The night breeze blew gently, and the clear moon hung high by the window. The mottled shadows of the fig tree branches and leaves were cast upon the limestone mud walls inside the palace. In the dark of night, the tree shadows swayed, their illusory forms shaking all the way from the skylight of the Grand High Priest’s bedroom to that wide plank bed.
Just a few steps away on the other side of the bed stood a square table. Rong Mian held a stack of official documents, reading through them meticulously. The new king had not yet officially ascended the throne, and many matters fell upon the Priesthood. These past few days, he had been busy preparing the funeral arrangements for the late king while also handling administrative affairs for government ministers and various regions, keeping him exceedingly busy.
Wild birds called outside the window. Whenever the deep hours of the night arrived, there would always be a stretch of time spent in hoarse and mournful cries. Rong Mian shook his head, sniffing a wisp of wind drifting in from the outside. Thebes was nestled in the desert, and the temperature difference between morning and evening was extremely vast. Sitting at his desk right now, he even had to drape a thick fur cloak over his shoulders.
“Akka, water.”
Out of habit, whenever he needed something, he would call out for that young page. Having read half of the documents, Rong Mian’s throat was dry and parched. Just as his voice trailed off, a porcelain cup was decisively handed over from the side, which Rong Mian accepted without looking.
This was herbal tea brewed from raspberry berries, refreshing and pleasant to the senses, with a sweet taste upon entry. After finishing it, Rong Mian could not help praising, “You do not need to wait upon me for the rest of the night. Go back and rest.”
This child should still be growing, and Rong Mian felt bad keeping him on service all the time.
Shortly after he finished speaking, he heard a silent, low chuckle. The sound was not loud, but it caused Rong Mian’s eardrums to vibrate along with it. Recognizing that familiar sound, he immediately raised his head to meet those hazel eyes, nearly spitting out the herbal tea he had just swallowed.
Titmos.
Why was he in his room this late?
“You, Your Highness?” Why had he come?
Rong Mian was weeping tears of blood inside. He grew irritable the moment he saw this man now, and having finally recovered his physical condition, he had no desire to have any further entanglements with him.
Holding the porcelain cup, Titmos stared at him, “The Grand High Priest is so devoted to his duties. What time is it now? Are you planning to have me issue you a medal for industriousness and self-improvement after I ascend the throne?”
Rong Mian sneered internally. Who cared about your medal?
Outwardly, however, he smiled harmlessly, “Official duties demand it. This subject dares not claim fatigue, much less invite merit.”
“Is the Grand High Priest’s next sentence going to be that working for me is your honor?”
Rong Mian cursed under his breath, looking at that obnoxious attitude of his.
On the surface, he still smiled respectfully, “It is indeed this subject’s good fortune.”
Upon hearing this, Titmos nodded, “Since that is the case, I must fulfill your wish.”
Titmos set down the bowl and slowly leaned in close to Rong Mian. The Grand High Priest, holding the scrolls, possessed an artistic sort of beauty. Amidst the quiet atmosphere of the surroundings, Rong Mian’s brows and eyes were veiled in a misty hazy glow by the flickering candlelight. With his jade-like complexion, crystal-clear and icy posture, he resembled clear cold frost and pure fragrance, his cool and aloof demeanor radiating an enchanting and stunning allure. Like the flickering candlelight, Titmos’s heart stirred as he suddenly reached out, snatched the papyrus scroll right out of Rong Mian’s hands, weighed it in his palm, and wore an unreadable smile.
A moment later.
Titmos sat in Rong Mian’s original seat, holding the book the other had been reading just before. After scanning through it effortlessly, he drawled slowly, “The Grand High Priest even made marks on every single paragraph. Your handwriting is as refined and elegant as you yourself.”
His magnetic voice echoed throughout the bedroom. Rong Mian knelt on the reed cushion, his head being held down and rubbed back and forth. He was already cursing the man to death in his heart. He let out a couple of muffled sounds, his shoulders trembling. Looking over the documents, Titmos remained as elegant as ever, “The Grand High Priest need not be modest. In Thebes, no one dares to deny your capabilities.”
Rong Mian was nearly choked to death. His knees rubbed back and forth on the grass cushion, and his throat felt blocked, unable to squeeze out a single complete word. Satisfied, Titmos looked down at him. His pitch-black hair draped like a waterfall over his luxurious robes, with a single strand trailing gracefully down to the floor.
Footsteps approached from the doorway. Rong Mian’s body stiffened, and Titmos’s brows tightened sharply, “Who is there?”
Holding a lunar chart, Userkaf strolled in quietly, only to freeze upon seeing the man before him, “Your… Your Highness?”
He had come to find the Grand High Priest, never expecting to run straight into the eldest prince upon entering. Why wasn’t he resting at this hour, and why would he appear in the Priesthood?
Userkaf’s hand holding the lunar chart trembled twice, his words coming out broken and disjointed, “I… I came to… find… find the Grand High Priest… to file a report.”
His sentence came out stammered, and the sweat beads on Rong Mian’s forehead grew even denser, winding down his cheek all the way to his neck, finally dripping onto Titmos’s leg and soaking a patch of fabric.
Titmos waved his hand, “The Grand High Priest is feeling unwell. Come back and see him tomorrow.”
With that, he signaled for him to leave immediately.
Frowning, Userkaf looked ahead. Through a layer of curtains, he could vaguely make out a dark, crouching figure positioned in front of the eldest prince at the rectangular desk. Userkaf wanted to say something, but Titmos’s face looked frighteningly gloomy. Stuttering with a completely blank mind, unable to utter a single coherent word, he bowed in a salute, set the lunar chart aside, and backed out.
His pace wasn’t very steady as he left. Having risen all the way through the ranks from the commoner class, Rong Mian was his confidant and the sole reason for his current glorious status; Rong Mian was the person he respected most. Yet, in the dead of night, the eldest prince had appeared inside his confidant’s room, and that dark, hunched silhouette… Userkaf suddenly felt a chill run down his spine. He must have seen wrong.
As he backed out, his robe caught on the threshold due to his rushed steps, making him stumble clumsily, though that was far from his primary concern tonight.
Tonight, the moon was bright and the stars were sparse, making it truly an unsuitable night for wandering outside.
After the person left, Rong Mian leaned against the corner of the desk, coughing dryly. Titmos considerately handed him a brocade handkerchief, which he took to hastily wipe his mouth.
Seeing Rong Mian’s little face flushed red and thin sweat beading like rain on the bridge of his nose, Titmos remained completely unruffled. Closing the paper scroll, he looked at Rong Mian with the utmost care and concern characteristic of a leader addressing a subordinate, “The nights are chilly, and the Grand High Priest should close his windows in time. If you catch a cold and fall ill, there won’t be a soul qualified to offer prayers at my ascension ceremony.”
The rough sensation in Rong Mian’s throat remained, and his voice was already more than half-hoarse. Titmos certainly knew how to put on an act—who exactly had caused this non-stop coughing of his in the first place? Coming here in the middle of the night to drive him mad, Rong Mian felt a mix of anger and hatred in his heart, “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. This subject will certainly take good care of his health and pray for you as scheduled.”
“I have high hopes for you.” Titmos patted his shoulder with full appreciation.
Rong Mian almost wanted to leap up and smash him to death with the bowl on the table. He felt terribly impatient: Hurry up and get lost.
He was beginning to regret his decision to stay and fight it out. If he had known better, he should have planned an escape back at the late king’s tomb—it would have been far safer than this.
Titmos was absolute trash.
After the man left, Rong Mian let out a fierce, silent scoff from his nasal passages. He needed to figure out a way—he must find a way to end this inhumane treatment.
At the entrance.
Imhotep stood amidst the permeating night, watching Titmos emerge from within. A flash of surprise crossed his eyes, and then he lowered his voice, “The Great Queen’s side remains quiet, but there is a border dispatch report.” With that, he drew a confidential report from his sleeve and presented it.
Titmos took it, his brows and eyes cold and lucid. The two of them walked side by side along the corridor of the Priesthood, “The monarch of Canaan has always submitted to Egypt. During the late king’s lifetime, they paid annual tribute without ever falling behind. Now that the old king has left, they actually dare to lift their tails high.”
Imhotep let out a disdainful scoff, a sharp, icy chill concealed within his gentle brows and eyes.
“Our men report that recently Canaan has been intentionally or unintentionally contacting King Mitanni of the Levant region, likely harboring thoughts of betrayal.” Imhotep detested such two-faced people the most; beginning without an end was his absolute pet peeve.
“Mitanni has always been our heartland threat. Canaan is merely a small city-state, eating our food while siding with outsiders. So be it, one less won’t matter.” Since they chose to become his enemy, they couldn’t blame him. Titmos’s eyes flashed with a gloomy ruthlessness in the night, resembling a wolf on the wasteland hiding no malice whatsoever.
“Right now, the most important thing is to smoothly hold the Prince’s ascension ceremony. As for this traitor, there’s no rush to punish him right this second.” Imhotep took the confidential letter from Titmos’s hand, his eyes filled with contempt.
Titmos nodded, then suddenly seemed to recall something. A smile broke across his cold, sharp face. Speaking of which, there was only one day left until his grand day of ascension. Thinking about how that distant yet delicate face would once again be forced to put on a deeply joyful expression while reciting the prayer blessings for him put Titmos in a remarkably good mood.
“Have the men in Sakkara keep watching. There’s likely a tough battle to fight ahead, so tell his troops to stay diligent with their drills lately,” Titmos said calmly.
Imhotep nodded. As he watched Titmos leave, a lingering doubt suddenly surfaced in his heart. His prince had just emerged from the Grand High Priest’s quarters, reminding him of the rumors circulating the day before about how the Grand High Priest and the prince had held a private discussion throughout the entire night inside the prince’s bedchamber.
Could it be that while he was busy handling errands, he had truly missed something significant?