The days chased past him as if the gods themselves could hardly wait for the feast in Meritamen’s honour. The longing for some joy, atmosphere and music played around the cracks of society and yet Assou found no happiness between positive preparations and gallant statues.

He never saw Fatrada once in all this. All that reached his ears were Dinem’s reports. Extensive news that hung on her lips and which he accepted each time with grateful kisses. She wasn’t greedy and yet there was this expectant attitude she always displayed in a strangely elevated light. But Dinem wasn’t his problem, she was a help, and knowing what was happening between Fatrada and Maathorneferure was his only weapon.

With a sigh, the tjati leaned back on his seat cushion. The days had been smoother than anything he could have imagined in his dreams. Dinem was busy running errands. He rarely saw Maathorneferure in the corridors, and the fact he didn’t have a woman’s stress on his leg made it easier to breathe. He didn’t have to think up plans against the Third Great Queen – not least because she was becoming more and more withdrawn and his anger had subsided – and he didn’t have Dinem at his side every time he went to the bathroom. Peace nuzzled against him gently, just as Amenti’s fur had once done. The cat he hadn’t seen for days, either.

Half in thought, Assou picked himself up. The scrolls were sorted by now and although a few of them still rested on his desk, the order was clearly visible. His legs carried him a few circles round the room, fearful to relax his stiff muscles. Simultaneously, he heard footsteps outside his room, and curiosity won over the silence of his thoughts. Cautiously, he opened his door a crack and looked down the corridor. A few slaves followed the path up to the royal chambers, whispers on their lips.

“I wonder what the Third Great Royal Queen wants from us.”

“I hope Queen Meritamen can manage without us ... in her delightful state.”

Assou listened to every word, leaning his upper body against the door and resting one hand on the wall. The tightness in his stomach made every sound the slaves produced stifling, and he cursed the peace he had been enjoying.

Whatever Maathorneferure was planning, it meant no good if she took almost all of Meritamen’s slaves in return – from the woman whose kindness was so great she would give it all to another if necessary. It was a dangerous game, and he didn’t know whether it was born of boredom or jealousy.

The slight shake of his head that came over him made him close the door. In the end, the chaos between the women wasn’t his job and as long as Maathorneferure wouldn’t raise a hand against him or Fatrada, there was no reason to interfere. It wasn’t his business to keep the peace between the royal wives.

Straightening his shoulders, the tjati shook off the circumstances and turned his attention to his tasks, leaving the room at a quick pace and covering the distance to the front of the palace. The faraway noise of the merchants and customers was louder than usual, and the hustle and bustle was no less preparing for the coming festival than he was. His eyes travelled over the flat roofs and drew him into the crowd, which was so confused in its activity that no one noticed him. In these breaths, he was no longer the vizier. Here he was just a normal man in a festive mood.

Soon Fatrada would be his. Maathorneferure would have one less weapon at her disposal, and all because she didn’t know how to act out of unstable opinions. Her weakness, which she could so easily have made up for, was brought to light through stupidity. That was better for him, certainly. But it made the moments when he had followed her will seem pathetic.

His destination drew ever closer and his thoughts didn’t get a chance to settle before he strolled through the entrance of a simple house. What greeted him was stone, moulded and shaped as if nature had created it that way.

“Vizier!” The exuberant greeting of a finely dressed man snapped him out of his observation. “You’ve come to inspect the statues?”

“I did.” He nodded to the man with a smile. It had been he who had accepted the commission for Meritamen’s portrait and although he was a rather unknown artist on the market, he knew his craft.

His hasty steps and the waving of his arms signalled the tjati to follow. A few metres into the building, where Meritamen was waiting for him, smiling majestically. Of course, she was only made of stone. But her life seemed to rest in this stone and the flaws she usually possessed were missing. Her pointed nose was rounder than usual and her face was perfectly symmetrical. The upright posture spoke of grace and the slender fingers had settled on the fabric of her lap.

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This statue combined every bit of royal blood found in the palace and brought it together as Meritamen. And if she already looked so marvellous, the only question remaining was whether Maathorneferure could also be captured in stone. The divine part she held on to when her full lips smiled and her delicate, oval face looked flawlessly down on others.

“Is the statue to your satisfaction, Vizier?”

Silence still reigned in the room, had settled so leisurely between them that the tremor of his recipient’s voice breathed a brief wince over Assou’s shoulders. Brows raised, he glanced at the man before catching himself.

“Yes, it’s excellent. One of the finest the palace has received in a long time.” He waved it off. “I’m sure our Pharaoh Ramesses II will be just as delighted with it.”

“I’m honoured!” Folding his hands, the man bowed to him and for the first time in a while, the fluttering feeling of expectation settled in the vizier.

The circumstances blossomed into a full fruit that could be clasped in the hands with pleasure and ease. The country was in a celebratory mood, its preparations were progressing, and in three days, the feast would be upon them. In three short days, Fatrada would be at his side, rescued from the clutches of Maathorneferure. Ramesses would express his satisfaction and everything would take its usual pleasant course, just as it had before Maathorneferure had joined him. The newly employed slaves were working excellently and had withstood the demands since the increase in food supplies. The gods had finally sided with him.

All was well.

And Assou couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief and savour the thought. It brought enough lightness with it he could easily say goodbye to the sculptor and find his way back into the crowd, whose lively activities also reached him. The constant rush of people pushed him forward, and this time he let himself be carried away. He came out at a food stall.

The sweet smell of wine and the spiciness of grilled food held him, luring him to a stone bench where he dropped. The blue sky above him invited to dream, and not even when he placed his order with an unremarkable figure did his senses return to the tense world of a vizier. For an eternity, he was part of the common people. The wine served was exceptionally sweet on his tongue; the meal served shortly afterwards flavoured every bite with a hint of calm.

As he replayed the last few weeks in his mind’s eye, he realised that all the things that had caught up with him had been nothing special. Only the combination of work and extraordinary stress had consumed him. They had smiled at him and kicked him in the dirt, as if they had known he was living almost too peacefully as a vizier. It had been a trial. One he had survived. More badly than well, but they hadn’t brought him down.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been stressful on the soul lately, huh?”

The sudden voice, familiar and yet only a vague guess, snapped his fond thoughts in two. His perception found its way back between the crowd he was sitting in, and his eyes fixed all at once on a boy he had believed to be imaginary.

But Maged was real.

He had sat down on the opposite seat, his head in his hands, a smile on his thin lips. The jewellery on his thin body shimmered in the sunlight and, although he must have travelled an incredible distance, there was no exhaustion on him.

When Assou opened his mouth, ready to ask a question, it was the messenger’s languid hand gesture that made him stop.

“I was where Maathorneferure knows her home and sent the invitation to her parents.” The smile on Maged’s features remained wayward. “I had her parents brought to appropriate rooms on your orders. The Third Great Royal Queen knows nothing of all this, and the slaves will certainly remain silent.”

His speechlessness ran thick between them as Maged snacked on a grape he was carrying in a pouch. He had been faster than anything the tjati had ever witnessed, and yet he wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, mocking him to the skies. There was no doubt in the vizier’s mind that if he went back, Maathorneferure’s parents really were resting in well-chosen rooms.

Immediately, he jumped to his feet. It was his job to receive guests from another country and show them hospitality as long as the pharaoh had no room in his inexistent work for it. The return of this boy gave him new tasks.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Another grape disappeared between Maged’s lips.

“I ... can only note you were surprisingly quick. How did you do that?” Without sitting down, Assou tried to shed light on the darkness of his senses.

“I wouldn’t say any of it was surprisingly or peculiarly quick,” Maged replied. “I was just an errand boy on a simple mission.” He shrugged. “Do you want to put down roots here, or better run to Ramesses so he doesn’t cut off your head for your half-hearted planning without warning?”

The hiss on Assou’s lips was barely audible and yet it made the messenger at the table smile. A wordless battle he couldn’t win. That was the only reason Assou turned away and left the scene behind. His legs chased hastily through the people, some sections he ran, only to gasp for breath a little later. The heat made him cough up dust and the unaccustomed exertion wore away at his bones, making them rock-heavy and immobile.

Until he reached the palace, his pace remained an exchange between groaning and running before he found his footing between the pillars of the entrance, completely covered in sweat. The guards gave him vague looks and the shadows inside the palace promised no cooling. Still, he dragged himself in long strides straight to the throne room, where Ramesses lingered alone, staring holes in the air. None of his citizens had come to complain. The atmosphere was languid.