“How is it?” Rong Mian withdrew his hand, looking at the solemn-faced medical officer, and could not help asking out loud.
Even after leaving, Titmos had still responsibly sent a physician to examine him, though he indeed needed one.
Shortly after tossing and turning through heaven and earth with Titmos, he had felt a dull, stabbing pain in his lower abdomen. Sitting on a stool dressed in his thin inner gauze robe, the medical officer had observed him for a moment before cautiously speaking: “High Priest, how long have you been in this condition?”
Rong Mian paused slightly. “Just these past few days.”
The physician carefully studied the person’s brows and eyes before him, noble, aloof, and usually so high above that people wouldn’t even dare lift their heads to look directly at him. Such a noble person actually possessed such a unique constitution.
Thinking of the rumors previously circulating in the palace, now that he thought about it, they were likely true.
The physician became even more cautious, not daring to be negligent as he lowered his head and weighed his words: “The High Priest’s body is special. Since the child is not yet full-term, you still need to rest well and avoid any stimulation.”
Rong Mian looked at him and smiled: “So it is still unstable, is that right?”
Didn’t they always say the first three months of pregnancy were the most dangerous period, and things would only gradually stabilize after that?
Reading the expression on his face, the physician thought that even if the High Priest was otherworldly and had conceived a child, he remained neither sorrowful nor joyful, truly able to withstand the wind and rain and weather the tides.
“As long as you do not do anything emotional, after three months it generally stabilizes. However,”
The physician paused in thought and added another sentence: “I have special herbal pills here that can secure the fetus. If the High Priest needs them, I can bring them to you later.”
A glint of light flashed in Rong Mian’s eyes, and he immediately said: “Very well.”
Finally, he looked at the physician and stepped forward: “For now, my situation must not be told to anyone.”
His voice was very soft and pleasing to the ear, yet it sent a slight numbness through the physician’s ears. Anyone.
Who would ever dare probe into the High Priest’s affairs?
A little bit of thought made it clear that this anyone actually referred to a single person.
Could it be that even after conceiving a child, he wouldn’t let the King know?
What exactly was the situation between the two of them?
The physician’s heart skipped a beat, while a stampede of horses galloped and leaped in his chest. Why wouldn’t the High Priest let the King know?
This thought swirled and lingered around him, nearly driving the physician crazy with anxiety. He wanted to listen, he wanted to gossip, but he didn’t dare shoot his mouth off.
All his curiosity finally melted into a reluctant, respectful response: “Understood.”
After sending the physician away, Rong Mian couldn’t possibly fall asleep. When he returned from the royal tombs two days ago, he had felt that something was amiss with his body, and it was indeed as he had suspected.
Fortunately, Titmos was currently unaware of this, which bought him some breathing room.
Thinking of the unknown little life vigorously growing inside his abdomen right now, this wondrous and warm feeling instantly swept through his entire body. Rong Mian reached out to touch it. Whether it was a boy or a girl, he felt that he wasn’t fighting alone in this world anymore; there was someone who would forge the most intimate relationship with him in this realm.
He needed to roll out his plan and leave this place quickly.
Rong Mian had already made up his mind long ago not to let Titmos manipulate him anymore, and this resolve was only firmer now.
When he fell asleep shortly before, he had vaguely heard someone reporting to Titmos that the envoys from Mitanni would arrive in a few days.
Rong Mian’s dark eyes flashed with calculation. He had finally waited for them.
Inside the South Palace.
Wenger looked sickly, his face burning red. Opening his eyes to look at the man by the bed, he weakly attempted to get up: “Brother.”
Titmos signaled for him to lie back down, his expression gentle: “What is wrong?”
He had lost a whole circle of weight in just a few days of not seeing him.
“It is probably because I caught the cold night wind. It is nothing.”
Wenger’s appearance was sickly, but upon seeing Titmos, his entire demeanor became much more spirited. The gloom between his brows faded, replaced by a soft layer of familial warmth.
“Before our late father passed away, he told me to take good care of you.” Titmos raised a hand and gently rubbed his forehead. The youth’s skin was warm and soft, though his face was flushed red from a rapid, high fever. The moment his hand made contact, he was startled by the heat.
“Physician.”
The physician stepped forward cautiously, terrified of annoying him.
“What is wrong with the Second Prince?”
The physician glanced at the person on the bed, bent his waist, and said: “It is likely that the night wind was chilly, causing him to catch a cold.”
He certainly didn’t dare speak nonsense, and could only follow along with Wenger’s narrative. Where Titmos could not see, the physician’s small, round eyes sharply caught the relaxation on the face of the person lying on the bed, as well as the gloom that flashed momentarily across the depths of his eyes.
“Brother, do not make things difficult for the physician. I am fine. Cough, cough.”
As he spoke, Wenger couldn’t help covering his mouth due to a dry, burning thirst, his voice hoarse, and a sweat breaking out across his back from coughing.
Seeing this, Titmos said: “Medicine.”
The physician immediately brought over the brewed medicine. Titmos took it and considerately scooped up a spoonful. Moisture welled up in Wenger’s eyes, carrying a faint, restrained excitement: “When I was sick as a child, Brother used to feed me just like this.”
The two of them involuntarily recalled the days they spent as playmates in the past. In front of the wide pool before the royal palace, they would climb date palms; everything had been so innocent and loving.
Now that they had grown up, Titmos, as the successor, had endless affairs of state to manage and endless wars to fight in order to temper himself. In the blink of an eye, the two of them actually saw less and less of each other, though fortunately their bond remained unchanged.
After finishing his medicine, Wenger looked at Titmos with a smile: “Brother, I have a gift to give you.”
He had wanted to present it back at the temple, but at the time he felt the timing wasn’t right. Now, he no longer wished to wait; he had prepared it quite a long time ago.
Titmos looked at the exquisite little gift box and was momentarily stunned. This younger brother of his simply loved preparing gifts for him. Ever since they were children, whenever he returned from outside, he would receive a precious box personally handed over by Wenger.
What was today’s gift?
Titmos glanced at him and opened the box. Inside lay a square, pure gold-crafted brooch.
It was decorated with gold and gemstones, and the inner carving of the brooch depicted the scene where the gods Amun and Horus purified the new king during his coronation ceremony. The figures were carved with lifelike precision, vibrant in color, and truly peerless.
“It was originally supposed to be given to you before your ascension, but it was delayed until now. You won’t blame me, will you?”
A tender smile appeared at the corners of Titmos’s lips: “How could I? Anything you give me, Brother likes.”
Titmos put away the box and looked at him: “I like it very much. Thank you, Wenger.”
Born into the royal family, having genuine affection between brothers was an extravagant luxury. He was very fortunate that although he and Wenger shared different mothers, this did not hinder their bond. He lowered his head and dropped a kiss onto Wenger’s forehead.
“Get some rest. Once you are better, we will go hunting.”
As those soft lips fell, ripples stirred within Wenger’s heart. He nodded, joy uncontainable in his eyes.
He knew that Titmos held a place for him in his heart. They had grown up together and played together; the bond between them was not something just anyone could replace.
Titmos exchanged a few more intimate words before leaving.
After he left, the physician stood there looking at Wenger, doing his best to mask his awkwardness as he trembled slightly and said: “Second Prince, then this minister will also take his leave.”
Wenger had already sat up. Gone was the weakness he had shown while Titmos was present, replaced by a soft, gloomy tone: “Thank you to the physician today.”
With that, he gave a look, and Sael stepped forward to place a string of gold coins into the physician’s palm. The physician’s little heart nearly exploded with fright, and he hastily knelt to express his gratitude to Wenger.
Once the physician had departed, Sael draped a robe over Wenger’s shoulders. Wenger got out of bed, put on his shoes, and walked to the window. Seeing this, Sael could not help saying: “Even if you wanted to see the King, you shouldn’t have used such a method. It is too harmful to your health.”
Wenger glanced at him, a stubborn obsession in his eyes: “Brother always goes to the High Priest’s place; I can’t just run into him by coincidence every single day, can I?”
If he wanted to see him, he had to think of another way. Manufacturing moments of time alone between himself and Titmos was truly not easy.
Yesterday, he had instructed Sael to let him soak in cold water all night long. With the night wind blowing and the water droplets on his skin refusing to dry, he had simply stood right in the path of the draft for an entire evening. Naturally, he fell ill today just as he had wished.
The facts proved that his gamble had paid off. When he fell ill and had the news spread through the palace, Titmos came as soon as he found out. They gained time to spend alone, and the gift he had meticulously crafted was successfully handed over to the other party.
Wenger felt thoroughly satisfied. Being soaked in cold water didn’t seem like such an unbearable thing after all.
Sael frowned, a hint of heartache in his eyes. He knew that the Second Prince’s attachment to the Eldest Prince had long since surpassed normal fraternal affection, but he was powerless to stop it. He had been rescued by the Second Prince; whatever the person before him wished to do, he would support him with all his might.
If he could bear it in his place, Sael would rather have been the one drenched in cold water all night.
“The physician has likely seen through the clues. You should do this less often in the future.”
If the matter were exposed, it might damage the affection between him and the King.
“So what if he figured it out? Does he dare speak the truth to Brother?”
Wenger raised a hand, waving it idly in the lamp’s light. Through the gaps between his fingers, he watched the trees, flowers, and buildings shimmering faintly outside the window, his voice light and playful: “If he dares to speak nonsense, I will kill him.”
With that, a pleased smile curved across Wenger’s lips. Dressed in his gorgeous outer robe, he turned around and danced barefoot upon the thick carpet. The night wind whipped his long robes into swirling flight, giving him the sickly, ethereal beauty of a sprite stepping out of a painting.
Seeing this, Sael sighed silently, hoping that whatever the Second Prince sought, he would attain.
“Tomorrow, accompany me to the Karnak Temple. I am going to make offerings.”
As the dance concluded, he walked outward, speaking to the person behind him without looking back.
Sael nodded.
Three days later.
The Mitannian envoys entered the royal city in a grand and imposing procession.
Eamon led the heads of the hundred officials to welcome them outside the city walls. Mitanni was situated far away from Egypt, yet it was the most prosperous nation outside of Egypt. Their new king, Bhusis, led an invincible army that swept across all before him, leaving no blade of grass in his wake. He had doubled Mitanni’s territorial area in the shortest possible time, turning this rising power into a presence that even Egypt, on the other side of the desert, had to weigh and consider carefully.
Standing there, Eamon watched the carriage procession approach, while Sakara stood off to one side in full general’s attire, holding a treasured sword with an air of proud, solitary aloofness.
The palace had long since been festooned with colorful lanterns and silk banners, grandly and luxuriously prepared to welcome the friendly foreign delegation.
Inside the Temple of Priests.
Aka was busily dressing Rong Mian, bustling about: “High Priest, I heard that for this diplomatic visit, the King of Mitanni didn’t even come himself, but instead just sent a trusted subordinate. They really don’t put us in their eyes at all.”
No matter how one looked at it, Egypt was currently the most powerful nation in the region; the King of Mitanni certainly had a mighty ego.
Aka knew that in the past when neighboring countries sent envoys to visit, subjugated nations would send either princes or the monarch in person. Now Mitanni had simply dispatched a minister. Upon learning this, Aka had turned into a miniature ball of indignation, feeling that his own home had been slighted.
Rong Mian smiled and shook his head: “It doesn’t matter who they send, as long as they come with sincerity.”
If Egypt and Mitanni could turn hostility into friendship and sign a peace treaty following this visit, it would naturally benefit the peoples of both nations. But if talks broke down, they would likely face fire and water ahead. The King of Mitanni styled himself noble; sending a minister wasn’t entirely unacceptable, it just depended on the attitude the delegation displayed during this visit.
“Use this champagne-colored belt.” Rong Mian looked forward. Aka picked up a white belt, immediately put it back down, and swapped it for a champagne one.
“Tonight’s banquet will reveal what they are truly after.” A smile played at the corners of Rong Mian’s lips. He wasn’t worried; Mitanni’s visit would last at least a week, and a week was more than enough time for him to think of a way to leave.
And once he stepped outside the city gates of Thebes, wherever he went would be his own choice.
Rong Mian had been calculating this for days. He had already reviewed all the neighboring nations on the map.
If the two countries made peace, he could go to Mitanni to lie low and have the child. If relations soured, once outside the city, he could find a way to detour to the neighboring country of Punt; its lands were wealthy, its customs exceptionally open, and it warmly welcomed foreigners.
Rong Mian’s inner calculations clicked away merrily. While Aka chattered on about Mitanni matters, Rong Mian raised an eyebrow, full of anticipation for this visit.