Rated PG15.

They are home. In airy halls they walk upon cool marble, attended by servants laden with trays of sweets and wine. Pharaoh stretches out his arms and grins. He feels younger than ever, more alive! He could weave in and out of these great columns that have stood for an age, run like a market boy, cry out until his voice echoes around and around that he is home!

But he settles for grinning, instead. His aide is waiting, soberly standing ready to report.

“Gomor, I have neglected my duties; though I trust you have managed things in my stead?” He addresses his faithful servant but is watching Jah as he looks up at the great painted columns, as if seeing them for the first time. Perhaps he is. Perhaps at last the boy sees them as his own, accepts that his place here is real and permanent. The King turns once more to his trusted servant.

Gomor bows his head and smiles, respectfully. “There were - minor - matters that required my attention, my lord; the Kingdom is as you left it, and it rejoices in your return.”

Pharaoh sits upon his great throne and laughs, a deep and joyful laugh that echoes around the hall, causing Jah to turn in surprise. He holds out his hand to his concubine and pulls him close, holding him around the waist.

“Call an audience tomorrow. Let the people bring their grievances and I shall deal with them all with compassion and mercy. I am their Father and from this day forward, I will be a more loving one.” He looks deeply into his lover’s blue eyes, his fingers sliding on the light sheen of oil that coats Jah’s body.

Gomor bows once more. “My lord…” he begins but Pharaoh waves his hand.

“I know, I know. Boring reports and suchlike to bring to my attention. I will take a meal with my beloved, in our chamber, and then join you, Gomor. I wish to look over the maps with a view to having them redrawn – I shall see you in the archive in one hour,” he slides his fingers lower, deep inside Jah’s kilt… “no, in two.”

Ybo is in the stables; Pharaoh has many fine horses and each must be exercised every day. Ybo combs them down himself, barking out orders to the boys to fetch and carry but not trusting them to give enough time to their work. He is putting even more effort into it today, Gomor notes; the little man is sweating, his brows drawn down as he concentrates.

“The Greek has left us, I take it?” Gomor, cat-like as always, has taken the slave by surprise. Ybo frowns, returning to his hard strokes.

“If you mean Arke, then yes, he has gone,” he replies; then he remembers that despite the bonds of friendship and the unusual events which have made them conspirators, he owes respect to his captain, Pharaoh’s most trusted aide. He bows his head and waits.

“He was a strange one, that Greek.” Gomor sidles into the stable, sidestepping the ordure-laden straw that the slave has swept to the sides. “How could you bear it, all that inane chatter?”

“He likes the sound of his own voice, aye,” Ybo concedes, resuming his work. “But he would say such – pretty things.”

“It is always a sadness, when fate separates us from our loved ones,” Gomor says, conversationally, his attention outwardly on the stallion.

“Fate has a way of doing that,” Ybo replies, grimly.

“Of course, you could have gone with him…”

“Is there anything you do not know?” Ybo drops the combs onto the stable floor; the great steed turns his majestic head to stare at him with huge brown eyes.

“He could have stayed here.” Ybo looks everywhere but at Gomor. His master’s horse snorts and snuffles in the hay for nuts.

“Perhaps, though he would have had no place here.” Gomor runs his hand along the horse’s glossy coat.

“He will soon find another, the likes of him don’t sleep alone for long,” Ybo mutters, bending to retrieve the combs.

“That, I do not know,” Gomor sighs. “Think on your time, short as it was. You had it at least.”

He leaves, heading back to the palace; Ybo reaches up to comb the stallion’s mane, but his eyes follow the captain.

“It is your misfortune, my friend, to love one so exalted,” he thinks, sadly. “And one so besotted with another.”

He delves his tongue inside his lover’s mouth, tasting him, pressing into him. His fingers run through thick hair; he lies upon him, covering him, claiming him, lining them both up until their hearts are beating in synch.

“Love you,” he moans, rocking his hips.

“So good…”

“Mine. Jah,” he cries, thrusting against the warmth beneath him. He feels his lover’s arms about him, holding him safe as he rocks.

“Jah?”

He opens his eyes. The moon is full and it falls upon a stranger’s face, a handsome but not wholly familiar face. Reysh pulls free, aghast. Beneath him, Ufu is smiling.

“I am not Jah, whoever he may be. I am, however, here.”

That is when he realises that he is trying to support himself on the stump; he has yet to work out how best to manage his disability and now he feels the pain. He falls down upon Ufu and before he can pull away again, he is held. The musician has a good face and his body is firm, his arousal tempting. The pain has subsided to a dull ache, overridden by more interesting sensations in other parts of his body.

About them, their companions are all asleep beneath the stars. Ufu smiles. “Let me be this Jah for you, this night. In the morning, we will pretend it never happened, if that is what you want,” he says.

“Do I not repel you?” Reysh cannot see how his deformity can be anything other than abhorrent.

“You mean this?” Ufu takes the ruination in his gentle hand and turns it about before brushing it with soft lips. “I never saw it as it was before. It is simply a part of you, now.”

They kiss, Reysh’s eyes tightly shut so that all he sees are huge blue eyes lined with kohl, dark hair, silken skin. He opens them again and focuses on the flesh and blood that is with him now, desiring him.

Their coupling is, by necessity, a little strained; they have no wish to wake their companions, after all. He pushes against the musician with crude strokes, each thrust a means to rid himself of his burden. Beneath him, Ufu is enthusiastic and eager. As he reaches his release, he mouths the name that haunts his dreams, his lips upon Ufu’s warm neck.

Afterwards, they lie in each other’s arms for a little while, before rolling away and into their blankets. The desert is cold at night and the sun is still several hours from rising.

Reysh feels more relaxed, his body sated. But still he sees blue eyes when he finally falls asleep.

Jah is in the chamber, still and cold. His great, unseeing eyes are blue with lapis and rimmed with kohl. He will never age, this Jah.

Jah, the living boy, lies upon the great bed. All about him are the trappings of wealth and privilege; there is so much gold in this room that it has ceased to impress, so many jewels and fine linens, intricately carved chairs and tables and chests. Yet there are games, too, and trays of sweets… And his old collar, always within arms reach.

And there, too, stands his likeness upon an ebony plinth; the bust completed by the artist, Minic, before the artist lost his senses. The boy looks upon his other self with little interest beyond imagining where Minic’s strong fingers held the clay and smoothed the surface, applying the glaze and the paint… Pharaoh has declared his intent to commission many more such likenesses; until they are realised, this one will survive. After that – who knows?

He waits for his master with some impatience. Those strong arms have become a drug; he aches to be possessed. His lover had promised to just look in on the nursery, ensure the Prince is settled in, and then join him; Jah tries not to resent the Prince this time with his father, but it is difficult.

When finally the door opens and Pharaoh enters, it is a great relief. Jah resists the urge to run to him and take him by the hand, for a little of his training, Arlu’s instruction, remains.

“I am sorry, little one,” Pharaoh hastens to the bed, “the boy seemed loathe to let me go. I had to listen to him read for a while…”

Jah kneels, laying his hands upon his master’s broad shoulders, massaging. Pharaoh's head drops forward and he sighs, deeply. “You could have stayed, my lord, I would have understood,” Jah assures him, planting a soft kiss upon the back of that thick neck.

“And leave you here alone? What mischief would you get up to, without me to satisfy you?”

Pharaoh chuckles and then stops. Jah stills his agile fingers.

There is a moment when neither knows quite what to say. But the King trusts actions more than words and he twists out of the boy’s hands and catches him up. His kiss is hard, his tongue delving into Jah’s mouth, his hand upon the narrow chest. Jah wraps his arms about his master, his legs opening. He reaches down to guide his lord but Pharaoh shakes off his hand, turning on his side, concentrating his efforts on his lover’s pleasure.

“Take me, my lord.” The words are a plea. “Fill me.”

“Later, later. Let me please you for now.” The King strokes Jah’s slender length, eliciting the moans that had so enraptured him on their journey; this new Jah is lustful and wanton. He feels the boy reach for him once more and cannot hide from him any longer his – deficiency.

“My lord?” Jah sits up, his eyes a little glassy with desire. “You are not aroused? Let me help you.”

“I need no help from anyone. I am your King.” Pharaoh affects a stern expression, his tone authoritative.

Jah remembers, a little late, perhaps, a lesson given to him by Arlu.

”This school, what is it made of, Jah?” his mentor asked. They were naked, lying together upon Arlu’s bed, though there was a short cubit of space between them.

“Bricks, master,” Jah replied, puzzled. He could not begin to see where this particular lesson was headed.

“Very good. And the bricks, of what are they made?” Arlu ran his hand very gently up and down Jah’s forearm. The boy sighed.

“Mud? And straw, pebbles…” Jah had the look of one about to fail a test. Arlu smiled.

“Yes, that is so. Mix the mud and the straw and the pebbles together, and you get bricks. Bricks build strong houses.”

Jah frowned. “I am sorry, master. I don’t understand…”

Arlu leaned across and brushed his full lips across Jah’s furrowed brow.

“Take away the straw and the pebbles and you are left with… mud. Could mud on its own make a house? Such at this one? Could mud on its own have the strength to sustain floors and a roof and windows?”

The boy shook his head. Arlu took Jah’s hand in his own. “Feel my cock, Jah,” he instructed. Jah did as he was told. “Is it hard, like the walls of this house?”

Jah smiled. “No, master,” he said, comprehension forming in those beautiful eyes.

“I have given you four lessons today. I am not a god. I am a man. Men weaken; at such times, men are as mud. It is possible that you can find the straw and the pebbles and make new bricks. And times when it is best to accept that you will be sleeping beneath the stars, at least for a few hours. This, too, is a lesson in love.”

Jah suppressed a smirk. Arlu turned on his side and within moments was sound asleep.

When he was quite certain that his teacher was not going to suddenly awake, Jah slid away and out of the bed. He pulled on his kilt and padded on silent feet to the door.

In the hallway, he found Eanas dozing in his chair. Jah paused to look down upon him, then returned to his own room to sleep. He lay upon his narrow pallet and held himself between the legs until dawn.

He thinks of this now. Pharaoh is a man, not a god. He should rest; he resolves to ensure his master conserves his strength.

“My lord, please. Just lie with me. Hold me,” he says, softly. Of course, Pharaoh resists, resentful that his flesh has betrayed him; this has never happened with Jah before, though with his other concubines, with the Queen, it had been known.

“I-“ he begins, but the boy is adamant. Pharaoh allows himself to be laid flat upon the bed and after a moment, his body begins to relax. Jah strokes the King’s forehead and smiles down into his black eyes. “Perhaps a little rest. Then I will take you… hard…” Pharaoh mutters before falling into a deep sleep.

Pharaoh is three hours late for his meeting with Gomor, though he appears refreshed after his meal.

In the archive, the scribes have laid out for the two men the maps they require upon a great granite slab, held down at their corners by ivory weights.

Gomor bends to run his finger along the representation of a valley, an oasis, a creek. Although he cannot read, his eye keeps falling on the spot which he knows from memory is Naucratis, though Pharaoh mentions it not.

Minic is headed to Naucratis, this Gomor knows. Minic, whom Pharaoh believes to be dead.

“On our journey, I had the opportunity to talk to many people, Gomor, and from what they had to say, I believe our maps are inaccurate in some instances. Here,” he stabs his long finger on a gorge, “I believe this is mistaken. And here, this oasis; these maps are old, Gomor. Send out cartographers to assay the land and draw up new maps.”

Gomor has rarely seen his Pharaoh so animated. He has long believed the maps to be inaccurate, to say the least, but they were commissioned by Pharaoh's esteemed great-grandfather, a byword for virtue and efficiency. He nods, respectfully.

“Your journey pleased you, my lord?” Gomor asks, glancing at Pharaoh, who has taken up a cup of wine.

His master grins. “It pleased me greatly! And coming home to find that traitor, Gebu, out of this world? That pleased me, by the gods it did.”

Gomor had, of course, shared everything with his master the moment they were alone; the plot by the Queen, the method used to smuggle out messages to the cabal who would see Pharaoh’s throne usurped and the boy Prince made King.

“I wouldst see the Queen dead, my friend,” Pharaoh professed, simply… Gomor had urged caution; he was in the process of eliminating Pharaoh’s enemies by stealth. Certain priests, whose loyalties had been in doubt, had been brought back into the fold. The Queen had her supporters, of course, but she was not as strong as she supposed. The outcry against the boy, Jah, had been less than she had hoped; most of the court, seeing the boy day-to-day, had been impressed by his modesty as much as by his great beauty.

Gomor prepares for his dismissal, their audience at an end. “One more thing,” Pharaoh speaks as one remembering an indulgence promised.

“Yes, my lord?” Gomor waits, patiently in the doorway.

“The boy wishes to learn to read. Talk to Anhol, explain to him; if you will?”

Gomor bows. “As you wish, my lord.”

“It occurs to me, old friend, that you could share with him his lessons,” the King is smiling. “Fear not," he is quick to add, seeing the stricken look upon the other's face, "I know you are a man of deeds, not words.”

Gomor is visibly relieved. He had tried, of course, to master the art but had given it up as a bad job years ago; let the pretty boy learn about glyphs and markings in wax and he would attend to the safety of the Pharaoh.

As he walks away, however, Gomor is smiling. The reaction of the Queen, upon discovering that her son’s tutor is to also instruct her husband’s lover – will be interesting. It is moments such as these that make his job so pleasurable.

The little caravan is preparing to set out again; cooking pots and bed rolls are stowed in packs, and with the first rays of the sun, the march begins.

“We will be at Athribes by this afternoon. You must stay with me for a day or two, Reysh.” The musician, Ufu, is careful not to appear too eager as he girds his lyre to his back. But there is only silence. “Reysh? You will break your journey with me?”

Reysh smiles sadly. “No, Ufu. I am going back."

“But your uncle…?” Ufu says, puzzled. Reysh shrugs.

“My head tells me to go on to Naucratis and seek my fortune. But my heart leads me back whence I came.”

Ufu is an artist, able to evoke emotion with his fingertips on the lyre, to pull tears from the stoniest heart. How can he not be moved? “It is this Jah,” he says, simply. Reysh does not answer, but that is answer enough.

“I wish you well, Reysh. Go where your heart leads you. Be safe, my friend. You cannot afford to lose another hand for this Jah…”

Reysh turns to him, eyes wide. Ufu laughs. “No accident takes a hand as cleanly as that, my dear. Besides, you have other wounds upon your body; I felt them last night. Be careful; I hope to see you again some day. Farewell!” He moves to join the band of travellers heading north.

“Ufu!” Reysh cries; he had imagined at least a kiss goodbye. But the musician is waving him on, already finding a fellow traveller with whom to pass the remainder of the journey.

And so the young artist begins to retrace his steps back to the great city. He knows it is madness. He knows it may end in his death. But to live without love is a death, too.