Meren inclined his head. 'The divine one has seen the wisdom of gaining experience in small skirmishes against bandits and the southern tribes before facing the trained armies of the Asiatics.'
Meren could see that Tanefer was having difficulty suppressing his amusement, but Horemheb gave him a sharp look before he replied.
'Lord Meren but recommends the course of training followed by all great warriors, including himself, majesty. It's the path followed by Thutmose, the Conqueror, thy mighty ancestor.'
He would have to thank Horemheb when they were alone, for Tutankhamun's anger vanished at once.
'The Conqueror, you say? I didn't know.'
Tanefer slid into the conversation with the ease of the royal skiff floating on the Nile. 'And of course it's the path followed by this humble subject and General Horemheb as well.'
'There is more,' Meren said. 'Thy majesty must consult the records of battle contained in the House of Life, those of the Conqueror, of the great Ahmose who freed Egypt from the foreign Hyksos, and certain reports from my intelligencers regarding the practices of the Hittite armies.'
His voice faded as an idea formed. He would send agents north to the outposts in Syria with instructions to capture Hittite officers alive; perhaps he would go there himself to question them.
'Excellent,' Tutankhamun was saying. 'At last we advance. This endless quibbling was about to drive me mad. What else must we do?'
'Thy majesty must issue orders for the calling up of reserves,' Meren said. 'All the soldiers who have been allowed to return to their homes and lands must be summoned.'
'And I must begin to recruit more men,' Horemheb added.
'Which means,' Tanefer said, 'that the divine one will hold a great Enrollment of Recruits.'
Meren nodded his agreement. 'Then, of course, we must inventory all weapons and equipment and issue orders for more, and then all the troops must train even as thy majesty trains. There's much work to be done.'
The king grinned and set out in the direction of his tent. 'And after it's done, I will go to war.'
Meren exchanged glances with Tanefer and Horemheb. None of them was smiling.
Ebana walked into the House of Life with Rahotep. Qenamun was a few steps ahead of them. Rahotep had returned with them to the temple to obtain a new book of dream interpretations from Qenamun, who was known for his power in interpreting the ancient scripts and magical signs. Rahotep was detailing his latest grievance, which was that the king hadn't given him an important command in Kush, the lands to the south of Egypt and the source of the rivers of gold that flowed into the royal coffers.
Qenamun paused to speak to one of the scribes in charge of making copies of the Book of the Dead. Ebana pretended to listen to Rahotep while he speculated upon the meaning of Kysen's sudden appearance in the quay market earlier. The boy had said that the house of Unas had been searched and disrupted. How had he found out? Meren must have alerted the city police of his interest in any matters pertaining to the dead priest. Or his spies had told him. Meren indeed had spies everywhere.
And now his cousin's attention had been drawn once again to the temple, and to the priesthood. Ebana called down the wrath of Amun upon whatever demon was causing his ill fortune. What was worse, Kysen now blamed him for that incident of the falling bricks. Why couldn't the boy simply realize that old walls crumble and masonry falls?
'So now I'm left with this paltry command in the Division of Amun,' Rahotep was saying.
Ebana rolled his eyes. Rahotep seemed oblivious of the insult to the good god and to Ebana, but then, Rahotep had never been sympathetic to the feelings of others.
'Your burdens are indeed great,' Ebana said with solemnity. 'But come.'
Qenamun had resumed his progress between the rows of columns. They followed him and turned down a corridor that led to the priest's workroom. Ebana disliked going into this chamber, where he would be at close quarters with so many magical implements. Qenamun's workroom tables groaned with the weight of grinding stones used to crush bones, herbs, stones, and other, less identifiable materials. Every corner was cluttered with jars and bowls filled with roots, wax, pigments, and pastes. One bowl seemed to be dedicated to growing a noxious mold Ebana suspected of being poisonous.
He allowed Rahotep to precede him. The priest went to a wall of shelves to the left and pulled out the casket containing his scribal equipment and his current commissions. The box was made of polished cedar edged with ebony so that the red wood stood out against the black. The gabled lid and side panels were all bordered with ebony inscribed with hieroglyphs. Carved in shallow relief on the cedar was the figure of Qenamun making offerings to the god of learning, Toth.
'I have but to inscribe the book with your name and titles, Prince Rahotep,' Qenamun said.
Ebana paused at the threshold while Rahotep wandered to the first worktable and touched a wax figurine. Qenamun glanced at him as he set the casket on a work surface that projected from the middle of the shelves.
'The First Prophet has given me the task of cursing the rebellious Nubians who attacked that fort last month,' the priest said.
Ebana pursed his lips. Qenamun was exactly the kind of man he would have forbidden to specialize in magic. How could Parenefer favor him so? True, the man could interpret dreams better than anyone, but so devious a heart should be kept from the power of great knowledge.
But he mustn't allow his thoughts to drive him, or they would show in his features. Ebana forced himself to give the lector priest a half smile as he watched him lift the cedar-and-ebony lid and reach inside the casket. He heard a hiss, then silence.
In the space of a breath, Qenamun's face went blank, then contorted as he screamed. His hand came out of the casket bearing dark, writhing tentacles. The priest's screams bounced off the stone walls as he threw the dark, wriggling mass away from his body.
Ebana saw the flare of a hood, horizontal stripes. Cobras! Ebana shouted at Rahotep, who was already running past him. Qenamun had jumped onto the nearest worktable, moaning and clutching his arm. Ebana darted out of the path of a fleeing snake and yelled at a group of priests who had come running at the noise. They turned as a body and fled back down the corridor as Ebana called to them to fetch a guard. He ran out of the room, turned, and clutched the edge of the open door. He searched the floor for cobras, but most of them had fled to dark corners underneath furniture and shelves.
Qenamun was still on the table amid vials, wax figures, and herb jars. He had curled into himself, still gripping his arm, which bore at least five strike marks. Ebana called to him, but he received only a moan in answer. He moved closer, but shrank back from the door when a long, narrow body rose up from behind a jar, hood flaring.
Down the corridor a guard arrived with spear in hand and was poking it into shadows as he inspected room after room. As the moments passed, he could hear Qenamun's breathing increase until it sounded like the pant of a dog. The guard reached him, and Ebana pointed to the cobra behind the jar.
'I think there are four others, maybe more.'
The guard swallowed, then drew a knife from his belt, took aim, and threw. The knife hit the jar, and the cobra slithered behind a basket under the table where Qenamun lay. Ebana halted the man when he would have thrown his spear.
'Look.' He pointed at Qenamun.
The priest's body had begun to jerk. His foot hit a jar and kicked it off the table. The crash sent the cobra slithering between two tall oil jars. They watched in horrified captivation while Qenamun's body twitched with violent spasms. Two more guards joined them with knives and spears while a servant came bearing three of Parenefer's hunting cats.
Ebana ordered the hunting cats released into the workroom, and everyone watched and waited while the creatures calmly set about stalking the cobras. There was no hurry now, for everyone could see the number of strike marks on Qenamun's body. A man might survive one, but not seven.
As the cats stalked and pounced, the priest lapsed into a stupor. By the time they were finished, so was the life of Qenamun.
