Men of Bronze (32 page)

“You leave me little choice,” the Greek said.

“Good. I’ll have my grooms prepare a fresh horse. You …” But, the Arabian king did not have a chance to finish. Guards thrust the polished cedar doors open and filed in, escorting Merodach and the envoy of the Egyptians. Qainu turned to hiss a warning to Phanes, but the Greek was gone, vanished into the shadows as if he had never been there at all. The Arabian felt as though he walked along the edge of a razor.

Merodach scuttled up to the throne and prostrated himself.

“My lord King,” he said. “I present to you Callisthenes of Naucratis, aide to General Barca and liaison to the Egyptians.”

Callisthenes approached, bowing. “King Qainu of Arabia, overlord of Kedar and protector of the peoples of Edom, for your household, your wives, your sons, your nobles, your horses, your troops, Pharaoh sends his blessings of prosperity and health.” Callisthenes drew breath to continue, but an inarticulate howl of rage cut him off. He looked around, scowling.

A figure hurtled from the shadows. Callisthenes had the impression of burnished bronze and white cloth as a whirlwind of fists hammered him to his knees. A voice he had not heard since Memphis screamed in his ear: “You traitorous bastard!”

No longer the soft merchant of Naucratis, Callisthenes ducked a blow that would have snapped his neck, snagged Phanes’ sword belt, and shot a series of quick punches into his groin. Phanes staggered, off balance, as Callisthenes clawed at the hilt of his sword. On the dais, Qainu’s tiger roared.

A split second later, Merodach and the Arab guards separated the Greeks. Dazed, Callisthenes sat back on his haunches, blood starting from his nose and lip. Soldiers in studded corselets and spired, turban-wrapped helmets held Phanes at spear point.

“I must protest!” Merodach shrieked. “This is a grave breach of protocol! Are we dogs to cast aside the sanctity of our pledge? The Egyptians have come to us under a banner of truce, a banner of good will! I —”

“Be silent, Merodach,” Qainu said. His eyes were slits. “You know this one, Phanes?”

“Know him? He’s the one who betrayed me to Pharaoh at Memphis!” Phanes said, his features hard, vengeful. “Your father was one of my dearest friends, like a brother to me! I trusted you!”

“And you’re more the fool for it!” Callisthenes hissed, rising to his feet. “My father curried your friendship because it was expedient. You were a tool, and he warned me your ambition far outstripped your ability. Egypt does not need Persian rule, much less Greek!”

“Spoken like a true native!” Phanes said. He looked at Qainu. “Kill him! He is a snake, a serpent in the garden who would strike at our heels when our backs are turned. Further, if our positions were reversed, I would order my men to excise this Egyptian cancer from my shores. Kill them all!”

The tiger at Qainu’s side twitched its tail, growling, agitated by the scents of blood, adrenalin, and fear. The king stroked the nape of its neck. “And were I you,” Qainu said, “I would return to my masters with all due haste. Remember what I have told you!”

“I will go, but he comes with me!” Phanes said, jabbing his thumb at Callisthenes.

Qainu shook his head. “He is not for you, Phanes. Not today. Perhaps I will give him to you when you return, perhaps not. As of now, I need this one as insurance should my plans fail.”

For a moment fury blazed in Phanes’ eyes. His hand twisted into a claw, itching to feel the hilt of his sword. He might have thrown himself on the Arabian king were it not assured he would die on a hedge of spears before ever touching the hem of Qainu’s robe. An eternity passed in the span of a heartbeat. Hands shifted their grips on spear shafts. Sweat rolled down Merodach’s nose. The tiger coughed in anticipation …

Suddenly, Phanes laughed and offered a deep bow, ending it with a dramatic flourish. “I stand corrected, Qainu. You have balls the size of melons. I will inform Lord Darius that the road to Egypt’s border is clear, thanks to our Arabian friends. But, remember this, and remember it well, when I return, if you try to withhold him from me, I’ll pull this palace down stone by stone!” He turned and glared at Callisthenes. “Keep yourself safe, merchant. We have business yet to finish!”

To Phanes’ surprise Callisthenes did not quail or grovel. He drew himself up and spat, his face flushed with defiance. “I’ll be here waiting, boy-fucker!”

Phanes spun, his cloak billowing out behind him. His laughter redoubled as he retraced his steps from the throne room.

Silence ruled. Men stared at one another, and at the Greek. At a word from their King, the soldiers would impale the Egyptian envoy on their spears. They waited expectantly. Merodach wrung his hands and finally spoke.

“I cannot be a party to this! By all the laws of hospitality, of protocol, held sacred by the goddess Alilat and thrice-blessed Orotalt, by Ishtar and Marduk, I beg of you, O King! Reconsider this course of action. These seeds of deceit will bear bitter fruit!”

“Listen to your chancellor, Qainu!” Callisthenes said. “You’re making a grave mistake! Barca will …”

“Your general will be dead by sunrise. My mercenaries will see to it. For the moment, though, I require your silence. Guard.” Qainu stroked his beard, his brows furrowed in thought. Before Callisthenes could react, the soldier behind him reversed his spear and rammed the weighted butt against the base of his skull. Callisthenes staggered and fell and did not move.

Merodach stood aghast.

“Did an honor guard accompany him?”

“Y-Yes, O King,” the chancellor stammered.

“Send them away. If they resist, tell them the noble Callisthenes is under the protection of the King of Gaza, and he will call for them upon the morrow.” The king motioned to the unconscious Greek. “Take him away. Lock him in the Dolphin Chamber, above the West Hall. Feed him well and see to his every need.” Qainu chortled at the goggle-eyed expression on his chancellor’s face. “I’m not daft, Merodach, and I yet possess a shred of common sense. It’s not often I get to flaunt a man like Phanes. We will hold this Callisthenes safe until his return.”

Merodach could only stare as soldiers carried out their master’s orders. What manner of madman did he serve?

The encampment site lay scarcely half a mile from the harbor, on the southern edge of Gaza. Barca stopped on the shoulder of the winding road. Egyptian soldiers tramped along, happy to be ashore after two weeks at sea. Torches cast circles of lurid orange light over the heavily rutted track. The Phoenician glanced back the way they had come. Maiumas at dusk was a chaotic sprawl with no identifiable plan, no meticulously plotted grid of streets and cross-streets. Instead, squat, flat-roofed buildings grew like a fungus from the beaches and quays, rising to a precarious height along the ridge of sand-scoured rock. In the sky above, crimson fingers of sunlight pierced the velvet as stars flared into existence, constellations forming beacons, landmarks for navigator and oracle alike.

The mood in Maiumas spoke of quiet desperation. Men and women labored as they had for centuries, their lives inexorably tied to the sea. They wove their nets by hand; scrounged through refuse heaps for cast-off bits of copper or bronze to forge into hooks; lived from day to day in a broth of fish guts and brine, their eyes rarely leaving the far horizon. In many ways their reliance on the currents and rhythms of the Mediterranean mirrored Egyptian dependence on the Nile. To survive, the folk of Maiumas became intimate with the mercurial waters; they knew the patterns of the winds, where the reefs and shoals were, what time of year the harshest storms arose. They sacrificed to Marna, to Anat, to Resheph: gods of wind and rain, squall and typhoon. In times of dire need, when the gods demanded immediate appeasement, their children were delivered to the priests of Ba’al to be immolated in the sacred fire. The men and women of Maiumas lived with hardship and deprivation, eking what life they could from their pitiless world while the wealthy of Gaza, three miles inland, reaped the rewards of their blood and tears.

Barca scanned the ships moored along the quays. Could any of them have belonged to his family? The house of Barca had wielded powerful influence along this coast at one time, before the disastrous thirteen-year siege of Tyre by the armies of Nebuchadnezzar. That debacle had broken Tyrian supremacy and scattered her more influential citizens to the four winds. His grandfather fled to Carthage; his father, Gisco, settled in Egypt. Barca himself had only the slenderest recollection of those days, images and emotions rather than true memories.

He turned and found Jauharah waiting for him. She smiled. “You look deep in thought.”

“Remembering,” Barca replied. She fell in beside him as he followed in the wake of a rumbling ox-cart. Soldiers and sailors bantered, and their laughter seemed out of place along the lonely road. “I was a child the last time I saw the harbors of Tyre, but I remember enough. This place …”

A stone shifted under Jauharah’s foot. Barca made to catch her, but their hands stopped short of actually touching. Jauharah steadied herself with an outstretched arm. “My body still rolls with the sea swells.”

Barca smiled. “Your balance will return soon enough.” He lapsed into silence, his brow furrowed in thought. Soon, he glanced sidelong at her. “Your people, they are from this region?”

“Not quite,” Jauharah said. “My family lived in the Shara Mountains, perhaps a week’s ride to the southeast, on the borders of Edom. My father was Bedouin, an exile from the tents of the Rualla, who found refuge with my mother’s family. Beyond that, I remember very little about them.”

“Do you miss them?”

Jauharah sighed. “Not particularly. I have forgotten so much. My only clear memory is of the narrow chasm leading to the heart of Sela, the rock-cut fortress where my family dwelt. The air in that crevice was always cool and moist, no matter how hot the surrounding desert got, and in the evening it smelled of garlic and searing meat. I can recall kneeling on a ledge beneath the sentry posts praying my father would never return from trading in Elath.”

“You disliked your father?”

Jauharah hugged herself, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. “He was barbaric, even by Asiatic standards.” Jauharah employed the Egyptian term used to describe the inhabitants of Palestine:
Asiatic
. Usually preceded by ‘wretched’ or ‘cursed’, the name encompassed Syrians, Phoenicians, Ammonites, Israelites, Moabites, Edomites, and Arabs. To Egyptians, all Asiatics were one in the same. “I had six brothers and four sisters. A fifth sister was born, and in a rage my father bashed the infant’s head against a rock. Later, my mother defended what he had done, saying sons were a sign of strength and daughters a reminder of weakness. My father did not need another reminder.”

As she spoke a sheet of white-hot anger blurred the Phoenician’s vision. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms until they bled. He could tolerate many things, but violence against children went against his grain. Slowly, he brought his rage under control. His voice, when he at last found it, was tight. “I have never been a father, but I know in the depths of my soul that I would love my daughters as much as my sons, and none of them would have anything to fear from me.”

“That’s one of the differences between you and my father, Hasdrabal. Where you are noble and kind beneath a hard exterior, he was loathsome and weak. I hope …” Jauharah stopped. Barca turned to see what was wrong, and she waved him on. He could see she was flushed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Respecting her wishes, Barca continued on. Jauharah melted into the baggage train.

Ahmad approached. He and his men led the Egyptians, and already the two cadres were mingling, trading knives, belts, and trinkets. “Trouble with your woman?”

Barca glared at him. Wisely, the Arabian let it drop.

“How long since you left Egypt?”

“Two weeks. We left Sais and sailed for Pelusium, thence to Gaza. Why?”

Ahmad leaned close to Barca. “A messenger arrived two days past, from Egypt I’m told. Heard from my men in the palace that he bore ill tidings. Thought you might know what it was about. The old Pharaoh has been ill, has he not?”

Barca’s face betrayed no emotion. So, word of Pharaoh’s poor health had spread to the frontiers. Did the Persians know? Most likely. “He is an old man,” Barca said. “Old men are frequently down with this ailment, or that. If Psammetichus leads the army rather than Ahmose, it changes nothing. Tell me, you said you have two hundred men. At full strength Gaza is supposed to field a thousand. Where are the others?”

The Arabian captain shrugged. “The King is not as quick to replenish our numbers. Instead, he hires mercenaries from among the Bedouin of Sinai as guards for his caravans and his person. Ask me, it’s like letting the lions shepherd the flock.”

“You and your men are not his personal guard?”

“That honor belongs to a sand-rat named Zayid. The King calls him his general, but he’s nothing more than a desert brigand. Bah! We used to stake his kind out over anthills before Qainu stole his father’s throne.”

“What of the Persians?” Barca asked. “Does Qainu not fear them?”