The scent of sweet pomegranates woke him. Soft rustling reached his ears, and the distant hum of a woman’s voice cradled him in her arms. The eternity behind its sound made him motionless. But the fluttering of his eyelids brought broken light into the darkness of his dreams. The new day had bathed his room in a businesslike glow, the papyrus found itself neatly stacked on the table and the night he could only vaguely remember had faded away.

What remained was the enslaved woman above him – Dinem. Her oval face was the first thing he noticed clearly. The play between light and shadow on her skin bathed her in unreality, and yet she was there. She was real.

“You are awake, Vizier.” Her words brought with them the sound of morning – light as a breeze brushing through the fields – so that Assou sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The sigh on his lips tugged at his shoulders and Dinem’s lead-framed gaze eyed him with the curiosity of a cat.

“What are you doing here?” His question escaped tonelessly before he shook his head. “My manners... Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, half-lidded. “I am here to warn you,” she then explained. “Maathorneferure cannot stand you. You have made yourself very unpopular.”

“She told you?” Without further ado, Assou slumped.

“She went on about how she’s going to make your lives miserable because you disobeyed her orders.” Dinem shrugged. “She sees no value in you as a vizier.”

“What that woman does and doesn’t see isn’t one of my problems.” Snorting, he pulled his feet into a cross-legged position. Resting his arms on his knees, he craned his neck and stroked one hand over the short, full beard that framed his lower jaw to his upper lip. The strain in his throat made him take a deep breath. “She has no clue about politics and would drive our country into the abyss with her half-knowledge if she had to make even one of my decisions. If she thinks she can do better than me, she should have offered herself as Vizier and not as Great Royal Queen.”

“Women weren’t made to create policy. Or to sit around a table with men and talk about the future of a country. That’s not our job,” Dinem objected. Hands folded in her lap, she bowed her head. “We are the creatures who keep you sane and simultaneously rob you of your senses. And since we understand little of other things, we are prone to make mistakes. That is why Maathorneferure wants our Pharaoh to decide on his own. He is the most powerful man in the land and is in contact with the gods. She doesn’t understand why it needs you to keep this country in order. She is in a position where she thinks she has to understand things she wasn’t made to understand.” Slowly, she raised her head. “Of course, I don’t see it that way.”

With a snort, he noted her explanation before returning her gaze. He didn’t want to deal with Maathorneferure as the first problem of the day. Not when he had better things to do than grasp the ideology of a dissatisfied woman. So he waved it off.

“Thank you for letting me know.” A curt gesture directed her to leave. “But I’d be glad to have some time for myself now.”

“Of course,” she returned with a smile. “Whatever you desire.”

As she stood up and removed herself from his room with a curt bow, Assou took the newfound freedom to breathe. Then he weighed Dinem’s words.

Maathorneferure held no power in this court. She was a part of Ramesses. Nothing more, nothing less. Neither did she rule, nor did she have the authority to decide for the people of the land or the palace. That made it easy to overlook her existence and move on to the important things.

Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet. The morning routine drove him across the palace to one of the small bathrooms. The water he washed with was cold; the breakfast in his study was rich, though lonely. Nothing differed from the days he usually spent. It was only when he sat down at his low table, still piled high with writings, and went through a few of the treaties between Egypt and incoming merchants, that he thought he was right where he belonged. Surrounded by work, there was no place to rack his brains.

But when two messengers paused in his doorway, carrying fresh papyrus, Assou detached himself from his work. His gaze slid to children barely older than the boy he had entrusted with shadowing Fatrada’s man; perhaps fourteen, by the looks of their erect posture and tall stature. Their bare torsos were dirty, and sweat had left stains on the simple shendyts.

“Speak.” With a nod, he gestured to the other side of the table, causing one boy to step forward and settle on his knees. His head lowered so that his forehead touched the floor.

“Vizier, I have received word that other countries have set their eyes on us. All those close to Egypt have turned their attention to us since the pharaoh announced the slaves would get a day off.” He raised his head. “I was told to let you know this.”

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Without further ado, the second messenger also joined them and went down on his knees. There were countless grains of sand stuck to his body, which simultaneously settled deep in his black hair as if he had been caught in a sandstorm. “I too bring news in connection with the slaves. The day off was accepted with joy, but there was a storm south of the country. The slaves had to stop their work already yesterday. They aren’t sure of the damage done yet, but some tools were destroyed and a few stones fell from the structure and broke.”

Assou’s lips narrowed with each word. The sandstorm spoiled the planning, drove Ramesses’ wishes into the background, and tested the pharaoh’s patience. One of the sore points of his eternal boredom. When it involved his buildings, time was the greatest burden of all concerned.

“I thank you,” Assou replied languidly before rising and gesturing for the messengers to leave. It took a moment for both boys to pick themselves up and hurry out of the room. Their feet pattered on the floor.

Assou gave them a head start before making his way to Ramesses, who was in the great hall – as befitted a king – firmly entrenched on his throne, intent on listening to the woes of his people and not acting. The tjati’s hasty footsteps echoed off the walls, though each footfall rumbled dully in his ears. The shadow that stalked him on the floor caught in the cracks. Urgency ate through his pores but stopped when he caught sight of the round eyes of a black cat.

“You again.” Instantly, the tjati stopped. He eyed her posture, the slight twitch of her tail, before crouching down and reaching out to touch her. “You were in my study yesterday.”

She mewed, but remained seated in her position. One of her paws lifted as if to hint something to him, but lowered it again in the next blink of an eye. Then she stood up and turned away, taking the same path Assou had to follow.

The hall opened up before him hardly later, rising like an endless sky above the once-built pillars. Ramesses sat on his throne, as expected, listening to the words of a young man. Resting his head in one hand, boredom hung oppressively in the room. Not even the pleading on the stranger’s lips could combat the listlessness that stretched up the walls. Assou took advantage of the moment. Nimbly, he darted up the steps to the pharaoh and fell to his knees beside the throne. Immediately, news of the messengers escaped him whisper-quietly.

“I see,” Ramesses noted grumblingly. “See to it. I want the delay to be as short as possible.”

“As you wish, my Pharaoh.” With a deep bow, Assou took his distance before turning and making his way down the steps once more. The young man hadn’t stopped talking for a second, and even out of the corner of his eye, hope seemed to support that he wasn’t just making conversation with the void.

Still, the haste eclipsed the hall. Ramesses had perceived the problems with the same impenetrable facade as most other things thrown at his feet. His interest was taken. His unwillingness made him quiet. And yet it was only a matter of time before the circumstances would seem too long for him. The slaves had to be ordered to work even in the storm. The surrounding countries weren’t allowed to find out. They had to present their slaves as durable and productive. Not as easily breakable tools that didn’t know how to please the pharaoh.

He stopped in the middle of the corridor. There were messages he had to prepare and record the events. He would be expected in his chamber all day and there would be no fresh breeze. The work would suffocate him.

Therefore, he turned hesitantly. He had only to follow the passage further down and he would stride out of the palace. For the sake of a break. There needed to be a light between the shadows in which he could lose himself. He had to take the freedom to see her. Just for a moment.

His legs started moving faster than the idea could take hold of his mind. Hope surged in every movement of his body and as the burning morning sun hit his tanned skin, he thought he had arrived in paradise – even if it was utter nonsense. Egypt hadn’t changed. It was still the same country as it had been the day before. No one had changed anything in the last rays of the sun.

Still, Assou thought his legs were progressing more easily. His body moved fluidly like water, finding its way into the crowd that moved out of his path or made way for him. Apart from the traders, no one wanted to stop the tjati. It was only because of this that he reached his destination faster than he had hoped, and when he caught sight of Fatrada’s enchanting smile, not even the heat of the country reached him anymore. The sudden flutter under his skin nestled into his consciousness and made him silently step closer to her.

“Have you come to buy more wheat, or to dare a conversation?” Brows raised, her attention turned in his direction. The twitch of the corners of her mouth mocked. A little like he wasn’t one of the most powerful men in the country, but just a little boy.

“Both,” Assou replied tersely. Hands clasped, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He had to look like a leaf in the wind, caught in gusts that made her laugh. She was the light of this city. To him. Even when she was preparing a small sack of wheat and handing it over. He paid half in thought.

“You said you were married last time,” he then began slowly. It was supposed to sound casual, but he sensed the rough sound of his voice. “But he is never seen with you at the stall.”

“You just come at the wrong time, Vizier. He works in the fields to harvest what we sell. In the evening, he comes home to help me clean up.” She put a hand on the linen sacks she held neatly stacked. “You would have to come in the evening to meet him. I think you would appreciate a man like him.”

The gods loved their games and, though he would have preferred to utter a few curses, Assou put on a smile. “That would please me. Acquaintances are valuable resources.”

“I will give him word. He will be pleased to hold a conversation with a man like you.” She bowed in humility and simultaneously clarified with a shooing gesture of her hand that he should leave. As the pharaoh’s right-hand man, he kept the submissive clientele away.

Sometimes that was exactly what made Egypt lonely. There were more people who avoided him than those who spoke to him. Fatrada was one of the miraculous exceptions.

With hesitant steps, he took a distance from the stall before turning and tucking the sack firmly under one arm. The path he was given led straight back to the palace. He wasn’t even given the freedom of a diversion. The people knew the quickest way, and they figured that was exactly what he wanted.