The Call of Eternity

46 | WAIT FOR ME

"Take me to our son," he said, gentle, pressing a soft kiss against the top of Edarru's head. "Let me see my boy."

In the warm glow of Edarru's room, Sethi held his seven-month-old son, admiring the sturdiness of his legs and arms, the grip of his tiny hand on his thumb; smiling as Edarru cradled their son, singing to him until he fell asleep, her eyes tender, filled with the love of a devoted mother.

They ate beside their sleeping son, saying little, Sehetep watching them from his basket, positioned in its new spot beside Edarru's bed. Sethi poured his once-lover wine, as he used to do, long ago, before Kadesh, in another time, another life--pouring far more than she needed, waiting until she grew limp from its effects. He led her to her bed, and lay down beside her, holding her against his chest.

"How I wish I lived in that other life," she breathed.

Sethi kissed her brow, his heart aching for her. She deserved better than what the gods had granted her. He decided to write a will, if he did not return within a year, his fortune would go to the mother of his son, making Edarru one of the wealthiest citizens in Egypt. When her breathing turned deep and even, her breath laced with the scent of his wine, he slipped out from under her, quiet.

For several heartbeats he watched her sleep, sorrowful, guilt assailing him anew. She was innocent of all of it. He glanced at his sleeping son, his little legs kicking in his sleep, his heart clenching. His son would grow up without a father, and for what? Horus had said nothing more of their 'great purpose', apart from the need to go to Babylon. Sethi backed away from them, blowing out all the lamps apart from one. He turned to look at them one last time--mother, son, dog. His family. He closed the door, and walked away.

Back in Istara's room, he lit a lamp and began the letter to Ramesses, revealing he had been joined by Horus, and would leave on the next caravan for Babylon. He was aware he wasn't asking for permission, but he didn't expect Ramesses to try to stand against Horus, not after what had happened on the training ground on that bloody, violent, impossible day.

On a second sheet, he wrote another letter to Ramesses outlining his provision for Nesu. Rolling the letters up, he held a cone of dyed beeswax against the lamp's flame, its point glistening as it softened. Dripping several drops onto the edge of each of the letters, he pressed his ring against them, sealing them closed. While the wax dried, he slipped off his ring and cupped it in his hand, the heft of its weight intentional: on the scarab's back, the dark green malachite gem bore the raised seal of the third most powerful man in Egypt. He set it aside. It would have to go back to Ramesses. Placing the letters and ring into a leather scroll case, he tied it shut and set it aside, ready to be sent in the morning.

His business done, he got up and drifted through Istara's apartment, searching for evidence of how she had spent her time during her last days within the walls of his villa. He stopped at her dressing table, trailing his fingers over her pots of cosmetics. From among a large collection of perfume jars, he selected one. Pulling the stone stopper free, he raised the long, thin stone dabber to his nose. The warm, rich scent of roses filled his senses, so intense he felt as though he stood within his garden's rose arbor at the height of its flowering. Replacing the stopper, he put the jar back in the exact same spot, not wishing to disrupt the sanctity of Istara's once-presence.

Within her cupboard, most of her gowns were gone--only a few remained on the bottom shelf. He reached in and pulled one out. It fell open, the scent of jasmine and lavender billowing out from its quiet folds. He examined the gown, frowning, trying to remember seeing it on her. He couldn't. Reaching in, he pulled out another, shaking its folds free. Something fell from it and landed on his foot. He recoiled, fearing a scorpion. A scroll bumped up against the bottom of the cupboard. Tossing the dress onto the divan, he went after it, hungry, hoping it might contain her words. He unrolled it. Disappointment sheared through him. It was written in Nesite, the language of Hatti. At the bottom, his gaze halted. He had seen enough documentation in his lifetime as Egypt's commander to recognize the royal sign of the King of Hatti. So, Urhi-Teshub had written to her after all. He turned the letter over, searching for a way to know its date, wondering how long she had had it, had kept it hidden among a pile of unwanted gowns. Putting it back into the cupboard he folded the gowns up and placed them back on top of it, perversely gratified by the thought she had left it behind.

He closed the cupboard and extinguished the lamps. With the shutters to the terrace closed, darkness shrouded him, thick as a tomb. He welcomed it. Feeling his way to the bed, he lay down, listening to its soft creak as it accepted his weight--the sound awakening the memory of the last time he had lain with her, the night before he departed for the Libyan campaign, her body meeting each of his thrusts, hungry, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she cried out, shuddering with her release. Pushing the memory away, he pulled her cushion against his chest and inhaled her faint scent: wild roses drenched in the heat of Re-Atum's barque. Roses. Always roses. He wondered if there were roses in Babylon.

"Istara," he breathed, his heart constricting as he pressed his nose against the cushion, inhaling the shadow of her existence--reliving their short time together; the secrets shared over wine; the ecstasy of their lovemaking; the tears she sometimes shed, unable to bear the agony of knowing his soul would be obliterated at death. He ached at the thought of her grieving, of her husband trying to win her back, seeking to salvage her heart from the ruins of her loss.

He closed his eyes, imaging her spending long, broiling hot days within the confines of a wicker palanquin, riding atop one of those strange, humped creatures the caravans used to cross deserts. The image changed. Now she sat upon a rug before a fire under a black sky bristling with a thousand glittering stars, their light cold, cruel, hostile. She stared, blank, into the fire's flames, bereft.

His heart aching, he followed after her, closing the distance separating them, his heart racing toward her over the dunes of sand, past the ruins of long-lost cities from Egypt's ancient kingdoms, gray in the moonless light; past the military outposts of the Horus Way toward the endless, rocky desert of Thamud. In the distance, piercing the desert's cold, dark silence--the light of several dozen fires, each surrounded by a little group of sloping tents. He slowed, moving past the humped beasts, their legs folded under them, their heads lowered as they dozed. He pressed on through the camp, ignoring the other men and women, their faces blurring as he sent his heart onward, seeking. Near the camp's center, he found her. He drifted closer, reverent, drinking in the sight of her. She sat unmoving, looking right at him, unseeing, her grief palpable. He longed to touch her, to trace the outline of her cheek, to press his lips to hers.

"Sethi," she whispered, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I am lost without you."

"Courage," he breathed, his heart aching. He clung to her image, willing her to hear him. "I will find you again. I will love you again. Wait for me. In Babylon."