Ahmen held out his hand, and took the letter from the scribe. He examined the Akkadian script, its cuneiform symbols incomprehensible to him. It could say anything.

"It is just as you dictated," the scribe said, diffident, eyeing the leather pouch bulging with gold ingots resting on the desk, payment for his silence. "Several of the phrases had to be amended to be properly translated, but the meaning is still the same."

Ahmen handed the papyrus sheet back to the man. "Read it to me," he said.

The scribe bowed his head and took the letter. He cleared his throat, and began:

Lord King of Hatti, The Sun, Mursili III, Lord Ahmen-om-onet, Pharaoh Ramesses's Royal Charioteer, and Chief of the Archers greets you. It was I who carried your wife from Kadesh to Egypt, and protected her with my blade. However, it grieves me to inform you that during the march, your wife was seduced by the Commander of Egypt. He has since taken her into his home as though she were his own wife and not bound to you, the king of an empire. This offence is not only great, but also dangerous.

The scribe paused and looked up at Ahmen, uneasy. "My lord, you may be assured of my silence, but are you quite certain you wish to send this? If it were to fall into the wrong hands--"

"It won't," Ahmen interrupted. He waved his hand, his rings glinting in the lamplight of the scribe's office. "Continue."

The scribe looked back at the angular strokes of the script, his eyes moving over the lines until he came to the spot where he had left off. He cleared his throat again, nervous.

In Egypt we believe in Ma'at, which represents balance and order. So long as the queen of the enemy of our empire remains here with our commander there can be no balance. I am in a position to right this wrong. If Your Majesty were to return to Egypt the cities south of Amka, I will arrange a safe escort for the princess to Alasiya. Hatti will have her queen, and Egypt will be restored in the eyes of the gods.

I await your response with the greatest of discretion.

The scribe lowered the papyrus, his face ashen. "It only awaits your name and seal, my lord. Unless . . . you have changed your mind?" He glanced at the lamp's flame, hopeful. "I can burn it. No one would ever be the wiser."

"I have not changed my mind," Ahmen muttered, leaning across the desk to dip a reed pen into an open ink well. He took the letter from the scribe and signed it, unafraid. He was doing the right thing. Istara would go back where she belonged, Egypt would have her vassals south of Amka reinstated and he would have his revenge. Everything would go back to how it should be. And for the rest of his life, Sethi would suffer, just as Ahmen had vowed. He set the reed pen aside and pushed the pouch of gold toward the scribe.

"For your services, and your silence," he said. The scribe lifted the letter and blew on the wet ink, waiting for it to dry. He rolled it up, holding it in shape while he warmed a cone of ochre-dyed beeswax over the lamp's flame. He dripped a thick blob of the melted wax onto the letter's closed edge and handed the scroll to Ahmen, his fingers trembling.

"May the gods forgive us," he said, low.

"There is nothing to forgive," Ahmen said, pressing the impression of his ring against the wax, firm, confident, "when one is doing what is right."

Under a canopy of brilliant stars, Ahmen walked through the quiet lanes of Waset back to his villa, the letter to the king of Hatti tucked within his pouch. A feeling of fulfilment suffused him, granting him a rare respite from the unending miasma of bitterness and hate which had consumed not only his days but his dreams. He was one of a handful who knew Urhi-Teshub had been willing to commit treason to protect Istara at Kadesh. A man like that would have no trouble returning the lost vassals south of Amka to Egypt. It would be nothing to him, a token, and the return of the cities would ensure Ramesses would be pleased--would shield Ahmen from the worst of the wrath he was certain to face for having interfered in matters beyond his reach.

Ahmen eyed the glittering stars, sensing the gods' approval for his courage to do what was right. He had heard Ramesses intended a Libyan border campaign to be led by Sethi once the court returned to Pi-Ramesses for the summer. With Sethi out of the way, it would be easy enough for Ahmen to lure Istara to his villa under the premise of a message from Meresamun. Then--Istara would be on her way to Alasiya, and Sethi would return from Libya to reap the consequences for his actions. Ahmen bit back a bitter smile. He would not savor his victory just yet, though he allowed himself to relish the thought of Sethi alone and grieving. When Egypt's commander's suffering became real, then, and only then, would Ahmen be satisfied. Only then would he know peace.

Once more within the walls of his villa, Ahmen moved through the gardens of the inner courtyard toward the stairs of his apartment. Apart from the torches burning on his and Meresamun's terraces, the villa lay dark and quiet, the servants long gone to their beds. Movement on Meresamun's terrace caught his eye. He slowed, moving under the overhanging fronds of a squat date palm. Meresamun came to a halt at the terrace's edge, holding a wine cup in her hand. The flames of the torches accentuated her gauntness, the fall of her white gown over her slim form, stripped bare of jewels. Tuy came to stand beside her, his hands clasped behind his back.

Ahmen narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Tuy was almost twice Meresamun's age, had always treated her with fondness, like a father. But what if--

Ahmen edged closer, his heart tight.

"Another game of Senet, my lady?" Tuy asked, quiet, his eyes moving over the roofs of the city, toward the river.

Meresamun shook her head, her gaze falling to the contents of her cup. "No, I think not." She sipped, slow.

Tuy waited, patient, calm, while she finished her wine. She sighed and set her cup onto the terrace's wall.

"I find myself thinking of Babylon more often of late," she said, tracing her finger along the edge of the wall. She looked up at Tuy. "I think perhaps it is what he wants, for me to leave."

"You would break his heart," Tuy said, keeping his eyes on the distant river, his kohled eyes unreadable. "Give him time," he continued, "Lord Ahmen is a righteous man. He does not bear injustice well. Before the night he brought you here, everything in his life was simple, ordered, predictable."

Meresamun ceased her tracery. "And I have brought chaos into his life." The corners of her lips turned downward. She turned away, her eyes glinting with tears, brilliant in the torchlight.

"Perhaps it is what he needs," Tuy said, soft. "A man cannot grow without hardship."

When Meresamun said nothing, Tuy tilted his head toward the east. "Perhaps it might help to speak of your childhood home?" He left and returned with the pitcher of wine. He poured, elegant, deft and handed her the refilled cup. She took it and drank deep.

"Better now?" he asked, gentle.

She nodded, brushing aside a stray tear.

"Tell me about Babylon," Tuy coaxed. "Tell me about who you were before you became Meresamun."

Meresamun lifted her shoulders, and let them fall again, resigned. "There is not much to tell, I was just a child of five when I was sent here." She sipped her wine again, and glanced up at Tuy, shy. "I suppose there are a few things I could tell you."

Tuy clasped his hands behind his back, and lifted an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue. Ahmen leaned forward, curious despite himself.

"My name is--was--Ninsunu," Meresamun said, quiet.

"Ninsunu," Tuy repeated. "A beautiful name. Very fitting."

Ahmen eyed Meresamun, imagining her back in Babylon, her arms and ankles laden with gold bangles, her emaciated body restored to its radiant glory. Ninsunu. A slick of jealousy crept over his heart. It should be him having this conversation with her. He should be the one to hear her Babylonian name first--not his steward.

"It seems no matter where I go, I have ever been destined to live and work in a temple," Meresamun continued, gazing into her cup, unseeing. "When I was four," she continued, looking over the city. "I was chosen out of twenty others to be trained as Marduk's next high priestess."

She fell silent, lost in her thoughts, and sipped her wine. After several long heartbeats, she roused, catching Tuy watching her, waiting. "On the day I was chosen," she continued, "the high priestess led us up the grand staircase to the top of the Etemen'anki, a vast stepped pyramid, called a ziqquratu. In its topmost level is the sanctuary of Marduk." She smiled, soft, gentle. "I didn't understand what was happening. All I cared about was I had a new gown. It was very pretty. And expensive."

Her gaze moved to the stars. "We knelt before Marduk's image, our eyes lowered, all of us dressed in white, a golden saucer bearing a golden embroidery needle before each of us. Engraved along the saucer's edge in front of me was my name. The high priestess pricked each of our forefingers until they bled, and dripped three drops of our blood into our saucers. She then lay the saucers in a row at the god's feet so he might decide which of us would be his next servant. In the morning we were told all the other saucers were gone apart from one. Mine."

She paused to sip her wine again, nostalgia shrouding her. "Soon after the celebrations finished," she continued, soft, "I began my training under the high priestess, spending my mornings in the Etemen'anki observing her as she carried out her duties in the service of Marduk. I loved everything about my new life, the rituals, the gowns, the food." She smiled. "Especially the food."

"To have been chosen by a god," Tuy said, reverent. He let out a slow breath. "My lady, we are not worthy of you."

"Hm," Meresamun murmured, noncommittal. She took another sip of her wine. Ahmen watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed, a sudden spear of longing slamming into him. He resisted, forcing himself to think of her and Sethi fornicating, the images filling him with bitterness, distancing his heart from hers. Even if she had been chosen to serve Babylon's god, it did not vindicate her. She could have told Sethi who she was, could have asked for his protection. No, Ahmen fumed, his anger kindling anew, jealously shearing into him, she had wanted to sleep with Sethi just as Sethi had wanted to sleep with her. Anything else was a lie.

"Then one day I wasn't sent to the Etemen'anki," Meresamun's voice breached, soft, into Ahmen's thoughts. "Instead, early one morning, palace guards came into our home and took me and my sister away and put us in a palanquin in a caravan. I didn't understand at first what was happening. I thought it was an adventure, but soon enough I understood." She looked up at the sky, pensive. "Before I was chosen, while my father was deep in his cups, he told me Marduk was not a stone god at all, but a real, living being who resided under the Etemen'anki alongside incomprehensible wonders he had possessed since the age when gods walked among men. He even claimed Marduk could fly across the skies inside a great metal bird." She shook her head, a wry smile touching her lips. "Fanciful stories meant for a child's imagination, but back then, I believed it was all true, thinking when Marduk found out I had been sent away, he would come after me in his fiery bird and take me back to Babylon where I belonged." She looked back down at her cup. "How naive I was."

"Then, one night as we camped in the desert, and I cried for Marduk to save me, my elder sister told me I had been fortunate to escape the Etemen'anki. She said on the night of the New Year, the high priestess must stay in a special room where Marduk would spend the night with her, sleeping with her." Meresamun took another sip and suppressed a shudder. "She told me since Marduk is made of stone, the king would go in the god's stead, which meant I would have had to sleep with my grandfather, and perhaps, one day, if things had turned out differently, my father. She said she suspected I was the reason our father provoked the king's wrath, to protect me from what was to come. I did not believe her then, but now, who can say? Perhaps it is true, and my father gave up everything to protect me."

Ahmen's lips twisted with revulsion. To sleep with one's own father was one of the worst crimes one could commit. It was true some pharaohs wed their own daughters, but they only did so to protect the royal line from being usurped by another, as Ramesses had done by marrying Nefertari. Those daughter-wives lived chaste lives, never knowing a man, and never bearing their own children. He eyed Meresamun, who looked down at her cup, sorrow etching her lips. A stab of pity pierced the armor surrounding his heart; from the beginning she had been cursed, had never known peace. He shoved the nascent feeling aside, brutal. First vengeance, then forgiveness. It was the proper order. The right order.

"If that is the case," Tuy said, "your father is a great man." He paused, his gaze moving back to the river. "If you were to go back," he broached, diffident, "would you be expected to return to your role?"

Meresamun shook her head. "I left nineteen years ago. I would have been long replaced by now, the training alone takes twelve years. No, those days are gone. Forgotten by everyone except me, and perhaps my father and mother, if they still live."

"You would have been sixteen," Tuy said, low, "when you would have been forced to take up your duties."

"Yes," Meresamun said, tight, "and my grandfather was ever a man of violence and war. Once, during a banquet, he beat his youngest queen with her crown for having given birth to a dead son. No one helped her. She crawled away, bloodied and broken, the memory of what he did to her haunted my dreams for months after." Meresamun finished her wine and looked away. "To be trapped in a room with him all night while he pretended to be Marduk. No. It is unthinkable. Unbearable."

"My heart thanks Re you were reprieved from such a fate," Tuy said. "For what he did, your father is a king among men."

"I had thought to write to him once Ahmen bound with me, to share my good fortune," Meresamun said, quiet. "But now . . ." she trailed off, her fingers tightening on her cup.

"Lord Ahmen will return to you," Tuy said, firm. "He has fallen victim to his anger and lost his way. In time, it will pass. He will love you again, more than he did before."

Meresamun looked up at Tuy, her expression drenched in hope. "I pray with all my heart you are right," she said. "Because if you are wrong--"

"I am not wrong," Tuy broke in, preventing her from saying the rest, "I have been with him since he was ten. I know him better than anyone. He will come back. One day, it will come to a head, and the walls around him will collapse. It will end. I promise." He glanced at the stars. "It is late. You should sleep. Dream of good things, if you can." He bowed and turned, his eyes moving to the garden where Ahmen stood. He looked at him, his expression unreadable, and backed away.