'Then Ahiram may have decided to rid himself of Qenamun before he exposed both of them,' Meren said. 'And we can prove none of it.'
He cursed and stalked out to the pool, where he stood scowling at a frog as it hopped along the flagstones. Kysen joined him and dropped down to sit by the water's edge.
'After I tell the king, we must meet and go over everything we know. Without unquestionable proof of Parenefer's involvement, we can do nothing. He's too powerful, powerful enough to raise an army against the king.'
'What about those mercenaries who killed Ahiram?' Kysen asked.
'Dead or escaped.' Meren lowered himself beside Kysen. 'You've had Ahiram's house sealed?'
'Yes, and I've saved the bag of mice and the baskets. But how can we prove him guilty of Qenamun's murder with such objects? You say his servants are being questioned as they return.'
'Their words will be much better proof to bring before pharaoh. If they know anything.' Meren sighed. 'I have to go.'
'If you go now, the whole city will know something's wrong.'
Meren rubbed his face with his hands again. 'You're right. I must be tired not to have considered the stir I'd cause hauling pharaoh from his bed at this hour. Very well. I'll go in the morning.'
Kysen jumped to his feet and offered his hand. Meren took it and pulled himself upright. Together they went inside through Meren's bedchamber, and Kysen left him. Meren's body servant awaited him with fresh water in the bathing chamber, and he luxuriated in his first full shower since he left. By the time he was dry and crawled into bed, he'd come awake again.
He'd been this way since he'd divined the significance of Ahiram's stolen sandal-weary and yet unable to sleep for fear of demon-haunted dreams. If he slept, Akhenaten came to him dressed in his finest raiment, wearing the double crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt. Once he'd dreamt that the king had suddenly appeared in his chamber while he was sleeping, carrying a white-hot sun-disk brand that he forced into the flesh over Meren's heart.
He had hated Akhenaten. Did the dead king's ka know it and seek revenge? Did Akhenaten know how he'd suspected a plot to kill him and allowed himself to be sent from court rather than try to stop it?
He tried sleeping with a headrest. He'd suffered from a headache since looking at Akhenaten's desecrated body, but the pain had receded to a dull thud. Now it spiked through his skull again. He moved the headrest to the floor, turned on his stomach, and groaned. How could he sleep, knowing the priests of Amun had conspired with courtiers to ravage the tomb of the heretic? Not easily frightened, he nevertheless kept listening for the flap of wings that would signal the appearance of the ba, the aspect of a soul with the body of a bird and the head of the dead man.
Someone knocked, and he called for them to enter. It was Kysen, carrying a small cup of eggshell-thin pottery. He handed the cup to Meren.
'Abu sent this.'
'I don't need it.'
'He said you would say that. I could call Mutemwia and have her perform a spell to help you sleep.'
Meren groaned. Mutemwia was nurse to Kysen's son and a collector of magic spells for all occasions. Her charms usually ended up hurting more than they aided.
He took the cup and downed the potion in one gulp. Tart and peppery, it burned down his throat and into his chest, but in a few moments the ache in his head faded. He lay back and closed his eyes. Then he heard Kysen's voice.
'Don't worry. Abu set guards all around the house and your chamber. I know how you hate being dosed senseless, but you can't go on without sleep.'
Meren nodded without opening his eyes. 'Be careful, Ky. There's more afoot than just murder. And anyone who would loot the tomb of a pharaoh, the living god's brother, wouldn't stop at killing both of us.'
Meren arrived at the palace before the king began to dress and found him listening to Ay read a list of the day's tasks. He sensed among the guards and servants an uneasiness he attributed to the sudden change of the duty assignments. Ay had relieved all of Ahiram's men, an entire squadron of royal guards. These men were now being questioned. He entered the royal apartments to pharaoh's cheerful greeting.
'Ah, Meren, Ay tells me you found Ahiram,' Tutankhamun said. Lounging sideways in an ebony-and-gold chair, the boy was finishing a meal of spice bread and fruit.
Meren glanced at Ay, but as usual, the old man's faded brown eyes revealed nothing. The vizier's swollen fingers curled around his walking stick like gnarled grapevines. Meren had sent a message to Ay with news of Ahiram's death, but had committed nothing else to writing.
He studied Ay's face. It was a long one, with folds and creases like cracks in the mud of a sun-baked canal. He owed Ay his life, for the vizier had interceded with Akhenaten for him when the old pharaoh would have killed him for having a father who defied him.
'Prince Ahiram is dead, golden one, set upon by bandits on his way to one of the Red Sea ports.'
The king dusted bread crumbs from his hands. His body servant Tiglith produced a moist cloth.
'And did you find out why he fled?' Tutankhamun asked quietly.
Meren glanced at Tiglith. 'The garden is still cool, majesty.'
Tutankhamun had been wiping his hands. He looked up quickly at Meren as he continued to ply the damp cloth. After a short silence, he tossed it to Tiglith, turned on his heel, and left the bedchamber. Ay followed him, but hesitated, allowing Meren to catch up as they entered the king's pleasure garden.
'You look like you haven't slept since you left. Was it that terrible?'
'I have slept, and it does no good. No, don't ask. I want to tell this tale of evil only once.'
They joined the king beneath an ornamental trellis, festooned with grapevines, that sat in isolation in a part of the garden reserved for it. Around it were low-growing flowers and shrubs, but there were no high walls or trees nearby, lessening the chance that they could be overheard. Tutankhamun sat on a folding stool and motioned for his guests to sit. Ay took another stool, but Meren drew near the king and knelt on the woven mat beside him.
He'd tried to think of a way to tell this news that would lessen the king's fear. He decided simply to tell the story from the point where he set sail. The king listened in silence until Meren came to the discovery of the looters' tunnel. Then he interrupted.
'How bad is it?' he asked, his gaze fixed on a row of incense trees.
Meren felt the corner of his mouth jerk in a downward spasm. 'They meant to destroy the body. They almost succeeded.'
Tutankhamun turned wide, startled eyes in his direction. He wet his lips and spoke in a faint voice.
'What you mean is that Ahiram's hirelings looted my brother's tomb and then ran away. They violated the eternal house of pharaoh?'
Hearing the disbelief in the king's tone, Meren produced the belt buckle and dropped it into the boy's hand. Tutankhamun stared at it, turning it over and over while shaking his head. Meren waited.
Tutankhamun had been the youngest of three sons born to Amunhotep the Magnificent, far younger than Akhenaten. He'd lived with his mother, the great and powerful Tiye, and only went to Horizon of Aten when he was five. Smenkhare, a youth, had watched over Tutankhamun at the heretic's court. Akhenaten had been much too preoccupied with his sun-disk god to pay much attention to the boy. However, he'd been kind when he remembered Tut.
Still, Meren realized that Tutankhamun's greater distress arose from the horror of sacrilege, and a realistic fear for himself. The king recognized how short a distance it was to sail from doing violence to a dead king to doing violence to a living one. When the king asked, Meren went on to detail his suspicions regarding Qenamun, the priests of Amun, and the death of Unas.
'I'm not sure who else may be involved. Qenamun seems to have had dealings with several of thy majesty's chief servants.'
'Who?' Tutankhamun snapped.
Meren hesitated, but when the king asked a question, one answered. 'Rahotep, Djoser, and then there are the priests, especially Ebana. Ahiram's servants are being questioned. I should know more by the end of the day.'
