Ahmen squinted up at Re-Atum's barque, already almost halfway across the sky. He let out a heavy sigh and kept moving along the narrow lane, picking his way over a patch of broken bricks. Everywhere, dust, destruction, and in some places, bodies, both human and animal, rotting amongst the rubble, swollen and stinking in the broiling heat. He brushed at the dust on his kilt, longing for a bath, for the comforts of home, for the clean orderliness of Egypt.

The week before, as soon as his caravan arrived into the chaos of a city still reeling from the earthquake's aftermath, Ahmen had gone straight to the palace. Despite carrying a letter of greeting from Ramesses, the guards had blocked Ahmen's way, telling him the king had closeted himself with his council and commanders, the restoration of his shattered city his sole priority. Panicking, thinking of the devastated plain outside the tumbled walls of the city--and the gaping chasms which had required his caravan to take a long, circuitous route south to bypass--Ahmen had offered the guards gold, asking if they knew whether the King of Hatti had arrived with his wife. The guards had glared at him and his gold, disdainful, cold, hostile.

At a loss for what else to do, Ahmen had tried every one of the remaining inns, some of them, twice, but despite plying innkeepers, tavern maids, and soldiers with his gold, no one had heard of a blue-eyed woman called Meresamun, or the arrival of Hatti's king and his queen. Each night, fear gnawed at Ahmen, stealing his sleep. He had heard the rumors when he arrived. An entire caravan from Egypt had been lost during the earthquake, no survivors had been found apart from several stray camels, trailing the ruins of their baggage behind them, one of them containing regal gowns worth a fortune, long since sold.

He refused to believe it had been her caravan. It had been another one. Meresamun was alive, safe, and in the palace with Urhi-Teshub and Istara. The alternative was unthinkable. Until he met with the king and had his answer, Ahmen clung, stubborn, to the hope his wife had been protected by the god she had so faithfully served.

He clambered over another pile of broken bricks and emerged from the claustrophobia of the lane into the heated basin of the processional avenue, its length following the boundary wall of the Etemen'anki. He turned north, heading for the palace gate, the reassuring weight of the scroll case bearing Ramesses's letter within his pouch. It had been two weeks since the earthquake. He hoped this time King Kadashman-Turgu might be more amenable to accepting diplomatic visitors. Ahmen pushed his way through the crowd, unwilling to spend his gold on a palanquin, determined to conserve every spare ingot for Meresamun.

The way ahead teemed, heaving with the ebb and flow of men, women, children, and livestock. The palanquins of the wealthy loomed over the mass of common people, casting thin shadows as their guards cursed and used the butts of their spears to shove any unfortunates out of their path. With the marketplace in ruins, the processional way--the longest, widest avenue in the eastern city--had become a temporary market. Along its walls, traders squatted behind wares laid out on reed mats and called to the imperious passengers upon their palanquins, who swished their peacock feather fans before their faces, bored, ignoring them.

Ahmen chafed against the slowness of his progress, caught in the interminable shuffle of the crowd browsing the endless wares. Unlike the avenues of Egyptian cities, no trees lined the way and the blistering heat of Re-Atum's barque beat down on him, relentless, punishing. Not far ahead, he spotted a water bearer. He veered toward the young woman, balancing a large jug against her hip. A wooden cup hung from the jar's handle by a leather strap, the cup swaying as she walked. Just as he reached her, several shouts rose from behind, breaching the noise of the crowd. A ripple of excitement shuddered through the men and women. He turned, curious.

Further down, a golden palanquin approached, stately, its panels glittering in the light, obscuring his view of its passenger. The people melted away, falling silent as it approached, bowing, those in front pressing their foreheads to the dusty clay bricks of the road. Even the palanquins of the wealthy came to rest on the ground, the lords and ladies within leaving their seats to kneel on the palanquin's floor, their heads lowered. The water bearer hissed at him, gesturing for him to kneel beside her. She drew her finger over her throat, slow, indicating what would happen if he didn't.

Ahmen knelt, eyeing the palanquin's approach, discreet, wondering if it contained the king. Surrounded by a dozen guards, their armor more gold than leather, the monstrosity processed toward him, slow, borne on the shoulders of twenty strong men, their dark hair curled, oiled, and tied into knots at the backs of their necks. Several paces in front, a priest wearing robes of blue and green, its edges finished in gold, walked before the group, his fingers wrapped around the shaft of a long, slender pole bearing the golden image of a winged disk. Re-Atum's light glinted on the thing, as large as a goose platter.

The priest passed, solemn, staring into the middle distance, sweat trickling out from under his elaborate headdress down his neck and into his robe. Before him, the people melted away, crowding together, making way, hushed, reverent. Ahmen eyed the guards before the palanquin, seasoned warriors by the look of them, bearing the scars of many battles fought and won. The palanquin approached. He dared a look. A woman, thin yet elegant, looked over the crowd, clad in a diaphanous dress of pure gold, her dark hair piled high on her head, a filigreed crown woven through it. The palanquin drew nearer and she turned and looked over his side of the avenue. He blinked, astonished, disbelieving.

"Meresamun," he breathed, rising, incredulous, his heart, long quiet, coming to life, relief shuddering through him. She lived. His love lived. He almost shouted for joy. A hand came to his forearm, jerking him back to his knees.

The commotion attracted Meresamun's attention. He held his breath as her eyes moved over the crowd toward him. He smiled, his heart aching when her eyes met his. He said her name, soft. Her brow furrowed for a heartbeat, uncertainty touching her expression. She tilted her head, her eyes blank, a flicker of confusion passing through them. Horns blared at the palace gate, and her gaze drifted away, drawn to the activity unfolding ahead, Ahmen already forgotten.

The procession passed. The babble of voices rose again, and the palanquins of the wealthy ascended once more. Traders called out in their singsong voices, enticing buyers to them. Children raced between the press of people, excited, their words tumbling, quick, incomprehensible; all Ahmen could understand was Consort of Marduk. He came to his feet, stunned, watching her palanquin approach the opening gates. She did not know him. There had been no artifice in her look. He was a stranger to her. He looked down at himself, devastated. Had he changed so much in three months? The journey across the desert had been hard, and he had lost weight, but he still dressed as an Egyptian, had kept his head shaved, and wore kohl on his eyes and brows. How could she not recognize him out of all the others?

He turned to the water bearer and pointed at the palanquin passing under the wide arch of the palace gates. "Who the lady be?" he asked, frustrated by his limited knowledge of Akkadian.

"Ninsunu," the woman answered. She pointed up at the Etemen'anki, the ziqquratu's stepped bulk looming over the wall, oppressive. "Consort of Marduk. Daughter of King Kadashman-Turgu." She pointed toward the west. "She return from far away." She lifted up the cup, hopeful. "Water now?"

Numb, he took the proffered cup and drank. Emptiness clawed at him. Meresamun was a princess. Her father, the king. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, uncertainty stalking him, the memory of the things he had put her through returning, ugly, brutal, damning. If she had told her father what he had done to her, he had no doubt his visit to Babylon would end at the edge of a blade--nothing less than he deserved.

"High priestess. Not consort," Ahmen clarified, handing the cup back.

The woman shook her head. "Consort," she said, emphatic, tying the cup back onto the jug's handle. She turned away--tucking his payment, a copper shard, into her pouch--already smiling at her next customer, a burly guardsman.

Ahmen ran his hand over his scalp, at a loss what to do next. Unable to stop himself, he followed the shuffling crowd drifting toward the palace gate--drawn to his wife's presence within the citadel's blue-tiled walls--as defenseless as a bee to the song of a flower.