Slayer of Gods Read online

  “Healthy young boy here!” Pawero had bawled. “Who needs a strong boy for hard labor?”

  He glanced at the two, father and son, surprised that any man would hawk his son like a bolt of linen. He looked more closely and saw a scrawny body, inexpertly cropped and dusty hair, and large, half-moon eyes. His gaze traveled rapidly over the purple, yellow, and green blotches on the child’s arms, legs, and back. His lower lip was swollen, and he held himself in that careful, still manner that spoke of bruised or cracked ribs. But what fixed in Meren’s memory was the child’s haunted look, that sorrowful and doomed expression.

  All this he saw in a glance and walked on, his steps growing slower and slower. At the edge of the market he turned to look at the pair again. Pawero was entreating a prospective buyer. He suddenly turned and gave the boy a smack on the head.

  “Straighten up, Kysen. Show the man your fine muscles.”

  Kysen held his thin body more erect, and when his father turned away, gave him a look of contempt and defiance that contained the spirit of a warrior. Meren hesitated, admiration dawning. The child had obviously been mistreated for a long time. He could see old scars beneath the bruises. Yet this boy had somehow managed to preserve his courage, which spoke of a strength of heart beyond anything Meren would have expected. As he drew near the well, Pawero kept chattering to his customer with a servile smile plastered on his face.

  Kysen looked on, resigned. When the customer moved away, Pawero trotted after him, but the boy remained where he was. It was then that Meren heard him speak for the first time.

  “Why don’t you beat him into meeting your price?”

  Meren almost smiled. “You don’t protest being sold?”

  The boy started and whirled around to face him. After a few moments of startled contemplation, he shook his head.

  “Tried that, master. Just got hit for it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Meren said. “A man’s son is his staff of old age.”

  Kysen regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. “I have two older brothers, master.” His gaze faltered. “I’m not needed or…”

  “Wanted?”

  The dust-covered head lowered, and the boy said nothing.

  “Here! What are you doing bothering a great one?” Pawero swooped at Kysen and punched him in the stomach.

  Something snapped inside Meren. He swept around the well, grabbed Pawero by the hair, and dragged him away from the boy. Howling, the man staggered as Meren released him.

  “Oh, shut your muzzle,” Meren said. “How much for the boy?” He couldn’t believe his mouth had uttered the words.

  Pawero stopped whining, and his whole being lit with an almost magical glow as he appeared to calculate Meren’s wealth. He studied the gold, turquoise, and carnelian broad collar, the beaded belt and bronze dagger.

  “Oh, slaves is expensive, great one, especially a boy. Long years of service ahead for him, you know.”

  Meren raised an eyebrow, removed a gold ring with a bezel of lapis lazuli from his finger and held it up.

  “Agreed,” Pawero said quickly.

  “The boy comes with me now, and you will go to the temple of Amun tomorrow morning and execute a bill of sale before witnesses.”

  Pawero was bowing over and over. “Yes, great one. Of course, of course. And what name shall I give for the buyer?”

  “Meren.”

  The man stopped bowing and stared. Meren ignored him and continued. “Mark what I say, Pawero. From this day you have nothing to do with this boy. Do not come to my house seeking to trade on your shared blood. I have no wish to see you again.” Without waiting for Pawero’s reply, Meren motioned to Kysen.

  “Come with me, child.”

  The boy followed him back across the square, but faltered as they were about to turn a corner. He stood watching his father, and Meren waited. Pawero’s attention was fixed on the gold ring. He rubbed it, held it up so that it caught the sun’s rays, brought it close to see the design on the bezel. Then, without a glance at his son, he hurried away. Kysen’s eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t cry. His gaze remained on the spot where his father disappeared, and he blinked rapidly. Meren reached out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Kysen jumped, twisted around to face him, braced for a blow. Meren lowered his hand.

  “I won’t strike you.”

  Kysen merely looked at him.

  “There will be time enough for you to learn the truth of my words.”

  When the boy remained in his defensive stance, Meren stepped back from him to show his benign intentions. After a while Kysen straightened. Meren began to walk again.

  “Come, Kysen. The gods have put you in my way. You’re my responsibility now, and my first duty is to see that you get a bath.”

  “Bath! Rather get a beating.”

  He could still hear that outraged response all these years later. Meren felt a spasm of pain as he studied Kysen’s motionless body and recalled his childhood aversion to bathing. What a battle it had been to convince him that he wouldn’t drown if a servant poured water over him in the shower stall.

  “Meren, you’re not listening.”

  He looked up to find Anath and Bener watching him. Kysen hadn’t moved.

  “Yes?”

  “Bener asked what all the commotion was,” Anath said.

  “I arrested the pirate Othrys. He gave Kysen wine to drink just before he fell ill. If he doesn’t wake soon, I will use more severe persuasion to make him tell me what was in the wine.”

  Anath rose and joined him at the foot of the bed. “Then you suspect him?”

  “I must,” Meren said. “He may have been lying from the first, but he did say something that made me think he might be innocent. He claimed he could have killed me when I sought refuge with him when I was suspected of trying to kill pharaoh.”

  “But he couldn’t be sure you hadn’t told your family where you were,” Anath said. “If you had, and he killed you, he would have been suspected. Had I been faced with the situation, I would have waited to make certain your death couldn’t be traced to me.”

  “And by the time he was certain, I’d already contacted my charioteers. I see what you mean.”

  Anath put her palm against his cheek. “You look terrible, my love.”

  Meren turned and kissed her palm, suddenly weary. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he slept.

  “I can’t rest.”

  “I know a sleeping potion that will help,” Anath said. “I learned it from a Babylonian witch.”

  “A witch? That doesn’t sound good. Besides, I must remain awake for Kysen.”

  “Nonsense,” she said as she left the room. “Bener and I will watch over him and wake you at the first sign of a change in his condition. I’ll prepare the mixture at once.”

  Meren was too exhausted to argue. His thoughts were sluggish, his heart weary from the agony of the last few days. He sat beside Bener, and they studied Kysen’s features together.

  “Father, I have to talk to you.”

  Pressing his fingertips to his temples, Meren said, “I won’t argue with you anymore.”

  “I don’t want to argue, I just want to ask you about Anath.”

  “Not now,” he said.

  “No, not about you and Anath. About her wealth.”

  “What about it?”

  “Didn’t you say you went to her house? You saw it, and her possessions. She has as much furniture and more jewels than we do.”

  Meren touched Kysen’s forehead. It felt cool. “Anath is the Eyes of Babylon. The position requires wealth and accrues wealth.”

  “Oh,” Bener said with a frown. “It’s just that you always say you’re suspicious when those of moderate means become suddenly wealthy.”

  Meren transferred his gaze to his daughter, noted her calculating expression, and sighed. “You’re doing it again, working out puzzles. Leave it be. You’re to confine your thoughts to appropriate matters, and Anath’s prosperity isn�
�t your concern.”

  “But, Father, you always say—”

  “No!”

  Bener jumped and gave him a hurt look.

  “Forgive me, child, but I have no patience left after your abduction… and this.” He swept his arm toward Kysen. “Speak to me about your concerns when Kysen… if he…” He couldn’t finish.

  Anath appeared holding a glazed blue bottle and dragged him from the room. Meren allowed her to lead him to his bedchamber because he was too exhausted to argue. He lay down, but refused to drink the concoction she poured into a cup of wine.

  “I don’t want to be insensible while Kysen is ill.”

  “Very well.” Anath set the cup on the floor and climbed into the bed with him. She picked it up again. “A small sip will help you sleep without making you groggy.”

  He took one sip to please her, then settled back in her arms. He turned his face so that he could smell her perfumed body, but even that exotic scent failed to penetrate the numbness that had settled over him. Anath watched him for a while before summoning a servant, who appeared with her lute. She moved to a cushion beside the bed and strummed the strings of the instrument. It was an old one she’d had for years, made of the shell of a large tortoise.

  Meren lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling and listening to her play. Slowly, against his will, his eyes closed. He should be questioning Othrys, hunting down the missing Dilalu, anything to avoid having to think of losing Kysen as he almost lost Bener. The last thing he remembered before he slept was Anath’s voice murmuring, quiet as the north breeze.

  Chapter 17

  Meren woke with a start. He sat up, searching frantically for anything familiar, and found only blackness. His hands groped, and he found the bed. Still blind, he stumbled, hitting a post, and lurched away from it. A wave of dizziness made him bend over and brace himself. Taking long breaths, he slowly unbent and took cautious steps with his arms flung out in front of him. At last his hands found wood, and he pushed open a door.

  To his relief a charioteer stood outside. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. His blurry vision cleared, and he hurried to Kysen’s room, his heart pounding. His son was still imprisoned in his frightening slumber. Bener sat on a stool and half lay on the bed beside her brother, asleep. Was it his imagination, or did Ky seem paler? He could hardly see the boy’s chest move with his breathing. Growing cold with alarm, Meren dropped to his knees, took Kysen’s cold hand in his, and prayed to Amun to save his son.

  As he muttered the prayer, a shadow crossed the path of light cast by a lamp beside the bed, and an arm came down on his shoulder. Meren froze in shock, then recognized the heavy gold signet ring carved with cartouches enclosing two names.

  “Majesty?” Meren whispered. He sank to the floor.

  “Get up, Meren. I came as soon as my duties allowed.” Tutankhamun lowered himself to one knee beside Meren, his young face full of concern. “How is he?”

  Meren stood and looked down at Kysen. “He hasn’t moved since I lay him there. The physician says he can do nothing.”

  The king searched his face, then nodded at Meren’s sleeping daughter. “This is the work of the same one who abducted Lady Bener?”

  “Aye, majesty.”

  “Meren, you look like you’ve been through battle and lost.”

  “Thy majesty has great perception, and since Kysen was looking for the merchant Dilalu, it could be that he is the evil one we seek. But I’m not sure, and I dare not send anyone to hunt him right now. I’ve already captured the pirate Othrys, whom I suspect, and I shouldn’t have done it. If he’s the murderer, Kysen may suffer for my recklessness.” They both studied Kysen for a few moments.

  “When I thought you’d tried to kill me I sent for Kysen,” Tutankhamun said quietly. “I tried to make him betray you. A useless attempt, I admit. He told me I might as well kill him, because he wasn’t going to help me. I remember thinking how much I admired him for refusing to abandon you. One with a lesser heart might have tried to save himself.”

  Meren almost smiled. “Bravery has always come easily to him, majesty. The first time I saw him I was surprised to find so great a heart lodged in the body of one born so low.”

  “The gods choose certain men and endow them with extraordinary gifts,” Tutankhamun said. “Like those who rose from the common ranks to become great architects or physicians. He will make a fine staff of old age for you, an admirable successor.”

  “If he lives,” Meren whispered.

  Just then Anath and Nebamun came in with one of the king’s physicians, and at their entrance Bener woke. Meren told his daughter to get some rest, and the physicians began to examine Kysen again.

  Meren schooled himself to watch his son fail to react to the prodding and handling.

  “Meren,” the king said. “You’re doing no good here, and we must talk. We’ll go to your office. Come, Anath.”

  Once in the room, Tutankhamun began prowling around, picking up a scribe’s palette and setting it down, toying with a wooden penholder in the form of a hollow tube. Meren stood steeped in anxiety beside the master’s dais. Threatening Othrys had been a stupid thing to do. He was allowing his fear to govern him, and Kysen could well lose his life because of it. Anath tried to comfort him, but her touch only increased his agitation. Setting his jaw, he refrained from snapping at her and took her hand from his arm.

  Tutankhamun paused near them and tossed the penholder onto a document case. As if from a distance Meren saw that his hands were shaking. He should have remembered that pharaoh was suffering too, and trying hard to conceal it.

  “Yet another attack on you,” the king said in a voice that shook. “We must find this criminal before he murders your whole family. My majesty cannot allow such insolence.”

  Meren shook his head wearily. “I can do nothing more until Kysen

  He couldn’t go on. He was afraid to voice his hope. It was too fragile to bear being put into words. Anath again touched his arm gently as she murmured words of comfort. This time he didn’t move away.

  “I took a chance in grabbing Othrys because I was desperate, and it gained me nothing.”

  “Had I been faced with such a threat,” the king said, “I would have captured those most likely to be guilty as you did. Besides, I doubt Othrys is the culprit in this case. From what you say about him, he’s too clever to do the poisoning himself. But I don’t understand why the killer would poison Kysen at all.”

  “He sent a message saying this was punishment for failing to do as I was ordered,” Meren said. “Kysen was in the Caverns looking for Dilalu.”

  “But why attack your children?” Tutankhamun said as he wandered over to a stack of notes. He picked them up and began going through them. “If he’s so desperate to prevent you from finding out who he is, the most certain remedy would be your death.”

  “Ah, but majesty, what would happen if the criminal did kill Meren?” Anath asked.

  Tutankhamun looked up from reading a papyrus and considered, his features becoming blank. “I would close the gates, shut down the docks, and rake this city from one end to the other for anyone suspicious. Then I’d hand anyone I caught to General Horemheb for questioning.” He smiled. “The general’s methods aren’t as subtle as Meren’s but they’re effective. I wouldn’t release the city from my grip until I was satisfied.”

  “Thus ruining many an illicit enterprise,” Anath said. “This drinker of blood has a network of interests, many located here, if I’m correct. To avoid bringing down thy majesty’s wrath, he must go carefully.”

  “I didn’t do as he wished, however,” Meren said.

  “True,” Anath replied. “But if you had, someone else would have been blamed for the death of Queen Nefertiti, pharaoh would have been satisfied, and the drinker of blood could operate safely.”

  The king leafed through another stack of papyri. “And all these threats began the moment you returned from Horizon of the Aten.”

  “And t
he moment Kysen and Bener began their investigations of Prince Usermontu and Lord Pendua, majesty,” Meren said. “I long to drag each suspect into a cell and beat them until I get a confession, but I dare not for fear there’s some antidote Kysen needs that the criminal is withholding.”

  “Yes,” the king said. He looked down at the records he was holding. “So instead you’ve been wading through old documents.” He sighed and read the top sheet of papyrus. “By the mercy of Amun, look at these. It all seems so long ago, a lifetime. This is from year fifteen of my brother’s reign, a record of cattle from the temple of Ra given to Usermontu for his loyal service. I was almost five.” His eyes held a distant memory. “I haven’t seen old Usermontu in years. The last time was just before the queen died, I think. Yes, I remember she gave him an audience, and berated him as if he were a disobedient monkey for falsifying some kind of record.”

  Meren drew closer. “Thy majesty never told me.”

  “I had forgotten until I saw this.” The king pointed to the document he held. “I didn’t understand the details, but I remember the violence of their quarrel. I had never heard a servant raise his voice to a member of the royal family before, and Usermontu was so furious he was spewing his words along with quite a bit of spittle.”

  “What did her majesty do?”

  “I don’t know,” Tutankhamun said, his gaze growing clouded as he tried to recall. “I’m not sure, but—yes, I think she became ill before she did anything to him.” Tutankhamun’s head drooped, and he allowed the document to fall to the floor. “Then she died, and I was alone.”