'Haste is unwise. Such tasks must be done carefully, or they only create more difficulties than they solve.'
'You can afford to be unruffled. You're not walking the palace floor tiles with royal guards and suspicious and bloody-minded bastards like Meren.'
'Calm yourself,' the robed figure said. 'I will accomplish the deed in the fullness of its time. After all, our enterprise is blessed by the Hidden One, the great god Amun, who silences storms and protects his disciples.'
The short man grunted. 'Just you remember that he aids those who know when to strike with the swiftness of a thunderbolt and the deadliness of a cobra. I'm going home.'
The robed figure bowed, and a film of linen swirled about his ankles.
'Hail to thee, friend, and may Amun give you peace.'
'By the god's balls, one would think you murdered men every day after morning ritual.'
'Not that often, my friend, not nearly that often.'
Chapter 2
Meren stood beside General Horemheb before the temple of Amun, enjoying the last of dawn's coolness. He bent his neck back to peer up at the head of the colossal statue that crept toward him. A rhythmic work chant filled the air, punctuated by the gasps and grunts of almost two hundred bondsmen manning the lines that dragged the statue's sledge. On the base of the statue stood an overseer who coordinated each tug of the lines with his chant and the clapping of his hands.
'The high priest will soil his pure white robes when he sees it,' Horemheb whispered.
Meren suppressed a grin. 'And you'll revel in every moment of his anguish.'
Tons of red granite scraped across the oiled and graded path toward the north half of the pylon. Meren glanced over his shoulder into the shadows of the gate. No sign of the king, who had disappeared into the sanctuary for the morning ritual. The welfare of the Two Lands depended upon the king's intercession with the gods, especially Amun, and Tutankhamun performed the ceremony as had his ancestors throughout the centuries.
If the king were unable to attend, the high priest took his place. There was much urgent business, but the king hadn't wanted to miss today's ritual. If he had, he would have missed the arrival of his statue and its effect on the high priest, Parenefer.
Meren glanced at Horemheb with masked affection. They had been friends since they were youths training to be warriors, and had remained so when their duties separated them. Beneath his court wig, the general's hair had turned light brown from long days spent drilling in the sun.
Horemheb wore his hair cut short and brushed back from his face, but it was so lively it stood up and away from his head like the feathers of an angry hawk. He had a rectangular face with three horizontal lines on his forehead. Meren had watched these lines appear and grow deeper over the years. His nose sat slightly askew on his face, the result of an injury when he got in the way of a stampeding chariot.
Horemheb bore a habitual expression of intense determination, as if he sensed a horde of Asiatic nomads lurking just over the horizon. He walked aggressively, almost stomping, as though dogging the steps of some negligent army recruit. He had a noisy temper when dealing with soldiers, allies, or friends and the biddable demeanor of a sleeping crocodile when in the company of strangers or enemies. Meren had seen him switch from fist-pounding fury to poison-sweet courtliness in half a heartbeat. And on the battlefield he possessed the guile of a leopard and a skill Meren hoped never to encounter pitted against him.
However, what was most intriguing about Horemheb was that it never occurred to him to regret his humble origins. He was Horemheb, general of the king's army, royal scribe, councillor to pharaoh, a man of consequence. His common birth was unimportant.
At the moment, the general rocked back and forth on his heels and scowled at the temple quay. The barge upon which the statue had been shipped was docked there, and it had been the object of excitement for the crowd gathered to witness the king's arrival. But Meren knew Horemheb. His friend had forgotten the statue; the general's heart dwelt on the Hittite threat.
'Patience, old friend,' Meren said. 'We've the rest of the day to argue about brigands, war, and troops.'
They both understood that the colossus served as important a function in its way as did the forays of the army, for this statue-so monumental that it almost rivaled the mighty pylons of the king of the gods-this image of the king was to stand before the temple. And in its magnificence and scale, it would tell the people of Egypt that pharaoh was more powerful than any priest who might dwell within the temple it guarded.
Thus, earlier, the statue's arrival had caused the high priest of Amun to contort his face as if he'd swallowed an asp. His chagrin was echoed in the faces of the gathered priests. They huddled in clumps, like sullen pigeons, and scuttled back as the teams of laborers hauled the statue down the avenue.
As the complicated maneuvers that would slide the colossus into its correct position began, Meren saw a pair of royal guards emerge from the gate. A wave of movement started as spear-carrying men in bronze-and-gold armor gestured at the crowd. Courtiers turned, the statue forgotten. Heads lowered. Meren nudged Horemheb, and they both knelt.
Horemheb turned his head toward Meren and grinned. 'I've been waiting for this ever since the king conceived the idea.'
'Just be careful Parenefer doesn't see how much you enjoy his aggravation.'
The sudden silence of this moment always impressed Meren. It was as if the kingdom ceased to breathe. Then he heard the ching, ching, ching of sistrums, the beat of drums. Louder and louder the noise grew, until it seemed to beat inside his body. At last it stopped, and he heard a cheer. Concealing a grin, he rose and found Horemheb already on his feet. He only had to follow the glint of gold to find the king.
Tutankhamun stood before the gateway between the high priest of Amun and the vizier Ay and gave off a sunlike radiance. The cobra on his brow, the thick bracelets and ankle bands, the scepters he held in one hand, were all of gold. Even his sandals gleamed with the stuff. Gold symbolized the majesty and divinity of pharaoh, but Meren knew how useless such trappings could be. The king's youth, his strength, his commanding soul, allowed him to wear the raiment of a living god without being dominated by it. Beside the king, Parenefer looked like what he was, a cracked and dried-up old coffin filled to overflowing with resentment and hate.
Meren watched the high priest as the king spoke to the crowd, telling them how the statue was intended for the greater glory of Amun, his father. Parenefer's skull always shone due to the scented oils rubbed on it after shaving. The skin stretched tight across the bones as if to make up for the loose flesh at his jowls and neck. Age spots dotted his face, his arms, and the backs of his hands. Wrinkles furrowed his mouth, running from his nose down the flesh above his upper lip and into the mouth itself like wadis etched in a desert landscape.
Shortsighted, Parenefer jutted his head forward from his slumped shoulders and squinted at the world like a suspicious and wary vulture. His life and character had been marred by the dissolution of the temple of Amun by the pharaoh Akhenaten. Declared anathema, hounded and hunted as a criminal, Parenefer had survived in hiding, plotting and fomenting defiance of pharaoh, until Akhenaten died.
Although he and his god had been restored to their former prominence, the high priest's ka had been warped. He couldn't forget the deaths of his friends and his humiliation at the hands of Akhenaten, nor could he forgive Tutankhamun for being the brother of the heretic. Meren and Horemheb trusted the Hittite ambassador more than they trusted Parenefer.
Horemheb spoke, barely moving his lips. 'See. I told you it was worth the wait.'
The high priest craned back his head and studied the face of the colossus, noted the straight, small nose and flared nostrils, the full, sensual lips and slightly rounded cheeks of youth. Parenefer's lips pressed together in a tight seam. He turned vermilion, and his cheeks puffed out so that he resembled an elderly, indignant frog. He turned away.
'Well worth it,' Meren said softly.
Hearing the commander of the royal guard snap an order, he hurried to take his place behind the king as Horemheb went to the quay where the royal barge was moored. Meren fell in step with Maya, chief of the treasury. As they paused to allow the king to speak to several commoners, Meren glanced over his shoulder at the swarm of workmen around the colossus.
