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‘I see,’ said Narmer slowly.

  ‘Would you have talked to me, Prince Narmer, if I’d met you in the palace?’ Nitho asked suddenly. ‘Tell me honestly.’

  Narmer was silent for a moment. ‘Honestly? I would have been polite to a guest,’ he said at last. ‘But no. We wouldn’t have talked for long.’

  Nitho stood up. ‘Then there is no need for us to talk now. I will see you tonight, Prince Narmer, and tomorrow when we trade, but I’ll be my master’s voice then, not my own. Goodbye. We won’t speak again.’ She began to limp away.

  Bast looked up. She grabbed the remains of the lizard in her jaws and padded after Nitho. She didn’t even look back at Narmer.

  ‘No! Stop!’ cried Narmer. He couldn’t bear to see them go like that.

  But Nitho didn’t hesitate. A few seconds later she and Bast were gone.

  CHAPTER 6

  Narmer met his father’s guards as he came along the ridge towards home. For a moment he wondered if scouts from the People of the Sand had been spotted. Then he realised the guards were looking for him.

  The men bowed. ‘Your royal father is angry, o great Prince,’ said the leader.

  ‘I am sorry to have angered him,’ said Narmer shortly. His mind was still filled with what had happened. How could Nitho have tricked him like that? Why hadn’t he realised before? ‘Have you come to escort me on my hunt?’

  ‘No, Prince.’ The guard looked embarrassed. ‘We have come to take you back to the palace.’

  Narmer stared at the man. How dare they take him back, like a child who had been left to feed the fire but had gone out to play! No one had ever treated him like that before.

  But there was no use complaining to the guards. They were only following the King’s orders. And no one questioned the King—not even his son.

  The small group marched back to the palace in silence. Narmer had never felt less like speaking in his life, and out of respect that meant none of the men could speak either.

  ‘Where is the King?’ asked Narmer as they approached the town walls. ‘In the Royal Courtyard? Out inspecting the dykes? I’ll go to him at once.’

  ‘The King said that you were to go to your rooms,’ said the guard awkwardly.

  Narmer flushed. To be sent to his rooms, like a child! But he simply nodded. He walked along the colonnades to his rooms, trying to keep his dignity.

  And there he stayed.

  No one came to him all afternoon. Finally he could hear music and voices, and smell the smoke from roasting meat. The Trader’s second feast must have begun.

  But even old Seknut didn’t appear, to scold him into washing and make sure he wore his best. No one brought him food either.

  He could have called a servant to bring him bread, at least. But he wouldn’t. This was the King’s punishment. He would bear it as befitted a prince, in dignity and silence.

  Finally the sounds from the courtyard died away. The palace was quiet. Even the palace ferrets had stopped scurrying after mice.

  But he couldn’t sleep. It was partly hunger, but it was more than that. His brain kept buzzing like a wild beehive.

  Had Nitho wondered why he wasn’t at the banquet? Had his father explained that it was a punishment? Or did she think he was avoiding her? He wasn’t sure which was worse.

  For the first time he began to understand what it must be like for a girl with a scarred face and crippled limbs. What use was a girl who would never be married?

  But she was useful, he realised. She was a translator. Narmer spoke no other language himself, but he had some idea of how difficult it must be to speak another’s tongue. And not just one. She had said that she spoke many…

  He was still angry with her. He was still embarrassed, especially after his punishment.

  But for some reason he still wanted to see her again…

  Finally he slept.

  He still hadn’t decided what to tell his father when Seknut came to take him to the King the next morning. How could he explain that Nitho had warned him about the People of the Sand without revealing how she had deceived him?

  No, it would be best to wait till the Trader had left. Then he could pretend that it had been the Trader who had spoken to him, not the Trader’s servant.

  Seknut had brought him barley bread studded with raisins, and a glass of sour milk and honey. With her was a servant carrying fresh water for Narmer to wash in and a clean linen kilt, a good one.

  ‘Hurry,’ Seknut said, muffling her cough behind her hand.

  Narmer gulped down the bread. ‘Is he still angry?’

  Seknut shrugged. ‘He is the King. He doesn’t tell me his thoughts.’

  Narmer snorted. Seknut knew everything. Or did she? he wondered.

  He drank the milk quickly, changed, then slipped his jewellery on as well, as though he were dressing for a feast.

  For the first time since he had met the Oracle he suddenly remembered that soon there would be an even greater feast, for his bride. But now the thought brought no excitement. It seemed to belong to another world.

  When Narmer entered the Royal Courtyard the King was seated on his ceremonial chair, with Hawk on a cushion at his feet. Hawk gave his brother an almost imperceptible smile, as though to say, I’m on your side.

  Narmer didn’t dare smile back, but was grateful nonetheless.

  ‘Well, my son?’ said the King.

  Narmer knelt low, his face against the tiles, as though he were a servant, not a prince. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

  ‘Are you? You may get up,’ the King added impatiently.

  Narmer got to his feet and shook his head. ‘I am sorry to have angered you, Father. It’s just that…I need to be alone sometimes. It’s hard to think, sometimes, with others always around you.’

  ‘But that’s what happens when you’re king. Do you think there aren’t times when I too long to be alone in the hills?’

  ‘I…I never thought,’ stammered Narmer.

  The King said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded to Hawk. ‘Leave us,’ he said shortly.

  Hawk’s face stayed expressionless as he made a deep bow to the King, then a smaller bow to Narmer. He backed out of the room, politely keeping his face towards his father.

  The King gazed at Narmer before speaking. ‘Do you know what it is to be king, Narmer?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Of course,’ said Narmer, surprised.

  ‘Do you really? The king is the bridge between men and the gods. That is why men bow to us. Not because we are greater than they are. But because we have to be greater than they are to do our duty. If it is ever easy to be a king, then you know you have failed.’

  ‘I think I see.’

  ‘I hope so. There is never a moment when a king can say, “I want to do this.” A king can only say, “This is what I need to do for my country.”

  ‘I didn’t make you my heir because you are my beloved son. I chose you because when I looked at you, I saw a king. Was I wrong, my son?’

  ‘No, Father,’ said Narmer quietly.

  ‘Good. But there is another reason why I punished you. I was worried,’ added the King softly. ‘That is why I was angry. Sometimes it is impossible not to feel as a father, even as you do your duty as a king. I want you safe.’

  ‘But I can take care of myself! Father, don’t forbid me to go out without guards. Just sometimes…’

  His father shook his head. ‘I want your promise,’ he said. ‘No more hunting by yourself. A king can risk himself in battle, for his people. But not just because he wants a day’s sport.’

  ‘I…I promise,’ said Narmer.

  ‘Good. Now, sit down. The Trader has his wares to show us.’

  CHAPTER 7

  The King clapped his hands and servants hurried in with refreshments: cups of date beer and the precious milk that only the royal family and their guests were allowed to drink; chickpea cakes spiced with cumin and onions; and fresh radishes and bread, with plates of spiced lotus seed to dip them into.

&n
bsp; Hawk returned and cast a sharp look at Narmer, then sat down on his usual cushion by the King.

  Narmer seated himself on his stool as the Trader’s porters carried bales wrapped in goatskin past the lotus pool. They were enormous men, with even darker skin than the Trader, and black curly hair. One had what looked like a puckered spear scar just below his shoulder. Another’s eye was white and sightless.

  Narmer tried not to stare at them. He had seen a few black-skinned people before, travelling with the People of the Sand, but none lived near the town of Thinis.

  Now the Trader appeared, striding across the courtyard as though he were crossing the desert. Nitho limped behind him, her thick robes rustling and the scarf again obscuring her hair and face.

  The Trader bowed.

  ‘My master says, “Greetings, o great King Scorpion, o noble Prince Narmer and Prince Hawk.”’ Nitho was using her young man’s voice again, Narmer noticed, deliberately lower and gruffer. ‘May your shadows never grow less. Shall we begin?’

  The King nodded.

  The porters spread a fine linen cloth across the tiled floor of the courtyard. Narmer’s eyes grew wide as one by one the bales were unwrapped.

  Panther skins, black as night and soft as night air.

  Slabs of smooth black ebony wood, the hardest, densest, richest wood in the world.

  Cups of ivory carved as thin as eggshells, with birds and lions leaping on their sides.

  A small wooden chest, with strange curls of what looked like bark inside.

  ‘Smell them,’ said Nitho softly.

  Narmer picked up one of the curls. It was the richest, sweetest scent he had ever known.

  ‘Cinnamon,’ explained Nitho.

  Her long slim fingers opened another chest. Narmer looked inside.

  This one contained small brown balls, with another scent, deeper, more powerful.

  The King looked at the Trader, eyebrows raised. ‘Myrrh!’

  Narmer had heard of myrrh. But no trader had brought any to Thinis in his lifetime.

  The priests said that the gods loved myrrh above all the other scents that were burnt on their altars. They said myrrh could cure illness and drive away evil. No one even knew where myrrh came from, but the small brown balls were the most precious substance in the world.

  Narmer suddenly imagined the effect that all these riches would have on the Yebu people who came with Berenib for the wedding feast. One look at all of this—one sniff of the cinnamon and myrrh—and they’d know just how rich and powerful this southern town was. A rich town means a welldefended town, he realised. That’s why we show all our wealth at a feast: to keep our town safe.

  The Trader spoke, smiling politely at the King. Nitho translated, ‘My master says, “Which goods please Your Majesty?”’

  The King hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the wealth before him. ‘We would take them all, if we could. But I doubt there is enough grain in all our granaries to pay for them. I have no wish to leave our people hungry before the next harvest.’

  Narmer could hear the smile in Nitho’s voice as she translated the Trader’s next words. ‘Your concern does you credit, o wise and noble King. But my master feels it only right that such a great city as yours should have only the best, especially for the marriage of your most worthy son. Perhaps you could trade something that would leave the wheat and barley for the people?’

  The King’s hands caressed an ivory pot. ‘What?’

  ‘Gold,’ Nitho translated.

  Narmer started. How did Nitho know that they had a gold mine? More eavesdropping, he supposed.

  The gold mine was out in the hills, beyond the River valley. Its location was a secret, known only to the King and his family, and a few trusted guards and servants who were well paid for their discretion.

  Gold came from the sun god, Ra. Only the King and his family could wear gold amulets or bracelets, which reflected the sun’s divine rays.

  ‘For all of these treasures,’ said Nitho calmly, ‘my master asks for only enough gold to fill four cups.’

  The King’s face clouded. ‘I am afraid we don’t have…’ he began.

  The Trader’s gaze never left the King’s face. He said something else, the words soft and full of promise.

  ‘But my master says you have been kind to us poor strangers from the desert,’ Nitho went on, her tones as silky as the Trader’s. ‘And as a gesture of friendship to our kind hosts, we will reduce the price. Three cups of gold and provisions to see us across the desert, and all these splendours are yours.’

  The King’s face cleared. Narmer knew as well as he did that the kingdom only had three cups of gold. It took many moons to dig the gold-bearing rock and carry it secretly to the River where the gold could be washed free.

  ‘In that case…’ began the King.

  Narmer leant forward. ‘A quarter of a cup of gold.’

  The others stared at him. His sudden interruption had surprised even himself. Yet it was as though he’d been watching a new game and suddenly understood its rules. And this was a game he could win—for Thinis.

  For a moment Narmer thought the King was going to rebuke him, but his father said nothing.

  The Trader kept his face impassive as Nitho translated. He glanced at Narmer and nodded to himself. He smiled faintly, then said something more.

  ‘Surely you do not think wealth like this,’ Nitho brushed her hands over the chest of myrrh, the panther skins, the cups, ‘is worth a mere quarter cup of gold?’

  Narmer’s smile matched the Trader’s. ‘Of course not. Wealth like this is worth all the gold in the desert.’

  He waited for Nitho to repeat his words then added, ‘We are a poor town, even though we have given our best to our honoured guests. If we had three cups of gold we would give them to you. But we don’t.’

  Nitho’s eyes widened above her scarf. She said something urgently to the Trader.

  Aha, thought Narmer. You knew exactly how much gold we have, o Oracle who listens to the servants. I bet a cleft in the rocks isn’t the only place where you’re used to hiding to find out information.

  ‘Our apologies,’ said Nitho sweetly.

  I’ve got you rattled, thought Narmer. She was starting to use her own voice now, thought he doubted anyone else had noticed.

  ‘We understand your sad situation,’ she went on. ‘An eighth part of the goods, then, for a quarter of a cup of gold.’

  Narmer shook his head. Neither his father nor his brother had any intention of interrupting him now, he realised. He wondered if Hawk even understood what an eighth part was. Hawk had no interest in numbers. They waited, intent on his words.

  ‘A quarter cup for it all.’ Narmer stood and lifted the box of myrrh, exaggerating its heaviness. ‘Such a big box,’ he said admiringly, as the Trader smiled, ‘It would be heavy to carry all the way across the desert.’

  ‘But…’ began Nitho.

  Narmer pressed on. ‘That’s where you’re headed, isn’t it? Back the way you came? Where there’s no market for fine goods such as these?’

  He put the chest down again regretfully. ‘Father, we are not being fair to these kind people. We must not take up their time any longer. Let them take their wonderful goods and find a buyer who can pay what they are worth. Further along the River, perhaps…’

  No one said anything. They all knew as well as Narmer that no other town along the River had gold to pay for goods like these. Min or Yebu might offer flint knives, barley or stone carvings. But none of those was worth carrying back across the Endless Desert.

  The Trader grinned. He held up one finger and gestured at the goods.

  ‘A half cup, then,’ said Narmer. ‘And food and water to see you through the desert to the coast.’

  The Trader laughed. His whole face changed. I’m seeing it for the first time, thought Narmer. Up till now we’ve just seen the mask he wanted us to see.

  The Trader nodded at Narmer, then said something to Nitho.

  ‘My
master agrees. He says,’ said Nitho—and this time Narmer found it impossible to read the emotion behind the words—‘that it is a pity you are going to be a king. You would make an excellent trader. Your father is to be envied, for having such a son.’

  The King burst out laughing too, partly at the joke and partly, Narmer supposed, in relief at getting the treasures for much less than he’d expected to pay for them.

  ‘My son is more precious to me than any of these fine wares,’ he said. He ruffled Narmer’s hair. ‘One day he will be the greatest king our town has ever seen. Won’t you, my son?’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ said Narmer, looking over at Nitho. But she was gazing at the lotus pool, as though waiting for a fish to break the surface.

  One more night, he thought. Early tomorrow they’ll be leaving, their donkeys packed, their water bags filled. Perhaps he could call at the guesthouse later today and say goodbye.

  He glanced at her again. She was looking at the tiles on the colonnades now, as though admiring their pattern of egrets and fish.

  What was the point? What would he say? And after tomorrow he would never see her again.

  CHAPTER 8

  Narmer got to sleep at last.

  What did he care about one scarred girl? Especially one who had hidden from him and tricked him. He wouldn’t think of Nitho. He’d think of Berenib, Berenib the beautiful. Just two new moons to go…

  His last thought, as he finally got to sleep, was that he hoped Berenib knew what to do on their wedding night…

  ‘Narmer! Wake up!’

  Narmer sat straight up in alarm. ‘What is it? Have the People of the Sand attacked?’ But the Oracle had said they wouldn’t attack till after harvest, he thought—and then he remembered: the Oracle was only Nitho…

  ‘Hippopotamus!’

  Narmer blinked and woke up properly. Hawk was standing by the bed, his frog eyes wide in the moonlight.

  Narmer swung his legs off the bed. ‘Where?’

  ‘Up by the top dyke. The flood must have stranded it there. It’ll stamp the walls to mud by morning.’

  ‘Have you called out the guards?’