Lynda Robinson: Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing

The yellow glow from the lamp illuminated the painted murals on the walls, pictures of his family, his parents, his grandparents, and those who had gone before them. Deep in the heart of the chapel lay golden shrines housing images of Amun; of Osiris, god of Abydos; of Montu, god of war; and others. But it wasn't these Meren intended to visit. Instead, he turned to his right and went to a narrow niche in the wall.

There stood a double statue of his parents, together in death as they had been in life. The sculptor had carved them in their finest clothing, sheer linen draping their bodies. Ornate wigs covered unruly hair; gold hung from their necks, wrists, and ears. Meren whispered prayers for the dead and offered food and wine. When he was done, he stared at the images, wondering why he never felt like they heard his invocations. Yesterday before dark, he'd visited Sit-Hathor's eternal house. He always felt that his wife listened to him. He'd told her all the things he could tell no one else, and he never worried that she might disapprove. She'd always been on his side-after she'd learned to love him, that is. When they first married, Sit-Hathor had thought him a nuisance. But she'd changed her opinion, unlike his father.

In life he had rarely pleased his father, whose quick temper and demands for perfection had made Meren want to fight him rather than comply. And his mother? What he remembered most about her was her constant pleading. Do as your father says. Don't make trouble. Why must you disagree with your father?

One of his earliest memories was of playing in the garden and being called inside by his nurse, Herya. The woman was washing his face when, with sudden violence, his father burst into the room carrying his toy hippopotamus. Appearing like a giant demon from the underworld, Amosis hurled the wooden miniature to the floor. It hit with a loud crack, making Meren scream and burst into tears while Amosis railed at him for cluttering up the garden.

Of course, Meren hadn't understood what Amosis was saying. The sudden terror wiped out all else from his heart. And when his mother came to comfort him, all she said was that Father didn't like him to leave his toys lying around. Don't make trouble, don't provoke Father's temper.

What was it in his makeup that made Meren refuse to placate tyranny? Even so young, he had resented unreasonable abuse. And as the years went by, resentment grew until one day-he couldn't have been more than twelve-Meren realized that he didn't respect his parents. He resented the deference the world demanded he pay to them, disbelieved his father's glamorous reputation as a courtier, governor, and warrior. The gods had proved Meren right. The day came when Amosis's temper pitted him against a heretic pharaoh and cost him his life.

Useless to be proven right at such a cost. Meren glanced down the line of figures arrayed beside his parents until he came to one standing apart on a pedestal in the corner. Djet stood as he had in life, wide of shoulder, long, striding legs, that sad, brooding expression. After Djet had died it was Meren, not Djet's parents, who had provided for his cousin's afterlife. He'd commissioned the statue from the royal sculptor who had carved so many hauntingly beautiful images of the royal family at Horizon of Aten.

"Greetings, Djet," Meren whispered. "I've brought your favorite spice bread, and some good Delta wine. And I've come to ask you a favor. Could you intercede with the gods to make my relatives vanish? Your cursed mother and father are here, and Idut has invited your brother. You know what an ass Sennefer is, trying to mount every pretty serving woman on the manor, bragging, expecting me to play witness to his prowess."

Tearing off a piece of bread, Meren took a bite and sighed. "Fortunately Uncle Thay, Uncle Bakenkhons, and their families couldn't come. I've managed to avoid the others by taking the girls sailing two days in a row. But tonight there's a feast. That's Idut's fault. You know how she is. She ignores how everyone quarrels and just proceeds as if the family were loving and cooperative."

Taking a sip of wine from the glazed pottery cup, Meren sank to the floor and gazed up at Djet's unmoving features.

"I thought I had everything arranged. I would come home to quiet and peace. No great crowds, no danger, away from the spies at court and in the temples. Now the house is stuffed with prying relatives. I made Idut promise to get rid of them after tonight's feast, but if she doesn't, I'm going to have to send them away myself, which will get me into even more trouble. I might as well throw myself to the Devourer right now."

He stood and put the bread back on the altar in front of Djet's image. "I miss you, Djet. Ebana hates me now, you know. Why did I have to lose the two of you? Both of you were more brother to me than Ra. Of all the family, he's the only one who hasn't promised to come. He left so he wouldn't have to see me. And on top of everything, Great-Aunt Cherit says Grandmother Wa'bet has decided I should marry again." He sighed. "I think I prefer court intrigue, royal machinations, and murder. I can't think clearly when I'm surrounded by relatives."

Drawing closer to Djet, Meren lowered his voice so that it was barely audible.

"If you have any answers, send them to me in a dream." Shoulders slumped, Meren turned away. He couldn't remember how many times he'd asked Djet to answer one imperative question-why he'd killed himself. In the last few years, he'd stopped asking. What did it matter? Djet was gone.

"Stop brooding, you fool," Meren said to himself. Kysen would be here soon, and he would have to be alert. Heading for the door, Meren stepped in a patch of light coming into the chapel from one of the windows set high in the walls. Bright sunlight. How long had he been in here?

Leaving his offerings, he stepped outside into a world already bereft of what little coolness the night offered. Before him lay the entry gate, to his left, the sprawling white facade of the main house. The loggia was supported by papyriform columns, while the doorway was decorated with a frieze of red-and-green palmetto leaves.

Inside lay the family quarters, the great central hall, and his office. To either side of the house, in courts separated by gated walls, lay giant granaries, cattle pens, and a well court. To the rear were the kitchen, storage rooms, servants' quarters, and stables.

Baht wasn't so much a house as a small village. The smaller houses used by his uncles, cousins, and other relatives clustered beside the main one, just outside its walls. Already a train of donkeys bearing grain baskets was plodding through a side gate on its way to the granary court. As Meren walked back to the house, he saw the steward Kasa marching around the corner of the house on his way to the cattle pens. He was at the head of a line of assistants-his two sons, three cattle herders, and the unfortunate Nu.

Seeing the youth reminded Meren of another problem. Bener had tried to persuade him that she spent so much time with Kasa because of her interest in writing. Meren wasn't convinced. But he'd reserved judgment because he feared he'd been hasty. Perhaps he'd spent too much time steeped in intrigue and deception not to look for it where it didn't exist. Bener wasn't a deceitful girl. She wasn't a fool. He shouldn't assume she would succumb to Nu's pretty face.

He was pondering this dilemma on the front steps when the clatter of hooves signaled the approach of a chariot. Turning, he saw his cousin Sennefer clatter down the avenue toward him. Too fast.

"Sennefer, pull up!"

His cousin hauled on the reins. Meren backpedaled as a wall of horseflesh thundered down on him. A hoof pounded the stone step he'd been standing on. Meren cursed and jumped farther back. Grooms rushed down the avenue from their post beside the gate. Sennefer hopped to the ground and threw his reins at the men.