Chapter 12

The two travelers who appeared outside the walls of Pharaoh's fortified outpost at Sile prompted little curiosity at first. Positioned on the border of Egypt and the vast desert that led to Galilee, the soldiers stationed there saw many souls pass through, on foot or borne by cart or beast. Rare was the individual who appeared with malice baldly crowing in manner and expression, and rarer still were the defensive maneuvers against troublemaking neighbors to the east.

During the course of every soldier's six years of duty at Sile, anxiety was greatly outweighed by boredom, to the point where some professed a desire to see the Sinai nomads escalate their simmering nuisance to a full boil of war. At least, then, time spent in such desolation would be worthwhile.

So it was with palpable disinterest that the sentry called down to the travelers from his position on the battlements, asking their names and their business in Pharaoh's kingdom.

"In the name of Usermaatre, Son of Re and Beloved of Truth, and of Upper and Lower Egypt, Pharaoh," he intoned, "where have you come and where are you bound?"

Neither of the wayfarers immediately replied. Instead their shrouded heads bent together and bobbed in animated debate.

Though he had little else to do, the guard's patience was short and he bellowed down to the indecisive couple. "State your business, or go back to where you came."

"We seek passage!" came the sharp, halting reply. The words lay uncertain on the man's tongue, and the force with which they were spoken indicated more anxiety with a foreign language than anger.

"Passage?" the guard repeated. "We'll let you through if we believe you no threat, but there will be no escort." Despite his irritation at having to converse with yet more of these bumptious folk who seemed to spew forth from the sands, he was almost inclined to leap over the walls and join them on their road into Rameses' domain. He had been away from his home and wife for far too long, serving out the wretched sentence that was duty at Sile.

As he stood waiting for a reply, the cowled head turned upwards, and a pair of dark eyes speared him, provoking an odd sensation. He felt pity, but not the sort usually given to beggars, lepers, and those who had the air and stare of ones born to misery. Rather, he was made immediately aware that, of the two travelers, the one who spoke was newly humbled. Pride still shone brightly through his eyes and bearing.

"What is your name?" the traveler asked, the words coming more easily and his tone conversational.

"Kamakht," he replied without hesitation.

The man was silent, though he still stared up at the soldier on the walls high above him.

Kamakht shifted in a strange sensation of excitement and discomfort. He was standing opposite a man greater than himself, and no man of humble birth could deny that the presence and attention of ones higher born had a special aura that elevated and infused. At the same time, never far from his mind, was the plain reality that men like he were never looked upon by those of higher station unless they could suit a purpose.

And he, Kamakht, could allow them to proceed or turn them away, though he was not so foolish as to think no other point of entry would be sought. It was impossible to man every mile of the kingdom's boundaries. These two souls would arrive at their destination whether he permitted them or not. Coupled with the pride in the man's eyes was a glint that hinted of arrogance.

"If I let you pass," he said, "and it unfolds that you're spies, my head will part from my neck," Kamakht said with forced jollity. "What proof can you give me that you are as innocent as you'd have me believe?"

"My word should be sufficient," was the terse reply.

Kamakht twisted his neck in skepticism. "And does your companion vouch for you?" he demanded curiously. "I haven't heard one word from that quarter."

"She will vouch for me when we reach our destination," the man smoothly replied.

"She?" Kamakht was uncertain whether this fact was deliberately revealed or a slip of the tongue. He suspected the latter, for the two shrouded heads turned to one another and the silent traveler's posture became noticeably rigid. Were he able to see the woman's eyes, he suspected he would see either fright or thoughts of violence towards her loose-tongued escort.

"So why does a foreigner and his woman wish to enter Pharaoh's lands?" Kamakht asked. "Tell me quickly and your path will be clear."

After another brief consult, during which the woman's frosty demeanor was very evident, the man said, "I know of a prospect that might interest your Pharaoh."

Kamakht wondered if his earlier conclusion that the man was of the nobility in humbled circumstances had been hastily drawn. The voice was charming, the eyes honest. Too honest. He was not unfamiliar with skilled liars. Even though the majority of comers to the fortress were merchants and similarly bland persons, there were some who housed deeper ambitions that could not be masked.

He had seen men of this ilk before – sharps with a scheme to peddle and a conscience thin as a whore's nightgown. No doubt this man had little want of victims. With such a silver tongue and dark, pleading eyes, it would not surprise Kamakht if he learned the predator rarely had to exert himself in the pursuit of prey. It was an overused term among poets, but it seemed to him that this really was a matter of bees flocking to hone, sheep to a wily shepherd.

"That might interest him?" Kamakht repeated, his tone becoming scornful. "Have you any notion of our King and what he already possesses? There is no jewel too rare for him, no treasure he cannot have if he desires it. He doesn't need shoddy silver-tongued men such as you to connive trinkets for him."

The traveler bore this tongue-lashing silently. His inaction made Kamakht wonder if he had effectively squelched the man's ambition and the pathetic creature was only one step away from turning back to where he came.

But the indignation so absent in the one was fully supplied by the other. For the first time, the silent companion spoke, and her voice carried on the hot desert breeze with freezing clarity. Sure as an arrow, it struck his ears and mind with no ambiguity about her mood. It fairly dripped with pride.

"Your Pharaoh does not have me."

Pale, cool orbs glared at him from over the scarf that swathed the lower half of her face.

He fumbled at continued belligerence. "Pharaoh has palaces teeming with wives and concubines, so many that it would be impossible to bed them all. What's one more to him?"

When the woman's hands went to her scarf, her companion moved to prevent her from revealing herself, but a silent command halted him. He made no further move as she unwound the scarf from her face and neck.

Kamakht found himself rendered speechless, for he had never looked upon a female face so beautiful. And she was very aware of her beauty. Her expression, even from this distance, made it plain. It defied him to deny her, and her eyes glinted with the knowledge that her will would once again be obeyed.

He motioned for them to proceed on their way, already wishing he could withdraw his boast that Pharaoh had all the jewels desirable. He lacked one. The fair Helen of Sparta and Troy did not number among his wives, but this woman would make that fabled queen shake with envy.


Many cities sat along the fertile banks of the Nile, but only one held certain special favor with the current Pharaoh: Pi-Ramesse Aa-nakhtu, "House of Rameses-Great-of-Victories." The populace, however, took their king's battlefield prowess for granted and simply referred to it as Pi-Ramesse.

It was not a new city. Avaris had once been its name, when it had belong to the Hyksos tribe. After the expulsion of that Canaanite people by Pharaoh Ahmose, it had fallen into disrepair and was only sparsely inhabited. The current Pharaoh's father, Seti, had erected a summer palace nearby, but it had done little to revive the city. Upon Seti's death, his heir had directed that the palace serve as the center of a new city. Over time, it had become robust and a desirable place to live or visit, and while those were attractive qualities, its location was what Rameses most cared about. Pharaoh now had capital cities all along the Nile that he would constantly visit and rule from. No province would be governed by men unchecked by Pharaoh. No priest could lay foundations for personal power undisturbed. Pharaoh would, and often did, arrive with barely an hour's notice, all the better to see the true state of affairs.

It was this policy, many believed, that had kept the throne tightly in Rameses' grip for nearly thirty years. The ability to sense intrigue was strong in Egypt's ruler, much more so than in prior generations.

It was not solely due to the hawkish eye he kept on men ― and women ― of rank ambition. His reign had been marked by vastly more success than failure. Even in those instances when the results were ambiguous, the temple walls brightly depicted tableaus and accounts so flattering that only a few were left scratching their heads in confusion, unsure if a battle they had witnessed had really been as crushing a victory as the inscriptions insisted.

"Can you imagine Troy with one man's face engraved on nearly every wall?" Helen asked with visible amazement as she and Paris wandered down a dusty, bustling street. "Had it been Hector's, I think the women would have sung praises from dawn to dusk."

She made no attempt to pretend she was a native and employ what little Egyptian she had gleaned from their travels. Pi-Ramesse, located on the Nile Delta, saw nearly as many foreigners as natives. As long as she kept her features hidden and didn't speak too loudly or specifically of their pasts, she felt it safe to mention Priam's city.

She looked over at Paris, who appeared not to have heard her remark. Of it he had, chose to ignore it. Helen sighed inwardly. Paris had become moody of late, despite all her attempts to keep his mind focused on one purpose: regaining Troy and sitting on the throne as its rightful King.

Helen suspected that a fair measure of her husband's melancholy came from a battling conscience. As long as Astyanax lived, Paris knew he was not truly King of anything. And the shadow of Hector also loomed. Even though his brother was in the depths of Hades' kingdom, Paris oftentimes acted like Hector stood behind his shoulder, watching his actions and disapproving of this connivance to rob Astyanax of his birthright.

No amount of subtle persuasion on her part could rid Paris of these fears. Once, in a moment of frustration, she had bluntly said it was most likely that happy family was together again. Myrmidons would not spare an infant, and Andromache was proud enough that she would have sought the sword rather than submit to captivity. Helen had discovered that when it came to the language of love, Paris liked it soft, insinuating. When more serious matters were at stake, however, brutal talk stripped of artifice succeeded more often in penetrating the willfully naïve shroud he wrapped himself in.

Helen had since ruthlessly put down her own conscience, which had once panged considerably at the thought of stepping so soon on Andromache's uncertain grave. Despite her harsh outburst of logic about Andromache's likely fate, doubt gnawed at her. In the beginning, her qualms had been prompted by the familial bonds she had shared with Hector's wife. She and Andromache had never been sisterly to one another, but there had been no hatred.

But as the days passed and her hours had been filled with silence, weary travel, and ambitious dreams, her misgivings became directed at Andromache. In her heart, Helen feared that Hector's widow would struggle, endure any hardship or humiliation to keep herself and Astyanax alive and return to Troy.

Her resentments faded significantly as she continued to absorb the sights of Pi-Ramesse. Even if Andromache could find a powerful king to serve as her champion, Pharaoh's might would dwarf him. This city spoke plainly of the immense resources Rameses had at his disposal, and Helen was fully intent on harnessing them to serve her purpose.

There were few obstacles in her path. Agamemnon, the scourge of Hera, was dead. There would be no further avenging of his brother's death. In his wake were dozens of kings and men newly-rich from Troy's spoils, but there was no single mind to unify and propel the Achaeans along one course of action. This was the advantage Helen was determined to seize upon.

And unless Andromache plunged into the Eastern realms or cobbled together a coalition of kings, there was no rival to the Pharaoh of Egypt. But first, Hector's widow would have to secure her freedom, and that had been an unknown gift under the black fist of the Myrmidons.

Helen smiled, uncaring of Paris' thoughts. She had been desolate for so long, a convenient excuse for a clash of nations and confined in a besieged city with only her foolish Paris as a confidante and companion. Though the impulse to rid herself of him was occasionally strong, Troy would be fully beyond her reach without him. But, she thought wistfully, he may not be such a bad king. He did possess strength, although it was never consistent or long-lived. His haughty behavior at the Sile fortress walls was promising, but he had idiotically let slip the fact that she was a woman and, to salvage what she could of the situation, she had been forced to reveal herself. The guard had been predictably speechless, but she felt confident that he had not recognized her. Her beauty was famed, but none abroad had ever seen her. Neither had Rameses.

Her pace quickened. She wanted to enter Pharaoh's palace tomorrow, and in that time she had to change her appearance from dusty traveller to the Queen she so yearned to become. Tomorrow she would stand in the presence of the most powerful ruler this side of the Tigris and offer him what no other man had ever refused.

Not a bit of her burned with shame at the thought.