That elusive, charmed smile appeared again even as Meren spoke in a low voice. “I approve.”
Kysen let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.
“So long as Abu remains in Memphis,” Meren continued. “You do understand my meaning.”
“Of course, Father.”
“I thought you would, my clever young jackal. Now replace that frown with a smile and help me with the greetings. Ah, this superb creature with the fawning retinue must be Lord Reshep.”
Toward them came a stately procession. It was headed by a young man of kingly height wearing linen even finer than Meren’s. He walked beneath a wig thick with curled and plaited tresses that hung in heavy sections over his back and shoulders. Kysen looked at the man who wore this gleaming black elegance, then exchanged quizzical glances with Meren.
Whispering as he smiled at Reshep, Meren said, “To me he has always resembled a starved frog, but then I don’t look at him through a woman’s eyes.” Meren moved forward to salute his guest and raised his voice. “May Amun provide you with countless blessings, Lord Reshep. Welcome to Joy of the Nile.”
Kysen was left to battle a threatening smirk. Meren had noted Reshep’s elongated arms and legs, his bony knees and elbows. Together with a low forehead, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, and prominent brown eyes, these features would indeed prompt his father’s comparison. Kysen found it necessary to force away the image of Reshep squatting on a round lotus leaf floating in a reflection pool. Meren had been conversing steadily with Reshep. He turned and drew Kysen into the group that surrounded the newcomer.
“You weren’t at Djoser’s banquet, Ky. I met Lord Reshep there. His mother was an intimate of the Great Royal Wife Tiye long ago, before the king was born, may he have life, health, and strength.”
Saying nothing, Reshep bowed low. When he straightened, Kysen met a gaze that arced out of Reshep’s eyes to pierce through manners and decorum. It sliced past the formal friendliness Kysen offered and stabbed into the depths of his most secret ka. There it carved through and penetrated small but painful weaknesses, pettiness kept hidden from the world, and old grudges. Through this gaze Reshep seemed to expose all the little slights Kysen remembered from being a lowborn among the noble. Then this stranger seemed to delve into his pain—the pain he hoarded like a landowner accumulates rents, the pain he’d come to treat as a familiar and cherished friend.
Heavy black lashes drifted down, then lifted, releasing Kysen and leaving him with an urge to look at himself to see if he was as bare and exposed as he felt. The encounter had happened in the space of a heartbeat. He was disconcerted to find that no one else had noticed it. Kysen had to force himself not to look away from this man, to present the facade of civility and tranquillity Meren had taught him to wear. Reshep spoke at last, although to Kysen the pause in conversation had lasted far too long.
“Lord Kysen, may the favor of the gods be yours.” His voice gentle, his smile beneficent, Reshep tilted his head to the side, his eyes lit with amusement he seemed to wish Kysen to share. “Since I arrived in glorious Memphis I have heard much of the clever and brave son of the Eyes of Pharaoh. It is said that none can challenge his bow, and that no young warrior has ever rivaled him in his capacity for tavern beer.”
Meren said calmly, “I told you not to race about the city with that herd of ungovernable colts from the king’s war band.”
“I didn’t know I’d earned such renown,” Kysen replied. He was conscious of relief and gratitude to Reshep. For what he wasn’t certain. Perhaps for having been allowed to keep hidden the humiliating secrets Reshep seemed to have discovered, accepted, and forgiven in their fleeting exchange. Reshep’s laughing friends crowded around them, exchanging jests and calling for wine. Kysen’s confusion faded as he met old companions.
“So,” said a young man in gilded leather sandals, “you didn’t know you had a name in the city. I could have told you. Your name is much better than mine. Everyone knows Meren’s war training succeeded with you, while they laugh that it failed with me.”
Kysen shoved a wine goblet at Prince Djoser. “Not this complaint again.”
“No-no-no,” Djoser said with a laugh. “Knowing Reshep has made me realize how bowed down with distress I’ve been. He says many great men—like Amunhotep, son of Hapu, and Imhotep, the powerful sage and magician—haven’t been warriors.”
Staring at Djoser, Kysen said, “But not long ago you wouldn’t listen to Rahotep when he said the same thing.”
“That was when I was afraid everyone was laughing at me for puking on the battlefield, and losing governance of my horses, and having to be rescued from my own chariot. Now I realize these are but paltry incidents to a great prince.”
Kysen’s jaw nearly dropped to the deck. “Is this the man who returned from the expedition to the Syrian vassals all pale and haunted by war demons?” He suddenly glanced from Djoser to Reshep, who had been encircled by a new group of guests. “Djoser, don’t set up an altar for someone you’ve known but a few weeks.”
“I worship at the feet of none but pharaoh!” Djoser drew himself up and frowned at Kysen. “I merely choose to become enlightened by good example. Perhaps you’re jealous of Reshep already.”
“Jealous?” Kysen glanced at Reshep again, noting the elbows and knees, each sharp as the point of an obelisk. “You’re fevered.”
“And your heart is envious,” Djoser said. “Speak to me no more of altars and fevers when I have five more years than you, common-blooded meddler.”
Djoser stalked away in his gilded sandals to rejoin his new friend. A woman in front of Reshep moved aside, and Kysen glimpsed him from head to foot, especially foot. Reshep wore gilded leather sandals like Djoser’s, but the straps of his were wrapped in sheet gold and encrusted with amethysts. Djoser had encountered someone who shared his taste for splendor.
Kysen had always known Djoser felt unworthy because his mother had been a mere noblewoman who captured the eye of Tutankhamun’s father. A scholarly man who longed to be what he was not—a great warrior—Djoser had allowed his failures to slowly curdle his spirit until he threatened to become a snarled ball composed of threads of resentment and bitterness.
Kysen was distracted from contemplating Djoser’s unexpected transformation by the deck’s movement beneath his feet. The ship swayed, then began to drift. Meren’s crew had cast off from the quay. Joy of the Nile, a slim reed of illuminated color, glided into the darkening blue of the river. Their guests would watch the fiery pomegranate sun descend into the west, the netherworld, while bathing in the cool north breezes.
Slaves lit torches fitted to the sides of the ship; others lit precious candles and alabaster lamps carved in the fluted form of the lotus. The harpist struck up a feasting tune, accompanied by flutes, double pipes, and lyres. These were joined by drums, tambourines, and the sistrum, a handled, bent metal strip between the ends of which ran wires strung with metal disks. When shaken gently, the sistrum made Kysen’s favorite sound, a murmuring chime that soothed his ka.
Meren appeared at his side, his gaze drifting over the milling company. Perfumed and coiffed nobles moved among tables decorated with lotus flowers and burdened with food. The belly-tempting smell of roast fowl revealed the enticement of duck, egret, crane, and prized red-breasted goose. Kysen was about to summon a slave and order a plate prepared for himself and Meren when he heard someone bark his name.
“Kysen, why are you not among that herd of fawning, slack-witted goats surrounding Reshep?”
Meren’s arm lashed out and fastened onto that of Prince Rahotep. Hauling the younger man to him, he shot a warning look at his slightly drunk victim, flashed an irritated smile, and hissed at Kysen.
“Keep him at your side. I don’t have time to serve as keeper to a man with the tact of a four-year-old child and the temper of a wounded pig.”
Slapping Rahotep hard on the shoulders, Kysen grabbed the arm Meren relinquished. “Welcome, my friend. You honor us with you
r company.”
“Huh.” Rahotep burped and poured half a goblet of Syrian wine down his throat. “I saw you with that place-seeker. You don’t like him any better than I do.”
Rahotep scowled at his friend Djoser as he sidled closer to Reshep and fixed his attention on the newcomer’s easy conversation. “Only the great god Amun knows why they find the bastard so admirable. He has but one theme to his songs—the perfection and wonder of Lord Reshep.”
“Really?”
Kysen followed Rahotep’s stare to its object. Djoser was introducing Bener to his idol. Without warning Lord Reshep looked up, over Bener’s head, straight into Kysen’s eyes. It was but a glance, yet Kysen was left feeling again the force of its perception. It was as if Reshep knew they were talking about him, even what they were saying. Shaken, Kysen felt suddenly angry with himself for reacting with such vulnerability. He dragged his gaze from Reshep. Dislike for the man burst forth, fed by resentment that this stranger could evoke fantasies and baseless fear in him.
“Did you hear what I said?” Rahotep demanded. “Djoser is so besotted he chants Lord Reshep’s glorification endlessly to pharaoh, may he have life, health, and strength forever.”
Kysen’s anger twisted his smile with bitterness. “Father said he looks like a starved frog.”
“Ha!” Those nearest them looked their way at Rahotep’s loud hoot.
Kysen winced and said through set teeth, “Be quiet.”
“Why should I?” Rahotep turned in a circle, glowered at the listeners, and said loudly, “Why should I care what they think? I’m a half-royal, son of Amunhotep the Magnificent, a great warrior, clever of heart, unequaled in wisdom.” He appeared to remember his manners. Presenting his back to the largest cluster of eavesdroppers, he lowered his voice. “I tell you, Ky, it makes me want to vomit to see a preening grasper turn great lords into vassals and noble ladies into red-faced and hungry tavern women.”
“I’ve never known you to be so hostile to one of so little consequence.”
Rahotep banged his goblet down on a servant’s tray and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That’s it!”
“What?”
“That’s what makes me hate him. He’s of no consequence, and yet he behaves as if he were spawn from the loins of Ra. My father was a pharaoh, even if my mother was a peasant. I deserve the respect due a great one. When we met, the dog gave me the slightest of bows.” Rahotep’s bushy eyebrows formed one hairy line over his eyes. “He should have kissed the floor before my feet. Perhaps I’ll make him do that one day soon.”
“Don’t,” Kysen replied. “My father has been asked by the golden one to become familiar with Lord Reshep. If Meren approves, Reshep may be admitted to court, and into the king’s presence.”
Rahotep rocked back and forth on his heels. “I care not.” He gave Kysen a sideways glance. “I could beat him in a fight, you know. I’m expert with scimitar, sword, and dagger as well as staves, javelins, and throw sticks.”
“Yes, Rahotep, I know.”
In Rahotep’s opinion, no one, perhaps not even pharaoh, could do anything better than he could. It was only his boisterous openness that saved him from being heartily disliked. How could you hate a man whose blatant exaggerations fooled no one but himself? Kysen felt compassion for Rahotep, something he would never have imagined feeling for a prince until recently.
He glanced over at Reshep again. The newcomer was still the center of a chattering group, but as Kysen watched, Reshep lifted a drinking cup of highly polished bronze and seemed to be examining it as if he were thinking of buying it.
“By Ptah’s staff,” Kysen murmured.
Rahotep tried to see what Kysen was looking at. “What?”
“I think Reshep is looking at himself in that drinking cup.” As he spoke, Reshep adjusted a stray lock of plaited hair on his wig.
Rahotep snorted. “Arse.”
Kysen didn’t answer, taken off guard by a sudden insight. What an addled fool he’d been to assume that Reshep’s powerful gaze held perception, acumen, discernment. What he’d seen in those eyes was a ravenous search for his own reflected magnificence. Kysen had mistaken an appetite for adoration for interest and sympathy.
“Are you paying attention?” Rahotep demanded. “Now if Reshep had my visage, I could understand him wanting to admire it.”
He listened to more of Rahotep’s bragging until a stir and murmur circling through the assembly caused them to search for its cause. Kysen found it first—a young woman who had emerged from the deckhouse. Startling the whole company, his youngest sister appeared suddenly between two posts that held the deckhouse awning. Silence befell one group of revelers after another.
Regal, with the grace of a white lily and the allure of frankincense, Isis calmly accepted the stunned appraisal. For a moment, no one moved. Then Lord Reshep detached himself from the rest, walking with the suppleness of a leopard to bow low before the girl. Kysen heard his sister employ the rough low power of her voice. She used what he thought of as her man-conquering tones.
“Who is this guest?” she asked of no one. “Surely a highborn noble or a prince of royal blood.”
Kysen rolled his eyes and gave a snort of disgust. Then he smiled. With smooth yet relentless firmness, Meren stepped between his daughter and Lord Reshep. Although almost imperceptible, the shattering look of fury Meren threw at Isis turned Kysen’s smile into a grin.
Chapter 5
For the vast numbers of Egyptians who labored in the fields, on the river, and in the workshops of Egypt, when the sun vanished, work stopped and rest began. It was the time when spirits of the dead roamed and underworld fiends ascended to attack the unwary. For Tcha, servant of a tavern owner, night was the time for the most profitable of his activities. He’d never encountered a spirit or a demon, no matter how late into the evening he worked. He wore an Eye of Horus amulet around his neck anyway, to ward off all evil. No sense in tempting such creatures by being foolhardy.
This night, Tcha was abroad not to work but to obtain the proceeds of his labor from his ally. Not wishing to be seen, he walked in the deepest darkness and avoided more illuminated or open areas. He was startled only once, when he suddenly came out of an alley near a private quay and into a glare cast by dozens of torches mounted on a jewellike pleasure ship. Tcha squeaked in alarm, skittered back down the alley, and turned into the nearest road.
Panting, he muttered to himself. “By Ptah’s staff, Joy of the Nile.” He said a quick spell against ill luck. “Amun, Toth, Isis, bring me not to the notice of the servants or charioteers of Lord Meren.” Then he fell to rumbling his usual complaints. “Never had no pleasure yacht, never even had a boat. Never had no taste of roast goose nor heron. Never had no slaves to cool me with ostrich feather fans, nor no charioteers to do my bidding…”
Tcha indulged further in his litany of hardship, a favorite pastime, as he skulked his way across the city, climbing over walls, creeping through deserted gardens, dodging the few streets where light and drunken laughter announced the presence of a beer tavern or house of entertainment. No one else could have traveled so quickly unobserved, Tcha assured himself.
His secret lay in keeping to the refuse mounds where he could. The city was full of them. Each house had at least one outside its walls. Sets of dwellings of related owners tended to grow into contiguous labyrinths, and these usually had several garbage mounds. In a city as ancient as Memphis, the mounds almost outnumbered the houses. During the worst heat of the day they gave off such a powerful stench that even dogs could be seen avoiding them. Anyone frequenting the refuse mounds this late would do so for unsavory purposes and wasn’t going to bother Tcha.
At last he came to the giant mound of trash and filth that loomed behind the house of a great man. This one was astronomer of the god Ptah, custodian of the estates of Ptah in the north, and magnate of the Royal Seal of the Treasury of Pharaoh in Memphis. And one thing Tcha knew about great men, they never visited their refuse
mounds. It was an excellent place to conceal the spoils Tcha and his ally, Pawah, collected from their occasional house robberies.
The previous evening Pawah and he had done something brave. They had entered the house of a noble and taken away items of moderate value. At least, that had been the purpose they discussed. Pawah had taken things much more valuable.
“Stupid son of a vulture,” Tcha grumbled as he crouched behind a stack of empty oil jars to wait.
Tcha prided himself on never having been caught in a large theft. The city police knew him as a trifling prowler among citizens of limited means and a floor sweeper in the establishment of the fabled and exotic tavern mistress known as Ese. The officials of the city thought Ese a charitable woman for employing Tcha in any capacity. Pawah they considered barely clever enough to follow Tcha’s lead. That was Pawah’s advantage.
Last night he had shown his true nature. He had crept across the roof, stepping over the servants sleeping in the open air, and slithered downstairs. After pilfering a bronze bowl and a small faience serving plate, he had stolen into the master’s bedchamber and filched a pair of gold ear studs. Then he’d sauntered into another chamber, and it had been occupied! By this time, as was his habit, Pawah had worked himself into a state of excitement at the risk he was taking. He had walked into the room, past the sleeping man, and snatched a scarab bracelet that lay on top of a jewel casket.
All the while, Tcha had waited perched on the wall surrounding the house keeping watch for guards, the city patrols, or other dangers. When Pawah hadn’t come back quickly, Tcha knew what he was doing. And he’d been helpless. Lying flat on top of the wall beneath the branches of a willow tree, he could only curse Pawah and finger his Eye of Horus amulet while reciting a spell of protection.
The memory of his exposure to danger made Tcha angry all over again. “Wretched bastard, greedy-hearted dolt.”
Perhaps it had been Tcha’s spell that allowed Pawah to leave the house undetected. The magic hadn’t lasted long after they left; somewhere between the noble’s house and the refuse mound, they had acquired a follower. He and Pawah had parted, taking different routes home, and the follower had disappeared. Now Tcha felt safe enough to meet his fellow thief.
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