Disclaimer: Aida belongs to Tim Rice, Elton John and Verdi. I know ayo is technically Nigerian, but I think Radames probably would have played some variation of it.

In a room flooded with sticky sunlight, fourteen-year-old Radames napped away the worst part of a summer afternoon. He had slept in the same room since early childhood, in the same bed, though the blankets had changed a few times and the toys had disappeared, all save his senet and ayo. The bed had been pushed into the corner since Radames began sleeping in it. At first he had cuddled the wall, hidden fully beneath the blanket. He had been very small then.

Now he sprawled out across the bed. With one arm he shielded his eyes from the sunlight filtering around the curtain; the other lolled against the wall. His left heel rested on the floor.

Surveying his son from the doorway, Zoser registered an unimpressive, scrawny-looking boy with nothing in the way of body hair but peach fuzz on his legs. Most boys his age were at least pretending to shave. As Zoser watched, Radames moaned, shifted his hips and scratched himself. Zoser's features twisted into a grimace of disgust.

Alas. One made do with what one had.

Zoser strode into the room, gave Radames a solid smack on the chest, then tore open the curtains. The sun was near setting. A flood of painful light burst forth. For a moment it was a world of gold beribboned in silver—the Nile with the sun setting beyond. Then it was only pain.

"Up, boy."

Radames groaned and rolled onto his side. The light was an unnecessary punishment as he coughed to catch his breath. "Father," he began weakly, glancing up at Zoser, then thought better of rasping a question in his pathetic state. He caught his breath and sat upright, tossing his legs over the side of the bed. "What is it?" he asked.

The look of distaste on Zoser's face did not fade. "You're to attend a feast tonight at the palace," he announced.

Radames touched his chest. He always secretly hoped the pharaoh would see one of his bruises and ask what had happened. It would be wrong and unwise and very disrespectful to lie to the Son of Isis. "Why?" Radames asked.

"You're to be married."

"I'm what?" Radames asked. He struggled to manage, "M-married?" He must have heard wrong. It was someone else's wedding. They were invited as guests. That made much more sense. Fourteen-year-old boys simply did not marry. Radames was still unclear on what one did when married. He had seen the dirty papyrus, who hadn't, but surely that wasn't…

"Don't be a fool," Zoser scoffed. Later, Radames would think to ask how it was his fault, what in Zoser's previous statement could possibly be left to interpretation. "Not now, it's only an engagement. Nevertheless—"

This could not be serious. Radames refused to believe that even Zoser would expect a boy to perform the duties of a man, and not only in the bedroom. Radames barely remembered to clean his teeth every morning; how could he run a household?

"Who?" he interrupted.

"Radames, do you remember running around the palace naked as a child?"

Radames blushed; oh yes, he remembered, but Zoser said it as though this were a common occurrence. "It happened once," Radames mumbled. He was five years old, and it was a hot summer. Anyway it had been Amneris' idea. "You told me I would ruin our good name and you would never be able to marry me off. So who is it to be? Pharaoh's cup-bearer? One of your cast-offs?"

"No, the girl, Amneris." Zoser often spoke casually of serious matters. The expression on Radames' face was invariably priceless.

Amneris? Radames had not seen his playmate in three years, and they were children then. He had grown up, she almost certainly had, too. She would be a stranger now. Sure, they had joked about marrying one another, back before marriage was real, when they spent every afternoon together, but that was years ago.

"Father," he ventured, "can't… I have a say in who I marry?"

Zoser cocked his head to the side slightly and examined Radames, as though thinking over his words. It was, after all, Radames' life, Radames' future. Perhaps he did deserve at least a request or two.

These were the thoughts in Radames' head. The thoughts in Zoser's head were exactly what he said: "No. Get dressed, you can't go to the palace looking like that," Zoser told him, sweeping from the room.

He had made it halfway out the door before Radames asked, "What if I do?" Radames had the utter lack of pride that matched his physique. No matter strong he grew, his muscles staunchly refused to show. He had grown taller, at least, and had fittingly coltish limbs. But Radames would never appear in public dressed as he was, in nothing but a loincloth. The last thing he needed was for the chief piece of gossip in court to be his pathetic lack of lower carpeting.

Not that any of this mattered. He wanted to know what his father would say. As embarrassing as it would be for Radames, it would be worse for Zoser, who came to meetings and counsels in the palace often. Radames had not been there in years and, he expected, would not be for another three or more years.

Zoser said nothing. He whirled, arm raised to backhand his son. Zoser's backhand could send Radames flying. Knowing this, the boy rolled his eyes, heaved a great sigh, and hauled himself off the bed.

to be continued

I know Aida doesn't have much of a fanbase, but if you've read this and would like to review that would rock