Acknowledgements

      Thanks to Pamela Hatchfield, conservator, and

      Rita Freed, curator of Egyptian art, Boston Museum of Fine Arts; and to Robert Burnham, editor of the Napoleon Series.

       The Legend Continues

      The drums and cymbals sounded. The heavy, musky scent of incense filled the air. Despite the heat outside, the Hall of A Thousand Pillars remained cool with its heavy stone roof and carved columns. It was the Naming Day.

      Batu walked along behind her older sister Anan, slowly, matching the pace of her footsteps to the beat of the drums. The cloth of Anan’s garments shone white in the flickering torchlight; the gold-and-colored-stone bracelets on her arms gleamed.

      Anan had to be exhausted, Batu knew, thinking of the week of ceremonial cleansing, the fasting, the prayers. That morning they’d risen before dawn to go through the rituals, the bathing, the adornments, the dressing of Anan’s hair with precious pearls, brought from afar.

      It was not every day the ruler of the kingdom was promised her consort.

      A throng packed the Hall of A Thousand Pillars, waiting to see the shape of their future. For Anan was not to take merely a husband, but the man who would rule by her side, and from his strength would fl ow the prosperity and security of the realm.

      Batu felt sympathy for her sister, for she knew that Anan’s duty was a difficult one. Hers was a life consecrated to the kingdom. How fearful it would be to be in her spot, left without choice, forced to marry the one the priests chose for her.

       For Batu was in love.

      As she walked, she stared at the dais ahead, at the rich, golden throne, so that she would not look to her side at the line of soldiers guarding their path, so that she would not meet the eyes of the one man she desired above all others.

      Egmath. Even the whisper of his name in her thoughts felt like a stolen pleasure. Soon they would tell of their love, soon. But for now, it was theirs to savor, still new in its full flower. When they informed the priests and Anan, it would be a public thing; they would be held separate until they’d married.

       And Batu did not think she could bear it.

      From the corner of her eye she saw the gleam of the gold cuff around his upper arm. She saw the strong muscles of his chest, the proud carriage of his head. And her heart swelled at the knowledge that this warrior, this man of honor, was hers.

      Batu couldn’t help it—her eyes fl icked toward him to meet his gaze. The rush of it stole her breath. It seemed hardly possible that the love she’d always felt for him had transformed into this tremendous emotion that took her over. This was not the simple affection of children for children.

       This was the love of a woman and a man.

      Batu followed Anan up the stairs to the dais and moved to stand behind the golden throne as her sister sat. From there, Batu could stare out into the hall, looking at the torchlight flickering off the richly colored pillars. Looking out at the throng that packed the hall.

       Looking at Egmath.

      On the steps stood Hortath, the eldest priest.