Carrying a bowl of figs on his fingertips, Mikha'El strutted up the palace's columned hallways with his chest raised and a grin stretched across his black-beaded face. His sandy-brown arms, bulging with muscles, gleamed from the oils he had smeared to polish them. Ever since he earned himself the rank of house slave, taking him away from the sweltering and scarring toil of brick-making, he bubbled with gratitude. Not only...