I've been. He says many great men-like Amunhotep, son of Hapu, and Imhotep, the powerful sage and magician- haven't been warriors.'
Staring at Djoser, Kysen said, 'But not long ago you wouldn't listen to Rahotep when he said the same thing.'
'That was when I was afraid everyone was laughing at me for puking on the battlefield, and losing governance of my horses, and having to be rescued from my own chariot. Now I realize these are but paltry incidents to a great prince.'
Kysen's jaw nearly dropped to the deck. 'Is this the man who returned from the expedition to the Syrian vassals all pale and haunted by war demons?' He suddenly glanced from Djoser to Reshep, who had been encircled by a new group of guests. 'Djoser, don't set up an altar for someone you've known but a few weeks.'
'I worship at the feet of none but pharaoh!' Djoser drew himself up and frowned at Kysen. 'I merely choose to become enlightened by good example. Perhaps you're jealous of Reshep already.'
'Jealous?' Kysen glanced at Reshep again, noting the elbows and knees, each sharp as the point of an obelisk. 'You're fevered.'
'And your heart is envious,' Djoser said. 'Speak to me no more of altars and fevers when I have five more years than you, common-blooded meddler.'
Djoser stalked away in his gilded sandals to rejoin his new friend. A woman in front of Reshep moved aside, and Kysen glimpsed him from head to foot, especially foot. Reshep wore gilded leather sandals like Djoser's, but the straps of his were wrapped in sheet gold and encrusted with amethysts. Djoser had encountered someone who shared his taste for splendor.
Kysen had always known Djoser felt unworthy because his mother had been a mere noblewoman who captured the eye of Tutankhamun's father. A scholarly man who longed to be what he was not-a great warrior- Djoser had allowed his failures to slowly curdle his spirit until he threatened to become a snarled ball composed of threads of resentment and bitterness.
Kysen was distracted from contemplating Djoser's unexpected transformation by the deck's movement beneath his feet. The ship swayed, then began to drift. Meren's crew had cast off from the quay.
Slaves lit torches fitted to the sides of the ship; others lit precious candles and alabaster lamps carved in the fluted form of the lotus. The harpist struck up a feasting tune, accompanied by flutes, double pipes, and lyres. These were joined by drums, tambourines, and the sistrum, a handled, bent metal strip between the ends of which ran wires strung with metal disks. When shaken gently, the sistrum made Kysen's favorite sound, a murmuring chime that soothed his ka.
Meren appeared at his side, his gaze drifting over the milling company. Perfumed and coiffed nobles moved among tables decorated with lotus flowers and burdened with food. The belly-tempting smell of roast fowl revealed the enticement of duck, egret, crane, and prized red-breasted goose. Kysen was about to summon a slave and order a plate prepared for himself and Meren when he heard someone bark his name.
'Kysen, why are you not among that herd of fawning, slack-witted goats surrounding Reshep?'
Meren's arm lashed out and fastened onto that of Prince Rahotep. Hauling the younger man to him, he shot a warning look at his slightly drunk victim, flashed an irritated smile, and hissed at Kysen.
'Keep him at your side. I don't have time to serve as keeper to a man with the tact of a four-year-old child and the temper of a wounded pig.'
Slapping Rahotep hard on the shoulders, Kysen grabbed the arm Meren relinquished. 'Welcome, my friend. You honor us with your company.'
'Huh.' Rahotep burped and poured half a goblet of Syrian wine down his throat. 'I saw you with that place- seeker. You don't like him any better than I do.'
Rahotep scowled at his friend Djoser as he sidled closer to Reshep and fixed his attention on the newcomer's easy conversation. 'Only the great god Amun knows why they find the bastard so admirable. He has but one theme to his songs-the perfection and wonder of Lord Reshep.'
'Really?'
Kysen followed Rahotep's stare to its object. Djoser was introducing Bener to his idol. Without warning Lord Reshep looked up, over Bener's head, straight into Kysen's eyes. It was but a glance, yet Kysen was left feeling again the force of its perception. It was as if Reshep knew they were talking about him, even what they were saying. Shaken, Kysen felt suddenly angry with himself for reacting with such vulnerability. He dragged his gaze from Reshep. Dislike for the man burst forth, fed by resentment that this stranger could evoke fantasies and baseless fear in him.
'Did you hear what I said?' Rahotep demanded. 'Djoser is so besotted he chants Lord Reshep's glorification endlessly to pharaoh, may he have life, health, and strength forever.'
Kysen's anger twisted his smile with bitterness. 'Father said he looks like a starved frog.'
'Ha!' Those nearest them looked their way at Rahotep's loud hoot.
Kysen winced and said through set teeth, 'Be quiet.'
'Why should I?' Rahotep turned in a circle, glowered at the listeners, and said loudly, 'Why should I care what they think? I'm a half-royal, son of Amunhotep the Magnificent, a great warrior, clever of heart, unequaled in wisdom.' He appeared to remember his manners. Presenting his back to the largest cluster of eavesdroppers, he lowered his voice. 'I tell you, Ky, it makes me want to vomit to see a preening grasper turn great lords into vassals and noble ladies into red-faced and hungry tavern women.'
'I've never known you to be so hostile to one of so little consequence.'
Rahotep banged his goblet down on a servant's tray and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'That's it!'
'What?'
'That's what makes me hate him. He's of no consequence, and yet he behaves as if he were spawn from the loins of Ra. My father was a pharaoh, even if my mother was a peasant. I deserve the respect due a great one. When we met, the dog gave me the slightest of bows.' Rahotep's bushy eyebrows formed one hairy line over his eyes. 'He should have kissed the floor before my feet. Perhaps I'll make him do that one day soon.'
'Don't,' Kysen replied. 'My father has been asked by the golden one to become familiar with Lord Reshep. If Meren approves, Reshep may be admitted to court, and into the king's presence.'
Rahotep rocked back and forth on his heels. 'I care not.' He gave Kysen a sideways glance. 'I could beat him in a fight, you know. I'm expert with scimitar, sword, and dagger as well as staves, javelins, and throw sticks.'
'Yes, Rahotep, I know.'
In Rahotep's opinion, no one, perhaps not even pharaoh, could do anything better than he could. It was only his boisterous openness that saved him from being heartily disliked. How could you hate a man whose blatant exaggerations fooled no one but himself? Kysen felt compassion for Rahotep, something he would never have imagined feeling for a prince until recently.
He glanced over at Reshep again. The newcomer was still the center of a chattering group, but as Kysen watched, Reshep lifted a drinking cup of highly polished bronze and seemed to be examining it as if he were thinking of buying it.
'By Ptah's staff,' Kysen murmured.
Rahotep tried to see what Kysen was looking at. 'What?'
'I think Reshep is looking at himself in that drinking cup.' As he spoke, Reshep adjusted a stray lock of plaited hair on his wig.
Rahotep snorted. 'Arse.'
Kysen didn't answer, taken off guard by a sudden insight. What an addled fool he'd been to assume that Reshep's powerful gaze held perception, acumen, discernment. What he'd seen in those eyes was a ravenous search for his own reflected magnificence. Kysen had mistaken an appetite for adoration for interest and sympathy.
'Are you paying attention?' Rahotep demanded. 'Now if Reshep had my visage, I could understand him wanting to admire it.'
He listened to more of Rahotep's bragging until a stir and murmur circling through the assembly caused them
