Lynda Robinson - Murder at the God's Gate

"And such a message," Kysen said, "it was unsurprising?"

Ipwet was beginning to look at him with curiosity.

"The request was unexpected, but not unusual. Is aught wrong, lord?"

Kysen shook his head. Seneb hadn't mentioned sending for Unas, and he was convinced that the sculptor would have done so if he'd been the one to request an early meeting. He would have to question the man again.

"There is nothing wrong. May the good god Amun comfort you in your grief, mistress."

At his words Ipwet's lips trembled, and fresh tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

"I thank you, lord. My husband was not a great man, nor was he-comely-but his soul was gentle, and he took humble pleasure in doing good work."

Kysen watched her large eyes narrow in a wince. In that moment he understood that Unas's wife was suffering, but she was suffering much more from guilt than from grief. He withdrew from the kitchen, found Abu, and left.

"Send for the master sculptor Seneb," he said as they walked away from Unas's house. "Unas received a message given by a boy that is supposed to have come from Seneb requesting an early meeting."

"You think the message was false?"

"Seneb said nothing of the message to me when I talked with him, but he could have been avoiding trouble. I know what it's like not to want the attention of the great. If the message is false, this death may be more than an accident."

"Which means…" Abu paused while he avoided a group of women balancing tall water jars on their heads. "Which means we begin to look for someone who knew Unas's habits, who knew that the porter neglected his watch for sleep, who knew the route of the temple sentries and when the artisans would arrive for work."

"A priest," Abu said. "Or the wife of a priest, or a friend. Unfortunately, there are countless possibilities when dealing with a murder that has occurred at so well-traveled a place as the god's gate."

The king had retreated from the blast of the afternoon sun to an audience chamber. For this Meren was thankful, but he would rather have remained by the reflection pool than endure this bickering among pharaoh's advisors. Tutankhamun had summoned support for his side of the argument, so now several of the younger men were gesticulating in front of a weary Ay. Meren's gaze traveled from the short and wiry Ahiram of Byblos to Tanefer, Djoser, and Rahotep.

His concern mingled with that for Kysen. Something was wrong at the temple of Amun, something that had so disturbed Ebana that he'd brought the matter to court. Now Kysen was in the midst of inquiries that would pit him against Ebana and possibly Parenefer.

Far more powerful men than Ky had lost their lives in such struggles. There had been sudden deaths by poisoning, purported accidents that cut a life short, unexpected scandals that ruined reputations. The reach of the temple of Amun was high and deadly.

Djoser rose abruptly from his kneeling position beside the king, distracting Meren from his worries. The king's brow furrowed as he directed his stare at Djoser. Meren could see that he was confused by Djoser's lack of zeal for battle. Raised in the tradition of warrior pharaohs, Tutankhamun hadn't the experience to under-stand a man who preferred tranquility and the rhythmic cycles of the farmer to the glory of court and battle.

Meren sighed and rubbed the sun-disk scar on his inner wrist. He caught himself and shoved a thick warrior's bracelet down over the wound. He bore much of the blame for the king's headstrong desire for conquest. Knowing how great was the Hittite threat, how easily barbarians could invade Egypt and prevail over a people so used to peace and good living, he had taken care to train the king for battle.

The king's father, Amunhotep the Magnificent, had built great temples and ruled by divisive manipulation of allies and enemies alike. Thanks to his neglect and that of Tutankhamun's older brother, however, such tactics would no longer suffice. The time for war was coming.

So now he was faced with a young stallion kicking at the stable door, who threatened to injure himself in his efforts to gain freedom. Meren rubbed his chin and stared down at the plastered floor. He stood in the middle of a painting of a reflection pool. A yellow-and-blue fish goggled at him from between reeds of deep green.

His attention snapped back to the group surrounding the king. Ahiram of Byblos and Prince Rahotep were arguing-again. No matter the issue, they were never on the same side. Ahiram had made a point for the war side, which Rahotep immediately rebutted.

Ahiram balanced on the balls of his feet. He was a small man, but powerful of build. He wore his curly hair longer than Egyptians did and cultivated a pointed beard that grew at the tip of his chin. Meren had always thought it gave him a goatish appearance, but had spared Ahiram his opinion.

Not so Rahotep, who criticized anyone except pharaoh with the brutal honesty of a child of four. No matter who was offended, Rahotep would offer his views.

Perhaps Rahotep disliked Ahiram because of their similarities. Both felt the sting of imagined insignificance, Rahotep because of his peasant mother, Ahiram because of his foreign birth and lost throne. With natures based on such weak foundations, neither man seemed capable of reaching peace of the ka.

A warning trumpet blew in Meren's head when Rahotep suddenly jumped to his feet. Ahiram stuck his thumbs in the belt of his kilt. His bearded chin jutted forward so that the tip pointed at his adversary.

"Such maidenly aversions cost my father his life, and me a throne."

Rahotep narrowed his eyes and sneered at Ahiram's beard, the essence of civilized Egyptian disdain. "Watch your tongue, barbarian. My ancestors were exacting tribute from your kind while your family was still raising goats in the wastelands of Syria." He made a point of staring at the beard as he said goat.

Meren edged closer to the group as an abrupt silence fell. Even the king stiffened and dropped his hand to a ceremonial blade in his belt. The air crackled with the threat of bloodshed.

"You well know Byblos is an ally. Speak not of tribute when you mean trade, fool."

Meren darted a glance at the king's chief Nubian bodyguard, but Karoya was already moving to Tutankhamun's side. At the appearance of the towering warrior, Ahiram broke off glaring at Rahotep. Danger ebbed from the moment, and Meren glided between the two men.

"All of us are weary from a long morning of duties, and the divine one still must receive merchant emissaries from the Mycenaeans and the Libyans."

"As always, Meren plays the arbiter," Prince Tanefer said as he smoothly drew Ahiram away from Rahotep.

"It's possible we won't have any peace until we drive the Hittites back into their forsaken mountains and take their children as hostages the way Ahiram was taken Rahotep said, almost earning a kick from Meren.

"My father sent me to Egypt willingly for training. I was never a hostage!"

Ahiram lurched out of Tanefer's grip. His hands fastened around Rahotep's neck. Meren shouldered Djoser aside, grabbed one of Ahiram's fingers, and bent backward. Ahiram yelped, his hold broken, and Meren changed his grip so that he could bend the man's arm backward and pinch flesh and tendons against bones. The whole movement lasted less than a heart's beat, and then Meren stepped back and smiled lazily at Ahiram.

"Govern yourself in the presence of the golden one," he said. "You know better, my friend. It's not like you to chance rousing Karoya." Meren jerked his head in the direction of the royal bodyguard.

Ahiram's head swiveled around in the same direction. Karoya had drawn a knife. He'd cocked his arm back, the blade gripped in his fingers, aiming at Ahiram. The foreign prince flushed and raised his empty arms away from his body in a gesture of compliance.