Then the images became feelings—that brief space between the moment when the brand met his flesh and that first searing agony; the pain shooting up his arm, into his heart; his scream; the feeling of distance, of floating away from his body, even as he broke out in icy sweat.
Then, at last, the nausea that slammed him back into his body and kept him there to endure the pain.
Cursing aloud, Meren pounded his first harder against the tub. The memories of pain faded, but not the misery of humiliation. The sun disk scar began to itch again. Meren glanced down at his wrist, smoothed his fingers over the pale circle that formed the sun, rubbed the rays that marked him as a victim of the heretic. Then he replaced the bracelet.
He should never have taken it off, never touched the scar. The burden of the truth about Nefertiti's death had disturbed memories of that terrible time in his life, memories he'd tried to seal in a deep stone chamber within his ka. But he shouldn't lie to himself. It wasn't just the dangerous secret of Nefertiti's death that robbed him of sleep and heart's peace. It was that other, even more momentous death, the one for which he was responsible. How did one justify allowing a living god, a pharaoh, to be killed?
He had suspected that Ay and his allies were going to end Akhenaten's life. Years of attempts to curb the king's excesses had failed, and Ay had no longer been willing to watch Egypt suffer. This Meren had known, and still he'd let Ay send him away to the Libyan border. When he got back, the heretic was dead, supposedly of the same plague that had taken his queen. And now, every time Meren tracked down a criminal, every time he sat in judgment of a thief, revealed the treachery of a courtier or the guilt of a killer, the dishonesty of his position tortured him.
Someday he would go west, to the netherworld and the Hall of Judgment. There the gods would weigh his heart on the divine balance scale against the feather of Maat— truth, lightness, and order. With such sins burdening his ka, his heart would send the weighing pan crashing to the floor. There the Devouress, Eater of Souls, would snatch it up in her crocodile jaws and sink long, jagged teeth into its meat.
The edge of the tub was biting into his legs. Meren winced and got to his feet. If he didn't watch himself, he would succumb to babbling lunacy. No wonder Kysen was suspicious. During the past few weeks these old memories had come back with increasing frequency. It was as if the heretic's vengeful ka had been aroused by the death of one of the queen's murderers. Perhaps Akhenaten was punishing him by forcing him to find and reveal the truth, so that Meren would invite his own death.
He was relieved that this frightening train of thought was quenched when the gate opened and a youth in a simple kilt strode into the garden. He was followed by two slaves bearing ostrich feather fans, another carrying a tray with a wine flagon and goblets, and several guards. His brows drawn together, mouth set in a tight line, he saw Meren and headed for him. The goblets on the tray clattered. The boy stopped, turned, and hissed at the small crowd behind him. The fan bearers backed away. The wine bearer skittered after them. A command like the snap of a whip sent the guards marching out the gate. Karoya appeared bearing the flagon and goblets, shut the gate, and went to the pavilion.
By this time Meren had reached the boy, who turned from glaring at the gate. Meren sank to his knees and bent to the ground. He heard an exasperated sigh.
"Get up, Meren. Making your obeisance to my majesty won't convince me that you're either biddable or humble."
"As thy majesty wishes," Meren said as he rose.
"Things are never as I wish." Tutankhamun stalked past Meren, between dense beds of cornflowers, mandrake, and poppy to a grove of tamarisk trees. In their midst was an arbor covered with ivy. The pharaoh snatched a water bottle hanging from the arbor in a woven net, poured from it into an alabaster cup from a table, and drank. He thrust the bottle at Meren, who poured himself a cup and drank as well. The king downed another cup of water without pause. When he finished, he was breathing fast and glaring at Meren.
"You're not to scold me," Tutankhamun snapped. "I'll get enough from Ay to fill my belly."
"Thy humble cup bearer would not dare—"
"I remembered you doing that very thing not long ago when I visited you at your country house."
It was Meren's turn to frown. "The golden one stole away from his own court, his own vizier and ministers, to sail unescorted to a house where I was trying to conceal the bodies of—"
"Don't!"
Royal irritation vanished, overwhelmed by pain and horror. Tutankhamun's face held the beauty of his mother, the great and powerful Queen Tiye. With it he had inherited her large, dark eyes, heavy-lidded, thick-lashed mirrors of a ka too sensitive for the burdens of a god-king.
Meren waited a moment, giving the boy time to compose himself. "Forgive me, majesty."
"I know it's really Akhenaten's fault," Tutankhamun whispered. "If he hadn't cast out the old gods, beggared their priests and the thousands who depended on them, he wouldn't have provoked such hatred. He must have done horrible things to provoke the desecration of his tomb, the savaging of his body."
He couldn't let the boy dwell on such anathema. "All has been put right, divine one." He drew closer to the king, who gave him a look of desperation.
"They won't let me return to Thebes for the reburial. Ay says I must remain here to draw everyone's attention."
"It's the only way, majesty. You trust Maya. If he can manage the royal treasury, he can arrange for thy majesty's brother and his family to be concealed in the Valley of Kings, where no one will disturb them again."
Tutankhamun sighed again. "Of course."
"And only thy majesty can summon the priests of Amun from Thebes to Memphis."
A grin brightened the king's solemn features. "The high priest was so furious, he was shaking when he arrived at court. He wanted to chastise me, and he might have dared if I hadn't told him I needed his advice about the Hittites."
At the mention of the Hittites, the king's smile vanished. "He never kisses my foot!"
"Majesty?"
"Mugallu. He pretends. He kneels and bows over my foot, but he never touches me. I give him an honor I grant to few emissaries, and he never kisses my foot. He didn't this time."
"Ah," Meren said. "And having studied to arouse thy majesty's just wrath, he succeeded. Thus provoking a quarrel between his experienced master and pharaoh, who is not yet fifteen."
Tutankhamun slammed his cup down on the table. "I know, I know." He paced back and forth, then stopped and grinned at Meren. "I shall tell him I'm sorry."
"Majesty?" Meren had never heard a living god even pronounce the word "sorry." He furrowed his brow, trying to imagine such a thing, and failed.
The king laughed. "Don't look so aghast. I'll send word that I regret that his barbaric rudeness provoked me to harshness."
"Ah." Relief smoothed Meren's brow. "I was about to counsel the golden one to refrain from such an unprecedented action."
"But none of this is what I wished to talk about. Come with me to the pavilion."
The king sat on a couch the frame of which had been fashioned as a lion. The gilded wood was surmounted by cushions in the same colors used in the pavilion. Tutankhamun indicated a place on the floor beside the couch, and Karoya put a cushion there for Meren. The guard served plum wine and
shat
cakes seasoned with tigernuts and sweetened with honey and dates.
Pharaoh waited until Meren was in the middle of a sip of wine to speak. "You're avoiding reading the desert patrol reports so that you won't find bandits that need hunting."
Meren paused with wine in his mouth. He glanced up at the king. Deceptively, the boy's cheeks still held the roundness of childhood. His mouth was a replica of the full lips and downward-pointing corners of Queen Tiye's. The richness of eyes and mouth, the oversize, puppylike hands and feet, created an impression of youthful vulnerability. Sometimes Meren forgot that Tutankhamun came from a line of warriors, conquerors, and masters of strategy. He swallowed his wine.
"How did the divine one know?" Meren asked lightly.
"After you promised to take me on a raid to gain battle experience, I bethought myself of how you might wish to delay in hopes I'd forget. Then I sent inquiries to the chief of royal messengers, who confirmed my suspicions. So I dispatched members of my war band to the villages where there has been trouble in the past. Word of any marauding will come directly to me."
Meren slid to his knees and bowed, touching his forehead to the floor. "Thy majesty has surpassed me in wisdom and craft. I await thy discipline, O Horus, Strong-Bull-arisen-in-Thebes, Gold Horus, Mighty-in-strength, Majestic-in-appearance, Lord of the Two Lands—"
"Meren, be quiet and sit up."
"Yes, majesty."
"Do you think it easy to balance between childhood and manhood, apprenticeship and kingship? You, Ay, Maya, and General Horemheb must stop protecting me. I can't learn to lead my armies from this pavilion."
"I know, majesty. And thy majesty knows what will happen if he dies on some petty raid, without an heir, without guiding Egypt back from the chaos of thy brother's—of the last few years."
"You will be there to protect me. I will hear no more protests. And I will punish you by making you sponsor Lord Reshep at court. You've met him?"
Sighing at this tedious assignment, Meren nodded. "A few times, golden one. The last time at the feast of welcome Prince Djoser held for him. It is said he seeks a place at court after being raised in the country. And I know he has stirred the women of the court."
"Yes," the king replied. "Unfortunately, he's stirred one of the daughters of Queen Nefertiti's sister. My majesty has no quarrel with Reshep, but he will not court a lady of the royal family. See to it that he meets many eligible women, and obtain an appointment of some kind so that his hours are filled with something besides the sighs of princesses. Later, if your opinion of him is favorable, my majesty will allow him into my presence. This tedious work is your punishment. Next time you won't underestimate me."
Meren thought about the dangers of searching out and attacking desert bandits. "The Generals Nakhtmin and Horemheb and I have spent years training the golden one in the arts of battle, but all the training and precautions we can provide may not be enough, should Set, god of chaos, create disaster."
The king gave him a dark look, and Meren hastened on.
"All will be as thy majesty commands." He inclined his head. "Especially if thy majesty in his graciousness will grant his humble cup bearer leave to make a short journey, no more than two days."
"Why?"
"A matter less important to thy majesty than a beetle beneath the royal sandal. The nurse of my childhood grows aged and weak, and she begs me to visit her before she goes west to join her ancestors."
"My nurse used to tell me stories about Horus the hawk until I fell asleep. Of course, go. But don't forget the raid."
Tutankhamun rose, then stooped and grabbed Meren's arm. Startled, Meren allowed the king to pull him to his feet.
"You look as if a desert fiend just offered you its hand," the king said.
"Thy majesty has honored me with his touch."
Rolling his eyes, Tutankhamun said, "Have you not saved my life more than once? Discovering Prince Tanefer's treachery alone merited reward. But you keep warning me how dangerous my favor can be to the health of a nobleman. Only fear for your safety has prevented me from acknowledging my debt to you."
"Thy majesty is more generous than the bounty of the fields. But if I have to worry about the jealousy of rivals at court, I cannot devote myself to the service of the golden one with complete freedom."
"Very well, then you may go to this aged nurse of yours. But return quickly. I expect to get word of bandit raiders at any moment."
"As thy majesty wishes. I will leave in a few days and return with haste." Meren bowed low and retreated from the royal presence. He was halfway to the gate when a strong young voice called after him.
"And don't forget Lord Reshep!"
Night came late and hot on the day pharaoh castigated the emissary of the hated Hittites. By moonrise, tidings of the confrontation had flown from the palace district, sailing to other courts with royal and foreign ships, leaping from mouth to mouth around the mansions, houses, and huts of Memphis. Soon princesses and dockworkers, scribes and barbers, were laughing and exulting over the boldness of their young king.
One who had not heard the news was the tavern woman called Anat. She walked through the open south gate of the city, waving to the chatting guards who leaned against the wall. By moon- and starlight, she directed her steps down a path that climbed to the barren higher land at the border between the desert and cultivated fields. As soon as she left the massive ramparts that guarded the capital, her shift was blown against her legs by a strong north breeze. She turned and lifted her face, breathing the water-scented air.
Anat set down the small sack of barley the tavern owner had given her for her night's work. It also contained various items some of the men had given her. She had been busy this night.
Sighing, Anat was about to pick up her sack and trudge the rest of the way to her mother's house. Then the wind picked up. She widened her stance and opened her arms so that she could feel the coolness. The breeze was so strong that it brought relief from the heat still rising from the sun-scorched earth. Without the wind, heat from the ground penetrated her thin papyrus sandals to bake her feet.
Tonight had been a busy night, a good night. With a few more nights like this one, she would have enough goods to quit the tavern and provide a handsome marriage share. There would be enough to attract a man of stature such as a master sculptor, or even a scribe. Then her widowed mother, who was a servant in the household of a village headman, could come to live with Anat and her new husband. Mother was too old to crush grain with a heavy grinding stone.