Rated PG15.

“Arrest Remenhep and Bimenwase! And that bitch!” Pharaoh seethes, pacing about the audience chamber. He passes a table set with statuary and sweeps it off, the ancient pieces smashing on the marble floor. “Throw her in the deepest dungeon with the rats, then put her to a slow and painful death,” he snarls.

“In fact, give me my sword and I will behead her myself!” Gomor waits, watching his King venting his anger; it is a trait he shares with his wife, it seems, this wanton destruction of priceless heirlooms. Finally, the King takes a deep breath and slumps down upon his chair.

“Now tell me why I should not,” he says, looking sideways at his trusted adviser. Gomor nods his head, respectfully.

“These men have many powerful allies who have been looking to your lands with greedy eyes. Including the brother of the Queen, hovering in his lands in Phoenicia. If you execute his sister, you lose any bargaining power you might have. Such an act could even be construed by the common people as vengeance on your part – murdering the Queen for opposing your union with - with your beloved.”

Pharaoh kicks at a shard of glass, wishing it was the Queen he had at his feet. He rests his head in his hand for a few moments, Gomor standing by, patiently.

“But to do nothing…” he says at last, looking to his counsellor. Gomor smiles.

“I have faith in your armies, my Lord. They will not turn against you. I will rally your men and together we will crush this rebellion. I will meet with those loyal to your cause, this very night.”

He waits for permission to leave, but Pharaoh is distracted. He has a faraway look upon his face and Gomor feels a trickle of fear. His master, his King, must be alert and focused. He has seen this mood before, before battle.

“My Lord, I speak now as a friend, as well as your most loyal subject.”

Pharaoh looks at his servant, this man who has always been true. “Go on,” he says, nodding.

“Be strong, my Lord. Be strong, not just for yourself but for your son, the Prince. He is not ready to rule and would be as clay in the hands of your enemies. Be strong for him. And be strong for your beloved. If your enemies prevail, Jah will be put to great pain and humiliation. You know I speak the truth.”

Gomor lowers his head, waiting. The hand on his arm sends a shiver down his spine. “I will be strong for my son, my lover, my people… And you.”

Pharaoh raises Gomor’s head until their eyes meet. For a moment, the soldier thinks his King will –

But the moment passes, Pharaoh stepping away, perplexed. And now Gomor leaves, his heart racing. He didn’t imagine it. There, in those dark eyes, there was something…

The tablet feels familiar now in his hands. He can make the characters fluidly, neither cramped nor scrawling. He knows Anhol is pleased with his progress.

“Master,” he says, as he works the stylus in the soft wax, “all is well?”

Anhol, who has been preparing a test, pauses and smiles. “Firstly – I am not your master; you are the exalted beloved of our King, therefore you are, if anything, my master. Secondly, why should all not be well? What is on your mind?”

Jah sighs. He looks out of the window, through the grille. Since their return, he has been allowed outside in the gardens; always there is at least one guard, but he keeps a respectful distance, giving the boy freedom to explore a little and even talk with the gardeners, walk among the safflowers, chrysanthemums and lotuses. He likes the fountains most of all, and the tranquil pool with its weeping willow and lilies. He looks back at the old man.

“I just wondered. Sometimes, when I walk the halls, I know that people become quiet. I think maybe they fear I will run to tell tales to the King.” It sounds silly now he has said it aloud. But Anhol does not laugh.

“The court finds you quite inexplicable, my boy,” he says, gently. “You are neither fish nor fowl. They find it hard, for the most part, to dislike you – what is there to dislike? – but they cannot allow themselves to quite trust you. But you have the love and protection of Pharaoh, so what matters any of that? Why worry about a few overfed, over-bred nobles?”

He is dismayed to find tears forming in the boy’s eyes and he glances anxiously at the door, fearful the King might enter and think he has been beating his little concubine.

“There, there, don’t take on so.” He presses a handkerchief into Jah’s hand.

The boy looks at him with moist blue eyes. “I shan’t cry,” he says, gathering up his dignity. “Men do not. I am sorry. It is only that sometimes…”

Leaving the words unsaid, he bends once more to his tablet of wax. Anhol stares for a moment. For all his learning and wisdom, he is emotionally a simple man; he cannot begin to fathom this boy and his complex needs. Luckily, it is not what he is paid to do.

“Why do you bother with me?” the old man asks. He hears girlish laughter, though Oodite is long past her youthful years.

“You are different to the other men I know,” she replies, planting a friendly kiss upon his upturned head.

“Yes, well, I am older than all of them. And blind,” Kell retorts, though his heart is glad of her words.

“You are also a man of letters, with nice manners – when you choose to use them.” Oodite finishes her chores for the artist and ensures everything is to hand that he may need during the night.

“Stay?” he asks, hopefully, and hears the expected sigh.

“You know I have my children to think of.” He hears the bustling, catches the faint aroma of her honest sweat; the door opens – sounds of the street, a passing donkey, a swineherd on his way home… “Night, my naughty old man.” And she is gone.

Kell drains his cup and then feels his way to his bed. What will become of him? He’s nearing seventy, blind, living on the charity of a widow with her own brood to care for. He has a little put by, but hardly enough.

Upon his pallet, he sees in his mind’s eye a swathe of colour, a dancing, gyrating mass of colour; there are heads in profile, breasts and necks and lips and long, aristocratic noses; there are children and animals and birds; willows by cool pools, sycamores, lotuses… In his life, he has painted them all. He fancied once that he could start something new – a more naturalistic expression for his art, a truer representation of the human form… It had attracted some interest but few of those pieces had sold.

Minic. Now that boy had talent! Wasted, of course. Always had his eye on the main chance, such a little opportunist… Such a wonderful boy.

“Be safe in Naucratis,” he mutters, closing his eyes for sleep. And that is when he hears it. A low voice at the little window.

“Kell.”

The old man turns his face to the wall, his hands over his ears. He wishes he were deaf, too.

“Kell.”

He groans. It cannot be.

“Kell, let me in.”

“Go away,” he says, out loud to the darkness.

“Let me in, master.”

He rolls his sightless eyes and stumbles to his feet. So the plans of even the wisest are brought to dust and ashes.

“You were supposed to be leaving. Naucratis, remember? Avidho? Safety?” He pulls the wonderful boy into the little house, closing the door after him.

His anger and exasperation evaporate with the feel of those arms about him, the ghost of soft hair. “Forgive me,” Minic whispers, his voice breaking. “I had to return. I had to.”

Kell holds him close and sighs. “I know. You did very well to stay away as long as you did. How did you get into the city?” But as the words are uttered, he knows the answer. Pigs. The boy stinks of pigs.

“The guards don’t inspect swineherds as closely as they do others.” Kell nods; to many, pork is unclean and only fit for consumption by the poor.

“Jah? Have you heard anything? He is back in the city, yes?”

Kell releases the excited one.

“Yes, child. He is back.”

“Then I must find a way to see him. Even if he doesn’t see me, even if he never sees me again – if I can just be close to him, I can be happy.”

Kell holds back a retort. There is no hope for this boy. He is going to die soon. It is only a question of how. It is a dead man to whom he hands a cup of wine, and a dead man who gratefully receives it.

“I used ox hide, tawed with alum – makes the leather stiff, which is what you wanted. See, the eyelets for the laces? Gold, beaten very fine along the edges. The laces themselves? More ox hide, this time softened for flexibility. You won’t find yourself accidentally snapping these, I can tell you. Now, you wanted studs, didn’t you? These studs are gold-tipped, very sharp, inset at intervals of a thumbs length – your instruction as to how they were placed - every second stud pointing inwards - baffled me, but you’re the customer and the customer is always right.”

The artisan, a sleek old fellow, strokes the finished product with some affection; it has been a pleasure to work upon this commission and he feels a certain sadness to see it leaving his workshop. The customer leans closer, his pale, cold eyes bright.

“It is quite beautiful,” Addourif purrs, “but then again, the neck it will adorn is nothing less than that.”

He hands over the agreed amount and watches with satisfaction as the leather worker wraps up the collar that will, in just a matter of days, become a way of life for the boy, Jah. Taking the bundle under his arm, he turns to leave.

“I nearly forgot.” The craftsman reaches into a bag and extracts one final accessory. “The chain: two cubits in length, iron links, soft leather loop for your hand. It attaches to the collar with ease. It’s included in the price, of course.”

Addourif handles the chain, enjoying the feel of it slipping noisily through his fingers. “It is perfect.”