Alone on her terrace, Nefertari watched Re-Atum's barque rise. No one attended her. She had returned to an empty apartment, her ladies gone. Servants still cleaned and brought her food, but she had to prepare the platters herself. All those times she had yearned for privacy--she scoffed, rueful.

She lifted her golden cup to the east, and took a sip of the mead offering, honoring Re-Atum's return. As she intoned the prayer of thanks for the god's gift of a new day, her gaze strayed to her husband's deserted terrace. She had heard him last night, as she lay awake in her bed, listening, her heart aching, as he fornicated with his women, their cries breaching the quiet of the night.

No longer did she resent his women, or him. In her pride, she had tried to have it all. He was the Pharaoh of Egypt. No queen had ever commanded a pharaoh's fidelity. Who had she been to believe herself any different? It could have been her there with him, but instead of accepting her fate, she had fought it and driven him away.

She pushed her platter aside, untouched, thoughts of the march home returning to torment her. Before they left Kadesh, Ramesses had ordered her chariot to be driven further back in the vanguard, eliminating any chance of him seeing her. And every night, he had timed his arrival to the enclosure to occur after she was within her tent. He had suffocated her, for thirty days, a prisoner to his hate. Her appetite had fled, and never returned.

Without eating, the rigors of the march had taken their toll. Her weight dropped, leaving her bony and emaciated. Cut off from her husband, she felt as though she was nothing, no one. At least she still had her children, had even been allowed to see them, though her eldest, Khepeshef, had been cold and distant. She had been thorough in her work if Egypt's heir had turned against her as well.

A knock at her door. No one was announced, there was no one to do so. She rose, hopeful, hastening to straighten the folds of her gown against her thin frame. Please, let it be Ramesses sending for her. Please, just let her have one chance to prove to him how much she had changed.

Paser came onto the terrace. He did not bow, nor would he meet her eyes. He gripped the hilts of his daggers, his knuckles white. She had never seen Egypt's vizier so undone. He glanced at the pharaoh's terrace, his jaw clenched. A look of despair sliced across his face. She quailed. Don't say it. Please don't say it. Paser . . .

"Your Highness," he said, low. "The end has come. May Horus forgive me, you are to leave the palace this afternoon for your new residence in Waset's royal harem."

Nefertari staggered, her world shattering, the pieces of her life plummeting away. Numb, she sank onto the divan. Paser knelt before her. Against all protocol, his hands took hers. She clung to him.

He bent his head over their clasped hands. "I am sorry. I am so sorry. It is unbearable to carry this news to you. My lady--"

She choked. "There is more?"

Paser nodded, anguished. "I would not have you hear of it in the harem, with no friends around you. Ramesses intends to make Princess Istara his first queen. Tonight."

Nefertari's heart shattered. She cried out, uncaring of who heard, or saw. Startled, Paser moved away, distancing himself from her. Vanquished, she slid from the divan. Nothing mattered anymore. She was ruined. There was nothing left for her but loneliness and regret.

❃

From the back of the crowded, pillared hall, Ahmen heard his name called out by the Master of the Audience Chamber. Men and women moved aside, making space for him as he worked his way to the pharaoh's throne. His heart pounded. Soon he would know the truth, why he had been sent away, and what his fate was going to be. He reached the base of the royal platform and sank to his knee.

"Rise, Lord Ahmen-om-onet," the Master of the Audience Chamber intoned, "Pharaoh Ramesses welcomes your return to Pi-Ramesses."

Ahmen moved to his feet, catching Ramesses's look, the discreet nod of approval. Hope ignited. Perhaps it had been a test, one he had passed. Gesturing to the Master of the Audience Chamber, Ramesses murmured to him. The Master stepped forward and clapped his hands three times. Quiet fell.

"His Majesty wishes a private audience with Lord Ahmen-om-onet."

The hall erupted into activity, its pillars echoing with chatter as it emptied of courtiers, attendants, petitioners, officials, and guardsmen. The doors closed. A dull boom echoed through the vast, empty space. Silence fell. Ramesses rose from his gilded throne, his kilt rustling as he descended the steps.

"It is good to see you," he said, taking hold of Ahmen's shoulder. "By all the gods, when I heard the news you found Meresamun, all I could think was: What if I had not sent you to Pre?"

Ahmen felt his confidence soar. Ramesses was not angry with him. "We were bound together this morning," he said, recalling how beautiful Meresamun had looked, her hand clasped in his, "at the Temple of Isis, just as Re-Atum's barque rose."

"May you have many years of happiness together," Ramesses smiled, thin. He moved to a pillar and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. "And, why did she leave?"

"Guilt," Ahmen answered, fighting the upwelling of shame he endured every time he thought of what his actions had put her through. "The need to atone."

"So," Ramesses looked down at the flail in his hand, toying with it, "a slave has shamed us."

Ahmen stiffened at the veiled insult. "She suffered much."

"Perhaps not that much." Ramesses looked at him, oblique.

"What are you suggesting?" Ahmen asked, low.

Ramesses pushed away from the pillar and paced before the steps of the royal platform. "How did she leave Waset without being found?" he asked instead.

Ahmen blinked, sensing a trap being laid. Why hadn't Ramesses answered his question? "A fishing boat," he replied, cautious.

Ramesses stopped pacing. "So that is how she slipped through our fingers." He scoffed. "A fishing boat, of all things."

He returned to his throne and stood in front of it, deep in thought, tapping his flail against his thigh. Ahmen waited, uneasy. He knew Ramesses well enough to know what he was doing; he was playing cat and mouse. Ahmen was the mouse. He fought for calm. Soon Ramesses would show his claws. Perhaps he was going to take Meresamun from him, after all.

Ramesses seated himself on his throne. "Lord Ahmen-om-onet," he said, formal, "you will tell me what you know of the relationship between Commander Sethi and Princess Istara."

Ahmen stared at Ramesses, astounded. He had sent Ahmen to Pre, to spy? All his suffering, his humiliation, all of it, to commit a dishonorable act? He bridled, angry, and looked away, refusing to answer.

Ramesses lowered his voice. "I have heard dark rumors. He is my commander. I would know the truth from someone I trust before I decide what to do with him. Let me ask you this way: Has Sethi made Istara his woman?"

Ahmen folded his arms over his chest. "How would I know? I did not share his pallet."

"I have heard she slept in his command tent, that they made no secret of it."

It was true. Ahmen had often seen them emerge together in the morning, smiling, affectionate. But to betray Sethi, a friend, just to satisfy Ramesses's morbid curiosity over the sleeping habits of the Prince of Hatti's wife? It was a small, petty thing. Not worth Ahmen's sudden, brutal demotion. He would not give Ramesses anything. He shook his head, terse.

"I had other things to occupy me."

"Like keeping an eye on Meresamun?"

The question was soft, menacing. He caught Ramesses watching him, his eyes narrow. "Meaning?" Ahmen demanded, his voice hardening.

"Perhaps you should ask her."

"I am asking you."

"Ah, it seems Meresamun is a secret keeper, just like her new husband."

Ahmen's hands clenched. Ramesses was only a few steps away. After everything he had suffered for Ramesses, this was how Ahmen would be repaid, with slurs against his wife? Ramesses looked at him, dark.

"Until you arrived, it seems Sethi's pallet was not quite as cold as it should have been."

Ahmen roared, furious, and lunged up the steps. Springing from his throne, Ramesses caught Ahmen's wrists, twisting his arms behind his back. He leaned close and whispered, "Sethi bought and fucked Meresamun, over and over. It is him you should hate, not me. We are on the same side."

Ahmen jerked free, panting, searching his memories from the last thirty days. Sethi had been friendly to him, had spent several evenings sitting by the fire with him, drinking wine and talking of mundane things. He had never seen the commander look at Meresamun once. His gut tightened as he realized not only had Sethi not looked at Meresamun, the commander had gone out of his way to avoid her, leaving whenever she arrived, neither of them ever looking the other in the eye.

Desperate, he raked over his memories, seeking for anything that would prove Ramesses wrong. Meresamun had told Ahmen of the night of the battle, of the harrowing experience she had endured. But she had been with Amun, should have marched back with Amun, yet she ended up in Pre as Istara's companion. His spine tingled. He hadn't asked why, and she hadn't offered an explanation. Another fragment unfolded. He had learned after he had found her, it had been arranged for her to ride with Naram, far too high an honor for a mere lady's companion. He hadn't dwelled on it, though it had troubled him, why Sethi would grant her such a privilege.

No longer blinded by his happiness at having found her, he reconsidered all the evidence he had cast aside over the last month, each singular piece innocuous enough, but connected together, damning, ugly. The truth reared up, slow; horrifying, brutal, monstrous. His wife had been Sethi's concubine. Rage juddered through him. Everyone would have known, everyone but him. And to hear it from Ramesses. It was unbearable.

"We were never on the same side," he spat, backing away, shaking. Everyone had betrayed him. Meresamun, Sethi, Ramesses--even Istara. Blind with fury and riven with humiliation, he stumbled away, lurching down the stairs to the doors. Halfway across the hall, he stopped. He turned and glared at Ramesses, standing rigid, before his throne.

"It is true. All of it. Kill him, before I do."

❃

The door closed behind Ahmen. Ramesses stared at it, trembling with rage. He had held his anger in, waiting to be certain, hoping Paser's information had been wrong. Now there was no doubt. From the heartbeat he had asked the question, he knew Ahmen knew the truth. For the first time in his life, Ramesses was the last to know. Humiliated, furious, he ground his teeth. How dare Sethi keep Istara in his tent for all those nights. He knew Ramesses intended her for his queen. Did he think Ramesses was a fool? Did he believe his power as Egypt's commander would protect him?

An image, unwanted, flashed, vivid into Ramesses's mind. During their many visits to the courtesan houses, he had seen Sethi mounting women often enough. It was a small step to imagine Istara beneath his commander, writhing in ecstasy, instead of one of the courtesans.

A sharp snap. Ramesses looked down. Within his hand, the royal flail sagged within its bindings of gold, broken in two. He cast it onto the throne's seat. It was only a symbol. A new one could be made. He strode away, seeing nothing. He would tear his commander to pieces. Ramesses was Pharaoh. He was Egypt. Sethi was no one. Nothing.