Rated PG15.

Gomor is in the market place. It has been a while since he has enjoyed the simple pleasures of this place. There are new stalls, he notices, new vendors and merchandise. The noise is deafening, the smells enticing and disgusting in equal measure. He wanders about, picking up a bolt of cloth here and a basket of figs there.

He is sufficiently well-known in the city nowadays that the vendors bring out their finest wares for him; he does not, however, buy anything.

He merely wished to get out of the palace for a while. Walk with ordinary folk. Pretend he is still one of them.

It works. For a little while.

Anhol is teaching the prince. Not writing, though that, of course, enters into it. No, he is teaching him what it is to be a King.

“The King commands and the people obey,” the prince points out, reasonably. He has a toy boat in his hands and is turning it over and over. Anhol eyes the manicured nails, each finger adorned with heavy gold rings. He looks up to the ceiling; no lewd images here, thank the gods. They are in the nursery, though the boy is rising twelve and even his mother would not consider him a baby anymore.

“There is a little more to ruling a kingdom than that, Prince Ulki.” Anhol gently removes the boat from the boy’s grasp, setting it upon a side table. Ulki frowns and there is the beginning of a whine but it is stifled; the boy has grown quite fond of this old man with his shock of white hair and his merry blue eyes, so he will listen and try to please him, even if he does talk gibberish.

“A King must choose his counsellors carefully; there will be times when the King is called away, to fight a war, for instance, or perhaps when he is ill-“

“A King is never ill,” the prince snorts. “Pharaoh is a god and his health is a matter for his brothers in heaven. The King can never be ill as ordinary people can.”

Anhol pauses to think for a moment. He is not an Egyptian, of course, but it is only courteous to be respectful of Egyptian ways and teachings. Nevertheless…

“So your father, the King, is never ill?” he asks, evenly. “Why, Prince Ulki, just a half year ago, did your father not suffer greatly from a colic that laid him low for nearly a week? Did physicians and healers not have to treat him with a potion that, thankfully, released the bad humours?”

The Prince considers this carefully. He turns his solemn eyes upon the old man before replying, “Yes, that is true, Anhol. But it was the prayers that really cured him. The priests appealed to the gods and they came to the aid of their brother on Earth.”

“Well, that aside, it was well that Ackso was at hand to rule for the King while he was abed, was it not?” Ackso was a good man, a very good man, in Anhol’s estimation, and his passing was deeply regretted.

“If you say so, then yes,” the Prince replies, smiling. Anhol does not like this smile; it is the secretive expression the boy adopts when he has been with his mother, the Queen.

“And during the recent campaign in Nubia? Gomor safeguarded the kingdom for your father, did he not? Is he not a wise and capable counsellor? So, you see that a King must have good men about him. It is one of the first lessons a ruler must learn.” Anhol knows he skirts close to the wind with these rather unorthodox lessons, but if a man cannot shape the mind of a future Pharaoh, then whose can he? If this boy grows up to take the throne and rule his kingdom with a little more compassion and reason than his predecessors, then that’s to the good, isn’t it?

Outside, in the garden, the baby son of a lady-in-waiting to the Queen is toddling around the pool, his chubby hand firmly held by an adoring nanny. Anhol smiles fondly, thinking of his own children far, far away. Perhaps a trip back home might be in order; his youngest will be of marriageable age soon enough, and he has the matter of a dowry to consider. Yes, a short trip home; the Queen will want to spend the hottest weeks of the year out of the city and will no doubt wish her son to accompany her. That might be as good a time as any…

“Do you think my father is mad, Anhol?”

Icy fingers are stroking the old man’s spine and the room is suddenly less cosy. He turns from the window, back to his charge.

“You must not say such things, nor ask them of me, Prince.” Anhol sinks down into his chair; at his feet, the boy has retrieved his little boat. He turns an innocent gaze upwards, just as he snaps the mast.

“I do not say that I believe it, of course. Still…” The boy loses interest in the toy and tosses it away. He picks up his tablet of wax and begins to read from the lesson. Anhol hears a cry and turns away from the prince, now scratching with his stylus; outside, the child has managed to wriggle out of his nursemaid’s grip and has fallen to the ground. The girl, fearful perhaps of a beating or merely filled with loving concern, takes the wailing child to her breast and soothes him as only a wet nurse can. Behind him, the prince has put away his lesson and there is something about the quiet that makes the old man turn around once more, slowly, as if expecting the boy he has known for this last half year to have changed into a serpent. The Prince is smiling.

“When I am King, I will tell them you must counsel me. They – my mother and her friends - won’t like it; they don’t much care for you, I’m afraid, but I will insist. I shall be King and may do as I like.”

Anhol finds himself looking into eyes that until this moment had never truly reminded him of anyone. Yet now the resemblance is quite remarkable; they are as pale as his father’s are dark; they are Pharaoh's eyes, nevertheless, and they are quite terrible.

Jah is bathing. The slave boy pours warm water into the marble bath in which the concubine reclines. It is a pretty sight.

So thinks the artist who has been commissioned to capture it for posterity; after he has made his drafts, he will convert them to a great mural that will adorn the new wing. For Pharaoh has decided to extend his palace and build a whole new suite of rooms for himself and his most beloved concubine. And this will be the centrepiece. It will be their home on earth until they are called to the Afterlife.

The most beloved concubine is, however, exceedingly bored. He has been sitting in the tub for an hour, adopting various poses as the artist sees fit; worst of all, the artist is old and humourless and, apart from the slave boy – the same sweet lad who accompanied Jah on the river trip – there are two guards in the room and a priest. All this nonsense because the King cannot be here himself as he has urgent business to conduct at the temple; and he will not leave the artist alone with Jah, even if the artist is fifty and very ugly… Jah suppresses a yawn, which draws a grunt of disapproval from the painter.

The boy is instructed to fill the ewer once more and Jah must affect the pose, one slender arm extended, one finger pointing; at what he has no idea, but the artist seems to like it. His head must be turned just so, in order that his profile is captured precisely. His arm aches. He is in need of the privy…

“I think that will do for today, master,” the artist finally declares, placing his work in a leather case. Jah lowers his arm and flexes his tired finger, then calls for the boy to bring his drying sheet. He steps from the tub, wrapped in the soft towel, the guards respectfully averting their gaze. The priest, however, does not; he is above such things, a eunuch, and old to-boot.

The artist pretends not to look, busy as he is with his work, but he does, nonetheless. He understands perfectly how that fool Minic could be tempted, and thanks the gods that he is only attracted to young girls, for exile from the city would be a harsh punishment for an ambitious man such as he. No, he will fulfil his commission and stay in Pharaoh’s good graces.

Once the artist has taken his leave, bowing as he goes, the guards and the eunuch are also free to depart; the little boy is deemed safe company.

The boy helps to dry him and they chat a little while; Jah has decided to make a gift to this lad of all those games and trinkets that seem unsuitable now to a grown man. The boy is, naturally, highly delighted. Jah wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like, to have a child of his own, another being to cherish and protect. But there is work still to do and his lord will be returning from the temple shortly.

Sitting upon one of the great ebony chairs, Jah expertly removes all his body hair; Pharaoh likes him smooth and naked, oiled and scented. The boy brings him his clean kilt, dazzling white with a very fine border of gold, and his bracelets and rings.

Finally, Jah applies the kohl to his eyes and brushes a hand through his hair; he does no more with this than keep it reasonably short and clean, as the King likes to wind his fingers in the luxurious tresses. Jah would shave his head, as most men do, in order to keep cool, but he is, as always, compliant to the preferences of his master.

He is ready. All this will need to be repeated in a few hours time; Jah remembers serving in the palace kitchen, being beaten for slopping the water on the floor or allowing the fire to go out. This is not arduous, it is just tedious, this constant primping, dressing, undressing and dressing again.

He dismisses the boy, watching him waddle away with his arms full of ridiculous, expensive trifles. Outside the door, the guard raises a questioning brow and Jah nods, smiling; the boy is allowed to leave with his treasures, anxious to show them off in the slave quarters.

Alone once more, Jah walks to the window and grasps the fretwork of the grille with curling fingers; he will entertain the King and then sing him to sleep for a little while, watching over him as the troubles of the day are erased from his fine features. The noonday sun is shimmering on the pool; the great willow, with its sweeping branches, seems to beckon to him to enter its deep shade and lie a while at peace.

A walk in the garden would be cooling and relaxing, he thinks, closing his eyes for a moment. If he could persuade his master to accompany him, so much the better…

“Vil.” The Queen, also, is in her bath. She finds that she can think most clearly when immersed in aromatic, warm water. A little slave girl pours more water from a sparkling ewer and her mistress lies back, one shapely calf exposed.

“Lady?” Vil has been laying away the Queen’s night robe and preparing her toilet for when the bath is done.

“I sent for that fool, Addourif, an hour ago. It’s not like him to keep me waiting.” Vil leaves the bottles of perfume, the lotions and kohl. “I will go to him, lady.” She bows her head, and turns to the door.

“Thank you, child.” The Queen is in a soft, kittenish mood today; Vil knows that the Queen’s plans are coming to fruition. Despite Gomor’s best efforts, messages have been relayed and all is going their way. Their way? As she hurries down the hall to seek out the odious Addourif, Vil is not certain that it is her way at all.

She recalls a snatch of conversation that chilled her heart.

“…the boy, Jah, would be flayed alive if I had my way. But I promised him to Addourif and a promise is a promise. He assures me he will keep him in torment and I shall see it every day with my own eyes. How the catamite will mewl to be set free, how he will lament the death of his protector…”

Vil knows Jah little more than she knows any other servant. He is certainly no friend of hers… Yet he is so young, younger even than she. He has never looked upon her with disdain, even though he has so much influence and power; indeed, sometimes Vil wonders that he even realises what power he could wield.

But she is a creature of the Queen, for good or ill, and must hasten to do her will.

“Addourif.” She taps on his door. “Addourif. The Queen is impatient to speak with you. Are you there?”

If he is not within his chamber, he will most likely be hovering around Pharaoh’s boy; she feels a shiver of revulsion, a feeling of fellowship for the King’s concubine. She is glad she does not hold any interest for Addourif. She turns to leave, to go seek him out in the great hall or in the gardens.

A noise from within. A soft clinking…

“Addourif?”

Mindful of the Queen’s changeable moods, Vil pushes open the door into Addourif’s chamber.

He is there, after all.

She will be a very old woman indeed before she forgets how his body swings from the beam. Or how his eyes hold hers though they will never see again. She tears her gaze from those eyes to the chain, wound first about the beam and then about the scrawny neck, the surplus coil brushing the floor with a ghastly, metallic caress. It is attached to something on the ground… At the dead man’s feet lies a piece of leather, glinting in the lamplight. It is quite beautiful, an exquisitely-wrought collar set with studs.

Having seen and absorbed all, she screams.

Kneeling on the grass by the pool, Jah dabbles his fingers in the cool water. He sees the sun reflected in there, and the branches of the great willow. It is very peaceful and he is so very tired. He lies in the shade and closes his eyes, just for a moment. Pharaoh should be here, beside him, sleeping in the shade, free from cares and worries. If only he could have persuaded him… But the King had not even returned to their chamber for their tryst. Instead, he had sent word that his business in the temple would detain him longer than expected; Jah should eat without him, amuse himself…

Jah had swallowed his disappointment and eaten a little of the rich food. He had wondered, absently, why Addourif had not been there to serve him. Perhaps Pharaoh had finally decided to let him go; he had never liked him, after all, and only tolerated the man for the Queen’s sake and even Jah knew that relations with the Queen were now untenable.

Still, Jah found it difficult to hate anyone; he hoped Addourif would be found a good position with an important family, one that would bring him prestige and status. He dismissed the slave from his mind and drank his watered wine.

Afterwards, he told the guard at his door that he wished to go out into the garden. The burly Ethiopian accompanied him, of course, down the marble staircase, through the halls and outside; as they passed, slaves and servants all bowed slightly, though there were as many bright smiles as obsequious grovelling, for the boy was well-loved.

The guard took up position at a respectful distance from the concubine and Jah was left to his own devices. For a time, he had walked along the ornate winding paths, admiring the flowers and statuary. He had slung a soft leather pouch across his shoulder; he practised his characters for a little while, determined to please Anhol on the morrow with his progress.

Now he finds himself yawning. When he worked for his food, in the kitchens, he had been constantly tired. Now he does very little and yet still he is weary! He wishes he had something to do, some task that would help his master, some duty he could perform outside of the bedchamber that would make the day pass more quickly. If he could master writing, he could perhaps take on the role of scribe to the King, though he suspects Pharaoh would dismiss the idea out of hand. He lays the tablet and stylus down upon the grass near the weeping willow and stretches out. If his kilt becomes grass-stained, well he has ten more, does he not?

He sleeps. The guard watches from his place by the palace wall, admiring the golden skin contrasting so beautifully with the dazzling white linen. He likes this boy, this courtesan quite without airs and graces. Yes, there are worse jobs than guarding this one as he strolls around the garden.

The boy is close to the water’s edge. Maybe he should gently wake him, move him, lest in his sleep he fall… He is relieved to see Jah turn on his side in the shade of the willow, turn away from the pool, curled up like a baby. That’s all right, then.

“Murder! He is dead!” The scream chills his blood. The man hesitates, looking once more to the boy by the pool, but the concubine is safe and still sleeping; he had looked so tired, it would be a shame to disturb him.

He runs inside, in the direction of the cries.

Jah is dreaming. He is with his mother in the market place, though he is no longer the child he was, but the man he is. She is pulling him, tugging him through the crowd, not really looking at him at all. The back of her head, her black hair in a shimmering coil, is all he sees, yet he knows she is beautiful.

He calls to her to look at him. She does not. He calls again and now she turns, hemmed in by the crowd. He feels excited for he has not gazed upon his mother’s face since he was seven years old. Almost she is looking at him, almost. Now, now… He feels stifled by the press of the mob about them, realises her grip on his hand is loosening.

“No,” he cries out but she is gone and there are heavy arms about him, smothering him…

He opens his eyes, choking.

He forgets to breathe, though the hand on his mouth is not pressing any harder than it needs to. It is the eyes that take his breath away, however.

“Don’t be afraid.”

He isn’t afraid. He doesn’t know what he is, apart from numb.

“I am going to take my hand away now. If you cry out, the guards will kill me. If that is what you want, then you must do it.”

Jah takes a breath when his mouth is free. He does not cry out, but he does sit up, noting that the other has moved back a little and is on his haunches, in the darkest shadows of the willow. They both glance towards the palace; they can hear raised voices inside and Jah starts to get up but is held back. Jah does not notice that his companion seems a little awkward in his movements, for there is so much else to take in.

Minic is here.