The noise of crickets came through to him, nestling in his senses and tugging at his shoulders. The crackle that passed through his neck immediately afterwards made his groan stiff. Assou’s eyes opened slowly before he lifted his head, trying to catch a picture of his surroundings. It was bright; the sun was already high in the firmament, and the papyrus beneath him had served as a cushion on the table; not very comfortable, but better than nothing.

He shook his numb limbs back to life with difficulty and it took a moment for him to arrive at reality. The dreamless blackness had clouded his senses and yet let him go willingly. What remained was tiredness. His eyelids weighed heavier than two sacks of wheat, and the yawn that overcame him hardly wanted to end. He was awake and simultaneously stood with one foot in the darkness.

Sluggishly, Assou picked himself up to follow the routine. Each step dragged him forward powerlessly. He could barely get down breakfast and although the wine was fresh, it tasted stale. Not even when he began his service at Ramesses II’s side did the fog of his senses lift; as if Nun had him in his hands, undecided if this day was fit for work.

“I wish you a blessed day, my Pharaoh.” As Assou bowed to Ramesses, it was the papyrus scroll in his hands that woke him. He had read the outstanding reports the day before, but could barely remember any of it.

Ramesses greeted him with a nod. His listlessness clearly exceeded that of the tjati and yet Assou didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, he took his stance and opened the scroll in his hands to read out the most important information.

“Allow me to provide you with the latest information.”

Ramesses’ throwing away hand gesture was nothing more than an unwilling permission. He couldn’t escape his duties any more than Assou could.

“Word has been received about the slaves of architecture,” the vizier began languidly. Every word he read sounded like chaos he didn’t want to put into words. His king wouldn’t be pleased with him – or anyone. “The hard work is having its effects. More than half the slaves have collapsed under the heat, starved or died of thirst. Construction is progressing slowly. The promised day off has encouraged some, though it hasn’t proved to have much effect.” Assou’s shoulders slumped. “Those who sabotaged the work before have been located and punished.”

Ramesses’ sigh filled the entire throne room. “See that new slaves are secured to replace the loss. I will accept no further delays.”

“Of course.” Quick as a flash, the vizier rolled up the papyrus and pressed a hand to his chest. “Do you have any special request regarding this task, or is the origin of the slaves irrelevant?”

For a moment, Ramesses looked at him. His lips puckered, his brows drew together, and the narrow crease between them betrayed he was thinking about something. Only when the seriousness cleared from his face did he open up about his plan. “Take the children from the villages who still oppose me. I have tolerated the feeble protest long enough. May no one think I haven’t shown them my patience.”

“At what age shall these children be, my Pharaoh?”

“Young enough not to die after a day, yet old enough not to collapse under the weight of the stones,” replied Ramesses. “Take the men from the families who cannot pay their tributes. Let it help pay off the debt.” He leaned back. “And see that you have the bodies burned as quickly as possible. I don’t care who belongs in which family. The gods will punish us if we hoard them too long.”

“As you wish, my Pharaoh.” It wasn’t uncommon for the useless bodies of slaves to be burned. For people who had no value for eternity, mummification was nothing more than a waste of space.

“Besides,” Ramesses continued, “I want you to arrange a big fire in a fortnight’ time.”

“Is there an occasion?” Assou couldn’t help raising his brows.

“Meritamen is expecting a child.” His pharaoh’s shallow smile wasn’t lost on him, and though he rarely showed much reaction, offspring was always an occasion for rejoicing.

“Understood. I will set everything in motion and arrange a feast to celebrate Bastet’s blessing.” Followed by a deep bow, the tjati acknowledged his duties and took a few steps back to announce his departure silently. Only then did he turn and disappear into the corridors of the palace.

His hasty impulses carried him straight to one of the royal messengers who had their small reporting station further back in the palace – near the kitchen. With them, news gained importance. In addition, they were masters of silence – thanks to the lack of tongues.

When he entered the small room with its four men, it was the smell of sweat and overripe fruit that made him wrinkle his nose. Still, he refused to be distracted and instead pointed his finger at a lanky man who was looking at him carefully. “I need you to do something for me.”

Without stopping, Assou took hold of the stone plate at his side and grabbed one of the blank papyrus scrolls hoarded in this place. Whenever a hasty piece of information had to leave the palace, it happened in this room. His hand reached for a nearby cup in which a bulrush waited. Next to it was the small, sealed pot of red paint. Without further ado, Assou pulled off the lid and dipped the rush into it, neatly writing a few hieroglyphics. Then he took the transcript, blew and waved it around until it seemed dry and could be rolled up.

As he turned to the messenger and thrust the papyrus into his hand, he revealed its destination to him in the same breath. “Go to the slave camp in the west. The construction work there is stalling. Pass this message to the overseer so he knows what to expect in the next few days.”

Without hesitation, Assou turned and produced another document, which he forced on another messenger. “You go to the commander of our soldiers. Give him this. He will know what to do.”

Two messages. One to inform that there would soon be new slaves and one for the warriors who would split up to burn corpses and collect new slaves. Workers who would presumably be treated a little better because they came from their own country and hadn’t been bought and brought from another.

When Assou left the messengers’ area, the sun still burned like fire through open areas and part of him longed to cool down. The dust and dirt that clung to his feet and legs needed to be washed off, and perhaps a bath would ensure that the last bit of tiredness finally disappeared.

The path to the pool, which stretched over six metres and was at least as wide, captivated him. Although he often ended up in this place, the freedom overwhelmed him. It was said that Ramesses’ first wife had designed this bath and the greenery that rested in pots on the sides of the room conveyed peace, which they lived every day in this realm. It was an oasis to relax in and ye it was just a basin full of water.

His clothes came off his body more quickly than on other days and without looking back, he took careful steps into the sun-warmed water.

There was no roof. All that kept this room clean were the tireless slaves who glided through it with cloths several times a day. They filtered the water, washed the basin, refilled it and made sure that each day went by cleanly for the people of the palace.

At the side, near the entrance, there was a bucket of water with which to wash off part of the dirt, and even though it was etiquette to show up there first, Assou rarely followed the rules. Sometimes he didn’t care about his filthy feet and sometimes he didn’t care about the bucket. Instead, he enjoyed the water and sat back. His hands washed his upper body and arms, massaging the crook of his neck to ease the rigidity, and part of him seemed to drift off in a trance. The freshness didn’t wake him; it added to the weariness.

“You don’t seem quite in your right mind, Vizier.” A woman’s voice caught up with him. Soft and familiar.

He didn’t need to turn to recognise her. Not even her bare breasts, which pressed against his back a little later, were met with astonishment. “What are you doing here, Dinem? Don’t you have anything to do?”

She devoured the space, the peace that had so sweetly penetrated his nerves before. Dinem simply intervened, as if she didn’t want him to have a rest. Instead, she snuggled up to him like a cat and let her hands glide feather-light over his torso.

“It’s my job to make everyone of rank feel comfortable here,” she replied, “and I’m sure you could use someone to wash your back, Vizier.”

Her words penetrated his head like honey. Everything that had seemed unsteady before was wrapped in cotton wool and disappeared. Dinem was a pleasant distraction and although she wasn’t what he wanted, her presence played into his hands. Talking to a slave girl about trivial things would be a balm to his mind. Time would stand still and if it was Dinem, he had to put up with, it was an acceptable price.

“I take it I am interrupting your important musings?” Dinem’s question wavered. Almost as if she didn’t demand an answer. “I can understand that you are tense between all the decisions and questions, but even if my presence seems uncomfortable, I promise you that this feeling will be forgotten in a few moments.”

“Is it that important to you for me to approve of your presence?” It didn’t matter. She was a slave. At worst, he could send her away, and if she disobeyed, there was enough heavy stone to tie her to. An unadorned collar would remedy the situation.

“It is,” she confessed, “I want to be close to you, Vizier. And I don’t want you to perceive my presence as repulsive.” She pressed herself closer to him, so he believed he could sense every curve of her body. “I desire you, Vizier. There is no greater gift for a slave to be close to a man like you. And if you have the slightest interest in me, I would be grateful should you give me a little affection.”

“I see.” He really did. Probably because he held a position that could transform her from a slave to one of the richest and most desirable women in the country. It was simple. Just as simple to grasp as the fact he had no room in his heart for any woman other than Fatrada.

Besides, desire didn’t even come close to love.

Dinem was just someone who roamed the palace, doing the chores she was told to do. He knew her. He had spoken to her more than to any other slave since Ramesses’ last wedding. But she had never become someone he desired. Not with those soft words of love she breathed towards him. Her presence was nothing more but desire for him, and yet he didn’t surrender to it.