Kysen strode around Ahiram's bedchamber while Meren questioned the only servant left behind by the prince, a porter. Their men were searching other parts of the house. Ahiram's family, a wife, her three small sons, and a daughter, had been sent to the country several days ago, while the prince remained in Thebes. The trip had been sudden, and one for which his wife had been unprepared. Ahiram had insisted that most of the servants go as well. In less than a week, Ahiram had emptied his house of nearly anyone who might have observed his activities.
This knowledge had roused Meren's suspicions to even greater heights, so much so that he'd delayed his departure. There wasn't much time before he would have to sail. Tanefer had questioned the man earlier, but Meren was doing it again. As he walked across a finely woven mat, Kysen watched the man shake his head, bow, and leave. Tanefer hadn't mentioned those abrupt departures, but then, Tanefer wasn't accustomed to making inquiries for pharaoh.
Ahiram's house wasn't as large as Meren's, but it was richly furnished. Kysen paused by the bed of polished cedar. Its lion's-paw legs and footboard were trimmed with gold. The chamber itself bore a frieze of lotus flowers around the top of the walls and along the bottom as well. Clothing chests lay open, their contents strewn over the floor, chairs, and bed. Ahiram had packed and left so hastily there had been no time for his servants to put the house in order.
A box had been overturned near a recess in the wall opposite the bed. Within the recess sat a small statue of the foreign goddess Ishtar. Someone had picked up the belts, bracelets, and other contents of the box and set them in the recess and in the lid of the box.
Kysen picked up a belt of gold and turquoise, then replaced it in the niche near the statue, alongside a reed pen holder shaped like a papyrus-bundle column. His hand strayed to a bracelet, a wide, hinged band of gold upon which had been applied a decoration in the form of a stylized boat. Within the boat rested the round, blue disk of the moon, which sailed across the sky each night. Meren interrupted his inspection by dismissing the porter and joining him.
"The porter knows little, since his post offers him no intimacy with his master," Meren said as he picked up the moon bracelet. "He says Ahiram sent his family away before Qenamun was murdered. Only three servants were left in the house, including the porter.
"After the royal physician tended to him yesterday morning he came home much disturbed. What interests me is that he ordered the house guarded the moment he came home. All three servants were set to keeping watch, although he didn't say what they were supposed to guard against."
"He was frightened," Kysen said.
"From the moment he came home, and I can't divine a reason for it." Meren lay the moon bracelet aside and propped his back against the wall beside the shrine. "You've found nothing?"
"It's as Tanefer says. He left hurriedly, without putting the house in order. Food is still in the kitchen, although all of it has been put away." Kysen swept his arm around. "And if there was ever anything to find here, he took it with him. There aren't any papers."
Meren's gaze darted around the chamber, taking in the discarded clothing and other personal possessions. Disorder, but a disorder that arose from haste rather than violence. He rubbed his chin and gave Kysen a sideways glance.
"I asked the porter if he'd noticed any cobras about the house."
"Well?"
"No," Meren said. He folded his arms and studied the frieze of lotus flowers. "It's just that I can think of no other happening of import which might cause Ahiram to flee, and he was acquainted with Qenamun."
"If you'd caught a bunch of snakes, where would you keep them and how?" Kysen asked.
"I'd keep them in baskets somewhere isolated," Meren said. "But not for long. They'd be hard to conceal because they would need feeding… rodents."
"And in a prince's house, there are few places of concealment because of the number of servants."
Meren shoved away from the wall and began walking toward the chamber door, with Kysen close behind him. "Aye, so if I wished to conceal my collection of cobras, I would want to find a deserted place, something hard to find in a city like Thebes. Therefore I'd catch them quickly and get rid of them quickly. And the need for haste would mean I would have to find a convenient nearby hiding place."
"One of the storage rooms," Kysen said as his father led him to the kitchen.
Abu and another charioteer joined them. Meren walked across the kitchen to a stairwell that led down into darkness. Kysen found a lamp and preceded his father and the others downstairs. Below they found the usual evidence of household activities-the making of bread dough, weaving, and storage of oils, wine, and spices.
"No cobras," Kysen said.
Abu whirled around to face him. "Cobras!"
He and his assistant were gazing at him, brows lifted to their hairlines. With caution, Abu began opening any jars that weren't sealed, as did the other charioteer. Meren walked past a mortar and pestle sitting on the floor along with a stack of trays and pottery cups, rounded a group of oil jars, and stopped. He signaled for Kysen to join him, and they stood looking at seven wicker boxes, a row of three stacked on top of a row of four against one wall. Meren drew closer, reached out, and shook one of the top boxes.
"I think it's empty."
"I hope you're right," Kysen said.
"I will open it, lord." Abu's tone as he stepped between them and the boxes bore no hint that he was asking permission. The second charioteer drew his dagger. Abu lifted the lid of the box, taking care that it opened away from his body. He flipped the box on its side and jumped back at the same time. Nothing. He shook the next box. Something rattled, but it sounded like pottery. Inspection revealed pieces of a broken tray.
Abu glanced at Meren and Kysen, wet his lips, and proceeded with his examination. The rest of the boxes were empty except for clumps of dried rushes which could have been used for packing-or nesting.
"Damnation," Meren said. "And I must sail soon."
"We'll continue here," Kysen said as he followed his father upstairs.
Meren was on his way out of the reception hall when he stopped abruptly, almost causing Kysen to run into him.
"Wait." He glanced back into the main hall. "Reia."
The charioteer left the hall to join them. "Yes, lord."
"You looked at the refuse pit behind the house?"
"Aye, lord."
"Anything unusual?"
"No, lord. Only the usual-offal, wasted food, vermin."
"Vermin?" Kysen asked, looking at his father.
"Aye, lord. It looks as if the prince's cats have been busy. Someone dumped a bag full of dead mice into the pit."
Kysen exchanged glances with Meren. He turned and beckoned to Reia.
"I'll attend to it," he said to Meren. "Come, Reia, we're going to look at these mice again."
Meren stood at the bow of the fastest river craft in his fleet, Wings of Horns, and lifted his face to the north breeze. Nearby, the pilot searched the lapis-blue waters of the Nile for the next sandbar while thirty oarsmen rowed in time to a chant. Long, low, and sleek, the ship was one of the largest private vessels on the Nile. Its hull was painted black, the railing red and gold, and every other boat on the river gave way before its dark menace, skiffs and barges alike scattering like cattle before a leopard.
Meren had ordered the ship manned with a double crew. He had to catch Ahiram, even if it meant risking sailing at night. Behind them came supply vessels bearing food, weapons, chariots, and horses.
His hands almost twitched with impatience. He'd stirred a scorpion's nest at court and at the temple of Amun because of a dead priest, and the result had been a second murder and the flight of a prince. Until he'd seen those baskets and found out about the mice, he hadn't been certain all three events were connected. He'd thought he'd become too suspicious from all his years at court. Now, however…
He glanced back at the stern, where a helmsman manned the giant rudder oars attached to tillers. To port and starboard he could hear the stocks of rowing oars creak against the ropes that held them lashed in place and the sound of oar blades cutting the water. Over the rhythmic chant of the oarsmen blared the notes of trumpets blown by three sailors in warning to other craft.
He hadn't had time to change from his court regalia after leaving Ahiram's house, and the sun felt as if it were beginning to melt the gold bands at his wrists. Abu and his officers had orders to watch for Ahiram's yacht. Charioteers lined the railing and searched each landing, every small islet and marsh, for the prince's distinctive red-and-yellow craft.
Because of the house search, Meren hadn't gotten under way until several hours after he'd left the king, and now the sun had long since passed its apex. Village after village had receded in their wake, nestled in the green of vegetation. In the distance the bare mountains and cliffs of the desert loomed, ready to encroach on the slim ribbon of blue that was the Nile.
Meren had ordered the ship slowed as it passed Gebtu, a town that stood at the crossroads of the river and one of the routes that crossed the eastern desert to the Red Sea coast. This road connected with trails to the gold and copper mines and stone quarries that lay along its path. If he himself were running away, he might try to reach one of the Red Sea ports rather than take the obvious route to the delta and the great sea. But there had been no red-and-yellow yacht in sight.
Now Wings of Horus sped north toward the town of Iunet, the site of one of the great temples dedicated to Hathor, goddess of love, music, dancing, and pleasure. If the chase went farther, he would pass his own country home without being able to stop to see his daughters. Curse Ahiram.
Why? Why would he kill the lector priest? And what of the pure one? Only a shadow of suspicion linked Unas with Qenamun and Ahiram. Meren had admitted this to himself. He had no knowledge that the three had ever conversed together, although Qenamun and Ahiram had known each other.
Ahiram had been touchy and on edge lately; this Meren had noticed. But then, who was not, with the controversy going on at court? Meren hadn't given any sign that he suspected Ahiram of murder, so why had the prince lost his courage? Something frightening had to have happened to make Ahiram run away. Something more than just an accident at a hippo hunt.
Meren was beginning to suspect that one of the priests at the House of Life might have discovered Ahiram's guilt and threatened him. After all, Ebana had been present at Qenamun's death. He'd been at the House of Life at the same time as Ahiram on the evening the cobras must have been put in Qenamun's casket. All Meren could do was pray to the gods that he caught Ahiram alive to answer his questions.
Meren walked back to the deckhouse that sat in the middle of the ship. Inside the cabin he went to his quarters, where his body servant relieved him of his court raiment. He lifted the long, hot wig off his head and thrust a hand through thick locks cut short in the manner of most warriors. He washed, then donned a simple kilt.
When his servant would have crowned him with another heavy wig and bracelets, he refused them in favor of a gold-and-malachite headband. He wasn't going to chase after an experienced soldier in the hampering garb of a courtier. He went outside to stand between the two slender columns that supported the awning before the deckhouse. A cook named Thay, who had been with Meren since he was a youth, rose from his kneeling position before a brazier and thrust a plate of beef at him.
"The lord has not eaten all day."
Meren took the plate, wishing he weren't surrounded by people who felt it their duty to supervise his habits. Thay clapped his hands, and a boy appeared from the deckhouse bearing a chair. The lad set the chair down beside a table bearing a flagon and a goblet. Then he stood beside it.
The boy watched Meren. The cook watched him. Meren sighed and went to the chair. He glared at Thay and took a huge bite of beef, chewing with resentment. The cook nodded his satisfaction, retrieved bread from a basket, and thrust it at Meren.
While he ate, he tried to think of a reason Ahiram would want Qenamun dead. They'd only been acquaintances, as far as he knew. How could Qenamun have been a danger to a royal prince? He didn't know enough yet to answer that question. Meren had almost finished his meal when a cry went up from the bow. Gulping down the last of his wine, Meren thrust the goblet at the boy and strode across the deck toward Abu and several charioteers.
"Lord, look!" Abu pointed at a yellow-and-red yacht pulling away from the quay on the east bank.
Meren shouted at the pilot, who in turn yelled his orders to the oar master. He felt a surge as oars dug deep into the water and the speed of the strokes doubled. The helmsman swung the rudder oars. Wings of Horus veered around a cumbersome barge loaded with limestone blocks, then cut around a sandbar and directly into the path of the yacht. Behind them Meren's supply boats glided into place, blocking their quarry completely.
In a short time a plank dropped between the Wings of Horus and the yacht. Meren and several of his men boarded the smaller craft, only to find a confused and frightened ship's master and crew. Another, smaller boat belonging to Ahiram had sailed earlier with servants and slaves. Ahiram had disembarked not long ago on the east bank. The ship's master had been ordered to sail north, to the delta, to a small estate owned by a friend of Ahiram.
Leaving those on the supply ship behind to deal with the yacht, Meren went ashore with Abu, sending forth his men to scour the quay. A short time later one came back, saying Ahiram had set out on the desert road with a band of men, all in chariots. Meren waited with impatience as his own chariot and horses were unloaded. He gazed across the river to the west. The sun was dying, its glare turning from almost white to a deep gold as it sank. They would never catch Ahiram before nightfall.
The moment his groom finished harnessing his thoroughbreds, Meren stepped into his chariot. Abu shoved an arrow case into the side compartment and handed Meren his dagger. While Abu gathered the reins, Meren checked his lances and scimitar. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the fourteen chariots ranged in a double column behind him and shouted the order to move out.
They launched into a trot followed by a full gallop. The docks vanished behind them; one after the other, groups of travelers dashed out of their path. A scout on horseback guided the company around great caravans slowly moving east toward remote mines and quarries and those headed west with foreign cargo.
Meren gripped the side of the chariot and braced his legs as the vehicle jounced over ruts and stones. Dust and grit flew in his face, but his gaze swept back and forth across the horizon as they scaled barren hills and raced across the rocky surface of the desert. Soon all evidence of travelers vanished.
There was still no sign of Ahiram, and the sun was quickly disappearing behind them. If it hadn't been for the speed of Wings of Horus, he would never have closed the distance between them as much as he had. Now he had to trust in the superiority of his horses. His constant training with them would show in their stamina and speed. The question was, did Ahiram have better animals?
The outrider slowed. He suddenly pointed, cried out, and swerved off the road to the north. Jumping off his horse, he bent over something in the desert floor. Light was growing dim as Meren's chariot pulled alongside the outrider.
"Lord, a group of chariots left the road here."
Meren examined the shallow marks made in the creamy dust. A group of at least seven chariots, not a caravan of pack animals and drivers on foot-Ahiram. The tracks had to be fresh, or the wind would have obliterated them. No one left the road and headed into the desert at night unless forced. Had Ahiram lost his wits, or had his courage failed? He might have seen bandits coming at him. Or was he meeting someone?
"Follow the tracks," Meren ordered.
He jumped into his chariot again, and Abu slapped the reins on the backs of their team. To either side of them, his men spread out. Whips cracking, they headed away from the Red Sea road.
If they didn't find Ahiram soon, they would have to stop for fear of losing his trail in darkness. They were going at a trot now. Meren was about to call a halt when a sound floated to him on the night breeze. He knew that sound, that high-pitched, wordless blare- part scream, part ching of metal against metal-the sound of distant battle.
He glanced at Abu, then turned and shouted an order, sweeping his arm out, over his head and in the direction of the sound. A war cry went up from the charioteers, and the company burst into a gallop that took them over the crest of a hill. Halfway between the hill and the horizon he spotted the skirmish.
A group of men crouched behind overturned chariots and dead horses fought off what appeared to be bandits. As Meren and his company sped toward them, the attackers broke off. Some clambered into abandoned chariots, while a few vaulted onto the backs of horses that had escaped harness and fought the animals until they launched into a gallop. Others waited long enough to release a volley of arrows.
Meren reached over the side of the chariot for his shield, shouting a warning. He heard the angry buzz of arrows. Hefting his shield so that it covered Abu and himself, he gripped the chariot with his free arm.
Three missiles hit the shield before he risked a look. The attackers had broken off and were retreating. Around him he saw charioteers releasing a return volley at those still within range, while their drivers aimed their chariots at the enemy. With the ease of years, he grabbed his own bow, strung it, and let off an arrow. Like all charioteers, he'd been trained to fire while being rattled by a charging chariot. He released quickly, hearing the flat, thwacking sound of the bow. The arrow shot up in a low arc and stabbed into the chest of a bandit who had lingered too long. Meren put the bow back in its case and grabbed his scimitar, but by the time they arrived at the scene, the last of the robbers had vanished.
Meren bolted from his chariot before it stopped. No one was left standing, so he signaled to his men to pursue the bandits. Two chariots remained behind. With Abu at his side, Meren walked from body to body. Most of the victims seemed to be Ahiram's guards.
There was one unarmed man, a servant by the roughness of his dress, no doubt one of those Ahiram's porter had mentioned. Meren walked by the servant's body. He pointed to a wounded horse. One of the charioteers drew a short sword.
Meren turned away from the sight, only to come upon the cloaked body of a bandit. He was about to pass it by when his thoroughness made him stoop and pull the cloak. The body rolled over; the edges of the cloak fell back.
The bandit had died of an arrow in his neck. He wore his hair in plaits bound by leather thongs, and, unlike an Egyptian, he had a beard that had been twisted into complex, curling ringlets. But what disturbed Meren was his body armor, a shift of bronze scales. He knelt and studied the short sword that had fallen beside the man's hip. Then he lifted the bandit's right arm. The right wrist was thicker than the left, the right forearm heavier of muscle and crisscrossed with scars.
Rising, Meren rubbed his chin. He heard a moan and whirled to face what he'd thought was another dead man. As he drew close he recognized the familiar short figure lying facedown next to an overturned chariot. He knelt beside Ahiram and turned him on his back. Face, curly hair, and pointed beard coated with dust and blood, Ahiram gasped and clenched his stomach. His other arm was supported in a sling. Meren tried to pry the man's hand from a bleeding wound in his gut, but Ahiram's eyes flew open, the whites standing out against his dark skin.
"Mer-en." Ahiram struggled to breathe, and his bloodied hand clutched Meren's arm. "Be wary. He'll betray you too."
"Who will? Did you kill Qenamun?"
Ahiram was staring up at him, his breath coming after long pauses.
Meren put his hand over Ahiram's. "Did you kill him? Why did you flee?"
He heard a long, gurgling intake of breath. Meren swore; he'd heard that sound too many times. He wasn't surprised when the life vanished from Ahiram's eyes and his body relaxed.
Meren stood and moved away, his gaze raking over the dead man, taking in the loose, torn robe of dark brown. Ahiram had changed from an Egyptian kilt to the wool clothing of an Asiatic, as had his companions. The attackers had robbed their quarry of jewels and weapons. Little was left to inspect. Ahiram was barefoot; had they even taken the sandals of the dead?
Meren was contemplating the strange chance that the man he'd been chasing had come upon bandits, when the sun dipped below the horizon. A last burst of fiery light glinted off the gold foil on a sandal lying upside down a few paces from Ahiram's body. Meren stared at it, still intent on who the attackers could have been. Then he blinked and strode toward the sandal. Holding a torch in one hand, Abu joined him.
"The bodies have been looted," Abu said as Meren slowly picked up the sandal. "But I think most are officers who served under Ahiram. Shall we make camp for the night, lord?"
Meren didn't answer. He turned the sandal over and ran his fingers across its surface-wood overlaid with a marquetry veneer of bark, leather, and gold foil. Expensive. Prince's sandals.
He was about to toss it away, but hesitated. Something about it seemed too familiar. Holding it nearer the torchlight, he examined the design on the sole. Two captives, an Asiatic and a Nubian, were bound with stems of Egyptian lotus and papyrus. Above and below the figures were groups of bows.
This device, the representation of Egypt's traditional enemies, meant that the wearer trod his foes underfoot.
Few men wore such a device. It was usually reserved for royalty, but not for foreign princes like Ahiram. With growing alarm, Meren searched his memory for the last time he'd seen this sandal.
It was too large to be the king's, and most of pharaoh's footwear was gold. Some of it resembled this one, but none bore the lozenge pattern in red-and-gold foil on the strap across the instep. But Meren had seen this sandal once, long ago. He closed his eyes and strained for the memory, one he had deliberately thrust into the darkness of his ka.
He had been in a cell, enduring whippings ordered by Akhenaten because he wasn't a believer in pharaoh's chosen god, the sun disk Aten. He was on his stomach, his cheek pressed to the packed earth of the floor. The air stirred, and he opened his eyes to see a foot beneath the hem of transparent linen, a foot encased in this gilded sandal. A foot that trod upon the enemies of Egypt-that of the ruler of the Two Lands.
"Bloody demons and everlasting fire," Meren murmured.
"My lord?"
Meren grabbed Abu's arm and pulled him farther away from the others. He thrust the sandal at Abu, who examined it.
'This isn't Prince Ahiram's."
Abu was looking at him now, wary and alert. "Yes, lord?"
"The last time I saw this sandal, it was on the foot of the old king."
"But…"
They stared at each other, each thinking back over five years. Akhenaten had died without warning, a victim of one of the plagues that had swept the kingdom out of Palestine, Syria, and the kingdoms of the Tigris and Euphrates. That is what the court knew. That is what Ay had told Meren. Akhenaten had been struck down shortly after naming Tutankhamun's older brother, Smenkhare, coregent so that he could share the burdens of governing with a younger man.
The whole of the Two Lands had grieved-if not deeply or long. And then Akhenaten had been buried, contrary to tradition, in a tomb east of his heretic capital rather than on the west bank of the Nile, soon to be followed by one of his daughters and the young Smenkhare as well. The crown of Egypt had gone to the sole male heir, the youngest of the three brothers, Tutankhamun. Meren might have believed that Akhenaten's death had been caused by the plague if he hadn't seen the results of the real sickness in Smenkhare. Akhenaten's death had been much more sudden, with no fever, no lingering, nothing.
But the kingdom needed stability, not strife caused by suspicions of regicide. Tutankhamun, a child of nine, had needed his support, his vigilance, his protection. So he attended the burial of Akhenaten, king of Egypt, and watched the priests and attendants pack away all pharaoh's possessions in rich caskets and boxes. These had been placed in the tomb Akhenaten had designed for himself but never completed.
Necropolis officials had sealed the tomb for eternity after the funeral. Time passed. The old gods of Egypt clamored for restoration and repair of the damage wrought upon them by the heretic king. The decision was made to abandon the parvenu capital and return to the royal city of Thebes.
The court quit the heretic city, leaving a skeletal staff in charge of the royal tombs in which were buried the fanatical Akhenaten, his incomparable queen Nefertiti, and several of their daughters. And it was there, in the deserted capital, deep underground in the royal tomb, that this sandal should have been.
"The king's sandal," Abu said in a whisper.
Meren's thoughts were leaping ahead, searching for explanations. "You know what I'm speaking of. We both know the virulence of the hatred borne for Akhenaten. So many had their livings taken, their lives ruined. Ahiram's own father died because of Akhenaten."
Abu shivered as he looked at the sandal. "He had the names of the gods stricken from their temples and brought the wrath of Amun down upon all our heads. Plagues, famine-"
"The wrath of Amun!" Meren stared at Abu.
"Lord," Abu said, "are you saying-"
"Don't speak of it," Meren snapped. He thrust the sandal at Abu. "Put that somewhere out of sight and say nothing of it to anyone. Not to anyone. We're leaving."
"But, lord, the others haven't returned."
"Abu, look at that bandit. He's no peasant criminal. He's a warrior who hasn't taken much care to conceal himself. Leave one man to wait for the others. They're to bring any prisoners to the docks. We're going back to the ship at once."
"At night?"
Meren wasn't listening. He turned and raced back to his chariot. Abu ran after him and jumped in as Meren slapped the reins across the horses' backs. While Abu shouted instructions at the men still at the skirmish site, Meren turned the chariot in the direction of the desert road they'd abandoned.
Abu nearly fell out of the vehicle when it bounced over a stone. He landed on his knees and clutched at the sides of the chariot.
"Where are we going, lord?"
'To a place I thought I'd never see again," Meren said as he pulled the reins to the right to guide the team south. "To a place of great beauty, and of death-Horizon of Aten."