By nightfall, a raging storm was ravaging the desert township of Zawte, and it was impossible even to see the tip of one's nose in the dense curtains of whirling sand. Not that anybody was outside to check if they could still see their conk, but everybody could hear the fierce winds roaring through the settlement, rattling the roofs of the thatched cottages, clanking the chains on the whipping post, and see the occasion flap of a piece of debris torn free from, perhaps, a tent or one of the thatched huts tearing past his tiny window.

  Simon lay wide awake in his chamber, rolling restlessly, sleeplessly from one side to the other, as thoughts raged inside him like the sandstorm did outside. It was impossible to expel the images and impressions of Khmun from his head: The mutilated man; the mutinous atmosphere of the crowd; and the ugly, vindictive, sickening smile of Set as his sword tore apart his challenger. They, and the horrible thought that he himself had been wrong all along, kept creeping into his mind. Not wrong about everything, mind, but certainly misguided about how far one should go to reach one's goals before it was too far.

  Of course, riots had to be quelled somehow and the population kept in line by an iron hand, but was it really necessary to eradicate all those opposing? Especially considering that the only crime they had committed was their own opinion, and their desire to keep worshipping and praying to those gods they chose? Surely there had to be a difference between a downright riot and the right to express one's opinion?

  This posed the question why Set had chosen to visit Khmun, which was the cult center of Thoth, in the first place. Had it been deliberate? Had Set known the citizens of Khmun would not be as lenient as those in Zawte, an outpost built by and for his own son, Anubis? Almost as though he were looking to convert everyone, strip other gods of their influence.

  Well, thought Simon, that was the point of a dictatorship, wasn't it? And it wasn't as though he were a valiant about to rescue ancient Egypt, a great selfless hero, either … He didn't even hope to be anything like that … All he really cared about was going home… And this was still ancient Egypt, the sixth dynasty... It didn't really matter what happened here, more than three millennia in the past, not to him, a citizen of the twenty-first century, anyway.

  So why did the events he had witnessed make him feel this tense and ill at ease?

  Despite his seething mind, Simon must have fallen asleep at some point, because he was woken rather abruptly by a loud bang in front of his door, accompanied by a rather overwhelming smell of sticky blood, sweat, and horse, and followed by the footfalls of heavy boots and a clanking of armour.

  Simon rose slightly from the covers, listening closely to the noise. Could it be Set, returning from whereever he had been this evening? Surely enough, as the footsteps passed his door, he could hear the unpleasantly familiar voice through the wood, though there was nothing of its usual softness in it.

  Following a sudden impulse, Simon clambered out of bed, put on his glasses and a sweater, and then edged closer to the door. Set was obviously angry about something, though the indignation in his words remained covert. A moment later, however, the agitated voice of his host grew faint, and silence fell yet again.

  Acting on instinct yet again, Simon opened the door of his chamber and peered outside. There was a cool sort of light on the other end of the broad corridor, bobbing up and down before it disappeared around the corner. Though he couldn't have told exactly why, the setup seemed peculiar to him. What was Set doing? Who was he talking to? It was the tone of voice, the subdued anger, that intrigued him most. What kind of person would Set be addressing in such a voice, as though he didn't dare letting the whole of his fury leak?

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He really ought to go back to bed, forget what he had seen, heard, and thought... He wasn't even the type for nighttime adventures and dangerous exploits...

  But this hardly counted as a normal circumstance, did it?

  He glanced up and down the corridor, saw, just in time, another blob of light approaching from the opposite side of where Set had vanished, ducked hastily back into his room, and quietly drew the door shut.

  A pair of rhythmic footsteps was coming down the corridor, stopped in front of his door (Simon's heart skipped a beat.), so that he could hear the hissing noises apophi made (Simon shuddered, holding his breath, thinking, for one wild moment, that they would be able to hear his being awake), then moved on (Simon breathed again).

  Simon waited at the door for several minutes, then opened it again and slipped outside. He could still see the bead of light rocking to and fro at the end of the aisle, and he followed it stealthily into a part of the Temple of Anubis he had never been to before.

  The next corridor lay in complete darkness except for an open doorway on the left, through which shone the same cool, blueish light Set had carried past his chamber, and the flickering beam of the torch in the apophis' hands in front of him.

  He watched the patrolling guards recede from sight around another corridor, then edged closer to the doorway on the left, and peered around its frame into the room behind. He caught a quick glance of Set's broad shoulders, still in full armour, and the god's hands, holding something round and glowing. If this hadn't been ancient Egypt, Simon might have assumed the device was a computer screen. Whatever it was, however, Set was talking animately and urgently into it, as though it were a telephone.

  Judging by the tone of the god's voice, there was something important going on, and Simon, his mind made up more quickly than usual, wouldn't miss it.

  He looked around the corridor furtively and quickly spotted, next to the doorway, a large vase from which spilled a variety of broad-leafed plants tall enough to conceal him if he crouched. He ducked in between the ornament and the wall, covered himself with the overhanging greens, and held his breath, delighted to find that he could hear every word spoken inside the room clearly.

  “It seems to me that, perhaps, you are reluctant to act, considering what I ask of you?” demanded a voice Simon had never heard before. It was but a high-pitched hissing sound, not unlike the air being let out of a balloon, yet definitely male. He imagined its owner as a small, thin man with the face of a rat.

  Set, in his turn, made a spitting, sputtering noise like an angry parrot.

  “If it was for me, he would have died millennia ago!”

  “So how come he is still alive?” prompted the other voice in mock surprise, making it plain that its owner already knew the answer but couldn't resist taunting Set.

  “He – I – He is as slippery as a fish! He keeps eluding capture, beyond my control …” Set spluttered. “But I am certain it was him this time!”

  It was the first time Simon had heard the god's voice lose its silkiness and rigid control, making him even more interested in the owner of the hissing voice. Who could possibly make a powerful deity, a great general, such as Set, uncomfortable to the point where he began to stutter?

  “Or is it perhaps because he is your nephew?” suggested the thin voice shrewdly.

  “Never! How dare you imply – ” Set took a deep, ragged breath, composing himself as chuckling sounds came from the glowing device. “He – the child – means nothing to me, nothing!”

  “Then I expect immediate results.” The voice had adopted a commanding, ugly undertone.

  “Yes, of course,” said Set, sounding now as sullen as Horus, speaking with his teeth grit tightly together and grinding against each other. “It will be done at once.”

  “Now, what about the boy?” snarled the voice then.

  Simon felt his heart lurch. Were they talking about him? What were the odds that there was another boy they could be talking about?