Hector returned to the Shasu camp at dusk with the gold.
Fifty riders behind him, a cart bouncing across the frozen plain with three chests strapped to its bed. The sun was almost gone, the sky fading to a cold, bruised purple in the west. The Shasu camp was quiet now—tents struck, horses saddled and waiting, the women and children gathered near the edge of the firelight with their bundles already tied. They were ready to leave. They were only waiting for the payment.
Zimri met him at the edge of the camp. The old mercenary was wrapped in a dark cloak now, his curved sword at his belt, his face unreadable in the twilight. He looked at the cart, at the chests, at the fifty riders who had come to deliver them.
"You came yourself," he said.
"The son of Priam settles his own debts." Hector pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. "Three chests. Count it."
"I will."
