Lynda Robinson: Murder at the God's Gate

The oldest man, whose skin was cracked, split, and scarred from years of working with stone in the sun, raised his voice for the first time. "Quiet, all of you!"

He walked over to the body and stared at it while the others kept their distance. In his years as master stone sculptor, Seneb had seen many wonders-the colossi of Amunhotep the Magnificent's funerary temple, the arrival of the Mitanni princess Gilukhepa and her hundreds of waiting women at the court of Thebes, even water turned to cold clouds of white snow in mountain-tops far to the north. Never had he seen a dead priest at the base of a statue.

He looked from the body, up the ladder to the platform that surrounded the neck of the statue. He rubbed his chin, then dropped the basket he was carrying. Old Unas had been a scribe, and scribes could stumble over their own toes.

"I'm going to see the priests. All of you stay here and let no one touch the body."

"But, Seneb-"

"Stay here, I said."

Seneb broke into a trot. He went to the gate and confronted the porter, who was leaning against a stone wall, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It took him several attempts to make the man understand, but eventually he was allowed inside and encountered a servant sweeping flagstones.

The servant conducted him to a pure one, who handed him over to his chief, who listened to Seneb's report without comment. Then he was left standing under a papyrus column while the priest vanished into the black inner temple. After a while the man reappeared, trailing behind a tall priest in a luxurious wig and gold headband.

He moved with slim, almost fragile grace. His bones were thin, giving him a deerlike aspect. The gauntness of his face and its length reminded Seneb of the old heretic Akhenaten. The sheer quality of the linen he wore along with the gold scarab pectoral at his breast put Seneb at ease. Here was a priest of rank. This man wouldn't pass off responsibility, and he'd know what to do.

"I am Qenamun, chief overseer of the god's treasury and lector priest of Amun. You've found one of our pure ones?"

"Aye, master. It's the priest who was working with us on the statue of the living god. Unas was his name. He's fallen from the scaffolding."

"Fallen? Are you sure? Amun protect us. Conduct me to him at once."

Seneb discovered that "at once," to a lector priest, meant a stately progress out of the temple, with care taken not to get dust on his priestly overrobe and fine sandals.

The group of artisans around the body parted so that he and Qenamun could see. As moments passed, more and more laborers, priests, and visitors to the temple clustered nearby, muttering among themselves. Seneb watched the lector priest survey the body.

It was obvious to him that Qenamun was one of those whose priestly station was inherited through a noble family. His bearing and his dress spoke of privilege. His elaborate wig, worn over a shaved head, had its braids bound by hundreds of bronze rings. His parched-looking skin had been oiled. No doubt it soaked up moisture like the desert floor.

Seneb was about to explain how they'd found the dead man when Qenamun stooped over the body and began to make magical signs. The artisans backed farther away as a group. Seneb, conscious of his station as their leader, only retreated half the distance of the others.

Qenamun turned away from the body and addressed him. "This is a most unfortunate accident. You said he must have slipped and fallen from the top of the ladder?"

"Yes, lector priest."

"Very well. You and your men will remain here on guard. He's one of those under my command. I'll send servants to remove him to his house."

"Yes, lector priest. And then I must report to the office of the treasurer, Prince Maya."

He cringed inwardly when, without warning, the priest rained white coals of fury on him.

"By the gods, you will not!" Qenamun's voice hissed and spat venom. "Insolent lowling, this is a matter for the servants of Amun, not a breaker of stones. You'll do as I command and nothing more, or I'll see you condemned to the stone quarries in the eastern desert."

Qenamun turned on his heel and left Seneb standing in an empty space between the body and his fellow artisans. His gut squeezed and did a few somersaults before he regained his composure. He glanced over his shoulder to find everyone staring at him. He glared at them.

"What are you looking at, dung-eaters?"

He ordered them to form a cordon around the body and took his place with them, facing away from the dead man. Several curious boys on their way to the school in the temple tried to shove between their legs, thus offering him an opportunity to swear and shout at someone. As minutes passed and no one came to take the body away, Seneb had time to think.

He was a royal artisan, answerable to his overseer in the royal workshops, who was answerable to another superior, who eventually was answerable to Prince Maya, chief of the treasury and Friend of the King. To whom did he owe allegiance, Maya or that scorpion of a priest Qenamun?

He turned to his son, who was also his apprentice, and spoke quietly. "Djefi, you will go back to the royal workshops at once and report this matter to the overseer of stonemasons. Say to him that I've done this in spite of being forbidden by the lector priest. See to it that he understands none of us are to blame, but that we must report anything that happens regarding the image of the living god, may he have life, health, and strength. Can you remember to say that?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then go now, before the priests come back. Hurry!" He followed his son's progress until he disappeared into the crowd. Curse all priests. Why did this one have to die on Seneb's statue and call down upon his head the notice of great ones? He knew from experience that their attention was as the attention of hornets, and much more dangerous.

Meren rose from his stool and began to stretch his arms and legs as he listened to the treasurer's objections to the king leading an army into Syria himself. Since they'd first discussed the prospect, Maya had become more and more worried that pharaoh would get himself killed in battle. He wanted no part in urging the king to take such a risk.

The councillors had broken from their meeting after more than four hours of debate. The king had led them outside to the reflection pool. Whenever he could, Tutankhamun sought the outdoors. Having three daughters and an adopted son, Meren understood the king's restlessness. No youth forced to spend hours dealing with matters of finance, law, and diplomacy could be blamed for longing for physical release.

He moved closer to a servant who plied an ostrich feather fan in his and Maya's direction. Thrusting out his arm, he pressed it across his body with the opposite hand in a stretch while he gazed across the pool over blue and pink lotus flowers. Under a baldachin that shaded him from the sun, the king was listening to Ay. Even from this distance Meren could tell that Tutankhamun was growing angrier.

In the council meeting a division had emerged between the king's advisers. General Horemheb and Prince Tanefer favored a military campaign against the rebellious vassals of Syria and Palestine. Everyone agreed one was necessary. But the king wanted to lead the army himself, and Horemheb and Tanefer concurred. After years of neglect on the part of the heretic Akhenaten, the army needed training, and it needed a warrior pharaoh at its head. Ay and Maya understood this, but both kept repeating one refrain-the king was too young.

Meren bent over and touched the ground with his fingertips. He straightened when he heard the king's voice carried over the water.

"I'm not too young, old man. And whatever my years, I'm still pharaoh, and I'll do as my majesty pleases!"

Tutankhamun burst out of his gilt chair. It flew to the side and hit a table that bore an electrum flagon and goblets, sending everything crashing to the tiles that bordered the pool. Ay dodged a rolling goblet as the king stormed away from him. The vizier watched his charge stalk back into the palace, then glanced at Meren.