Alone within her apartment, Istara fell to her knees, naked, and rifled through her clothes chests, searching for her best gown and tunic. In her haste, she knocked over her jewelry box. An armband--a gift from her father--hit the stone floor with a dull snap. She cried out, dismayed, and lifted it up. It was broken beyond repair.

She set it aside, angry at herself. Righting the box, she noticed her pendant from Hurik wasn't in its clamp inside the lid. She dug through her jewelry, becoming frantic when it she couldn't find it. An intense urge to hurry overcame her, warning her there was no time, she would have to leave it behind. She dressed, her fingers shaking as she fastened a veil over the lower half of her face. Drawing her plainest cloak around her shoulders, she picked up her bronze mirror and inspected her reflection; her golden browband glimmered in the lamplight, betraying her. She pulled up her hood and concealed her crown. Now, to anyone who cared to look, she was just an ordinary woman.

As she passed her writing desk, she caught sight of her agate seal, without thinking, she tucked it within the folds of her gown. Leaving her apartment, she slipped through the palace, meeting no one; not even the guards stood at their usual posts. She pressed on, foreboding clawing at her.

At the edge of the stable yard, she hesitated. Nothing moved. In the middle of the yard, a lone helmet lay on its side, forlorn. She cut across the open space and slipped into the storeroom containing the supply gate. It opened with a soft creak. She glanced behind her, her heart pounding, fearful someone had heard. Silence greeted her. Stepping into the tunnel, she pushed her way through the stacked supplies, emerging onto the lane leading to the palace square. Following the lane to its final bend, she stopped, stunned. The gateway to the square seethed, chaotic, the palace guards overwhelmed, struggling to hold back Kadesh's elite, demanding sanctuary within the palace walls.

A fresh melee erupted. Without pausing to think, Istara bolted into the crowd, squeezing herself into a narrow gap between two women. The horde surrounded her, frantic, clawing their way toward the guards, desperate. She shoved them back and broke free, stumbling out into the palace square where she staggered to a halt, astonished by its transformation.

Across the expanse of the once-regal square, families huddled together, their meager belongings piled into carts or tied in bundles to their backs. All through the square, livestock milled, frightened, the ripe stink of their urine and feces making Istara's eyes water. She clambered through the press to the edge of the square only to find every street and alley crammed with carts, animals, and people. She pushed her way through, desperate, fearing the far worse fate awaiting them should she fail to deliver Baalat's message.

As she neared the city's wall, cries erupted, filled with panic and fear. Soldiers on the ramparts gestured for those still outside to fall back. One soldier leaned over, his hands cupped around his mouth.

"The city is full," he bellowed into the mob swarming below. "By the king's command the gates are being closed. Move back!"

The cries crescendoed, peppered with pleas for mercy. Istara pushed her way into the gate's courtyard just as the heavy wooden gates groaned, beginning to close. A fat blockade of carts stood before her, barring the way. She stood on her toes seeking a way through, finding none. Falling to her knees, she looked under the carts. There. A way through. Uncaring of her dignity she crawled, scrambling through the narrow gaps between the carts' wheels. Her hand came down on a broken piece of crockery. She bit back a cry, feeling the sudden warmth of blood spreading across her palm. Ignoring the pain, she scuttled forward, bursting out from under the carts. A solid wall of refugees, at least twenty deep, barred her way through the gate's barbican. One of the wooden doors juddered to a halt, its ropes caught. Soldiers on the ramparts hurried to free the snag. The pressure in the crowd eased, and from within the crush, more than two dozen people freed themselves, pushing their way into the city, clambering over the carts.

For the briefest heartbeat, a space opened. She threw herself into it, shoving with all her might against those still trying to get in. On either side of her, the doors--as thick as the length of a man's arm--were near enough to touch. The stalled door began to move again, closing in on her, blocking the light. Terror took hold of her. The doors bore down on her, relentless, threatening to crush her in their grip. She screamed, panicking, clawing her way up onto the shoulders of the man in front of her, scratching his face as she climbed over him. The space between the gates narrowed to the width of an arm span. Currents of air caught by the momentum of the doors brushed against her. Panting with fear, she dragged herself over the shoulders of the crowd. A man grabbed hold of her waist and cast her aside in his rush to save himself. She tumbled, helpless, caught by the momentum of the crowd as they tossed her to its edge. She slid to the ground, shaking, and tried to stand. She couldn't. Her legs had turned to water.

The cries escalated, becoming a deafening roar, filled with urgency. Caught in the grip of the closing doors, a man and woman struggled, panicking. The doors slammed together with a heavy boom. For the smallest breath the pair continued to live, their eyes wild with pain and fear. Istara stood up, horrified.

Something heavy struck her chest. She recoiled, stumbling back against the wall of the bridge. Bloody entrails clung to her cloak. Gibbering, she shook them off, her gaze darting back to the bloodstained gates, splattered with the remains of its trapped victims. The men and women left outside surged up against the walls, crying, begging, pleading to be let in. Women held up their babies, imploring the guards for mercy. Istara stared at the scene, horrified by the chaos, the misery, the desperation. This was the future, for the next one hundred years--for everyone--if she did not reach Ramesses in time.

She worked her way over the bridge, weaving around the carts and livestock. At the forest's edge, she scanned the dripping shadows, a tremor of fear rippling through her. The cries of the people escalated. She turned, watching, sickened, as the guards turned away, abandoning the helpless people to their fate. With sudden clarity she realized even queens had no more power than those left outside the safety of the walls. In the empires of men, all were tokens, disposable--just like Tanu-Hepa; just like her mother. It was enough. She would be a token no more; she gathered up her gown, and ran.

❃

His hands clasped behind his back, Ramesses stood at the edge of the plateau and gazed at the towering stone walls of Kadesh, its purple flags hanging limp under the leaden sky. He narrowed his eyes, appraising the improvements made to the city's defenses since Egypt's siege thirteen years earlier. Back then, three of Kadesh's walls had been surrounded by groves of olive trees, its eastern wall butting up against the bank of the Orantes River.

Ramesses had heard the reports, of course. But to see the changes for himself was another thing altogether. The olive groves were gone. Now, a wide, stone-lined channel encircled the walls of the city. From the city's three gates, stone bridges crossed the moat. No longer did the city sit vulnerable on three sides: Kadesh had become an island, surrounded by the river's deep, fast-moving waters.

When he believed Kadesh had been Egypt's, these improvements pleased him. Now he faced the unpleasant possibility of another time-consuming siege. He glared at the city, infuriated. He had sent masons to help build those bridges. Kadesh would pay, and this time Egypt would take more than just gold.

He caught sight of Paser approaching. "You bring news of Amun's encampment?" he asked as his vizier bowed low.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Paser replied, glancing back at the spreading camp. "The commanders of Amun's companies report good progress. At our current rate of effort, we will be established before Re-Atum's barque descends."

Ramesses sniffed, pleased. His gaze returned to the island city. "Has a rider been sent to the holding position of the Na'arn Division with the order to join Amun when Re-Atum's barque rises tomorrow?"

Paser bowed his head. "I despatched the rider myself."

Ramesses crossed his arms, continuing to search the city's walls for signs of weakness. A random thought crossed his mind. "What was done with the two Hittite deserters once they confessed Muwatallis's location?"

"They were tortured until they succumbed to their injuries," Paser answered. "They never recanted their words, though mercy was promised if they did."

Ramesses turned, raising an eyebrow. "So we killed honest men?"

Indifferent, Paser brushed a fly from his arm. "Does it not strike Your Highness how fortuitous it was for Egypt to find Hittite deserters so close to Kadesh, and carrying such useful information?" he asked, his tone suggesting the opposite. "With your permission I would like to send scouts out to confirm we have not been deceived. If not, we have at least nine days to prepare--"

"And if we have," Ramesses interrupted, impatient, "we will not be caught with our kilts around our ankles."

Paser bowed his head, embarrassed. Ramesses ignored his vizier's discomfort, continuing his surveillance of the city, his gaze moving beyond its walls to the landscape surrounding it. "Look there," he nodded at Kadesh, "do you see that long ridge on the other side of the river? Its forested flanks rise higher than the royal citadel. I must know what lies behind those woods. Perhaps Muwatallis's armies are already here and he is watching us from Kadesh's walls as we speak." He glanced up at the dull sky, his mood souring. "Those cursed clouds have rendered our sundials useless, but it must be close to the tenth hour by now, if so, we only have four hours until Re-Atum's barque descends. Commander Sethi's division should arrive by the thirteenth hour and the Na'arn, by the first hour tomorrow--" He stopped, his senses prickling. "If Muwatallis has deceived us, and intends to attack tomorrow, we would be outnumbered even with Pre and the Na'arn--almost two to one if the numbers your spies have given are correct." He paused, considering. "Send riders to the commanders of the divisions of Seth and Ptah to be here no later than the sixth hour tomorrow."

Paser bowed low. "As you command."

Over Paser's shoulder, Ramesses caught a glimpse of movement in the woods to the north-east. It appeared again. He pointed at it. "Do you see that--there--in the woods?"

Within a clearing along the edge of the woods, a dark figure stumbled to a halt no more than an iter's distance from the base of the plateau. Ramesses narrowed his eyes, straining to see. The figure transformed into a blur of color, the cut of her garments leaving no doubt he was looking at a woman. She spent some time adjusting her attire, before disappearing deeper into the forest. Soon, only brief flashes of color could be glimpsed between the gaps of the trees.

"In Kadesh, only the highest nobility may wear the color purple," Paser murmured. "A woman fleeing the city alone? It bodes ill."

"Send Ahmen for her," Ramesses snapped, suddenly irritable, "I would see her myself."

Paser brought his fists to his chest. "As Pharaoh wills, it shall be done."

As his vizier departed, Ramesses watched the woman's rapid progression toward his camp, uneasy. First, the treachery of Kadesh, then the Hittite deserters, and now this. Nothing was as it seemed. He looked at the sullen sky, searching for Re's barque. He could not find it. Within his heart, he called out to the god.

Lord Re, your servant needs your light. I beg you, reveal the truth to me.

He waited. There was no answer. He watched the woman run.