12 The Temple’s Tasks

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“What happened to your arm?” Rahiris suddenly noticed Boyi’s arm.

A broad patch of red marred the fair skin, startlingly conspicuous.

Boyi hummed in acknowledgment, followed his gaze downward, and glanced at his own arm. He waved it off carelessly. “It’s nothing. My skin is rather sensitive.”

His skin was thin, and his capillaries lay close together. The slightest bump or knock left a mark.

It was quite a coincidence that this Ayi possessed the same sensitive constitution.

Yesterday, he had felt nothing while shaving. But the moment he returned to the palace, his arm began to ache belatedly. The redness had been even more alarming the night before.

“Did you hit it?”

Perhaps the man’s skin was simply too pale. Rahiris had completely forgotten the humiliation he had just suffered at the other’s hands, his attention instantly diverted by that patch of red.

Boyi cast him a sidelong glance. “Children shouldn’t meddle in adults’ affairs.”

Rahiris: “?”

“You’re only seven years older than I am,” Rahiris protested unhappily.

“But I’m this much taller than you.”

Boyi held out his hand to illustrate the difference between them. Sixty centimeters, yet it seemed like an insurmountable chasm.

Rahiris choked slightly, his face darkening. “Honor your promise.”

Once he grew taller and became a strong man, he would repay today’s humiliation a hundredfold and make this slave regret every word he had spoken.

“Last time I saw milk being sold in the market. That means milk must be available, right? One cup every morning and evening,” Boyi said, repeating the theory most commonly accepted by modern people. “Eat beef and mutton, eggs, fish, and beans. Exercise more—run, jump, stretch…”

After a brief pause, he added, “And sleep more.”

The genes of the House of Amenhotep were excellent. This little pharaoh had probably matured late, and coupled with an unbalanced diet, that was why he appeared so exceptionally thin and small.

Rahiris had never heard such strange theories. After hesitating, he asked, “Is that how you grew tall?”

Boyi raised a brow slightly and smiled. “Yes. That’s how I grew tall.”

He did not know how Ayi had grown. Perhaps it was good genetics as well. He was indeed taller than everyone around him; Boyi had measured him before, and at sixteen, Ayi was probably over five feet seven.

In any case, this theory had been validated by modern science. Protein, calcium, vitamins, sufficient sleep, and appropriate exercise were all external factors that promoted growth.

“Can the poor afford beef and mutton?” Doubt filled Rahiris’s eyes.

From what he knew, commoners had an extremely simple daily diet, consisting mostly of vegetables—bread, vegetables, and fruit. Meat was exceedingly scarce. Fulfilling this theory of growth was no easy matter.

What was more, this man had once been a slave. Slaves were fit only to drink thin porridge. Even beer was an occasional gift bestowed by nobles in a moment of generosity.

Boyi folded his arms and shrugged. “Then you must not know that there are always many ways to survive in the slums.”

“For example?” Rahiris asked.

Boyi thought for a moment before replying, “Waiting around in the nobles’ pigpens. Or searching the rubbish heaps. The nobles’ generosity is remarkably abundant.”

He smiled as he spoke.

“You…” Rahiris stared at him, momentarily stunned.

He had grown accustomed to this slave’s insolence. So often, he even forgot the other man’s status. What slave could possibly be this brazen?

“Where are your parents?” Rahiris asked. “Didn’t they raise you?”

If the nobles discovered that a slave had eaten their leftovers, they would be furious. And a noble’s fury often meant that the god of death, Osiris, was about to pay a visit.

No noble could tolerate having his possessions touched by a slave, not even things he had eaten and discarded.

“My parents…” The curve of Boyi’s lips was perfectly natural. “They’re dead.”

After a moment, he added with a smile, “My father is probably dead by now.”

“Probably dead?” Rahiris had never seen anyone speak of life and death with such ambiguity.

Dead was dead. Alive was alive. What did “probably dead” mean?

“Because he was ill before I came here.” Boyi sighed. “Very seriously ill. The people caring for him said he probably wouldn’t last more than two months.”

In truth, before coming to ancient Egypt, Boyi had only just seen his father.

In prison, the man who had once been strong and vigorous in his memories had wasted away until he resembled a strip of air-dried meat. His eye sockets were sunken, his body covered in purplish bruises, and his wrists marked with scars both old and new, layered one over another like the hatching lines of a pencil sketch—beautiful in a bleak, artistic way.

Long tormented by illness, he had already lost his mind. Even when he saw Boyi, he could do nothing but repeat a few meaningless, babbling sounds.

He was clearly so old, yet he was like a speechless infant, evoking nothing but pity.

Before leaving, Boyi had slipped money to the prison guard and begged him to take good care of his father, so the old man might enjoy a little more of this beautiful life.

Whenever Boyi recalled that man’s numb, empty gaze, he felt a trace of regret. If the law had allowed it, he would even have taken a job at that prison and stayed there to accompany his father through his final years.

Rahiris assumed that “before I came here” meant before Boyi entered the royal palace.

As far as he knew, Ayi had been following Meret for two years. No one knew what he had been like before that. After all, no one ever tried to learn about a slave’s past.

“You and your father weren’t close?” Rahiris asked.

Although the other man wore a smile throughout, Rahiris’s instincts told him that things were not so simple.

Boyi looked at him in surprise. “How could that be? I admired that man. And my mother as well. I loved them dearly.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Rahiris had never seen anyone smile while speaking of family members who had died. He had felt little affection for his own mother, but whenever he remembered the way she had died, his chest still grew heavy.

That vibrant, tearful woman had been abandoned in the barren desert. Over three days, vultures had torn her body apart with their beaks, pulled out her organs, and feasted on her blood and flesh.

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And he had been like a fledgling waiting to be fed in the distance, watching with open eyes as the late-winter snow melted into the desert called Egypt.

“Thinking of the family you love deeply and smiling is an expression of happiness. My parents were the ones who first opened my eyes to life,” Boyi said. “Without them, I would forever have been nothing more than… a slave.”

While those lawyers were still fighting to uphold their pitiful version of justice, he had already understood that only the weak needed something called fairness. Was the existence of law not simply the strong looking down upon the weak?

The media had described him as an amoral, unscrupulous master of political law, a profit-seeker reeking from head to toe. The man did not even pursue fame.

Boyi rather liked that assessment. It was fair and accurate.

He had made the words into a banner and hung it in his law firm, lest he forget why he had begun.

Rahiris was rendered speechless for a moment. He had tried to understand this partner of his, but the process left him both reassured and uneasy.

It was like conspiring with a tiger. Perhaps one day he would be devoured by his own greed, willingly reduced to a weapon in the other man’s grasp and a trumpet sounding the battle for power.

“Your Majesty, we should return to the palace,” Todd reminded him quietly from the doorway.

Rahiris looked at Boyi. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I can sense that you’re a very complicated person.”

So complicated that Rahiris did not know how to define him. The only thing he could be certain of was this: he was dangerous.

Boyi curved his lips, his expression calm. “Your Majesty, once you truly understand me, you’ll realize that I’m a very simple person.”

—

After Rahiris left, Boyi summoned Amante.

“Lord Ayi, what are your orders?” Amante asked.

“Repeat everything you heard yesterday.”

The little pharaoh’s idea had not been wrong. Boyi did need an independent space where matters could be handled. In the palace, Tanaro was almost constantly at his side.

Before coming to the temple, Tanaro had wanted to accompany him. But Boyi had claimed that he was worried Batbar might tamper with something in the palace, and thus managed to dissuade him.

Amante hurriedly agreed and began recalling the news he had heard the previous day.

“The High Priest Nophis found a rat in his house—a huge one, apparently. They say it frightened his wife so badly that she took to her bed for two days and still hasn’t recovered.”

“Lord Siamun welcomed a new wife yesterday. She’s his eldest granddaughter, the first daughter of his fourth daughter, and remarkably beautiful. Every commoner who has seen her says she’s the incarnation of Hathor.”

“General Ailait challenged General Miviel to a match at the barracks yesterday and lost. He must have found it humiliating, because he went to General Miviel’s house early this morning and made a scene. General Miviel threw him out.”

“Lord Userhat is leaving for the frontier tomorrow. His wife has been weeping every day, saying that she cannot bear to be separated from him.”

…

…

The news was scattered and trivial, mostly domestic gossip, but Boyi listened with great attention.

Amante recounted everything he had heard in one breath, chattering on for quite some time. He even imitated the expressions and tones of the people who had told him each story.

Only when he noticed that more than half the candles in the inner sanctuary had burned away did he realize how long-winded he had been. Anxiously, he said, “I’m sorry, my lord. I can never stop myself from talking so much.”

Someone close to him had once told him that this was a terrible habit. Nobles did not like people who talked too much.

“It’s all right,” Boyi said. “You’re doing very well. Keep it up.”

Perhaps no one had ever told Amante that he possessed a real talent for imitation. He reproduced other people’s expressions and tones with uncanny precision. Even someone who had not been present could easily sense the atmosphere and emotions of the original scene.

The unexpected praise left Amante at a loss. He could not even stop himself from blushing, and cautiously stole a glance at Lord Ayi.

Lord Ayi was not only beautiful, he was also exceptionally kind and considerate.

Boyi noticed his gaze and smiled faintly. “Don’t doubt yourself. You’re an outstanding person. Your talent is without equal; it’s a gift from the gods. If I had the power, I would even hope to see you become a commander of the Medjay.”

Amante was so startled he nearly jumped. When in his life had he ever received such praise?

His parents had despised him for being too frail and unlikely to amount to anything, unlike his muscular, powerful elder brother, who could support the family. Even his closest friend had repeatedly warned him that his fondness for gossip would be the death of him.

This was the first time anyone had praised him, approved of his hobby, and even considered it an exceptional talent.

Oh, heavens! My god! Great Amun!

“L-Lord Ayi! How could I possibly…” Amante could not explain what he was feeling. His eyes stung fiercely, and his heart seemed swollen to bursting.

He thought he could kill for Lord Ayi.

What had he done to deserve meeting Lord Ayi? It must be that Amun had heard all his prayers, day and night.

“My lord, let me clean for you first.” Amante desperately wanted to do something. Otherwise, he feared he might rush out and slaughter everyone in his path to help his master earn merit before Queen Meret.

Of course, he also knew perfectly well that he was a useless man whose hands trembled even when holding a fruit knife. All he could do was release his feelings through other means.

Boyi smiled and nodded. “Fortunately, I have you. You’re quick and capable. I could never clean this place by myself.”

Clutching the towel, Amante thought that today he would polish the glass until it gleamed and scrub the floors until they were dangerously slick.

No one could stop him.

The two of them cleaned the inner sanctuary together. Amante repeatedly stopped Boyi from helping, leaving Boyi no choice but to set aside his own work and wait while Amante handled the cleaning.

As he worked, Amante could not stop himself from sharing the many pieces of gossip he had heard in the palace over the years.

Several times, he secretly studied Lord Ayi’s expression as he spoke, always ready to stop the instant the slightest trace of impatience appeared.

But it never did. Lord Ayi listened with complete attention, his admiration for Amante plain in his eyes.

Amante scrubbed the floor with all his strength, filled with inexhaustible energy.

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After finishing the inner sanctuary, he even wanted to ask whether the people outside needed anything cleaned.

Once they completed the temple’s assigned work, they could leave.

The moment they stepped through the inner sanctuary’s doors, Boyi was stopped by a bald man. He was also dressed in the temple’s characteristic white priestly robes, but unlike the others, he wore a crown symbolizing Amun. His golden armlets were engraved with prayers to the gods.

It was clear that his status was different from that of the junior priests outside.

Boyi also noticed a pale-colored sachet hanging from his belt. Its stitching was fine and close, and it carried the faint, familiar scent of lavender.

Boyi met his gaze without revealing anything. After a moment, he asked, “Priest Akris?”

Akris had not expected him to guess his identity. He froze for an instant, then gave a cold snort. “The High Priest wishes to see you. Follow me.”

As a member of the temple, he despised and looked down upon everyone who came from Meret’s side without distinction. Even the cats in Bastet’s palace seemed unbearably foul to him.

Boyi raised a brow and tilted his head, signaling Amante to follow. Together, they went with Akris to meet the High Priest.

Although the man had not said so explicitly, Boyi had a feeling that the person who wished to see him was none other than High Priest Nophis. It was not because Boyi belonged to Meret, nor because he had chosen to ally himself with the temple.

It was because Rahiris had taken the initiative to arrange for him to work in the inner sanctuary.

For someone accustomed to holding power, a chess piece that suddenly developed ideas of its own—even if it had merely taken one insignificant step forward—was enough to touch a sensitive nerve.

Akris led them through the garden at the center of the temple and to another building. Unlike the bustle outside, not a single person could be seen in this palace. The silence was deep enough to hear a pin drop.

“Tap, tap, tap.”

The woven sandals struck the ground, and the footsteps of the three men echoed through the corridors.

Amante could not help shrinking his neck. An inexplicable panic gripped him, and he kept wanting to look back, afraid that something might suddenly emerge behind them.

At the end of the corridor, Akris pushed open the door, knelt on the ground, and said respectfully, “High Priest, I have brought them.”

“Let them enter.”

The voice that came from within the palace was old, yet full of strength. Its owner was clearly in good health.

Akris acknowledged the order and rose. The reverence and adoration vanished from his face in an instant. Pulling a sour expression, he said harshly, “The High Priest says to get inside.”

“I advise you not to do anything unnecessary…” Akris warned them.

Ignoring his hostility, Boyi nodded mildly and walked into the palace. As he passed Akris, he said in an even tone, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help reminding you—there seems to be a piece of vegetable stuck to your tooth.”

Akris froze and instinctively covered his mouth.

Gods above, what a humiliation for a nobleman!

Only wretched slaves failed to care about their appearance and committed the disgusting act of leaving their mouths unclean after a meal.

And he had just met his subordinates, the High Priest, his attendants…

How many people had seen it? Dozens? A hundred?

Help me, Amun!

Akris felt as though the entire world were collapsing. He had even encountered the girl he admired and shown her the neat, pearly teeth of which he was so proud.

“I apologize. I was discourteous.” He hurriedly apologized, pressing his lips tightly together as he hurried away.

His expression was dazed and his steps unsteady, as though he had suffered a mortal blow.

Amante watched him leave in shock. After a long moment, he turned back blankly. “Lord Ayi, was there really a piece of vegetable on Priest Akris’s tooth?”

Had he simply failed to observe carefully? He had not noticed anything at all.

Boyi shrugged. “I only said there seemed to be one.”

Anyone who went so far as to arrange for a litter to take him to the holy lake a day in advance was surely someone who cared deeply about personal hygiene—or at least about his appearance.

Oh, right. Perhaps he also had a charming sweetheart who was skilled with needle and thread.

Amante’s eyes filled with worship. Lord Ayi truly was formidable. With one casual sentence, he had dismissed Lord Akris.

“Wait here,” Boyi instructed before entering High Priest Nophis’s palace.

Amante hurriedly agreed.

The palace was brilliantly lit. An old man in white priestly robes sat directly ahead. His drooping eyelids gave him an aged appearance, yet his eyes were bright and piercing, possessing an unsettling force that seemed capable of seeing straight through a person’s heart.

Boyi met his gaze with a smile. “High Priest Nophis.”

—

The Pharaoh’s Temple of the Gods—

“Your Majesty, why did you arrange for Lord Ayi to work in the inner sanctuary?” Todd asked as he removed Rahiris’s heavy ornaments.

His Majesty seemed to place considerable importance on this slave.

“Your Majesty, aren’t you worried that High Priest Nophis will grow suspicious?” Todd was certain that the High Priest would react to His Majesty’s actions.

After all, in all these years, His Majesty had never once put forward a request to the temple.

This was a remarkably special first.

Rahiris rolled his neck and made a thoughtful sound. Then he smiled. “If he can’t even deal with a minor nuisance like this, there’s no need for us to cooperate.”

He was looking forward to seeing that sly, hateful, damned slave face off against the old fox Nophis.