Thyatis’ eyes narrowed and her forearm was a blur ending in Krista pinned to the wall of the alcove. Thyatis leaned close, her teeth bared in a smile.

“Remember what I do for a living, little girl?” she whispered. “Don’t threaten me with talk of debts or my past again, or you’ll be in the Cloaca Maxima, facedown, with a ticket to the river.” Almost gently, she released Krista from the arm lock and put her upright. “Here’s your tray. Don’t drop it.”

Krista frowned and straightened her tunic. For a moment

Thyatis thought the smaller woman would attack her, but then the moment passed and Krista shook her head.

“You and the mistress can discuss it,” said Krista, her eyes flashing. Then she left.

There was a wicker box of wine jugs on the floor of the alcove. Thyatis bent down and tugged one free of the straw wrappings. She pried the wax seal off of the top with a fingernail and took a very long draft. It was thick, resinated Greek wine. She took a second pull on the bottle, then put it aside. She checked her hair, straightened her gown, and made sure that all of the arm bangles and bracelets were still in place. Finally ready, she pulled aside the curtain and stepped back out into the corridor.

Entertain the Prince, she thought. Attract the Prince. Right.

Three risings of Ra passed and the dhow passed into the thickly congested waterways of the delta. Hundreds of ships, barges, and rafts passed up and down the great arteries of the Nile. The dhow picked its way between them, nimbly sliding past the huge stone-carrying barges and the three-tiered galleys of the Imperial government. At last, the stultifying heat of midday was broken by a fresh wind from the north carrying the smell of the sea. The dhow captain was well pleased to have made the capital with such speed.

His voice grew harsh with shouted commands to the lazy mob he called a crew. Near dusk the channel of the river widened at the village of Fuwa and the granite lock gates of the Alexandrine canal rose up on the western bank. So late in the day, the locks were clear of traffic and the captain muttered a fervent prayer of thanks to the patron of travelers. His little ship heeled over and ran across the current into the momentary darkness under the vaulting lock gates. The canal diverged from the Nile and ran on a straight course through the center of Alexandria and into the greater, or military, harbor. That passage, however, was restricted to military galleys alone. The captain pursed his lips in thought as he leaned on the tiller, guiding the dhow through the second of the massive lock basins.

His first intent upon reaching the end of such a journey should be to dock at the guild warehouses on the lesser, or merchants‘, harbor and offload the cargoes he had brought from the South. The boy from the witches’ house and his mumbling daze precluded that. The captain scratched his shaven pate and peered thoughtfully at the thick clusters of shacks and crumbling red-brick buildings along the side of the canal. The dhow tacked against the wind, and their progress slowed as the countercurrent from the sea mouth of the canal began to run against them.

The captain handed the tiller off to the mate and clambered down a narrow ladder into the low-roofed cabin under the rear deck. The boy lay there, wrapped in blankets, against the rear wall. His eyes remained open, flickering, unfocused. His skin, as the captain touched his forehead, was damp and hot. The captain shook his head and wiped his fingers on his tunic. His orders from the old witch-man were to deliver the boy to the great military citadel overlooking the second, or greater, harbor of Alexandria. Since he could not sail straight into that harbor, he would have to take the cutoff canal to the lesser harbor and then swing around, outside of the two harbors, past the pharos and into the military harbor.

He tapped his fingers on the decking. That would take a great deal of time, and he would have to either pay the dock porters more to work late or wait until the morning to unload his cargoes. The captain shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked down with disgust at the trembling boy in the blankets. There must be some other way, he thought, and then climbed back onto the deck.

Even as Ra slid down through the thick smoke haze over Alexandria, turning the holy disk a ruddy brass, the last rays of the beneficent god crawled slowly down the whitewashed white wall in Ahmet’s quarters, far to the south. The young master lay on his narrow cot, feet up on the wooden rail at the bottom. In the dimming light of Ra, his chiseled face was troubled. Liquid dark-brown eyes followed creeping bars of gold down the irregular surface of the wall, but the subtle beauty did nothing to lighten his heavy mood. At last, unable to shake the sensation of tremendous weight that lay on him, he rose.

This used to mean something, he thought to himself, looking around the room. / used to enjoy this.

He stood at the window, his hand on the dark old wood of the sill. Ra was now behind the western hills, leaving a splendor of deep purples and reds in the thin clouds and the darkening sky. A few dim stars began to glitter in the darkness. Wind, rising from the desert, brought sweet smell of marjoram and olives to him. Below, in the compound, there was the familiar clatter of the kitchens, and the boys, now released from their studies, ran past in the courtyard to the dining hall.

Ahmet looked down, seeing them flitter past in the deep-blue dimness, the white shapes of their tunics gleaming.

The pale-gold light of the tapers in the dining hall met them as they went in. He stood thus for a long time, until the god had entirely passed into the underworld of night and the murmur of the students and masters at dinner indicated that all were within the hall. His thoughts, which had been so troubled, smoothed away and an inevitable conclusion forced itself upon him. After a long time he accepted it, and his mind fell quiet. The young master turned away, into the darkness of his room. Needing no light, his fingers found the chest of ce-darwood his village had sent him when he made the third circle. The knurled bronze clasp came up in his fingers and he began removing the items within. His breathing was even now, and the weight on his shoulders had began to lift. junction of the military and civil canals was a fortified gate housing the legion detachment tasked with checking the traffic into the military harbor. The boy could most conveniently be left there with his orders, and they would see him to wherever the guard captain saw fit to send him. Now the dhow captain peered forward through the smoky haze that overlaid the canal and thought he espied the bright torches of the water gate. Indeed, as the dhow eased around a barge moored at the side of the canal, the twin towers and high wall of the gate rose up before him, brightly lit with torches and a brazier set on the dock beside it. The gate itself was now shut, its oiled iron portcullis closed. “ ‘Ware the dock,” the mate shouted to the pole men. The other crewmen bent to the backing oars, straining against the weight of the dhow. There was a grinding crunch as it struck the fore end of the dock with a glancing blow, and then the pole men steadied the craft. The captain stepped to the gunwale and then off onto the mossy corroded stones of the dock. Beyond the brazier and a little open space some ten feet long stood a guardhouse jutting from the massive plinth of the eastern tower. Two legionnaires, their maroon cloaks cast aside, sat upon three-legged stools under one of the brighter torches. They looked up, eyes hooded in the guttering light, their beards full and twisted into long braids. The leftmost one rose as the dhow captain approached and loomed massive in the flickering light. His arms were like the pillars of a temple, massive and sharply defined. The legionarius stood forward a step and grunted a challenge.