It is late in the day and the air is a little cooler – but only a little. Jah sits in a sheltered area of the deck, amidst a pile of sumptuous cushions and pillows. He is quite alone, having managed to extricate himself from the cloying attentions of several well-meaning servants. He is busy; in his hand he has a wax tablet, one that he had found discarded, and he is trying to make the characters upon it, the ones that tell tales. He would like, if he could, to preserve in wax the recent past – this journey upon the Great River, for instance. But he has no stylus, and is too shy to ask for one, so he uses a shard of wood; the glyphs he makes are from memory. Memory is one of the few things he has that he can call his own.

It had been another life.

He had seen such things! They broke their journey, staying overnight as guests of a merchant of spectacular means. The man feasted them in grand fashion, and for entertainment, vervet monkeys, their gold bangles jangling, were fetched in to perform tricks for the guests.

Their nervous handler, however, befuddled by too much wine, fumbled with their leashes and suddenly the whole lot of them were free! Jah had watched, transfixed, as half a dozen chattering monkeys cavorted among the dishes on the tables and jumped up onto the couches, stealing jewels and figs and causing such uproar! The poor merchant looked to Pharaoh, anxiety writ all over his fat face.

To his host’s relief, Pharaoh threw back his head and laughed long and loud, even as one bold creature snatched a grape from the King’s very fingers; it was the signal for everyone to find the incident utterly hilarious. Lords and ladies called out the praise of first one hairy entertainer and then another, as dishes were broken and servants hurried to mop up the mess. Oh, that was wonderful.

And then! Jugglers and dancers and sword-swallowers; it was all so different to life in the palace.

He had looked at the man reclining beside him on the couch, his strong arm wound loosely about Jah’s waist, his eyes bright in the lamplight as he watched the clever magicians. The years had fallen away from him, it seemed.

Jah thought, So this is love? This seeing someone with new eyes?

A ghost of pain brushed his cheek where this man’s hand had hurt him. But his lord had been in a rage, beside himself with anger and jealousy. And the one of whom he had reason to be jealous? Minic had shown himself to be false. He thought of him at the quayside, his face full of yearning. He would never shake off his feelings for the artist, the first man to awaken him to what might be.

But his heart, wandering for so long, had found its home. That it should be here, after all, seemed a little strange, but he always thought that would be the nature of love –unexpected and completely terrifying.

He settled against his master’s side, pulling the big hand up from his waist to bestow little kisses on the fingertips. He knew Pharaoh would never strike him again, was incapable of hurting him with that hand, those long fingers. Had he not forgiven him? Forgiven even his lover?

He heard a little growl, felt the inevitable shifting on the couch, his master now atop him, looking down with fever-bright eyes. The sounds of the lyres and trumpets and cymbals seemed to fade with the extinguishing lamps, and the chatter of the guests died to nothing.

Their kiss was deep and long and when next he looked about him, a little dazed and disoriented, the room was quite empty…

Now they are on the return journey, the great vessel moving through the sparkling water and carrying them home.

Jah watches the young Prince beneath his sun shade, at some lesson; his tutor, Anhol, is pointing out to him oxen on the riverbanks, bulrushes and geese and an occasional crocodile in the great River itself.

The boy stabs at a wax tablet with his stylus, his face contorted in concentration. Jah feels for him, for everything is a struggle. How must it feel, to be the son of the world’s most powerful King? Pharaoh is tall and well formed, his features strong, his voice deep. Jah knows from kitchen gossip that the Prince came into the world several weeks early and defied all expectations by living beyond his first year, nourished by a succession of wet nurses. He is visibly infirm in his body, though his mind seems lively enough.

Anhol places a gentle hand upon the Prince’s shoulder and says something that Jah cannot hear; the boy smiles and lays his work down, joining his teacher at the guard rail to watch the local men in their little boats, netting waterfowl. Jah realises Anhol is looking at him, the pale old eyes holding his in a level gaze. The interloper bows his head, respectfully, and turns to leave them. Pharaoh is sleeping below in their chamber and he has the desire to ask of him a great favour – he wishes to be taught to read and write. There is a whole world contained in those markings and he wants to enter it and learn. He is beaming as he reaches the little staircase to the lower level.

“My father will tire of that boy soon and take another whore, everyone says so.”

Jah hears the words – childishly arrogant, spoken just loudly enough for the “boy” in question to hear. He stands, his hand on the stair rail, but does not turn. Behind him, Anhol must have said something in that soft, low voice of his, for the Prince utters a little indignant cry and then is silent. Jah forces his feet to move.

The guard outside the chamber door stands quickly aside, for this is Pharaoh’s cherished property, his toy. Inside, he leans against the door and looks upon his master, at rest upon the great bed, his solid form covered only by a fine muslin sheet. A boy is fanning him, trying not to yawn or break the monotonous rhythm. Jah might cry hot tears if it were not for the presence of this child; as it is, he relieves him of the fan and pushes him gently out the door.

“…take another.”

There have been times when Jah longed for release. He had been one of many, after all, just one more concubine, expected to share Pharaoh's bed for perhaps one or two nights, a month at the most. Yet the nights had stretched out and he had never been returned to the harem. He had given little thought to what had happened to those others; he had no friends among them, after all.

Yet perhaps there is another boy, whose preparation is almost concluded. Perhaps the whole court knows of this other boy, his replacement. Maybe this journey, this dream time, has been his master’s kindness, a last gift before he is sent away. But where would he be sent? And to whom?

He thought he knew his place. Now he thinks, as he plies the fan steadily above his master’s sleeping form, that he has no place. He glances out of the little window, covered with its muslin to ward off flies, at the river carrying them inexorably closer to home. But is it his home?

“You waste your strength on that, my love,” Pharaoh says, sleepily; Jah looks down into black, shining eyes. “Let us burn like fire and then find enjoyable ways to cool ourselves.” Pharaoh is teasing him, his fingers running up and down Jah’s slender arm, turning the heavy bracelets – gifted by him, every one.

“You mean to cast me aside,” Jah says, and instantly wishes the words unsaid. He feels sick to the stomach.

“How so? What madness is this?” Pharaoh is suddenly awake, pulling the boy into a tight, possessive embrace. “Cast you aside? I want you more now than before. I am in despair of ever having enough of you. I have – done terrible things for the love of you… There can be no other, Jah.”

“I am sorry, my lord; forgive me.”

“Foolish boy.” The King lifts Jah’s hand up between them so that the many bracelets fall from wrist to elbow; each of the heavy jewelled rings upon Jah’s slim fingers catches the sun, as it sets in a ball of bright, consuming fire. “I thought I had made it plain to you. Let me explain once more.”

There is pain for Jah in their lovemaking; so anxious are they to join that there is no time for that play which eases and prepares. It matters not. He wants the pain, the almost-rape, that assures him he has a place, and the place is here with his King.

“Come with me.” He has asked it before, several times, lightly teasing, gently cajoling; now he says it with great seriousness. “Ybo, come home with me.”

“Your home, not mine,” Ybo points out, yawning. They lie together in sweat-drenched sheets in Arke’s room, on this, their last night together.

Arke kisses Ybo’s tender nipple that just minutes earlier he had been biting. He sighs. “My master seems to think our embassy is completed here for another year; we have contracts for grain and cloth and slaves… Am I boring you?” He laughs as Ybo yawns once more. The little soldier turns his aventurine eyes on his lover and frowns.

“It’s not the bureaucratic claptrap that’s making me yawn, fool, it’s the demands you place on my body. You are insatiable!”

Arke feels a heaviness about his heart. Just a few weeks ago, he had been on the prowl for a bed partner to make his stay in the Kingdom a pleasant one. Soldiers, labourers, grooms: the bigger the better, the rougher and harder. Now he is hopelessly in love with this man, this little warrior. Ah, but not little in bed, not where it counts. And soon he must leave him.

“That night, Ybo.” He begins but cannot finish. It had been madness.

“Hush. Think not of that night.” The Egyptian holds him tight to his sleek, shining body; Arke listens to the steady beat of his lover’s heart.

“Come with me,” he says, one more time, turning his blue eyes upwards. For his part, Ybo flicks away a tress of dark hair and kisses his Greek upon the nose.

“My place is here. I serve Pharaoh.”

“Do you not think that what we did was - disloyal?” Arke ventures. He feels Ybo moving, withdrawing from him. Pharaoh’s loyal slave swings his legs out of the bed and onto the rush matting. Arke curses his stupid tongue. Ybo is not angry, however; he speaks as he might to a beloved child.

“If I saw you about to enter a bawdy house and let you go in, knowing it contained, not just pretty painted boys, but also murderers who would cut your throat and dump you in the nearest irrigation ditch, yet I let you go in anyway, because you are a man and should do what pleases you - would you say I loved you and was loyal to you, even though I knew your body would be left to rot and you would never achieve the Afterlife?”

Arke sits up in the bed, watching as Ybo dresses. The room is airless; he feels quite stifled.

“No, that would not be love,” he admits, quietly.

Ybo bends to tie his sandals.

“And if a friend, whom I knew to love you as I did, suggested we waylaid you before you reached the bawdy house to keep you from the danger? Would you say your friends were disloyal, or merely presumptuous?”

“Presumptuous,” Arke sighs. Ybo returns to the bed and leans down.

“I love my King. Since I was a young boy, I have served him. First, I was the slave of his slave, fetching and carrying. Then that man fell in battle, right next to me, and I pulled off the satchel from his dead body and ran at my lord’s side, handing him his arrows. There was no question that anyone else should do it. I have seen him kill like a madman. And I have seen him spare those whose cause seemed hopeless. I do not pretend to understand a living god. But I know that, sometimes, men have to save those they love from their own folly. And even a King, a god, can be taken out of his senses.”

Arke holds out his arms. “Come home with me,” he says, one last time. Ybo shakes his head, his eyes unutterably sad.

“I cannot. And you cannot stay with me. So we must part, for this is simply how some stories have to end.”

“You talk treason.” The wine is flowing freely in the lamp lit chamber.

“I talk sense, and you know it,” is the grunted reply. Remenhep slurps noisily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The gathering is a select one; nobles who had made their excuses not to accompany the King on his pleasure jaunt, and wealthy merchants, priests, and one general of Pharaoh’s army. They gorge on fine food and plan the overthrow of a King.

“He is so besotted with his boy, he cannot prosecute a war! He ran from battle, all the way home, to separate his filthy little whore boy from his lover! Any sane man would have merely sent word back to have them both whipped and stoned. But no, our great King, our father, has to soil his own hands. And then not only does he pardon the boy, but he elevates him to the status of – of - Queen.” Remenhep throws down his cup, glaring.

“But is that reason to usurp the throne? The King is in love with this pretty boy – we have all seen him, this Jah and he is certainly a beauty – but is that just cause? He will get over this obsession, surely.” The speaker, a merchant by the name of Pedibastet, looks about him at his companions, sure he will find others who share his caution. He sees only hard, uncompromising faces.

“Treason. You are contemplating - treason.” He falters and finds himself sinking back into his chair, suddenly afraid.

“Pedibastet is a reasonable man, renowned for his gentle heart,” the general, Bimenwase, says, calmly. He lays a reassuring hand on Pedibastet’s shoulder, who feels the weight as if it were lead laid upon him.

“But this is no time for gentle hearts,” Bimenwase continues. “Leave us now, old friend, and return to your family. We know we can trust you not to talk of anything that has been said in this chamber. We can, can’t we?” Pedibastet nods, eagerly, rising to his feet. He bows to the men in the room and kisses Bimenwase’s hand.

“You have my word. I trust the gods to give you good counsel this night,” he says, taking his leave.

When the door closes, Bimenwase and Remenhep exchange glances. The general signals to his servant, who has been standing in the shadows. He gives the command to end a life as casually as he might order more wine, and the man slips away to do his duty.

“The kingdom needs strength now, more than ever,” Bimenwase raises his cup and the men about him follow suit. “To the Prince!”