They came to a juddering halt within the royal enclosure. Ahmen took hold of Istara's arm, his fingers pinching the flesh between her arm bands, and escorted her past the royal guard. He pulled her, limping, into the vestibule of the pharaoh's tent, where a dozen others stood waiting in the cramped space. Several gazes drifted to her, some hostile, others curious.

"You must not speak until you are spoken to," Ahmen said in a low voice, tightening his grip on her arm, "neither will you look at the pharaoh's face unless he commands it."

He stopped before a white linen panel, opaque with columns of gold-embroidered hieroglyphs. Istara stared at it, horrified. That piece of material was all there was left between her and the Pharaoh of Egypt. Her small store of courage evaporated. She clenched her fists, fighting her escalating quail. She would not be able to find the right words, would not know--

A guard called Ahmen's title. Her captor tugged on her arm, pulling her after him. Istara slipped past the material, blinking in the sudden glare. A fortune of golden plates and cups gleamed on narrow wooden tables arranged along the tent's walls, the furniture's polished wood reflecting the light of the hanging lamps burning a clear, smokeless oil.

Benches, stools and three gold-inlaid chairs fanned out around several glowing braziers. Colorful cushions and soft animal pelts layered every seat. Thick rugs covered the cold, damp ground. Rich, fragrant incense curled upward. In the tent's center, a table the size of her bed overflowed with scrolls, maps and stacks of papyri. Despite Ahmen's warning, her gaze moved to the man standing behind the table, surrounded by men of various ages; lean and powerful, they regarded her, cold, suspicious, some of them dropping their hands to the hilts of their sickle-bladed khopesh swords strapped to their belts.

Engrossed in a map, Ramesses rested his palms against the table, his eyes, kohled black, moved over the map, examining it. On his shaved head, he wore a brilliant blue crown, adorned with a golden uraeus, the cobra's hood open, its head pulled back, ready to strike. Over his shoulders, a wide pectoral collar of gold and lapis lazuli, and around his immaculate linen kilt--as white as the purest alabaster and edged in gold thread--a leather belt embossed with gold held his dagger and khopesh.

Though he was not as large as those surrounding him, he had the build of an elite warrior, every muscle defined. He was nothing like any man she had ever seen, with his smooth oiled skin and exotic regalia. Oblivious to her, he surveyed the map, preoccupied, intense, his movements elegant, refined, his face expressive, arrogant, regal. Without even speaking, his presence commanded her attention, dominating her, striking fear into her. Unlike the King of Hatti, the Pharaoh of Egypt emanated power, charisma and beauty, a god in the flesh. She sank to her knees and lowered her face, her heart quaking. Soon she would die just like her mother, struck down by the blade of a king. Silence fell.

❃

It was the quiet that made Ramesses look up. Just inside the entrance, a woman knelt, her head bowed, Ahmen waiting beside her, expressionless. Ramesses pushed the map aside. "Tell me what you know."

"Your Majesty," Ahmen said, bowing his head, "for reasons so far known only to her, this woman brings you intelligence of the movements of Hatti's king. She claims the scouts we found were made to give us false information--their families hostages to be put to death if the informers failed."

Intrigued, Ramesses moved closer, eyeing the woman's purple gown, noting the fortune of gold, silver and gems. "Indeed?" he replied, his heart cold, suspecting a trap. "And who is this woman?"

"She claims to be the daughter of King Amunira," Ahmen answered, bland, "Princess Istara, wife of Urhi-Teshub, Crown Prince of Hatti, and the future queen of Hatti. My lord, she also speaks fluent Egyptian."

Ramesses scoffed. How tacky. Kadesh expected him to believe the Hittite queen-in-waiting was the woman kneeling before him?

"Has she any proof?" he asked, then regretted it immediately. This was a waste of his time. Whatever Kadesh was playing at would soon end, on the blade of his dagger.

"She carries the seal of the Princess of Kadesh," Ahmen replied.

A quiet murmur of interest rippled through the tent. Ramesses remained silent, suspicion filling him. A dark game was being played, he wished Paser was present--

Ahmen moved closer. "Your Majesty," he murmured, "the woman carries a message worth hearing."

Ramesses caught Ahmen's private look, filled with warning. So be it. He would hear the woman out.

"Lady of Kadesh," he said, resting his hands on his hips, "despite your evidence, I do not believe you are who you claim to be. By coming to us you have made your life forfeit. You are granted enough time to tell us your message, then you will die by our hand. You may rise."

She lifted her head and came to her feet. Despite her disheveled state, the woman was a rare beauty, her features a captivating blend of fragility and strength. Defensive, he crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to let himself be swayed by her obvious charms. Her gaze drifted to the dagger on his hip, then continued up until her eyes met his--as an equal. He held her gaze, challenging her to look away. When she didn't, he rode the feeling she ignited within him, a blend of outrage and pleasure, secretly admiring her fearlessness.

"Taker of my life," she began, her command of Egyptian flawless, her accent regal, "know the woman before you is Istara, Daughter of Baalat, firstborn child of King Amunira and Queen Azfara of Kadesh; wife of Crown Prince Urhi-Teshub, son of King Muwatallis. I have been chosen by the goddess Baalat to deliver her prophecy to you. On this day, the goddess tells us men have reached a crossroads, and if they continue on their current path, a great calamity will befall all of us, friend and foe.

"This cold, dark weather is just the beginning, the gods will soon send plagues, fires, famine, and earthquakes. Cities and kingdoms will burn. Mothers will eat their children. Every empire, except one, will be brought to its knees. That empire is Egypt. She will provide succor to those fleeing the devastations of the north. But today, Egypt is in great peril, and if she does not heed our warning, she too will be destroyed--and without Egypt, the world will fall into anarchy.

"The two men you met this morning, pretending to be Hittite deserters, were not mere soldiers, but powerful lords, rulers of cities themselves. They threatened the succession of the usurper Hattusilis when they supported Urhi-Teshub's right to Hatti's throne, it was they who came to Pharaoh to misinform His Majesty. Their entire households made hostage to ensure their lie would not be recanted. Your calm arrival today proves those brave lords suffered unspeakable agony, lying to the end, to protect those they loved, granting Muwatallis the advantage he now presses.

"As we speak, twice the number of your men are fording the Orontes River with the intention of ambushing this camp while you are unprepared and isolated from the rest of your divisions. Muwatallis has ordered his men to kill every man, woman and child. No one is to be spared, not even the royal family."

She sank to her knees before him, her face turned upward, her eyes never leaving his.

"If His Majesty is able to survive this day, then I will have done what I have been asked, ensuring the survival of many others in the years to come. If my life is the price to be paid for this act, then I accept my death with honor. My lord King of Egypt, I am ready to meet your blade, but as you take away my final breath, please do not forget my last words, given at the cost of my life. Arm yourselves. I beg you."

A stunned silence descended. No one moved. Astonished, Ramesses stared at the woman kneeling before him, her eyes sliding down to the floor, awaiting her execution, quiet as a lamb.

Everything she revealed had been coherent, much of it agreeing with his earlier suspicions of Muwatallis's deception and possible location. But to attack now, just a few short hours before darkness fell? It was unheard of to engage a battle at this time of day, madness even, and yet he had asked Re to grant him the truth before it was too late. Was this the god's way of warning him--from the mouth of his enemy, a mere woman?

His fingers slipped around the hilt of his dagger. The silence thickened, filled with trepidation. He let go. If she had been sent by Re, and he killed her, would Egypt be destroyed? He dared not risk it, at least not yet. He turned to Ahmen.

"Bind her hands, and leave her in the vestibule of the queen's tent, under guard."

Ahmen took hold of her arm, bringing her back up to her feet. Caught in the thrall of shock, the woman, who called herself Istara, sagged in Ahmen's grip. Ramesses rubbed his jaw, regarding her with renewed interest. So it had not been an act. She had prepared herself for death, even expected it.

He returned to the table, deep in thought, considering her words. Either he was being played for a fool or she was saving his empire from annihilation. If she was lying, he would give her a long and painful death, but if she was telling the truth--

He slammed his fist against the table, scattering the neat piles of papyri. It galled him a woman could force his hand. But would he have listened to a man? No. He would have killed him. Re had chosen his messenger well. His throat tight, Ramesses looked up at his men, waiting for his decision, the tension in the air so thick he could have cut it with his dagger. Fighting against every principle of war, every rule of battle he had ever been taught, he made his decision.

"Sound the battle horns. We prepare for attack."

❃

Istara's wrists hurt. The queen's Nubian guards had bound them tight. The ebony-skinned men stood on either side of the entrance to Nefertari's accommodation, staring straight ahead, their bronze-tipped spears butting against the vestibule's carpet. Istara recalled Nubian men were the most powerful and dangerous warriors in the world, hence their privileged role as the Egyptian queen's royal guard. Their home lay far to the south of the empire of Egypt, an exotic land still unconquered, apart from the contested land where the rich gold mines lay, those were overshadowed by bristling Egyptian garrisons.

Wary, her gaze moved over the men. Each sported a dagger, and a long, curving sword, even more vicious looking than the Egyptians' khopeshes. Blades meant to remove an enemy's head in one brutal strike. She looked away.

In the distance, shouts, horses whinnying. Close to, outside the sacred space of the royal enclosure, chariots thundered past. So, Ramesses had heeded the warning. A small part of her wished she could see Muwatallis's face when he discovered he would not have everything his way.

She waited, filthy and bleeding, for her execution, her thoughts tangling between hope for Kadesh and despair for herself. Time passed, slow as the drip of honey. Thirst overcame her, her mouth turning as dry as wool. A wave of nausea swept through her, then another, stronger. A cold sweat broke out across her chest. She shivered as she looked down at her filthy legs. The pharaoh might not have to dirty his dagger after all. If no one attended her, the blood fever would be certain to take her. She staggered, trying to stay on her feet. An upwelling of bile, foul and bitter filled her mouth. Falling to her knees, she vomited onto the beautiful rug. From above, a sound of disgust. A man stared down at her, his handsome, elegant features pinched with revulsion.

"Princess of Kadesh or not," he said, "no woman should be left thus." He turned to one of the guards, his deep, eloquent voice edged with irritation. "You. Send for a surgeon. For all we know, if she dies, we die."