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
"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
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