of the most favourable time to begin some undertaking or another, still others for healing of various ailments. Each brought an offering that was added to the growing heap, just as every judgement and decision was dutifully recorded on the tablet.
Then, as the ranks of supplicants thinned, there came a commotion from the rear. Turms, in the middle of a pronouncement, sensed a ripple of excitement pass through the remaining crowd. He finished quickly and then turned to address his people. “What is happening here? Why this unseemly murmuring?”
“Someone has come, lord king,” offered a nearby subject. “A stranger. He is asking to see you.”
“A stranger has come?” wondered Turms; his fingers felt for the pebble couched in his sleeve. “Make way and let him appear before me.”
At the king’s command, the gathering parted to allow the newcomer through. Striding towards him was a tall man in strange colourless clothing that bisected his long body—white above and black below—but the face was open and friendly; moreover, it was a face he knew. “Behold!” called King Turms, raising his hands in exclamation. “My foreign visitor has arrived.”
The stranger went down on one knee, then rose and was recognised by his friend. “Arturos! Is it you?”
“The sight of you gladdens my heart and makes my spirit soar,” replied Arthur Flinders-Petrie, reciting the ancient greeting response. “I have longed to see you, my lord king.”
“My people,” said the king, “I present to you my friend Arturos. Make him welcome among you during his sojourn with us.”
There were murmurs of assent all around, and others called greetings, which Arthur returned in kind.
Turms turned to one of the acolytes and said, “Guide my esteemed visitor to the royal lodge and command my house servants to make him welcome and give him refreshment.” To Arthur, he said, “The day’s audience is nearly finished. I will join you soon.”
“As you must,” agreed Arthur. “I have no desire to interrupt your holy offices.”
With that, the acolyte led the king’s guest away, up the long earthen ramp to the royal lodge where his arrival was announced.
“Arturos! You have returned!” cried the Master of the King’s House, rushing out onto the broad porch of the lodge. “On behalf of my king and all the people of Velathri, I bid you peace and welcome.”
“It pleases my heart to see you, Pacha,” said Arthur, feeling his way back through a long-disused corridor of language. “I had hoped to return sooner, but . . .” He shrugged.
“Life is a constant turmoil for men in the world,” offered the king’s housekeeper. “But you are here now, and I trust you will stay long enough to allow Tyrrhenia to soothe your soul.” Laying a finger to his lips, he paused, then added, “I think a libation of sweet wine will prove efficacious in this regard.” Indicating a low couch covered with red cushions, he said, “If you will please make yourself comfortable, I will return shortly.”
“You are too kind, Pacha,” replied Arthur. “I am happy to look after myself.”
The royal housekeeper bowed and backed away; he disappeared, clapping his hands and calling to the kitchen servants to attend him at once. Arthur sat down on the couch and stretched his long legs before him. He did not feel like relaxing—the opposite, in fact. No doubt he could persuade Turms to take a walk with him in the vineyards and olive groves later. After weeks aboard ship, it was a little light exercise he wanted.
The voyage from England had not been easy. The weather had been against them almost from the start, and the conditions aboard ship were primitive, to say the least. It was not his preferred mode of travel, to be sure, but the other way—ley travel—was out of the question at the moment. The dangers were just too great. Indeed, he had pressed it as far as he dared just to get here.
“Arturos! Stand up and let me see you!”
Arthur glanced up to see Turms in the doorway: a tall, imposing figure, almost gaunt beneath his ceremonial robe, his once-smooth face showing lines of age. His hair, greying at the temples, hung straight to his shoulders, his forehead shaven in the manner of the priestly caste. Turms removed his ceremonial hat and unbelted the golden sash, then turned to receive his friend.
Arthur rose to his feet and was gathered into a firm and friendly embrace. “My heart soars at the sight of you,” said the king, kissing him on the cheek.