Lynda Robinson - Slayer of Gods

“And then she fell down a well,” the king said.

“Yes, Golden One.”

“An accident?”

“Majesty, there is no way to know.”

Tutankhamun picked up the two goblets and handed one to Meren. The king took a sip of wine, then stared into the pool of dark liquid. His eyes were large, heavy-lidded, with thick lashes that often hid the sensitivity that made the burdens of a god-king heavy to bear. In this private moment he’d abandoned the stateliness that was so much a part of him, yet even now Meren felt the gravity and personal dignity that warred with the normal impulses of youth.

The king’s cheeks hadn’t lost all the roundness of youth. His lips had that lush fullness for which his mother, the great Queen Tiye, had been so famous. Even had he not been king the ladies of the court would have sought his favor, for he was wide of shoulder, lean from many hours on the practice field, and graceful in a way that would make him a formidable warrior in time. But those shadows were still there under his eyes, and he had a haunted air that worried Meren. As if to confirm his concern Tutankhamun turned abruptly, set down his goblet, and uttered a wordless sound of frustration and pain.

“When will this end-the killing, the treachery? Must I live my whole life looking over my shoulder? And how can I bear it, knowing that Nefertiti died at the hands of some faceless animal who sneaks and skulks and waits for an unguarded moment in which to strike?”

Tutankhamun whirled around to face Meren and spoke in a fierce whisper. “I want to be the one to find this murderer, to avenge my beloved second mother, but I can’t. My majesty must sit in splendid idleness while others do what I should be doing. I fear that the queen’s ka is suffering while I do nothing.”

“That isn’t true, majesty.” Meren drew near the king. “All that I do is done by your command. I am thy majesty’s eyes and ears.” Meren lowered his voice. “And it is by thy wish that I will avenge the incomparable Queen Nefertiti, may her ka live forever.”

Tutankhamun looked at him for a long time, his body tense, his gaze full of turmoil. At last he spoke through pale lips. “And what are you going to do now in my name?”

“Golden One, I must find someone who can link the steward Wah and the cook to the one who gave the order to kill her. Or I must find other proof such as a document that does the same thing.” Meren hesitated, then went on. “I’m going to search for old records at Horizon of the Aten.”

Tutankhamun winced, but said nothing. Meren disliked reminding the king of his former residence. Like Ankhesenamun, the king hated leaving Horizon of the Aten. He remembered no other home, and he had played among the date palms, acacias and incense trees, sunken gardens, ponds, and reflection pools that formed an idyllic playground for the royal children.

Meren understood how difficult it had been for pharaoh to leave Horizon of the Aten, but Tutankhamun had accepted that in order to bring peace to Egypt he had to heal the schism created by Akhenaten. One of the most important steps toward that goal had been to move the capital of Egypt back to the great city of Memphis where it had been for millennia. By making such public gestures pharaoh reassured his people that Maat, order and rightness of existence, had returned to Egypt.

The king looked away and whispered. “I wish I could go with you.”

“Majesty…”

The king inhaled sharply and lifted his shoulders. Meren watched the boy’s expression change. Personal grief vanished beneath the distant visage of the ruler of an empire.

At last the king spoke. “Very well. It’s best you make a quiet detour on the way to somewhere else. A trip with Horizon of the Aten as its only destination would attract speculation.”

“Yes, Golden One.”

“I’m glad Anath is going with you.”

Meren turned to look at the king. “The Eyes of Babylon is the source of thy majesty’s knowledge.”

“Of course.” Tutankhamun smiled at him. “You taught me well, Meren. I’d know if you purchased a new horse or caught an ague.”

He took another sip of wine. “Enough of this misery. On to another trouble. Burnaburiash of Babylon has sent me a letter complaining that I received emissaries from the king of Assyria. He’s furious that I saw them when they’re his vassals. He says they should communicate with me through him. Anath told me the old devil’s health isn’t good, and he’s becoming possessed with dread of rivals. She recommends that I assuage his fearfulness so he won’t be tempted to seek out a Hittite alliance.”

“The Eyes of Babylon knows the old king well, majesty. I’ve never had cause to regret following her advice.”

Setting his wine down, Tutankhamun nodded. A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I want this evil business over with, Meren. Find out who caused Nefertiti’s death, or I think I shall go mad with the uncertainty.”

“I won’t stop looking until I know the truth.” Meren bowed from his sitting position. “I swear by all the gods, majesty.”

The king smiled at him, but the smile faded as his gaze dropped to the place where the arrow had entered Meren’s body. Meren looked away, wishing he didn’t remember what had caused the wound. A few weeks ago Nefertiti’s murderer had launched a campaign to disgrace Meren and implicate him in an attempt on Tutankhamun’s life. He’d been trying to prove his innocence to pharaoh when an assassin in the service of the evil one had shot an arrow. The man’s aim had been off, or the arrow would have killed the king instead of Meren.

“If you hadn’t grabbed me and taken that arrow, I’d be dead,” the king said. His eyes brightened with unshed tears. “I’ll never forget that.”

“I did no more than any of thy majesty’s servants would.”

Tutankhamun shook his head gently. “I must find a way to show my gratitude.” He raised his hand to prevent Meren from speaking. “No more of your protests.”

“Yes, majesty.”

The king’s gaze fell to the papyrus he’d allowed to fall beside him on the couch. Picking it up, he unrolled it to reveal a text with painted decorations. Meren saw the Aten disk, and his heart banged against his ribs and he felt light-headed. Setting his wine on the floor, he covered his scar with his hand. He always wore an armband or bracelet over it, but the gesture was unthinking. Tutankhamun saw the movement and frowned. Regret was plain in his expression.

“Akhenaten gave this to me a few months before he died. It’s in his hand, a copy of his Hymn to the Aten.”

Meren nodded and made himself drop the hand that covered the old brand. Tutankhamun had few in whom he could confide his real feelings about his family. He wouldn’t punish the boy for Akhenaten’s transgressions.

Tutankhamun was gazing at the lines of the hymn. “It’s beautiful, what he says about all people being creatures of the sun god, how he made them diverse in speech, habits, and color. The Aten makes the Nile in Egypt and rain in other lands; his rays make the fields grow, the seasons pass; and he sheds light on all the world.”

“Indeed, Golden One. Thy brother the king was divine in his writings.”

Meren didn’t add that Akhenaten had appropriated all communication with the Aten to himself. Everyone else had to worship the king, because only Akhenaten knew his father, the sun. The Aten created the cosmos, but after that, the sun disk must have forgotten about it, because the rest was left to Akhenaten. Only he knew his father’s thoughts and wishes, and he interpreted them for everyone else. All worship was directed to the Aten, and to his son, Akhenaten. The heretic even had priests in charge of worshipping himself. Over and over Akhenaten stressed that the bounty of Egypt and its well-being depended upon him and the Aten only.