Lynda Robinson: Slayer of Gods

Turning down the avenue that led to the temple, Meren breathed deeply, taking in air laden with moisture. The floodwaters of the Nile were receding, and soon pharaoh’s surveyors would spread across the land to remeasure field boundaries and estimate crop yields. During inundation the population of Memphis swelled with laborers from the country ordered into the service of temple and government projects. Royal granaries and supply houses dispensed vast quantities of grain, wheat, barley, oil, and other commodities to pay such workers who would otherwise have little to do.

Indeed, it was a busy time of the year for pharaoh’s ministers, including Meren’s old mentor, Ay. Meren had been concerned for his friend ever since he’d discovered that Nefertiti had been murdered. He had never told Ay of this discovery, and the old man still believed what everyone had assumed when Nefertiti died-that the queen had fallen ill from a plague that had killed her daughters. Meren was reluctant to tell Ay about the murder until he knew who the killer was. If he could capture the one responsible, the old man might bear the news better.

Thinking hard, Meren turned down a side street, away from the temple’s massive pylon gate with its carved and painted reliefs and giant doors covered with gold. He would make his way around the walls that surrounded the temple complex and return home. Before an enemy had tried to kill him a couple of months ago he’d been on the track of three suspects, men powerful enough to have arranged the queen’s death. Yamen the army officer was dead. Another was the Syrian Dilalu, who sold weapons to anyone rich enough to pay for them. The last was Zulaya, an elusive merchant from one of the Asiatic kingdoms, perhaps Babylon. This was one of the reasons he’d asked that one of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh stationed abroad be summoned home. He needed to speak with someone whose task it was to keep an eye on people like Dilalu and Zulaya.

Yamen had been killed before Meren could question him about the queen’s murder. An unseen, unknown enemy always preceded him before Meren could question someone who might shed light on the mystery. That someone had caused the deaths of the cook Hunero and her husband. He’d brought Hunero’s sister to Memphis in the hope that she might remember something of use, but her memory faltered often. Meren was of the opinion that Satet deliberately forgot things that were inconvenient or frightening to her.

Turning a corner Meren paused, realizing he had taken a wrong turn and was in an unfamiliar area. The neighborhood around the temple was old, as old as the ancient ones who built the pyramids. Over the years the houses and storage buildings had multiplied and expanded, taking up parts of streets and creating a network of roads that dead-ended, alleys that zigzagged and looped back on themselves and burrowed into the warrens of mud brick that served as combination dwellings, mangers, and workshops.

Having taken one wrong turn, Meren now found himself in a narrow little alley that ended in a blank wall. At one time an exterior stair had stood against this wall. Only five mud brick steps remained, leading nowhere. Meren backtracked only to find himself in an alley hardly wide enough for one person to pass, and this took an abrupt turn that went back the way he’d come. Meren stopped and sighed. He would have to find another stair so that he could climb high enough to see where he was from a rooftop. Luckily he spotted one a few houses down. He reached it quickly and set his foot on the bottom step.

“Out for a stroll, is we?”

Whipping around, Meren found the way blocked by a man with the mass of a temple column. Although light was only beginning to permeate the darkness of early morning, he could make out a skewed smile filled with broken teeth and eyes the whites of which had yellowed. Meren’s hand went to his side. Where the scabbard for his dagger should have been there was emptiness. He hadn’t brought a weapon. What madness. He always carried a dagger. That cursed nightmare must have disturbed him more than he’d thought.

Meren planted his feet solidly and said, “Go away.”

“Not before I get my hands on that pretty belt. Give it to me.”

Sighing, Meren waved the man away. “I’ve no patience with thieves. Leave before I decide you’re worth the trouble of dragging you to the city police.”

He should have realized the thief was too dim-witted to recognize authority when he encountered it. His rank protected him most of the time. Few commoners would dare speak to him, much less steal something from him. But he’d wandered into the Caverns, the disreputable area of the city near the docks, the denizens of which recognized no higher authority than the edge of a blade. If he hadn’t been thinking so hard he would have realized the danger. As it was, his new friend responded to the dismissal by drawing a knife.

“You got one last chance to do what I say. Gimme the belt.”

As he finished speaking the man waved the knife at Meren, who grabbed his arm and jammed it against his knee. The thief grunted but didn’t let go of the blade. He rammed his fist into Meren’s jaw and kneed him. The blow caught Meren in the side at the site of his healing arrow wound. He cried out as his knees buckled. He caught himself by planting his palms on the ground, but fell when his attacker rained blows on him from above. He felt a knee on his back, twisted, and grabbed the thief’s arm as the knife came at him. Staring at the tip of the blade, Meren felt his arms quiver from the effort to hold off the man’s full force.

Just when he thought his strength would give way, a dagger blade descended from nowhere and settled against the thief’s throat. The man went still, his eyes protruding while he made a high-pitched squealing sound.

“Be good enough to stop that, if you please,” said a low, easy voice.

Meren felt the thief remove his weight. He sat up as a dark figure herded the thief away from him. The man backed away from the dagger, eyeing the newcomer. Suddenly he growled and took a threatening step toward his enemy. The dagger snaked out and carved a neat X on the thief’s belly. He yelped and clutched his stomach.

“Run along now, or I’ll have to kill you, and that would be so tiresome.”

The thief staggered away from his tormentor, turned, and ran. Meren was too surprised to move. He sat down, his hands braced on the ground, and gaped as his rescuer cleaned the dagger, stuck it in a scabbard, and whirled around to offer a hand.

“Rescuing the great Lord Meren. A most edifying experience after my long absence from Egypt.”

Speechless, Meren stared at the small hand with its immaculate nails and the row of gold bracelets above it. He followed the delicate line of an arm to a curved shoulder, and finally his gaze found a smiling mouth of dusky crimson and eyes that tilted up slightly at the outside corners. His amazement grew as he took in a small-boned frame taut with disciplined musculature. His rescuer wore a gown of the finest and softest wool. Red with a blue border, it fastened over one shoulder and cinched at the waist with a belt of lapis lazuli and gold beads. There were few in Egypt who dressed in such a foreign style.

Meren felt a flush burn up his neck to his face. “By all the gods of Egypt. Anath.”

“Greetings, Meren.”

Before he could get up, Anath grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet.

To cover his embarrassment at being rescued by a woman, even this woman, Meren busied himself brushing dirt from his kilt. Then he faced her, his features composed. “Welcome back to Egypt, Eyes of Babylon.”

Anath cocked her head to the side, planted her fists on her hips, and studied him. Then she laughed.

“You should have seen yourself squirming in the dirt. You’ve grown soft lolling about here in Egypt.”