Rated PG15.

For two days, Pharaoh has listened to petitions brought before him in the great hall; disputes over the apportionment of land, dowries unpaid, taxes levied too highly and questionable craftsmanship. He has dealt out justice and his judgements have been deemed fair. By the common people, at any rate – the nobility and the wealthy are less content.

One man, a stonemason, had come before Pharaoh on behalf of his fellow tenants to seek redress against their landlord, owner of a great many dwellings in the artisans’ quarter; he had, overnight, raised the rents to such a level that few could now pay. Families had been evicted onto the streets, their belongings taken as compensation for back-rent. Worse, a child had been crushed to death beneath the wheels of a wagon amidst the confusion.

The landlord was called before the King. He came, of course, without delay, and gave his side of the story. Times were hard. His twin daughters had reached an age to marry and dowries must be found. The rents had been kept low for many years by his late father, a man known for his soft heart. The tenants were for the most part lazy and of low breeding. He wanted to raze the artisan houses to the ground and begin again – modern housing built to high specifications and destined for the growing middle-class…

Pharaoh regarded the man before him, his bracelets of gold, his full belly, earrings and fine garments. He looked once more at the stonemason. Above them, in the gallery, in the shadows, his conscience stood, watching.

When the horn was sounded and the audiences over, the landlord was in a daze. About him, the artisans were hugging themselves in delight. The King had ordered their rents slashed, their losses made good and their tenancies guaranteed for life.

Pharaoh ignored the glowering faces of his court; their murmurings of discontent were as nothing to him. He was the Father of the Country and he had acted on behalf of his children.

Slender, loving arms were waiting for him on his return. Dismissing the guards and servants, closing the door softly behind him, he looked down into blue eyes wide with love and saw his own reflected. Jah was one of the people, not a lord, not a well-born courtesan, but a boy from the crowd.

“Am I loved?” Pharaoh asked of the boy.

“You are, my lord,” came the gentle reply.

“You have a good eye, little master,” Anhol says, cheerfully, examining the wax tablet that Jah has been inscribing. It is hard to believe the boy has had no education at all; his characters are clear and neatly done.

Jah smiles. This is their first lesson and he is anxious to impress Anhol with his diligence; for some reason, the old man’s opinion of him matters. Jah knows that to many in the court, he is still a jumped-up whore and he hates to think that Anhol sees him thus. Thinking it might help, he has removed all his bracelets and rings, and donned the plainest robe he possesses, though he is not sure the old man has even noticed. The King would notice, he thinks, warm with the thought.

Pharaoh has taken a few entertaining fellows off hunting; they will be back with hares for the pots and perhaps a fox or two whose pelts will trim a winter mantle. Jah himself does not hunt, nor would his master require it of him, fearing as he would to see his beloved thrown during the chase.

“Jah?” He blinks and realises Anhol is waiting for him. His tutor, having erased the characters, hands the tablet back to his pupil.

“If only the prince was as quick to learn as is this beautiful boy” he thinks. Immediately, he wishes the thought unformed – the prince tries his best and taken away from his mother’s influence would make great strides. He turn his thoughts from the King’s son to the King’s boy.

“Now, shall we see if you remember without the example?” He is gratified to see him pause, reflect a moment, and then begin to carve into the wax with his stylus.

“Ah, Anhol,” the door opens and Addourif enters. Jah looks up from his work and Anhol notices the grimace on his pretty face. No love lost there, then.

“The Queen requires your presence in her chamber. Now.” The unctuous slave addresses the old man, but his eye is roaming over the body of the pupil. Anhol sees that Jah avoids Addourif’s gaze, and that now the characters in the wax are crude and ill-formed.

“I shall be along at lesson’s end,” the old man says, pleasantly.

“But the Queen-“ Addourif blusters, frowning.

“The Queen will understand, I am sure, that when Pharaoh commands me teach this boy his letters, that is what I must and will do. Please convey that to the lady, exactly as I have just said.”

Addourif opens his mouth as if to protest, but Anhol’s pale eyes are adamant.

“Very well. You may continue with your lesson,” Addourif says, rather unnecessarily. He pauses at the door. “Do not keep the Queen waiting too long.”

When he has gone, Anhol takes the tablet from Jah’s hands. He carefully smoothes out the rough marks and hands it back, without comment.

“Shall we begin again?” he says, lightly. Jah nods, gratefully.

“But after we have eaten, yes?” Anhol gestures to the meal set out for them. He chooses a fig and a cup of beer. “Ah, that’s good.” He enjoys his food, this fragile looking old man. As he sits upon a golden chair and looks around the chamber, he thinks that all of Nubia must have been emptied to decorate this one room, this trysting place for a King and his concubine. He glances surreptitiously at the images on the ceiling above the great bed. Oh my.

Jah sips his watered wine and takes a little bread. “Do you mind? I mean, having to teach me?” he asks, hesitantly. Anhol looks a little surprised, then he laughs.

“Not at all. I am in the pay of the Pharaoh and who I teach for that pay is quite irrelevant. Plus, you are a good pupil, little master.”

They eat in companionable silence, both servants of the King.

“Well, we should get on. Gomor made it clear that your afternoon hours are for Pharaoh’s pleasure, not for book learning.” Anhol picks up a scroll and peers closely at it. He senses that Jah is squirming and, glancing away from the papyrus, sees the boy is blushing. The hint of roses on his cheek is most becoming. It is not difficult to see why the King is so enamoured.

“Cat. Write cat,” Anhol instructs, turning to the window with its ugly grille.

It is early evening; Gomor is thinking as he walks from the palace to the barracks. He has certain officers he trusts with his life, men loyal to the King and to him. There are others he is not so sure of. He is not in command of the army, after all. Yet he feels confident he can meet any threat with sufficient force. If he has to.

There are times when he wonders why Pharaoh trusts him so implicitly; it is not enough that Gomor is faithful and loyal, though he is all these things. He must be sly and cunning, also. And in truth, there are times when Gomor feels himself out of his depth. One by one, Pharaoh's truest and most capable advisors have died – old men, all passing on into the next life in peace, mostly. There had been one, Ackso, who had been most particularly wise and energetic. Gomor had learned much from him and his death had been untimely and much lamented. Ackso should be here, now, advising the King; Gomor is merely a soldier.

As he turns the corner by the stables, he hears the mewling of a cat; it is nothing new, of course, but there is something about this sound, something pathetic and –

“Gomor.” It is no cat. It is a man, lying upon the straw in an empty stall. The coppery stench of blood and human waste is overpowering; the soldier kneels down and lifts the man’s head. He recognises him, of course from the court; he is Pedibastet, a distant relation of the King’s and a wealthy merchant, perhaps a little less greedy than most but still out for all he can get. Gomor sees that there is much blood upon the man’s robe. He finds the major wound, a great gash in the merchant’s side. Pedibastet is trying to staunch the wound with a sodden rag; Gomor takes over the task, looking about him for someone to help them – someone he can trust. Where is Ybo when he is needed?

“What has happened, sir?” he urges, not entirely forgetting the differences in their rank. “Who did this to you?”

“Men… Sent by Remenhep and… Bim…” Pedibastet grimaces, riding a wave of pain; Gomor can only wait until his breathing steadies, his hand pressed firmly to the gaping wound in the man’s side. “Bimenwase. Others… But those two…” The merchant drifts. The names he has given are well-known to Gomor. And to the Queen. “They attacked me but I fought them, Gomor. I was… I was quite the fighter in my youth, had a name for it…” The man laughs, bitterly, blood foaming on his cracked lips.

“So I have heard,” Gomor says, humouring him. “You beat them off?”

“Aye. I did. They didn’t… expect…” His head lolls back, his eyes losing focus.

“You will not die. Not until you tell me what you know. Think now of your King, old man.” Gomor shakes the man and sees his eyes flicker open once more.

In his arms, Pedibastet is retching and he knows the man is moments from death.

“Forgive me. I saw my… revenues in jeopardy, my family in peril… But I never intended treason against the King!” He has Gomor’s hand in a death grip now, his eyes bulging. “Save Pharaoh. The Queen has many friends… They will kill him and…” Gomor has to lean in now to hear the words, weaker they grow, “all he loves…”

The soldier releases the body onto the ground, closing the man’s staring eyes and arranging the limbs respectfully. It is all he can do. His concern is with the living.

There are footsteps and, at last, help is at hand. Gomor looks up to see three conscripts, grooms by the look of them, breathless and horrified. “Take the body inside the barracks,” he orders, getting to this feet and taking from one of the pale young men a horse blanket. He cleans his hands of Pedibastet’s blood and strides determinedly to the palace.

“You will regret your choice of assassins, Remenhep,” he thinks, grimly. “I would have seen the job done.”

The road is lonely for a traveller on his own. Bandits work these paths, on the lookout for easy pickings. Minic trudges on, determined to cover as much ground as he can before sunset. He hopes to chance upon a caravan heading in the same direction, but cannot rely on it.

“To whatever end I go, whatever destiny awaits, may it be with you, Jah.” He will live or die with his love, there is no other way.