The days after Imhotep departed for Pi-Ramesses passed, slow. Though Imhotep's salves had worked their wonders on Sethi's flesh, pain still burrowed deep within his torso. He knew he should have died from his injuries, yet, once again, he lived, this time not for Istara but for another, greater, unknown purpose. He slept, and when Horus was awake, they talked about what the world had been like during the Golden Age. He listened, fascinated, as Horus described a world of wonder and beauty, of flying barques called ships, and of towering white cities.

One evening, over the last of their dinner, Sethi spoke of his two dreams: of the battle where he fought his way to Istara, and of a world burning beneath the clear floor of a flying barque, Istara beside him, weeping.

Horus cut him a look from over his wine cup. "Did anything happen after?"

Sethi rubbed his hand over his jaw, deciding whether to share the rest. Horus watched him, his gaze penetrating, unnerving.

"I made love to her," he answered, wondering at his reticence. "There was a bed on the floor. I could see the world burning even as we coupled."

Horus set aside his wine cup, the gesture meaningful, menacing. "You are sure it was Istara you made love to--" he asked, a flicker of anger, dangerous, igniting in his eyes, "--and not someone else?"

Sethi sat back, wary. "It was Istara," he answered, firm. "I know my woman."

"As do I," Horus muttered, looking away.

"What are--"

"That was my memory you experienced," Horus interrupted, tight. "I watched the world burn with Baalat. I made love to her, while the flames consumed everything she had created."

Sethi gaped at him. "But I dreamed this before I ever used the secret word and gave up my heart to you. How could I have--"

"Known?" Horus muttered. He poured himself a fresh cup of wine. "That is a good question."

Sethi toyed with his cup, turning it round, watching the wine within swirl. "What about my other dream," he asked, low, "is it also a memory of yours?"

"Why would you have access to one of my most private, painful memories?" Horus demanded, ignoring Sethi's question. He drank, deep, regarding Sethi over the cup's rim, his face darkening. "It is a violation," he said, tight. "You have dreamed of making love to my consort, of watching her home burn, knowing all is lost. If we were not bound together, I would kill you."

"I made love to Istara, the woman I love," Sethi retorted, defiant. "I swear upon Re-Atum's light, I did not hold your consort in my arms, but I did feel your pain. It was unbearable, brutal, even though I didn't understand what was happening. It was a relief to wake."

Horus glared at him, hostility seeping from him, though Sethi sensed the hostility was not directed at him, but another, the one responsible for the burning of Baalat's city.

"His name is Marduk," Horus finally said, folding his arms over his chest, the nascent scars on his torso puckering. "He came from another world, and took everything from us. Everything."

"Marduk?" Sethi repeated, confused. "The god of Babylon?"

"Babylon," Horus repeated, flat, looking down at his folded arms. He glanced up from under his brow. "Is it far?" he asked.

Sethi nodded. "Its kingdom lies to the east of Egypt, near the edge of the known world, only reached by taking a caravan across the desert. A dangerous journey."

"Is that so?" Horus asked. A smile hovered at the corners of his lips, betraying a hint of pride. "As usual, my consort was right."

Sethi lifted a brow, curious.

Horus waved the comment away. "I will be glad to leave this place," he said instead, poking at the fire, stirring it back to life. "I am not used to being so far from my consort for so long. I sense she is grieving." He glanced up at Sethi. "Her heart aches for mine."

Sethi poured them more wine. "I envy your connection. I feel nothing, am only able to find Istara in my dreams." He sipped. "It is never enough."

"Once Imhotep returns, we should be strong enough to make our way back to Pi-Ramesses," Horus said. "And when we get there," he continued, leaning forward, intent, "we need to talk about Babylon."

Imhotep arrived the next afternoon. The news was bad. He had failed to find Baalat. He dropped a rough linen sack onto the cave's floor. It hit the dusty surface with a dull thud. Sethi knelt and opened it.

"What in the name of--" he began, plucking out a stinking, filthy robe, undyed and coarse. He cast it aside, disgusted.

"Disguises, you ingrate," Imhotep said, sniffing. "It took quite some effort to steal those."

Horus moved closer. Sethi pulled out a goatskin kilt and tunic. A sinuous insect slid out from the skin's hairs onto his hand and crawled up his arm, its scales flashing silver in the lamplight.

He slapped the thing away and tossed the rough skins back into the sack. "Have you lost your senses? Why in the name of Hathor would we want to wear disguises?"

"Ah," Imhotep said, scratching the bridge of his nose. "There has been a small complication."

Sethi stood up. "Meaning?"

"Perhaps the weary traveler might have a drink first?" Imhotep suggested, pouring himself a cup of wine. He drained its contents, sighed and set the cup aside. "While I was on my way to your villa in the hope of finding Baalat, a royal proclamation went out over the city. It seems--" Imhotep rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, "--well, there really is no polite way to put it. You are dead."

"What?" Sethi erupted, incredulous. "How can Ramesses announce such a thing without possessing my body? Who will be interred if not me?"

"They wouldn't have been able to find your body even if you had died," Imhotep muttered. "The scavengers left nothing recognizable behind."

"So I'm dead," Sethi murmured, sinking onto a stool. He looked up, hopeful. "But you saw Istara--told her the truth?"

Imhotep shook his head. "Your guards did not take kindly to me trying to tell them you still lived. They threatened to have me arrested. It was all I could do to get away without ending up in the slave pits."

"So she believes I am dead," Sethi said, bleak. He looked down at his hands curling into fists, futility riding him hard. It would take three days to get to her; to relieve her of her sorrow. He glanced at the robe, lying in a stagnant heap. "But why not return as we are? Why wear disguises?" he asked. "Once I arrive and the guards at the gate see I am alive, all will be well."

"Your woman is grieving," Imhotep said, low. "The heartbeat you approach Pi-Ramesses's walls, you will be taken to the palace to wait on the pharaoh's pleasure. I am sure he will be quite interested to hear how you managed to survive the ambush--" he looked down at Sethi's torso, at each of the four puckered holes, meaningful, "--with injuries like those. I thought you would rather avoid all those complications and go to Istara first, but--" he shrugged, "--we can do it your way. It's neither here nor there to me. These will make good fuel for the fire." He bent down to put the robe back in the sack.

"Wait," Sethi said, staying Imhotep's hand. He cut a look at Horus. "Will you do it?"

"I will," Horus answered, his gaze following the paths of several more silvery insects slithering free of the sack. "But not for you, or Istara. For Baalat."