Deep within the shadow of a fruit seller's awning, Ahmen picked up a pomegranate and toyed with it, absent, distracted. He turned, his rings catching on a splinter of Re-Atum's light, sending a burst of tiny sparkles exploding across the ceiling of the red-dyed awning. Several cats crept near, their gazes fixed upward, watchful, intent. Beside the brimming fruit baskets, the vendor waited, respectful, ingratiating, shooing other customers away.

Ahmen ignored him, exploiting his vantage point to search through the chaos of the trading caravan, its men, supplies and beasts taking up almost all of the open space in Pi-Ramesses's vast market square; the traders busy, bustling, officious, overseeing the final preparations before their departure to Babylon. Instead of short kilts, the men wore long, colorful robes dyed in pale shades of green, blue and red; their matching headscarves flapping in the gusts of wind buffeting the market's awnings, which snapped and buckled in the morning heat.

Children bolted through the square, chasing swirling eddies of dust, laughing, excitable, darting between the strange humped beasts of burden, their gurgling, grunting, throaty whines and bellows drowning out the usual noises of the market. A heavyset man pushed through a pair of the beasts, impatient, angry; his rugged, leathery skin betraying years spent traversing hostile, dangerous lands in the pursuit of profit. He marched along the side of the disorganized group, shouting out orders in Akkadian, his accent heavy with the inflections of Babylon. Catching hold of one of the beasts he dragged it back into the haphazard line, cuffing one of his men on the back of his head for letting it wander.

Ahmen put the pomegranate back into the basket, and proceeded along the display, running his fingers over the pebbled surfaces of a pile of melons, wondering if he had been mistaken. Only two caravans would depart from Pi-Ramesses this week, both heading for Babylon, yet he was certain Ramesses had said the first one was intended for the exclusive use of the King of Hatti and his wife. He looked back at the main entrance to the market. No guards pushed their way through the throng. He moved past the melons, and paused at a basket overflowing with dried dates. He picked one up and tasted it, recalling the sticky, syrupy fruit was Meresamun's favorite. He gestured to Tuy, waiting outside the stall, to purchase them.

As Tuy haggled with the vendor, Ahmen drifted closer to the square, watching as the caravan took shape, the transformation rapid, impressive--the synergy of men and beasts as efficient as the pharaoh's divisions of the army.

He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting, riven by fatigue and uncertainty. For the last six nights he hadn't slept more than a few hours, each long, lonely night spent pacing the length of his apartment, crippled by the fear Meresamun would leave him, never to return. Each day since she had left, he had sent Tuy to Sethi's villa bearing gifts and letters begging her forgiveness, pleading with her to remain. Each day, Tuy had returned, grim, still carrying Ahmen's gifts and letters, all of them untouched.

Yesterday, when Ahmen read Ramesses's message confirming Sethi had gone to the gods, he had felt nothing. Instead, hollowness gnawed at him as his hatred against his once-friend melted away, leaving behind a bitter taste, shame rising in its wake, enveloping him, suffocating, claustrophobic. He suppressed a shudder. No longer blinded by a torrent of hate, he saw himself as everyone else had: a monster. He didn't even recognize the man he had become--the things he had done to Meresamun for all those long, long months. He clenched his fists, sickened, guilt slamming into him. He welcomed the pain, feeding it, wanting to suffer for his crimes. Though he doubted she would change her mind, he could not stop himself from trying to see his wife one last time--to make one last desperate attempt to ask for time to make things right; to grant him an undeserved second chance.

He eyed the main entrance again, his nerves taut. Already her absence felt an eternity--six long, punishing days spent reliving all the wrongs he had committed against her since their wedding, seeing his cruelty from her eyes, feeling her pain, her loneliness, her grief, until he reached his final, brutal crime, the night he violated her, hurt her, desecrated her. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to endure the memory of her broken look as he betrayed her trust--as he called her a whore of Babylon.

Shouts erupted from the far end of the square, rough, commanding, calling out to make way. His heart constricting, Ahmen left the shelter of the awning and stepped out into the broiling morning light of Re-Atum's barque. He narrowed his eyes against the glare, watching as a procession of five closed palanquins cut their way through the throng into the square, surrounded by both the palace's and Sethi's guards.

The bearers came to a halt and lowered their burdens onto the ground. The leathery-faced caravan master pushed his way out from the line of camels, and bowed low, obsequious, as the King of Hatti and the arrogant man bearing the name of a Hittite god emerged from their palanquins and moved, protective, to the two behind their own. From behind a screen of embroidered linens, Istara and a dark-haired woman staggered out from their palanquins, their gazes vacant. They leaned, limp with grief, against the men as they led them to their camels. Settling them into the cushioned, globe-shaped wicker palanquins positioned atop the kneeling beasts, they pulled the linen hangings closed, shielding them from the curious looks of the city's citizens.

From the last palanquin, Meresamun emerged, alone and unescorted, vulnerable and lost amidst the sudden flurry of preparations.

Ahmen pushed his way through the cluster of onlookers, gawking, open-mouthed at the arrivals' gold-paneled palanquins, pointing at the multitude of crates and baskets piling up in the palanquins' wake, filled with the wealth of the departing travelers.

A pair of Sethi's guards eyed him as he approached, but did nothing to stop him. His wife stood half-turned, facing away from him. He touched her arm.

"Meresamun," he said, forced to raise his voice over the cacophony of the mournful wails and grunts of the creatures, the shouts of the caravan workers ricocheting across the square.

She turned. Her eyes widened. "Ahmen," she answered, breathless, taking a step back, bumping against the side of the palanquin.

He tightened his hold, steadying her as she lost her balance, his grip surrounding the narrow circumference of her forearm. There was almost nothing left of her apart from her skin and bones. Guilt slammed into him anew.

"I know you are determined to go," he began, catching Urhi-Teshub already making his way over, eyeing Ahmen, cautious. "But I beg you, please, reconsider. Grant me a month to prove to you I have changed, to show how much I regret the harm I have done--how wrong I now know I was."

"It is too late," Meresamun said, so low, he had to strain to hear her words.

"Meresamun," he said, sinking to his knee, uncaring of who saw. At the edge of his vision, Urhi-Teshub slowed, waiting, respecting the sanctity of the bond between man and wife. A surge of gratitude washed through him. "Please," he pleaded, taking hold of her hand, pressing his lips against her palm. "Don't go. I will move into another villa. You may have everything I possess. No matter how long it takes, I will make my retribution. You may ask anything of me and it will be done. My love," he said, his voice cracking, tainted by fear, longing, guilt, "I would swim with crocodiles if it would grant me a chance to win you back."

Meresamun blinked. A sheen of tears cut across her eyes. "Ahmen, please," she said, pulling her hand free. "We cannot go back to what we had, there is only one way forward now. Apart."

"No," Ahmen said, his heart splintering as she backed away, her eyes still on his. "Meresamun, my love," he cried, coming to his feet, "I know my crimes deserve this, but I cannot bear to let you go without a fight. I will win you back, whatever I must do, however I must suffer, I swear I will do it. There can only be you." He held his hand out to her, desperation clawing at him. "My love. My only love--" he whispered, anguish tearing at his soul. She was going to leave him. He could see it in her eyes.

Meresamun bit her lip. A tear slipped free, then another. She said his name, once, and turned away. Urhi-Teshub took hold of her elbow, and guided her away, into the noise, chaos and dust of the caravan.

Ahmen waited as Re-Atum's barque processed, slow, up into the sky, his throat tight and his heart aching. Please, he begged. Let her change her mind. Let her not do this thing. Let her come home. The caravan departed, noisy, dusty; his wife lost to him in its depths, determined to make the long, brutal journey to Babylon, half a world away--to leave him, forever.

When the last of the caravan disappeared from the square, and the unnerving cries of its beasts faded, Tuy joined Ahmen, wearing a linen pouch laden with the purchased dates slung over his shoulder.

"It can't end like this," Ahmen said, low, his throat tight with unshed tears. "I must follow her, and make sure she is safe." Determination scythed through him, raw, reckless. "Pack my things. I will leave on the next caravan."

Tuy's gaze moved to the east, toward the distant land of Babylon, the corners of his mouth lowering, defeated, resigned.

"May the gods protect you both," he whispered. He opened the pouch bearing Ahmen's gift to Meresamun and scattered its contents to the children, who squealed with delight, oblivious to Ahmen's broken heart, and the tears blinding his eyes.