His eyes burning with unshed tears, Ahmen lowered the papyrus. Numb with disbelief, he let it go and watched it flutter to the floor. He looked back at the rumpled linens of the bed, struggling to understand Meresamun's words. She could not accept his offer of marriage or be at peace living in wealth and privilege, knowing she did not deserve it.

But out there, alone, without the protection of guards--a woman like her. He shuddered as his mind began to list the unsavory people who gathered around the fringes of decent society: mercenary soldiers, criminals, and unscrupulous slavers. His thoughts skidded to a halt as he recalled the recent reports of foreign sex slavers who kept captured women chained in desert pits, forcing them to suffer terrible things.

Jagged with fear, he tied his kilt around his waist, and unlocked the cupboard containing his weapons. His gaze lingered on his khopesh, tempted despite knowing it was against the law to wear one outside of the training grounds.

Lifting out his dagger, he pulled the blade from its scabbard, checking its sharpness before fastening it to his belt. As the reassuring weight of it sank onto his hip, he looked back one last time at the bed, where Meresamun had lain beside him. She had just been there. The bed was still warm.

He turned away. He would tear the city apart. He would find her. He had to find her. To lose her was unthinkable.

❃

With a start, Meresamun returned. She sat up, her head aching.

An oppressive, thick silence filled the air, ripe with the absence of life; no sounds of servants sweeping, or the quiet murmur of their conversations drifted past the closed terrace panels; no breeze from the river rustled its way through the palms, no plaintive heron cries lifted up to the skies.

Wary, she looked around. A sleeping room, lit by lamps burning smokeless oil. Beautiful pieces of gold-inlaid furniture, arranged in perfect symmetry. A soft and luxurious bed, piled high with cushions. She pressed her hand against the mattress, feeling the spines of small feathers poking between the linens. It was a real bed like Ahmen's, set upon a wooden frame, only this frame's exotic, warm scent told her it was made of precious cedarwood, imported from forests two hundred long iters away, far to the north. Her gaze moved over the fortune of furniture in the room, its lowliest piece far exceeding anything Ahmen possessed. She bit her lip. Whoever had taken her possessed vast wealth, and judging by the obedience of the men who had done the deed, great power, as well.

On a low table beside the bed, a tray holding a silver jug and cup waited, accompanied by an assortment of sweet breads and dried fruits. Her mouth dry as dust, she poured herself a drink of water, rubbing at the dull ache pressing against the inside of her forehead.

She drank, taking in the colorful band of hieroglyphs painted around the room's perimeter, just under the cornice. One of its phrases caught her attention. She re-read the text: a declaration of a forbidden love, unreturned, yet the heart of the unloved one vowed to carry on alone, locked in silence. She lowered her eyes. It was too unhappy, she would not finish reading it.

A click as the latch of the door released. She rose, her heart thudding, the cup clutched against her chest. From within the alcove's shadows, the door closed. A man's voice, pleasing and refined, addressed her.

"So you have returned at long last. It is almost time for the evening meal. I had begun to fear my men had given you too much of the draft."

She waited for him to step out from the alcove's gloom. He did not. Nor did he say anything more. She moved closer.

"Who are you," she asked, hesitant, "and why have you ordered your men to take me? What do you intend to do with me?"

"Your first two questions," he replied, "I will not answer. However, I intend to do with you whatever I am asked to do. Your future is not for me to decide."

The cup slipped from her hand and bounced off the bed, clattering against the stone floor, its noise rude against the smooth elegance of the room. "My lord," she protested, frightened, "I have done nothing wrong, the pharaoh himself delivered the papyrus releasing me, granting my freedom. Who are you to gainsay the King of Egypt? What would he say to this act of yours?"

A heartbeat of quiet as he considered her words. "You have done one thing wrong," he answered, his tone turning colder, "you left the safety of Lord Ahmen's villa, and by doing so, made my task easy. You are far outside Waset. If you scream, no one will come to aid you, so save your strength.

"In the meantime, rest, eat, read if it pleases you, I have a library full of scrolls. I do not expect you will have to wait long before a decision is made. If I were in your position, I would appreciate what little time I had left to enjoy such comforts and luxury as are being offered, for very soon--I assure you--it will end."

The door opened and closed once more, soft and discreet. His footsteps faded away. Silence returned. Meresamun sank onto the bed, numb. She bent over and picked up the cup from the floor, setting it back onto its place on the tray.

Her gaze drifted back to the text painted around the perimeter of the room. She forced herself to finish it. The lover dies alone, the name of his forbidden love the last word on his lips. It was depressing, this tale. Who would put such a thing on the wall of a sleeping room? She had been captured by a madman.

Bolting to the door, she pounded her fists against it, pleading to be released, but her cries, just as he had promised, were ignored. She stumbled back to the bed, putting her back against the wall, her arms around her knees. The hieroglyphs taunted her. She closed her eyes, shutting them out, and waited.

❃

Paser hurried through his courtyard gardens, preoccupied, not allowing himself any time to appreciate the beauty of its flowers. Ahead, on a low platform protected by the shade of date palms, his palanquin waited. Eight men, their skin gleaming with oil, knelt beside its support poles. Paser settled onto its cushioned chair and gripped its armrests, bracing himself for the ascent as his bearers rose to their feet. They lifted him up in one fluid motion. He quirked an eyebrow, pleased. A good omen. His guards opened the gates to his villa, proceeding ahead, clearing the way.

Paser settled back for the ride to Waset, his thoughts returning to Meresamun, locked in his guest room. A dilemma. Yesterday, his spies had confirmed Ramesses had freed her himself before the lion hunt, taking her with him from the temple. But in a peculiar twist, he sent her to Ahmen's villa, under the protection of his own guard.

Paser shifted, uneasy. What if, for reasons he could not yet know, Ramesses had relinquished Meresamun to his oldest friend? If he had, Paser was committing a foul crime, breaking the twenty-ninth of the forty-two laws of Ma'at.

He rubbed his hand against his kilt, smoothing down its pleats as he considered the law: I have not acted hastily or without thought. Wrestling with his conscience, he reviewed what he had observed on the night of the feast. While it was clear Ramesses desired the priestess, there was also no doubt there had been a strong attraction between Ahmen and Meresamun.

But Ahmen was a law-abiding man, courageous and honorable, a model Egyptian, Ahmen would never take a priestess to his bed, even while full of wine. And, of course, there was the fortune's worth of gifts Ramesses had bestowed upon Meresamun. No, she must belong to Ramesses, Ahmen's villa nothing more than a resting place for her until a villa of her own could be had, where Ramesses could visit her, discreet, an ex-priestess. Yes. She had run away to escape her eventual fate, a life of loneliness and imprisonment in a gilded cage, a slave to Ramesses's lust. Paser nodded, congratulating himself for his foresight to keep his men outside Ahmen's villa.

He spread his fingers out, examining his manicured nails. A memory returned, irking him. More than once he had caught Ahmen and Meresamun sharing their food, intimate, like lovers. Maybe Ahmen had bedded her, and Ramesses was covering it up to protect his lifelong friend. If Paser was wrong and had misjudged, then no matter where he sent Meresamun, if she belonged to Ahmen, she would find a way to return. Questions would be asked, answers demanded.

Uncertain, he glanced back at his villa, its buildings and colonnades gleaming white, surrounded by verdant fields of green. If he were to be found out, he would lose everything. He still had time to undo the damage, Meresamun did not know who her captor was. She could be drugged and returned to Waset's alleys, but it would be the queen's decision, not his. He had done his work, the rest would be up to Nefertari.

In the distance, the walls of Waset shimmered in the light of the lowering disk of Re-Atum. Nefertari would be pleased, as she always was whenever he removed another of her competitors from court. But what if this time he had been too eager to protect his queen? Meresamun could not be handled the same way as the courtesans. Those women were sent to one of the eleven fortresses of The Horus Way, far to the north in Lower Egypt. Surrounded by long iters of burning desert, they soon realized there was nothing else for them to do but make their fortunes servicing the soldiers.

They did not remain long in the fortresses, often they were claimed as companions by the most senior members at the post. Many of them fell in love, or married, a few lived in wealth beyond their dreams. Others retired in luxury in the vast city of Pi-Ramesses, or were taken on as a companion by one of the capital's elite.

There was one who had achieved great success. Nerit, stunning, ambitious, and devious, her heart set on a crown. Paser sent her to Byblos, where she became King Bentesina's favorite courtesan, making a fortune. Not satisfied with her lot, she traveled to Tarhuntassa, and enthralled Muwatallis so much, he charged his queen with treason, banished her, and crowned Nerit instead. Yes, Nerit had been worth the effort and expense to send far away. A heartless, conniving woman, she was the perfect match for the cold-blooded King of Hatti.

Paser's guards called out to make way as Waset's eastern gate came into view. A path opened through the bustling crowd. Nobles and commoners bowed before Egypt's vizier, murmuring with excitement. Ignoring them, Paser continued with his thoughts: in many ways those women were better off for his intervention. Once Ramesses grew bored with his conquests--which he always did--there could be no return to society, not once a woman had been known by a god in the flesh. For each discarded unfortunate, a life sentence awaited her in one of the harems, where she would be left to pace her gilded cage, surrounded by jealousy and hate, forgotten and unloved, waiting for the day her heart would stop beating.

His bearers turned down the market street, passing the empty meat stalls, closed for the day. A cat ran in front of them, a dead rat dangling from her mouth. Flies swarmed, thick in the fetid air. Paser hated the meat market, such a filthy place. He held his breath, flicking his fly whisk back and forth, willing his bearers to move faster. Another cat bolted under the palanquin. Paser narrowed his eyes, watching it as it pounced. A terrified squeal. His men moved on.

The cat reminded Paser of Ramesses, to whom women were prey; creatures to be caught, played with, then cast aside as soon as another captured his attention. Paser scoffed. Yet, women went to him willing enough, dreaming of being made a queen. In four years, not one of them had been crowned. All of them forgotten, discarded, replaced.

Paser wondered how many frightened, weeping women his clandestine actions had saved? He did a quick calculation. The number was almost four dozen. He felt a stab of pride; all those women, spared.

His bearers climbed upward, entering the walled citadel of the nobility. Paser looked toward the palace walls, glowing pink in the evening's light, recalling Nefertari's hollow expression at the banquet, as Ramesses, drunk, flaunted his lust for the priestess.

If only she were mine--

Paser cut off the thought. It could never be, it was impossible. It was dangerous even thinking it. But it was in his power to do this one thing: to his dying breath he would protect the woman he loved from Ramesses's humiliations. Anything for her. Anything. Even to the cost of his eternal soul.