THE SEERESS OF SEKHMET

AS SEMERKET HAD KNOWN THEY WOULD,THE tomb-makers returned at dawn. They strode past him, unaware of his presence, going down into the burial chamber to continue their work. When he was satisfied they were not coming back, he slipped up the main corridor and out the entrance—the door now thrown open to the rising sun—and climbed the cliff to the trail above the tomb.

Within an hour he was snaking his way through Djamet’s makeshift bazaar. Hundreds of stalls had sprung up outside its walls since Pharaoh had returned. A flash of his vizier’s badge to the guards at the Great Pylons, and he was admitted at once into the temple.

It was not so crowded within the gardens. Nevertheless a horde of nobles, priests, and craftsmen swirled around him, intent on their morning duties. Though acrid smoke from the morning sacrifices hung over the temple compound, the paved walkways in the garden were perfumed with the scents of nearby citrus trees and jasmine vines.

At the inner temple doors Semerket approached a guard. “The vizier’s quarters—where are they?” he asked, knowing that Toh had abandoned his offices at the Temple of Ma’at to be near Pharaoh when he was in Thebes. Again Semerket held his badge for the soldier to view.

The guard told him. “But if you’re looking for Toh,” he added, “he left before dawn for Erment, with his garrison.”

Semerket’s expression was such that the guard quickly added, “But he’ll be back in a week or so! He went to inspect the new Buchis bull!”

Semerket had been aware of the prior Buchis bull’s early death, a horrifying omen of catastrophe. The bull was considered the earthly manifestation of Pharaoh Ramses III’s power, and his replacement was a task entrusted only to the highest official, which explained Toh’s unexpected departure.

“Perhaps his scribe, Kenamun, can help you if it’s so urgent,” the guard said.

Kenamun… yes. He would know how to get in touch with Toh by the quickest method. Semerket nodded his thanks and stalked through the dark halls, the polished basalt tiles gleaming beneath his rough sandals. But some time had passed since he had last been inside the temple, and he grew confused. He recognized the wall of blue faience tiles… but did he take the left or right hallway?

A familiar voice caught his ear, and across the courtyard he glimpsed the lean figure of Mayor Pawero. The mayor did not exhibit his usual hauteur, instead amiably chatting with some other person, even laughing uproariously. Semerket was intrigued; never before had he seen the Mayor of the West so relaxed and approachable. He moved down the hallway to better see who the other person could be.

It was Mayor Paser.

Semerket could not have been more surprised. What had become of their famed distaste for one another, their ill-concealed enmity? Had the stoat and the cobra become lovers?

Semerket approached them stealthily, hoping to overhear their conversation. Unfortunately Pawero shifted his weight at that moment, and spied Semerket. The Western Mayor flinched when he realized who it was, and the color drained from his face. Seeing his colleague so undone, Paser turned to see what disturbed him.

They leapt apart like guilty children, Semerket thought.

“You!” Pawero said, barely able to speak. “But you’re supposed to be…” He swallowed, unable to go on.

Paser shot an alarmed glance at the tall mayor. Instantaneously he took up the Eastern Mayor’s words. “…supposed to be at the tombmakers’ village, we thought.” The tall mayor nodded dumbly in agreement, his face still pale.

“Why are you here, Semerket?” Paser asked.

“The vizier—I’ve come to see him.”

He saw the quick glance between the mayors. “Have you solved the murder of the priestess, then?” Pawero asked faintly.

Semerket studied the pair of them through narrowed, critical eyes. Something about them was not authentic. He shook his head gravely. “I merely came to get my pay from Kenamun, lords.”

Instantly, the two mayors’ spirits lifted. Paser even smiled. “Do you mean you’ve already gone through all that silver I gave you?”

Semerket smiled. “Wine costs dearly these days, Mayor,” he said, winking.

Paser guffawed, but his eyes remained coldly appraising. Pawero, on the other hand, had become once again his rigid former self. Without another word he fled, rushing to his chambers, occasionally looking back at Semerket and shuddering.

“He’s heard of the disturbances in the tomb-makers’ village,” Paser explained. “You can’t blame him for believing you to be the cause, Semerket.”

“They caused it themselves,” Semerket answered shortly, then added, in a tone less harsh, “Excuse me, lord, but I must find Kenamun. Can you tell me where the scribe might be found?” Paser pointed down a hallway. Semerket stretched his hands at knee level, and left the mayor there.

Kenamun was at a table, writing upon a scroll. When he saw Semerket enter the room, his eyes widened, and Semerket noted how he turned the papyrus over. Semerket fancied for a moment that the vizier’s scribe, too, was not happy to see him.

Quickly he told Kenamun of finding the gold in the forgotten tomb in the Great Place, of how the tomb-makers had attempted to kill him, and that somehow he felt it was all connected to the murder of Hetephras. He asserted that Hunro’s arrest and the theft of her jewels had effectively stymied his inquiry. “I want her freed,” Semerket demanded, “and placed under the vizier’s protection. And tonight, a squadron of men must be dispatched to capture the beggars who plan to remove the treasure.”

Kenamun’s face paled. He paced back and forth in shock. “Oh, my…” he said raggedly, thinking quickly. “I could certainly order the woman’s release—that’s no problem—but I’ve no authority to obtain a military escort for you.”

“Who has that authority?”

“In the absence of Vizier Toh, only Pharaoh, I’m afraid.” Kenamun shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“Then we must go to him,” Semerket declared.

Kenamun appeared horrified by the suggestion. “One simply can’t demand an audience with Pharaoh, Semerket. There are intricate ceremonies, a thousand rules—”

“Surely, such a treasure as I’ve seen piled in that tomb should be enough reason to go around them!”

“You don’t understand—it’s not that simple. No, we need someone who has immediate access to him.” Kenamun thought for a moment and then nodded to himself, as though coming to a decision. “Wait here,” he said. As he hurried off into a hallway, he warned over his shoulder: “Do not speak of this to anyone, do you understand?”

Semerket nodded his head, albeit reluctantly.

The scribe returned a few moments later. “We’re very lucky,” he said breathlessly. “Tiya, the Queen Mother, has consented to see us. Once you tell her your story, I’m sure she’ll prevail upon Pharaoh to send some men.”

Semerket followed Kenamun through hallways leading to the southern part of the temple. Only then did he realize that he was actually being taken into Pharaoh’s private residence. An unornamented cedar door served as the only entrance, unmarked and modestly sized. The single pair of guards did not challenge their entry; Kenamun seemed well known to them.

The palace was vast by Egyptian standards, but not so huge as those Semerket had glimpsed in Babylonia and Syria. The residence was built of stone, unlike most homes in Egypt, which were constructed from mud bricks. Kenamun led Semerket up a staircase to the second floor, entering a narrow passageway pierced by thin slits. Gazing through them, trying to regain his bearings, Semerket focused on the view of the temple gardens below and the sacred lake beyond. Only then did he realize where Kenamun led him.

Semerket stopped. “But this is the bridge into the harem!”

“Where else would you expect to find the great wife of the king?” asked the scribe.

Semerket dutifully followed him over the bridge and through the doors of the women’s apartments. They entered a small, airy chamber. No one rushed to greet the two men, nor were any of Pharaoh’s wives in evidence. Semerket felt a momentary pang of disappointment.

He contented himself to examine the room. The walls were decorated in bright murals; on closer inspection, Semerket was disconcerted to find these depicted scenes of embarrassing intimacy. On one wall Pharaoh played a game of senet with a naked girl. The wall opposite showed Ramses with his arm draped about a concubine’s slim form, his fingertips casually grazing her breast, while she extolled his erotic prowess with an upraised fist.

The soft noise of a footstep caught him by surprise and Semerket turned in its direction, every nerve taut. Tiya was there. She was not clad in the same severe garments as she wore the first time he had met her. Instead, her robe’s sheerness caused him to blush.

“Semerket!” Her splendid voice was at once low and tender and warm, and her skin was the color of the golden jasper beads around his neck. “You have been much on our minds since that day we met in the vizier’s chambers.”

Semerket fell to his knees. She came forward then and lifted him by the hands. Her perfume rose in his nostrils and to his shame he found himself staring at her dark, hennaed nipples beneath the fine lawn of her bodice. She looked at him sharply. “But where are the amulets and charms I sent you?” she asked. “Didn’t you receive them? Pentwere said he’d placed them around your neck himself. If he lied—!”

He interrupted her pretty distress. “Your son did indeed give them to me, lady, but I removed them because of… of strange dreams they sent me.”

Tiya wagged a finger at him. “That’s because of the powerful prayers and incantations I said over them. You should never have taken them off. No wonder Kenamun here says you’re in trouble now. It explains much to me.”

Queen Tiya’s clucking tone was so oddly reminiscent of his own mother’s that he felt absurdly comfortable in her presence. But then he found himself staring again at her heavy breasts beneath the sheer muslin bodice, and he hastily dropped his eyes.

“You have the good sense to be ashamed, I see,” she said, stroking his face. “You’re all such naughty little boys, aren’t you, never doing as you’re told. But thank goodness for that! Where would I be today if my own sons didn’t need me as much as they do?”

Tiya grazed his cheek with her nails, and when she smiled at him he saw the tips of her even, white teeth. Her fingers continued to travel upward, lingering for a moment at the spot in his scalp where his hair had been so mysteriously shorn. “Come,” she beckoned to him, “sit beside me at the window, and you will tell me everything that has happened in the tomb-makers’ village. Kenamun says it’s very serious. We will listen, and then decide together what’s best.”

He allowed himself to be led onto an enclosed balcony above the gardens of Djamet. The queen indicated that he should sit next to her on a couch by the grated window. Kenamun was given a small foot-stool to sit upon, somewhat farther away. The scribe, reticent to join their discussion, seemed content to merely listen.

As he spoke, Semerket became aware of the Queen’s sinuous move-ments—how she absently traced a finger across the line of her brow, or played with the tassel on her golden belt. And even when she stretched her shoulders indolently, he was aware of how closely she listened. She frowned and made soft moans of horror at the thought of her ancestors’ tombs being plundered, at how close he had come to death at an assassin’s hands. When he paused in his narrative, she put sharp questions to him that demonstrated her keen insight and understanding of the situation. Kenamun must have briefed her well, he thought. He then told the lady of how Hunro now languished in the tomb-makers’ jail, accused of adultery, because she had helped him.

“That’s also why I’ve come,” he concluded, “so that she can be rescued from prison to testify against her neighbors.”

The queen smiled at him. “Are you in love with her?”

“She is another man’s wife, lady,” Semerket said, dropping his eyes.

Tiya put her hand under his chin and raised his face to hers. “Semerket, you should know that it’s useless to try to hide anything from me.”

Semerket was suddenly ashamed, though he did not know why.

“She is the first woman since my wife to make me… feel something,” he answered her tentatively. “If that is love—”

She laughed delightedly. “Spoken like a man. Why can your sex never be truthful about its feelings?”

“Does it matter what I feel?” he asked with some urgency. “She’s in danger. And the beggars come tonight to remove the treasure from the Great Place! There is no time to lose, Great Lady!”

The sound of faraway rams’ horns pierced the little room. Tiya’s face changed, becoming for a moment hard and set. A maid—or perhaps one of the lesser wives—crept to whisper something in her ear. She shook her head, saying nothing.

“I’m told that Pharaoh has concluded his conferences,” Tiya announced to Kenamun and Semerket. “This morning my son Pentwere has organized a duck hunt in the southern marshes. I will make arrangements for you to join us, Semerket.”

Semerket was appalled. There was no time for such frivolity. “Your Majesty—”

She held up a hennaed palm, her voice low. “There’s a reason I ask you along. These days the red and white crowns are heavy on his brow. Another blow like this and… well…” She sighed tragically, implying that Pharaoh was too frail a man to burden with such news.

Semerket spoke without thinking. “Once the crown prince is named co-ruler, I’m sure it will be easier—”

Tiya visibly started, her tawny eyes grew wide, and her mouth stretched into a sudden grimace that exposed her sharp teeth. She seized Semerket’s arm, her nails making red crescents in his flesh. “Who told you that? Where have you heard such a lie? Spit it out, stupid! No one has yet been named a co-ruler. Least of all that—”

Kenamun rose from his stool and cleared his throat loudly. Tiya looked at the scribe then, and instantly shut her mouth. She lay again on the couch, breathing deeply. When she had calmed herself she looked resentfully into Semerket’s eyes. “Pharaoh has no need for a co-ruler. He is a mighty bull, a soaring falcon.”

The traditional words sounded flat and lifeless in her mouth. Semerket said nothing. The crescents she had left on his arm began to ooze thick blood. Tiya pretended a fascination with the weave of her robe.

“I’m just an old woman,” she said, “too protective of her husband, I suppose. But I’ll help you, Semerket, despite your cruel words.”

Tiya was suddenly full of plans and details for the proposed duck hunt, as if nothing had happened. He would share her pleasure barque, she told him, and Pharaoh’s mood would surely improve after a few successful kills. “Then I will ask him for an escort to accompany you to the village. I must find the perfect moment to put the question to him. But you must remain silent, for now, for I am the only one who knows how to handle him.”

Suddenly, as if a spell had been lifted, the harem was full of activity. The lesser wives appeared from their rooms, yawning, and eunuch guards were everywhere about.

Swiftly Tiya gave Semerket instructions about when he was to appear at the temple wharves. Kenamun would stay by him, allowing none to approach. He was not to leave Semerket’s side, she emphasized. Who knew what dangers lurked, or where? Hadn’t they already tried to kill Semerket once?

Bowing low, Semerket left the queen at the grated window. As he went through the doors that led to the stone bridge, Kenamun hurried after him, saying, “An extraordinary woman, the great wife, is she not?”

Semerket merely stared at him. All the way over the stone bridge he felt the sting where her nails had dug into his arm.

 

AT THE SAME MOMENT, many furlongs away, the servant Keeya stood at the outside fire pit, carrying a basket of trash. It was filled with the usual detritus of Theban living—bones from the week’s meals, fish heads, rags too worn for further service. She searched about for the flint and the palm-fiber kindling.

It was midmorning and her mistress had gone to Sekhmet’s temple to visit her uncle, the high priest. Merytra was often at her uncle’s temple these days, Keeya thought. And when the woman returned, she was invariably moody and withdrawn. At such times, Merytra often locked the servants in the small cellar where the three of them slept at night. In the dark, next to the sacks of musty-smelling grain and jars of fermenting beer, they heard her walking on the floor above, sometimes treading in circles. Often they heard her softly chanting to herself. Keeya suspected their mistress had become possessed by a demon.

The flint was in a small niche within the mud-brick wall. As she stretched for it, she felt a paving tile move unsteadily beneath her feet. It was slightly raised above the others.

She thought little about it, and bent to shift the tile back into its place. But still it was loose, as if it pressed on something beneath. Keeya lifted the tile, and beheld what was tucked into the hole beneath. She only just managed to stop the scream that threatened to escape her.

Swiftly she replaced the tile. When her mistress returned home, she said nothing, waiting for Nenry to return for his noon meal. As soon as the scribe, loaded down with papers and scrolls, wearily pushed open the gate, Keeya approached him.

“Master,” she said. “Will you take a moment to look at something?”

Nenry was about to put her off, for Paser had left him alone with the morning’s work that day—surveyor reports, taxation schedules. For some reason the mayor had rushed off at the last moment to attend a duck-hunting party with Queen Tiya, of all things. But the maid’s expression was so serious that whatever protests Nenry harbored were stilled. Nenry followed her to the fire pit.

Keeya lifted the tile. In the hole were the remains of an infant, a female. It was painted red and glyphs were drawn upon its tiny palms, on its feet and forehead. They were not ordinary glyphs, but primitive symbols from an ancient time. Various amulets and charms were placed all about the little corpse. The infant’s stomach had been slit open, and within it, among its dried and desiccated viscera, was a waxen doll. A knife protruded from the baby’s chest, and around its eyes a small bandage was tied.

“Gather the others,” Nenry said, his voice terrible.

Merytra was lying atop her bed, for it was her custom to nap while her husband ate his noon meal—an arrangement that suited them both, for it kept their daily interactions to a minimum. She was therefore surprised to see her husband suddenly appear in her doorway, the servants close behind him.

“Why do idiots disturb my rest?” she asked resignedly, as if she addressed the gods to fathom their purposeless ways.

Nenry swiftly crossed the room, grabbing her by her hair. He threw her, screaming, against the wall.

“Witch!” he yelled. “Sorceress!” He almost began to weep, but stopped himself, firmly banishing his tears. “Seize her,” he told his servants. “Bind her tightly. Then take her into the cellar.”

Merytra was too shocked to speak. Not until the servants laid their hands upon her, tying her hands together, did curses and hot oaths begin to pour from her. But her husband and servants were deaf to her threats and promises of punishments. Merytra had to take what satisfaction she could from seeing how they shrank from touching her, as if she were a thing of scales and horns.

In the cellar, Nenry waited, refusing to look at her while they tied her hands and feet to a chair facing a workbench on which the evidence of her black magic was neatly laid out. Seeing her husband and servants so aloof and judgmental, Merytra began to struggle against her bonds, raging that they must unloose her at once—that she would tell her uncle—that Nenry would lose his position—that she would sell the servants to a brothel!

They allowed her to scream and rage until she was spent. It was their impassivity that finally stopped her. She became quiet, and no longer pulled at her ties.

“How could you do this to me?” Nenry asked. “Didn’t I provide for you? Didn’t I give you all that you cherished?” He stared at the terrible wax doll he held in his hand, skewered with a golden needle. Then his eyes fell upon the baby’s corpse. Seeing the pitiful child, its belly ripped open and stuffed with the awful charms, he moaned softly.

“Let me go, you fool,” Merytra blustered. “When my great-uncle hears how you ruined the spell—”

With a cry Nenry lunged at her, striking her so viciously across the mouth that blood trickled down her chin.

“You’ve ruined me,” Nenry said savagely. “I am destroyed.”

“Trust you to get it wrong.” Her voice was suddenly pleading. “Don’t you see I worked the magic to protect you?”

Nenry merely shook his head, gesturing toward the baby’s desiccated, red-painted corpse. “This child—is it ours?”

She rolled her eyes at his stupidity. “Of course not. How could I hide a pregnancy even from you? I bought the child from a prostitute at the city gate. She was going to leave it there anyway. I held my hand over its mouth, until it—”

She was cut short by her husband’s muffled wail. Nenry raised his hand; only the purest self-restraint kept him from striking her again. He held out the waxen figure to her instead, saying, “And this—it’s me, isn’t it? You’ve cursed me to my death.”

“Calm down, Nenry. I swear it isn’t you.”

“Who then?”

“It’s your brother, of course. That’s his hair in the wax. Who else could it be?”

“Semerket?”

She spoke in an offended manner. “I had to do something. He was involving you in things he shouldn’t—and you know it. When I tell you whose idea the curses were, you’ll thank me for what I’ve done. The very highest in this land want your brother dead, and all his friends. Do you think I’d let that happen to you? I’ve worked too hard to lose everything because of your gullibility.”

“But who could possibly want him dead?” Nenry asked scornfully.

“The seeress of Sekhmet, that’s who. And her magic is the most powerful in all Egypt.”

“Who—?” He had never heard of such a person before.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know who she is! You, who even labored in Sekhmet’s temple once. Well, that doesn’t surprise me, you’ve always had your head buried in the sand—”

“Who?” He raised his hand again.

Her words were rapid. “She is the king’s great wife—Queen Tiya!”

Nenry had sense enough to believe her. In a kind of daze he told his valet to get his cloak and walking stick ready. He was going across to Western Thebes, he told them. “He must be warned,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

But his wife laughed jeeringly when he said this. “Better to stay at home, you fool. There’s nothing you can do for him. It’s too late. Great-uncle told me himself. The lioness goes abroad today. Today your precious brother dies!”

From the shelf where the knives were kept for the slaughter of fowl and the filleting of fish, he took a long carving knife, and handed it to Keeya.

“Keep sharp watch on her,” he said. “If she tries to escape, or begins to rave, or utters a curse—slit her throat.”

Keeya did not flinch. Then, strangely, she embraced him. “The gods go with you, my lord. Now go save your brother, for you are both good men.” She kissed his cheek.

The last thing he saw as he left the cellar was Keeya standing before his wife, the long, bronze knife gleaming in her hand. Once outside his house, Nenry ran. All the way to the docks he kept repeating his brother’s name like a talisman, calling on all the gods he knew.

“Semerket—!” He said the name aloud, and in it was every prayer he could muster.

 

THE FLEET OF pleasure barques had departed Djamet at midmorning, sailing down the temple canal to the Nile. At the river the boats turned south, and the sailors hoisted small square sails to catch the winds blowing sharply from the desert. The rowers stowed their oars then, allowing the brightly painted craft to sail before the breezes.

Semerket sat with Tiya beneath the wooden canopy of her barque, clad as always in his fringed kilt and gray woolen cloak. He had never owned the traditional hunting clothes of white, pleated linen that the courtiers wore. When he had gone fowl hunting it had not been for sport, but to bag an evening’s meal.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from another craft. Prince Pentwere’s boat was rapidly gaining on them. Semerket noticed that the prince’s inevitable comrade, the black-skinned Assai, reclined with him beneath the canopy.

“Mother!” Pentwere shouted across the water to her. “Fine day for a kill, what?”

Semerket looked at the sky, saw the gray rain clouds on the edge of the desert, and wondered what the Prince could mean. At any moment it seemed that a storm might engulf them. But at her son’s words, Tiya emitted a laugh of silver, tinkling bells.

“A splendid day!” she said. “You couldn’t have chosen better. The gods are with you, Pentwere.”

Pentwere turned his bright-eyed gaze upon Semerket. “Look, Assai—it’s our friend the clerk! Do you suppose he’s found more wigs in the desert to show us?”

Assai sniggered at the gibe. But his eyes were cold, and he pointedly refused to look directly into Semerket’s face.

“No wigs, Highness,” Semerket replied.

“How goes the investigation? Have you found the priestess’s murderer yet?”

“Not yet.”

Pentwere and Assai looked at one another and broke into raucous laughter. With a look of disgust, Semerket turned away. He had little patience for spoiled princelings and their humorless jokes. He studied instead the boats that made up the hunting party. There were at least thirty or forty vessels, he surmised, each trimmed in flowers and streamers, the morning sun glinting on their gilded wooden canopies.

The sun’s flash off a gilded stern suddenly smote his eyes. Pharaoh’s gold-trimmed yacht was pulling next to them. Pentwere and Assai genuflected, and Tiya, too, inclined her head. Semerket saw on her face a look of… what? Irritation? Panic? To Semerket’s dismay, the king’s sailors furled the yacht’s sail so that his boat paced the queen’s.

A raspy voice called over the water. “What an unpleasant surprise, madam, to find you here. Pentwere, you know I wanted no females along.”

It was Pharaoh himself who spoke. Glancing over at the prince’s skiff, from his kneeling position, Semerket saw that Pentwere had gone ashen beneath his chestnut skin.

“Father—”

“Don’t blame the boy, Ramses,” Tiya interrupted her son smoothly, stretching lazily on her seat beneath the canopy. “I invited myself along. I thought a picnic among the reeds would suit me.”

“Picnic, madam? This is a hunt. Haven’t I created gardens and lakes enough for your picnics? And who is that with you—your lover?”

It was a moment before Semerket realized that Pharaoh was pointing his stick directly at him. Semerket hid his face, cringing. The last thing he needed at that particular moment was to be accused of being the great wife’s paramour.

“Don’t be absurd, Ramses,” Tiya answered irritably. “Do you think I’d take a peasant as my lover? Marrying into your family was low enough for me.”

Pharaoh’s pale eyes glittered. “Who knows how low you would go, madam.”

“He’s Semerket,” Tiya went on in a languid tone, ignoring Ramses. “You remember, surely—he’s the investigator of the priestess’s murder. Toh appointed him.”

“You there—” Pharaoh spoke directly to Semerket. “Raise your head so I can see you.”

Semerket hauled himself to his knees.

“Hmmph,” said Pharaoh doubtfully. “Toh calls you the terrible truth-teller. Is it true you called my wife’s brother Pawero an idiot?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Pharaoh frowned. “That’s what Toh said you called him. Who’s the liar here? Speak up.”

Semerket sighed dismally. “I didn’t call him an idiot, Sire. I called him a pea-brained old pettifogger.”

Pharaoh’s short staccato laugh rang out across the river. “Ha! Perfectly true!”

Instantly the entire river around them was filled with hoots as courtiers aped Pharaoh’s harsh laughter. Semerket glanced at the queen from beneath lowered lashes. She had flushed dark crimson, and Pentwere and Assai were again staring at Semerket with loathing.

“Toh was right about you, I see!” Pharaoh said, smiling gleefully. “After the hunt you shall sail back to the palace on my yacht, Semerket. Do me good to hear someone talk sense for once.”

“Why?” Tiya spoke up. “You never heed it.”

“That, I suppose, madam, is your subtle reference to our disagreement concerning the succession.”

“It is my subtle reference about honoring the promise you made at our marriage.”

“I do what’s best for Egypt, madam—not your family.”

Tiya’s eyes shone, and she looked about the small fleet as if seeking a face. “Where is the crown prince? Pentwere specifically invited him along on the hunt. Is he ill?” Her lips drew into a delicate sneer. “Again?”

“He attends to Egypt’s business, madam—which is none of yours.”

Before any more could be said between his parents, Pentwere interrupted from his own boat. “I could help you attend to Egypt’s business, Father. Test me! Set me a task. Name anything and I’ll do it.” Though he was a man of almost twenty-five years, his voice at that moment sounded thin and bleating. “If you’d only give me a chance…”

“What?” said Ramses with a slight frown. “And deprive the Thebans of your circus tricks at festival time? I couldn’t be that cruel. Stick to amusing the crowds, my son; it’s what you do best.” Pharaoh turned to his coxswain and pointed ahead. “On!” he commanded. Instantly his sailors let out the sail. It billowed tightly in the winds, and Pharaoh’s yacht sped forward. With many shouts, the courtiers again let their boats free. Queen Tiya’s vessel, being crewed by her ladies, was slow to catch up.

The hunting fleet separated in the papyrus marshes. The queen chose a small lagoon far away from the hunt in which to moor her vessel. She had been silent after Pharaoh left them on the Nile, fuming to herself, but when her boat reached the reeds her mood improved and she became talkative, almost gay. With her own hands she raided the wine stowed at the stern, and pried the clay seal from a jar. From a gem-encrusted goblet of pure gold, Tiya treated herself to a long swig.

“Oh,” she sighed in contentment, “but that’s good. It’s from my family’s estate. They say our grapes are as fine as those in Osiris’s own vineyards. Will you take some?” She poured another splash into the goblet.

Semerket had tasted only beer the entire time he had been at the tomb-makers’ village, and the thought of wine was a torment on his tongue. The queen saw him hesitate, and she withdrew the cup.

“Ah,” she said, and her face was gentle, her many-textured voice filled with pity, “but didn’t my steward Nakht tell me once—what was it? Yes, I remember now—that you have a problem with wine. He told me how you’d hammer on his door at all hours of the night, drunken and angry, wanting to take his wife away from him, in fact.”

“He told you that?” Semerket’s voice was low.

She withdrew the cup. “I don’t think I shall offer you wine after all. I don’t want to tempt you to bad behavior.”

At the mention of Naia, Semerket’s mood had intractably darkened. He reached for the goblet. “Nakht has misinformed you,” he said shortly.

She appeared to hesitate, but her lips quivered as though she suppressed a smile. Tiya let him take the golden cup.

Semerket drank. The deep crimson flowed over his tongue. Tiya had been correct—the grapes that had produced this vintage indeed must have been grown in the heavenly fields of Iaru. He rejoiced in the wine. It was both tranquil and exultant at the same time, a reminder to him that Egypt had once been a place of order and respect…. As he drank further he found wisdom in the wine, too. He held out his goblet to taste of wisdom again, and again the queen poured.

Her ladies came from the stern then. They sat beside him and placed a wreath of flowers about his head. They drizzled roasted barleycorns over him, and one of them took up a harp and sang softly. He laughed. “What?” he asked. “Are you going to sacrifice me?”

But the maids only smiled and bade him hush, so as not to disturb the hunters. The morning passed in the hum of dragonflies, the distant shouts of the courtiers, and the cries of wild birds. Again he held out the golden goblet and again it was filled.

As through a mist, Semerket saw one of Tiya’s maids run a red signal flag up the mast. A few moments later, very close by, he heard the sound of oars. He struggled to peer over the boat’s gunwales. The time for Tiya’s picnic had arrived, for Ra’s solar barque was almost at its zenith. He heard the queen call out, “Pentwere! Is everything ready?”

The prince entered the lagoon alone, paddling the skiff himself. Semerket was dimly surprised to see that the glowering Assai was not with him. “Everything is just as you want it, Mother,” the prince called out. “They’re coming now.”

“Wonderful,” she exclaimed. Tiya moved to cling to one of the gilded lotus columns that bore the boat’s canopy. She called out across the lagoon, “Nakht, steward of all the king’s palaces! Welcome!”

A distant voice barked out to her. “Hail, Tiya! Queen of kings!” Semerket, raising his head, saw Nakht entering the lagoon. Semerket snorted at the sight of him, immaculate in his starched, white hunting habit, the picture-perfect nobleman. Semerket thanked the gods for the excellent wine he had consumed; even the presence of Naia’s idiot husband could not disturb him.

“Hail, Paser, vizier of Egypt! Welcome!”

Semerket blinked, overtaken in befuddled surprise to see the fat mayor of the Eastern City, Paser, enter the thicket of reeds. What was he doing so far from his bailiwick? He noticed how the mayor’s skiff listed to one side under his weight, and Semerket chuckled immoderately.

“Iroy, high priest of Egypt!” Another boat entered the lagoon. Semerket had seen the man before, and he tried to remember where. In the warmth of the marsh his thoughts oozed about in his mind like thick clay. He closed his eyes to concentrate. The answer came to him slowly—the man was Nenry’s father-in-law, or uncle… something… And he was the high priest of Sekhmet, not—what had Tiya called him? “High priest of Egypt.”

Semerket sat up, removing the garland of flowers from his brow. The maids tried to pull him back to lie upon the deck again, but he brushed away their hands, trying to make his mind work. A grain of fear crept into his soul. The titles the queen called out to the men were not correct; it was as though they had been secretly promoted during the night… as though all their superiors were suddenly dead and out of their way…

“Hail, Tiya, queen of kings!” Another boat had entered the lagoon. Semerket recognized the whining voice of Neferhotep even before he saw him. The fear, which had been a trickle, now surged through Semerket’s veins.

But why, he asked himself, why should he be so filled with terror? He knew the explanation was tantalizingly near, just within reach, and he closed his eyes to concentrate—but with the wine pounding in his skull, the white, harsh sunlight searing his eyes…

“Is it coming together for you, Semerket?”

His eyes flashed open. Tiya stood over him, the dazzling sun flaring behind her head like the coronet of a goddess. He blinked, and in a trick of sunlight Semerket saw the red fangs in her dimpled smile. In that moment of absolute clarity he realized that his nightmares had become reality—that the lioness had at last caught him in her grip.

Tiya bent down to him and he winced, closing his eyes, expecting her to slash his throat with her fangs just as she had tried to do a hundred times in his dreams. But her face was kindly and her voice was as beautiful as ever.

“Why?” he whispered up to her.

“You found us out, Semerket,” she murmured.

I didn’t find you out! he wanted to shout at her. The killer of Hetephras still is free! But he knew now that they were far from concerned with whoever had killed the old priestess. It was something else. What had he stumbled across to make the most powerful personages in Egypt converge in a marsh, with him the cynosure of their attentions?

Concentrate, he told himself fiercely.

There could be only one answer: the stolen treasure in the tomb. What else could it be? Yet this too made no sense. What need had these persons in the lagoon for more riches? With the exception of Neferhotep, they were among the wealthiest people in the nation. So that was the wrong question. He must ask himself, instead, what was worth more to them than gold?

He exhaled, suddenly knowing the answer. There could be only one: power.

Semerket stared across the lagoon, and saw his suspicions confirmed in their faces. Nakht, Paser, Iroy, Pentwere, even the queen herself— they were using the stolen treasure to finance their own schemes. Only days before, Semerket had told his brother that he sensed conspiracy afoot.

What kind of conspiracy did they plan, how far was its thrust, and against whom? The wine in his blood was no longer a hindrance to perception; instead it allowed his mind to freely assemble disparate facts and odd pieces of information into a suddenly coherent whole.

Semerket heard the distant prattling voice of the librarian Maadje in his mind, gossiping away to him in the House of Life. “When Pharaoh married her, it was with the promise that her sons would inherit…” But Pharaoh had reneged on his agreement, instead choosing his pale-skinned son of the foreign-born Queen Ese as his heir. Then he heard that same crown prince speaking: “The tainted blood of Twos-re and Amen-meses is still alive in Egypt, Semerket, make no mistake…”

Rising unbidden in his mind, he saw again the tiny portrait of Pharaoh Amen-meses in the tomb beneath the tomb. Semerket stared across the lagoon and saw in Prince Pentwere’s face, and in the softer lines of his mother’s, the same fiercely handsome features he had seen in the portrait… and Semerket visibly flinched.

Tiya was the most royal woman in Egypt; Semerket had heard that description of her all his life. He had never stopped to question it, nor wonder how she earned such a distinction. But what other reason had Ramses for marrying her in the first place? It was a time-honored tradition for pharaohs not born in the Golden House to marry the daughters and granddaughters of the previous line, to bolster their own claims. The criminal Twos-re was alive in Tiya—Semerket saw that clearly now—the ferocious woman who had slain her husband in the pursuit of power.

And there it was, the thing he had so unwittingly uncovered, from a clue found in the deliberately obscured past—the thing they were so afraid of his knowing. The accusation rose to his lips:

“You’re going to kill Pharaoh!”

Tiya gasped slightly, backing away from him. For a moment her eyes were full of panic. She spoke angrily to the men in the lagoon. “Didn’t I tell you he should be feared? But he was only a drunken sot, you insisted, incapable of finding his own backside, much less—”

“Don’t say anything more, Mother!” Pentwere pleaded suddenly from his boat.

From across the small lagoon he heard Nakht speak reassuringly to the prince. “Oh, this Semerket would never tell, Your Majesty,” he said in his clipped, aristocratic tones. “Our plan is safe.”

“Don’t be so sure, Nakht!” Semerket yelled.

Nakht replied as if he spoke to a trained baboon. “But if you told, Semerket, Naia would be put to death along with us. It’s the law. You let her know yourself, didn’t you?” A cordial smile broke out on his blandly handsome face. “And thank you—if you hadn’t warned her when you did, we’d never have guessed how much you knew.”

The priest Iroy could not contain himself any further, and spoke up impatiently from his boat. “Can’t we end this now? We all know the real reason he won’t tell—he’ll be dead. It’s why we’re all here, isn’t it, to see him die?”

“Iroy!” chastised Tiya. “Don’t be crude.”

The scribe Neferhotep’s thin, supplicating voice penetrated the glade. “Might I remind the august queen that we have very little time? Tonight the treasure must be moved north with the beggars, to the generals of the armies. I agree with the reverend high priest—kill him now.” His tone went from wheedling to bitter. “I’ve waited six months to see it happen.”

At Tiya’s signal, her maids lunged forward to hold Semerket fast in their grip. The queen’s eyes were blank and pitiless. “Turn him over,” she said curtly.

The women roughly tossed Semerket prone onto the deck, so that his head hung over the side of the boat. Though he struggled, they held him fast. He could see his own face perfectly in the smooth, green water below—black eyes wide, mouth open in fear. He raised his head to see if any of the men in the lagoon could be reasoned with. But the conspirators were leaning forward in their skiffs, staring avidly.

“Goodbye, Semerket,” smirked Nakht. “I’ll be sure to tell Naia how you begged for your life at the end.”

Scornful laughs broke out among the men. Tiya silenced them with a gesture. She knelt beside Semerket, speaking in grieved tones. “I shall inform Pharaoh of your terrible accident,” she said. “How you became so drunk you fell overboard. We did our best to save you, but what could we do? My maids and I are only feeble women.”

Then her voice was in his ear, words meant only for him. “You’ve resisted my magic until now, Semerket, but today you won’t escape its power.” Her lovely voice took on a mystical quality. “Look into the waters, Semerket. Stare deeply. See how at my command I make them roil and churn.”

Semerket stared. As she spoke the waters indeed began to heave below his face. His reflection shattered into pieces. A black mass took shape beneath the waters, coalescing, rising from the river bed, lunging upward—

“Now—” Tiya said, triumphant, “see how you die!”

The thing crashed through the surface of the water. Semerket felt it seize him, dragging him headfirst into the lagoon. The surprising coldness shocked the remaining wine fumes from him. He fought blindly, eyes closed, scratching and kicking at whatever pulled him down.

In the suddenly silent world, all he heard were his own terrified grunts and the explosions of bubbles around him. His back hit the spongy mud of the river bottom, and he forced his eyes open to see what held him in its grip. But the mud rose in dirty clouds around him, blocking his view. Semerket exhaled his last breath into the Nile. For a brief moment the water cleared—and he saw at last the thing that had pulled him in.

It was Assai.

All sleek black muscle, the prince’s favorite was smiling even under the water, his hatred for Semerket radiating as brightly as the golden dagger in his hand. Assai slashed out at him. With both hands Semerket seized Assai’s wrist, just stopping the knife’s descent into his throat.

Abruptly Assai twisted free, lunging at Semerket as he did. The water was filled with sudden red. Semerket’s forehead was slashed open, and the cold water stung the wound like hot coals. Assai slashed at him again; Semerket avoided the blow by kicking away, plunging downward into the slimy river mud. At the last moment, through the black clouds of silt, he saw the gold dagger streaking at him.

With a powerful kick, Semerket made for the open waters of a far lagoon, weaving through the clumps of reeds with Assai in pursuit. He broke the surface and gasped for breath. Glancing behind, he saw a line of bubbles heading straight for him. Gulping a lungful of air, he sank down and peered through the water. Beneath the surface, Assai was swiftly swimming toward him.

It was clear that Semerket could not outswim the stronger Assai. He cast about in his mind for a way to escape, desperation making his heart beat like a temple drum. As Assai bore down, Semerket exhaled so that he could sink rapidly to the bottom of the lagoon. Raking his fingers across the slimy river bottom, he churned up the silt. Flailing his arms about he distributed the mud into a screen that, he hoped, would hide him from the black warrior. Though now he could not see Assai himself, he shot off obliquely to the side of the lagoon, toward another thicket of reeds.

He permitted himself a moment to glance back, and saw Assai break through the cloud of black mud, heading in the direction where he had last seen Semerket. Assai stopped, hesitating, then swam to the surface of the lagoon.

Unable to stay down, hungry for air, Semerket rose swiftly upward to once again feel the sun upon his face. He noisily gasped the air into his lungs. As Semerket knew he would, Assai instantly spied his location. Assai lunged powerfully in his direction, his long arms pulling him swiftly forward in rapid strokes. Semerket sank into the water again, swimming frantically for a reed copse in front of him. He dug his fingers again into the river bottom and the ancient silt rose in thick clouds. Again Semerket veered, hidden by the wavering screen. He broke through the swirling mud into clear water, and saw a thick mass of rushes in front of him, not more than a few cubits away. Caught in their leaves, not far from the water’s surface, was a sunken yacht of great age, a rotting and splintered hulk. It would perhaps hide him from Assai, he thought. Though once again his lungs were aching for oxygen, he swam underwater toward the ghostly wreck.

His lungs were giving out. Desperately he skimmed the surface for air, then sank back down. Twisting his body, he saw the flash of Assai’s linen-clad form only a few cubits away, bearing fast upon him.

Panic seized him, and he kicked swiftly for the reeds. He felt his foot strike something solid, and realized that it was one of Assai’s arms. Assai seized his ankle in a strong grip, but he kicked out, freeing himself, and swam swiftly away.

A hole gaped in the side of the yacht’s hull. Semerket dove through it, hoping that he could hide within the black gloom of its interior and then escape through its rear hatch into the thick reeds beyond. Almost through the hole now, he felt Assai’s hands grasp his leg again. This time they held him firmly. No matter how he struggled and kicked, Assai’s grip remained merciless.

By this time flashes of light were sparking at the backs of Semerket’s eyes. He had to breathe, had to inhale. His lungs shrieked for air, but Assai held him fast. Twisting around, Semerket saw Assai’s grin in the dark water. Semerket’s lungs were afire. Unable to prevent himself, he opened his mouth to breathe.

The water scalded his lungs, and he choked, but only for a short time. He felt blackness overtaking him. Through the few cubits of water above him, a pinpoint of distant light danced overhead, the sun. Though his rebellious body still feebly struggled to save itself, a strange calmness began to overtake him. He felt a sublime sense of release transfusing his limbs, cascading through his body. Fighting the descending torpor, he forced himself to summon one last bit of strength, and pulled against the rotting wood of the wreck. The cedar broke jaggedly in his hands. He pulled again, and felt Assai’s grip loosen. One final kick—and he was through…

But by now the black was all around him, and within him too. He felt himself drifting upward. And the pinpoint of sunlight—the last thing he saw—burnt itself out.