Istara sat back on her heels and pressed her palms against her gritty smoke-sore eyes, waiting for Meresamun to finish. A cold gust bore down on her, carrying the cries of the wounded. She shivered, despondent, noting the fresh losses surrounding them. In the time they spent saving one, ten had succumbed to their injuries.

"He will live thanks to you," Meresamun said, tying off the last suture on the soldier's chest. "By Isis, you are as accomplished as any of Egypt's foremost surgeons." She reached into the satchel loaned to her by the surgeons and pulled out a length of linen, rolling it into a bandage.

Istara hefted the unconscious soldier up, struggling to hold him steady as Meresamun bound the linen tight and tied it off. Breathing a prayer for his protection, Istara packed up her satchel and rose, working the kinks from her back, scanning the wounded for those they still had time to save. She stopped, abrupt. The soldier was unconscious, filthy with mud and covered in dried blood, but he still lived.

"The one there, without a pallet," she pointed, her voice tight. "I know him."

Meresamun stood, shading her eyes, curious. A sharp intake of breath and she was gone, stumbling through the men, falling to her knees beside him, holding his bloodstained face in her hands. She pressed her forehead against his, tears in her eyes.

Istara knelt beside him, assessing his condition, eyeing the gouge in his thigh where an arrow had been torn free, the gaping hole packed with mud.

She touched Meresamun's shoulder. "He is your man?"

Meresamun's eyes met hers, then fell back down to Ahmen. "Once, for a short time," she whispered. She looked back up, taut, pale. "Will he . . . ?"

Gesturing to a passing woman to bring them a pan of warmed water, Istara emptied her satchel. "His injuries are many," she answered, nodding at his leg, "but this one in his thigh needs urgent attention. We will begin there. So long as the blood fever has not yet taken hold of him, he will return to you."

She kept Meresamun busy cleaning and bandaging his wounds while she closed the torn muscles of his thigh with fine inner and outer stitches. It was painstaking work. The arrow had been torn fee with brute force, severing the major fibers of connecting tissue. Mid-afternoon came and went, the cold wind intensified, driving in hard gusts across the plateau. Huddling into herself, she carried on, enduring.

As the sun lowered its weight onto the horizon, she sat back and inspected her work, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. His injuries would heal, and cleanly. She felt the back of his neck. No fever. Meresamun had found a pallet and a thick blanket for him. Cleaned and bandaged, she covered him, wrapping him tight against the chill. There was nothing left to do but wait.

As she collected her things, Meresamun asked, hesitant. "How is it you know Ahmen?"

Istara paused in her work, catching the flicker of uncertainty in the other woman's question. "Do you see the city there, across the plain?" Istara nodded at the walls of Kadesh. "That was my home until I was sent here by the goddess Baalat. It was Ahmen who brought me into the camp, who defended me before Pharaoh. I pray you will not have to wait long until you are reunited."

She continued her work, soothed by the familiar actions of stoppering vials of ointment and rolling up the remaining linens into new bandages.

"We cannot be reunited," Meresamun said, hollow, "at least not like this. I must leave before he wakes."

Istara stopped rolling the linens, intrigued despite her exhaustion, but Meresamun said no more. Returning to the bandages, Istara murmured, "Then you should depart before the evening falls."

Meresamun nodded. Pressing her fingers to her face, she wiped away a tear, discreet.

"You mentioned you intend to return to your family in Babylon, but did not yet know the way." Istara pulled off two golden armbands and held them out to Meresamun. "March with the Egyptians until they pass through the Great Wood of Amka, then take the road to Damas. These will more than cover the cost of your passage home from there."

Meresamun drew back, embarrassed. "It is too much, I cannot accept such a gift. I do not even know your name."

Reaching over Ahmen's prone form, Istara took Meresamun's hand, filling it with the heavy weight of the armbands. "My name is not important. You saved my life. Be safe on your journey." She rose, catching Meresamun looking up at her, cradling the golden bands, her expression drowning in gratitude. Istara's chest tightened, a stab of loneliness lancing into her. She would miss her sudden companion. "I will pray for your safe return home," she said, soft. She didn't wait for Meresamun's reply. Looking over the field of the wounded for her next patient, she turned and walked away.

❃

Meresamun watched the woman from Kadesh slip behind one of the fires, her satchel tucked under the crook of her arm. She had never once given any hint of her name or her family. She could be anyone. Meresamun wondered if perhaps she was a surgeon, disgraced in her own kingdom, slipping away to seek her fortune in a new empire. She didn't believe the story about a goddess sending her. She knew enough from her years in the temple to know the gods never spoke to mortals. No, she must be a surgeon, and a wealthy one, to be able to give away her gold without a care.

A cold gust of mountain air penetrated Meresamun's thin gown. Shivering, she tucked the blanket tighter around Ahmen and stroked his forehead, drinking in the sight of him. It had been so long. She sat beside him, her legs turning numb in the cold mud, willing the evening not to come, but the sky darkened and beyond the light of the fires, the shadows deepened. Her heart clenched. Her time was coming to an end. It was too soon. She couldn't leave, not yet. Just a little longer.

She brushed her lips against Ahmen's, remembering the last time they had touched, how he had held her against him, fierce, as he made love to her. A tear slipped free, landing on his cheek. He stirred. Alarmed, she shrank back. There would be no atonement if Sekhmet had not sent him to her. Ahmen had to seek her out and find her. She lifted her satchel, the arm bands tucked safe within, and slipped into the shadows.

He sat up, disoriented, and called her name, uncertain, a question, cracking with hope. She stifled a sob. He had not forgotten her. He lay back down and slept once more. She crept back to his side, tears glittering on her cheeks, bright, stars in the firelight.

❃

Ramesses pushed his platter aside. It was good to have food again. He sat back and sipped his wine. Henufkhet cleared the table and lifted the tray. He paused, uncertain. Ramesses set his cup aside.

"You have something you wish to say?"

"My lord, a request." Henufkhet bowed. "May the people have your permission to eat now Pharaoh has dined?"

"You are following protocol, even now?" Ramesses demanded, sharp. "Does my queen still wait to dine?"

Henufkhet's knuckles whitened against the tray. "I thought it best to wait until you had finished," he answered, paling. "I did not wish to anger the gods, especially when things right now are so . . . difficult."

"Until we march," Ramesses said, terse, "my people are to eat until they can eat no more. With the arrival of the other divisions, Horus knows we have more than enough rations."

He dragged a stack of fresh reports closer, eyeing Henukhet as he departed. Low voices drifted in from the vestibule. He waited for an announcement. None came. He rose, wary, his dagger ready. A filthy, bloodied soldier ducked inside and dropped to his knee.

"Lord Commander Sethi," Ramesses said, relief cascading through him, "you live, thank Re. I had counted you as one of the lost. Never before have I been so pleased to be wrong. You bring Pre's report?"

Sethi raised his fist to his chest, his knuckles scabbed over and grimy with mud. "Great King," he answered, hoarse, "forgive me. I returned to those I left on the road to Kadesh. The accounting is done. Pre has lost two thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven men, and of the remaining men, one thousand two hundred and twelve are injured. Unless the gods intervene, it is certain almost a third of them will not live to see Re's barque rise tomorrow."

Ramesses turned away. "Which means between Amun and Pre, Egypt has lost five thousand men. An entire division, gone, in one night." He clenched his fists. "By Osiris's blood, for what purpose did we endure all this? What has been accomplished here at Kadesh? Nothing but an honorless battle, with Amun's camp turned into a pit of carnage, soaked with the blood of the innocent. It is beyond comprehension."

"Your Majesty," Sethi said, ragged, "you have defeated Hatti, and reclaimed Kadesh."

Ramesses swiveled back around. "Have I? Paser's scouts returned this morning from across the river, and what did they find beyond those hills, but Muwatallis's camp seething with twenty thousand soldiers more. Muwatallis may have used all his chariots in last night's assaults, but he is not defeated. Not yet. So here we lay, weak as a newborn, while the leaderless Hittite hordes sit and fight amongst themselves over what to do next. How long will they wait before they come at us once more, twenty thousand of them against the thirteen and a half thousand I have left?" He stopped, calming himself. "I still have at least one advantage. I hold the lives of Muwatallis, Hattusilis and Urhi-Teshub in my hand. The entire royal line of Hatti is mine for the taking should the need arise."

He caught Sethi's oblique look. "What?"

Sethi eyed him, cautious. "You know you cannot, the gods--"

"I know the prohibitions of battle well enough," Ramesses interrupted, aggravated, "but do they even apply now? This was no true battle. It was an ambush. I would have his blood after what he has wrought upon my men, women, and children!" Furious, he kicked one of the stools. It hit the tent's wall with a dull thud.

"Your Majesty, I too long for his blood. I will never forget what he did to Pre. But we cannot kill him now, the battle is over, and he has surrendered." Sethi grunted, shifting his weight. "The gods will punish Hatti for his crimes."

Ramesses crossed his arms and stared into the flames of the brazier, annoyed. He knew Sethi spoke the truth. He had hoped he could match dishonor with dishonor, but beneath his rage, the burden of his crown prevailed. He could not justify the risk of angering the gods, Egypt was in enough danger as it was. But neither would he let the Hittites go, not when they could return to their men and regroup.

An idea struck him. It stretched the spirit of what was permitted after a battle to the limit, but so long as no blood was spilled, he was not breaking any of the prohibitions. He looked back at Sethi, still kneeling, his head bowed.

"Then they will remain with us until we have marched to the road to Damas. A contingent from Amurru can escort them back to Kadesh. Muwatallis will not come after us once we have twelve days' march between us."

Sethi nodded, grim. "How soon do you wish to depart."

"The day after tomorrow," Ramesses answered, "when Re's barque ascends the horizon."

Sethi raised his fist to his chest. "Pre will be ready to fol--" He broke off, coughing hard, coming to his feet. He bowed. "My lord, forgive me."

Ramesses stared at his commander, seeing for the first time the extent of Sethi's injuries. Deep gashes covered his arms, legs, and chest, all of them taut with dried mud. "By Horus," he said, "your injuries need attention, and soon. You put yourself at great risk of blood fever."

A cold draft of air swept in, making the lamps' flames waver. Henufkhet entered. In the vestibule, a woman waited, obscured by the half-closed material.

"Your Highness," Henufkhet murmured, bowing, "I have brought a surgeon for Lord Sethi."

Ramesses nodded at Sethi. "Go. I will send for you before I depart."

Sethi's fist came to his chest. "Your Majesty."

He left. Ramesses turned to Henufkhet. "Make certain Commander Sethi is brought hot food and wine." Henufkhet bowed and turned to leave when Ramesses bid him wait. "It seemed to me the surgeon was dressed in purple. Is she the woman from Kadesh?"

Henufkhet paled. "My lord, forgive me, I could find no others on the field. The men around her swore to her abilities as a surgeon. Shall I fetch her back?"

"No," Ramesses answered after considering, "but send men to keep an eye on her. Once she is finished with Sethi, have them bring her back to me."

As Henufkhet hurried away, Ramesses rubbed his hand across his jaw, sifting through the details of Paser's report. Istara had been used as a bargaining tool to force Urhi-Teshub to withdraw his men, but during the melee she had fled, and despite Paser's efforts to find her, was assumed dead. Ramesses was not surprised she had remained with Amun. After her betrayal of Muwatallis, she would be safer staying with Egypt. But why she would have fled into the camp and not stayed in the enclave, protected by the queen's guards?

He took up his wine, thinking of all the courtesans who had gone missing over the years, to reappear months later in Pi-Ramesses. Nefertari thought he didn't know. He just didn't care. There were always more women to be had. He let her play her little game, it kept her occupied, and amused him.

But Paser had not met his eyes when he spoke of the incident, and Ramesses had suspected there was more to the story. Now he was certain. He swallowed the wine, tasting bitterness. It seemed he had greatly underestimated his wife.