romantic attachment.
Since his wife died he’d been with many women. Most of them had been ladies who expressed interest and had no other attachment;
he never dallied with innocents. Sometimes one of the household maids would try to catch his attention, but he’d learned long
ago that such encounters encouraged the recipient to make unsuitable demands and caused jealousy in the household. Jealousy
interfered with the smooth running of Golden House and risked disruption of routine or worse.
Anath was different. She came to him freely and with no other thought than pleasure and solace. She had confided in him her
weariness of living abroad, but the next moment she regaled him with tales of grasping Babylonian merchants and the ridiculous
rivalries of petty princes. Then she admitted that if she came home she would miss watching the continuous folly of the Asiatics.
Meren remembered her description of Burnaburiash, the king of Babylon. His majesty was aging and hated the idea so much that
he tinted his hair to cover the gray. He also refused to admit he wasn’t as agile as he’d once been. Rather than refrain from
activities beyond his endurance he insisted upon sword practice and exercise with the army. Inevitably he pulled a muscle
or strained his back and had to be carried back to his palace where he lay moaning and complaining for weeks. Instead of learning
from this experience, once he recovered he would trot right back out to the practice fields where he would fall over his own
sword or break the axle of his chariot. Anath said that if Burnaburiash weren’t so adept at turning his enemies against each
other, he’d have been deposed years ago. What had impressed Meren most about her tale was that Anath, so experienced in intrigue
and deception as the Eyes of Babylon, retained a lightness of spirit that charmed everyone who came near her.
When he listened to Anath’s stories Meren had less time to dwell upon the dark thoughts that seemed to consume him so often.
He was still smiling at the memory of Burnaburiash when something heavy landed on his stomach. He grunted and lowered his
arm to stare into the scarred and furry face of Khufu. Meren growled at the cat, but Khufu merely twitched an ear and settled
down for a wash.
“Get off me, you foul creature,” Meren muttered as he shoved the cat away.
“Are you still lying down?” Anath came in dusting her hands. “I’ve searched the last room and found nothing of interest. It’s
time to go.”
“I was just coming for you,” Meren said with a last glare at Khufu.
Anath came over to lean against him and slap his flat stomach. “Be kind to poor Khufu. He likes you.”
“That animal likes no one but you. It’s obvious from his appearance that he lives to do battle.” Khufu stuck his misshapen nose
in the air and stalked out of the room.
Arguing lightly, Meren and Anath went outside to the dilapidated shelter under which they’d tethered the horses. The animals
had been fed and watered, and Meren walked around the chariot and stepped into the vehicle. As he moved, a paw shot out across
the floorboards. Meren’s foot caught it, and he stumbled, nearly falling on his face. Dust and grit flew in at him as Khufu scrambled
away to sit innocently in the shade, purring, while Meren cursed and untangled himself. A musical tumble of laughter let him
know that Anath had seen the whole incident.
“It’s not amusing,” he snapped as he got to his feet.
Anath jumped into the chariot beside him. “Yes it is, when you consider how graceful and stately the great Lord Meren is. To
see him fall on his face is a great amusement.”
“One day that cat will come to an evil end,” Meren muttered, but he refrained from further comment because Anath was still
laughing at him.
By the time they’d left the palace battlements Meren was laughing as well. They drove back along the Royal Road and past the
small North
Since his wife died he’d been with many women. Most of them had been ladies who expressed interest and had no other attachment;
he never dallied with innocents. Sometimes one of the household maids would try to catch his attention, but he’d learned long
ago that such encounters encouraged the recipient to make unsuitable demands and caused jealousy in the household. Jealousy
interfered with the smooth running of Golden House and risked disruption of routine or worse.
Anath was different. She came to him freely and with no other thought than pleasure and solace. She had confided in him her
weariness of living abroad, but the next moment she regaled him with tales of grasping Babylonian merchants and the ridiculous
rivalries of petty princes. Then she admitted that if she came home she would miss watching the continuous folly of the Asiatics.
Meren remembered her description of Burnaburiash, the king of Babylon. His majesty was aging and hated the idea so much that
he tinted his hair to cover the gray. He also refused to admit he wasn’t as agile as he’d once been. Rather than refrain from
activities beyond his endurance he insisted upon sword practice and exercise with the army. Inevitably he pulled a muscle
or strained his back and had to be carried back to his palace where he lay moaning and complaining for weeks. Instead of learning
from this experience, once he recovered he would trot right back out to the practice fields where he would fall over his own
sword or break the axle of his chariot. Anath said that if Burnaburiash weren’t so adept at turning his enemies against each
other, he’d have been deposed years ago. What had impressed Meren most about her tale was that Anath, so experienced in intrigue
and deception as the Eyes of Babylon, retained a lightness of spirit that charmed everyone who came near her.
When he listened to Anath’s stories Meren had less time to dwell upon the dark thoughts that seemed to consume him so often.
He was still smiling at the memory of Burnaburiash when something heavy landed on his stomach. He grunted and lowered his
arm to stare into the scarred and furry face of Khufu. Meren growled at the cat, but Khufu merely twitched an ear and settled
down for a wash.
“Get off me, you foul creature,” Meren muttered as he shoved the cat away.
“Are you still lying down?” Anath came in dusting her hands. “I’ve searched the last room and found nothing of interest. It’s
time to go.”
“I was just coming for you,” Meren said with a last glare at Khufu.
Anath came over to lean against him and slap his flat stomach. “Be kind to poor Khufu. He likes you.”
“That animal likes no one but you. It’s obvious from his appearance that he lives to do battle.” Khufu stuck his misshapen nose
in the air and stalked out of the room.
Arguing lightly, Meren and Anath went outside to the dilapidated shelter under which they’d tethered the horses. The animals
had been fed and watered, and Meren walked around the chariot and stepped into the vehicle. As he moved, a paw shot out across
the floorboards. Meren’s foot caught it, and he stumbled, nearly falling on his face. Dust and grit flew in at him as Khufu scrambled
away to sit innocently in the shade, purring, while Meren cursed and untangled himself. A musical tumble of laughter let him
know that Anath had seen the whole incident.
“It’s not amusing,” he snapped as he got to his feet.
Anath jumped into the chariot beside him. “Yes it is, when you consider how graceful and stately the great Lord Meren is. To
see him fall on his face is a great amusement.”
“One day that cat will come to an evil end,” Meren muttered, but he refrained from further comment because Anath was still
laughing at him.
By the time they’d left the palace battlements Meren was laughing as well. They drove back along the Royal Road and past the
small North
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