Kysen was on the loggia that sheltered the entry to Golden House, waiting to escort his sisters to the family's private quay. Meren was holding a banquet on his pleasure yacht to become better acquainted with the newcomer, Lord Reshep. In the drive not far away, a groom held the reins of Kysen's restless thoroughbred team, which was harnessed to a chariot decorated with scenes of a desert hunt. In the deep golden light, the acacias and sycamores that surrounded the house cast long shadows on the horses and vehicle. Evening was almost here, and Bener and Isis were late.
He was about to send a servant to fetch them when Reia, one of the company of charioteers that served Meren, hurried around the corner of the house, raced up the stairs, and saluted Kysen.
"Lord, Abu has arrived from Thebes. He wanted to see you at once."
"Yes. I'll come now."
They made their way through the house and across the grounds, cutting through the garden, skirting the pleasure pool with its complement of small boats. Kysen led the way through a door in the long wall that separated the family's quarters from the barracks that housed the charioteers. Unlike the smaller residence in Thebes, Golden House possessed quarters for over thirty charioteers who assisted Meren as the Eyes of Pharaoh. Next to the low barracks that stretched almost the length of the guard wall lay a modest two-story house. This was the home of Abu, Meren's chief aide, who, until Kysen had sent for him, had been overseeing Meren's affairs in Thebes.
A servant was holding the front door open. Kysen hurried inside while Reia dismissed the servant. Abu was waiting in the reception hall in a chair amid piles of leather document cases, several caskets, and a discarded scimitar. He rose when Kysen entered.
"You sent for me, lord? I left Iry in charge at Thebes as you instructed."
Nodding, Kysen didn't miss the emphasis. Abu had trained Meren in the arts of a warrior. He'd saved Meren's life in battle, and Meren had saved his. Perhaps no one knew Kysen's father so well, or held close to his heart so many secrets. Few had the rank to give orders to Abu at all, and up to now, when Kysen had occasion to do so, it usually had been on behalf of his father. Kysen glanced over his shoulder at Reia. The charioteer was standing in the middle of the room where he could see anyone who tried to enter from any of the side chambers that opened onto the hall.
Drawing near Abu, Kysen spoke quietly. "Has my father spoken to you of this matter concerning the Great Royal Wife Nefertiti?" He waited impatiently while Abu hesitated. "I can see that he has, so don't bother lying."
"I would never lie to the lord's son."
"You would if my father ordered it. Oh, don't argue. There isn't time." Kysen went on to tell the charioteer what had happened in the past few days. "So I can't convince him to leave this evil undisturbed."
Abu remained impassive. "When he has reached a decision, the lord is as unwavering as the path of Ra in the sky."
"By the blood of Osiris, I think you know more about this than I do." Abu merely gazed at him. "You do! Damnation to you. I suppose it's useless to order you to tell it to me."
"Yes, lord."
"Then you understand even better than I that Lord Meren will be in danger from the moment he makes this journey to see the queen's former cook. And he insists on going alone. Great lords do not travel unaccompanied, especially not the Eyes of Pharaoh."
"There is nothing that can be done to prevent the lord from steering this course," Abu said. His face still held no expression. "The lord will risk his life in this quest, even should the gods try to prevent it."
Kysen studied Abu and at last caught a fleeting look of concern before the charioteer masked it. "You know why I called you here."
"Yes, lord. To protect your father."
"He won't allow me to go with him. He's ordered me to conduct my own inquiries. Among my special acquaintances."
"Then your life is in danger as well."
"Oh, no. You're not dispatching a squad of giant nursemaids after me. They'll send every thief and drunkard scurrying from sight. Just make sure someone follows Lord Meren at all times." Before he could go on, Reia signaled and nodded in the direction of the front entrance.
"Why?" Bener was standing in the doorway in festive garb, her gleaming black wig falling over her shoulders. "Why is it necessary to have Father followed without his knowledge? What is happening?"
Kysen uttered a sound that was half groan and half sigh while Abu and Reia bowed to his sister. "Bener, you shouldn't be in the barracks."
"If Father is in danger, I want to know about it," she replied as she walked into the hall.
Her filmy gown rained pleats down to the floor. The smooth sweeps of kohl that lined her eyes, the glistening green malachite on her lids, the gold, turquoise, and lapis broad collar draped from her shoulders, all combined to make her look older than her sixteen years. Bener wasn't as beautiful as her younger sister. Her almond-shaped eyes tended to bore into people's characters with the precision and facility of a bow drill. Her chin, though small, recalled the strength and outline of a stonemason's mallet, and her nose was endowed with a little of the strong thrust of her father's. Nevertheless, her observant humor attracted the friendship of aged servants and young princely warriors alike. At the moment it was Kysen's regret that Bener had also inherited her father's strong will.
When he didn't answer, Bener walked over to Kysen and folded her arms over her chest. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, by my ka."
"Oh, of course," Bener said with a guileless smile and wide-open eyes. "Nothing is wrong. Father moves about the house like an abandoned soul in the desert. You alternately glare at him and plead with him for hours. Abu appears mysteriously without Father's knowledge or orders. And my powerful sire, the Eyes of Pharaoh, one of those few in all the world who have the honor to be called Friend of the King, my father has suddenly decided to leave court in the middle of a perilous diplomatic skirmish with the Hittite emissary. In order to visit his old nurse."
"Yes," Kysen snapped. "Now find Isis and go to the chariot. I'll be there in a moment. And stop interfering. These affairs are not in a woman's domain."
He should have expected this of Bener. She had a clever heart and more than a little of Meren's circuitous reasoning power and abiding suspiciousness. Kysen wished she was still distracted by the steward and his excess watermelons.
Bener narrowed her eyes, and he caught a glimpse of shining green-and-black paint that only enhanced the glint she directed at him. "That is what you told me before I discovered who killed Uncle Sennefer."
"Women manage households and bear children," Kysen said. "They do not concern themselves with the tasks of men."
"Kysen, you're a fool. Do you really think that the wives who bear sons to their husbands, the mothers who nurse all male children, be they kings or water carriers, do you think these women have no influence upon the actions of those husbands and sons?"
Having never heard such an argument, Kysen only stared at his sister. She gave a little snort, turned sharply, and left them.
Kysen muttered a curse while glaring at the door through which Bener had vanished. "I must go, Abu. Father will be waiting for us. We must play host to this country lord who seeks a place at court. Lord Meren leaves for the cook's house tomorrow morning. Be careful."
"He won't know he has a second shadow."
Feeling much relieved now that Abu was alerted, Kysen joined Bener in his chariot. He wasn't surprised that Isis was late and would follow separately; she possessed a fragile, slender-necked beauty similar to that of Queen Nefertiti, and the work she did to enhance it consumed many hours. He and Bener arrived at the family's quay as Meren was greeting the first guests.
The pleasure yacht Joy of the Nile hadn't the sleek, spare menace of Meren's Wings of Horus. She was much wider and longer than that black-and-gold cruiser. Joy had a low, curved prow and high stern ending in a carved lotus flower, with a painted gold castle at either end and a long deckhouse set amidship.
The sides of the ship were painted with bands of lotus designs in white and green. But what made the ship burst into reflected flames in the lowering sun were the sheet gold that encrusted the prow and stern and the alternating bands of gilt paint that separated the lotus patterns. A frieze of Nile-blue faience tiles repeated the lotus design on the deckhouse, set off by borders of more gilt paint.
Guests were walking up the gangplank, which was draped with garlands of lotus, poppies, and cornflowers. Meren awaited them at the end of the walk in festival costume. Kysen imagined that moments ago his father's gaunt face had been tainted by a scowl. Unlike many courtiers, Meren preferred a simple kilt and sandals to the complex finery his position required him to wear. Now he stood on the deck of his opulent ship wearing a short kilt covered by a robe rich with thousands of pleats and cinched by a wide belt of gold and red jasper beads. More gold, jasper, and lapis lazuli glittered from his wrists, shoulders, and the band that encircled his heavy wig.
Kysen remembered the first time he'd seen his father in full court dress. He'd fallen to his knees, certain that Meren had turned into a god. The only thing he'd seen as magnificent had been the statue of the god Amun on the feast of Opet. His reverie was cut short by an elbow jabbed into his side.
"I'm not going to stand here all night while you gawk," Bener said. She hopped down from the chariot, straightened her necklace and wig, and glided away.
Hastening after her, Kysen joined Bener and Meren in offering greetings to the guests. This was an ordeal for him; surrounded by so many clean, perfumed, and bedecked people, he felt conspicuous. He was the only one who had grown up with nothing but a loincloth to wear, whose hair hadn't been properly cut until he was eight, whose only bathing facility had been the Nile.
"Cease," Meren whispered to him between arrivals.
"What?"
"Forget what you came from, Ky. It's what you are now that matters."
"The dirt and the beatings are part of what I am."
Meren suddenly changed. One moment he was Kysen's scolding father, the next he changed into a nobleman whose spectacular smile and personal dignity turned the most jaded court lady into an open-mouthed stutterer. Kysen scanned the approaching group and located the person who had provoked this display.
Princess Tio came toward them, her gown swaying in response to her rhythmic, long-legged walk. Going against custom, she wore her hair loose and unencumbered by a wig. She had wrapped strands of tiny electrum beads around lengths of that black river of hair.
Tio was the daughter of one of Akhenaten's Nubian concubines. Unlike pure Egyptian women, who were light-boned and often small, the princess possessed a body taut with long tendons and muscles and a height that enabled her to look down on quite a few men, including Kysen. She had warm brown skin touched with gold, a lithe frame, and eyes so large they nearly distracted attention from her lush, protruding lips. Luckily for Tio, she had inherited her mother's features. A girl-child cursed with those of Akhenaten might well have been mistaken for a flabby horse.
Tio accepted Meren's welcome, her gaze passing over Kysen without pause. Kysen took this slight with equanimity. Tio was cup bearer to the Great Royal Wife, Ankhesenamun. The queen's close friend, she took her mistress's part in the ongoing quarrel between the queen and pharaoh. Ankhesenamun disagreed with Tutankhamun's return to orthodoxy. She blamed him for abandoning her heretic father's precepts, and for leaving his isolated new city, Horizon of Aten, for the ancient and fabled capital of Memphis. And now she blamed her husband for the stealthy attack on the tomb and bodies of her father and mother.
However, both Ankhesenamun and Tio blamed Ay, General Horemheb, and Meren as much as the king. Older than her husband by five years, the queen knew the influence wielded by these three men-and she resented Meren's power the most. Kysen wasn't sure why she should save her greatest antipathy for his father, but Tio had been infected with the queen's prejudice. If the princess was attending one of Meren's gatherings, it was a signal of some sort-an opening move in a new game in which Ankhesenamun exercised lethal power.
As Tio moved away from them, Meren whispered to Kysen again. "Be at ease. She's only curious about this new Lord Reshep, who has attracted the interest of one of the royal princesses. No doubt the queen sent her to inspect the man and give a report." A slave brought wine in fluted bronze goblets. Meren picked up two and handed one to Kysen.
"Quickly," he said. "Before anyone else arrives. Tell me why you have sent for my aide without my knowledge."
Kysen hesitated in mid-sip, swallowed hard, and gazed out across the flat rooftops of the city, past the electrum-encrusted temples to the jagged horizon of desert tombs and pyramids.
"It appears I haven't sent for him without your knowledge."
"Don't spar, explain."
Only pharaoh could speak with more quiet mastery. When Meren's voice took on that relentless certainty, no one disobeyed. Kysen had been waiting for this demand, having considered the prospect that keeping a secret from Meren might be impossible.
"You forgot to send for him, so I did. You always leave Abu in charge of the charioteers in Memphis."
He met his father's raking gaze calmly. He'd learned from Meren how to dissemble and had to trust that his lessons had been well learned. Meren held his gaze for what seemed like centuries, then raised his eyes to look toward the quay.
That elusive, charmed smile appeared again even as Meren spoke in a low voice. "I approve."
Kysen let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.
"So long as Abu remains in Memphis," Meren continued. "You do understand my meaning."
"Of course, Father."
"I thought you would, my clever young jackal. Now replace that frown with a smile and help me with the greetings. Ah, this superb creature with the fawning retinue must be Lord Reshep."
Toward them came a stately procession. It was headed by a young man of kingly height wearing linen even finer than Meren's. He walked beneath a wig thick with curled and plaited tresses that hung in heavy sections over his back and shoulders. Kysen looked at the man who wore this gleaming black elegance, then exchanged quizzical glances with Meren.
Whispering as he smiled at Reshep, Meren said, "To me he has always resembled a starved frog, but then I don't look at him through a woman's eyes." Meren moved forward to salute his guest and raised his voice. "May Amun provide you with countless blessings, Lord Reshep. Welcome to Joy of the Nile."
Kysen was left to battle a threatening smirk. Meren had noted Reshep's elongated arms and legs, his bony knees and elbows. Together with a low forehead, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, and prominent brown eyes, these features would indeed prompt his father's comparison. Kysen found it necessary to force away the image of Reshep squatting on a round lotus leaf floating in a reflection pool. Meren had been conversing steadily with Reshep. He turned and drew Kysen into the group that surrounded the newcomer.
"You weren't at Djoser's banquet, Ky. I met Lord Reshep there. His mother was an intimate of the Great Royal Wife Tiye long ago, before the king was born, may he have life, health, and strength."
Saying nothing, Reshep bowed low. When he straightened, Kysen met a gaze that arced out of Reshep's eyes to pierce through manners and decorum. It sliced past the formal friendliness Kysen offered and stabbed into the depths of his most secret ka. There it carved through and penetrated small but painful weaknesses, pettiness kept hidden from the world, and old grudges. Through this gaze Reshep seemed to expose all the little slights Kysen remembered from being a lowborn among the noble. Then this stranger seemed to delve into his pain-the pain he hoarded like a landowner accumulates rents, the pain he'd come to treat as a familiar and cherished friend.
Heavy black lashes drifted down, then lifted, releasing Kysen and leaving him with an urge to look at himself to see if he was as bare and exposed as he felt. The encounter had happened in the space of a heartbeat. He was disconcerted to find that no one else had noticed it. Kysen had to force himself not to look away from this man, to present the facade of civility and tranquillity Meren had taught him to wear. Reshep spoke at last, although to Kysen the pause in conversation had lasted far too long.
"Lord Kysen, may the favor of the gods be yours." His voice gentle, his smile beneficent, Reshep tilted his head to the side, his eyes lit with amusement he seemed to wish Kysen to share. "Since I arrived in glorious Memphis I have heard much of the clever and brave son of the Eyes of Pharaoh. It is said that none can challenge his bow, and that no young warrior has ever rivaled him in his capacity for tavern beer."
Meren said calmly, "I told you not to race about the city with that herd of ungovernable colts from the king's war band."
"I didn't know I'd earned such renown," Kysen replied. He was conscious of relief and gratitude to Reshep. For what he wasn't certain. Perhaps for having been allowed to keep hidden the humiliating secrets Reshep seemed to have discovered, accepted, and forgiven in their fleeting exchange. Reshep's laughing friends crowded around them, exchanging jests and calling for wine. Kysen's confusion faded as he met old companions.
"So," said a young man in gilded leather sandals, "you didn't know you had a name in the city. I could have told you. Your name is much better than mine. Everyone knows Meren's war training succeeded with you, while they laugh that it failed with me."
Kysen shoved a wine goblet at Prince Djoser. "Not this complaint again."
"No-no-no," Djoser said with a laugh. "Knowing Reshep has made me realize how bowed down with distress I've been. He says many great men-like Amunhotep, son of Hapu, and Imhotep, the powerful sage and magician-haven't been warriors."
Staring at Djoser, Kysen said, "But not long ago you wouldn't listen to Rahotep when he said the same thing."
"That was when I was afraid everyone was laughing at me for puking on the battlefield, and losing governance of my horses, and having to be rescued from my own chariot. Now I realize these are but paltry incidents to a great prince."
Kysen's jaw nearly dropped to the deck. "Is this the man who returned from the expedition to the Syrian vassals all pale and haunted by war demons?" He suddenly glanced from Djoser to Reshep, who had been encircled by a new group of guests. "Djoser, don't set up an altar for someone you've known but a few weeks."
"I worship at the feet of none but pharaoh!" Djoser drew himself up and frowned at Kysen. "I merely choose to become enlightened by good example. Perhaps you're jealous of Reshep already."
"Jealous?" Kysen glanced at Reshep again, noting the elbows and knees, each sharp as the point of an obelisk. "You're fevered."
"And your heart is envious," Djoser said. "Speak to me no more of altars and fevers when I have five more years than you, common-blooded meddler."
Djoser stalked away in his gilded sandals to rejoin his new friend. A woman in front of Reshep moved aside, and Kysen glimpsed him from head to foot, especially foot. Reshep wore gilded leather sandals like Djoser's, but the straps of his were wrapped in sheet gold and encrusted with amethysts. Djoser had encountered someone who shared his taste for splendor.
Kysen had always known Djoser felt unworthy because his mother had been a mere noblewoman who captured the eye of Tutankhamun's father. A scholarly man who longed to be what he was not-a great warrior-Djoser had allowed his failures to slowly curdle his spirit until he threatened to become a snarled ball composed of threads of resentment and bitterness.
Kysen was distracted from contemplating Djoser's unexpected transformation by the deck's movement beneath his feet. The ship swayed, then began to drift. Meren's crew had cast off from the quay. Joy of the Nile, a slim reed of illuminated color, glided into the darkening blue of the river. Their guests would watch the fiery pomegranate sun descend into the west, the netherworld, while bathing in the cool north breezes.
Slaves lit torches fitted to the sides of the ship; others lit precious candles and alabaster lamps carved in the fluted form of the lotus. The harpist struck up a feasting tune, accompanied by flutes, double pipes, and lyres. These were joined by drums, tambourines, and the sistrum, a handled, bent metal strip between the ends of which ran wires strung with metal disks. When shaken gently, the sistrum made Kysen's favorite sound, a murmuring chime that soothed his ka.
Meren appeared at his side, his gaze drifting over the milling company. Perfumed and coiffed nobles moved among tables decorated with lotus flowers and burdened with food. The belly-tempting smell of roast fowl revealed the enticement of duck, egret, crane, and prized red-breasted goose. Kysen was about to summon a slave and order a plate prepared for himself and Meren when he heard someone bark his name.
"Kysen, why are you not among that herd of fawning, slack-witted goats surrounding Reshep?"
Meren's arm lashed out and fastened onto that of Prince Rahotep. Hauling the younger man to him, he shot a warning look at his slightly drunk victim, flashed an irritated smile, and hissed at Kysen.
"Keep him at your side. I don't have time to serve as keeper to a man with the tact of a four-year-old child and the temper of a wounded pig."
Slapping Rahotep hard on the shoulders, Kysen grabbed the arm Meren relinquished. "Welcome, my friend. You honor us with your company."
"Huh." Rahotep burped and poured half a goblet of Syrian wine down his throat. "I saw you with that place-seeker. You don't like him any better than I do."
Rahotep scowled at his friend Djoser as he sidled closer to Reshep and fixed his attention on the newcomer's easy conversation. "Only the great god Amun knows why they find the bastard so admirable. He has but one theme to his songs-the perfection and wonder of Lord Reshep."
"Really?"
Kysen followed Rahotep's stare to its object. Djoser was introducing Bener to his idol. Without warning Lord Reshep looked up, over Bener's head, straight into Kysen's eyes. It was but a glance, yet Kysen was left feeling again the force of its perception. It was as if Reshep knew they were talking about him, even what they were saying. Shaken, Kysen felt suddenly angry with himself for reacting with such vulnerability. He dragged his gaze from Reshep. Dislike for the man burst forth, fed by resentment that this stranger could evoke fantasies and baseless fear in him.
"Did you hear what I said?" Rahotep demanded. "Djoser is so besotted he chants Lord Reshep's glorification endlessly to pharaoh, may he have life, health, and strength forever."
Kysen's anger twisted his smile with bitterness. "Father said he looks like a starved frog."
"Ha!" Those nearest them looked their way at Rahotep's loud hoot.
Kysen winced and said through set teeth, "Be quiet."
"Why should I?" Rahotep turned in a circle, glowered at the listeners, and said loudly, "Why should I care what they think? I'm a half-royal, son of Amunhotep the Magnificent, a great warrior, clever of heart, unequaled in wisdom." He appeared to remember his manners. Presenting his back to the largest cluster of eavesdroppers, he lowered his voice. "I tell you, Ky, it makes me want to vomit to see a preening grasper turn great lords into vassals and noble ladies into red-faced and hungry tavern women."
"I've never known you to be so hostile to one of so little consequence."
Rahotep banged his goblet down on a servant's tray and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "That's it!"
"What?"
"That's what makes me hate him. He's of no consequence, and yet he behaves as if he were spawn from the loins of Ra. My father was a pharaoh, even if my mother was a peasant. I deserve the respect due a great one. When we met, the dog gave me the slightest of bows." Rahotep's bushy eyebrows formed one hairy line over his eyes. "He should have kissed the floor before my feet. Perhaps I'll make him do that one day soon."
"Don't," Kysen replied. "My father has been asked by the golden one to become familiar with Lord Reshep. If Meren approves, Reshep may be admitted to court, and into the king's presence."
Rahotep rocked back and forth on his heels. "I care not." He gave Kysen a sideways glance. "I could beat him in a fight, you know. I'm expert with scimitar, sword, and dagger as well as staves, javelins, and throw sticks."
"Yes, Rahotep, I know."
In Rahotep's opinion, no one, perhaps not even pharaoh, could do anything better than he could. It was only his boisterous openness that saved him from being heartily disliked. How could you hate a man whose blatant exaggerations fooled no one but himself? Kysen felt compassion for Rahotep, something he would never have imagined feeling for a prince until recently.
He glanced over at Reshep again. The newcomer was still the center of a chattering group, but as Kysen watched, Reshep lifted a drinking cup of highly polished bronze and seemed to be examining it as if he were thinking of buying it.
"By Ptah's staff," Kysen murmured.
Rahotep tried to see what Kysen was looking at. "What?"
"I think Reshep is looking at himself in that drinking cup." As he spoke, Reshep adjusted a stray lock of plaited hair on his wig.
Rahotep snorted. "Arse."
Kysen didn't answer, taken off guard by a sudden insight. What an addled fool he'd been to assume that Reshep's powerful gaze held perception, acumen, discernment. What he'd seen in those eyes was a ravenous search for his own reflected magnificence. Kysen had mistaken an appetite for adoration for interest and sympathy.
"Are you paying attention?" Rahotep demanded. "Now if Reshep had my visage, I could understand him wanting to admire it."
He listened to more of Rahotep's bragging until a stir and murmur circling through the assembly caused them to search for its cause. Kysen found it first-a young woman who had emerged from the deckhouse. Startling the whole company, his youngest sister appeared suddenly between two posts that held the deckhouse awning. Silence befell one group of revelers after another.
Regal, with the grace of a white lily and the allure of frankincense, Isis calmly accepted the stunned appraisal. For a moment, no one moved. Then Lord Reshep detached himself from the rest, walking with the suppleness of a leopard to bow low before the girl. Kysen heard his sister employ the rough low power of her voice. She used what he thought of as her man-conquering tones.
"Who is this guest?" she asked of no one. "Surely a highborn noble or a prince of royal blood."
Kysen rolled his eyes and gave a snort of disgust. Then he smiled. With smooth yet relentless firmness, Meren stepped between his daughter and Lord Reshep. Although almost imperceptible, the shattering look of fury Meren threw at Isis turned Kysen's smile into a grin.