(The poem featured is authentic and from roughly the period)

Rating: NC17. Warning: Violence and angst

There is a seat beneath a shading willow, whose branches trail into a sparkling pond, where Pharaoh sits with his concubine and reads to him love poetry. At a respectful distance musicians play softly, and a slave waits with cooled wine and sweet cakes. The water ripples on the pool as insects skim across its shining surface, and the words of the King are gentle and expressive. His young lover listens, his pale hands upon his knees, his eyes upon his master.

The King sees a cat padding along the water’s edge; he smiles, for cats are beloved of the boy, Jah, and therefore beloved of him, also. He turns back to the words before him:

He leans in, the papyrus forgotten at their naked feet, to take what is his from a kiss-burned mouth. He smells calendula and arousal. He is at peace, his heart lighter than any time in his life. There is only love here. Unbroken, timeless peace.

The cat suddenly begins to hiss, its hackles rising, amber eyes staring… There is a disturbance in the water and the King breaks reluctantly from his lover’s embrace to lean over to see.

From the deeps of the pool a great head rises, its maw wide with hundreds of razor sharp teeth that close about them, the King and his beautiful boy. Pharaoh tries desperately to push Jah away, out of the reach of those terrible jaws -

He awakes with a great jolt.

There is no garden, no pool, and no monster; only the boy remains, lying on his side, his mouth a little open, deep in sleep.

Pharaoh lies upon his bed and watches the moonlight at play upon the painted ceiling. He turns and his gaze falls upon the likeness of his loved one, carved by one who loved and lost.

If I could, would I bring you back to life, artist? He reaches out and caresses the cold cheek. Perhaps…

He lets his hand fall from the exquisite lifeless Jah to the warm, breathing one.

I am as one dwelling in a tomb…

Gomor is at rest. No dreams plague his sleep. Certainly, the noble he had despatched with quiet efficiency has not risen from the embalmers’ slab to accuse him.

He lies upon his bed and tries to recall a life beyond this; he remembers his mother, a little, though she died long before he was a man. His father, his two sisters. He knows they live still in the village of his birth where his sisters have fine sons of their own, all learning their trades, all content with their lot in life.

He should have a son. Every man should have a son to follow him, to keep his name and his blood alive.

His fellow travellers are an odd assortment; artisans and craftsmen, a musician, peddlers, all on the road, all uneasy at travelling any great distance for it is a fearful thing for an Egyptian, this leaving home; to be taken ill on the road, to die alone. Who would perform the rites, ensure the correct offices are undertaken to ensure the transition to the next world? Yet travel, they must.

Reysh has a secret: not that of his identity, no, an older and even more scandalous one.

He does not believe in the Afterlife. He has tried to believe, wants to believe. But he does not. And now less than ever.

“What happened to you?” It is the musician, walking at his side, who speaks. Minic - Not Minic, stop that even in your own head, that name is dead - Reysh raises an eyebrow and the young man indicates Reysh’s wrist, bound up in his sleeve; he has tried to keep it hidden, but it is impossible. Reysh thinks this is as good a time as any to try out his story.

“I was apprenticed to a stonemason. There was an accident…” He affects what he hopes is an expression of apologetic bitterness; such things are in the lap of the gods, after all.

The musician eyes the linen-bound stump with interest. “It must have been agony.” His great eyes are warm with concern. “I am Ufu,” he adds, hefting his lyre a little higher on his back.

“Reysh, my name is Reysh.” They walk in companionable silence for a while along the dirt road that is almost indistinguishable from the desert. Finally, their guide calls a halt for the day and the travellers fall down gratefully in the cool shade of a few scraggly palms. As food is prepared, Reysh and Ufu find themselves together and sharing bread.

“Where are you bound?” The musician’s tone is friendly yet Reysh hesitates; he is undecided whether it is dangerous to reveal his destination, but if Ufu is also headed for Naucratis, and finds out later he’d lied…

“Naucratis,” Reysh declares, mixing them some wine. “I hope to find employment there; my uncle works in one of the big villas. With only one hand, I will be grateful for just a roof over my head.” To his own ears, it seems unlikely. Ufu, however, appears to find it acceptable.

“You have further to go than me,” he replies, swatting flies. “I travel only as far as Athribes, there to join a band of players and strum for whomever has the price.”

Reysh finds the young musician easy to talk to and, after they have eaten, Ufu entertains the camp with a few songs; his voice is soulful and quite beautiful. Reysh cannot mistake the interest in Ufu’s eyes, but that is a part of his life gone, perhaps forever.

Now, night has fallen and he lies wrapped in his cloak, staring up at the stars. Beside him, though not with him, Ufu is sleeping. The campfire chatter has died down to nothing and the desert is cooling. He offers a prayer for his old friend and former master, Kell; it matters not that he does not believe in the power of the words, he cannot keep from thinking them.

Then there is Jah. His body is empty without him. He tries to get comfortable but however he lies, the hand that has gone haunts him, tingling and aching. And now the memory of that night comes back to him, unbidden, an evil thing that he would wrench from his head if only he were able.

”What are we to do with him, Onicus? Slit his throat? That would be easiest.”

He had been only half-conscious, drifting. They were outside the palace; he could feel the cold air on his cheek. He tasted blood in his mouth. His side was aflame but it was as nothing compared with the raging pain between his legs. Had they gelded him? No. It was merely the reminder of the charioteer’s crude strokes.

He felt himself being dragged, knew he should at least try to get free. He was so tired, so very tired.

“He must suffer before he dies.” That was the charioteer; Minic knew that voice well. He recalled it whispering in his ear vile, unspeakable things. “My master wants him to know what it means, to paw at another man’s property.”

They let him fall to the ground, then. Onicus had kicked him, hard, in the ribs and his accomplice had followed suit, laughing.

“Jah,” he moaned, raising his hands to ward them off. “Jah.”

“Don’t worry about that one. He will spend his days in luxury. Pharaoh cannot keep his hands off him. The little bastard will forget you ever existed, soon enough,” Onicus sneered. He held Minic down, while his eager friend straddled him, pulling the artist’s head back to expose his throat.

“Cut out his tongue? “ The man’s voice sounded hopeful and excited. Minic closed his eyes, nausea overwhelming him, but the man atop him forced them open once more.

“No, my master was specific in what he wanted.” Onicus flashed a blade before Minic’s eyes. “The artist is to lose his hands.”

He had reared up then, almost bucking the brute off him; but he was weak, and the attempt was met with contemptuous laughter.

“Behave, dog, and we will set you loose afterwards. Course, you’ll have to beg for the rest of your life, but those pretty eyes will work for you, I should think. Least for a year or two.”

“No,” Minic struggled pitifully against the pain in his side and the burning between his legs, the heavy, stinking weight on his chest.

A cloud passed over the moon and they were in darkness. Something was stuffed in his mouth, some filthy rag. Onicus had been in battle with Pharaoh, had thundered across the plains with him to glory and blood. This was as nothing to such as he.

The pain, when it came, was even worse than Minic had imagined.

They took his right hand, the hand he had used to hold a brush and caress soft, smooth skin. After the pain came blessed darkness for a little while; then he felt them pulling at him, exposing his other wrist.. It was as if were now happening to someone else, as if this thing were being done to some other man.. It did not last. He was the one being mutilated, the blade poised to hack. His eyes closed and he expected – and wanted – to die…

A cry… the heavy weight lifting from his chest …

He dreamt then; in his dreams he heard a familiar voice. He was being borne by strong hands. There was tightness about his hand, for they had not taken it, after all! It lived, it lived… That had been the dream… Gomor, he heard Gomor…

When he awoke, he was with Kell.

Now he is on the road, to a new life, lying beneath the stars, flanked by a musician on one side and a snoring peddler of exotic potions on the other…

He wills himself not to imagine how Jah is passing his night.

He raises his arm to the moonlight and examines what is no longer there. He sees the familiar fingers, the palm, the muscles flexing beneath tanned skin, specks of gold paint ingrained in the lines… He puts that arm down and now looks at the other, the hand that remains. Each finger, the thumb… Calluses… The nails quite long and clean. He sees no gold paint here. Reysh forces himself to examine this hand, to see it anew. He imagines holding the brush with this left hand and applying paint with precision. He must learn not only to use this hand, but also to love it. For it is all he has.