The Call of Eternity

14 | THE STRANGER

Sethi left the training grounds drenched in sweat. The light of Re-Atum burned down, fierce, and hot against his back. The sparring had done him good, had eased the chaos of his thoughts. Though he had hidden his concerns from Istara, Ahmen's attack against him the night before had disturbed him, as had the flicker of guilt in Ramesses's eyes, hidden in a heartbeat. So, the three of them had been caught in a web of their own making, breaking their own vows over something they had sworn in their youth would never come between them. A woman.

But they had been young then, and selfish--surrounded by courtesans and whores, women who cared only for baubles, gowns and gold. They had not known what it could feel like to love a woman beyond the walls of death.

He looked down at his hand, his fingers still wrapped around the hilt of his khopesh. Would he have reacted any different if he had learned Ahmen had taken Istara? His grip tightened against the hilt. The thought was unbearable. A fresh wave of guilt slammed into him. He had committed the deepest of betrayals.

Moving into the shade of the pillared vestibule, he set his khopesh aside and bent to rinse his face in a basin of water. A murmur rose from the men resting on the nearby benches. Several moved toward the edge of the vestibule, to peer into the white glare of the grounds. Sethi turned, curious.

In the middle of the grounds, Naram, his first captain, sparred with a man Sethi did not recognize. Tall, strong, powerful, the man moved with liquid elegance, his movements deft, accurate, deadly. Naram struggled to hold his ground, unable to strike even once against the other man's onslaught. Sethi moved closer, intrigued. He wondered who the man was. A mercenary perhaps. He waited until Naram staggered and knelt, accepting his defeat.

Voices rose, speculating, filled with intrigue. Picking up his khopesh, Sethi strode across the grounds toward the man helping Naram to his feet, his strength apparent in the ease of his effort. His feet were bare, and he wore a plain, coarse kilt, the garb of a field laborer, tied with a frayed piece of hemp rope. Around his forearms, rough leather bracers, and on his right arm, a linen bandage, bearing several bright patches of fresh blood. The man turned and looked at Sethi, his kohled eyes unreadable. Sethi slowed, misgiving sliding through him. He had seen those eyes before. He raked his memories, but found nothing.

The man pressed his fist to his chest, and bowed his shaven head as Sethi neared. "My lord commander," he said, his voice elegant, cultured, at deep odds with his peasant's garb.

"Spar with me," Sethi commanded, sharp, nodding at the man's khopesh. "Grant me no quarter."

His opponent backed three steps and took his opening position, a better one than any Sethi had ever learned. Already he found himself at a disadvantage. He lifted a brow, intrigued. For the first time in a long time--a challenge.

The heartbeat Sethi took his position, the man rushed forward, driving him back across the training ground, relentless, his strength and dexterity surprising. Sethi feinted and found his feet, turning the match in his favor. It lasted a mere heartbeat before the man changed his steps once more, a complex movement, one Sethi had never seen. Once more, Sethi fought to hold his ground, and failed. He backed away, panting, parrying, unable to strike even once. The heel of his sandal caught the edge of the vestibule. He stumbled, and lost his balance. The man's hand shot out, catching Sethi's forearm, his strength astonishing.

Sethi looked down at the man's hand. His was not the roughened, callused hand of a man who spent his days in hard labor. It was a hand made for wearing rings. The hand of a prince, or a king. Sethi had seen enough. He lowered his khopesh and nodded, conceding.

A stunned silence descended upon the grounds. Sethi's men shifted, murmuring, uneasy at having seen the Commander of Egypt defeated by a stranger.

"Come," Sethi said, curt. "Walk with me." Saying nothing, the man followed him across the grounds, into the deep shadow of the vestibule and into Sethi's office. Sethi moved past the pair of cupboards containing a vast assortment of scrolls, his movements making the flames of the lamps flicker. Pushing aside a messy stack of papyri, he sat at his desk. The man stood opposite him waiting, calm, not even out of breath. Sethi gestured for him to take a seat on one of the stools.

As he sat, Sethi rested his elbows on the table, eyeing the newcomer, his instincts prickling. There was something about him, something he couldn't place. "Are you a mercenary?" he asked, picking up a piece of papyrus, and looking at it, unseeing, avoiding the other man's piercing look.

"No," the man answered. A slight smile caught at his lips. "But I thank you for the insult."

"Then, who are you?" Sethi demanded, putting the papyrus on top of the stack. "You must know how unusual it is for someone like you to appear out of nowhere, who is able to best not only one of my captains, but also have the better of me. None but the pharaoh has done so before."

"That was your choice," the man said, quiet.

Sethi blinked, both flattered and taken aback by the man's audacity. He decided to change the subject. "Why are you here?"

"I have heard you are in need of a captain," the man replied, his eyes meeting Sethi's, fathomless, compelling.

"Hm," Sethi said, noncommittal. He glanced out at his men, working through a new attack combination, his thoughts straying back to the man's oblique comment. "You must tell me--your techniques, your opening stance, the complex shifts in your attack," Sethi pressed on, curious despite himself, "where did you learn them?"

"In a land far from here," the man answered.

Sethi raised a brow. "Indeed? I am certain I know all the strategies of our enemies and allies. What land?"

"One very far from here," the man replied, evasive, holding Sethi's gaze. "You would not have heard of it."

"Then, what is your name," Sethi said, unable to believe he was permitting this man to speak to him as an equal.

The man hesitated and looked away, his eyes unfocusing. His fingers curled into fists in his lap, the muscles under his bracers standing proud. "Seru," he answered, low.

Sethi leaned back, reading more from Seru's body language than his words. A troubled man, carrying a great burden. He let the silence stretch, waiting for Seru to say more. He did not. "Will you not give me your true name?" he asked, low.

"I lost my right to that name when I left my home," Seru answered, quiet.

Sethi nodded, impressed despite being granted nothing more than enigmatic answers. "How can I be certain you are not an enemy looking to infiltrate our army?"

"I only seek to protect you," Seru said.

Sethi stared at the man, taken aback. "Protect me? From whom?"

"You should rather ask," he answered, soft, "from what."

Sethi stood up, his spine tingling. Seru rose. Sethi eyed him, wary. Could he be--No. It was unthinkable, his imagination was running away from him. He pushed the thought aside.

"I am in need of a captain," he admitted. He drummed his fingertips on the table, weighing up the enigmatic man across from him, who waited, emanating dignity and power, his rough clothing ridiculous and out of place on such a powerful, battle-honed physique. He decided to take a chance. "Come, let us get you equipped, and arrange for your wages. The first thing you will do is teach me the combat techniques you know. They will serve Egypt well." He moved to the door. "Do you have a wife? Children?"

"A wife," Seru answered, a glimmer of tenderness softening the hard planes of his features. "She gave up everything to follow me."

"Ah?" Sethi asked, sensing an opening, a way to test his suspicions. "My woman is also far from her homeland. Perhaps your wife might consider becoming a companion to her?"

Seru nodded, the faintest flicker of a smile fleeted across his lips. "I think she might like that very much."