'I know, brother of my heart, but Tutankhamun can't let the destruction continue. The Hittites will eat away at the edges of the empire until we find them at our very borders.'
Tanefer turned to face him, and Meren saw the uneasiness he'd concealed from the king. 'Listen to me, Meren. The Hittites fight differently than we do. They use a three-man chariot that's heavier than ours. It carries two warriors instead of one and a driver. They're slower and less maneuverable, but they can destroy a line with a massed charge. With three men they can devastate us at close quarters. Meren, the Hittites might be able to-'
'Take Egypt.' Meren nodded. Tanefer had confirmed what he'd been hearing from other sources. 'You may be right, old friend, but they won't do it today, or tomorrow, or even next year. Akhenaten allowed the army and navy to fall to pieces. Horemheb and Nakhtmin need time to rebuild.'
'But-'
Meren pushed away from the column and squeezed Tanefer's arm. 'Be at ease. I've heard you, and I believe you.'
'There isn't much time. Right now they're fat with victory, and complacent. If we attacked now, we might even push them out of Mitanni.'
'And put you in place of the Hittite minion who rules there now?' Meren grinned at the astonishment in Tanefer's face. 'Oh, don't look so worried. I but jest with you. For a man who lives on merriment and lightness, you fail to recognize another man's joke too often.'
Tanefer shook his head and pointed at the king, who was listening to Ay. 'I can see it already. Ay will convince him to delay. Delay and negligence lost my uncle his kingdom and cost him his life.'
Meren stood beside Tanefer and gazed at the king. 'And haste, dear Tanefer, could cost pharaoh his.'
Chapter 3
Unas scurried through the black streets of western Thebes, his ka lighter than it had been in two days, for he was no longer afraid. He was unsuspected; he could continue at the temple without risk. Yesterday he'd seen Lord Meren among the attendants of pharaoh and had almost spoken to him. Lucidly he'd lost his courage; the man he feared gave no sign of disturbance.
In the darkness of the hour before dawn he could barely make out the shapes of the sphinxes that lined the avenue before the temple. He walked between two of them and down the street toward the first pylon, the gate of the god. It was still early, and there was no one about.
Unas approached the colossus. It stood surrounded by scaffolding, ready to be finished. Most of it had been carved at the quarry far to the south near Aswan, but it still had to be polished. Soon master stoneworkers and their apprentices would arrive with their rubbing stones and buckets of crushed quartzite to smooth and polish what surfaces weren't to be painted and adorned with gold.
Nearing the ladder that scaled the statue to the platform surrounding its head, Unas paused as he heard a loud snore. He poked his head around the base of the sculpture. The noise was coming from the gate between the pylons. That lazy porter was asleep again. Sniffing,
Unas patted the list of tools and supplies he'd folded and stuck in the waistband of his kilt. The sentries must be pacing their route on the far side of the temple. Not that they would disturb the porter, who could sleep through the howling of fiends.
Unas, on the other hand, always woke early, a habit mat benefited him this morning. Last night the master sculptor had sent a boy with a message asking that they meet early to go over the day's work plan. He grasped the ladder and began climbing.
Halfway up, he paused and glanced around. He could see lights in houses now, and far off a donkey brayed. He continued up the ladder, smiling. Being the first to arrive and the last to leave afforded him much pleasure, for his industrious habits had attracted the attention of the prophets of the god. In their hands lay all opportunities for advancement.
His head reached the floor of the top scaffolding. He grasped the ends of the ladder and put a foot on the floor. Pharaoh's granite eyes, as large as Unas's head, stared at him.
As he hoisted himself onto the scaffolding, he heard the creak of wood. Something white dashed at him as he straightened up with his feet planted on the edge of the platform. Unas's mouth fell open, but the man who leaped from behind the giant head of the colossus was too fast for him.
Unas screamed, flailed his arms, and plummeted. He felt one last jolt of pain, and then nothing.
The man on the scaffolding peered over the edge at the body below. Then he surveyed the area around the statue, keeping his head cocked in the direction of the god's gate and the porter. A loud sucking noise floated toward him, signaling continued slumber, and he quickly climbed down. He stood over the body for a moment before turning and melting into the darkness beneath the high wall that surrounded the temple. What was left of Unas lay undisturbed except for visits from flies.
As light appeared behind the eastern temples of the sacred precinct, several priests walked down the avenue to the pylon. They didn't glance at the base of the statue, and in any case the body lay on the far side, away from the gate. The priests roused the porter, scolded him, and went into the temple.
Not long afterward, a group of men arrived at the quay in a skiff. Disembarking, they shouldered baskets and sacks and headed for the pylon. As they approached, talking and laughing, they veered aside and directed their steps toward the colossus.
They passed granite feet larger than two men, rounded the corner of the base on which they stood, and came to an abrupt stop. Silence enveloped the group, broken by the buzzing of flies. Then they all chattered at once.
'It's that priest, Unas.'
'What happened? Did he fall?'
'Look at his head. His meat has spattered all over the flagstones.'
'He must have lost his footing.'
The oldest man, whose skin was cracked, split, and scarred from years of working with stone in the sun, raised his voice for the first time. 'Quiet, all of you!'
He walked over to the body and stared at it while the others kept their distance. In his years as master stone sculptor, Seneb had seen many wonders-the colossi of Amunhotep the Magnificent's funerary temple, the arrival of the Mitanni princess Gilukhepa and her hundreds of waiting women at the court of Thebes, even water turned to cold clouds of white snow in mountain-tops far to the north. Never had he seen a dead priest at the base of a statue.
He looked from the body, up the ladder to the platform that surrounded the neck of the statue. He rubbed his chin, then dropped the basket he was carrying. Old Unas had been a scribe, and scribes could stumble over their own toes.
'I'm going to see the priests. All of you stay here and let no one touch the body.'
'But, Seneb-'
'Stay here, I said.'
Seneb broke into a trot. He went to the gate and confronted the porter, who was leaning against a stone wall, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It took him several attempts to make the man understand, but eventually he was allowed inside and encountered a servant sweeping flagstones.
The servant conducted him to a pure one, who handed him over to his chief, who listened to Seneb's report without comment. Then he was left standing under a papyrus column while the priest vanished into the black inner temple. After a while the man reappeared, trailing behind a tall priest in a luxurious wig and gold headband.
He moved with slim, almost fragile grace. His bones were thin, giving him a deerlike aspect. The gauntness of his face and its length reminded Seneb of the old heretic Akhenaten. The sheer quality of the linen he wore along with the gold scarab pectoral at his breast put Seneb at ease. Here was a priest of rank. This man wouldn't pass off responsibility, and he'd know what to do.
'I am Qenamun, chief overseer of the god's treasury and lector priest of Amun. You've found one of our pure
