Slayer of Gods (24 page)

“If I was who you say, I could have killed you when you came to me for help, you fool.”

“You might have intended to kill me and were prevented,” Meren said as he came down the dais steps. “Eight.” He drew his dagger.

Othrys was sweating as he strained against the men who held him. “I could have killed you the moment you stepped into my house,
by the Earth Mother.”

“Nine.” Meren positioned himself in front of the pirate.

Othrys uttered an obscenity and spat on the floor. “You’re mad.”

“You said that. Ten. I think I’ll chop your heart out of your chest in the manner of Eater of Souls.” Meren raised his dagger.

“Wait!” Othrys rushed on when Meren paused. “I swear by the Earth Mother I did nothing to Kysen. I was at Horizon of the Aten.
I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to become involved in the contendings of great ones. It never pays. I did no wrong—toward
the great royal wife, that is. I had no reason. She didn’t interfere with my affairs. She didn’t even know I existed.”

Meren looked into the pirate’s sky-colored eyes and read fear, desperation, and anger, but nothing else. He shook his head,
suddenly uncertain and too filled with his own dread to risk making a fatal mistake. He felt drained. A moment ago he’d been
ready to kill this man, suffused with an ungovernable wrath that burned away all moderation, reason, and control. Othrys’s
protests had broken through the clamor in his head, the urge to take some action, any action. With the return of reason came
the feeling of powerlessness. Meren turned away.

“Hold him in the barracks. Make certain he talks to no one.”

Meren headed for Kysen’s room, the curses and protests of Othrys ringing in his ears as he was dragged out of the hall. Anath
had joined Bener in the sickroom, and Nebamun was busy concocting some magical preparation at a table. Meren stood at the
foot of the bed and gazed down at his son, who lay as still as a votive figurine. What would he do if he lost Kysen? He winced
at the jagged tearing pain the thought provoked. For over ten years this boy had been a part of his life, ever since the day
long ago when he encountered that old brute, Pawero, trying to sell his son in the streets of Thebes. He’d been on his way
to a meeting with General Horemheb and passed a market in an open area around a well.

“Healthy young boy here!” Pawero had bawled. “Who needs a strong boy for hard labor?”

He glanced at the two, father and son, surprised that any man would hawk his son like a bolt of linen. He looked more closely
and saw a scrawny body, inexpertly cropped and dusty hair, and large, half-moon eyes. His gaze traveled rapidly over the purple,
yellow, and green blotches on the child’s arms, legs, and back. His lower lip was swollen, and he held himself in that careful,
still manner that spoke of bruised or cracked ribs. But what fixed in Meren’s memory was the child’s haunted look, that sorrowful
and doomed expression.

All this he saw in a glance and walked on, his steps growing slower and slower. At the edge of the market he turned to look
at the pair again. Pawero was entreating a prospective buyer. He suddenly turned and gave the boy a smack on the head.

“Straighten up, Kysen. Show the man your fine muscles.”

Kysen held his thin body more erect, and when his father turned away, gave him a look of contempt and defiance that contained
the spirit of a warrior. Meren hesitated, admiration dawning. The child had obviously been mistreated for a long time. He
could see old scars beneath the bruises. Yet this boy had somehow managed to preserve his courage, which spoke of a strength
of heart beyond anything Meren would have expected. As he drew near the well, Pawero kept chattering to his customer with
a servile smile plastered on his face.

Kysen looked on, resigned. When the customer moved away, Pawero trotted after him, but the boy remained where he was. It was
then that Meren heard him speak for the first time.

“Why don’t you beat him into meeting your price?”

Meren almost smiled. “You don’t protest being sold?”

The boy started and whirled around to face him. After a few moments of startled contemplation, he shook his head.

“Tried that, master. Just got hit for it.”

“I don’t understand,” Meren said. “A man’s son is his staff of old age.”

Kysen regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. “I have two older brothers, master.” His gaze faltered. “I’m not needed or…”

“Wanted?”

The dust-covered head lowered, and the boy said nothing.

“Here! What are you doing bothering a great one?” Pawero swooped at Kysen and punched him in the stomach.

Something snapped inside Meren. He swept around the well, grabbed Pawero by the hair, and dragged him away from the boy. Howling,
the man staggered as Meren released him.

“Oh, shut your muzzle,” Meren said. “How much for the boy?” He couldn’t believe his mouth had uttered the words.

Pawero stopped whining, and his whole being lit with an almost magical glow as he appeared to calculate Meren’s wealth. He
studied the gold, turquoise, and carnelian broad collar, the beaded belt and bronze dagger.

“Oh, slaves is expensive, great one, especially a boy. Long years of service ahead for him, you know.”

Meren raised an eyebrow, removed a gold ring with a bezel of lapis lazuli from his finger and held it up.

“Agreed,” Pawero said quickly.

“The boy comes with me now, and you will go to the temple of Amun tomorrow morning and execute a bill of sale before witnesses.”

Pawero was bowing over and over. “Yes, great one. Of course, of course. And what name shall I give for the buyer?”

“Meren.”

The man stopped bowing and stared. Meren ignored him and continued. “Mark what I say, Pawero. From this day you have nothing
to do with this boy. Do not come to my house seeking to trade on your shared blood. I have no wish to see you again.” Without
waiting for Pawero’s reply, Meren motioned to Kysen.

“Come with me, child.”

The boy followed him back across the square, but faltered as they were about to turn a corner. He stood watching his father,
and Meren waited. Pawero’s attention was fixed on the gold ring. He rubbed it, held it up so that it caught the sun’s rays,
brought it close to see the design on the bezel. Then, without a glance at his son, he hurried away. Kysen’s eyes filled with
tears, but he didn’t cry. His gaze remained on the spot where his father disappeared, and he blinked rapidly. Meren reached
out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Kysen jumped, twisted around to face him, braced for a blow. Meren lowered his
hand.

“I won’t strike you.”

Kysen merely looked at him.

“There will be time enough for you to learn the truth of my words.”

When the boy remained in his defensive stance, Meren stepped back from him to show his benign intentions. After a while Kysen
straightened. Meren began to walk again.

“Come, Kysen. The gods have put you in my way. You’re my responsibility now, and my first duty is to see that you get a bath.”

“Bath! Rather get a beating.”

He could still hear that outraged response all these years later. Meren felt a spasm of pain as he studied Kysen’s motionless
body and recalled his childhood aversion to bathing. What a battle it had been to convince him that he wouldn’t drown if a
servant poured water over him in the shower stall.

“Meren, you’re not listening.”

He looked up to find Anath and Bener watching him. Kysen hadn’t moved.

“Yes?”

“Bener asked what all the commotion was,” Anath said.

“I arrested the pirate Othrys. He gave Kysen wine to drink just before he fell ill. If he doesn’t wake soon, I will use more
severe persuasion to make him tell me what was in the wine.”

Anath rose and joined him at the foot of the bed. “Then you suspect him?”

“I must,” Meren said. “He may have been lying from the first, but he did say something that made me think he might be innocent.
He claimed he could have killed me when I sought refuge with him when I was suspected of trying to kill pharaoh.”

“But he couldn’t be sure you hadn’t told your family where you were,” Anath said. “If you had, and he killed you, he would
have been suspected. Had I been faced with the situation, I would have waited to make certain your death couldn’t be traced
to me.”

“And by the time he was certain, I’d already contacted my charioteers. I see what you mean.”

Anath put her palm against his cheek. “You look terrible, my love.”

Meren turned and kissed her palm, suddenly weary. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he slept.

“I can’t rest.”

“I know a sleeping potion that will help,” Anath said. “I learned it from a Babylonian witch.”

“A witch? That doesn’t sound good. Besides, I must remain awake for Kysen.”

“Nonsense,” she said as she left the room. “Bener and I will watch over him and wake you at the first sign of a change in
his condition. I’ll prepare the mixture at once.”

Meren was too exhausted to argue. His thoughts were sluggish, his heart weary from the agony of the last few days. He sat
beside Bener, and they studied Kysen’s features together.

“Father, I have to talk to you.”

Pressing his fingertips to his temples, Meren said, “I won’t argue with you anymore.”

“I don’t want to argue, I just want to ask you about Anath.”

“Not now,” he said.

“No, not about you and Anath. About her wealth.”

“What about it?”

“Didn’t you say you went to her house? You saw it, and her possessions. She has as much furniture and more jewels than we
do.”

Meren touched Kysen’s forehead. It felt cool. “Anath is the Eyes of Babylon. The position requires wealth and accrues wealth.”

“Oh,” Bener said with a frown. “It’s just that you always say you’re suspicious when those of moderate means become suddenly
wealthy.”

Meren transferred his gaze to his daughter, noted her calculating expression, and sighed. “You’re doing it again, working
out puzzles. Leave it be. You’re to confine your thoughts to appropriate matters, and Anath’s prosperity isn’t your concern.”

“But, Father, you always say—”

“No!”

Bener jumped and gave him a hurt look.

“Forgive me, child, but I have no patience left after your abduction… and this.” He swept his arm toward Kysen. “Speak to
me about your concerns when Kysen… if he…” He couldn’t finish.

Anath appeared holding a glazed blue bottle and dragged him from the room. Meren allowed her to lead him to his bedchamber
because he was too exhausted to argue. He lay down, but refused to drink the concoction she poured into a cup of wine.

“I don’t want to be insensible while Kysen is ill.”

“Very well.” Anath set the cup on the floor and climbed into the bed with him. She picked it up again. “A small sip will help
you sleep without making you groggy.”

He took one sip to please her, then settled back in her arms. He turned his face so that he could smell her perfumed body,
but even that exotic scent failed to penetrate the numbness that had settled over him. Anath watched him for a while before
summoning a servant, who appeared with her lute. She moved to a cushion beside the bed and strummed the strings of the instrument.
It was an old one she’d had for years, made of the shell of a large tortoise.

Meren lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling and listening to her play. Slowly, against his will, his eyes closed.
He should be questioning Othrys, hunting down the missing Dilalu, anything to avoid having to think of losing Kysen as he
almost lost Bener. The last thing he remembered before he slept was Anath’s voice murmuring, quiet as the north breeze.

Meren woke with a start. He sat up, searching frantically for anything familiar, and found only blackness. His hands groped,
and he found the bed. Still blind, he stumbled, hitting a post, and lurched away from it. A wave of dizziness made him bend
over and brace himself. Taking long breaths, he slowly unbent and took cautious steps with his arms flung out in front of
him. At last his hands found wood, and he pushed open a door.

To his relief a charioteer stood outside. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. His blurry vision cleared, and he hurried
to Kysen’s room, his heart pounding. His son was still imprisoned in his frightening slumber. Bener sat on a stool and half
lay on the bed beside her brother, asleep. Was it his imagination, or did Ky seem paler? He could hardly see the boy’s chest
move with his breathing. Growing cold with alarm, Meren dropped to his knees, took Kysen’s cold hand in his, and prayed to
Amun to save his son.

As he muttered the prayer, a shadow crossed the path of light cast by a lamp beside the bed, and an arm came down on his shoulder.
Meren froze in shock, then recognized the heavy gold signet ring carved with cartouches enclosing two names.

“Majesty?” Meren whispered. He sank to the floor.

“Get up, Meren. I came as soon as my duties allowed.” Tutankhamun lowered himself to one knee beside Meren, his young face
full of concern. “How is he?”