Free Sting of the Scorpion by Carole Wilkinson

He would have known Vizier Wersu’s voice anywhere. The vizier had slipped into the corridor and crept up behind Ramose without him realising.
    “Fetch me a goblet of wine,” ordered the vizier as he swept noiselessly into the pharaoh’s quarters.
    Ramose bowed his head even lower as he turned and went towards the kitchens. He knew the way from his childhood. When he was small he’d liked to go there and watch the bread being made. The servants would make special cakes for him shaped like animals. As he’d gotten older, he’d stopped going there. Instead, he’d sent Heria to return dishes untouched when he’d demanded something bigger, better or entirely different. He still remembered the way to the kitchens, though.
    No one questioned him. He tried to stop his hands from shaking as he filled a jar with wine and returned to his father’s quarters. He held the jar before him and the guards lowered their daggers and let him pass.
    He entered the pharaoh’s audience hall. It was smaller than the ceremonial western hall, but still impressive. The floor was painted blue to represent a pool covered with lotus pads and flowers. Fish and frogs swam in the water. Painted ducks paddled around the edges. It was beautiful. The columns in this room were more slender and made of wood. Their tops were carved in the shape of lotus buds. On the ceiling, a painting of a huge vulture with its wings spread wide scowled down at Ramose. Its wings must have been ten cubits across. Ramose walked through the hall and into the throne room where the pharaoh’s throne sat on a raised platform. The empty throne glittered with gold and jewels. On the steps leading up to the platform were paintings of foreign captives on their knees, bound together with a rope around their necks. Each time the pharaoh walked up the steps he would tread on his enemies.
    Ramose walked through the throne room into the pharaoh’s sitting room. Gold goblets and bowls sat unused on a low table. There was a couch made of ebony with carved legs and arms. The rare wood was usually used only to make small items such as jewellery boxes. The wood in the couch was probably worth more than the gold and jewels that decorated it. Ramose thought back and could only remember a handful of times when he’d been in the room before. He picked up one of the goblets and filled it with wine.
    Another doorway led to the pharaoh’s bedchamber. Ramose entered the room. Looking through his fringe he glanced over to the bed. Ramose could not see his father for the crowd of people standing around his bed. He thought for one dreadful moment that his father must have just died. He was wrong. It was a group of priests muttering prayers. Pharaoh’s physician was there as well, mixing a foul-looking brown potion. The vizier was standing to one side.
    Only one of the high windows was unshuttered, so the room was dim. With his head bowed low and his heart thudding, Ramose handed the goblet to the vizier. The vizier didn’t even glance at him. Ramose backed away like a good servant, but when the vizier turned his attention back to the bed, Ramose sidestepped into the pharaoh’s robing room.
    It was unlikely that Pharaoh would ever be left alone, but Ramose had to hope. He sat in a corner and waited. Even that small, unlit room was lavishly painted. He sat down on a stool and rested his head against a wall painted with a grapevine pattern. The sound of the priests’ chanting made him drowsy. The ceiling was covered with a spiral pattern. He was mesmerised by the swirling shapes. The chanting suddenly stopped and Ramose sat up with a start. Once again, his first thought was that the pharaoh had died. The priests and the doctor filed out. Vizier Wersu followed them. There was no wailing, no sounds of grief. Ramose was relieved to realise that it was only time for the midday meal.
    One elderly priest was left to keep watch over the dying pharaoh. He was soon dozing. Ramose crept into the room so