Kysen turned on his heel and stalked away from his father's cousin. Shouldering his way through the crowds streaming in and out of the temple, he looked back only once. Ebana was still standing where Kysen had left him, but he was looking down, his features set and still as he examined the dark patch of blood at the foot of the image of the living god.
Chapter 5
Ebana watched Kysen vanish into the throng before the gate of the god. Had he succeeded? He didn't know.
Nothing had gone as he'd anticipated in his dealings with Meren today. Knowing Unas's death certainly would attract Meren's attention, he had tried to distract and confuse by launching an attack that would put his cousin in the wrong. He'd never expected Meren to set the boy Kysen the task of inquiring into the death of the pure one. Turning, he made his way back into the temple, through the great pillared halls and to the House of Life.
As he went, Ebana cursed Meren's ability to twist words against himself into condemnation of his accuser. The stratagem had been to throw Meren off guard; it may have failed.
And then there was that peasant's spawn, Kysen. The boy had grown from a cowering, awkward whelp into an aristocratic warrior. With his wide jaw, rounded chin, and half-moon eyes, he didn't look like his adopted father, except in the straight, severe line of his mouth. In that feature father and son resembled statues of the great king Khafre.
He'd lost count of the time spent wondering why Meren refused to take another wife and get himself a son. Many women died during childbirth. Sit-Hathor had died in labor, and so had her infant son.
That had been many years ago, long after the girl had finally fallen in love with her husband. He remembered how he'd thought her a fool not to admire Meren when she first married him. That was long ago, before the heretic brought chaos and death to their family.
The memory of his own wife, her face streaming with blood, gnawed at him. Pressing his lips together, he forced his thoughts away from the past and stepped over the threshold of the House of Life. He hadn't realized how great the heat of the sun already was until he entered the semidarkness of the building. Glancing around, he took a moment to drink in the peace offered by this place of knowledge, history, and learning.
Alabaster lamps gave off cool yellow light in pools where scholar priests studied ancient records. Row after row of columns stood like a forest before him, and beneath them stood chests filled with papyri. Near the door sat a carved basin with a spout at its base through which flowed a trickle of water. Notches in the wall of the basin allowed the telling of time as the water level dropped. He remembered how bloated with pride he'd felt as a boy upon learning how to interpret the markings.
He nodded at several priests as he made his way past a row of columns, through an open door, and down a corridor to another portal. Two priests flanked the threshold. They'd stirred to alertness upon seeing him, but as he drew nearer, they relaxed their tense stance. He entered the room without speaking to them. The door shut.
There were many such rooms in the House of Life. It was a small, windowless chamber lined from floor to ceiling with cupboards. In those cupboards lay bundles of papyri stored in leather cases. Ebana loved this room, for it contained some of the oldest chronicles in the kingdom, dating from the time of the great ones who built the pyramids.
As he entered, he heard a sibilant whispering, as of wind stirring sand grains across the floor of a rock desert. Only one man could hiss like that-Qenamun.
The lector priest bent gracefully to address an old man in a pleated robe spangled with gold roundels. He glanced up as Ebana came forward, and closed his mouth. Kneeling, Ebana felt Parenefer's hand on his shoulder. The high priest squinted at him, shoving his head forward in a movement that so resembled that of a vulture.
'Rise, my friend,' said Parenefer. 'Qenamun was just telling me how ably you fended off the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.'
Ebana cast a sidelong glance at Qenamun as he rose from the floor. 'Was he?'
Parenefer's mobile features settled into a scowl. He was one of those men whose appearance benefitted from the ritual requirement of shaving. His skull was well-shaped, with no deforming bulges or dents, and his pronounced bones lent strong definition to his face.
Ebana knew the man to be much older than himself, and yet age seemed only to give him strength. Perhaps it was the splendor and power of his office, or of his lineage: Parenefer's family had held priestly office since before the time of Thutmose the Conqueror.
Or it could be, like himself, Parenefer defied time through the remembrance of old wrongs. The old high priest had been cast out of his sacred office by Akhenaten and had almost died in exile, of grief, fury, and lack of food.
There were times, when recounting the tale of his humiliation, that Parenefer seemed to lose himself in the past. Once, late at night, he'd listened to the story from Parenefer's wine-slick lips seven times. Each telling grew more malignant than the last. Aye, one could live long on the fatted meat of such rancor.
'You don't agree with Qenamun.'
'Unfortunately,' Ebana said, 'Meren twisted the whole matter around on its head. He said that he talked to many priests, which is true. And that all of them couldn't be spies, which is also true. He's harder to surprise than a Syrian bandit. I told you he'd be suspicious no matter how we handled the matter.'
'So long as his suspicions continue to sail on the wrong course, I'm content. Qenamun has warned our friends at court. They've taken heed.'
Ebana went to a cupboard and touched the strap on a document case. 'You don't know Meren as well as I do, holy one. It's enough that this accident has directed his attention to the temple. Now we must advance with perfect craft. One misstep, the wrong intonation in my voice, an unguarded look from Qenamun, and we're destroyed.'
'That's why you're handling this cursed pure one's death,' Parenefer said as he rose from his chair. 'We need someone to act as intermediary between the temple and the court. What ill luck that this fool had to stumble off the king's statue at this of all times. I hope the Devourer eats his soul in the netherworld. Tripping in the dark like that. Who told him to be so diligent and arrive early?'
Qenamun floated over to stand at Parenefer's elbow and murmured, 'Unas was anxious in his labors for the good god, far too anxious. His agitation made him clumsy at times.'
'I care not,' said Parenefer as he approached the door. He held up his hand to forestall Ebana from opening it. 'Take care of this matter, both of you, for if you don't, all of us could end up drinking the poison cup of the condemned. All of us.'
Kysen reached the end of the high wall that surrounded the temple of Amun, turned a corner, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been followed. He didn't want Ebana interfering when he inquired at the house of the pure one, Unas. Several priests seemed headed in his general direction, but they passed him, footsteps quick in the pursuit of temple business.
Unlike Akhenaten's planned heretical city, eastern Thebes was a hodgepodge of temples, hovels, noble residences, and workmen's houses huddling next to each other in noisy confusion. He passed the walled residence of a prince, turned a corner, and met a row of much more modest houses. The upper stories were dotted with narrow window slits, and he could see women on the roofs. Before him stretched a line of irregular housefronts broken by thresholds, most with their doors thrown open to allow air to circulate.
He knew only the street where Unas lived; his house would be the one with mourners and a crowd of relatives. Near the end of the street he saw several people enter a doorway and heard a woman wailing inside the house. There were no professional mourners. Possibly the family hadn't arranged for them yet, or could not afford them, or would not.
He had pressed close to the wall of a house as he surveyed the street, keeping out of the way of people, cattle, and donkeys. Now he took a step back into the traffic, only to have a hand come down on his shoulder and pull him to the side again. Kysen whirled, his hand going to the dagger at his side.
'Abu, damn you, you should have spoken.'
His father's aide dropped his hand. Like most charioteers, he was tall. People gave way to him in the streets;
