Lynda Robinson: Murder at the God's Gate

Although he and his god had been restored to their former prominence, the high priest's ka had been warped. He couldn't forget the deaths of his friends and his humiliation at the hands of Akhenaten, nor could he forgive Tutankhamun for being the brother of the heretic. Meren and Horemheb trusted the Hittite ambassador more than they trusted Parenefer.

Horemheb spoke, barely moving his lips. "See. I told you it was worth the wait."

The high priest craned back his head and studied the face of the colossus, noted the straight, small nose and flared nostrils, the full, sensual lips and slightly rounded cheeks of youth. Parenefer's lips pressed together in a tight seam. He turned vermilion, and his cheeks puffed out so that he resembled an elderly, indignant frog. He turned away.

"Well worth it," Meren said softly.

Hearing the commander of the royal guard snap an order, he hurried to take his place behind the king as Horemheb went to the quay where the royal barge was moored. Meren fell in step with Maya, chief of the treasury. As they paused to allow the king to speak to several commoners, Meren glanced over his shoulder at the swarm of workmen around the colossus.

He found himself meeting the direct stare of a priest. His gaze traveled over hollow shoulders, wide hips, noted the way the man's oversize ears stood out from his head like slices of dried melon. Narrowing his eyes, he felt a stab of familiarity. There was something about the man. Perhaps it was the way his shaved skull came to a point; perhaps it was only the fear in his eyes.

Meren was used to seeing fear in those who met his eyes. Then the priest opened his mouth and took a step. He stopped abruptly, looked to the side, and started. Without looking at Meren again, he plunged into the midst of the gang of workmen, artisans, and architects at the base of the statue.

Meren searched in the direction the priest had looked, but found only more priests and a few courtiers. Whatever or whoever had startled the man was unremarkable in appearance.

Maya put a hand on his arm. "Meren, the king."

The king's chamberlain was beckoning to him. He crossed the ramp to the royal barge and knelt before Tutankhamun.

"You may rise before my majesty."

Meren stood and met the barely suppressed amusement of a king who, after all, was barely fourteen. He frowned as openly as he dared in response, and the amusement slid from the boy's face. A mask of dignity and graciousness descended upon the king's features, and he turned to accept the farewells of the high priest and chief prophets of the god. Meren allowed himself a silent sigh. Tutankhamun had already challenged the power of the priests once today. It wouldn't do to arouse them any further.

As the barge moved away from the quay, Meren stood beside the king, his head bent to catch the low pitch of Tutankhamun's voice.

"Did you see him?" the king asked. "Did you see how red he turned when he realized how great was the size of my image?"

Meren risked a sidelong glance at the king. Tutankhamun was maintaining a regal demeanor. He stared straight ahead at the west bank, away from the eastern city and its countless temples.

"Aye, majesty. Thy image is indeed that of a living god."

Tutankhamun lifted a brow and met Meren's bland gaze.

"It was your idea too," the king said. "So don't pretend you don't enjoy his discomfort."

"But our joy must be a silent one, majesty."

The king sighed and turned to take a last look at the monumental image of himself. Meren looked at it as well, then squinted. A priest had climbed onto the base of the statue and was facing them, staring at the royal barge as it retreated from the sacred precinct. Meren closed his eyes as the glare of the rising sun assaulted them, then opened them again.

The priest was still there, unmoving, and Meren could have sworn he was the same man whose fear had so impressed him only a few moments ago. There was something unsettling about that solitary figure. No doubt it was the contrast between the priest and that mountain of a statue; he did look rather like a beetle next to an elephant.

The king spoke to Meren, and he forgot the priest. When next he looked, the little figure had disappeared from the statue base, and he thought no more about him.

Back at the palace the king vanished into the royal chambers to divest himself of his crowns. Meren and several councillors remained in one of the smaller audience chambers. Light filtered through the high rectangular windows and illuminated the fluid scenes of the king hunting in the marshes that bordered the Nile. The deep blue of the river was re-created by the glazed floor tiles. Meren preferred this room to the great audience chamber with its vastness, its loftier columns, and its air of chilly sanctity.

He took a goblet of wine from a servant as Maya joined him. The treasurer was a favorite with Meren, for he was more interested in the efficiency of those who served under him than in his own advancement. From a family of ancient nobility, Maya felt he had little to gain in scrambling after more power. He had enough, and devoted his attention to meddling in the personal lives of those about him-for their own benefit, of course.

Having little patience with those who viewed life as a series of battles, Maya preferred enjoyments. He liked fastidious workers who saved him trouble. He liked music and feasting, acrobats and good stories. Meren felt he gave a much-needed lightness of spirit to pharaoh, who was surrounded by men of gravity and bore overwhelming responsibility of which he was too well aware.

Now Maya was nodding in the direction of Ay, who was engaged in a quiet quarrel with Horemheb.

"What's happened, Falcon?" Maya whispered. He'd given the name to Meren years ago, observing that his friend's intelligence was as quick as the falcon's flight. "This sudden audience was your idea, wasn't it?"

It was, but Meren wasn't going to admit it. He'd had too many disturbing reports of unrest in the fallen kingdom of Mitanni on the northern Euphrates and among the vassal states and allies of the empire that stood between Syria and the borders of Egypt. Everyone knew the Hittites were behind the turmoil.

When Meren didn't answer, Maya nodded at Horemheb. "He wants to campaign in Palestine and Syria after the next harvest."

Meren took a sip of his wine. "That's not what they disagree about."

"Oh? What is it, then? Because we have to do something about the Hittites."

"Indeed, but Ay doesn't think the king should go on the campaign."

"Too young yet?"

Meren inclined his head.

Maya, whose easy temperament and skills at organization had endeared him to the king and the vizier, turned toward Meren and frowned. "And what do you say? You've trained him."

"No boy of his age, however godlike, can master a warrior's skills in so short a time. Perhaps in another year. Until then…"

"And our beleaguered Horemheb says the empire can't wait that long."

"He could be right."

"Then one of the other princes can provide a royal presence."

Meren shook his head. "You know it's not the same for the troops."

He took another sip of wine and surveyed the audience chamber. Huy, who served as one of the viceroys of Nubia-those lands to the south over which Egypt maintained dominance-stood talking with the Nubian prince Khai, who also helped govern the south. Nakhtmin, general and royal scribe, had joined in the discussion with Ay and Horemheb.

He was surprised to see Ahiram, a foreign prince, in attendance. Ahiram was the son of Rib-Addi, the king of Byblos, one of the ally princes whom Akhenaten had failed to support against insurrection. Rib-Addi had succumbed to the depredations of rebels incited by the Hittite king Suppiluliumas. Poor Ahiram had been sent to the Egyptian court to be educated, only to find himself fatherless and without a city or a throne to which he could return. Perhaps Ay had requested Ahiram's presence, since the foreign prince was familiar with the country around Byblos and Tyre.