wall. “I think he meant this as a record of his greatness, possibly to be put on his tomb.” He glanced at Ebana. “But such a text could only be inscribed if someone else besides pharaoh or his heir ruled Egypt.”

  “Or if pharaoh one day changes his opinion about his brother,” Ebana said. “Qenamun might have had a dream about that also.”

  “By the gods, Ebana, you don’t expect me to allow this evil to pass without consequence.”

  “I expect you to report to pharaoh that Prince Tanefer plotted a revolt against him, that he suborned Ahiram and Qenamun into helping him loot a royal tomb to pay for his war and his treason, and that there’s no evidence against anyone else from the temple.”

  “The divine one will never believe that Qenamun acted alone, that he hired mercenaries and bandits on his own.”

  “What the golden one suspects concerns me not. Only his actions are of import at the moment. Do you want a truce or not, cousin? And take care that you answer as pharaoh’s advisor.”

  Meren pressed a hand over his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but he needed to see his physician soon. His eyelids felt as heavy as ingots, and he was so weary. But he had to think. A truce between the temple of Amun and the court would allow Tutankhamun to grow to maturity without threat from the only power to rival pharaoh in Egypt. The boy needed time, time to gain strength and wisdom, to build alliances with other princes, other temples, the army.

  A truce would make no difference. He would still watch the priests, still not trust them. But perhaps the danger would recede for a while. Certainly Parenefer would cause no more trouble, for fear of provoking pharaoh’s wrath again and getting himself killed. Yes, Parenefer and Ebana would live in fear from now on, always wondering when Tutankhamun would decide to retaliate against them. Perhaps a truce would be a good thing.

  “I shall consult pharaoh,” Meren said. “The welfare of the Two Lands depends upon harmony and balance between the servants of Amun and the son of the god.”

  He shoved himself away from the wall and stumbled. Kysen was beside him instantly and pulled Meren’s good arm around his shoulders. Meren cursed, his eyes closing as he tried to keep his legs from folding. Someone slipped an arm around his waist. He opened his eyes and found Ebana supporting him. His cousin began helping Kysen walk him out of the house.

  “Don’t look so astonished,” Ebana said. “If you die of this small wound, who will speak to pharaoh on my behalf?”

  Chapter 20

  On the third night after he’d killed Tanefer, Meren was in a palace chamber near the royal apartments with Ay and Horemheb. The general was striding about the room while Meren rested on a stool beside Ay. His wound was itching where Nebamun had cleaned and stitched it. Egypt was famed throughout the world for its medicine. Meren just wished the physician didn’t insist upon using a needle fresh from a white-hot flame; he could have done without the magic of the fire. They were going over the precautions taken in rounding up Tanefer’s nest of traitors, including the guards he’d placed near pharaoh. Rahotep had been given the task of finding the enclave of mercenaries lurking in the desert.

  “A messenger came not an hour ago,” Horemheb was saying. “Rahotep is chasing the renegades north. Those he doesn’t kill will flee into Palestine.”

  Meren nodded wearily. He hadn’t slept well since he’d discovered Tanefer’s betrayal. He would never understand how his friend could have plotted to kill Tutankhamun, but deep in his ka, he had some understanding of how one so brilliant could lose control after years and years of enduring the damaging rule of an unfit king.

  Meren himself failed to divine the purpose of the gods in inflicting Akhenaten upon Egypt and then allowing the middle brother to die untimely so that Tutankhamun came to the throne too young. A plague of misfortunes had driven everyone to desperation until Akhenaten died, but Tanefer had suffered more than most. His mother’s country had endured far more at the hands of the Hittites than Egypt had at the hands of its heretic pharaoh. And Tanefer had witnessed the destruction.

  How much of his rebellion had been impelled by the desire to spare Egypt from a like fate, and how much had been simple greed for power? He would never know. And the pain of losing so close and beloved a friend remained with him, an interminable affliction.

  Horemheb had finished his summary, and Ay rose and leaned on his walking stick as he talked. Meren listened without comment. He had already reported to pharaoh the night his friend died, giving him the entire story of the deaths of Unas, Qenamun, Ahiram, and Tanefer. He’d given the report without comment, his spirit so weighed down with grief that he had little attention to give to his estrangement from the king.

  He
’d been honest about his suspicion of the priests of Amun, for the king’s view was the same. The offer of the truce was discussed. Then he’d left. Nothing was said by pharaoh regarding their personal difficulty. During the days that had passed since then, Tutankhamun had consulted Ay and Horemheb in his effort to reach some decision. He hadn’t sent for Meren at all.

  Ay’s wrinkled hand descended to his shoulder. “You aren’t listening, Meren.”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “You were talking about moving the royal tombs from Horizon of Aten.”

  “I know Akhenaten decreed that his house of eternity never be moved, but we can no longer abide by his wishes.”

  “Yes, yes.” Meren heard the impatience in his own voice, but sometimes Ay could be so circuitous.

  “Now that the body has been restored,” Ay said, “it’s time to move all the family burials to a place of concealment.”

  Meren stared at the vizier. There had been little of Akhenaten left to restore. Whatever had been effected had been done to assuage Tutankhamun’s troubled ka more than for any other purpose.

  “We must choose a place, perhaps Abydos or Memphis,” Ay said.

  “Then get on with it,” Meren snapped. “Put them in a simple, unmarked tomb in the Valley of the Kings. It’s the most guarded place in Egypt, and it’s the only place where they have a chance of remaining undisturbed. Here, where pharaoh’s power can protect them.”

  “And right under the noses of the priests of Amun,” Horemheb said with a chortle. He had been in riotous spirits since he’d been absolved of all evil by Meren.

  “Put no mortuary temple above to mark the site,” Meren continued. “Move them and be done with it.”

  Ay’s walking stick tapped the floor tiles as he strode toward Meren. “Your temper grows worse each day, boy. What makes you so hot-bellied?”

  “Treasons and plots may be like meat to you, but I find them unpalatable.”

  His scar began to itch. It always did when he was thinking about Akhenaten’s death. He’d stopped counting the times he’d cringed at the hypocrisy of his position. He had hunted and killed Tanefer when, not many years ago, he had ignored hints of a similar plot against Akhenaten that had led to the king’s death. He had saved one king, but allowed another to die. Oh, he doubted he could have stopped Ay. Should he have tried, at the cost of more lives and the continued rule of a madman?

  “I know you had great affection for Tanefer,” Ay was saying. “We all did. You didn’t want to kill him, young one, but he would have killed you if you’d hesitated.”

  A door swung open to reveal the overseer of the audience hall. Meren watched him without interest as he entered, stopped to arrange the complicated folds of his robes, and pounded the floor with his walking stick.

  “The living Horus, Strong Bull arisen in Thebes, rich in splendor, the Golden Horus who conquers all lands by his might, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun saith thus: The Lord Meren will attend my majesty. He is to come alone.”

  Meren glanced at Ay. The vizier leaned on his walking stick, his back so bent by age that he resembled a lurking vulture.

  “Go on, boy. It’s time you two talked.”

  Sighing, Meren worked his sore shoulder. He was wearing an Eye of Horus amulet to guard his health. Nebamun had insisted upon it, and he couldn’t have worn a broad collar over the wound anyway.

  The overseer of the audience hall was leaving. Meren followed, gripping the amulet. It was suspended from a heavy gold chain. Long ago, the god Horus lost an eye in combat with the evil Set over the murder of his father Osiris. Toth, god of magic, retrieved the eye and healed it. Later Horus gave the eye to Osiris to eat in order to restore him to life. Meren wondered if the amulet could work its magic and restore to health his relationship with pharaoh.

  Tutankhamun received him in the audience chamber reserved for formal events. Two Nubians of the royal bodyguard swung open golden doors, and the overseer paced slowly into the room between high columns. Meren followed him, his pace equally slow, and as he walked, he grew cold. Pharaoh was seated on his throne on a raised dais wearing the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt, his body draped in gold, in his hands the crook and flail symbolizing his rule over the Two Lands. They would never reconcile if Tutankhamun continued to hide behind that aloof royal demeanor he’d learned to wear so well.

  The overseer announced him and retreated. Meren sank to the floor before pharaoh and bent his head. If pharaoh wished formality, he would give it to him.

  “Rise, Lord Meren.”

  As he stood, Meren heard the overseer return. He never liked noises at his back, but before he could glance over his shoulder, pharaoh beckoned to him. He mounted the dais and took up a stance slightly behind and to the right of the throne. Between the rows of columns the overseer preceded his cousin, who led a procession of priests bearing ornate boxes and caskets of gold, ebony, cedar, and ivory. Ebana was as ornate as his offerings in his court dress. A heavy necklace of malachite rested on his shoulders, while a long wig gleamed black against the shining green stones.

  Meren watched priest after priest place his burden before the dais. He couldn’t stop one corner of his mouth from curling as he realized how worried Parenefer must be to try to bribe pharaoh. Ebana caught his eye, and he pulled his mouth into a straight line. He shouldn’t gloat. After all, Ebana had saved his life.

  The overseer began to intone the phrases of formal address to pharaoh. Then Ebana spoke.

  “The good god Amun has heard the prayers of his living son, the divine bull, the golden Horus. His care for his son knows no boundaries.”

  Ebana began to open the boxes. Inside lay stacks of ingots, gold ingots. The priests were still coming, and soon the floor was covered with boxes filled with gold, silver, and electrum. Meren stopped counting when he reached fifty. He cast a sideways glance at Tutankhamun, but the boy appeared to be taking this flood of riches with composure. Of course, much of Amun’s wealth originally derived from royal generosity. No doubt pharaoh had seen greater riches on his visits to the royal treasury with Maya.

  Two priests threaded their way through the fabulous litter, bearing a casket between them on carrying poles. They set it before Ebana, who removed the lid to reveal an interior filled with jewels, products of the workshops of Amun. Meren saw several necklaces fashioned of electrum, the links in the shape of beetles. There were diadems, fillets and headbands of gold, pectoral necklaces with inlay of carnelian, lapis, turquoise, and malachite.

  Anklets of beaded amethyst rested on top of gold falcon collars and long, heavy earplugs of the same metal. There were several collars made entirely of thick lenticular gold beads in five rows each. The weight of just one of these made them a burden to wear. Ebana lifted a belt of electrum and deep green malachite. Bowing low, he placed the token at pharaoh’s feet.

  “Life, health, and strength to the living Horus, son of Amun, shining seed of the god, great of strength, smiter of Asiatics, he who—”

  “Yes, yes,” Tutankhamun said. “My majesty acknowledges this … small expression of the good will of the god my father.”

  Ebana straightened and waited. Tutankhamun stared at him wordlessly until Ebana resorted to glancing at Meren. Meren let him suffer a few moments longer before whispering to the king.

  “Majesty, this humble cupbearer believes the Servant of the God begs privy speech.”

  A scepter waved in the air, causing overseer, priests, and guards to vanish. Once they were alone, Tutankhamun nodded to Ebana. Ebana gave Meren an uneasy look before speaking in a voice just above a whisper.

  “The chief prophet of the god greets the divine one and asks if the matter discussed with Lord Meren has been agreed upon.”

  Still Tutankhamun didn’t speak. A bead of sweat appeared from beneath Ebana’s wig and snaked down his forehead to stop at his scar. The golden crowns remained motionless. Held in crossed hands, the crook and the flail seemed immobile. Ebana’s gaze darted to Meren
. Meren kept his expression as blank as the face of a desert cliff. When he thought Ebana’s jaw would break from being clenched, pharaoh broke the silence.

  “My majesty has listened to the speech of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, the Lord Meren. Even now criminals are being sought for their transgressions against us.” Tutankhamun shifted on his throne and rested his arms on those of the golden chair. “As we speak, my wrath seeks out those who would destroy the order of my kingdom. Justice and balance will be restored, according to the eternal and everlasting harmony between my majesty and the god, my father. There will be peace.”

  “Thy majesty’s will is accomplished in its utterance,” Ebana replied.

  Tutankhamun waved a hand in dismissal. “My majesty’s heart desires harmony and order above all things.”

  “As does thy father, the king of gods.” Ebana bowed and retreated through the forest of boxes.

  When the doors shut behind him, Tutankhamun let out a long breath. The scepters faltered as he slumped from his rigid posture. Meren found himself the subject of scrutiny from those great, dark eyes.

  “Your wound doesn’t trouble you?” the king asked.

  “No, majesty.”

  Tutankhamun rose, and placed the scepters on the throne. Meren helped him lift the heavy headdress and set it beside the crook and flail. The king ran his fingers through his hair, then rubbed his temples.

  “By the gods, those are heavy. They make my head ache.”

  “Shall I send for the royal physician?”

  “No,” Tutankhamun said. “No. I wanted to ask about Tanefer’s men.”

  “Several of his officers tried to flee the city. I sent Kysen after them, and he’s turned them over to Horemheb. They’ve been questioned about the location of Tanefer’s mercenaries, and Rahotep is pursuing them. None of them seems to have been told about the desecration of the royal tombs.”

  “And the actual violators of the tomb?”

  “No word, majesty. I begin to think they never left Egypt. The criminals are most likely living among us.” He didn’t mention Parenefer or Ebana. It was unnecessary. “No doubt they’re busy dismantling the jewelry, melting down the gold into ingots, prying out stones, and so on.”