Lynda Robinson - Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing

"You're leaving!"

"You were right," he said. "I can't bring myself to question you by force. You've beaten me."

Meren turned his back on Bentanta and shouldered past the wall of charioteers. He slowed his steps as he crossed the threshold. The door closed, and he was left in the sunlight, sweating and shivering. He forced himself to walk to the shade of an acacia, where he whirled around and glowered at the door to Bentanta's cell. Long, long moments passed. He jumped as a whiplash cracked through the air. He heard a cry, a woman's cry, but it was one of fury. Then there was a slap.

"Meren! Meren, you come back here, damn you. Ser-pent's spawn! Demon's whelp! Meren? May the gods curse you if you aren't out there."

He counted to twenty before entering the cell once more. Bentanta was still standing against the wall. Her long obsidian hair hung wildly about her shoulders, and she was breathing heavily. The skirt of her shift had a slice in it from hip to thigh. Reia was beside her, gawking at her, his hand pressed against a red cheek. The whip lay discarded on the floor. Retrieving the whip, Meren glanced at Reia. The charioteer gave him an embarrassed glance, saluted, and left, herding his men before him.

Standing in a pool of lamplight, Bentanta raked him with her gaze. She gripped her upper arms, and Meren realized that if she didn't, her hands would tremble. Walking away from him, she suddenly whirled around and spat her words at him.

"Spawn of a scorpion, you were going to let them torture me."

He wasn't about to admit the truth. "I must find out who killed Sennefer and Anhai. I'm sworn to uphold Maat, the harmony and balance of the Two Lands."

"And you're officious as well. Gods, why have I tried to spare you? You don't deserve it."

"Spare me? Spare me how, Bentanta? No more quibbling, no more maneuvers. Tell me what happened with Anhai. Tell me everything, at once."

Abruptly she gave a bitter laugh. Setting her back against the wall, she lowered herself to a sitting position and drew the lamp to her. "Sit down, Meren. This will take a while, and it will be-hard."

He sat down so that the lamp was between them. She glanced around the room at the blank walls.

"No windows, only one door, an isolated building. I suppose I should thank you for providing secrecy."

"Get on with it," he said.

Bentanta was wearing a thick lock of her hair strung with gold ring beads. She reached up to it with both hands, lifted the bright strand, and began to pull something that had been inserted within the encircling beads-a tightly rolled paper. This she uncurled and smoothed, holding it at both ends. The papyrus had been folded and refolded so that there were tears along the fold lines. Its edges were ragged, but the script that covered the rectangle was dark and readable. Meren had been expecting to see something like it. Bentanta gave him the papyrus.

"Djet can tell you the truth better than I."

"Djet?" Meren began to read.

Bentanta,

You were right, as you have always been. How can I explain to you? How can we justify what we've done? You and I took comfort from each other when both of us knew we really wanted Meren. When Ay called me home to care for him, I thought he might turn to me. He did, but only as he always has, as a brother. He writes to me, begging me to come home. How can I tell him I have no home because I made the mistake of telling my parents I loved my cousin? I can't endure being near him. Living with this pain will slay my ka. I don't know how much longer I can contain this lake of fire in my soul. You say there is a child within you from our uniting. I will send a messenger from Babylon with gold for you and the babe, but I see no remedy but silence. It has ever been thus for me, condemned to silence, living amidst many and feeling alone. I'm weary, so terribly weary.

The letter ended with Djet's name. Meren stared at the script until the lines blurred. A confusion of memories came to him-of Djet helping him spear his first fish, of their first real taste of warfare, in which he'd saved Djet from a beheading by scimitar. His ka refused to reconcile the meaning of the letter with his experiences. Raising his head, he looked at Bentanta as if he'd never seen her before.

"He never told me."

"Could you have responded to him as he wished?"

Meren lowered his face to his hands, shaking his head.

"He knew that," Bentanta said. "Why burden you with remorse? He told me he felt that way since he was a boy."

"But he was famed for his exploits among the women."

"And men. But you and I know that adventures have little to do with love." Bentanta looked away. "And after that terrible time when he brought you home after Akhenaten had you tortured, he turned to me. You remember I was here visiting your aunt Cherit with Anhai."

Meren stood up suddenly. "You… and Djet. You and he came together. I don't understand this-this taking of each other as replacement for someone else. You bedded my cousin to comfort him?"

Standing, Bentanta reached out to touch his arm, but Meren jerked away as if stung and stepped out of reach. His vision filled with images of Djet and Bentanta.

"Do you think I want to speak of it?" she asked. "Gods, Meren. I was married to my husband when I was thirteen. He was much, much older. I had babes by the time I was fifteen. Babes, a household, a husband, duties, so many to care for. Women are no different than men, you know. They lust, Meren. They give their affection. I was so young still, and you were a royal charioteer."

She reached out to him, but pulled her hand back. "You don't remember that time in Horizon of Aten when we attended the king and queen at their pleasure garden.

You and your wife had quarreled, and she went into the palace. I asked you to row one of the skiffs for me so I could pick a lotus flower. No, you don't remember, because you ignored me the whole time. After Ay persuaded the king not to kill you, and he brought you to your house in the city, bleeding and wandering in your wits, I was there. I stayed with you until Djet came."

"I don't remember." He ran his fingers through his hair and paced back and forth in front of her. "I don't understand why he would kill himself just because I couldn't be what he wanted me to be. There were so many others. There was you, and-" Meren stopped and stared at a wall, then slowly turned his gaze on Bentanta. "A child. He said there was a child."

"There were two, actually. The twins."

"Your son and daughter." Meren heard his voice crack. He looked down at the papyrus in his hands, confused, shaken more than he'd been since Akhenaten's death. He sought refuge in duty; in duty lay escape from that which he couldn't understand and didn't want to know. Touching a torn corner of the letter, he said, "Anhai had this and was using it against you somehow."

"Yes. It's odd how long and loving friendship can turn to bile. As children we were close, and as women we remained friends, but one day when she was visiting me, she asked me to persuade Sennefer to give her his fortune and a divorce. I knew she could be ruthless, but I never thought she'd do something so mad. I refused, and she seemed to accept my decision. Until a few days later. She invited me to stay with them at their home in Memphis, and when I got there, she told me she had the letter. She'd found it in my chamber while I left her alone to confer with my cook on her last visit. She said she'd return it if I helped her, but if I didn't she was going to give it to you."

Meren rolled the papyrus and slipped it into his belt. "You could have told me the truth."

"You know the penalty for adultery. I have no wish to be flogged or have my ears and nose cut off."

"That wouldn't happen."

"Perhaps not, but I didn't want you to find out. You can't see yourself, Meren. You look at me as if I were some plague-ridden hound."