Lynda Robinson: Eater of souls

"Mugallu, prince and emissary of the king of the Hittites prostrates himself and begs to come into the presence of the living Horus: Strong Bull, Arisen in truth, Gold-Horus: Great of strength, Smiter of Asiatics, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, Son of Ra, Lord of Thebes, beloved of Amun-Ra."

The elderly Ay left Meren's side to stand before the throne. He would speak to the Hittite prince, for pharaoh never deigned to engage in personal speech with mere emissaries, even if they were princes. Trumpets blared, and the towering double doors, each encased in gold, swung open. Mugallu strode quickly into the hall. His clothing gleamed strangely, and Meren swore under his breath. The emissary was wearing Hittite silver.

From head to foot, the man was wearing the white metal that rivaled gold in its beauty, the metal that, unlike gold, pharaoh did not control. It was a reminder of the richness of the Hittite mountain kingdom. A deliberate challenge it was, for much of pharaoh's vast power stemmed from control of Egyptian and Nubian gold. The emissary's kilt was embroidered with roundels in the shape of lions' heads, his cloak with lozenge-shaped plaques in the same design. Even his boots with their curled-up toes reflected silver. Two thick coils of hair on either side of his face hung past his shoulders. The rest of his long, wavy hair was kept back from his face by an engraved silver diadem.

Meren edged nearer the throne and cast a covert glance at pharaoh. The king understood this challenge. Unfortunately, he had allowed it to annoy him. Those large, solemn eyes narrowed. He clenched his scepters, the crook and the flail, until his knuckles turned white. Meren covered his mouth and coughed. Pharaoh's gaze slid to him, then snapped back to the Hittite, who was receiving the formal greeting from Ay.

During this ceremony, Mugallu waited with an uninterested expression on his face. He was a young man, a warrior of the Hittite court and a relative of King Suppiluliumas. Like most Hittites, he was stocky, like a zebra, and bore a pyramid of a nose that jutted out from his face with an aggression that mirrored the character of his people.

Meren remembered Mugallu from other visits; his most common facial expression was a sneer, and unlike pharaoh's subjects or his vassals, he didn't hold Tutankhamun in reverence as a living god. To Mugallu, pharaoh was another prince like himself, and he stood in the way of Hittite ambitions of conquest. Of all the peoples of the world, only a Hittite would dare approach pharaoh so insolently.

Ay was concluding his speech. "The emissary may kiss the foot of the Lord of the Two Lands, the living god, son of Amun, the golden one, the divine Nebkheprure Tutankhamun."

Mugallu swaggered forward, his gaze fixed on the young king rather than on the floor, as that of any mannered ambassador would have been. He almost bounced up the stairs of the dais, over the inlaid figures of the bound and subjugated enemies of Egypt that decorated the platform. When he reached the king, he dropped quickly to his knees, bent his head over pharaoh's golden sandal, and straightened almost immediately. Backing down the stairs, bowing slightly, he returned to his place. Pharaoh barely nodded, granting permission for the ceremony to proceed, his expression blank.

Mugallu clapped his hands once. A slave hurried forward, bearing an object covered with a cloth. The slave knelt on the floor before pharaoh, proffering the gift with his head bent. Mugallu removed the cloth. A stir moved through the throng of courtiers and ministers that filled the hall. Lying on the cushion was a king's dagger with a gold hilt engraved with roaring lions, bulls, and stags. But it wasn't the gold that provoked awe; it was the blade, made of iron, the metal that could sever bronze. Egyptians called it metal of heaven.

All royal murders and dangers of intrigue fled Meren's thoughts as he gazed at the dagger. He looked at Mugallu, whose expression was mockingly humble as he bowed to pharaoh. Was the Hittite king issuing another challenge? Or did he merely want his rival to fear that he'd discovered the secrets of working the metal in large amounts and could now outfit his entire army? Meren felt General Horemheb move. He followed as the military man joined Ay in staring at the Hittite prince.

"O great king, ruler of Egypt," Mugallu said, his voice echoing in the empty heights of the throne room. "Thus speaks tabarna Suppiluliumas, the great king, king of Hatti, son of Tadhaliyas, great king of Hatti, son of Armuwandas, descendant of Hattusilis, king of Kussara."

The emissary lifted his arms. He assumed an aggrieved expression, which sat ill with his pugnacious features, especially the eagle's-beak nose. "Why does the king, my brother, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, accuse me of destroying his vassals? Are not his friends my friends, and his enemies my enemies? Someone has spoken falsely to the king my brother, for my heart is pure, my deeds clean of evil."

Mugallu lowered his arms and took a step toward Tutankhamun. He smiled at pharaoh as if he were a naughty but amusing puppy. A murmur rose up from the officials behind Ay, but Meren kept his gaze on the king. Tutankhamun's blank expression had vanished. His large dark eyes could look bruised and filled with the grief of the world, but now they ignited with the flames of the lakes of fire in the netherworld. Meren quickly stepped to Ay's side, caught the older man's gaze, and looked up at pharaoh.

"Do something," Meren whispered.

Ay muttered, "You know I can't."

Having failed to gain a response from his royal victim, Mugallu resumed his speech. "Thus says the tabarna Suppiluliumas, the great king, king of Hatti. The king, my brother, is young, like a colt among stallions in the treacherous, snow-shrouded mountains. Let not my brother lend his ear to evil-sayers." Mugallu paused to swagger to the front right corner of the dais, near Karoya, where he put his fists on his hips and continued.

"Thus says the king of Hatti. Never do I attack a prince in his city without just cause. In Syria certain carrion-eaters have given refuge to Hittite traitors and refused to send them back to me. I have a right to pursue traitors and those who harbor them. But such small doings need not concern my younger brother. For as men love the sun and a green mountain valley, so I love my brother. Whosoever has mouthed words of evil into thy majesty's ear, let him be cast out of thy presence, forced into the desert to die. Let him be carrion to hyenas-"

There was a sudden movement on the dais. Mugallu stopped in midsentence, his mouth open, as the youth he'd been addressing thrust himself up from the throne. At the same time, a wave of movement traveled over the vast audience hall. Karoya and his royal bodyguards took one step forward and banged their gold-tipped spears on the floor with a crack that made Mugallu jump and stare at those around him. Minister, princes, foreign ambassadors, and nobles dropped to their knees, foreheads touching the floor.

As Meren sank to the ground, he turned his head to the side to glimpse the king. Tutankhamun was breathing hard and glaring at Mugallu. With jerking movements he thrust out the gold-and-lapis flail scepter and pointed at the gaping emissary.

"You dare address my majesty as a master chastises an apprentice?" Although he was only fourteen, pharaoh's voice boomed with the force of royal indignation. "My majesty knows from whence comes the evil and treachery that plague my empire to the north."

Meren held his breath, afraid that the king would reveal exactly how he knew the source of treachery.

"The king of Hatti, my brother, is ill served by so insolent an emissary."

Meren let out his breath.

Tutankhamun lowered his arm. Thick gold bracelets jangled when he jabbed at Mugallu again, putting a gold-sandaled foot forward. "My majesty may be young, but I am the living god, lord of Egypt, son of Amunhotep the Magnificent, descendant of Thutmose the Conqueror. My majesty's ancestors ruled this empire when yours were herding goats in your precious mountains. I will hear no more bleating of colts and carrion.