Lion Head Mesa Antallagí

Arsenio was above the servant. The Mazoi were served by the Fellahin. Jawahir was nothing more than a special version of all the rest. They did not carry weight in their voice. The Greek would never heed their words or answer to their asks. He cared little for the slippery creature of the sand. He cared less for the slave’s master. What could Jawahir do that would shake Arsenio’s foundation? Nothing. The mercenary would sooner pull the sad little thing’s throat from its body. 

Come, Belen, let us see the Pharaoh, he said gently to the girl. 

As Jawahir made a point to stand in his way, Arsenio did not hesitate to shove his shoulder as hard as he could in passing. If he left a bruise that ached for a week, it would not have been enough. The redstone guard cast a sneer over his shoulder.