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He is too fair-skinned to go into military service, the thirteenth son of the Netjer Nefer. His mother told him that he came from a place she named in a tongue he did not speak, but she was a Princess from far beyond the sea, on a distant island, where the people had smooth hair instead of coarse and paler skin, where the women wore strange shirts like his mother, her breasts hanging out. She had given him a name in her own language despite his father’s insistence that he have a different name, a good name, a family name, but she had refused. He was called Sephiran. She had not given him a meaning for it.
Perhaps she would have, if his father had not died, and his brother, with his eyes for military conquest, had done away with the peaceful treaty they had with the islands far to the north that did not have a name that Sephiran could pronounce, and sent away his brother from the succession, his brother with his pale skin that blistered in the bright sunlight and chapped in the desert wind and his long, soft silken hair, dark as the night but soft as the rain.
He went to the temple at Karnak, and in its dark halls and shadowed ceilings, he found a peace with the Gods he had never known, and grew from a boy into a man, who never thought of his mother’s faraway island, lost to him, and instead thought of Amun, thought of nothing but Amun until he was made high priest, three-and-thirty, with his skin kept soft by oils, his hair kept without tangles by slaves, honoured and respected, and his brother forgot about him, living in a temple, where he donated money but never chose to worship out of neglect and stupidity—a Horus he might be, but an Osiris Sephiran knew he would never become. There would be others in the Lands of the Dead to row the boat with Ra through the night.
The time of the harvest came, when the water was at last pulling back into their life-giving Nile, that they were to go to visit the temple of Mut, the barge of their God on their shoulders. He walked before it, guarding the statue of Amun in his house, and wondered what it must be like to be a Great God, to have so many eyes, but to so rarely see the outdoors through your own eyes. So often they remained safe inside, in the depths of the temples, seeing only darkness, enjoying anointment and food. The light, even when he saw it, was through slats.
How lonely, to be the god of the Sun, and to rarely see it through your own eyes. Sephiran knew he must look at the sun more, to think of his Lord.
And, as he looked up toward the sun, he saw it. Him. The man.
He was tall, almost as tall as Sephiran, with short dark coarse hair cut short to his scalp, a peasant’s haircut. His skin was dark, Nubian, but he had pale eyes, distant and cool. His skin glistened in the sunlight, a sheen of sweat slicking his hair down, and Sephiran knew.
This was why he had been picked to be a priest, why he had been meant to lead this barge, why he had been sent to stand in this spot and see this man. His eyes followed Sephiran as he walked, but he never moved, never went to intervene with Amun, but watched Sephiran. Even after they had gone long past where the man with his dark skin and pale eyes stood, Sephiran could feel himself being watched, by eyes pale and bright.
The man arrived at the temple four days later. He wore only a linen kilt, his feet bare and blistered by the hot sand, calloused thickly where he stood. His hair was coarse and short up close, his face and body thin from hunger. His back was covered in thick, ropy whip scarring that wrapped almost around his ribs. He had a small cloth bag, and he waited until Sephiran was summoned by the Priests, and stood in front of him, the High Priest of Amun, one of the most powerful men in the Red and Black lands, and did not bow.
“You are a slave,” Sephiran greeted him, for the first time. The man did not respond. “We do not take slaves into the service of Amun.”
“I am free,” the man replied, his voice deep and low and heavy. It resonated in Sephiran’s bones. “The Lord of my people, of the Abrahamites, came to me in my dreams and told me to come here and serve your Sun idol. I have been sent to you, to serve you, the High Priest.” Sephiran watched him. There were no Abrahamites in their service. They did not serve idols.
“What can you do for me, that my slaves and my priests cannot?” Sephiran gestured to his temple. “You are but one man. Why should I take you to my service?” The Abrahamite, with his dark skin, set down his bag. He walked carefully past Sephiran, to where a half-prepared column was laying on the ground, a massive slab of granite that was as wide around a Sephiran himself was.
The man stooped, bent over, carefully wrapped his arms around the stone, and lifted. For a moment, Sephiran was afraid he might have fainted from the effort, but he lifted higher, and the stone came up off of the ground. He held it in his arms, and turned to look back at Sephiran.
There was sweat on his brow and on his arms, and he was panting for breath.
“I can do this.”
Sephiran felt something stir in his bones. Desire. Want. Amun had truly told him correctly, called them together. “Put it down. Come in, and I will clothe you.”
The man put the stone down. He picked up his bag, and followed Sephiran into the temple.
Abrahamites were not to go into the service of other gods. The man, with his dark skin and his pale eyes, did not worship Amun. He worshipped Sephiran instead. He called himself Zelgius, of Nubia, his mother from the land to the North, of the One God. Zelgius followed Sephiran everywhere, did whatever he asked. He slept on the floor outside his chamber at night, guarded him. Other priests whispered about how it was not right. Sephiran did not know whether or not it was. Amun had meant for this, had meant for this man, and this man’s own God had said the same.
It was two months after he had come, now with sandals and a real kilt, a comb for his coarse hair, that Zelgius came to Sephiran’s chamber one night when he was writing a letter to his brother, the God On Earth, the Netjer Nefer, the Pharaoh of North and South, the Sunrise and the Sunset, telling him of the messages that Amun had sent, the construction of his brother’s new pylon.
For a long time, Zelgius stood, waiting, his hands folded in front of him, until Sephiran had carefully dried the ink and rolled his papyrus, cleaned his brush, and handed the letter to a slave to seal and send down the river in the morning, before he at last looked at Zelgius.
“What do you wish from me, Zelgius of the Abrahamites?” He stayed very still, and after a moment, lowered his head.
“I would wish to learn to write, my Master.” He had never called Sephiran by his name. “If I may be taught.”
“You are not a scribe,” Sephiran replied, “Nor are you a stonecutter. Why should I teach you?”
“I would be a scribe for you,” Zelgius replied. “I would be a stonecutter for you. Teach me and I will work for you.” He watched Sephiran, with his pale eyes, and Sephiran felt the fire inside him that his Lord had seen fit to light flare.
“What can you give me in return, for so great a gift?” Zelgius watched him, carefully, and whispered,
“Anything, my Master. Whatever you so ask of me.” His bright eyes were hot, his gaze burned against Zelgius’ skin like the sun would, when he stood in its light for too long without shade. They watched each other, and Sephiran wished, wanted.
He understood, now, why Seth had so wanted Horus, the desire of his loins. Sephiran understood why he would risk his winning for a simple need of the flesh.
Sephiran stood, carefully. He whispered, “Leave us,” to his two slaves, standing silently, and they left his rooms, closing the thatch door inside. Zelgius watched him, and Sephiran could see the man’s chest heaving for breath, his muscles held extremely still.
When they were alone, Sephiran carefully unbuttoned his thin linen night robe, and let it fall from his shoulders to rest by his feet. The cool wind from outside blew through his window, raised bumps on his skin, slicked with sweat and desire. He breathed shallow and quick, and Zelgius watched him, his mouth half-open, eyes bright.
“I wish to know,” Sephiran whispered, his throat hoarse, “What it means to lay with you as a man.” Given permission at last to move, Zelgius walked carefully forward, his hands shaking, and reached for Sephiran’s waist. His fingers were hot, like a brand, burning against Sephiran’s skin. He quaked with desire, want, for this dark-skinned man with his bright, bright eyes.
“I would,” Zelgius’ voice cracked, his fingers trembling against Sephiran’s skin, “Wish to know that as well. If you would let me.”
“I would let you,” Sephiran watched him, watched his eyes, and when they kissed, he wondered if this was what it was like, to follow Ra into the sun every morning, to know what it was like to rule the afterlife.
He knew not what men could find in other men, but he learned, they learned together, and in the morning, Sephiran moved Zelgius’ things into his rooms, and dared anyone to question him, him, the chosen of their God On Earth, the Loved of Amun. The Loved of Amun was loved again by another, and he would not dare send Zelgius away.
For three years, they shared a bed, warm in the coolness of the nights. For three years, Sephiran knew what it meant for his body to sing the praises to the Gods, just as his soul did. He knew what men could have with each other, what love could be, and thanked that his jealous brother had sent him to serve Amun more every day.
It was a quiet, simple affair. He was too important to harm, to respond to. He protected Zelgius by his presence.
And then, his brother came, in all his regalia, riding astride a chariot, and Sephiran met him at the gates to Karnak. How could so brothers be so different, one glittering in gold and jewels with skin the colour of the life-giving mud of the nile, with eyes like silt, and one as pale and slender as the willow, with his dark hair like the wings of a crow, his eyes like the sky at noon.
“Brother,” Sephiran greeted him, cool and aloof. “You have come to us.” His brother stepped down off of his chariot, his gold glittering in the sunlight, and stood in front of him. It had always bothered him that Sephiran, younger, half-blooded, was taller than he, the God was. “Do you wish to see your building here?”
“No,” his brother stared past him. “I have heard you….have,” he spat the word, a curse, a hated thing. “An Abrahamite here, one strong enough to lift stones. Is this true?”
Sephiran’s hackles rose, and he straightened, haughty, stared down his long nose at his brother. Pharaoh may be a God On Earth, but he was the chosen of Amun, loved by the sun. No Pharaoh could ever show his ability to govern without his priest. “I do,” he replied. “He is here in my employ, under my protection. Why?”
“I have need of him. I will buy him from you.”
“He is free, and is not yours to be bought or sold. He is not my slave.” Sephiran scowled at his brother, cruel and selfish. “He came to me of his own accord. He will leave when he wishes to, and no sooner.”
“It is not for debate, if he is slave or free.” His brother tapped his crook against his upper arm and frowned, the creases by his mouth wrinkling. He had ruled now for seven years, and had yet to defeat any enemy, or even be properly pious. It was only a matter of time before Amun frowned upon him. “I need him for my army. We are to fight the Nubians, and I have need of a giant of massive strength.”
“If you wish him to go with you, you must ask him yourself, brother. I am not his owner, I am not his spokesperson.” Sephiran stood his ground, and at last, his brother scowled, and stormed past Sephiran into the temple.
“Then I will ask him myself.”
Sephiran stood, and waited, sure of Zelgius, sure of his brother, waited for him to come back out—and come out he did, face furious and flaming. He stopped beside Sephiran and snarled, “You will feel my Lordly wrath,” and serene, Sephiran watched him back, unperturbed.
“I am the Chosen of Amun, my brother. Do not forget that I can end you as easy as breathing.” His brother spat at his feet and stormed away in his chariot, his shoulders hunched and angry, and Sephiran was vindicated in his knowledge of his power.
They came that night, quiet, and deadly. The morning showed five slaves dead, and three other priests. They broke into Sephiran’s rooms, and Zelgius killed eight with his bare hands in nothing but his skin before they subdued him with ropes and dragged him from the room.
The last Sephiran ever saw of Zelgius was his fearsome eyes, burning with anger, pale as the moon in the darkness, bound and gagged and wrestling against his captors, bleeding, to escape to protect his Master.
And then the club struck Sephiran on the temple, and everything went dark for a long time.
His brother returned from Nubia with over three thousand men dead and one arm missing. He delivered Zelgius’ remains to Sephiran in a box, without his expression ever changing. There had been no time to mummify him, to give him the rights of their people, or to bury him in the linen of his One God.
He was a half-rotted skull and bones.
He had died, said Sephiran’s brother, of being struck by an enemy chariot, a warrior until the last.
Sephiran knew, deep in his heart, that his love had been worked to death for the strength in his arms for his brother’s selfish desires. He sat there on the sand and held the box, cried his anguish to the heavens, until his brother, disgusted at the spectacle, mounted his chariot, and turned away.
“I curse you!” Sephiran screamed at his back, hoarse and hateful. “I curse you, and all this land! I curse you for your thwarted ambition.” His brother began to drive away, and Sephiran raised his voice higher, “By the love Amun gave me, I curse your kingdom! There will be drought in this land, and no food or water for you, until you pay your penance due, brother!” The God On Earth looked back at Sephiran, bent and broken in the sand, holding the box that was his lover. “The Nile will not flood! The plants will not grow! Your people will starve, my brother, until you have suffered for the suffering you have caused!” The wind whipped, caught sand in his hair and against his linen clothes. “You will suffer, my brother, as I have suffered, as I will suffer!”
His brother stared at him, and sneered.
“I am the Morning and the Evening Star, and you are what, brother? A priest, given your position. You are loved of no God.”
He rode away, and left Sephiran there for one of his priests to come get, to lift him and tug him back inside, holding his box like it could bring back Zelgius, who had never done any wrong but to love him.
For four years, the Nile did not flood. The rains did not come. The people starved, from the Delta to the Cliffs. Nothing grew. Nothing flourished. They wailed for solace, cried to their God-King for redemption, and Sephiran starved and watched, gaunt and dying, from his temple. He waited. He held the box of his beloved on his lap, and waited.
In the fifth year, his brother came and fell at his feet. His once healthy body had begun to decay. There were deep circles under his eyes. “Please,” his brother whispered, “Please lift our curse. Let my people be fed again.”
“They were not your people,” Sephiran whispered to him, “When you killed them in battle for ambition. They will never be your people.” His fingers, long and clawed now, with nails like talons, curled into the wood that his brother had given to him like it could heal his wounds. “You will die, and the rains will come back. When you die, the Nile will flood. The Lord Amun has no love for you, for your cruelty.” His brother cried against the stone of the floor, and Sephiran felt no remorse, felt no fear, felt no love. “When you come to me in a box, the crops will flourish, and I will set them free.”
The Perfect God left his presence, and Sephiran watched, in his mind’s eye, his brother slit his own throat deep in the darkness of his royal palace. His brother’s remains came to him locked in a wooden box, not mummified, not buried.
In the sixth year, the Nile flooded once again. The rains came. The crops flourished. The sands blew back into the desert.
In the sixth year, the High Priest of Amun drowned himself in the Nile flood.