Pi-Ramesses, Spring. Reign of Ramesses, Year 6

With Sehetep trotting beside her, his dark eyes curious and his nose twitching at the new, unfamiliar smells of Sethi's villa in Pi-Ramesses, Istara entered Sethi's private apartment. She looked around his rooms, reliving the memories of the precious few weeks they had shared there before they had traveled south to Waset for the winter. She eyed his bed, its depths drenched in the golden light of the lowering sun, thinking of the love they had made, the food they shared, and the wine they had drunk after his reprieve at the pharaoh's training ground. He had been insatiable. For days they had lived in these rooms, locked away, lost in each other's arms.

Sehetep bounded past her and plunged through the transparent linens onto the terrace, exploring. Istara smiled and followed the dog, lingering to stop at one of the gold-inlaid acacia tables, where an arrangement of pink and yellow roses stood in an alabaster vase. She breathed their perfume, the bouquet's sweet, enticing scent welcoming, familiar.

An early evening breeze stirred, easing itself through the languid heat smothering the city, rippling along the pale blue linen hangings separating the apartment's sitting area from the terrace. As the linens drifted, the gold-embroidered hieroglyphs along their edges shimmered, catching the shifting rays of the lowering sun.

Her gown clung to her, sweaty, cloying, uncomfortable. She plucked at the material thinking for the hundredth time of Sethi's instruction to Weremkhet, given while she had been waiting on her palanquin at the city's bustling docks, to move her into his apartment, and his things into the guest apartment next to hers.

She tried not to make more of Sethi's instruction than what it was. Practical. Despite Sethi's summer villa in Pi-Ramesses being one of the grandest in the city, it paled in comparison to the size and opulence of his winter estate in Waset. His private apartment in Pi-Ramesses was just a quarter of the size of the one they shared in Waset. Over the last seven months, while they wintered in Waset, he had showered her with gowns, jewels, sandals, headdresses and fans, until her cupboards overflowed. She eyed the much smaller rooms, resigned. There just wasn't enough space for both of them anymore.

And yet, as she had ridden up through the city, oblivious to the city's splendor, far superior to the provincial charms of Waset, she could not stop herself from dwelling on his order. She wondered how long he had been thinking of it, biding his time, waiting, perhaps even longing for it--the sanctuary of his own apartment. Even more so than Urhi-Teshub, Istara was beginning to realize Sethi was a warrior, a man of the sword, and of war, not made for settling down, or playing house.

What would happen when they returned to Waset in the autumn, Istara wondered, would he continue to keep to his own apartment? After all they had suffered to be together, she had taken for granted they would never sleep apart. Now she wondered how many nights he would leave her to sleep alone. What if he brought Edarru to his bed, seeking variety as was his right, or what if he--

Footsteps strode along the vestibule. She turned and caught sight of Sethi walking past the open door, his torso gleaming with sweat. He glanced in at her and smiled, distracted, his pleasure at their journey coming to an end radiating from him, obvious in his renewed energy, and his freedom to move again, reminding her of a lion she had once seen bounding across the harvested fields outside of Waset. In the guest apartment, he called for wine, laughing, hearty as Weremkhet regaled him with sordid tales of what the steward had learned had transpired during their absence.

"My lady?"

Istara turned. Edarru stood pale and trembling, sagging a little in the doorway.

"May I enter?" she asked, quiet, uncertain, her eyes lowered, respectful.

"Of course," Istara said, helping her to the divan. She eyed the smudges of shadow around the other woman's eyes. "You are exhausted. Did Sethi not order a chair for you?"

Edarru nodded as she sat, cautious, her hands against her belly, supporting it as she eased back against the cushions. "He did, but it was unbearable, the jerking to and fro. It felt like the wound was beginning to tear. It was better to walk."

Istara called to one of the servants and sent for wine. "Tonight you must rest. The servants can unpack my things." She nodded at Edarru's torso. "May I have a look?"

Edarru plucked at the ties of her gown and pulled it open, the bandages underneath were still clean, if a little damp with sweat. No fresh blood seeped through. Istara unwrapped the bindings anyway, relieved to find the flesh still holding together. Edarru would be forever marred, her body bearing an ugly scar, but she had never mentioned it, never once complained.

The first month after Istara had removed the babe, Edarru's healing had been slow and painful, beset by a low fever. It took all of Iltu's and Istara's skills to prevent Edarru's fever from deepening. Once she had passed the dangerous threshold of the first month, Edarru began the long road to recovery, her body healing, slow. She still could not lift the babe, and would never nurse him, and although she had salves and ointments to rub on her aching, milk-heavy breasts, Edarru still suffered--though Istara wondered if her quiet tears were for the babe she could not hold against her breast rather than the agony of her body being denied its purpose.

The wine arrived. They drank, quiet, companionable. Despite their circumstances, Istara could not help but like the other woman. She had been a brave, pleasant patient, bearing up her recovery in quiet solitude, the monotony of her days eased by the hours spent with her infant son, Nesu, on a blanket beside her, whose thriving body and dark features so similar to Sethi's heartened her, giving her the strength to endure her agonies for another day. Sethi had visited her too, occasionally bringing a trinket from the market to cheer her. Istara noted he always took care to leave the door open, keeping himself in plain view, sitting on a stool beside her bed, his hands resting on his knees as he listened to her talk about their son, her delighted laughter carrying into the courtyard, bringing a smile to even the most taciturn of Sethi's servants.

In the next apartment Sethi laughed again, his joy contagious, spreading, filling the villa with his presence, his energy, his life.

Istara understood his relief, she felt it too, although she lacked his energy, still unused to the oppressive, humid heat of the river's vast delta. They should have arrived to Pi-Ramesses at midday, but a lack of wind meant the sails had hung slack and the last long iter had had to be rowed while Istara, Edarru, Nesu, and Iltu remained in the shade of the deck's awning, sweltering upon their cushions, watching as the distant city crept closer; its rise from the horizon, slow, the distance deceptive, distorted by the oppressive heat.

"Did you see how hard Lord Sethi and Captain Seru rowed?" Edarru asked, breaking into Istara's reverie. "I rather pitied the others, trying to keep up."

Istara nodded, smiling, recalling the image of the two hulking men cramped up together on a narrow bench, their knees almost at their chests, sweat pouring off them as they battled against the heft of the oar. "I pitied the river. Those men might be expert at war, but oarsmen, they are not."

Edarru laughed, a soft, pleasing sound. She sipped, then: "That big fish that rose up--do you think they killed it?"

"Stunned," Istara said, "nothing more. I saw it recover and swim away."

"Ah, at least there were no casualties, then." Edarru sipped again, smiling to herself.

Istara finished her wine, and set it aside with a sigh, her muscles relaxing under the wine's effect--strong as usual, the way Sethi preferred it. She stretched and leaned back, resting her head against the top of the cushion, her gaze drifting along the cornice encircling the room, repainted over the winter to tell the story of Istara and Sethi's meeting at Kadesh, of his saving her from drowning in the river and later from the barbarian attack at Amka. The tone focused on his heroics, glorifying him, naming him the protector of a princess. Istara lifted a brow as she reached the end--the truth modified for public consumption--of a falcon, the symbol of Horus, landing on the commander's shoulder at Sethi's execution, the regal bird's presence preventing Ramesses from continuing.

Istara bit back a quiet smile. If only people knew the truth.

"He dreamed of you," Edarru murmured, her eyes on the cornice, reading the story. "More times than I could count. The same dream, every time."

Istara glanced at the other woman, surprised. Though it hung between them as heavy as a date-laden palm, neither of them had ever spoken of their shared love for the same man, taking care to navigate around the subject, focusing instead on Nesu, and Edarru's recovery.

"Edarru, I--"

Edarru shook her head, dropping her gaze from the cornice, and down into her half-empty cup. "We must speak of it sometime," she whispered, though her fingers holding the cup trembled. She put her other hand over them, hiding them. "Soon I will be well enough to take up my full duties as your companion. I would rather we stop avoiding it."

Istara nodded, though tendrils of dread slid up and encircled her torso. She poured more wine, pleased by the steadiness of her hand.

"Why did you do it?" Edarru asked, turning a little in the divan, her eyes meeting Istara's, brief, before falling back down to her cup, cradled in her lap. "Why did you allow me to stay when Sethi said I could not? While I was still with child, he told me of your husband, of the son he fathered on another--" she bit her lip, and fell silent. Color crept into her cheeks.

"It is not the same," Istara said, low, struggling to contain the memory of Rhoha parading, arrogant, through the corridors of the palace, Urhi-Teshub's son in her arms. "I am bound in blood to the King of Hatti, but my heart belongs to the Commander of Egypt in a way I am unable to explain--as though I have known him for an eternity." Istara sighed, and took another deep drink of her wine, letting its rich, honeyed tones drift over her tongue and down her throat before continuing. She met Edarru's eyes, watching her, wary, uncertain. "You are the mother of Sethi's son, your babe's life kindled before Sethi knew I existed. If he and I had never met--if I had remained in Kadesh--he would have returned to you and taken you as his wife, would have watched you grow ripe with his child."

Edarru waited, her expression taut, riven with sorrow and longing.

"My husband wants me back," Istara whispered. "I can feel it. I can sense his determination from across the empires. It isn't over yet. And if--" Istara drank again, emptying her cup, "--he somehow finds a way to force me to return, then at least you and Nesu will be safe. I cannot bear the thought of being the one who left you disgraced and forced to live out your life in alienation."

She glanced up at Edarru. The other woman's eyes shone, bright with tears.

"And," Istara pressed on, determined to say it all, before it was too late, "if we must share Sethi--as is his right--I am resigned to it. I will not punish you. You have my word. I only ask that you share him with me with equal grace. I would not have our home sundered by rivalry and hatred."

"I swear it," Edarru said, low, "though he has vowed never to take me again, would not risk losing you."

"I have heard such promises made before," Istara said, dry, as the voices of servants neared, the shuffling of their sandals growing louder against the flagged stones. "Promises like these only serve to break one's heart. Let us assume, for the sake of our sanity, one day, that promise might be broken."

"My lady," Edarru said, soft, a blush spreading over her cheeks, betraying her longing Istara's prediction might come true. "There is none like you, not in all the empires." A tear slipped free. She brushed it away, leaving a smudge of dust on her cheek. "With all my heart, thank you. I will serve you well."

House servants entered, their eyes downcast, carting baskets and narrow wooden crates, the faint fragrance from the jasmine bundles tucked within still sweet despite the passage of ten days of blistering heat and humidity.

The servants left, hurrying to heed the shouts of Weremkhet, rising from the outer courtyard, fractious, demanding, impatient. Two young, bare-chested women slipped in after them carrying small baskets, one filled with lavender sprigs, the other with rose petals. Turning to the stacked boxes, they unlatched the lid of the topmost one and began the work of unpacking Istara's gowns, shaking them out one by one, the dried jasmine blooms hidden in the folds tumbling down, reminding Istara of the fat snowflakes of Tarhuntassa's winters. Sehetep bounded in from the terrace, exuberant, excitable, snapping at them, trying to catch them in his mouth. The servants shooed the dog, good natured, smiling and laughing as they refolded Istara's gowns and arranged them in the three cedarwood cupboards, sprinkling lavender and rose petals around them, their movements graceful, pretty.

The evening wore on. The sun lowered past the horizon, and the shadows deepened. All through the villa, servants hurried to unpack the last of the crates, aware dinner would not be served until the work was complete. Weremkhet sent Istara an appetizer: a bowl of olives, and a slice of honeyed goat's cheese beside a small loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. She caught Edarru eyeing the arrangement, her hunger apparent. Protocol meant Edarru had to wait, could eat what Istara left behind, but Istara was ravenous, and the portion was small, meant only to stave off the worst of her hunger.

Though she could have eaten twice the amount, she pushed the platter over to Edarru, leaving half the food behind. "Take it," she said, pouring herself another cup of wine, hoping it might quieten her rumbling stomach, responding to the mouth-watering scent of roasted chickens wafting from the kitchens. "I can wait."

A heartbeat's hesitation, and Edarru ate, the gratitude in her eyes deep, promising the peace Istara longed for, despite all which stood against them.