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  Pausing, Meren surveyed a sea of the finest starched and pleated linen worn by dozens of courtiers. Ministers, nobles, and government officials rivaled the raiment of the gods in their stone temples with their plaited and smoothed wigs, their heavy earrings, their collars of gold and electrum. None, however, equaled the splendor of pharaoh.

  Tutankhamun was seated on an ebony-and-gold throne, and he wore the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. Though only fourteen, he carried the heavy gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and turquoise of his royal costume as if it were unadorned linen. Meren had to stop himself from smiling. It wasn't long ago that the boy-king had complained bitterly of the nuisance of having to wear the tall, heavy crowns, the ceremonial gold beard and cumbersome imperial rings. He'd said it was like wearing the contents of the royal treasury.

  A snakelike movement caught Meren's attention. Lying beside the throne and swirling his tail was the king's black leopard-Sa, the guardian. The double crown moved slightly. Meren's gaze flicked upward to meet the solemn regard of pharaoh. Tutankhamun lifted his eyebrows, a signal so fleeting that most wouldn't understand it.

  Meren eased his way through the ranks of ministers close to the king and joined the vizier Ay and General Horemheb beside the first step of the covered dais upon which the throne rested. The entire hall gleamed with the jewels of the courtiers, the decorations on the weapons of the guards, the embellishments on the posts and awning over the dais, the throne itself. More royal guards stood in motionless rows against the walls. Behind them rose great painted reliefs showing the king slaughtering his enemies in his golden chariot, the king returning from battle with hundreds of prisoners, the king trampling a Libyan rebel while hacking a Syrian with his war ax.

  Tutankhamun complained increasingly that Meren and his other ministers wouldn't let him go into battle and make these brilliantly executed paintings more than examples of royal aspirations. The boy was growing more and more impatient to measure up to the warrior-king images with which he was confronted daily. Soon Tutankhamun would make Meren fulfill his promise to take him on a raid against one of the bandit gangs that plagued the more isolated Egyptian villages.

  An abrupt silence fell over the assembly. A hollow pounding echoed through the hall and bounced off the high walls. The overseer of the audience hall paced slowly down the long avenue formed by column after column, each in the form of a bundle of papyrus plants. Meren had to stop his thoughts from wandering back to his own troubles as the overseer stopped some distance from pharaoh.

  "Mugallu, prince and emissary of the king of the Hittites prostrates himself and begs to come into the presence of the living Horus: Strong Bull, Arisen in truth, Gold-Horus: Great of strength, Smiter of Asiatics, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, Son of Ra, Lord of Thebes, beloved of Amun-Ra."

  The elderly Ay left Meren's side to stand before the throne. He would speak to the Hittite prince, for pharaoh never deigned to engage in personal speech with mere emissaries, even if they were princes. Trumpets blared, and the towering double doors, each encased in gold, swung open. Mugallu strode quickly into the hall. His clothing gleamed strangely, and Meren swore under his breath. The emissary was wearing Hittite silver.

  From head to foot, the man was wearing the white metal that rivaled gold in its beauty, the metal that, unlike gold, pharaoh did not control. It was a reminder of the richness of the Hittite mountain kingdom. A deliberate challenge it was, for much of pharaoh's vast power stemmed from control of Egyptian and Nubian gold. The emissary's kilt was embroidered with roundels in the shape of lions' heads, his cloak with lozenge-shaped plaques in the same design. Even his boots with their curled-up toes reflected silver. Two thick coils of hair on either side of his face hung past his shoulders. The rest of his long, wavy hair was kept back from his face by an engraved silver diadem.

  Meren edged nearer the throne and cast a covert glance at pharaoh. The king understood this challenge. Unfortunately, he had allowed it to annoy him. Those large, solemn eyes narrowed. He clenched his scepters, the crook and the flail, until his knuckles turned white. Meren covered his mouth and coughed. Pharaoh's gaze slid to him, then snapped back to the Hittite, who was receiving the formal greeting from Ay.

  During this ceremony, Mugallu waited with an uninterested expression on his face. He was a young man, a warrior of the Hittite court and a relative of King Suppiluliumas. Like most Hittites, he was stocky, like a zebra, and bore a pyramid of a nose that jutted out from his face with an aggression that mirrored the character of his people.

  Meren remembered Mugallu from other visits; his most common facial expression was a sneer, and unlike pharaoh's subjects or his vassals, he didn't hold Tutankhamun in reverence as a living god. To Mugallu, pharaoh was another prince like himself, and he stood in the way of Hittite ambitions of conquest. Of all the peoples of the world, only a Hittite would dare approach pharaoh so insolently.

  Ay was concluding his speech. "The emissary may kiss the foot of the Lord of the Two Lands, the living god, son of Amun, the golden one, the divine Nebkheprure Tutankhamun."

  Mugallu swaggered forward, his gaze fixed on the young king rather than on the floor, as that of any mannered ambassador would have been. He almost bounced up the stairs of the dais, over the inlaid figures of the bound and subjugated enemies of Egypt that decorated the platform. When he reached the king, he dropped quickly to his knees, bent his head over pharaoh's golden sandal, and straightened almost immediately. Backing down the stairs, bowing slightly, he returned to his place. Pharaoh barely nodded, granting permission for the ceremony to proceed, his expression blank.

  Mugallu clapped his hands once. A slave hurried forward, bearing an object covered with a cloth. The slave knelt on the floor before pharaoh, proffering the gift with his head bent. Mugallu removed the cloth. A stir moved through the throng of courtiers and ministers that filled the hall. Lying on the cushion was a king's dagger with a gold hilt engraved with roaring lions, bulls, and stags. But it wasn't the gold that provoked awe; it was the blade, made of iron, the metal that could sever bronze. Egyptians called it metal of heaven.

  All royal murders and dangers of intrigue fled Meren's thoughts as he gazed at the dagger. He looked at Mugallu, whose expression was mockingly humble as he bowed to pharaoh. Was the Hittite king issuing another challenge? Or did he merely want his rival to fear that he'd discovered the secrets of working the metal in large amounts and could now outfit his entire army? Meren felt General Horemheb move. He followed as the military man joined Ay in staring at the Hittite prince.

  "O great king, ruler of Egypt," Mugallu said, his voice echoing in the empty heights of the throne room. "Thus speaks tabarna Suppiluliumas, the great king, king of Hatti, son of Tadhaliyas, great king of Hatti, son of Armuwandas, descendant of Hattusilis, king of Kussara."

  The emissary lifted his arms. He assumed an aggrieved expression, which sat ill with his pugnacious features, especially the eagle's-beak nose. "Why does the king, my brother, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, accuse me of destroying his vassals? Are not his friends my friends, and his enemies my enemies? Someone has spoken falsely to the king my brother, for my heart is pure, my deeds clean of evil."

  Mugallu lowered his arms and took a step toward Tutankhamun. He smiled at pharaoh as if he were a naughty but amusing puppy. A murmur rose up from the officials behind Ay, but Meren kept his gaze on the king. Tutankhamun's blank expression had vanished. His large dark eyes could look bruised and filled with the grief of the world, but now they ignited with the flames of the lakes of fire in the netherworld. Meren quickly stepped to Ay's side, caught the older man's gaze, and looked up at pharaoh.

  "Do something," Meren whispered.

  Ay muttered, "You know I can't."

  Having failed to gain a response from his royal victim, Mugallu resumed his speech. "Thus says the tabarna Suppiluliumas, the great king, king of Hatti. The king, my brother, is young, like a colt among stallions in the treacherous, snow-shrouded moun
tains. Let not my brother lend his ear to evil-sayers." Mugallu paused to swagger to the front right corner of the dais, near Karoya, where he put his fists on his hips and continued.

  "Thus says the king of Hatti. Never do I attack a prince in his city without just cause. In Syria certain carrion-eaters have given refuge to Hittite traitors and refused to send them back to me. I have a right to pursue traitors and those who harbor them. But such small doings need not concern my younger brother. For as men love the sun and a green mountain valley, so I love my brother. Whosoever has mouthed words of evil into thy majesty's ear, let him be cast out of thy presence, forced into the desert to die. Let him be carrion to hyenas-"

  There was a sudden movement on the dais. Mugallu stopped in midsentence, his mouth open, as the youth he'd been addressing thrust himself up from the throne. At the same time, a wave of movement traveled over the vast audience hall. Karoya and his royal bodyguards took one step forward and banged their gold-tipped spears on the floor with a crack that made Mugallu jump and stare at those around him. Minister, princes, foreign ambassadors, and nobles dropped to their knees, foreheads touching the floor.

  As Meren sank to the ground, he turned his head to the side to glimpse the king. Tutankhamun was breathing hard and glaring at Mugallu. With jerking movements he thrust out the gold-and-lapis flail scepter and pointed at the gaping emissary.

  "You dare address my majesty as a master chastises an apprentice?" Although he was only fourteen, pharaoh's voice boomed with the force of royal indignation. "My majesty knows from whence comes the evil and treachery that plague my empire to the north."

  Meren held his breath, afraid that the king would reveal exactly how he knew the source of treachery.

  "The king of Hatti, my brother, is ill served by so insolent an emissary."

  Meren let out his breath.

  Tutankhamun lowered his arm. Thick gold bracelets jangled when he jabbed at Mugallu again, putting a gold-sandaled foot forward. "My majesty may be young, but I am the living god, lord of Egypt, son of Amunhotep the Magnificent, descendant of Thutmose the Conqueror. My majesty's ancestors ruled this empire when yours were herding goats in your precious mountains. I will hear no more bleating of colts and carrion.

  "Karoya!" pharaoh shouted. "Why is this barbarian, this mannerless foreign pestilence, still on his feet?"

  Silence fell. No one moved, except Karoya, who simply lifted his spear. Reversing it, he held it in throwing position over his shoulder and flexed his knee, awaiting the command of the living god. Mugallu's gaze dropped from pharaoh to the Nubian. He didn't move. Then the silence in the hall was ripped by a snarl.

  Mugallu's head swiveled in pharaoh's direction, then fixed on a lashing black tail. Cobralike, Sa slowly rose from his place beside the throne. Three stalking paces brought him to pharaoh's side. The restless tail swirled back and forth and snaked around Tutankhamun's legs. The flat black head lowered between lean shoulders, ears pinned back. Sa's wary gaze never left the Hittite.

  Another snarl. Without glancing at the predator, pharaoh lowered his hand to caress the cat's obsidian neck. Sa bared his teeth, but his snarl turned to an irritated rumble at the back of his throat. The Hittite hadn't breathed since that first snarl. When Sa remained at pharaoh's side, the emissary remembered to take in a gulp of air. Meren nearly smiled. He heard a suppressed snigger from the group of ministers behind him.

  Mugallu heard it too. His mouth worked, and a flush crept up his neck to stain his cheeks. His jaw muscles contorted with fury, but he darted a glance at Karoya, knelt, slowly, and touched his forehead to the floor.

  The silence stretched out, causing even Meren to grow uneasy. Pharaoh was still glaring down at the Hittite. At last he whirled on his heel. Karoya abandoned his battle stance and walked swiftly to meet the king as he descended the throne by the left-hand stair. No one moved while the bodyguard snapped a salute and turned in formation to follow the king. Tutankhamun vanished through the door Meren had used. More guards issued forth to slam the portal closed and plant crossed spears before it.

  Meren blinked several times during the royal departure, trying to take in what had happened. Living gods weren't supposed to speak to lowly foreign princes. Living gods preserved an aura of divinity, majesty, calm authority. Even Akhenaten had never broken with this tradition.

  "Help me up, boy."

  Meren straightened and lent his arm to Ay, whose brittle bones protested at such exertion. Around them the court got to its feet. Mugallu jumped up and rounded on Ay, red-faced, tight-lipped, and furious.

  "I am a royal prince, beloved by his majesty and trusted of the great king, Suppiluliumas! Never has the royal message of my king been rejected with such discourtesy. I repeated with all truthfulness the words of my-"

  Meren interrupted smoothly. "Highness, are you telling the vizier that your message, which has provoked the wrath of the living god, was the intentional insult of the king of Hatti?"

  Mugallu started to reply, then hesitated. His crimson face paled, and he began again. "Never has my master, the great king, offered insult to his brother, the divine Lord of the Two Lands."

  "I thought not," Meren said.

  Ay sighed and wiggled his fingers at Mugallu in a dismissive gesture. "Leave now, prince. Before the golden one's wrath renews itself. I would hate to have to send you home in boxes."

  "Boxes?"

  Meren gave him a gentle smile. "Boxes, probably a dozen or so, highness." He kept smiling until Mugallu was gone. Then he whispered to Ay.

  "Pharaoh almost brought us to the verge of war. Was this your idea?"

  "Don't be absurd, boy. The Hittite was even more insolent than usual."

  "More insolent? What has been going on?"

  Ay was prevented from answering. Ministers and nobles crowded around them, asking them what this amazing occurrence meant. Meren answered inquiries with soothing unconcern while his own apprehension remained unabated. Then, abruptly, Karoya appeared at his side. Friends and officials dropped away from Meren. He gave the Nubian an inquiring look. Karoya made no reply. He simply turned and left, expecting Meren to follow. Meren obeyed; for an Egyptian there was no other response imaginable. When pharaoh commanded, the world bent to his will.

  Chapter 3

  From the shelter of a persea tree in pharaoh's private garden Meren watched Karoya leave and a pair of royal guards swing shut the carved door in the gate. Surrounded by a high brick wall, the garden was called Delights of Hathor, and it was deserted. As he'd entered, Meren had glimpsed retreating figures as they went through a door concealed behind dense vines. The chief gardener and his assistants, several water carriers, slaves bearing tall fans, women carrying trays-all had been dismissed.

  The king would be a while disrobing. The heavy crowns, beard, rings, and jeweled linen overrobe demanded intricate maneuvers to get pharaoh out of them without snagging the royal hair or tangling the beads of a necklace with those sewn on the robe. And each item had to be treated with ceremony by privileged servitors who would be offended if Tutankhamun removed even an earring by himself. This was why the boy often avoided formal robing ceremonies.

  Meren wandered over to a stand of sycamores. A delicate pavilion stood in the midst of this small forest, a bright blue, red, and gold jewel amid the dark green foliage. The quarrel with Mugallu would have to be settled. Pharaoh's harsh words could provoke an exchange of insults during which one side or the other would go too far, inciting war before Egypt was ready. Ay was already handling that problem; Meren had his own duties, others tasks, other worries, not the least of which was his own son.

  Kysen was daily growing more perceptive. Even a few months ago, Meren could have hidden his anxiety from the boy. Wandering across the garden to a line of imported incense trees, Meren sat on the edge of a clay tub in which a myrrh tree flourished. His wrist itched. He pulled a slender pin from the clasp of a wide gold wristband inscribed with his name and titles, opened the hinged bracelet, and removed it.
/>   He rubbed the white scar on his inner wrist. He could feel the voice of his heart pounding beneath his fingers as he rubbed the skin. Without meaning to, he sank into memories sixteen years old. Then he'd been but eighteen and a prisoner of the heretic pharaoh Akhenaten. The king had suspected him of adhering to the old gods when pharaoh had thrown them all out in favor of his own deity, the sun disk called the Aten. After killing Meren's father for refusing to adopt the new god, Akhenaten had imprisoned the son and tested him. Beatings, starvation, threats, nothing had broken Meren and made him confess to betraying the king's parvenu god.

  Meren could still remember the smell of that shadowed cell where they kept him, a smell composed of dirt, sweat, the coppery scent of blood, and the contents of the sandy hole that served as his chamber pot. Meren pounded his fist against the side of the clay tub, willing himself to abandon this senseless reverie. Yet the images flooded through him as relentlessly as the Nile during Inundation. A burly guard kneeling on his arm while others pinned him to the floor. The white heat of a brazier, a glowing brand in the shape of the sun disk with sticklike rays extending from it and ending in stylized hands.

  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?