Rated PG15.

AN: See footnote for story reference. Thanks to Baranduin for beta assistance and encouragement.

Minic is here.

“Something has happened inside, my love. Your guard went to see what it was, I saw him go. It is nothing to do with me,” Minic quickly reassures him.

Jah drinks him in, all of him, from head to foot: he is a little gaunt, he looks older, though it has been but a few weeks… But it is Minic. Jah looks into blue-grey eyes and has to look away again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, simply.

“I had to see you. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this yet, but if I do not kiss you soon I will die.” The artist leans forward, out of the shadows, and brushes his mouth against Jah’s. Jah feels his limbs tremble, the effort of will required to not lean into the kiss is more than he can stand. Minic, realising the kiss is not returned, pulls back into the shelter of the willow.

“Why have you come?” Jah glances with mounting dread towards the noises in the palace and then back to this man who had been his lover. Minic’s eyes, bright from within the gloom, are devouring him.

“To see you. I tried to go, Jah. I left the city… But I could not stay away. I had to see you.”

“There is nothing to see. I wish you well; now leave while you can. Please.” Jah sets his face; he is the Jah made of clay, modelled by the artist’s hands, as cold and immovable as the likeness of him that rests an arms reach from the bed he shares with the King, compliant and eternally beautiful.

In the deeps of the willow, Minic utters a little cry. “No; you must listen to me.”

“Why? So you can lie again? I am not what you want.” Jah cannot help the note of bitterness that has crept into his voice.

“You are all that I want! I risk my life just being here. I want you, Jah.” He edges out, one eye on the door from which at any moment death might stride. He grasps the shoulders that once he held in the throes of passion, shaking him in his desperation. But Jah merely replies, coldly: “It is over, then?”

“Over? Is what over?” Minic appears confused. He glances about them, anxious lest they be disturbed.

“Your – love affair - with the charioteer.” Jah looks down at the grass upon which he kneels, plucking at the blades so as not to have to look at Minic.

“The chario- oh no, you can’t mean Onnicus?”

“He is a handsome, big fellow. He gives you that which you do not want from me, that which you never asked of me...”

“Jah…”

“I saw you. And him. I thought you loved me. I could not bear that we were separated, I was willing to die… Yet there you were and he was on top of you and you were-” And now he is the boy again, tears springing from his eyes and his face crumpled in grief. Minic reaches out to touch him, ignoring the recoil. He caresses Jah’s arm, avoiding the rich bracelets that are the gifts of another.

“I had no choice. Listen to me! I had no choice. It was the only way.”

“What? The only way to do what? I don’t understand.” Jah looks so helpless, so terribly young. Minic chooses his words with care. What he says now, and how he says it, will determine their future.

“Pharaoh. He gambled that if you believed I had betrayed you, that you would turn to him… He said that this was the only way to spare your life.”

“You and Onnicus…”

“There is no me and Onnicus! The man was hired to do what he did. And when you had seen us, and it was over… He took me outside the palace and…”

So involved in the telling has he been that Minic has not realised he is exposed, in the full sunlight, his arms about his lover’s shoulders… He sees that Jah’s gaze is fixed and follows its direction. His right arm, the wrist…

“Your hand…” Jah is very pale, his eyes wide.

“They took it, Onnicus and another. They would have taken the other one, too, if they hadn't been stopped. Gomor saved me. Pharaoh never meant for me to live, Jah.”

“Gomor? I cannot…” Jah shakes his head.

“You must believe me.”

“Your hand. Oh, your hand…” And now he takes hold of the wrist, afraid lest he hurt Minic. He turns it, gently, examining the linen that binds the stump; here was the hand that held a brush loaded with gold paint… the hand that gave so much pleasure in another life… gone now.

“I would do it again. I would do it again, for you,” Minic whispers, stroking Jah’s back, his fingers sliding across the sheen of oil.

“I am not worthy of such a sacrifice.”

“You are, my love.”

Jah tears his eyes from Minic’s wrist and looks deeply into his eyes, instead. “I have lain with him, Minic - willingly. I have given my heart to him. I thought he was the one.”

Minic takes a deep breath. In the desert he had thought of this; if he cannot get past this, there is no hope for them, no future… In the cold of the desert, wrapped in his blanket, alone, he had thought of that night… Pharaoh’s hated arm upon Jah’s slender shoulder, the look of triumph in those jet-black eyes. Yes, he had suffered – greatly – yet the physical torment had been nothing to the agony that came with knowing that Jah thought him false. He had saved Jah’s life and lost his love.

Can he blame Jah now, for doing as he himself had wanted; for giving himself to the King? If he did blame him for that, then what was it all for? For nothing…

“You did what you had to do. I understand that. You thought I had betrayed you.” Minic does not want to think of Jah in the act of love with the King. He will push such thoughts aside for now. What matters is that it never happen again.

“What is to become of us?” Jah asks, laying his head against Minic’s chest. The artist rests his chin lightly on top of that sweet head, his senses reeling.

“We will leave this place. We will be together. I will look after you.”

“He would hunt us down,” Jah says.

“He could try.”

“He needs me. I hear things. There is rebellion, Minic."

“Then it is a good time to leave.” Minic has heard the same rumours, though the whispers he has heard are those of traders and pig herders, fishermen and artisans. He has heard tell of the new King, the Pharaoh who is a father to his people, their friend…

He is confident he can get Jah out of the palace grounds the same way he came in.

Erlee. Minic had first encountered the old goat when he started visiting the palace, in his capacity of court artist. Down in the kitchens, after leaving Jah, stopping by to take a lazy meal and a cup of wine…

Always, he had felt the old man was hiding something. Charged by Gomor to be watchful, to gather information, Minic had wondered whether Erlee was, like Addourif, in the pay of the Queen. Minic had steeled himself to be on his guard against Erlee, probably the oldest man in the palace, noble or servant. He had started out as a kitchen boy, like Jah, and now Erlee knew the palace and its myriad wings and additions, cellars and courtyards, gardens and chambers, better than any person living.

Two nights ago, Minic had discovered the truth. Erlee certainly had his secrets…

Minic had made his way around the outer walls with great stealth and under cover of darkness, looking for a way in, finally coming to a recess in a wall opposite the palace. In the dark alcove, he had turned things over in his mind.

At the main gate into the compound there were always three or four armed guards; they might bend the rules and partake of wine, play some dice, but they never strayed far from their posts unless it was to make water against a nearby tree.

Minic considered bribing these men; he had a little money, not much, but if coins were not acceptable, then perhaps there might be something else he could offer… He knew he was not ill-favoured; however, there was his deformity to consider… But what else was there? He was on the outside and his beloved was on the inside. What else was there? To scale the wall? It was the height of two men; not impossible but the attempt carried a high degree of risk.

And that was when he saw him: Erlee, returning to the palace from whence he knew not. Minic recognised him at once, for he was one of the tallest men he had ever seen, taller even than Gomor. He was wrapped in a cloak and carrying a basket; upon his back he bore another; both looked empty.

He watched the old steward as he glanced this way and that, and was grateful that he was well-concealed; he was surprised when Erlee did not walk up to the main gate with its guards, instead, furtively approaching the solid wall. Minic, from his hiding place, saw the old man push aside a section of ivy; the Ethiopians were at the main gate, throwing dice and eating a supper of rough bread and beer, oblivious to the goings-on just yards from where they sat.

Erlee vanished into the very wall.

Heart pounding, Minic waited a little while, then he emerged from the recess. He kept flat against the wall, watching the bend beyond which the guards might even now be approaching. He pushed with the palm of his hand; the wall gave way and opened inward, Minic quickly following… He was in the garden; he remembered looking out at this place from Jah’s chamber. Then, the walled garden had held little interest, for Jah was filling his senses and leaving no room for anything else. Now he noted that it was larger than he had thought, with many flowerbeds and fountains, benches and trees; shimmering in the moonlight lay a large pool of still water, guarded by a massive willow, whose branches trailed upon the surface and looked, in the darkness, very much like a demon crouching, waiting for him…

Overlooking the garden were several windows. He tried to recall which was Jah’s… But there was no way of knowing if he still dwelt in that chamber or whether he now had a grander one, given his exalted status. And then he saw it and knew.

Only one window had a grille across it.

It had to be Jah’s window. If he had any doubts in the matter, at that very moment, as he stood in the darkness, cold and alone, in the place most dangerous to him in the whole world… the King appeared, just visible behind the latticework of the grille… He stood, tall and proud against the lamplight, looking back into the chamber, one arm extended.

Minic held his breath and then Jah appeared and was taken into a close embrace, his face up-tilted for the kiss… King and concubine left the window…

When his breathing returned to normal, Minic slipped carefully out through the secret door and onto the deserted street. He returned to Kell’s little house in the artisan quarter, heavy-hearted and weary. Jah with that man, that living god, that murderer… Then the thought struck him.

Jah did not know! Of course he would be Pharaoh's boy, Pharaoh’s slave boy, his obedient little concubine, for he did not know; but he would make him know…

Now Jah understands.

It will be more difficult to get out of the city gate, but if they have enough of a head start… He looks down into sad eyes. “What are you thinking?” he asks, gently.

Jah sighs.

“That I felt myself blessed to have a lord who loved me, a lord so great of heart that he could forgive his disloyal concubine and his concubine’s lover… And now I see that it was all a lie. He has not changed.”

“I am sorry.” Minic is surprised to find that it is true.

“Why do you care? About me, I mean? I am just a boy.”

“Just a boy? You are my boy. I never knew what it was to have a heart beating in the world that mattered more than my own. I never understood, until I met you. You make me a better man, Jah.”

“I want to be a man, Minic. I want to be brave.”

“Then find the courage to come with me. Leave this place! We do not belong here, you and I, in this world of palaces and kings.” He feels Jah tremble in his arms.

“You are right. I will go with you.” And there it is: the future.

Minic’s arms are strong about his lover; the lack of a hand does not seem to unduly tax him. His mouth waits for a moment, seeking permission; Jah closes the space between them, moulding himself to Minic’s lean form. Lips that had been too long apart now meet, brushing softly then deeper, with fervour, as hands roam upon rediscovered flesh.

It is the artist who pulls away, breathlessly, to look into his lover’s eyes. He is weeping, tears of relief and of homecoming. He shakes his head, as if the thoughts he might put into words are suddenly jumbled and useless but it is Jah who places a finger upon Minic’s lips and smiles. “All will be well, my love,” he whispers.

Pharaoh is deeply troubled. He has faith in his counsellor, Gomor, great faith, yet he is sometimes concerned that Gomor is too gentle of heart. They are living in troubled times, after all. If his brave captain should fail him, fail Jah? Onnicus. Where is the charioteer? He hasn't seen him for weeks... A man quite without charm, but nevertheless reliable and untroubled by a conscience. He will send for Onnicus - but discreetly; he knows there is no love lost between Onnicus, his unprincipled brute, and Gomor, his loyal aide. He would not wish Gomor to feel slighted.

His head hurts; he should call for his physician. He does not.

He sits alone in a chamber that has not been opened in years; it was his, when he was a boy. He has not visited this room since his marriage day. He had entertained his lovers here, brought in secret least his father realise the truth about his only son.

He thinks of Jah, his beautiful Jah, and how much the boy loves the gardens. He leans over, the better to look down upon the winding paths and the fountains, the statuary and flowerbeds. A cat lies in the shade of a large olive tree.

Pharaoh wonders if Jah would prefer this view. The new wing will have almost this same prospect. Of course, it is not the garden Jah favours the most; that is on the other side of the palace; this garden has no pool…

He looks upon teeming life but thinks of dying. A great King walks with death; his tomb is being built practically from his birth. His own is almost complete. It is being furbished for him and for Jah. He has spent the last few hours in discussions with the priests of his temple, ensuring that when the time comes, all will be magnificent and beautiful. He will leave this grey world and enter the next, hand in hand with his beloved. They will never be parted…

The King sees the little cat stir, open its eyes and stare up at him. He smiles, loving the cat because Jah loves cats. Yet this cat is as one in a dream he had. A dream that ended badly. The smile fades upon his lips. Finding he cannot hold that amber gaze, he stumbles backwards, away from the window.

Pharaoh looks down at his hands and finds them thick with dust, the same filth that now coats his kilt. The chamber is full of it; cobwebs are strung from every corner, floating down to catch him, hold him, keep him. Why did he not see them when he entered? There is no air in this room. He must get out. He must get out. He should not have come here.

The guards at the door are pushed aside in the King’s haste to leave the past. He hurries down the hall, his heart pounding. He feels as if he is underwater, flailing. His talk with the priests has wearied him, made him think of dying and the Afterlife – and he wants only to think of living. He must find his Jah. In his arms, there is only life.

Pharaoh does not reach his concubine, however, before he is overtaken by guards coming in the opposite direction. To his amazement, they surround him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, trying to push through the phalanx of tall, unyielding men.

“My Lord, this is for your protection.” It is Gomor. The King ceases to resist. His trusted aide signals to the Royal Guard to stand easy. The King steps out from the wall of flesh and joins him.

“What has happened?” he asks, quietly; he knows Gomor does not overreact.

“There has been murder done within these walls, My Lord,” Gomor replies, steadily, head bent respectfully.

“Murder? Who?” The King digs his fingers deep into Gomor’s. Gomor smiles. “Not he, sire. Not your Jah. The murdered man is Addourif.”

The King closes his eyes and then returns his Counsellor’s smile tenfold. “Who?” he asks, already moving away, followed by his guards.

“Addourif, My Lord. Body slave to your concubine. Loyal servant of the Queen. He was found just a little while ago, in his quarters, hanging…” Gomor hurries to keep up with the King.

The beam creaked with the weight. He had thought it would snap, but it held.

He cannot stop washing his hands. He works the soap, ash and clay, in his hands, over and over until the lather is dripping onto the rush matting of his little chamber. He needs to be clean. Not of guilt; there is no guilt. He put down a rabid dog, a beast who would have incarcerated Jah in that, that collar… The studs would have cut into his perfect neck, not enough to cause serious injury, but sufficient to cause pain and degradation. Such a man, who could do that, did not deserve life.

He visited the leatherworker’s shop often; his master had clients who liked their boys schooled in the arts… He went there to order playthings – cat-o-nine tails and belts, and yes, collars; but the collars he purchased were soft and pliable, and made for the clients to wear, not the boys. If rich old men wanted to be led around on a leash by their beautiful young concubines, who was he to argue?

But the artisan, eager to impress, had fallen over himself to show him designs for something special - a commission from a high-placed servant at the palace, no less. Of course, the craftsman did not know who the collar was meant for, but his client, Addourif, had been highly delighted.

Addourif. The odious slave with delusions of grandeur; everyone knew he coveted Pharaoh’s own boy, Jah.

Eanas did not covet Jah. He loved him, deeply. From the first morning, when his master, Arlu, had sent for him and showed him the sleeping boy in his bed…

“Isn’t he a beauty?” he had whispered, smirking. Eanas dutifully leaned over for a closer look; and felt an almost physical yearning. He had never felt this, this pain… “Yes, master,” he had replied, truthfully.

“He’s untouched. He was brought last night. He’s destined for a great man, Eanas. We will have the schooling of him until then. I myself will instruct him in all things physical, and you in the ways of the court. Between us, we will have a great success!”

And so they had. And if Eanas had by necessity been a little aloof with the boy, well he had no business telling him how he truly felt, had he? That he wanted him? Wanted him like air and water and wine… Never had Jah looked at him with anything but respect and friendship, even accepting his rebukes as deserved, never holding a grudge.

Yes, he loved Jah.

Enough to kill for him.

Eanas was well-known in the palace; his master supplied many whores for the court and from time to time he sent his trusted slave to check on their progress. He was part of the furniture, quiet and unassuming Eanas. Good old Eanas.

He had meant only to confront Addourif.

But there it was. The collar. Upon the man’s bed and Addourif himself, eyes bright and malicious, puffing out his chest and warning him off, taunting him.

And now he is dead.

Eanas takes the soap in his hands and turns it around and around in his hands and wonders if he will ever be clean again.

AN: This: Arlu and this: Side Story are referenced in this chapter. You don't need to have read them or read them now, but they cast some light on events. Trianne.