Drinker Of Blood (5 page)

"After I deal with Dilalu, we must go over what my scribes have gathered from the old records," Meren said.

He glanced over his shoulder to see the fiery orb of Ra crest the trees that sheltered his town house. At the same time, Zar, his body servant, walked around the stables and came toward him. Meren nudged Kysen.

"Prince Djoser must be here with the dealer in weapons. Tell Zar to bring them here."

Turning on his heel, Meren went to the stables. The low mud-brick building housed the teams of thoroughbreds that pulled the chariots driven by Meren and his men. In the first stall, a luxurious box finished in hard plaster and strewn with fresh straw, stood his favorite pair—Wind Chaser and Star Chaser. Brothers, they worked together as one, and Meren had raised them himself. Seldom did a day pass that he didn't take them out to the desert for exercise. If he couldn't, one of the other charioteers made certain they were kept in shape.

Star Chaser whinnied and stuck his head over the wooden gate in the stall. Wind Chaser pivoted and thrust his nose in Meren's face. Meren fed them handfuls of the grain they craved. The two were dish-faced, with great, low-set eyes and tapered muzzles; their flexible nostrils snuffled at him. They were dark, dark roans, their obsidian-black manes and tails grown long in the absence of warfare. Meren was proud of their refined and graceful features and fine-boned strength. They had charged with him into battle countless times, never wavering, never losing courage.

As he stroked their soft muzzles, Meren settled into a private realm of tranquillity, summoned by the feel of delicate skin and the soft rumbling sounds Wind and Star made when they talked to him. He answered in a low murmur as he stroked Wind's neck and laid his cheek against Star's jaw.

Kysen's reluctance to delve further into the death of the queen had kindled his own foreboding. Since discovering the murder, Meren had been suffering from evil dreams. Were they messages from the gods, or were they scraps of old memories?

Akhenaten had killed Meren's father for refusing to adopt the Aten as his sole god. He'd tortured Meren, suspecting him of the same treachery, and only the intervention of Ay had saved the devastated youth. Meren rubbed his wrist against Wind's neck.

It was beginning to itch, as it often did when he was agitated or when he was reminded of those nightmare times at the heretic's capital, Horizon of the Aten. He closed his eyes and tried to fend off the images of that dark cell, but he saw again Akhenaten's foot, soft and scented with oil, in its golden sandal from his position beneath the royal guards on the floor. He glimpsed the white-hot brand in the shape of the Aten. The metal formed a sun disk with sticklike rays extending from it and ending in stylized hands. It descended and pressed into his wrist, and Meren's body went rigid with agony.

"No."

His own voice jolted Meren back from the realm of apparitions. Turning his face, he buried it in Star's neck. Wind nudged him, jealous and impatient. The soft nose on his shoulder tickled, and Meren laughed unsteadily.

Someone blocked the light from the door. Immediately Meren shifted into the guise of courtier and King's Friend. Without looking, he said, "May Amun bless you, Prince Djoser."

Djoser was the son of Amunhotep the Magnificent and an Egyptian noblewoman. A scholarly man with a misguided ambition to be a soldier, he was slight, with thinning hair concealed by a court wig that lay about his shoulders in intricate braids. Djoser's arched brows and open-mouthed expression combined to give an impression that the prince was constantly startled. He wore a fine pleated robe and broad collar of alternating gold and carnelian beads and seemed embarrassed when he took in Meren's plain kilt, sweating body, and lack of ornaments or eye paint.

With an uncertain step he entered the stable, followed by a stocky man no higher than Meren's shoulder who walked with a cocklike strut. No doubt the visitor thought his gait stately, but the effect was that of a waddling pyramid block. Dilalu the merchant smelled of expensive unguents. Meren detected the scent of sweet flag, juniper berries, and myrrh. Beneath these lurked the odor of stale wine. In his arms Dilalu carried the fattest tabby Meren had ever seen. It watched Meren with flat-headed malice as Dilalu's stubby, beringed fingers stroked its fur.

Djoser stopped before Meren and bowed. "Lord Meren, Friend of the King, count, and hereditary prince, I present the merchant of Canaan, Dilalu."

Meren nodded, a slight inclination of the head that expressed his superior station in life. Dilalu bowed low with the fat cat in his arms and spoke with a manner and tone that called up visions of ox fat melting in the sun.

"Great lord, mighty of power, a humble man am I to be summoned into thy presence. May the blessings of the Lady of Byblos be upon thee."

"Indeed," Meren murmured as he stroked Star Chasers withers.

He let silence lengthen, a method by which he'd disturbed many an evildoer. This first meeting was but to whet Dilalu's appetite with the prospect of a connection near pharaoh. Only after the weapons seller was drooling at the possibility of much Egyptian gold would Meren begin inserting the point of his knife into the cracks in Dilalu's ramparts. Holding out his hand, he let Wind Chaser snuffle it. When Star began to toss his head, Meren spoken again, causing Dilalu to jump and his cat to hiss.

"I have heard of the quality of your thoroughbreds, merchant. I wish to purchase a fine pair for my eldest daughter in celebration of her first child. The birth should take place in three months' time."

Dilalu's stubby fingers dug into his cat's fur. The animal growled, and the fingers lifted. Then, as if he suddenly woke from sleep, the merchant launched into a speech that had obviously been practiced beforehand.

"O mighty of power, blessed of Baal, O puissant prince, unbounded is my humility at being blessed with a commission from your noble self. Great is my fame; it is true. The old pharaoh, may he live forever, and his great royal wife knew the value of my steeds. I have provided mounts for all the great kings of the world—the king of the Hittites, the king of Babylon, many, many great kings. General Horemheb and General Nakhtmin order my horses for the chariotry of Egypt. Indeed, one can see my fine thoroughbreds from the Delta to the southern lands of Kush."

Dilalu stopped, but only because he'd run out of breath.

"The living Horus, his majesty Tutankhamun, would admire my horses, should they be driven by the noble Lord Meren."

While listening to Dilalu, Meren had knelt down to inspect Wind's hoof. The man was already sweating with anticipation. Meren stood and looked at Dilalu with curiosity. The man's tongue was slippery as wet granite, which was no doubt of great use to him when selling mountains of weapons to petty kings in Syria.

"Are you the one who provided mounts to pharaoh in Horizon of the Aten?"

Dilalu bowed again, nearly crushing the cat in his arms. The animal spat and struggled. It finally jumped to the ground and began to stalk around the stables.

"Perhaps the great lord has seen the matched black stallions of the old king. Pharaoh drove from his palace in the northern city down the royal road with them countless times."

"Yes," Meren said softly. "I remember."

"And I provided the great royal wife with a white pair."

"I remember a mare called Swiftness."

"The finest, O mighty prince. The queen allowed me into her presence to praise the animal."

Affecting indifference, Meren scooped up a handful of grain from a bucket and fed Wind and Star. Dilalu gave Prince Djoser an uneasy look and burst into florid speech again.

"O mighty lord, whom pharaoh has made powerful, I have added horse to horse, bow to bow, shield to shield, for the armies of Egypt. And I long to serve the upright Lord Meren. I have other animals from afar—leopards, green monkeys, gazelles, onagers, and parrots." Dilalu ventured a few steps nearer his quarry and gave Meren a sideways glance that started at the top of his black hair and ended at his ankles. "I even have slaves from across the sea, blond ones from the wild north lands."

"What I want from you, merchant, is first choice from among your finest mares and stallions, and perhaps I will need a pair of hinnies."

"O mighty prince, I breed my hinnies from royal stallions and the gentlest of female donkeys."

Giving Dilalu a blank stare, Meren turned to Prince Djoser. "The merchant may speak to my steward about payment. Pray come with me and taste some new Syrian wine my trader has just brought back, my friend."

Meren and Djoser left the stable. Dilalu scooped up his cat and scurried after them, his long woolen robe a bright blot against the white-plastered walls of the buildings. Zar was waiting to escort the merchant, and Meren didn't look at him again as he engaged Djoser in conversation. When Dilalu was gone, Meren walked toward the house with his friend. The first meeting had been everything he'd planned. Dilalu had already revealed his presence at Horizon of the Aten and his acquaintance with Nefertiti.

"My thanks for bringing the merchant," Meren said to Prince Djoser.

Djoser smiled and ducked under the branch of an acacia beside the walk. "He'll try to cheat you."

"Is that not the way of merchants?"

Djoser frowned, as if troubled. "But you could have gotten horses by sending your trader to any of the breeders in Egypt, Meren."

"Ah," Meren said smoothly, "but this Dilalu has the finest, the horses favored by the royal family, and I want the best for my eldest daughter, who is about to bear her first child."

"Still—"

"And how much greater the value of the gift if one attends the details of its acquisition personally, my dear friend."

Djoser brightened. "I never thought of that."

Having shared an upbringing with the children of the royal palace, Meren wasn't surprised at Djoser's blindness. He stopped beside the long reflection pool that decorated the approach to the house as servants scurried toward them bearing trays and ostrich feather fans.

"This personal attention, it is a practice I learned from Queen Nefertiti. She used to choose gifts for her daughters herself. But enough of miserable merchants."

"I agree," Djoser said. "Men like that are never of much consequence."

"Your words have much truth," Meren said as he picked up a bronze goblet from a tray. "And dealing with that one has left a bad taste on my tongue."

Thebes, joint reign of the Pharaoh Amunhotep III, the Magnificent, and his son, Akhenaten

Nefertiti dashed through a maze of palace rooms cluttered with guards, servants, courtiers, and slaves, her gauzy, pleated robes billowing around her long legs. Her majesty, Queen Tiye, would scold her later for her unseemly haste, but word had come that her new husband was upset. The queen had made Nefertiti's duty plain—as wife to pharaoh's heir, she was to control Akhenaten's intolerance and mystical tendencies. A daunting prospect for a girl of twelve.

As she approached her husband's quarters, Nefertiti slowed to a fast walk. Her hands shook as she contemplated the task before her. Akhenaten's heart was filled with strange notions, ideas that drove his father into rages the moment the two exchanged more than a few words. Amunhotep was still horribly offended that her husband insisted upon being called a name of his own invention rather than the name he shared with his father.

Because of Akhenaten's bizarre behavior, Nefertiti had lost her old life of obscurity, her quiet manner of living, and worst of all, her friend Webkhet. Wives of pharaohs didn't have intimate friends among the guards' families. She still missed Webkhet. Last night, after a spell of crying, she'd resolved to put her longing for her friend aside. Feeling pity for oneself was unqueenly and cowardly. This had been one of Tiye's first lessons.

She didn't share pharaoh and Tiye's belief that she could influence Akhenaten and lead him away from his more fanatical tendencies by the power of her beauty and the tranquillity of her spirit. Nefertiti had found it impossible to remain tranquil when Akhenaten was submerged in one of his mystic trances. And when he erupted into rage, he was even more frightening than his father.

Nefertiti slowed to a sedate walk outside the audience hall called the Bull Chamber. She knew it was important to be beautiful. It was one of her greatest tasks. The gods had blessed her with an almost perfectly oval face, delicate brows, and eyes the shape of large dates. Her bones were fragile, and her neck so long that the extra weight of her headdresses seemed to threaten to snap it.

Akhenaten loved her fine skin, made golden brown by many hours spent beside her husband in the worship of the Aten. He was fascinated by her mouth. The lower lip was full, while the upper was short and slanted down. It intersected the upper to form corners that disappeared into tiny hollows. Yes, it was one of her greatest tasks—being beautiful. Nefertiti wasn't certain it was an enjoyable one. People seldom took account of her heart; they were too busy looking at her face.

Smoothing her braided wig, Nefertiti patted her face, which was damp with perspiration. Her hands were still shaking. Ignoring the guards that bracketed the double doors, she waited while her breathing slowed. She could hear raised voices coming from the audience chamber. Her father, Lord Ay, was in there.

At least she would have his supporting presence to give her courage. Nefertiti nodded to the guards, who opened the doors. Inside she walked past four wooden columns painted in black and red and across the rectangular chamber to a dais. Under her feet lay paintings of bound captives, the traditional enemies of Egypt: Libyans, Nubians, Asiatics, and blond savages from across the northern sea. Pharaoh always trod on his enemies, to ensure Egypt's safety.

On the dais, under a canopy of gilded cedar, her husband, Akhenaten, sat attended by Lord Ay and Humay, one of the countless powerful priests of the god Amun. Akhenaten slouched in his chair of ebony and sheet gold and squinted at the priest. Nefertiti gazed up at Akhenaten's face. It was long, with lips too full and a mouth too wide for its narrow chin. But his eyes dominated his face—slanting, larger than expected, and filled with black fire, they looked as if they could shrivel one's ka when they burned as they did now.