Page 4 of Over the Emerald Valley
Across the open floor at the far end stood a massive table with room for dozens of guests. Upon it, the feast Solon anticipated lay spread at the center: roast fowl, steaming plates of spiced vegetables, fresh loaves of bread, piles of dates and figs. His stomach rumbled its impatience.
Viceroy Abasi entered from behind the table with his advisers at his side, the group of them flanked by guards, eleven men in total.
Perhaps Solon should have brought his own guards, but it was too late. He bent at the hip before greeting the group. “Viceroy, esteemed men of the court, I bring Pharaoh Horemheb’s favor to your people and your business.”
“Rise, General, and good tidings to the royal family and their armies,” said Abasi—a tall man and round, his belly a sign of many well-partaken feasts before this one, but his face was oddly pale. “Your men are stationed outside the courtyard?’
“Indeed.”
“I’ll have provisions sent immediately.”
Solon tipped his head. “My thanks, Viceroy.”
“Call me Abasi.” The big man grinned. “And I shall call you Solon, if it pleases you.”
“Yes, Abasi. It would.”
Abasi’s gaze traveled Solon’s body from head to toe. “You must be famished that you chose a meal over a bath.” He grimaced, brows raised.
“Oh, yes.” Solon glanced down at his dusty leathers, then back to Abasi, whose pleated white linens showed not a speck of wear. His elaborate black wig, inlaid with sparkling jewels, hung to his decorated shoulders, where a wide gold collar gleamed even in the low light. “My apologies.”
“No apologies needed. Come and sit.” With an open hand, Abasi gestured to the table. “We’ve prepared entertainment for your arrival. I’ll keep you from your dinner not a second longer.”
A servant pulled out a chair for Solon next to the viceroy. Abasi handled the introductions as the group sat, all of them in a row on the backside of the table so they could watch the performance as they dined. Solon extended the normal pleasantries while trying not to eye the food too conspicuously.
Servants piled the plates high, all but Abasi’s, which remained empty.
“You aren’t hungry?” asked Solon.
“Forgive me, but I’ve already eaten. You go ahead and enjoy.”
That was odd, but Solon wouldn’t let it stop him. The first bite of perfectly cooked bird dipped in brown gravy damn near melted in his mouth. He held back a groan of pleasure, hoping his men were being fed this well, then chased the bite with a gulp of sweet purple wine. Abasi had no goblet either. Was the man sick?
Musicians played quietly in the background—a low steady beat of drums along with the twinkling notes of a flute and the plucking of a lyre.
“Tell us of your journey,” Abasi said while the rest of them ate. “It’s been an age since I’ve sailed the Red Sea myself.”
“Luck was on our side.” Solon spoke around a mouthful of figs. “She brought a smooth voyage and favorable winds.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The viceroy had to be wondering about the reason for Solon’s expedition, but he didn’t ask. Wise of him. A man with nothing to hide need not be suspicious, and a man with plenty to hide must act as if he had none.
The music grew louder, and the tempo livened, drawing Solon’s gaze from his plate to the vast floor in front of them.
Abasi relaxed in his chair. “Ah, here come the dancers now.”
A line of women, each with two great white feathered fans in their hands, pranced from behind the columns toward the table.
One by one, they approached, slithered, and dipped in time to the music, then sauntered to the center of the chamber. They twirled in sync, the sultry rhythm of their hips enhanced by the movement of the fans.
Clad in beautiful turquoise silk pants, gold belts, and nothing at all on top, the women were no doubt an alluring sight for most of the men at the table, but not for Solon. He could appreciate the dancers’ talent, but women did little to stir his baser desires.
If that was what Abasi was after, he’d have to try something else.
When Solon emptied his cup, a serving girl was quick to fill it, her perfumed scent making his nose itch. Though the wine was delicious, he wouldn’t drink to excess. Better to stay in complete control of his faculties.
A set of fire-spinning youths sauntered in. One girl and one boy, neither older than perhaps thirteen. They tossed spears aloft—torches on each end trailing a burst of orange flames—and caught the middle with outstretched hands. The young performers dazzled, spinning with the fire, leaping, and swaying as the music rose to a crescendo. Solon had never seen skills such as theirs outside of the royal court. What would it take to achieve such precision?
