Lynda Robinson: Murder at the God's Gate

"He doesn't mean to offend you."

Tanefer opened his eyes and gave Meren a mock smile. "Meren, my love, my old friend. Think you he's forgotten that my mother was a princess of Mitanni?"

"Perhaps." Meren leaned against the column. "You look too much the Egyptian, my friend, and more like your royal father than the king does."

They stood together in silence while the king and his councillors argued. Meren had always felt sympathy for the princes and half princes of the kingdom. Only the sons of the great royal wife had a right to the throne, so these men were cast aside, regardless of their talent. Some, like Tanefer, preferred a warrior's life of freedom to the responsibilities of kingship. Some such as Djoser were temperamentally unsuited from birth to govern, while Rahotep and Hunefer lived lives of resentment and envy because their concubine mothers' blood cost them a throne.

In contrast, Tanefer's great passion was surrounding himself with objects of beauty. His attitude toward statues and luxurious furniture and jewelry was odd; he wanted to look at them rather than use them.

To Meren and everyone else a statue had a purpose: a gift to the gods, a repository of one's spirit, an image that enlivened one's soul for eternity. Jewelry was for adornment and for magic. Furniture was for convenience. Luxurious materials symbolized a man's status.

Tanefer wanted to look at these things as one looked at a beautiful woman. In the same way, he reveled in the artistry of the cavalry and was one of pharaoh's most accomplished charioteers. At twenty-eight, six years younger than Meren, he was rising fast in the military and had a reputation as a brilliant strategist. Meren thanked the gods for such as Tanefer, for the heretic pharaoh, Tutankhamun's dead brother Akhenaten, had left the empire weakened.

"Tanefer," Meren said, "it was not Ay who refused to come to the aid of Mitanni."

"I know, brother of my heart, but Tutankhamun can't let the destruction continue. The Hittites will eat away at the edges of the empire until we find them at our very borders."

Tanefer turned to face him, and Meren saw the uneasiness he'd concealed from the king. "Listen to me, Meren. The Hittites fight differently than we do. They use a three-man chariot that's heavier than ours. It carries two warriors instead of one and a driver. They're slower and less maneuverable, but they can destroy a line with a massed charge. With three men they can devastate us at close quarters. Meren, the Hittites might be able to-"

'Take Egypt." Meren nodded. Tanefer had confirmed what he'd been hearing from other sources. "You may be right, old friend, but they won't do it today, or tomorrow, or even next year. Akhenaten allowed the army and navy to fall to pieces. Horemheb and Nakhtmin need time to rebuild."

"But-"

Meren pushed away from the column and squeezed Tanefer's arm. "Be at ease. I've heard you, and I believe you."

"There isn't much time. Right now they're fat with victory, and complacent. If we attacked now, we might even push them out of Mitanni."

"And put you in place of the Hittite minion who rules there now?" Meren grinned at the astonishment in Tanefer's face. "Oh, don't look so worried. I but jest with you. For a man who lives on merriment and lightness, you fail to recognize another man's joke too often."

Tanefer shook his head and pointed at the king, who was listening to Ay. "I can see it already. Ay will convince him to delay. Delay and negligence lost my uncle his kingdom and cost him his life."

Meren stood beside Tanefer and gazed at the king. "And haste, dear Tanefer, could cost pharaoh his."

Unas scurried through the black streets of western Thebes, his ka lighter than it had been in two days, for he was no longer afraid. He was unsuspected; he could continue at the temple without risk. Yesterday he'd seen Lord Meren among the attendants of pharaoh and had almost spoken to him. Lucidly he'd lost his courage; the man he feared gave no sign of disturbance.

In the darkness of the hour before dawn he could barely make out the shapes of the sphinxes that lined the avenue before the temple. He walked between two of them and down the street toward the first pylon, the gate of the god. It was still early, and there was no one about.

Unas approached the colossus. It stood surrounded by scaffolding, ready to be finished. Most of it had been carved at the quarry far to the south near Aswan, but it still had to be polished. Soon master stoneworkers and their apprentices would arrive with their rubbing stones and buckets of crushed quartzite to smooth and polish what surfaces weren't to be painted and adorned with gold.

Nearing the ladder that scaled the statue to the platform surrounding its head, Unas paused as he heard a loud snore. He poked his head around the base of the sculpture. The noise was coming from the gate between the pylons. That lazy porter was asleep again. Sniffing,

Unas patted the list of tools and supplies he'd folded and stuck in the waistband of his kilt. The sentries must be pacing their route on the far side of the temple. Not that they would disturb the porter, who could sleep through the howling of fiends.

Unas, on the other hand, always woke early, a habit mat benefited him this morning. Last night the master sculptor had sent a boy with a message asking that they meet early to go over the day's work plan. He grasped the ladder and began climbing.

Halfway up, he paused and glanced around. He could see lights in houses now, and far off a donkey brayed. He continued up the ladder, smiling. Being the first to arrive and the last to leave afforded him much pleasure, for his industrious habits had attracted the attention of the prophets of the god. In their hands lay all opportunities for advancement.

His head reached the floor of the top scaffolding. He grasped the ends of the ladder and put a foot on the floor. Pharaoh's granite eyes, as large as Unas's head, stared at him.

As he hoisted himself onto the scaffolding, he heard the creak of wood. Something white dashed at him as he straightened up with his feet planted on the edge of the platform. Unas's mouth fell open, but the man who leaped from behind the giant head of the colossus was too fast for him.

Unas screamed, flailed his arms, and plummeted. He felt one last jolt of pain, and then nothing.

The man on the scaffolding peered over the edge at the body below. Then he surveyed the area around the statue, keeping his head cocked in the direction of the god's gate and the porter. A loud sucking noise floated toward him, signaling continued slumber, and he quickly climbed down. He stood over the body for a moment before turning and melting into the darkness beneath the high wall that surrounded the temple. What was left of Unas lay undisturbed except for visits from flies.

As light appeared behind the eastern temples of the sacred precinct, several priests walked down the avenue to the pylon. They didn't glance at the base of the statue, and in any case the body lay on the far side, away from the gate. The priests roused the porter, scolded him, and went into the temple.

Not long afterward, a group of men arrived at the quay in a skiff. Disembarking, they shouldered baskets and sacks and headed for the pylon. As they approached, talking and laughing, they veered aside and directed their steps toward the colossus.

They passed granite feet larger than two men, rounded the corner of the base on which they stood, and came to an abrupt stop. Silence enveloped the group, broken by the buzzing of flies. Then they all chattered at once.

"It's that priest, Unas."

"What happened? Did he fall?"

"Look at his head. His meat has spattered all over the flagstones."

"He must have lost his footing."