wailed, burying his face in my neck. ‘If it wasn’t for thy love, brother, I would die.’
His mouth was hot against my skin; our breath mingled. Floating, we drifted into a bank of papyrus, and the reeds closed about us. We had often lain here, where no man could see us, clutching each other for comfort.
‘We are in a herdsman’s hut on the banks of the river,’ he breathed. It was our favourite of all the stories we told each other.
‘We have stabled our cattle for the night,’ I returned, sliding both hands down his body. I found the phallus, hard in my palm as I had always found it, in the dark of the dormitory or the cool of the morning.
‘We have left our dog Wolf on guard.’He returned the caress.
‘And we are shutting our door for the night, against the demons of the darkness, against the Goddesses of the Twelve Hours,’ he continued, his breath catching as my hands, wise in the ways of his body, brought his climax near.
‘And sealing our door with the sacred seal of the Brothers,’ I whispered, and then could not speak further as he closed my mouth with a kiss.
Careful not to be heard—though such love was not forbidden, it would give our Masters leverage to play one of us against the other—we spilled our seed into the reeds, shivering and kissing. There was no one in the world whom I loved as much as my brother Kheperren.
And as we came up the bank together, still breathless with release, we found a priest waiting for us. We quickly schooled our features into the blank which gives nothing away, but it was not necessary. He smiled at us.
He was not beautiful, being a little fat. The rolls of his belly spoke of good living and his jaw was deformed, but his smile was enchanting and a little wistful, the smile of a man who has shared such delights and possesses them no longer.
‘I came to seek a scribe, and it seems that I have found two,’ he said politely. I was about to reply when Kheperren grabbed me and dragged me down to my knees and then pushed me onto my face on the paved shore of the sacred lake.
‘What are you doing?’ I protested as I yielded to his hand.
‘Lord of the Two Lands, forgive our insolence,’ he begged, and I realised that I had just been spoken to by the Pharaoh’s son Akhnamen, Amenhotep IV, co-regent with our own Pharaoh and his only son since Thutmose the Prince died.
And I had almost spoken to a Pharaoh while standing on my feet and looking into his face, for which I could rightly be put to a very nasty death.
‘Forgive us, Ruler of Rulers,’ I agreed hastily, and put my lips to the curved toe of a gem-encrusted sandal.
A number of people laughed. Out of the corner of my eye—I stayed exactly where I was, face down on the bank in an attitude of complete prostration—I saw the hems of delicate garments and small feet in papyrus sandals.
‘Come, let them arise,’ said a gentle voice. I dared a quick glance upward and saw the neat dark wig and painted eyes of a very beautiful older woman. Her hennaed hand almost touched my brother’s head. Patterns were drawn up to her wrists, which were heavy with chains in the form of lotus flowers and buds. The scent of jasmine enveloped us as the others came from concealment under the outer pillars of the temple of Amen-Re.
‘Are they not comely?’ asked the Lord of the Two Lands idly.
‘Comely indeed, but what does His Majesty want with them?’ asked the honey-voiced Queen. She must be the famous Tiye, the red-headed woman, Akhnamen’s mother.
‘I have need of a personal scribe,’ said the King. ‘What say you, Lady of the Two Lands, shall I have this or this?’ He touched first my head and then my dear friend’s.
‘Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt, Lord of the River, take both, since they are brothers,’ suggested another voice. The speaker sounded male and a little curt. I believe that it was the Master of the Scribes. I didn’t know that they knew about us.
‘No. One alone, who will love me, is what I want,’ said the King. My heart gave a startled jolt, as though a hand had seized it. I slid my hand across and grasped that of my heart’s brother, horrified that we were to part.
‘This one,’ said