Ahmen took a quick step back, catching Haran's head before the horse could bite him. "You bit me once," he smiled as he stroked the horse's nose. "Never again. You are just going to have to get used to having your girth tightened."

A curse erupted from one of the storerooms just as a heap of baskets tumbled out the doorway and toppled over, sending little rivers of grain and corn spreading across the flagstones. From amongst the wreckage, the boy Dhet burst free, two peacock plumes in one hand and a three-legged stool in the other. He settled the stool beside Haran and scrambled up to fasten the feather onto the top of the horse's bridle, wobbling on his perch when Haran shook his head.

"By Horus, what a morning," he said, yanking his arm aside just in time to avoid Haran's snap. He glanced at Ahmen, the dark colour of his cheeks betraying his earlier exertions. "Haran's very excitable this morning. It took three of us to get him yoked to the chariot. Wekhra took the worst of it when Haran stood on him not once, but twice."

Ahmen caught the look of satisfaction sliding over Dhet's face, quickly concealed. Despite himself, Ahmen smiled. Wekhra was a terrible bully, especially to Dhet, the youngest and most talented of the grooms in the royal stables. He patted Haran and told him he was a good boy.

Dhet finished his task and ran round in front of the horses, dodging a fresh nip from Haran, to climb up beside Haran's companion. "Kerkhem at least knows to save his energy for the work he has in front of him." He gave the quiet horse's ear an affectionate tug.

While Dhet finished his work, Ahmen carried on with his inspection, his fingers moving over the burnished buckles and straps of the equipment. Kerkhem's crupper was too long. He shortened it. He caught Dhet watching him. Ahmen tilted his head at the offence. His face flushing with shame, Dhet murmured an apology. Dhet rarely made mistakes. Ahmen could let it go.

"Haran has not had a chance to run since he boarded the barque at Pi-Ramesses," Ahmen said, nodding at the horse, who pawed at the ground, impatient. "He will be much calmer when we return, you will see."

From behind Kerkhem, Dhet let out a disbelieving scoff. It was well known Haran had been testing the boy hard. Suppressing a smile, Ahmen stepped into the chariot's box and wrapped the reins around his forearms just as Re-Atum's barque approached the horizon, tinting the sky a deep shade of pink. Leaning back, he tested the reins' tension. After several adjustments, he nodded to Dhet to let the horses go. They burst out of the stable yard onto the empty avenue, frisking, happy.

At the edge of the palace's square, he slowed the horses, apprehensive. The square lay completely empty. Confused, he looked up at the sky, wondering if he was late. No, he was early. Ramesses walked out of the palace gates, flanked by his guards.

Uneasy, Ahmen brought the horses to a halt. Ignoring Ahmen, Ramesses went to Haran and ran an appreciative hand along the horse's flanks, patting him with murmurs of approval.

"You have my weapons?" he asked, still looking over the horse.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Ahmen answered, his uneasiness escalating into certainty. Something was definitely amiss.

Ramesses stepped into the chariot, his eyes sliding over Ahmen, unseeing as he took his stance. "You may proceed," he nodded at the horses, terse.

Ahmen eyed the deserted square. "Have the others been sent ahead?"

"No. Today we hunt alone," Ramesses replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "I have no desire for an escort of guards, or to be slowed down by hordes of attendants, water bearers and provisioners. I wish to hunt as we did as boys, unfettered by the trappings of court."

Ahmen stared at him, incredulous. They couldn't go on a lion hunt, alone.

"We are seasoned warriors, are we not?" Ramesses glanced at him, then away, scoffing. "It is only a lion we must face, not an ambushing party of Libyans."

Ahmen blinked, taken aback by Ramesses's callous remark. He had almost died when he took the blade in Ramesses's stead. Wary, he waited, searching for the others. It had to be diversion, with Ahmen being played the fool.

"I have decided I will not die this day." Ramesses tilted his head at the way ahead. "Proceed. I command it."

Not as certain of his own survival, Ahmen called to the horses and set them to a brisk walk, wondering at the sudden change of plans. Even if Ramesses wished for a day without the encumbrances of court, his decision would leave many disappointed--today's lion hunt had been greatly anticipated by Waset's nobility, even more than last night's feast.

They passed through the gates onto the open road. The horses pulled, eager to run. Ramesses gestured toward the eastern horizon, turning golden in the distance. "Reports confirm the lion keeps his den near the Me'ddja quarries. We go to Bekhen."

Ahmen struggled to hide his dismay. Was Ramesses insane? More than two long iters of blazing desert heat separated them from Bekhen, and they carried no water. Filled with misgiving, Ahmen eased the horses into a trot and turned them onto the road leading away from Waset. He looked up at the sky and calculated. Re-Atum's barque had only just left the horizon. If he paced the horses and conserved their energy, allowing them breaks at the settlements along the way, they might still be able to reach the base of the mountains before the killing heat of midday.

He began the prayer of protection to Horus, then stopped. Guilt flooded him. He could not petition the gods, not when he had stolen from one of them. His conscience gnawed as he fell into a troubled state, alienated and alone. Beside him, Ramesses stood still as a statue, ignoring him, gazing into the distance, preoccupied, withdrawn, silent.

The horses passed the outer boundary of Waset's shady plantations, emerging onto the dusty, hard-packed quarry road. The desert's dry air slammed into Ahmen, leaching the moisture from his body. He drove on, into the glare of Re-Atum's barque, pushing the horses deep into the desert, a solitary chariot in a wilderness of sand. Anxious, he watched the unchanging, barren iters flee under the horses' hooves. Haran began to labor, frothing at the bit, gobbets of foam hanging from his muzzle. Ahmen fretted, searching the horizon, willing the flat-roofed buildings of Iskhet to appear. When at last he saw them shimmering in the distance, he cried out in relief, calling encouragement to the horses, promising them water and rest.

Driving into the speckled shadows of a cluster of date palms, he ordered the women nearby to hurry and bring skins of water. As he watered the thirsty horses, Ahmen sensed someone's eyes on him. He looked over his shoulder. Seated on a bench under the trees, Ramesses watched him, cold.

Troubled, Ahmen continued his work. There was more to this hunt than Ramesses was telling him. Perhaps he had displeased the pharaoh. Ahmen reviewed his duties over the last days. Nothing stood out. He refilled the empty skins and tied them onto the chariot, resigned. He had no choice but to wait.

They continued, moving from one village to the next, racing against the encroaching midday heat. As the empty iters passed, only the creak of the chariot, the steady breathing of the horses, and the rhythmic thud of their leather-clad hooves on the desert road occupied Ahmen's senses.

In time, the sandy landscape began to change, becoming rockier; the faint outline of cliffs shimmered low on the horizon, tantalizing. They drew nearer, the evanescent wall of rock rising, its heights solidifying into a reassuring mass. Beneath its rugged face lay the abandoned settlement of Bekhen. Ahmen eyed the cliff wall, stretching away into the distance. Apart from a handful of valleys leading out to the sea, the mountains extended all the way south to Nubia and almost as far again to the north. The mountain range served both as a barrier and a wealth of raw materials, a gift from the gods.

He turned the horses into the courtyard containing the workshops and slowed them to a walk. They limped into the deep shade of a mud brick building, its floor dotted with piles of raw quartz. Ramesses stepped down from the chariot and gazed around the building, curious. Lifting one of the water skins from the chariot, he drank, noisy. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gestured toward the abandoned yard.

"While we were on campaign in Amurru, the lion killed three men and a half-dozen oxen. The quarries were evacuated, ending all gold mining until our return." He nodded at one of the dense piles of quartz, half hidden in the gloom. "Those are filled with veins of gold. My father spent years trying to find a method to extract it, but it was I who discovered the secret."

Bending over, he picked up one of the crystals, weighing it in his hand. With a grunt, he hurled it out into the courtyard, where it smashed against the base of the well. His mouth twisted. "By the light of Atum, these should already be broken, and more besides. Almost an entire season of gold production lost. This lion has cost me enough."

He surveyed the other buildings, displeasure emanating from him. He left and crossed the yard, leaving Ahmen to breathe a little freer, grateful for the reprieve.

Sliding the bridles from the horses' sweat-stained faces, Ahmen stroked their noses, vowing they would never have to make such a journey again. He watered them and rubbed them down, leaving them hobbled, their heads hanging as they dozed.

Leaning against the chariot's box, he wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep pull from the waterskin, eyeing their meager store of weapons. Two men against a lion. Not impossible, but very dangerous. He refused to allow himself to think of those who had not survived the previous hunts.