Thesh was chattering to him. “And he isn’t usually so insolent.” The scribe glared at the painter, who was still staring at Kysen. “Beltis’s arrival has discomposed him.”
He’d had enough. Without preamble he snapped at the painter, “What were your doings of the last week? Begin with the five previous days.”
Useramun’s smile faltered, then, to Kysen’s annoyance, appreciation of a different sort entered his gaze. The painter gestured to the cushions ranged behind him and called to his apprentice for beer. Kysen cut him off.
“Your answer.” He dropped onto a red cushion opposite the painter while Thesh took one beside him.
“Five days,” Useramun mused. “Five days. Hmmm. But I was in the Great Place five days ago, and then in the nobles’—” The painter stopped abruptly and glanced at Thesh. “There is much work to do on the tomb of the Great Father, the king’s vizier Ay, and on the walls of the tomb of the old king, which is being restored even now. And then there is the tomb of the Princess Isis. The foreman of the gangs on these tombs will testify that I was with them.”
He’d remembered that the artisans worked for wealthy patrons in addition to their regular work. However, the longer he was in the village, the more he realized that Thesh and his fellow artisans worked more for themselves than for the king. How could he have missed the significance?
The king was a strong youth who gave little thought as yet to his house of eternity. He had given his permission to a few of royal blood to commission tombs in the Valley of the Queens, where princes and royal women were buried. The artisans had much free time, and Thesh had filled it with lucrative commissions from the nobility that would surely displease the vizier were he to hear of them. And Hormin most likely had known this. Had the man threatened Thesh?
Private commissions obviously supplied the artisans with luxuries; Useramun’s house was filled with soft and costly cushions, his beer excellent and served in faience drinking vessels of Egyptian blue. Kysen glanced at the painter’s hands. They bore no telltale jewels, but he wore an armband of bronze inlaid with turquoise. He glanced from the armband to Useramun’s now-wary face.
“And two days ago?”
“Ah, by then I was free from my shift and back here at home.” Useramun gestured toward the piles of sketches strewn around the room. “As you can see, there is much work to be done before a scene is painted on a tomb wall. I could have done more work, but that sheep Woser is ill. His bowels, you know. And fighting with that wretch Hormin did him no good.”
“So you were working here two days ago.”
Useramun smiled and said gently, “Yes, servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh. Thesh has no doubt told you I was here when Hormin came the last time. As everyone else, I heard his battle with the concubine, our succulent Beltis, as I worked on a draft of a scene from The Book of the Dead. Geb was here as well, and another who has since gone. Later Hormin came to me to discuss work to be done once his tomb had been completely excavated.”
“I would know the whole of it, Useramun.” Kysen met the man’s inviting gaze with growing annoyance. “At once.”
Useramun sighed in pretended disappointment and leaned on a cushion. “He came to complain of the price of my paintings.” He directed a glance over his shoulder at a lush depiction of himself beneath a grapevine. “The man had the soul of a goat and dared complain of the fees. He was lucky I’d considered touching my brush for him at all. The old king prized me above all other painters, as does the living god Tutankhamun, may he have life, health, and strength.”
“And your response?” Kysen asked.
The corner of the painter’s mouth twitched, but not in amusement. “I told him he could hire someone else and be damned to the netherworld.”
He was leaving out much, Kysen could tell. The painter had been at ease in the beginning of his narrative, but now his body had gone stiff and his lips pressed together in a straight line. He could force Useramun to say more. But would it be the truth? The painter got his attention with another of those soft and unsuitable chuckles.
“You want to know where I was two nights ago,” Useramun said quietly. “Like Thesh and poor Woser, I was here. We were all here, beautiful servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh. Even Geb.”
For the first time since he’d begun to speak, Useramun glanced at his apprentice. The youth had settled in a shadowed corner in readiness to attend his master and guests. Geb flushed so darkly Kysen could see the stain on his cheeks despite the shadows. He folded his body in obeisance, touching his forehead to the floor, and muttered something about bringing fresh beer. At Useramun’s nod, he vanished through a doorway to the back of the house. Kysen rose and thrust a staying hand at the painter and Thesh.
“You will remain here.”
Before either man could protest, he followed Geb out of the room. He passed through another chamber, nearly stumbling over a large, low bed carved of gilded wood. The dim glint of gold surprised him, as did the width of the bed and the ornate, lion’s-paw legs. He heard the clatter of pottery and entered the kitchen. Geb was lifting a beer jar from its stand. As Kysen approached, his grip slipped and the jar thunked back into the stand. The youth bit his lower lip, then ducked his head to Kysen.
“Is what your master says the truth?”
The boy nodded without speaking, quickly, as if he hoped his agreement might spare him Kysen’s attention. Kysen regarded the youth speculatively. He was pleasing of appearance, with a roundness about the jaw and fragility of build that spoke of his meager years.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen, master.”
“Fifteen?”
“In a few months.”
“Are you sure your master was here two nights ago, Geb?”
“Aye, he was here.”
“How can you be sure?” Kysen asked, knowing the answer.
Geb licked his lips and whispered, “We were together.” His gaze was on the floor, but he nodded toward the sleeping chamber. “In there. All night, and the same the next night.”
Reciting a curse to himself, Kysen whispered back. “If you wish I can send you to Memphis, or to Heliopolis. I know the chief of artisans of Ra.”
“Please, master, no.”
“You would stay with him?”
All he got was a nod.
“If you should regret your decision—”
Geb lifted his head. His eyes glowed with an inner ferocity. “You have seen his work. It is incomparable, incomparable. Great men seek his favor. He has pleased Pharaoh, who has decreed that none other shall touch the walls of his tomb. And he has chosen me, me, to follow him. I would not leave him, master.”
“Would you bear false witness for him?”
Geb turned and lifted the beer jar, cradling it against his chest, and directed a look at the sleeping chamber. “You’re wrong, master. Though it does not appear so, what takes place in the room is supplication, not subjugation. Apprentice I may be, but my will is my own.”
“And if he were threatened, this most skilled and pleasing of artisans, would you not defend him?”
Kysen watched the youth weigh the consequences of honesty.
“Aye, I would defend him,” Geb said, “for he has much to teach me, and I want to learn it all.”
Geb bowed to him. Kysen considered threatening him, but this boy was obsessed. He’d seen the inferno of artistic passion behind that humble demeanor. No doubt Geb had known from childhood what he wished to do, had craved the life of a painter. The desire for artistry possessed him, and nothing Kysen could say would deter him from pursuing his goal.
Preceding the boy, he headed for the common room. As he stepped into the chamber, he noticed that Thesh had backed himself against a wall behind a lampstand, his attention fastened on the center of the room. Kysen glanced at Useramun, who was standing there with his back to the newcomers. He turned and stepped aside, and revealed a woman.
Beltis. She could be no one but the concubine. Meren had been accurate in his description.
She had long, muscled legs and a small head almost dwarfed by a black wig with strands of hair woven with copper beads. To disguise her weak chin, she painted her lips so that they distracted the observer. In spite of the lateness of the hour, when most people were at their evening meal, she had anointed herself and dressed elaborately. Her body had been oiled, her bare breasts rouged at the nipples, and she wore green-and-gold eyepaint.
“Seth, servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh,” Useramun said. ‘This is Beltis, lately concubine to the scribe Hormin. Come, Bel, my adored one, and meet someone who will teach you not to be so vain. Meet someone whose beauty makes you look like a wash pot. Are we not blessed that someone rid us of that jackal Hormin and gave us this treasure instead?”
Kysen gaped at Useramun. Beltis gave the painter a look that would have shriveled the hide of a hippopotamus, then remembered her dignity. Gliding up to Kysen, she pressed her arms to her sides so that her breasts jutted forward. He caught a whiff of heavy perfume and wrinkled his nose as she bowed to him.
“Hail, Seth, servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh, Count Meren. Have you, like your lord, questions to ask of me?”
“Why are you here? My master won’t like it that you left the house of Hormin.”
Narrowing her eyes at his abruptness, the concubine replied, “I grew weary of quarreling with Selket and the others. Djaper hates me. This morning he threatened to take my inheritance away. He said he would have me barred from Hormin’s will. I grew fearful, for I’m sure Djaper killed his father.”
“You, of course, are innocent.”
Beltis drew near, so that her breast almost touched his arm. “Of murdering Hormin, aye. In other things, no.”
A shadow fell upon them. Kysen took a step back, but Useramun blocked his path. Silence fell as he glanced from the concubine to the painter. He felt the weight of both their stares—a gazelle faced with a pair of lions.
Useramun reached out and snaked his arm about Beltis’s waist. Gazing steadily at Kysen, he said, “Beltis, my love, will you dine with us? I have missed you, and no doubt you’re as hungry as I am. The beautiful servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh hungers as well.”
Thesh shoved himself away from the wall he’d been hugging and snarled at the painter. “You fool.”
Kysen almost shook his head but stopped before he disgraced himself by appearing as flustered as a tumescent youth.
“I bid you good evening,” he said, and moved to pass around the pair to the door.
He heard a sigh and glanced over his shoulder as he stepped outside. Geb had joined Beltis and Useramun. All three were looking at him. As his gaze met Useramun’s the painter dropped an arm over Geb and drew him back against his chest while he pulled Beltis closer. Kysen turned away without changing his expression, and stepped into the night. As Thesh joined him, he heard Useramun’s mocking laughter bouncing off the painted walls of his house.
Chapter 10
Meren woke without opening his eyes. There was no light against his eyelids. It must be dark still. He remained unmoving, breathing evenly, and waited. The click of the rings holding the curtains to the frame surrounding his bed had disturbed him immediately. Years of sleeping in the midst of campaigns against barbarians, years of going to bed knowing he could be attacked by a jealous courtier, these had made him a light sleeper.
There it was—that slightest of air movements. He rolled to the opposite side of the bed like a crocodile wrestling its prey, landed on all fours, and snatched a dagger from beneath the cushions. Shooting to his feet, he searched the darkness for the intruder.
“Well done,” said an admiring young voice. “Karoya, put down that sword and go away. He’s awake now, and yes, you were right to tell me to be wary.”
Meren lowered his dagger and squinted in the darkness in the direction of the voice. “Majesty?”
Behind him he heard a click, and the flare of a lamp wick. Darkness receded as the king’s giant Nubian bodyguard handed him the lamp. As the man vanished, Meren was left staring, his jaw slack, as the living god of Egypt grinned at him and sat on his bed. Tossing the dagger on the sheets, Meren knelt and bowed his head.
“Please, can’t you leave ceremony aside?” Tutankhamun asked.
“I think not, majesty.”
“It is my wish.”
Meren lifted his head and gazed at the king. Tutankhamun had lost his air of daring and mischief and regained that weary, sad expression Meren had come to know well. He should have been more perceptive. Smiling at the king, he rose and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Were you my son, I would thrash you for risking your life in such a foolish manner. I could have killed you.”
The king’s bright laughter rewarded him for this transgression.
“I have been cursed with assessing the year’s harvest for the entire kingdom. I’ve wrestled with figures for weeks without end.” Tutankhamun sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “The High Priest of Amun is cheating me as usual, and still expects me to give him electrum obelisks and limitless access to my granaries. You, however, have been free to visit possible murderers and go among vendors and merchants in the market. Free, Meren. And in return for this freedom, you must tell me all about the murder in the Place of Anubis.”
The king emphasized his words with a jab to Meren’s shoulder. Meren grinned back at him, all the while searching Tutankhamun’s face. The king’s eyes were large and, when unguarded, expressed his feelings as a bronze mirror reflects light. He could see in them now traces of a young lion bound in chains, a life-loving monkey sealed in a pyramid. Without further protest, he related all he had discovered to the king. Tutankhamun listened eagerly, then shook his head in wonder.
“I thought my family cursed with evil.”
Meren said, “Hormin and his family aren’t like most of us, majesty. Still, I have yet to find one of them more suspect than the others. The wife, the sons, the concubine, his coworkers—any of them had reason to kill Hormin. And then there are the tomb workers.”
“The High Priest of Anubis has begged an audience,” the king said. “No doubt he will complain to me about your lack of diligence in finding the killer and laying to rest the demons aroused by the crime.”
“He’s worried, majesty. Such a thing has never happened in the Place of Anubis.”
“Aye, but I will still have to listen to him complain.” The king paused, giving Meren a sidelong glance. “Um, there is another matter. There are—there are rumors of visitors to your house, Bedouin, Hittites, a bandit or two.”
“The High Priest of Amun must have heard that you touched me.”
The king’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I know I must be circumspect, and I wouldn’t endanger you, but sometimes—”
“He has spread rumors before, majesty.”
Tutankhamun glanced at the portico, where darkness was fading into the gray light of dawn. “He still hates me for what my brother did. Akhenaten should never have tried to destroy Amun and the other gods. The high priest, he liked not living in obscurity and going hungry and having his priests killed.” The king rose and rubbed his upper arms as if chilled, then met Meren’s gaze. “He’s beginning to see that I won’t be guided like a blind donkey. Meren, I’m sure he had my brother killed.”
At the desolation in the king’s voice, Meren slid off the bed to stand beside him. Trying to ignore his own guilt, he dropped an arm about Tutankhamun’s shoulders. Startled, the king looked up at him, then relaxed into the embrace. Akhenaten’s death had robbed Meren forever of peace, but he could still ease Tutankhamun’s suffering.
“Listen to me,” Meren said. “Every day, every moment, in darkness or in light, my eyes are upon you. The servant who empties your chamber pot, the boy who holds your bow, the chamberlain who announces your guests, the guards who stand beside you, I know them all. Were I to question their loyalty, they would be dead.”
The king’s head dropped onto his shoulder for a moment. After a while the
boy straightened, and Meren dropped his arm. The pyramid stone of guilt resting on his heart lifted. Tutankhamun held out his hand, and Meren grasped the boy’s arm above the wrist, one warrior acknowledging another.
“It’s just that I know how many enemies Pharaoh has,” the king whispered. “There are so few I can trust. I wish my brother hadn’t died.”
“Majesty.”
Meren couldn’t help but wince, but the king hadn’t seen or heard him. Meren could see that he was lost in old and sad memories.
“Majesty.” This time the king looked at him. “For a long time now I have felt that I had two sons—Kysen, and you.”
He bore Tutankhamun’s searching gaze without apprehension, and at last the king smiled a genuine, carefree smile. It faded a little as he glanced at the growing light.
“I must go,” the king said. “If anyone discovers that I’ve been here, you’ll be in more danger than you are already. But you must come to me soon, for I’m anxious about this business in the Place of Anubis. After all my work restoring order to the kingdom, I won’t have some criminal disturbing the harmony and balance of Egypt with this sacrilege.”
Meren nodded gravely, suppressing a grin at the king’s peremptory tone. Much as he longed for the freedom of boyhood, Tutankhamun understood governance in ways that eluded the many spitting vipers who called themselves his courtiers. Meren preceded the king through his house, taking care that they met none of his household who might have risen early. At the front gate he watched Tutankhamun slink down the street in the direction of the palace, Karoya at his side. The boy would steal over the palace walls with ease. Having trained the king himself, Meren could hardly complain if he used his skills now; he could only hope that Pharaoh’s visit had been indeed secret.
Calling to his steward, he readied himself quickly for a visit to the house of Hormin. It was time to descend upon the family and frighten them, now, before they were fully awake. Taking with him several charioteers and his aide Abu, he burst upon his victims as they dined. Striding swiftly into the house, he came upon Imsety and his mother sharing a small table laden with beer and bread. Servants scurried out of his path when he crossed the threshold. Meren glared at Selket.
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