by Antonio Napoli

Thus they met and recognized each other as two great men: the Pharaoh, who had shaped an army from the mud, and the Prophet, who had brought forth a people from the barren land.
They walked through the desert. The Pharaoh, covered in salt, called his half-brother by name: he recognized him by the staff he still wielded with pride.
They sat upon the sand and raised their eyes to the sky, which was turning red. They were silent, perhaps due to the embarrassment that bound them.
The cry of a wandering animal pierced the evening’s silence. It was then that the Prophet noticed, on the Pharaoh’s tattered headpiece, a large fish. They lit a fire and roasted it.
When the Pharaoh brought the simple food to his mouth, he said to the Prophet:
“I have forgiven you the plagues, I have forgiven you the death of the firstborn. Now it is time for both of us to return home, to our home.”
“Never,” replied the Prophet, tossing a handful of sand behind him, as if to erase the shadow of the past.
“Return, and for you there will be a palace and a grand tomb,” said the Pharaoh, his eyes shining, “a tomb that all will see from afar.”
“None will know my tomb,” replied the Prophet with melancholic calm, as he extinguished the fire with his foot and walked away.
The stars followed him.