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I wrong, my son?’
    ‘No, Father,’ said Narmer quietly.
    ‘Good. But there is another reason why I punished you. I was worried,’ added the King softly. ‘That is why I was angry. Sometimes it is impossible not to feel as a father, even as you do your duty as a king. I want you safe.’
    ‘But I can take care of myself! Father, don’t forbid me to go out without guards. Just sometimes…’
    His father shook his head. ‘I want your promise,’ he said. ‘No more hunting by yourself. A king can risk himself in battle, for his people. But not just because he wants a day’s sport.’
    ‘I…I promise,’ said Narmer.
    ‘Good. Now, sit down. The Trader has his wares to show us.’

CHAPTER 7
    The King clapped his hands and servants hurried in with refreshments: cups of date beer and the precious milk that only the royal family and their guests were allowed to drink; chickpea cakes spiced with cumin and onions; and fresh radishes and bread, with plates of spiced lotus seed to dip them into.
    Hawk returned and cast a sharp look at Narmer, then sat down on his usual cushion by the King.
    Narmer seated himself on his stool as the Trader’s porters carried bales wrapped in goatskin past the lotus pool. They were enormous men, with even darker skin than the Trader, and black curly hair. One had what looked like a puckered spear scar just below his shoulder. Another’s eye was white and sightless.
    Narmer tried not to stare at them. He had seen a few black-skinned people before, travelling with the People of the Sand, but none lived near the town of Thinis.
    Now the Trader appeared, striding across the courtyard as though he were crossing the desert. Nitho limped behindhim, her thick robes rustling and the scarf again obscuring her hair and face.
    The Trader bowed.
    ‘My master says, “Greetings, o great King Scorpion, o noble Prince Narmer and Prince Hawk.”’ Nitho was using her young man’s voice again, Narmer noticed, deliberately lower and gruffer. ‘May your shadows never grow less. Shall we begin?’
    The King nodded.
    The porters spread a fine linen cloth across the tiled floor of the courtyard. Narmer’s eyes grew wide as one by one the bales were unwrapped.
    Panther skins, black as night and soft as night air.
    Slabs of smooth black ebony wood, the hardest, densest, richest wood in the world.
    Cups of ivory carved as thin as eggshells, with birds and lions leaping on their sides.
    A small wooden chest, with strange curls of what looked like bark inside.
    ‘Smell them,’ said Nitho softly.
    Narmer picked up one of the curls. It was the richest, sweetest scent he had ever known.
    ‘Cinnamon,’ explained Nitho.
    Her long slim fingers opened another chest. Narmer looked inside.
    This one contained small brown balls, with another scent, deeper, more powerful.
    The King looked at the Trader, eyebrows raised. ‘Myrrh!’
    Narmer had heard of myrrh. But no trader had brought any to Thinis in his lifetime.
    The priests said that the gods loved myrrh above all the other scents that were burnt on their altars. They said myrrh could cure illness and drive away evil. No one even knew where myrrh came from, but the small brown balls were the most precious substance in the world.
    Narmer suddenly imagined the effect that all these riches would have on the Yebu people who came with Berenib for the wedding feast. One look at all of this—one sniff of the cinnamon and myrrh—and they’d know just how rich and powerful this southern town was. A rich town means a welldefended town, he realised. That’s why we show all our wealth at a feast: to keep our town safe.
    The Trader spoke, smiling politely at the King. Nitho translated, ‘My master says, “Which goods please Your Majesty?”’
    The King hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the wealth before him. ‘We would take them all, if we could. But I doubt there is enough grain in all our granaries to pay for them. I have no wish to leave our people hungry before