"Unfortunately my daughter is still quite immature. Her body is that of a woman, but her ka remains childlike. I fear that she would be of little service to the queen."
"That is for the Great Royal Wife to decide," Tio said.
Meren set the bowl of dates aside and poured himself a cup of water. "Her majesty is gracious, but—"
"The queen has already spoken to pharaoh, who has given his assent."
Meren's head shot up. Tio was looking down at him, her eyes glinting like obsidian in sunlight. She smiled at him, and he realized she had glimpsed his dismay. Meren rose from the couch and walked past Tio to a table on the other side of the room. His hand touched the feathers of a small fan lying on the table. He stroked the softness while he searched for some excuse, any excuse that would keep his daughter away from the woman who hated him. What justification was there to refuse such an honor? It was a privilege most men would kill to achieve. What remedy?
Meren continued to stroke the fan as. Tio waited and gloated. Finally he turned back to her, his expression rueful.
"Forgive me, princess. I neglected to tell you that Isis will soon marry."
"I have heard nothing of this," Tio replied. "The girl only returned from the country a short time ago, and you haven't asked pharaoh's permission."
"That is because my daughter has several suitors and hasn't decided among them. This won't surprise you after having seen her tonight. You will understand that such a decision takes time."
Tio's remote countenance dropped into place again. "I will inform the Great Royal Wife."
"Thank you," Meren said.
"She may wish to concern herself with any alliance formed by the daughter of such a great noble."
"I wouldn't presume to disturb the Lady of the Two Lands with so unimportant a matter."
Before Tio could respond, there was a call from the deck. Relieved, Meren excused himself and left the deckhouse. Kysen was waiting for him nearby and began walking with him.
"We're about to dock, and we have a late guest."
Meren went to the ship's railing as
Joy of the Nile
gently nudged the quayside. Approaching from an ornate chariot flanked by bearded guards was a man whose garments seemed dipped in silver. Meren and Kysen glanced at each other without speaking. Djoser appeared and leaned over the railing.
"By the gods, Meren, it's that serpent of a Hittite emissary. And he's brought a small army with him."
After Pharaoh had shamed him in front of the whole court, Meren had not expected Mugallu to remain in Egypt. The Hittite should have stormed home to the mountains of his Anatolian homeland and hissed accusations at his king. What was he doing coming aboard
Joy of the Nile
? As the ship eased through the water to gently nudge the dock, music, clapping, and laughter sent a barrage of sound across the water to greet the foreigner. Only a few guests noticed the Hittite party. Unfortunately, Reshep, Djoser, and the disgruntled Prince Rahotep were among them.
Sighing at the thought of introducing Mugallu to either Djoser or Rahotep, Meren stepped forward as the gangplank was lowered onto the quay. Kysen was behind him, along with Reshep, who seemed unconcerned that it might be presumptuous of a newcomer to insert himself into a welcome party for a Hittite prince.
Flanked by his illustrious escort of high-ranking military men and an assistant minister from Ay's office, Mugallu stepped on board. The rage that had turned his face carnelian in the throne room had ebbed, leaving his heavy features and bird-of-prey nose the hue of mud brick. Meren noticed one of the escort, General Labarnas, who nodded to him and grinned. Meren hated that grin. Hittites were notorious for going into battle grinning just like that, as if they found slashed bellies with entrails spilling out to be the most amusing of sights. The wisest thing to do was to avoid looking at Labarnas at all.
While he and the prince exchanged formal salutations, Meren summoned every skill he'd ever used to survive the crocodile trap that was the Egyptian court. Mugallu wasn't simply an emissary. Judging from his behavior so far, he was a trial, a challenge, a probing stick sent to jab at pharaoh's suspected weaknesses. And worse. Mugallu could be in Memphis to search for an ally, someone willing to betray Egypt, for a price.
At this thought Meren's lips curled in disgust, but he forced them into a smile of tranquil welcome. "Shall we sit and talk, highness? You must be weary after spending all day conferring with the Divine Father Ay."
"Indeed," Mugallu said as he surveyed the men behind Meren. His gaze settled on Reshep, who bore it with an aplomb worthy of pharaoh.
Reshep stepped forward, lifting his hands in greeting as he spoke. "I am Lord Reshep—"
"By the storm god, Meren, do all your nobles dress like women and oil themselves like catamites?" Mugallu asked. He left Reshep standing alone, his mouth hanging open, and walked toward the aft steering castle.
Meren heard a growl and thrust his arm out in time to stop Prince Rahotep from hurling himself on top of the Hittite.
"Get out of my way!" Rahotep snarled. "He insulted us all, not just Reshep."
Shoving his body against the straining prince, Meren hissed, "Cease at once. He wants you to take offense, you fool."
Reshep had recovered from the insult and grabbed one of Prince Rahotep's arms.
"Temper the heat in your belly, my friend. There are other ways to avenge oneself."
"Listen to him," Meren said as Rahotep refused to give up the struggle.
Djoser grabbed Rahotep's other arm while Kysen intervened to try to calm his friend. With Rahotep tethered, Meren left the group and quickly followed Mugallu aft. There, where the ship began to curve up out of the water, lay a gilded pavilion. A curved roof supported by slender columns with lotus capitals provided shelter. Openwork carving formed walls around three sides and showed Hapu, god of the Nile. Mugallu stood beneath the gold-painted roof and contemplated one of the two massive steering oars, now immobile and untended with the ship docked.
"Such a calm river," Mugallu said as Meren joined him in looking across the black water. "The Nile spoils you Egyptians. You're complacent, pampered by its abundance." Mugallu glanced at Meren. "Soft."
Meren leaned against one of the columns and held Mugallu's gaze. "Walk along the bank, highness, and you'll find that this tranquillity hides danger. One careless move, and you're meat for crocodiles."
"I've spoken to Ay; rather, Ay has tried for hours to placate me," Mugallu said. He resumed his contemplation of the Nile. "Ay is wise and possesses a honeyed tongue, but your child-king ruined all his work by refusing to see me again when Ay asked to be received."
Meren felt his skin prickle, and his hearing seemed to grow more acute. Mugallu's belligerent expression had vanished. His brows arched, and he was trying not to smirk.
"The divine one rarely sees emissaries twice. He consents to allow negotiations, but ordinary business is not for the living god."
The Hittite's smirk contorted. "I'm not ordinary business! By the storm god, I hate coming to this land, with its arrogance, its lazy preoccupation with itself. You"— Mugallu paused to run his gaze over Meren's immaculate figure, the jeweled belt, the transparent linen that revealed long legs—"you… nobles. You're pampered, oiled toys of pharaoh, and yet you're stuffed with pride. Every son of a jackal bitch is certain that Egypt is the chosen kingdom of the gods. I know what you call the rest of us. Barbarians, wretched Asiatics."
"And what do you call us?" Meren asked as he studied Mugallu beneath half-closed eyelids.
The Hittite didn't respond. His fingers curled until he'd made fists, and Meren watched him struggle with his temper. Finally the wrath distorting his features dwindled.
"Don't you think King Suppiluliumas knows about your dead heretic king and the misery he caused? Egypt is weak, ridden with old hatreds that have set brother against brother." Mugallu paused. "Cousin against cousin."
Meren stared straight into the Hittite's watchful eyes. "Are you trying to say something about me and my cousin Ebana, highness?"
"You?" Mugallu leaned on the pavilion railing and shook his head. "Why should I say anything about you, the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh? Even in Hatti we know the power and influence of the King's Friend, Lord Meren. Tell me, do you think, even with all your skill at spying and plotting, that you and General Horemheb and the rest can hold Egypt together long enough for your boy-king to grow up?"
"Do you question the might of Egypt, highness?" Meren asked softly. "I don't think your master is quite ready to challenge a pharaoh at the moment, even a young one."
Standing, Mugallu gave him a smile that recalled the yawn of a sated hippo. The Hittite gazed across the deck and nodded at the crowd surrounding one of the professional singers.
"At home we waste little time singing of the pleasures of life. It makes a warrior soft. Instead, we sing of battle and victory."
"We sing of such things as well," Meren said.
"And we tell tales of great battles."
"Like those of Thutmose the Conqueror, who spread the empire to the verge of the Hittite lands?" Meren was exaggerating, but Mugallu was beginning to irritate him.
The prince didn't answer. Turning his back on the revelers, he took a step closer to Meren and lowered his voice.
"I remember a tale, a favorite of the great king, concerning one of his royal ancestors. This king of the Hittites had an enemy, the prince of a rich and powerful city with a great army. This prince looted and destroyed several Hittite villages and refused to return the people he'd taken from them. Of course, the great king had to retaliate. Do you know what he did first, to weaken the prince?"
"You will tell me, won't you?"
Mugallu threw back his head and laughed so loudly that heads turned toward them.
"Yes, I'll tell you."
Mugallu leaned closer to Meren, who still had his back against a column and couldn't move away. The Hittite was so close Meren could smell the spice bread he'd eaten and the stale wine on his breath.
"To weaken the prince," Mugallu said, "the great king struck not at the enemy himself but at the friend of his heart, his most trusted adviser and confidant."
Meren breathed a comment. "Ah." And he surveyed Mugallu with tranquil composure.
"With his friend dead, the prince was beset with grief, distraught, unable to trust his own decisions without the approval of the beloved friend. He grew weak in battle."
Mugallu stepped back but kept his gaze fixed on Meren. "Naturally the great king defeated the prince, cut his head off, and stuck it on the end of a spear, which he mounted on the royal chariot when he returned home, triumphant."
"A good tale," Meren said in a bored tone.
"I thought you would value it."
Meren lifted himself up and perched on the pavilion railing. "Not one an Egyptian would tell, though."
"Oh?"
"No. You see, highness, Egypt is ruled by a living god, not a mere king. As the son of the great god Amun, pharaoh is wise beyond his years. We who serve him do his bidding. Never has a servant substituted his will for pharaoh's, and the living god relies on the guidance of Amun, king of the gods. So you see, your tale is entertaining, but hardly fitting for Egypt."
The Hittite scowled at Meren. "Perhaps I'll recall another before I return home, but I think this one fits, no matter the divine heritage of King Tutankhamun."
"Would you like more wine, highness?"
Mugallu lifted a hand in protest. "I've had enough, and I'm weary. Don't escort me off the ship, Lord Meren. I've had sufficient ceremony for one day."
"May your sleep be peaceful, highness."
"I always sleep peacefully," Mugallu said as he left. "I only hope I haven't given you black dreams with my tale of the death of the prince's friend."
On the second night after the feast on
Joy of the Nile
, Kysen walked down the Street of Foreigners, feeling more at ease in his heart than he had in weeks. Meren had embarked on his journey to find Queen Nefertiti's favorite cook, but Abu was following him. If anyone could protect his father, it was Abu. Still, a dagger of uneasiness pricked at him as he dodged two drunk Cypriot sailors.
After the family had gone home from the feast, Meren had been different. No longer distracted and anxious, his father had been furious. The Eyes of Pharaoh rarely showed anger, not unless by design. Mugallu had said something to Meren in the golden ship's pavilion, something that had so provoked his father's wrath that he'd been unable to conceal it in the seclusion of his home.
Bener had whispered to Kysen about the change in his mood when Meren had spoken sharply to a porter at the front door. Even Isis had noticed Meren's rage, between lyrics of praise for Lord Reshep. True, the reason she'd noticed was that Meren snapped at her to leave off bleating about a lord who thought he was prettier than she was. But she'd noticed.
"Some new intrigue of Mugallu's has irritated him."
Kysen muttered to himself. "May the gods curse all Hittites."
He abandoned his musings when he reached the intersection of the Street of Foreigners with the Avenue of the Ibis. He was still near the docks and could hear the calls of water birds and an occasional hippo's roar and feel the moisture of the Nile in the air. But the place he sought was at the edge of the dock district, near the area where Mycenaean Greek traders, ship captains, and sailors lived. If he kept walking and turned down any of the side streets toward the docks, he'd immediately step into a realm few ordinary citizens braved at night.
Everyone called it the Caverns, after the Caverns of Duat in the netherworld. There ferocious god-fiends guarded the afterlife, ready to destroy an unprepared soul. Their names—Breaker of Bones, Eater of Intestines, He-Whose-Two-Eyes-Are-on-Fire—described horrors every Egyptian feared. In the Caverns of Memphis, thieves, receivers of smuggled luxuries, and evildoers from Egypt's far-flung possessions and her own cities lived and pursued strange and distasteful occupations.