11. Ancient Egypt

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ANCIENT EGYPT

DJAU

M e?

I'm the deadweight? Without me, the scribe wouldn't be getting a cut of anything. This whole thing was my idea. It was our way out. We could've left and gone with nothing but what we already had, but it wouldn't have been a comfortable start.

And maybe my hands are too soft—though Ay does not complain when they are smoothing oil over his skin and massaging his tight muscle—because I enjoy a finer quality of thing. But that does not make me deadweight.

"I am sure there are others who will be happy to take a cut instead of you." Though how many of those corrupt officials will be able to supply new locations? Our working relationship has become more than coordinator and fence. I am the buffer between the scribe and Ay, the only protection I could offer my love.

And now it is gone.

The buffer is gone because the scribe had people to watch my house.

Oh …

It dawns on me why I am the deadweight. The buffer between corrupt official and thief is no longer needed.

I am no longer needed.

The scribe will liaise directly with Ay.

No doubt he sees Ay only as a thief, not as the craftsman he is. Or the man. The lover.

I stare at the flames, not sure what my next move will be. I have no weapons with which to fight, and Ay only has his flesh. And flesh is a poor shield against swords and spears.

Ay catches my gaze and gives a very slight shake of his head as if to tell me not to do anything. It is better we walk out of here alive and make a new plan.

"I do not understand," I say slowly. I cannot think of what else to say. There are three soldiers and the scribe, and only one exit. Two of the soldiers press their weapons to Ay's skin. I do not know if it is sweat or blood rolling over his chest. Either way, I would lick it up.

My love, my god, should not be kneeling before them. He only kneels at my feet.

"This hippo now works for me." The scribe grabs Ay's hair and yanks him closer to his crotch, and his grin becomes a leer. "I wonder if he will work as hard for me as he does you."

Fury swells my heart, and I pray the crocodiles eat his lips, his tongue, and his cock.

How dare this scribe come here and disrupt our arrangement. How dare he harm Ay and suggest that he is only good for serving.

"He is not a whore. He works for love." I fail to keep the rage out of my voice. I am a cobra dancing, waiting to attack something much bigger and more dangerous. All I need is an opening .

The scribe laughs. "Love?"

"I pity the man who diminishes what even the gods desire." But then, love requires selflessness, and I now see the scribe's greed has convinced him of his own immunity. But even corrupt officials can be caught. And we have saved enough to pay another official to ensure the scribe's downfall. Then we will flee, and if we live as beggars, I do not care. I will sleep on stones with the stars as my sheets as long as Ay is beside me.

All we need to do is escape the cave.

"Do not pity me, priest, because the gods are favoring me tonight."

"Tonight. But will they smile on you tomorrow? Or when your heart is weighed, and you are judged?"

His face hardens. "This priest has admitted to tomb robbing and is making threats. Arrest him."

One guard walks around the flames and stalks toward me as though expecting me to attack. I have no weapons…

I step back, and Bast bounces against my thigh.

…but I have a goddess.

I pull out the statuette and hold it in my fist, ready to fight as I murmur a prayer to Bast and any god who happens to be watching this tableau.

"Be calm, Djau," my love murmurs.

"Be quiet." The scribe shoves Ay, which is like shoving a boulder, and Ay barely sways. "You have killed a man. It is by my grace that you will not be charged with murder."

"He breathes," Ay says softly, as though he can reason with the scribe. "Collect your gold and let us be. My men will not work for you."

"You will make them," the scribe snaps.

"I can't. They are free men who choose what risks they take. The priest's blessing goes a long way to calming their worries," Ay keeps his voice level and calm. He does not anger quickly. His moods change like the seasons, where I am like a mouse, first one way and then another.

We are two halves, incomplete alone as there must be balance.

"Then I will find you another priest," the scribe hisses. "If you do not work, you will be arrested for tomb robbing."

The guard grips my arm and walks me closer to my love.

Arrest. If I cannot pay enough to get the charges dropped, then we will face death. At least we shall die together. I find a small comfort in that knowledge.

"Kill him," the scribe commands.

"No!" I use Bast to hit the soldier in the face. His nose crunches, and blood pours over his mouth.

He cannot kill Ay. Ay rises up, attacking the men guarding him.

I hit the soldier again, and pain blossoms in my gut. I glance down as blood spreads over my white robe. Oh…it's me the scribe wants dead.

"The priest has not harmed you. Let him go." Ay struggles against the soldiers who seek only to restrain him. Their cuts are not deep, yet he still bleeds.

"It is too late," I whisper, dropping to my knees. Bast falls with me. Her bloodied face stares up at me like a lion fresh from the hunt. If I had the heart of a lion, I would not be so useless. I failed her and Ay.

"You broke my nose." The soldier drives his blade through my back. My lungs burn, and I can't breathe.

Ay crawls toward me, the flames between us. "My love."

A rope around his neck jerks him back. The scribe holds the other end. "You work for me."

"Never," Ay growls and spits in the sand .

"Then you will never work again, and you will be known as a thief." The scribe pulls the rope tight, forcing Ay up to his knees. The sword at his throat is meant to keep him motionless; instead, Ay leans into it as if wanting the blade to bite.

As his hands are bound by another soldier, his gaze remains on me.

Each breath I take is small and painful, as if it were my last. There are not many left.

The cavern is growing dim as the flames devour what is left of the oil and find nothing more to consume.

"I would rather be a thief than serve a man who attacks his business partners out of greed," Ay spits the words as though he is a god and finds the scribe unworthy.

"Cut off his nose," the scribe orders. "And if you still refuse, your hand will be next."

A soldier grabs Ay's chin, and I am forced to watch as the sharp blade destroys the face that I kissed more times than I have drawn breath.

Ay doesn't scream as blood runs over his mouth and flows over his chin. "We will be together."

I do not have the breath to make words.

"Gather the gold." The scribe turns, dragging Ay with him, and makes his way out of the cave. The soldiers follow, not bothering to glance back. They leave me with Bast in the guttering light.

The tip of my love's nose lies forgotten in the sand. I crawl to it, not caring that the oil-soaked hot sand burns my skin. I kiss Ay's flesh one last time. Then open my mouth so his flesh may rest on my tongue, and I may take one last taste as I die.