festival days, showering them with small gifts and trinkets in the manner of the ancient kings. 'Pharaoh is a man of ritual. Before he tackles the affairs of state, he must first see to the affairs of the gods.'
Nebmaatra laughed to himself. He had spoken that lie so often he almost believed it. A man of ritual? God- fearing? Ahmose was many things, but neither of those could be counted among his attributes. He was a common soldier thrust into an uncommon position. A general in the army of his predecessor, Haaibre Apries, Ahmose gained the throne by dint of his popularity with the native troops. Now, Pharaoh spent his mornings wrestling with the affairs of state, and the balance of his days wrestling with wine jugs and his own impending mortality. He was a fair ruler, Nebmaatra reckoned, wise in his own way and a shrewd statesman, but nothing like the god-kings of the elder days.
The physician bandaged Tjemu's thigh with fresh strips of linen, then rose and gathered his things. Nebmaatra handed the scroll back to the scribe. 'He'll live?'
The physician nodded. 'The spear missed the artery. It should mend well, so long as he keeps it clean and dry.'
'Good. Now, Medjay, let's see about getting you an audience with …'
Without warning a man swept into the room, his austere white robes rustling about him, his face dark, lined, severe. His eyes burned with an imperious fire. The physician and the scribe bowed low; Nebmaatra came to his feet with a warrior's grace and inclined his head.
'Vizier.'
The vizier, Sethnakhte, ignored Nebmaatra and fixed his gaze on Tjemu. His lips curled back in a perfect, haughty sneer. 'You are the … messenger?'
'I am,' the Libyan growled, bristling.
'Your message, then. Quickly! ' Sethnakhte said.
'I have only seen Pharaoh from afar, but I am positive you are not him,' Tjemu said. 'If you cannot pave a way for me to see him, then stand aside. I tire of this game you call bureaucracy.'
'Impudent wretch!' Sethnakhte roared. He moved quickly, faster than his thin frame belied. One manicured hand lashed out like a leather strap, striking Tjemu across the mouth. 'Speak thus to me again, and I will see you flogged!'
Murder danced in Tjemu's eyes as he lurched to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. Nebmaatra interjected himself between the two men.
'Control yourself!' the commander said. He turned to the vizier. 'This man has ridden two days and nights with a wound that would leave most men bedridden. He bears important news from the frontier, from Hasdrabal Barca. The quicker we secure him an audience with Pharaoh, the quicker he can discharge his duty.'
'Barca, eh? I can only imagine what message be would send.' The vizier spun and stormed from the room. Nebmaatra watched him with eyes narrowed to slits. Doubts about the vizier's loyalty were ever on the forefront of his mind. Rumor placed him in opposition to the throne, in collusion with the Theban aristocracy who favored replacing Pharaoh. Another scandal had Sethnakhte plotting with the Persians for the double-crown. Unfortunately, rumor and innuendo had a way of sliding off the vizier like oil off mud. To catch him, Nebmaatra knew he would need something far more substantial.
'I apologize for that,' Nebmaatra said, helping Tjemu along.
'He's one pleasant son of a whore,' Tjemu muttered, rubbing his jaw.
'Sethnakhte believes when he looks in a mirror, he beholds the face of a god. As such, it is difficult for him to show humility and courtesy around this flock of mere mortals.'
'God or not, he touches me again,' Tjemu said, 'they'll find his body floating face down in the Nile.'
A gesture from Nebmaatra brought a pair of servants to Tjemu's side. They eased him into a chair, hoisted it, and bore the wounded man along at a quickened pace. Morning sunlight streamed through windows high in the walls, casting a warm golden glow over scenes of Pharaoh smiting hordes of his enemy. Petitioners of noble blood lined their path. Their voices, though not above a whisper, buzzed with indignation at being superseded by a grimy foreigner.
The guards flanking the entrance to the throne room snapped to attention at the vizier's approach. Door wardens, feathered Nubians in leopard skin cloaks, levered the goldsheathed portals open. Tjemu swallowed. He felt his throat go dry; his tongue became a shank of old leather. Beyond those doors dwelt the Son of Ra. His chair-bearers put him down; Nebmaatra offered him his arm. Tjemu shrugged him off. He would make it the rest of the way on his own.
The great valves swung apart, revealing a smaller room dominated by four columns. Between them, atop a dais of black marble, rested the golden throne of Pharaoh. A man stood at the base of the royal dais — a young, vigorous figure in an elaborately woven black wig. He wore a fine linen kilt and a pectoral of faience and carnelian and lapis lazuli. His frank gaze spoke of a keen intellect.
'That is Prince Psammetichus, Pharaoh's heir and First Servant of Neith,' Nebmaatra whispered. 'A good man, though hampered by the advice of imbeciles.' He looked pointedly at the vizier.
If Tjemu heard him, he gave no indication of it. His eyes were drawn upward, his whole being consumed by the man who sat upon the dais. Pharaoh Khnemibre Ahmose, Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt, Divine Son of Ra, called Amasis Philhellene by the Greeks, sat easily on his throne, a man born to rule. Forty-four years had passed since he usurped the crown, since he evolved from mortal general into living god, and he wore those years heavily. His shoulders were square, and the muscles of his arms and chest, though loose with inactivity, had not yet turned to gristle. He wore the nemes, the striped head-cloth, offset by a golden cobra writhing at his brow. The crook and flail, twin symbols of kingship, lay in his lap. Wide-set eyes above a falcate nose regarded the men, and a hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.
The three men bowed deeply and approached the throne.
'You look positively vexed, Sethnakhte.'
The vizier bowed again. 'I am beset by petty, self-important men, great Pharaoh.'
'Are you, indeed? I understand this one bears a message for me?' he said, nodding to Tjemu. 'Speak, then. Tell me your message.'
The Libyan swallowed hard. '0 Pharaoh, I have been sent by Hasdrabal Barca, who commands the Medjay in your name. Barca instructed me to relay this to your royal person, and only to your royal person.' Tjemu held out the diplomatic pouch taken at Leontopolis.
'Approach, then.'
Tjemu hobbled forward and ascended the dais. Nebmaatra moved opposite him, in case he should fall. Tjemu began to prostrate himself, to show deference to the divinity of the king, but Pharaoh waved him off.
'With that leg you'll never get up again, son. An arrow?'
'Spear,' Tjemu said, placing the pouch in Pharaoh's hand. 'Bedouin spear.'
Pharaoh frowned. 'Are we at war with the Bedouin, again?' He pried open the flap of the diplomatic pouch, the leather stiff with dried blood. He tugged out the vellum and began to read. With each sentence, a change came over Pharaoh. His eyebrows met and formed a `V'; his brow wrinkled, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a savage display of naked rage. He handed the vellum to Psammetichus.
'Tell me,' Pharaoh said, his voice flat, 'from the beginning.'
Quickly, Tjemu relayed the tale of Habu, of Leontopolis, of finding the dead Persian envoy. 'Barca led the rest of the men on to Memphis to scout out the landscape and learn what he could of the Greeks' disposition.'
Sethnakhte stepped forward. 'With your permission,' he said, taking the vellum from the Prince. He scanned it, then laughed aloud. 'It's a forgery, Golden One. A plot by Cambyses to sow discord among us. Phanes is a loyal soldier; I've seen it with my own eyes. If we accuse him of treachery, then you may as well place my head on the block, too!'
'Maybe we should!' Tjemu said, his voice a dangerous purr.
The vizier rounded on the soldier. 'Impertinent fool! I will have your skin flayed off your back and your miserable body staked out for the flies to feast on! This is nothing more than Barca's way of casting your disfavor on the garrison at Memphis. It is no secret that the Medjay envies their position. Perhaps …'
Tjemu's hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. 'Speak ill of Barca one more time, you pompous ass, and there won't be enough left of you to feed the maggots! '
'Enough, both of you!' Pharaoh said. 'What say you, Psammetichus? Were you Pharaoh what would your decision be?'
