He should never have taken it off, never touched the scar. The burden of the truth about Nefertiti's death had disturbed memories of that terrible time in his life, memories he'd tried to seal in a deep stone chamber within his ka. But he shouldn't lie to himself. It wasn't just the dangerous secret of Nefertiti's death that robbed him of sleep and heart's peace. It was that other, even more momentous death, the one for which he was responsible. How did one justify allowing a living god, a pharaoh, to be killed?
He had suspected that Ay and his allies were going to end Akhenaten's life. Years of attempts to curb the king's excesses had failed, and Ay had no longer been willing to watch Egypt suffer. This Meren had known, and still he'd let Ay send him away to the Libyan border. When he got back, the heretic was dead, supposedly of the same plague that had taken his queen. And now, every time Meren tracked down a criminal, every time he sat in judgment of a thief, revealed the treachery of a courtier or the guilt of a killer, the dishonesty of his position tortured him.
Someday he would go west, to the netherworld and the Hall of Judgment. There the gods would weigh his heart on the divine balance scale against the feather of Maat- truth, lightness, and order. With such sins burdening his ka, his heart would send the weighing pan crashing to the floor. There the Devouress, Eater of Souls, would snatch it up in her crocodile jaws and sink long, jagged teeth into its meat.
The edge of the tub was biting into his legs. Meren winced and got to his feet. If he didn't watch himself, he would succumb to babbling lunacy. No wonder Kysen was suspicious. During the past few weeks these old memories had come back with increasing frequency. It was as if the heretic's vengeful ka had been aroused by the death of one of the queen's murderers. Perhaps Akhenaten was punishing him by forcing him to find and reveal the truth, so that Meren would invite his own death.
He was relieved that this frightening train of thought was quenched when the gate opened and a youth in a simple kilt strode into the garden. He was followed by two slaves bearing ostrich feather fans, another carrying a tray with a wine flagon and goblets, and several guards. His brows drawn together, mouth set in a tight line, he saw Meren and headed for him. The goblets on the tray clattered. The boy stopped, turned, and hissed at the small crowd behind him. The fan bearers backed away. The wine bearer skittered after them. A command like the snap of a whip sent the guards marching out the gate. Karoya appeared bearing the flagon and goblets, shut the gate, and went to the pavilion.
By this time Meren had reached the boy, who turned from glaring at the gate. Meren sank to his knees and bent to the ground. He heard an exasperated sigh.
"Get up, Meren. Making your obeisance to my majesty won't convince me that you're either biddable or humble."
"As thy majesty wishes," Meren said as he rose.
"Things are never as I wish." Tutankhamun stalked past Meren, between dense beds of cornflowers, mandrake, and poppy to a grove of tamarisk trees. In their midst was an arbor covered with ivy. The pharaoh snatched a water bottle hanging from the arbor in a woven net, poured from it into an alabaster cup from a table, and drank. He thrust the bottle at Meren, who poured himself a cup and drank as well. The king downed another cup of water without pause. When he finished, he was breathing fast and glaring at Meren.
"You're not to scold me," Tutankhamun snapped. "I'll get enough from Ay to fill my belly."
"Thy humble cup bearer would not dare-"
"I remembered you doing that very thing not long ago when I visited you at your country house."
It was Meren's turn to frown. "The golden one stole away from his own court, his own vizier and ministers, to sail unescorted to a house where I was trying to conceal the bodies of-"
"Don't!"
Royal irritation vanished, overwhelmed by pain and horror. Tutankhamun's face held the beauty of his mother, the great and powerful Queen Tiye. With it he had inherited her large, dark eyes, heavy-lidded, thick-lashed mirrors of a ka too sensitive for the burdens of a god-king.
Meren waited a moment, giving the boy time to compose himself. "Forgive me, majesty."
"I know it's really Akhenaten's fault," Tutankhamun whispered. "If he hadn't cast out the old gods, beggared their priests and the thousands who depended on them, he wouldn't have provoked such hatred. He must have done horrible things to provoke the desecration of his tomb, the savaging of his body."
He couldn't let the boy dwell on such anathema. "All has been put right, divine one." He drew closer to the king, who gave him a look of desperation.
"They won't let me return to Thebes for the reburial. Ay says I must remain here to draw everyone's attention."
"It's the only way, majesty. You trust Maya. If he can manage the royal treasury, he can arrange for thy majesty's brother and his family to be concealed in the Valley of Kings, where no one will disturb them again."
Tutankhamun sighed again. "Of course."
"And only thy majesty can summon the priests of Amun from Thebes to Memphis."
A grin brightened the king's solemn features. "The high priest was so furious, he was shaking when he arrived at court. He wanted to chastise me, and he might have dared if I hadn't told him I needed his advice about the Hittites."
At the mention of the Hittites, the king's smile vanished. "He never kisses my foot!"
"Majesty?"
"Mugallu. He pretends. He kneels and bows over my foot, but he never touches me. I give him an honor I grant to few emissaries, and he never kisses my foot. He didn't this time."
"Ah," Meren said. "And having studied to arouse thy majesty's just wrath, he succeeded. Thus provoking a quarrel between his experienced master and pharaoh, who is not yet fifteen."
Tutankhamun slammed his cup down on the table. "I know, I know." He paced back and forth, then stopped and grinned at Meren. "I shall tell him I'm sorry."
"Majesty?" Meren had never heard a living god even pronounce the word "sorry." He furrowed his brow, trying to imagine such a thing, and failed.
The king laughed. "Don't look so aghast. I'll send word that I regret that his barbaric rudeness provoked me to harshness."
"Ah." Relief smoothed Meren's brow. "I was about to counsel the golden one to refrain from such an unprecedented action."
"But none of this is what I wished to talk about. Come with me to the pavilion."
The king sat on a couch the frame of which had been fashioned as a lion. The gilded wood was surmounted by cushions in the same colors used in the pavilion. Tutankhamun indicated a place on the floor beside the couch, and Karoya put a cushion there for Meren. The guard served plum wine and shat cakes seasoned with tigernuts and sweetened with honey and dates.
Pharaoh waited until Meren was in the middle of a sip of wine to speak. "You're avoiding reading the desert patrol reports so that you won't find bandits that need hunting."
Meren paused with wine in his mouth. He glanced up at the king. Deceptively, the boy's cheeks still held the roundness of childhood. His mouth was a replica of the full lips and downward-pointing corners of Queen Tiye's. The richness of eyes and mouth, the oversize, puppylike hands and feet, created an impression of youthful vulnerability. Sometimes Meren forgot that Tutankhamun came from a line of warriors, conquerors, and masters of strategy. He swallowed his wine.
"How did the divine one know?" Meren asked lightly.
"After you promised to take me on a raid to gain battle experience, I bethought myself of how you might wish to delay in hopes I'd forget. Then I sent inquiries to the chief of royal messengers, who confirmed my suspicions. So I dispatched members of my war band to the villages where there has been trouble in the past. Word of any marauding will come directly to me."