Men of Bronze (6 page)

To whom did he owe his allegiance? “Pythian Apollo be damned!” Callisthenes hissed in Egyptian. Stopping Phanes would be a deadly game, the merchant reckoned, one pitting both sides against the middle, and his life would be forfeit should he lose. Still, he knew full well how Egypt would fare under the heel of a foreign tyrant. Egyptians should rule the Nile valley. The statues lining the antechamber’s walls, the images of the pharaohs of old, appeared to nod in unison in the flickering lamplight.

Now
, Callisthenes thought, gathering his robes about him,
all I need is an ally
.

South and east of the fortress of Ineb-hedj, along the banks of the Nile, lay the district of Perunefer. A bustling naval yard in ancient times, Perunefer diminished over the years into a small and insular enclave of fishermen. Even so, signs of its former glory abounded. The canting beams once used to support the hulls of Pharaoh’s warships now served as drying racks for hundreds of nets. Stone stelae, their commemorative hieroglyphs faded by time and neglect, paved the grassy sward where each day’s catch was gutted and strung for drying. Middens rose at every hand, artificial hills of fish bones, scales, and entrails towering over the drab huts of the fisherfolk. A rutted dirt path wound through this festering maze. It descended through stands of palm, willow, and sycamore, following the natural slope of the shoreline until it dead-ended at a quay of age-blackened limestone. Water lapped against the hulls of skiffs tied to corroded mooring rings.

Overhead, twilight hastened into night. Stars flared to life, casting their thin light on the dark waters of the Nile. The two men who walked along the quay had no need of other illumination; their business was best concluded without it. Flakes of stone crunched underfoot as the smaller of the pair, his weight resting on a gold-shod staff, turned to his companion and hissed, “Are you positive it was him, Esna?”

The man called Esna nodded. He wore a kilt of muddy brown linen and a broad leather belt, trimmed in copper scarab and ankh amulets that clashed with each step. One long-fingered hand rested lightly on the ivory hilt of a knife. “Beyond doubt, lord,” Esna said. “The Phoenician is no easy man to forget. I saw him at Sile once, perhaps three years ago. Then, this afternoon, I saw him again on the road from Iunu, leading a train of camels and men. A score of them, foreigners all. I hurried back as quick as discretion allowed.”

Music filtered through the trees, from Perunefer, the sound of flute, sistrum, and lyre punctuated by crude laughter and snatches of song. Esna glanced up toward the tree line, aware of how exposed they were here on the quay. His companion, though, was oblivious, his brows knitted in a look of brooding consternation.

Ujahorresnet, First Servant of Neith in Memphis, tapped the butt of his staff on the stones, a metronomic rhythm that kept time with his thoughts. The priest was small for an Egyptian, thin to the point of emaciation, with shoulders unbowed despite the sixty-four years that weighed upon them. His skull was shaven and his blunt features concealed a mind sharper than the claws of Amemait, the Devourer. “What business has he here?”

“Of that I have no knowledge, lord,” Esna said.

“He has few allies in Memphis, and none among the Greeks. I want to know his movements, Esna. Have your people locate him, keep him in sight at all times. Also, set a man to watch the house of the Judaean, ben Iesu. He has served as the Phoenician’s informant in the past.”

“Your will shall be done, lord.” Esna bowed deeply and withdrew.

Ujahorresnet remained still. He stared into the rippling waters of the Nile, lost in thought. The Phoenician. He had spent the last twenty years watching him from afar, chronicling the highs and lows of his career, cataloguing his countless sins against the lady Ma’at, until he knew the man better than he knew himself. The Phoenician was, above all things, a creature of habit. Rarely did he leave the windswept deserts of eastern Egypt; rarer still did he travel to the populous heartland of the Nile valley. What prompted this visit? The priest did not chide himself for not placing a man inside Sile, among the Medjay. To do so would have meant relying on a foreigner.
A foreigner!
The thought was like bitter oil on the priest’s tongue.
Never again!

Ghosts from the past shimmered and danced in the water. He could yet recall every detail of her face — the flaring of her thin nostrils, the cosmetics lining her eyes, how her lips curled into an angry pout. The day had been one of unaccustomed clarity, with only a light haze obscuring the view from the roof of his villa. Pharaoh’s palace glittered in the distance.

“I am your father, Neferu! You will do as I command!”
The fury in his voice sent his servants running, scattering them like a flock of birds. But not Neferu. Not dear Neferu. In a gesture so reminiscent of her mother, she had drawn herself up, straight and tall, her eyes flashing in the afternoon shadows.

“I’m not one of your slaves!”
she said.
“I’ll choose the
man I am to marry!”

The family of Ujahorresnet was of pure blood, untainted, their lineage unbroken back to the time of Amenhotep the Golden. As a daughter of princes, Neferu’s future had lain in the inner chambers of Pharaoh’s palace, as wife to his heir, mother to the sons of his son. Instead, without thought or word, she threw it all away so she could go off and serve as whore to the son of a foreign merchant. Ujahorresnet tasted gall.

Though he served as high priest of Neith in Memphis, Ujahorresnet made lavish sacrifices to the shrine of the lady Sekhmet, goddess of vengeance. Once invoked, Amon himself could not sway the Mistress of Plagues from her destructive task. He’d given the goddess blood; would she give him satisfaction?

“How?” Ujahorresnet said, staring at the water. “How do I stop a man whose name has become a byword for violence?”

For an instant the Nile turned like glass and Ujahorresnet saw the heavens reflected there, one cluster of stars brighter than the others: the constellation of Sah, the Fleet-footed, the Long-strider, called Orion by the Greeks.

Ujahorresnet sighed and closed his eyes.
The Greeks
. His answer had been there all along, written in the stars.
He would need the foreigners
.

“You teasing little whore.” Phanes laughed, slapping the young woman’s bare buttocks. The motion caused warm water to slosh over the rim of his bath. Her body, perched precariously on the tub’s edge, writhed in pleasure as she continued exploring herself with her fingers.

“Come here, Sadeh,” Phanes said, reaching for her.

The woman, Sadeh, a sloe-eyed Egyptian beauty barely half the Greek’s age, slithered close to him and pressed her naked breasts against his chest. Her nimble fingers kneaded the hard ridges of muscle rippling down his abdomen as she lowered herself onto his erection. She arched her back, grinding her pelvis against him in the first of many orgasms. Phanes grinned.

The bathing chamber was spacious, lit by several oil lamps whose light the floating clouds of steam diffused and scattered. Paintings from myth and legend adorned the walls. Dionysus, Priapus, Aphrodite, and the Naiads all frolicked through an Elysian paradise in pursuit of the same pleasure Sadeh received. Her damp hair hung like a veil about her face; Phanes reached up and caught a handful of it, thrusting mercilessly into her as she ground down upon him. He made not a sound as she shivered and moaned.

Phanes glanced up as Lysistratis ambled into the bath. Sweaty, covered in dust, the Spartan looked as though he had just finished a footrace. He made a curt gesture, indicating the woman should leave. Sadeh, pouting and still unfulfilled, made to disengage herself from Phanes, but the Greek took her by the hips and forced her back into position. Sadeh gasped, her eyes glazing.

“Your lechery knows no bounds,” Lysistratis said, grinning. “Does she speak Greek?”

“No. You look troubled. Is there news?”

“Only a worrisome rumor,” Lysistratis said, “about the Medjay. I’m told Bedouin came down out of Sinai and razed the village of Habu. In itself, that is nothing extraordinary, but these Bedouin pushed on instead of returning to their mountain fastness. A company of Medjay tracked them through the waste to the Nile’s banks and slaughtered them in the ruins of Leontopolis. I’ve sent a charioteer to survey the site, though in my bones I know what he’ll find.” The Spartan stripped off his tunic and eased himself into the far end of the tub.

“And what will he find?”

“A dead Persian. Arsamenes should have set out from Babylon a fortnight ago, which explains why the Bedouin pressed on to the Nile. They were escorting him to Memphis. I knew you were teasing the Fates by using Bedouin in the first place,” Lysistratis said, shaking his head. “The Medjay are too canny not to notice such a large force crossing the border.”

“What’s done is done,” Phanes replied, trapping Sadeh’s hardened nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He twisted them gently, sending her into spasms of pleasure. “The hand of Apollo has blessed us.”

“The blessing of Apollo’s not proof against failure,” Lysistratis said. “Barca himself leads these Medjay and he’s not a man to be trifled with. He stands high in Pharaoh’s counsel. That alone makes him a dangerous opponent.”

Phanes said nothing for a while, his tongue engaged in a duel with Sadeh’s. Though Memphis had countless prostitutes and courtesans — women of Syria, Greece, Libya, and Nubia — Phanes limited his sexual encounters to young Egyptian women of the upper class, chosen as much for their looks as their parentage. Under Phanes, Sadeh would learn to embrace her primal side, her innate lasciviousness. He would use her, treat her no better than a common whore, then cast her aside like so many who had come before her. The thought sent a ripple of pleasure through his loins.

He broke their kiss, leaving Sadeh breathless. “Barca! Phoenicians should keep to the sea, where they belong! Meddlesome bastard!”

“
Bar-ka
,” Sadeh panted in Egyptian, recognizing the name. “He is a goblin the matrons of … of Sais use to frighten s-small …” Her voice faltered as she shook through the throes of yet another orgasm.

“Mind your business, girl,” Lysistratis said, “lest we put your mouth to better use.” Then, to Phanes, “Look, Barca is notorious for being a thorn in the side of Pharaoh’s enemies. He has two choices: he can go to Sais and warn Amasis, or he can come to Memphis and attempt to interfere. Granted, he’s one man, but —”

“If he comes here, Lysistratis, I want him dead. Before he can cause problems,” said Phanes. “Double the guards on the eastern shore and send out additional patrols.”

“I’ll see to it tomorrow.” Lysistratis floated up behind Sadeh, cupping her breasts as he kissed her. She stretched her hands above her head, her nails digging into the Spartan’s neck. Her moans redoubled.

“Ah,” Phanes said, his hands spreading Sadeh’s buttocks to allow the Spartan to enter her, “if only the rest of Egypt could be plundered as easily as you, my dear.”

A desultory breeze rustled through the forest of reeds growing along the Nile’s eastern bank. The night was quiet save for the soothing clamor of frogs and insects, and the hiss of water spooling through the shallows. Well back from the river, hillocks rose from the rich, black soil. Atop them, farming villages sat like stately country squires, their lights dim and clouded, their finery diminished with age. Between the river and the villages, lay the fields that fed the teeming masses of Memphis.