Men of Bronze (22 page)

Inyotef bristled. “If you expect to cow us like that rabble in the street, to get on bended knee and proclaim you king, then I’d say you’ve buggered one too many prissy boys and caught a brain fever! “ Several of the priests begged him to be silent. He brushed them off, defiant.

“Age makes your lips looser than an Athenian whore!” Phanes said, rising. He descended the dais to tower over Inyotef. “I will be your king, whether you acknowledge it or not.”

“Fool!” Inyotef said. “Controlling a city does not make you king, even a city as great as Memphis! Are you so ignorant that you believe Thebes and Sais will capitulate to you simply because you hold a crown in your hands?”

Phanes’ hand flickered out, brushing the side of Inyotef’s neck. The old man’s eyes widened in shock; age-spotted hands flew to his throat as the first geyser of blood spewed from the paper-thin incision. Inyotef clutched at Ujahorresnet’s shoulder as he fell.

“No,” Phanes said, holding up the narrow blade which none of the priests had seen him draw, “I expect them to do it out of sheer terror.”

Ujahorresnet crouched and held his hands to Inyotef’s throat, striving through will alone to stop the inexorable tide of blood. Inyotef clawed at his forearms, his yellowed eyes pleading. Slowly, the spurts turned to trickles, then ceased altogether. Inyotef’s glazing stare rammed through Ujahorresnet’s heart like a lance of ice.

“What have you done?”

Phanes turned and bounded lightly up the dais, reclaiming his throne. “I’ve made a point. You’re all familiar with the tale of the golden footbath? No? Listen, then, and I will educate you. In the early years of his reign, Amasis got little respect from his nobles. How dare he, a mere soldier, defile the throne of the god-kings? They were indignant, rebellious, but they needed a sign from the gods before they’d move against him. So, Amasis steals a golden footbath, one that these selfsame nobles had used to lave their feet, to piss in, to vomit in. He takes this footbath and has it melted and recast as a statue of Osiris, giving it to these nobles as a gesture of reconciliation. Such a glorious thing went far toward assuaging their anger. They sacrificed to it, worshiped it, showered it with gifts and offerings. Then, Amasis tells them what it was they were venerating.

“Gentlemen, I am a mercenary, but I have been recast, albeit temporarily, as your king. I do not ask your love, but I will have your respect! Otherwise, you will be joining your colleague in the next world!”

Phanes leaned back, his legs thrust out before him. He looked every inch a mercenary usurper: sweat-stained corselet of quilted linen, kilt spackled with blood, bronze greaves, sandals of ox-hide.

The Greek stared at each man in turn, daring him to voice his opposition; he was pleasantly surprised to see only resignation. They had the shocked look of refugees, of men who had forgotten the face of violence. All save the priest of Neith. Something lurked in Ujahorresnet’s eyes, something obscure, something evolving from passive to deadly. Phanes noted the look with a sardonic grin. “Good. Please, accept my hospitality for the evening. Tomorrow, I will decide your fate.” He nodded to his soldiers, who ushered the priests out at spear-point.

Silence returned to the throne room, and the shadows continued their dance.

Phanes’ eyes were drawn to the corpse prostrate on the floor. Egypt lay dead and defeated at his feet. Egypt’s antiquity danced for his amusement. And, tomorrow,

Egypt’s blood would spill like a rich red rain. It would be the birth of a new age.

Barca woke to the sound of water.

For a moment he was disoriented, unsure of his bearings. Was he in Tyre, again? Of course he was. The water could only be the sound of waves slapping the pilings near his home. A cooling breeze made him restless. He should rise and go check on that shipment of lapis bound for Egypt. No use lying here …

Barca tried to move but a hand on his chest calmed him. “Be still,” said a woman’s voice. “I have to see to your wounds.”

The fog of sleep evaporated and the events of the last few hours calcified in his mind. Night had fallen, and stars dusted the sky from horizon to horizon, a milky river of light. Barca lay on a divan atop Idu’s villa, under a loggia whose columns were crafted to resemble towering papyrus stalks. Jauharah knelt at his side. Near her were two pottery bowls and a bundle of linen strips.

Her hands moved over his gashed side, sponging away the fresh blood that welled from the wound. She probed the torn flesh with her fingertips.

Like loose threads on a loom, Barca gathered his thoughts. The Phoenician had left the temple of Neith at midday, making his way across a city strangely quiet. He could feel something writhing below the surface. Anger. Fear. He overheard snatches of conversation, a whispered name. By the time he crossed Memphis, Barca had pieced together the details of Menkaura’s death, and the death of his fledgling uprising.

He cursed Menkaura for a fool. The word was his grief had caused him to move too soon; his anger had goaded him into challenging Phanes to single combat. Afterward, Menkaura’s “army” had melted away like fat left too long in the sun. So much for his plan of an Egyptian insurrection …

A sharp pain tugged him back to the present. “Just stitch it and have done!” Barca snapped.

“It must be cleansed,” Jauharah said. “If it festers, the corruption will seep into your internal organs and kill you one piece at a time. I’ve seen men die in this manner. It’s not pleasant.” Jauharah nodded to herself, confident that there were no fragments or debris in the wound. She reached for the second bowl containing equal parts vinegar and water. “This will sting,” she warned, and poured the mixture over the wound. A sharp intake of breath from her patient gave Jauharah a measure of comfort. She was beginning to think Barca wasn’t human.

“Did you do as I instructed?” Barca said through clenched teeth.

Jauharah nodded. She took up a bronze needle and a length of gut. “I carried your message to each of master Idu’s friends. If their courage holds, they should arrive soon.”

Barca watched her prepare for the delicate task of stitching flesh. “Where did you learn that?”

“The House of Life, from a physician’s slave. Master Idu thought it a good skill to have.”

The Phoenician’s brows arched. “Have you ever put that skill to practice?”

“No.”

“Wait,” Barca said. He motioned for the needle and gut. “Best let me do that.”

Jauharah frowned. “You cannot possibly see what you’re doing. Now lay still and let me do my work. For the love of the gods, will you trust no one?”

Barca stared at her for a long moment, weighing his options. She was right. He could not see well enough to stitch the jagged gash in his side. Loss of blood left him weak; his hands quivered and twitched. Slowly, Barca nodded. “I’m trusting you.”

“Lay back.” Jauharah acknowledged his trust with a slight smile as she began the slow process of stitching. “The Egyptians are true masters of healing,” she said, her voice soft, measured. “I have seen papyri concerning the treatment of wounds that date back to the time of the god-kings.” Jauharah fell silent and did not speak for a long time, then: “You are lucky to be alive. The knife nearly severed the wall of muscle protecting your abdomen. A little deeper, and it would have gutted you.” She finished stitching, then wrapped Barca’s abdomen in clean linen bandages.

The Phoenician grunted. “Death never seems to finish what He starts.” He flexed his arm and back, feeling the sutures tighten. “You have a gift for this sort of thing. You should be in the House of Life, not serving in a merchant’s household.”

Jauharah sat back on her heels, wiping her bloody hands on a scrap of linen. “The gods make us what …”

The clatter of a gate hinge echoed up from the courtyard at the back of the house. Barca rose and stepped out from beneath the loggia to peer over the roof’s edge.

Jauharah followed. The Phoenician could see down into a partially enclosed kitchen with its own secluded garden. Strings of dried fish and bundles of herbs hung from the exposed ceiling beams, while a trio of conical brick ovens stood like great beehives against the courtyard wall. From the small garden, with its Persea tree and immaculate flowerbeds, the light of a shielded lamp illuminated four figures, their features cast in shadow.

“Phoenician! Are you h-here?” one of them hissed.

“Up here,” Barca replied. At the sound of his voice, the newcomers stiffened, looking like thieves caught in the act. He motioned them toward a flight of stairs built into the kitchen wall, then turned to Jauharah. “Their names?”

“The short one in front is Hekaib. Behind him, Ibebi. The man with the close-cropped gray hair is Amenmose. The last one is Thothmes, Menkaura’s cousin.” She frowned, touching his sweat-slick brow. “You should sit. Here, let me help you.” She led him back to the divan as the four men gained the roof and joined him under the loggia.

“Phoenician!” Amenmose said. “We-We thought you were dead!”

Barca chuckled. “Far from it, though I think Phanes will regret not killing me when he had the chance.”

“Why have you called us here?” Hekaib said, fear giving his voice a high, almost feminine, pitch. He clutched one of the loggia’s columns for support. “If the Hellenes find us like this …”

“Hekaib’s right,” Thothmes said. “After the fiasco in the square, Phanes will have his eyes and ears everywhere.”

“But not here. Here, you are safe.”

“Why
have
you summoned us, Phoenician?” This from Ibebi.

“Because it falls on you to carry on what Idu and Menkaura started. I’ve heard the whispers. Your younger kinsmen are undaunted. They …”

“They are fools,” Amenmose said softly. “Noble intentions and fiery passions will not stand against Greek armor. I am not without courage, but I am in no hurry to throw my life away for a lost cause.”

“Then master Idu died for nothing!” Jauharah said. The men glanced at her, taken aback at her outburst.

“She’s right,” Barca said. “If you choose to hide from the truth, then your friends wasted their lives. You can live out your days in shame and defeat. But, if you choose to believe they died to give the rest of you strength, then no amount of armor or training can stand before your rage.”

“We’re not cowards!” Ibebi growled.

“I did not say you were. A coward will not look at Death; he will sprint like a hare in the opposite direction. But men like you, men caught in the grip of fear, will stand their ground and let Death inch ever closer, never raising a hand to stop it.”

“We do not fear Death, Phoenician!” Hekaib said. He drew himself to his full, but unimposing, height. “Death is but the doorway to the afterlife.”

“Then why did you not leap to Menkaura’s defense?” Barca studied each man, feeling their shame as they stared at their feet in self-recrimination, unable to meet his gaze. “There is no wrong in fearing Death; all men do. Every hoplite in Phanes’ command fears Death, but they master their fear, they step across that line separating soldiers from common men, and they fight, regardless of what happens to them, regardless of the outcome. You must emulate them.”

“We have no weapons,” Thothmes said.

“Give me that indomitable Egyptian spirit that made your people masters of the ancient world, and I’ll get you weapons!” Barca replied.

“It seems so … futile,” Amenmose whispered.

“It is futile, my friend. Egypt is in peril. Foreigners stand on the threshold, intent on destroying the land of your ancestors. I am not of your race, but I love Egypt as if she had given me life. My men died for your freedom. My friend Matthias ben Iesu endured hideous torture and death in defense of your sons and daughters. Idu was murdered for his beliefs, and Menkaura sacrificed himself to show you what true resolve really is. Do these acts truly mean nothing to you?”

The men glanced at one another, each seeking strength in the other’s eyes. Barca could sense the good in them. They were men thrust into an uncompromising situation, men with families, men whose lives did not include a penchant for violence. They earned the Phoenician’s respect simply by heeding his summons.

Thothmes shuffled forward. “I will stand with you.”

“I, too,” Ibebi said. The other two could only nod.

Barca’s face grew grim. “I’m not looking for men who will stand beside me. I need men who will fight, who will die. Men willing to throw their lives away for the love of their homeland.”

“You don’t want men, you want martyrs,” Amenmose said, uneasy.

Barca smiled. “Now, you’re beginning to understand.”