‘I need a slave to do the necessary work.’ And one to win my wager, Piay thought.

  ‘I am sure Mennias will provide you with one of the helots—’

  ‘Not a Spartan slave. A slave like the ones we knew in Egypt.’

  ‘We are not in Egypt.’

  ‘I have spoken to one of the scribes. Slavers frequent Lacedaemon’s seaport, a day’s travel to the north. Perhaps I will find someone there who will provide for my needs. And then I will be free to give my full attention to arranging the audience with the king.’

  Piay sensed Hannu scrutinising him, as if some deeper meaning lay behind this simple request.

  ‘Do not try to change my mind,’ Piay said, wagging a finger at his assistant. ‘I have thought hard about this.’

  ‘So I can see.’ Hannu shrugged. ‘Then it is decided. We will travel to this seaport with whatever Mennias thinks we need to buy a slave. I will make the arrangements.’

  P

  iay and Hannu walked down a steep slope through shady woods where bees droned lazily. Finally Gythion revealed itself. The port huddled on a sheltered bay, the azure sea as still as a millpond. Seagoing trade-ships crowded the harbour, and out on the water others waited at anchor for a place to open up. Along the front, among the heavy flow of merchants and sailors, Piay smelled the suffocating tang of the fish sauce that the Spartans loved. The oily stew simmered in vats, the boys stirring as new carcasses from the latest catch were dumped in the liquor.

  Finding a vantage point, Piay leaned on a warehouse wall in the shade. He watched the shards of light on the water while Hannu moved among the locals in search of information about the best slaver in the port. Piay’s attention settled on the women passing by, and he enjoyed himself, summoning smiles and fluttering lashes. He showed the greatest attention to the ones with hair tumbling around their shoulders. During his short time in Lacedaemon, he’d learned that the women shaved their heads in preparation for marriage and kept their hair short after the ceremony, so it was easy to distinguish who had found a husband. But married couples lived apart as the men were contained in the barracks. He hadn’t been able to resist smiling at some of the short-haired women as well. That is, until Hannu had cautioned him about raising the ire of another betrayed husband – as he had done in Avaris and Thebes – and bringing about the end of all they were trying to do.

  Hannu returned and said, ‘There are two slavers in port this day. One has sailed from Libya and has a reputation for being untrustworthy, with sickly, weak slaves. The other is from Phoenicia. His name is Hanbaal. He has travelled across the Great Green and has slaves from as far south as the kingdom of Kush. Like all slavers, he is quick with the knife and the sword and the whip, but I am told he will respect a strong hand in matters of business.’ Hannu glanced around before adding in a whisper, ‘And there is no love lost between the Phoenicians and the Hyksos, so you will not have to worry that he might spread the word to our enemies about an Egyptian buying a slave in Gythion.’

  Piay nodded, pleased at his assistant’s good work.

  ‘Then Hanbaal is the man we need. Take me to the market.’

  A

  small crowd had gathered around the slave market at the southern end of the harbour. Piay and Hannu pushed their way to the front through the wealthy Spartans. The slaver’s block was a cube of rough-hewn stone on which the merchandise could be displayed to the potential buyers. To one side, the man Piay presumed was Hanbaal lounged in a wooden chair under a shelter of cloth stretched across poles to protect him from the heat of the midday sun. Piay studied the slaver’s face, getting the measure of him. His eyes were dark and continually searching faces for the likeliest and richest buyer. His hooked nose hung over an oiled moustache and a beard that ended in a point. He wore white robes, as clean as if they had been freshly washed that day, cinched with a hide strip at the waist from which hung a leather scabbard containing a curved sword. In his left hand, he toyed with a whip of long hide strips, knotted at the ends, fastened to a wooden handle.

  When Hanbaal seemed satisfied the crowd was large enough, he eased up from his chair and prowled the front of the crowd.

  ‘Ready yourself, good Spartans, for here you find the finest slaves in all the world!’ he called, with a sweep of his hand. ‘Hard-working. Obedient. Silent. Plucked from the hot desert kingdoms from the south and tutored by my own hand aboard my ship. All know of Hanbaal of Phoenicia. All know my word is my bond, and my reputation is greater than any other master of slaves you will find in Gythion. Stake your claim without fear of disappointment.’

  Hanbaal clapped his hands and two of his men brought out the first slave, a short man with a limp and a sagging belly. His hooded eyes were slow, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. He levered himself up on to the block and stared at the ground as Hanbaal conducted his sale.

  When the next three slaves were of similar appearance, Piay realised what was at play here. Hanbaal was a good salesman and knew his buyers well. What use offering strong slaves in Sparta? The need was for easily cowed workers who would never pose a threat.

  This was not what he wanted. Piay stepped out from the crowd and strode towards the shelter, beckoning for Hanbaal to follow. Hannu stepped behind him.

  ‘Is this the best you have?’ Piay asked once the slaver had joined him.

  Hanbaal made to speak, no doubt to protest that these were indeed the best slaves in all the world, when he paused and looked Piay up and down.

  ‘You are Egyptian,’ he said, taking in the shaven head and the eye make-up.

  ‘I am, and we expect more than the Spartans, it seems.’

  The slaver tugged on his oiled beard, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘In my father’s days the market in Egypt was strong. He was well rewarded. But then the Hyksos came. And they prefer to take what they want, rather than pay a fair price.’

  ‘One day, perhaps sooner than you think, the barbarians will be driven from Egypt and you will have a good market again.’

  Hanbaal seemed to like the sound of this. His lips slid back in a gap-toothed grin and he pressed his palms together and bowed.

  ‘I will pray for those days. For now, what is it you require? I have many slaves to meet all tastes.’

  Piay tapped his head. ‘A slave with some wits. Someone I can trust to carry out tasks without being watched.’

  Hanbaal nodded. ‘A clever one, then. I would not be a good slaver if I did not warn you that there are always some troubles to accompany the benefits. These kinds of slaves may well come with a fast tongue, sometimes a sharp tongue. They do not always know their place and have to be shown it.’

  ‘I am used to that,’ Piay said without glancing at Hannu. ‘And I require a slave who is strong. One who looks like they will survive a day’s hard labour without collapsing to their knees.’

  ‘Clever, and strong. Let me think.’ Hanbaal clasped his hands and tapped his index fingers together. ‘Yes, I have a slave who meets your requirements. But the price for such a fine specimen will be high.’

  ‘We would expect nothing else,’ Hannu said in a sardonically weary tone.

  ‘General Mennias of Lacedaemon sends word that he will meet your price and will deliver full payment in good time,’ Piay said.

  Hanbaal cocked an eyebrow. ‘General Mennias? Good. Very good. A fine man. Well respected.’ The slaver raised a finger. ‘Wait here. I will have my men bring the perfect slave for you.’

  Hanbaal turned to his men and rattled off his commands in a strange tongue filled with clicks and odd throat noises, accompanied by a series of gesticulations. Two of the men hurried towards where the slave ship was moored, while another dragged out the next slave to the block. The slaver sat back in his chair, waiting while the market continued.

  Piay sensed Hannu staring at him again and he looked round.

  ‘If there is something you wish to say,’ Piay snapped, ‘then—’

  ‘You made a good choice of the kind of slave you require,’ Hannu said.

  ‘What? No criticism?’

  ‘If Hanbaal can find one who meets your requirements, I would wager General Mennias and the Spartans would perhaps see a sharp point on the end of your decision.’

  Piay heard a surprising warmth in Hannu’s voice – perhaps even respect. He realised he had not heard that tone before.

  Piay looked away.

  ‘No point, sharp or otherwise. I simply need a slave who meets my needs, that is all.’

  He felt sure Hannu was giving him that familiar tight-lipped smile that said more than words, but he didn’t look back to check.

  When the men returned from the ship with a woman, Hanbaal jumped to his feet. She was a Nubian by the looks of it, with skin as dark as polished ebony. Hanbaal grabbed the woman’s wrist and dragged her to where Piay and Hannu waited.

  ‘This one is no good for a Spartan,’ the slaver said. ‘I would be surprised if she kept her head on her shoulders for a single day.’

  The woman held Piay’s gaze without blinking, and he sensed in it a silent vow that she would rather die than be cowed. He also saw a rare intelligence burning brightly there. With hair that was a mass of black curls, she was as tall as he was, and lithe. He could see the muscles in her bare arms. Some experience of working hard, then. That was good. She was wearing a white dress to her mid-calves which Piay thought must once have been fine. The cloth looked to be delicate, and the hooped cut around her neck and the way it had been made to fit her curves suggested some workmanship. But now it was streaked with dirt and tattered along the bottom.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

  The woman stared into his eyes, her face expressionless, and he thought perhaps she did not understand him. But then she jolted from an unseen jab in the small of her back from Hanbaal.

  ‘Myssa,’ she said.

  ‘This one has some learning,’ Hanbaal said. ‘She can speak your tongue and mine. She was taken from the kingdom of Kush. Some say she is a daughter of the king,’ the slaver continued with a grin, spinning his tale to capture the imagination. ‘Of that I cannot be certain, for she will not speak of her home or days gone by. Perhaps she is hiding her royal status, out of pride or because she fears it may draw the wrong kind of attention to her on the block.’

  ‘Although that has not prevented you raising that question here,’ Hannu noted.

  Hanbaal held out both hands. ‘I only pass on what I hear. But her learning will tell you she is a woman of status.’ The slaver moved his hand up and down to indicate Myssa’s physique. ‘And strong, as you can see. It is said the daughters of Kush can throw a spear as far as any man.’

  Piay found himself still staring into the woman’s eyes, as if she were a cobra and he a mouse.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This slave will be mine.’

  Piay felt that he may well have created another problem for himself. But that was his nature, he had decided. One day he would learn those lessons that Taita had told him he would find on his travels. One day, but not this time.

  T

  he bright moon floated above the high branches. Piay stretched out on his back with his hands behind his head, watching the orb of Khonsu against the blue-black sky. Beside him, the fire crackled and spat. Hannu tossed more dry branches on it, sending up a shower of sparks. On the other side of the blaze, Myssa sat cross-legged, her back rigid. Did she never relax? Her hands were bound around the wrists with hide, at Hannu’s insistence. He no doubt saw the same deep currents moving within her that Piay did.

  Myssa stared into the flames, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. Some would see humility in that – perhaps fear. Piay saw defiance tinged with contempt.

  He’d expected Hannu to berate him in his usual sly manner for this detour. It was unnecessary, a distraction from the serious business he had been sent to conduct, no doubt about that. His assistant had said nothing, which was strange in itself. The truth was, he’d felt compelled to carry out this journey and he wasn’t sure why. In Egypt, under Taita’s tutelage, he’d never had a single doubt. Now there were times when he felt he didn’t know himself at all and he felt troubled by that, as if he were losing his potency. It had started that night in the fields when he led his men to their untimely ends. If only he could forget that it had happened. Then he could be the Great Piay again. The master swordsman. The seasoned warrior. The spy who could do no wrong.

  ‘You will be worked hard,’ Hannu said to Myssa, ‘but you will find life is better in the service of Piay than anything you experienced at the hands of Hanbaal.’

  Piay didn’t expect her to answer, but after a moment she looked up and fixed that cold gaze on Hannu.

  ‘Better than my life in my home?’

  ‘That life is gone,’ Hannu said. ‘It would be better for you if you forgot it.’

  ‘And you are capable of forgetting your life?’

  ‘I have forgotten many things.’ Hannu jabbed a stick into the heart of the fire. ‘And I would say I am better for it. Live in this moment. Think not of what yesterday held, or of what tomorrow might present to you.’

  ‘Are you a wise man?’ Myssa asked.

  Piay chuckled. ‘His wisdom was earned on the battlefield, caked in blood and choking on the reek of the dying.’

  ‘The best wisdom,’ Hannu said. ‘You cannot know life until you see the light in a man’s eyes go out.’

  Myssa cocked her head, narrowing her eyes as she scrutinised her captor.

  Piay frowned, too. There were times when Hannu seemed to have notions which might have been expressed by Taita.

  ‘And you?’ Myssa said, turning her attention to Piay. ‘Where does your wisdom arise? On soft cushions and in perfumed gardens?’

  This time Hannu chuckled.

  ‘In Egypt, slaves only speak when they are spoken to,’ Piay said.

  ‘And what will you do if I speak out of turn? Beat me?’

  ‘It is within my right.’

  ‘Learn how to act quickly.’ Hannu leaned back against an old oak tree. ‘It will save you some hardship.’

  Myssa cocked her head again. Now Piay could see she was doing it to taunt him.

  ‘Yet I heard you ask Hanbaal for a clever slave. Why would you do that if you did not wish to hear the fruits of that cleverness?’

  ‘I wish to hear it when I ask for it.’

  Myssa nodded slowly. ‘Now I understand. When you said “clever slave” you meant “obedient mute”.’

  Hanbaal had been right. Piay looked from Myssa to Hannu and back, and felt that he had indeed made life harder for himself.

  A

  s they tramped through the Gate of the Moon, Myssa craned her neck to study the temple, and the grand houses, and the palace, and the faces of the people who passed. This would be strange for her, Piay knew – so different from her home in Kush. Though he’d never travelled that far south along the Nile into Upper Nubia, Taita had told him of the land once known as Kerma. A searingly hot place, Taita had said, dusty and dry, where its people eked out a living as farmers and miners.

  ‘If you are the daughter of a king, this will be a poor home for you,’ Hannu said as he showed Myssa into the house. ‘But for the rest of us it is comfortable enough. You have a room. You will be well fed. Do your work and life will be good. If you try to flee, you will be caught and your punishment will be great indeed.’

  Myssa turned to Piay. ‘What do you require of me?’

  ‘The washerwomen of Lacedaemon are too slow, too inefficient—’

  ‘I will wash your clothes.’

  Piay felt surprised by the speed of her acquiescence. After her mood on the journey from the port, he’d expected more resistance.

  ‘And the washerwomen have an item of clothing that is very valuable to me, a kilt. They keep saying they will return it—’

  ‘I will bring it back to you.’

  ‘You will soon find that the washerwomen of Lacedaemon answer to no one. Wait until you have been trapped in their labyrinth.’

  Piay felt his frustration mount. This small matter should not be annoying him so much, and he knew if he had managed to secure an audience with King Hurotas he would not have become so obsessed with such trivial things.

  A rolling thunder echoed in the dim distance. Myssa looked to the window and the sun shining across the rooftops.

  ‘A storm is coming.’

  Piay watched Hannu’s body stiffen, but he was already feeling a prickle of unease at that familiar sound.

  ‘Not thunder,’ he said.

  Hannu stared at him. ‘Horses.’

  Piay raced out of the house an instant ahead of his assistant, in time to see five riders sweep through the Gate of the Moon. The horses pounded up the street without slowing. Slaves and craftsmen who had ventured out to investigate the disturbance scrambled back to the shelter of the walls to avoid getting crushed under the hooves.

  Messengers from one of the other cities, Piay hoped, but when he squinted into the brassy light, he could make out the leather caps and breastplates of the Hyksos. His dream – and Khonsu’s warning – flooded back to him.

  ‘You were right,’ Piay said. ‘They will never rest.’

  ‘You have earned yourself a special place in their hearts,’ Hannu replied.

  The lead rider pulled his mount up and leaned down to one of the cowering slaves. A moment later, the slave pointed towards the palace and the riders lurched off once more. Piay tensed, waiting for the Hyksos to descend on his home, but instead the horses slowed to a canter and disappeared behind the larger stone houses.

  ‘They’re going to the palace,’ Hannu muttered. ‘Why?’

  Piay peered towards the home of the king that he’d yearned to visit for several days now.

  ‘To ask for permission to drag an Egyptian wretch away for punishment. They know the Spartans will not allow bloody retribution within the walls of their city.’