Victorious in the Battle of Aphek, Maokh, King of Gath, dreams of a new Sea People empire, but the prize he'd long sought, the Ark of the Covenant, continues to elude him.
Across the border, the ailing High Priest Eli fears the fulfillment of a decade old prophecy as his son Phinehas seizes control of the Ark and marches toward Ebenezer.
A King's Lot reimagines the rise of the Israelite monarchy not as a Sunday School lesson but as the original Game of Thrones.
If you loved Wolf Hall, if you love well-researched historical fiction and large, sprawling fantasy with a realpolitik twist, this book is for you.
My publisher has slated it for a 2029 release, but you can grab a preview epub edition right now, and I'll send you a personalized, signed copy after publication!
Maokh struggled to keep his gaze away from the crown in front of him. He stared at his father's advisers. Sharks, pressing for a bite of an injured seal. At his mother, who would rule in his stead had he but one less summer to his name. Even at the self-important High Priest of Dagon, who fussed with jars full of seawater to his left. But the blood-red garnets encrusted into the crown's wide bands of mother-of-pearl tugged at his vision. Put us on, they demanded.
A flick of a nearby torchlight brought a whiff of burning oil, and Maokh suppressed a shudder, the memory of his father's funeral pyre still fresh. Months of prayer and generous sacrifices to the gods of Peleset failed to halt a wasting disease that devoured flesh and spirit. And now this crown, which but a week ago adorned his father’s grey head, was his…if he could keep it.
His mother sat to his right, a practiced smile on her face. She could marry again, bear another son. Replace him.
He shifted in his chair. Those last few moons, when his father’s dry lips sought only the milk of the poppy from the hands of his healer… Did he hold on for his son’s sake? More likely to spite her. Deny her what she wanted most.
She’s not afraid to stare at it. And the red garnets would suit her.
He longed to stretch his neck, loosen the grip of his royal robe. "They hunt. But they’d rather scavenge," she had told him outside the chamber. Cradled his face as if he were a child, then pulled his robe tight, long fingernails a subtle threat under his chin. "Let them know you’re not a seal pup.” She seized his hand. “Respect. And fear. Demand it. Your father did.” He wrenched it back, but she squeezed it, hard. “They obey, Maokh, these sharks, but they plot. Be the blade, not the blood.”
He smiled at the new twist of the old proverb. “When the red waters flood,” he mouthed back, and invited her to enter the chamber ahead of him.
And now, there she sat, guarding him from the sharks. But not from herself.
His eyes darted around the room. How polite they all looked. Even supplicant. Except Darub. His father's cousin finished chewing a honey cake and chased it down with some wine. Maokh hadn't dared to touch either. Best not to tempt fate. Not until the food tasters were taking his coin.
The man cleared his throat, twisting a signet ring on his left hand. The sprawling octopus, stamped in gold. Pearl beds lining the coast. Wealth. And power. Perhaps too much of it.
"My lord, our kingdom prospered under your father's reign. May it continue to do so under yours.” Darub beat his chest with his fist. “Those of us who served on his council stand ready to help you rule, should you command it.”
Maokh rested his chin on his fist for a moment. “I am grateful for your counsel, Darub, as Father always was… And I will not hesitate to call upon any man here… should the need arise.” He waited for the dismissal to sink in. His mother drew a sharp intake of breath.
She, at least, noticed. The rest of them…
“You will seek a new council?" Darub asked. "And your father's ashes barely on the wind, boy?”
Maokh inspected his fingernails, the soot of the funeral pyre long washed away. “Your heart speaks, Uncle, and I hear it. But do you hear the rush of the incoming tide?”
An uncertain murmur ran through the chamber. Another old lord opened his mouth, then closed it.
A dying fish. Stranded.
He sat, as they shifted in their seats, counting, as Father had taught him. “Until you think they cannot bear it. And then three more.”
Then raised his voice.
“I thank all of you for your selfless service to my father. And I wish to reward you with the quiet you have earned. Return to your estates. Tend to your fisheries, your wineries, and your olive groves. Send your eldest sons to me, to serve as members of my court, my new council. I shall draw upon the strength of their youth. And be assured of your seasoned advice... Should it ever be needed.”
Darub had pushed back from the table, lips pressed thin. The man’s eyes darted between the king and the royal guards who encircled the room.
Maokh turned to his mother. If she suspected what was to come, she’d given no hint of it. Perhaps a touch of worry around the corners of her mouth.
“Mother, this last year was hardest on you… You, who spent days and nights by Father’s side, sustaining him with your strength. Sustaining all of us. We shall confine you no longer to the dusty corridors of power. Your home shall be by the shore of the sea whose salt still runs thick in our blood, at your Ashkelon estate, where my Uncle Zakar will serve you as befits the station of the Great Lady of Gath."
There, it was done. Her smile held. Impressive, as always. His father’s brother… He would bear watching. But Mother would have her hands full with him, one way or another. Two fish flapping on one hook.
Maokh turned to the High Priest. “Let us not keep Dagon waiting.”
The man hastened to the table. Producing a vial of seawater, he splashed Maokh’s face thrice, chanting “by the Grace of Dagon.” Then he placed the crown on the prince’s head and poured the remaining brine over it.
Was it like this for you, Father?
Maokh stood up without warning, the High Priest taking a clumsy step back to get out of the way.
“This council is at an end,” Maokh said. He swept the room with his gaze, as they shrank from him, a boy of sixteen summers, bowing their heads in turn. Darub still glared, the ring in his fingers. Could he trust any of them?
As he walked out, leaving the stunned nobles to their usual plots and betrayals, he wished his father were around to ask.