Drinker Of Blood lm-5 Page 12

  Now Meren felt his mouth go dry. He fought back visions of his father's death, visions he thought he'd banished forever.

  "Should thy majesty come to believe that I have done evil-" He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment, and then began again, using a more courtly phrase. "Should I be banished from the grace of thy majesty's favor, I beg that my family not be forced to share my fate as-"

  "Stop!"

  All conversation in the garden ceased. Karoya, who was never far from the king, moved uneasily and gripped his spear.

  Tutankhamun ignored everyone and began again. "You're frightening me."

  "I don't wish to, golden one."

  "Are you trying to make me unsure of you? Why would you ask such a thing if your name is true and honorable?"

  He couldn't explain. How could he tell the boy that his greatest fear wasn't ruin at the hands of his enemies? What he most feared was that his family would be made to suffer as well. After Akhenaten killed his father, Meren had been dragged into the morass of pharaoh's enmity. His cousin Ebana had fared far worse, losing both wife and son.

  He had to say something. "I can only swear before the mighty Amun and all the gods that I am true to thy majesty."

  That oath had done little to assuage the king's apprehension. Meren shifted his position behind the brick wall. His legs were growing numb. It hadn't helped that, in an attempt to change the subject, the king had asked about the investigation into the guard's death. Upon learning that Abu had been sent out of the city without finishing the inquiry, Tutankhamun had been irate. Eyes flashing with temper, he'd almost ordered Meren to bring Abu back, but a royal messenger had interrupted him. Hearing of the raiders caused all else to flee the royal heart.

  Now it was the king's turn to shift his weight and pound at numbed muscles. Meren checked the positions of the war band. Karoya, Mose, another Nubian called Turi, and two others formed a wall around the youth, all that could be hidden behind the wall. The king moved again.

  Meren remembered the wait before his first battle. "It shouldn't be long now, majesty."

  "Good," Tutankhamun replied. "Every time a nomad chief or a bandit leader decides to raid, I get a fresh inundation of half-dead peasants throwing themselves at my feet, begging for asylum, begging for food, and bringing the raiders closer to the Nile. At last I'm going to see these bringers of chaos for myself."

  "These villagers have been most unfortunate," Meren said as he glanced around the newly built houses. "One of the women told me that twice before they have fled the raiders. They've left behind the houses they lived in for generations, the graveyards of their ancestors, the men who died defending them. All that's left of a once-prosperous village is a band of women, children, old men, and youths. There isn't a male over the age of thirteen left."

  "Except for that young potter," the king said, his voice vibrating with restrained anger. "He'll soon die from losing that leg."

  Meren peered over the wall into the darkness. No movement yet. He listened to the whispered banter among the war band. Most had been raised in the palace along with Tutankhamun. They'd trained together, studied together, lived together, so that they formed a close-knit unit. Each knew the movements and skills of the other, and all would die for pharaoh.

  Meren especially trusted the two oldest-Hety and Raweben. The youngest, like pharaoh, had fourteen years. With these companions, pharaoh's training had been hard. Meren had agreed with Ay and Horemheb that the boy wasn't to expect royal treatment from them during training. He had been an equal. He received the same blows for negligence. He had run the same races around the palace walls. Their weapons and tasks had been his, except that they had been seasoned in battle while the king had not.

  From across the village came the yowl of a cat, Horemheb's signal.

  Meren picked up the bow that lay beside him. "They come." One of the goats in the pen bleated. "Remember to wait until they're all within the camp before shooting."

  A long howl sounded; then a pounding of hooves and the clash of metal signaled the raiders' attack. Expecting no resistance, the bandits clattered into the center of the hamlet, swords waving wildly. On foot and on horseback they circled the animal pen. Before the intruders could attack the deserted dwellings, Horemheb gave a shout. Meren let fly his arrow and watched it strike the chest of a man waving a stolen scimitar encrusted with gold.

  A horse screamed and went down with an arrow in its leg. One of the thieves had the wits to shout a command to take refuge. Tutankhamun aimed his bow at this man. With satisfaction Meren watched the king single him out; five bandits had fallen, but a score remained, and they'd be less trouble without a leader. The king's shot caught the man's arm near the shoulder as he leaped from his horse. He scrambled to the ground, ducked behind the carcass of a dead horse, and pulled the arrow from his flesh.

  Meren drew his scimitar. Before he could speak, the king gave a war cry, vaulted over the wall, and ran at the dismounted raiders. Cursing, Meren, Karoya, and the war band hurtled after the boy, but a wave of raiders separated them from their royal charge. Karoya was at Meren's side, then past him, his longer legs eating the distance to pharaoh. Then the Nubian stumbled. His body jerked, and he hit the ground with a dagger in his shoulder. Karoya let out a piercing cry at Meren and pointed at the king.

  "By the gods, I knew it.'" Meren sprang across the wounded Karoya. This was what he'd feared. Desperate to prove himself a warrior, Tutankhamun had allowed the excitement of battle to overcome his reason.

  Meren reached the king in time to hurl himself at the boy and block a blow from a spear. They rolled together, but they jumped up and countered the assault of two bandits. Meren saw the king counter a slice from a blade and stagger backward.

  Tutankhamun's opponent was twice his weight. To Meren's relief, the king whipped out his dagger as the man charged him and jabbed it into the raiders unprotected stomach. Blood gushed onto the boy's hand and arm when he withdrew the dagger, but he ignored it and rolled to his feet.

  It had never been an even match, skilled warriors against untrained outlaws who relied on surprise and superior weapons against unarmed peasants. The raiders fled in all directions, leaving weapons, horses, and stolen goods behind. Fighting their way to the king, Raweben, Hety, and Mose flanked their royal charge.

  Meren saw the twins Seti and Hor pursue three bandits into the animal pen. Seti lifted a goat and threw it at a plump thief. The raider went down with the animal on his back. The goat bleated in outrage and nipped the man's buttock.

  As the fighting ebbed, Meren followed the king to the pen. While they watched the spectacle, a flicker of movement caught Meren's eye. He turned, his scimitar raised, but three raiders were on them. Raweben engaged the first man. Hety went down under a blow from a staff while Mose engaged the attacker. Meren leaped astride Hety's prostrate figure and swept his scimitar around in an arc. The raider ducked, feinted, and drew a dagger.

  As the bandit cocked his arm back to throw, Meren heard the hiss of an arrow. The thief grunted as the missile pierced his gut. Three more arrows hit the man before he dropped. Then Tutankhamun was at his side, his bow still in his hands.

  Mose still guarded the king with Meren, but the bandit leader and two of his men charged over a wall behind which they'd hidden. One thief swung a staff at the king's head. Tutankhamun dropped on top of the prone Hety. The bandit raised his weapon to bash the king's skull.

  Even as Meren swung his scimitar, Tutankhamun raised an arm. His wrist flicked, and his dagger caught the raider in the throat. Meren's weapon sliced at the raider as he fell. Mose was busy dispatching the other man.

  As Meren pulled his scimitar from the gut of the dead thief, a hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of his head. At the same time, his weapon was knocked out of his hand and a scimitar blade pressed against his side.

  Meren saw Tutankhamun spring to his feet. Several of the war band rushed to the king, who thrust his arm out to prevent them from charging. They
stood still while the raider moved away, using Meren as a shield. Quiet settled over the hamlet. The coppery smell of blood mixed with the odor of dung and straw. From beyond the settlement came sounds of pursuit and death. The twins, Horemheb, and a few others turned in their direction but made no sudden move toward the raider who held Meren.

  From the corner of his eye Meren could see that the man was the leader the king had tried to kill earlier. He had a short, curled beard and long hair tied back with a gold ribbon. Blood oozed down his arm and the sleeve of his wool tunic. The raider's gaze darted from one opponent to another and settled on Tutankhamun. In accented, broken Egyptian, the man spoke to him.

  "I kill this tall one you don't let Zababa free."

  It took Meren a few moments to translate the mangled vowels and bad grammar. He caught the king's eye and gave his head an almost imperceptible shake.

  Tutankhamun wiped sweat from his chin with the back of his arm. "Let him go."

  Meren edged his hand toward the raider's blade. Zababa made a quick, light slash, and Meren gasped. The blade hadn't cut deep, and he pressed a hand against the wound.

  Zababa held his blade over Meren's ribs. "Give chariot and promise no harm to Zababa."

  The king's attention never left Zababa. Meren could see the boy's effort to hold the man's gaze. That meant that somewhere, a warrior was drawing back an arrow and waiting for the royal signal. Meren understood the king's dilemma. Tutankhamun dared not give the signal for fear Zababa would live long enough to kill him. Zababa's blade dug into Meren's flesh, and he clamped his teeth together to keep from making a sound.

  "Promise now."

  "Wait!"

  Meren met the king's warning gaze and nodded, trying to make known his trust in the boy's judgment.

  "You may have the chariot," Tutankhamun said, "but only if you free my man first."

  "Give promise, little lord." Zababa jerked on his hair, but Meren set his jaw and refused to cry out.

  "I promise," Tutankhamun said. "With Amun as witness, I, Tutankhamun, king of Egypt, promise you freedom if you release my servant."

  Meren heard Zababa grunt and felt the scimitar slip a little as the thief called out, "King of Egypt? The little lord is king of Egypt?" A bark of laughter made Meren grit his teeth. "Give chariot, Egypt."

  Meren could see Tutankhamun's strained features as he signaled for a chariot. When the vehicle arrived, Meren was dragged to it. He had almost decided to risk hitting Zababa when the king's young voice boomed into the night.

  "Leave him. I gave you a promise, Zababa. The promise of a king. I give you another. If you take him, if you kill him, I'll hunt you down. I'll find you, and I will stake you out in the desert. With my own blade I'll peel the skin from your body and feed it to the jackals. But first I'll hack your cock off and roast it before your eyes. Before all the gods of Egypt, I swear I will do this."

  Meren felt the thief's body tense. Millennia seemed to pass as the young king and the bandit engaged in a contest of wills.

  "Pharaoh keeps his word," Meren said at last.

  With a curse, Zababa gave him a sudden shove that sent Meren toppling out of the chariot. Stumbling, Meren almost fell, but arms caught him and lifted. Meren found himself leaning on the king as the thief barreled past them. Lord Uben-Ra, the youngest of the war band, followed Zababa with his bow. Tutankhamun shouted, and the youth lowered his weapon.

  Horemheb came to Meren's side, lending an arm. He and the king lowered Meren beside the wounded Hety.

  "Karoya?" Tutankhamun asked. Horemheb nodded in the bodyguard's direction. Across the village, Karoya's dagger wound was being dressed.

  "His injury isn't bad, majesty."

  Someone brought a lamp, water, and bandages, and Horemheb went to work on Meren.

  "It's only a shallow cut, damn you."

  Horemheb dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth. "Then this won't take long, so be quiet."

  "Majesty, you should have let Uben-Ra kill that bastard Zababa," Meren said as he winced.

  "My promise was given before Amun."

  "A promise to a man who nearly killed me," Meren said.

  Meren looked up to find the war band hovering about, waiting for the king to send them after Zababa. "Be it given to my ministers, or to that desert scum, my promise is the promise of pharaoh. I won't break it." He sank down beside Meren. "Of course, anyone who didn't hear me when I promised won't know to let Zababa go free. Will they?"

  Meren noticed that Tutankhamun was careful not to lift his eyes until Uben-Ra, Seti, and Hor had drifted away in the direction of Zababa's flight. He also saw the strained look in the boy's eyes, the haunted air he remembered from his first encounters with death and blood. Meren's mouth twisted in a pained smile. "Such is the logic of princes. It circles and undulates like the crotch of a whore."

  A warrior stumbled. Meren heard the war band's shocked silence, but the king was grinning at him. Laughter burst out of the boy as Meren had intended, dissipating the heart-tearing tension that was the legacy of battle.

  "By the gods, Meren," the king said, "you're as irreverent as a Babylonian and as unpredictable as a desert storm."

  After disposing of the thieves' bodies, the occupants of the hamlet were allowed to return. The royal party returned to their camp, which had been set up out of sight of the threatened villages but still near the desert's edge. The perimeter was formed by shields driven into the ground, so close together that they formed a wall. Two gaps had been left to allow movement in and out, but each was guarded. Within the square palisade, at the center of the camp, lay pharaoh's tent, surrounded by those of his officers. Tutankhamun's tent was more a pavilion. It was divided into curtain chambers and furnished with a portable throne, a folding camp bed of gilded cedar, and all the other luxuries with which a living god must travel. Before the royal tent stood tall poles bearing streamers and standards of battle.

  Late though it was, however, the king wasn't in his tent. He and his war band were celebrating his first victory. Meren remained with his royal charge to see the downing of several cups of delta wine before retiring. He was resting on his own camp bed now after washing and having his cut seen to by the royal physician. Through the fabric of his tent torchlight danced, and he could hear the laughter of the war band. Finally, after the moon had set, even the young king tired. The war songs faded, and the camp was blanketed in silence. But Meren was still awake.

  After what seemed like hours of trying to drift off, he sat up in frustration. Despite the wine, his body felt as taut as a bowstring. He told himself it was the aftermath of going into battle with pharaoh. In all the years he'd been a warrior, he'd never had to do that. He had never gone to war with Akhenaten, and the pharaoh Amunhotep had been too old to fight by the time Meren came of age. Having the responsibility of the boy's life during combat had been terrifying.

  Meren tried to put the evenings events behind him, but then his thoughts drifted to the attempts to ruin his honor. Someone was frightened enough to risk exposure by concocting such incidents. The list of possible evildoers was obvious-Dilalu, Yamen, perhaps Prince Hunefer.

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, Meren rubbed his eyes and muttered, "I think not Hunefer. He hasn't the wits."

  He wasn't getting any sleepier. Sighing, Meren donned a cloak against the night chill and left his tent. Outside it was still dark, but the stars were fading. He walked through the phalanx of tents that surrounded the king's pavilion, past the open-air camps of the infantry escort and the lines of tethered horses. Meren paused to greet Wind and Star. Their nickering and the nuzzles of their soft noses calmed the whirlwind of his thoughts. He fed them handfuls of grain while he sought more peaceful thoughts, thoughts that would allow him the tranquillity of sleep.

  But even with Wind and Star, peace seemed unattainable. Perhaps if he could be alone… Untying the horses, he took them with him out of the palisade. The sentries saluted him as he passed, and soon he had walked the animals out of sight of the o
utlying guard posts. He sometimes did this after a battle, when sleep proved impossible.

  Going was slow; even his leather sandals provided little protection from rocks. As he tried to see in the dark, Meren realized that over the past weeks he'd felt as if he was moving in a black desert, with unseeable dangers and less power to protect himself than he had at this moment to keep himself from stumbling over rocks.

  He hated feeling powerless and surrounded by invisible evil. He might gain control if he could remember something of those last days of Nefertiti's life. So far his attempts had failed. He'd buried his memories so effectively that they might as well have been sealed in the innermost vault of the great pyramid. Those days belonged to the time after Ay had persuaded Akhenaten not to kill him. Pharaoh had released Meren but kept him within reach by assigning him to Ay's service. Thus he'd remained in Horizon of the Aten while his young wife and family stayed in the country, away from danger.

  His duties as Ay's aide often brought him to Nefertiti, and he'd spent a great deal of time in the queen's palace, bringing and receiving messages. Over the years he'd seen the queen mature, and from this vantage as an intimate of Ay, he became privy to the growing divergence of opinion between her and pharaoh. She had concealed this division from all but her father. Even Akhenaten hadn't guessed the extent of her reservations about the Aten. That much he remembered, but such recollections were only general ones. It was as if he were looking back at that time through a length of ash-covered funeral garment-his vision obscured by the gauze and cinders.

  After a few attempts at remembrance, Meren found himself sleepy at last. He started back to camp, but was weary and decided to ride Wind. Riding bareback was a useful skill, one used by messengers and scouts. Every charioteer learned, for he might need to ride should his chariot be damaged in the midst of battle. There still wasn't much light, so Meren proceeded at a walk, but as he neared camp, he heard shouts and the blast of trumpets.

  Kicking Wind into a trot and hauling Star behind him, Meren covered the remaining distance quickly. He approached the outlying post at a near canter. As he passed them, the guards shouted.