say something, but Meren went on to speak of Horemheb. Kysen's brow furrowed as he heard the story of his father being waylaid.
'You said someone with power is behind these deaths and the-the great crime.' He set the cloth aside. 'Forgive me, Father, but it could be Horemheb, and he could have been trying to deceive you.'
'He isn't.'
Meren looked away from the blood on his son's cheek. On that day long ago when he'd seen Kysen's scars and bruises and bought him from his blood father, he'd vowed never to use brutality against the boy.
'Don't,' Kysen said.
'What?'
'It was an accident.'
Meren tried to smile. 'I need time to think. We have to talk to Ebana, Parenefer, Tanefer, and Rahotep, but carefully, since I've no formal commission of inquiry for any of them.'
'We can talk to Tanefer without one,' Kysen said.
'I know, and I will, but Rahotep concerns me. He's shown up in all sorts of odd places at significant times-the quay market after someone tried to kill you, the House of Life when Qenamun was killed, and now here, where our only witness to sacrilege and murder dies.'
'I'll find him,' Kysen said as he walked to the door.
'Take Abu and his men with you.'
'I won't need them against Rahotep.'
Meren swept to the door and caught Kysen's arm. 'That was not a request, my son.'
Kysen gave him a lopsided smile. 'As you command, O great one, O Eyes of Pharaoh, my lord. Only I wish you'd be on guard as well, even against Horemheb.'
'Go away, Ky. And be careful this time. Anyone who would kill a prince wouldn't stop at killing my son.'
Chapter 17
After Kysen left, Meren decided to sort through the papers in Qenamun's casket again. He was reading an interpretation of Rahotep's dreams, the most numerous of which seemed to consist of various creatures whose sole desire was to eat the prince's entrails. In others, Rahotep's dead mother came to him to prophesy greatness for her son. Had Rahotep believed the prophecies and acted upon them? While Meren was reading, Remi marched in, dragging a toy hippo on a string and carrying a hand mirror in his other hand.
Meren thrust the interpretations aside, snatched the boy up in one arm, and took the mirror from him. Its handle of polished silver bore the image of the goddess of beauty and fertility, Hathor.
'Where did you get this, small fiend?'
'Don't know.'
'Don't know, or don't want to tell?'
Remi began to wriggle in his arms, so he set the child down. A ray of light from the high windows flashed a beam into his eyes and he winced. Setting the mirror on the table next to him, he turned his back on it.
It had belonged to Sit-Hathor. Years ago he'd put away many of her possessions for the time when his daughters were old enough to make use of them. The most precious of these, the ones that reminded him of her the most, these he kept in his chamber in a chest.
Mutemwia must have been distracted for a moment. If she turned her attention away from the boy for more than the space of a breath, he scuttled away and got into trouble. He heard Mutemwia call Remi, who grinned and put both small hands over his mouth and crouched on the floor. Meren tried not to laugh but failed, and the sound brought the nurse into the room.
'Disobedient, wretched little baboon.' Mutemwia picked Remi up. 'Forgive me, lord. I but paused to speak to the cook, and he was gone.'
'A welcome interruption, Mut. But please, no more escapes this afternoon. I've much to do.'
'Aye, lord.'
Left alone, Meren again noticed the mirror. He'd forgotten to give it to Mutemwia. When he looked at it, he remembered being fifteen and so in love with his long-legged, untouchable wife that he would scandalize the household by going to her room and watching her use the mirror while applying her cosmetics. At first she'd been furious with him for the intrusion, so furious that she screamed at him. In spite of his hard training at letters and war, her rage at his small transgression had hurt.
Even nineteen years ago, he'd known to conceal his pain behind an emotionless mask that made him feel like one of those figures carved on temple walls, well-made but frozen, inert. And all the while, beneath the facade, the pain hadn't gone away. Because she hadn't loved him then, and he'd expected the euphoria that harpers sang of, that he'd read about in poetry.
He closed his eyes for a moment while he drove out the memories. Then he looked for some place to put the mirror. Some place where he couldn't see it. His gaze fell on Qenamun's casket resting on the table. He began to lift the lid and stopped, remembering the cobras.
'Fool,' he said to himself.
Still, he tipped the lid so that it opened away from his body. The box was as empty as before, except for the scattering of rush pens at the bottom. His fingers brushed the slim implements as he placed the mirror in the casket. Leaving the lid off, he picked up Rahotep's dream interpretations again. Line after line of cursive hieroglyphs covered a long rectangular strip of papyrus- the text of the dream in black ink, the interpretation in red.
He perused the contents for some time. On the surface Rahotep's dreams portrayed him as an unacknowledged hero, but the magical interpretation often contradicted the dream. If Rahotep dreamed of success, Qenamun prophesied increased taxes, the death of a wife, a robbery. Rahotep was a prince, but he disliked parting with his wealth. And try as he might, Meren couldn't understand why either he or Ahiram would risk their lives by robbing the tomb of the king's brother.
Vengeance seemed an insufficient motive for either of them, as did the riches contained in the tomb. But what other reason could there be? What other purpose would be served?
Two things resulted when one robbed a pharaoh's tomb-one got rich, and one deprived the dead of sustenance. Vengeance ended with the destruction of the soul. But the riches lasted longer. And a pharaoh's riches provided enormous revenues, which could then be used for any purpose. What purpose needed secrecy?
'Crimes,' muttered Meren as he rolled up the dream interpretation. 'Secret riches provide funds for deeds one wishes to conceal.' His hands stilled on the papyrus roll. 'Like treason.'
He dropped the roll on the table and rubbed the back of his neck. Like a water snake at night, a vague idea slithered through his thoughts, dark, slippery, not quite perceived. Cursing under his breath, he realized he wasn't going to catch this idea by chasing it. He decided to go to the place where this mystery began, the statue of the living god Tutankhamun.
Meren could hear the rhythmic grinding of stone against stone as he approached the colossus. He'd taken a ferry across the river alone. Abu would scold him for not taking an escort, but he often felt the need to pursue his inquiries by himself. His deliberations fared better if he didn't have a hulking charioteer or an entourage of servants hovering over him.
He knew his friends thought this craving for isolation unusual. Great men walked about the world with servants going before them and trailing after them-the greater the man, the more numerous the gaggle of retainers. But Meren needed no entourage to announce his consequence, no minions to help him look at a statue.
Most of the surfaces of the colossus had been polished now. He stood at a distance watching workers scurry up the scaffolding. At the base, the inscription of the king's names was complete. A master stonemason seemed to be inspecting the carvings. He was wiping one of the hieroglyphs of the king's name, Tutankhamun.
His cloth slid over the sign of the reed leaf that resembled a feather, and over the top of the leaf, which formed a raised notch. Then he moved on to the next cartouche. The cloth worked over the top symbol, the curved surface of the disk that rested above the beetle in the cluster of signs that spelled the king's coronation name, Nebkheprure. Then it traced the outline of the oval cartouche just above the disk.
