Summoning the last of his strength, Bakht cried out, knowing all the time that he would never be heard over the mindless screams of the baboons. His body was growing heavy. With one hand still pressed to the hole in his belly, his free hand scraped the packed earth, scooping up dirt. As blackness overcame him, he hurled the dirt in the snarling dog-face of the baboon that rushed at him.
Chapter 2
Memphis, reign of Tutankhamun
Lord Meren, hereditary prince and Friend of the King, sailed over the shoulder of his opponent to land flat on his back in the dirt. He sucked in air while trying to focus his vision on the sky, which looked the color of old linen in the first feeble light of dawn. A fine spray of dust coated his sweat-drenched body, and he cursed his own arrogance. The new charioteer might have only nineteen years, but he had the muscles of a rhinoceros and the stamina of a water buffalo. Now he was in the midst of a wrestling match in front of his charioteers and his son-Kysen-and he might lose. Ignoring the cheers of support from Kysen, his aide Abu, and others, Meren blinked to clear his vision.
He rolled to his feet as Irzanen approached. Emboldened by his success, the young man made his first and last mistake of the match. With a yell that proclaimed his impending triumph, he charged at Meren, leading with his right shoulder. Although he was breathing painfully hard, Meren smiled, braced himself as though he were going to take the charge, and let Irzanen come at him. The charioteers bare feet slapped the ground, and at the last moment he lowered his head.
It was the move for which Meren had been waiting. He straightened from his crouch and whipped to the side as Irzanen pounded up to him. His foot lashed out, hooked the charioteer's ankle, and pulled. Irzanen crashed to the ground like a falling obelisk, and Meren jumped on his back. Grabbing Irzanens arms, he bent them up and pressed them against his back. The younger man cried out and thrashed about with his legs, but Meren simply slipped a knee between them and nudged. Irzanen went still at once.
Shaking his head while their audience cheered, Meren moved his knee. "If you want to survive, Lord Irzanen, you must learn when to give way as well as when to fight." He released his opponent's arms and hauled him to his feet. "A wise heart is as valuable as strength."
Irzanen's chest was heaving. Rivulets of perspiration flooded his face. "I was too quick, was I not?"
"Swift of body, but not of wits." Meren wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and noted Irzanens downcast expression. "And you almost bested me, but if you repeat that to the others, I will deny it."
Irzanen grinned as they were surrounded by charioteers. Abu offered advice and commiseration to the young charioteer while Kysen pounded him on the back and congratulated him for lasting so long against his father. Meren accepted a wet cloth from Reia, one of his most trusted charioteers. His face was buried in the cool material, but he looked up when he heard a groan.
He hadn't hurt the youth; he was certain of it. The charioteers had drifted away to form more wrestling groups, but Lord Irzanen was still at his side. He was looking across the practice yard, which was bounded by the barracks and stables in Meren's Memphis residential compound. Meren followed the direction of Irzanen's gaze and saw his middle daughter, Bener, following his eldest, Tefnut. Evidently Bener had been watching the contest, but now she was walking away, down the graded path that led through the formal gardens to the town house. Meren turned his gaze back to Irzanen, who was beginning to resemble a sick bull.
Perhaps it was his bulky muscles that fostered this impression. Certainly the young man was pleasing of appearance. Meren had long ago realized why the offspring of the nobility and royalty so often presented the features and bodies of gods. Noblemen, unlike commoners, could choose from a host of well-made young women. Generations of such pairings produced beautiful children. Irzanen had inherited the long-legged, almost Nubian stature of his father, Prince Minnakht, and the symmetrical features and wide mouth of his lady mother. His hair, cut short in the military manner, curled like the tresses of a Mycenaean Greek, but he was saved from the impression of femininity by his forthright manner and a certain endearing clumsiness that came from having grown nearly half a cubit in one short year.
A sigh brought Meren's attention back to the young charioteer. Meren decided it was best to know what was taking place. He hadn't noticed Bener taking special interest in this lad, but she was so clever of heart and so skilled in circumspection that Meren had to be constantly alert.
'Is something wrong, Irzanen?"
The young man blinked and dragged his gaze from Beners disappearing figure. "Naught, lord. I, that is, I didn't-"
"Find your tongue, Lord Irzanen."
"I didn't realize Lady Bener watched the practice matches, lord!"
Meren tried not to smile, but Irzanen's discomfort was too much for him. Seldom did young men blurt out such awkward statements to him. It was well known that Meren prized his daughters dearly and tolerated no interference with them from his charioteers. Most were sons of noblemen, and he chose them from the recruits of the elite chariot cavalry of the king. They served him in his capacity as the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. Places with him were valued and fought over not only because of Meren's reputation as a warrior and confidential inquiry agent of the king, but also because of his personal relationship with Tutankhamun. Yet despite their privileged position, Meren had always made sure the charioteers understood the dividing line between their service to him and pharaoh and the private life of his family.
He had been lucky for many years. Tefnut had married Prince Sunero when she was fourteen without engaging herself in any dalliance with the charioteers. The heart of Bener, who was sixteen, was serious. Quick of wit and far too complex of character for her own good, Bener had seldom expressed prolonged interest in young men. It was his youngest and most beautiful daughter, Isis, who worried him.
A black shroud settled over Meren's spirits at the thought of Isis. His heart had been wounded a few weeks ago, when she had, through her selfishness, nearly cost him his life. Since then he had been trying to summon the courage to confront Isis about her dangerous behavior, but he had yet to bring himself to speak to her. Isis avoided him, thus aiding his delay. She was ashamed, he could tell. But how long she would steep herself in remorse was a question he couldn't answer.
This time it was his own sigh that signaled a return to the present. Meren frowned at Irzanen. Presumptuous puppy.
"Don't stand there gawking like a heron after a fish," Meren snapped. "Knife practice."
Stalking away from the sorrowful Irzanen, Meren joined his son at a leather target set up near the stables. Kysen handed him a bronze knife, a plain weapon with an edge as sharp as his grandmother's tongue. Kysen threw his own, blade first, into the target from fifteen paces away. Meren cast an irritated glance at Irzanen across the practice yard, then signaled Kysen to move nearer the target. A large space separated them from the nearest buildings, and they were alone for the moment.
"The merchant is coming?" Meren asked softly.
Kysen paused in the act of pulling his knife from the target and glanced around the yard. "Prince Djoser is bringing him, as you instructed-he thinks we want to buy horses. But I still believe that searching for the murderer of a long-dead queen is madness."
"We've sailed this route before, Ky." Meren hefted the knife in his hand, testing its balance. "Whoever the evil one is, he already knows we've found out that Queen Nefertiti didn't die of a plague but was poisoned. If we don't find him, he'll find us and kill us. There will be no more argument."