Lynda Robinson: Murder at the God's Gate

"A messenger came not an hour ago," Horemheb was saying. "Rahotep is chasing the renegades north. Those he doesn't kill will flee into Palestine."

Meren nodded wearily. He hadn't slept well since he'd discovered Tanefer's betrayal. He would never understand how his friend could have plotted to kill Tutankhamun, but deep in his ka, he had some understanding of how one so brilliant could lose control after years and years of enduring the damaging rule of an unfit king.

Meren himself failed to divine the purpose of the gods in inflicting Akhenaten upon Egypt and then allowing the middle brother to die untimely so that

Tutankhamun came to the throne too young. A plague of misfortunes had driven everyone to desperation until Akhenaten died, but Tanefer had suffered more than most. His mother's country had endured far more at the hands of the Hittites than Egypt had at the hands of its heretic pharaoh. And Tanefer had witnessed the destruction.

How much of his rebellion had been impelled by the desire to spare Egypt from a like fate, and how much had been simple greed for power? He would never know. And the pain of losing so close and beloved a friend remained with him, an interminable affliction.

Horemheb had finished his summary, and Ay rose and leaned on his walking stick as he talked. Meren listened without comment. He had already reported to pharaoh the night his friend died, giving him the entire story of the deaths of Unas, Qenamun, Ahiram, and Tanefer. He'd given the report without comment, his spirit so weighed down with grief that he had little attention to give to his estrangement from the king.

He'd been honest about his suspicion of the priests of Amun, for the king's view was the same. The offer of the truce was discussed. Then he'd left. Nothing was said by pharaoh regarding their personal difficulty. During the days that had passed since then, Tutankhamun had consulted Ay and Horemheb in his effort to reach some decision. He hadn't sent for Meren at all.

Ay's wrinkled hand descended to his shoulder. "You aren't listening, Meren."

"Forgive me," he said. "You were talking about moving the royal tombs from Horizon of Aten."

"I know Akhenaten decreed that his house of eternity never be moved, but we can no longer abide by his wishes."

"Yes, yes." Meren heard the impatience in his own voice, but sometimes Ay could be so circuitous.

"Now that the body has been restored," Ay said, "it's time to move all the family burials to a place of concealment."

Meren stared at the vizier. There had been little of Akhenaten left to restore. Whatever had been effected had been done to assuage Tutankhamun's troubled ka more than for any other purpose.

"We must choose a place, perhaps Abydos or Memphis," Ay said.

"Then get on with it," Meren snapped. "Put them in a simple, unmarked tomb in the Valley of the Kings. It's the most guarded place in Egypt, and it's the only place where they have a chance of remaining undisturbed. Here, where pharaoh's power can protect them."

"And right under the noses of the priests of Amun," Horemheb said with a chortle. He had been in riotous spirits since he'd been absolved of evil by Meren.

"Put no mortuary temple above to mark the site," Meren continued. "Move them and be done with it."

Ay's walking stick tapped the floor tiles as he strode toward Meren. "Your temper grows worse each day, boy. What makes you so hot-bellied?"

'Treasons and plots may be like meat to you, but I find them unpalatable."

His scar began to itch. It always did when he was thinking about Akhenaten's death. He'd stopped counting the times he'd cringed at the hypocrisy of his position. He had hunted and killed Tanefer when, not many years ago, he had ignored hints of a similar plot against Akhenaten that had led to the king's death. He had saved one king, but allowed another to die. Oh, he doubted he could have stopped Ay. Should he have tried, at the cost of more lives and the continued rule of a madman?

"I know you had great affection for Tanefer," Ay was saying. "We all did. You didn't want to kill him, young one, but he would have killed you if you'd hesitated."

A door swung open to reveal the overseer of the audience hall. Meren watched him without interest as he entered, stopped to arrange the complicated folds of his robes, and pounded the floor with his walking stick.

"The living Horus, Strong Bull arisen in Thebes, rich in splendor, the Golden Horus who conquers all lands by his might, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun saith thus: "The Lord Meren will attend my majesty. He is to come alone'."

Meren glanced at Ay. The vizier leaned on his walking stick, his back so bent by age that he resembled a lurking vulture.

"Go on, boy. It's time you two talked."

Sighing, Meren worked his sore shoulder. He was wearing an Eye of Horus amulet to guard his health. Nebamun had insisted upon it, and he couldn't have worn a broad collar over the wound anyway.

The overseer of the audience hall was leaving. Meren followed, gripping the amulet. It was suspended from a heavy gold chain. Long ago, the god Horus lost an eye in combat with the evil Set over the murder of his father Osiris. Toth, god of magic, retrieved the eye and healed it. Later Horus gave the eye to Osiris to eat in order to restore him to life. Meren wondered if the amulet could work its magic and restore to health his relationship with pharaoh.

Tutankhamun received him in the audience chamber reserved for formal events. Two Nubians of the royal bodyguard swung open golden doors, and the overseer paced slowly into the room between high columns. Meren followed him, his pace equally slow, and as he walked, he grew cold. Pharaoh was seated on his throne on a raised dais wearing the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt, his body draped in gold, in his hands the crook and flail symbolizing his rule over the Two Lands. They would never reconcile if Tutankhamun continued to hide behind that aloof royal demeanor he'd learned to wear so well.

The overseer announced him and retreated. Meren sank to the floor before pharaoh and bent his head. If pharaoh wished formality, he would give it to him.

"Rise, Lord Meren."

As he stood, Meren heard the overseer return. He never liked noises at his back, but before he could glance over his shoulder, pharaoh beckoned to him. He mounted the dais and took up a stance slightly behind and to the right of the throne. Between the rows of columns the overseer preceded his cousin, who led a procession of priests bearing ornate boxes and caskets of gold, ebony, cedar, and ivory. Ebana was as ornate as his offerings in his court dress. A heavy necklace of malachite rested on his shoulders, while a long wig gleamed black against the shining green stones.

Meren watched priest after priest place his burden before the dais. He couldn't stop one corner of his mouth from curling as he realized how worried Parenefer must be to try to bribe pharaoh. Ebana caught his eye, and he pulled his mouth into a straight line. He shouldn't gloat. After all, Ebana had saved his life.

The overseer began to intone the phrases of formal address to pharaoh. Then Ebana spoke.

"The good god Amun has heard the prayers of his living son, the divine bull, the golden Horus. His care for his son knows no boundaries."

Ebana began to open the boxes. Inside lay stacks of ingots, gold ingots. The priests were still coming, and soon the floor was covered with boxes filled with gold, silver, and electrum. Meren stopped counting when he reached fifty. He cast a sideways glance at Tutankhamun, but the boy appeared to be taking this flood of riches with composure. Of course, much of Amun's wealth originally derived from royal generosity. No doubt pharaoh had seen greater riches on his visits to the royal treasury with Maya.