Men of Bronze

9

Outside the cell, Callisthenes tried to ignore the sounds of a fist striking flesh, and the flesh giving way. Color drained from his face; he winced at the crunch of bones. Esna's strangled wheezes — cries of pain, he supposed — became less frequent, then ceased altogether. A moment later, Barca staggered from the cell, his eyes blazing with yet unquenched fury. Fresh blood covered his arm to the elbow.

"Is he …?"

"Esna was too soft to play his own game," Barca said, wrenching his knife from the doorjamb. He turned and stared at the squat bulk of the temple proper. "Now, it's his master's turn."

"And when you finish your … business, what then?"

Barca's frank stare sent a shudder through the Greek. "It's best not to know too much, Callisthenes. If Phanes learns what you've done and decides to put the hot irons to you. . " He trailed off. "Besides, there's not much left that I can do. Find an out of the way place, perhaps, get some rest, and discover a way to deprive Phanes of that head he holds so dear. Maybe see what progress Menkaura's made. Even twenty men with fire in their bellies could be useful when battle is joined."

"My home is yours," Callisthenes said. "If you desire a safe haven."

Barca's lips peeled back in a snarl as he remembered Matthias' wrecked corpse. "No, thank you, friend. I have enough blood on my hands. I don't need to add yours to it. I will find shelter my own way, and without anyone risking their necks over it."

"I understand. I must go, before Phanes grows suspicious. Peace to you, Hasdrabal Barca," Callisthenes said, then scuttled to the tiny postern door. He opened it, glanced about like a frightened hare, and was gone.

Barca turned back to the temple, his face hardening.

The precinct of Neith was comparatively small for such a prolific goddess. The granary-turned-cell where they had thrown Barca lay at the rear of the temple, among the outbuildings dedicated to the more mundane matters of temple life. Here, too, were storehouses and supply sheds, crude mud brick buildings needing repair ranked against the low outer wall. The whole precinct gave Barca the impression of shabbiness, of neglect. Still, despite its size the temple itself was an impressive structure. He could see, even from here, the pylons flanking the temple entrance. Banners hung limp, a lull in the light winds sucking the life from them.

Barca had visited the temple once before, years ago, when he brought the body of his old captain, Potasimto, an adherent of Neith, to Memphis so the priests could entomb him at Saqqara with his ancestors. The brightly painted entrance, he recalled, led to a hypostyle hall, a forest of stone columns capped by chiseled granite images of the goddess herself, in all her myriad forms. From there, the temple widened, becoming a colonnaded courtyard that housed the sacred pool. The shrine itself lay in the shadow of the colonnade.

The temple had few lesser priests, as far as Barca could remember. Those it did employ spent their days on errands in the markets and bazaars, or on loan to the larger temples. With luck, he would conclude his business with Ujahorresnet and be gone before any clamor was raised.

The sun reached its zenith in the azure-white sky as Barca slipped around to the temple entrance. Inside, the shadows were cool, inviting. Shafts and windows high in the walls kept the air circulating. In the pervasive silence he could hear a soft voice. He crossed the hypostyle hall, cones of brilliant sunlight lancing down from apertures in the roof. Barca skirted these, keeping to the shadows. The voice grew louder as he crossed into the courtyard.

At the far end, beyond the glittering sacred pool, he spied his prey.

Ujahorresnet knelt before a statue of his goddess, his mind focused on the complex liturgies and rituals required of him, as First Servant of the Goddess. Offerings lay on the cool stone before him: fresh loaves of bread, an ewer of water, sweet smelling incense on a bed of hot coals. They were gifts for the goddess, exhortations for her favor, her guidance.

Barca padded to the edge of the sacred pool, watching the priest's back as he crouched and dipped out several handfuls of water to blunt his thirst. Ujahorresnet was oblivious, so intent was he on his ritual. The very image of pious supplication.

"O Opener of the Ways!" the priest said, his arms raised, his shaven head tilted toward the heavens. "0 Wise Mother! Deliver unto thy children the milk of thy breast, so that we might live fulfilled in the light of thy divine ka."

"Why should she? You've strayed from her path," Barca said.

Ujahorresnet lunged forward, still on his knees, a look of shock on his face. He scattered the offerings as he put his back to the statue. His eyes bulged as he stared at the knife in Barca's bloody fist.

"Esna! "

"Call louder," Barca said. "He can't hear you in hell."

"Damn you! " said the priest, sagging in defeat against the statue's base. "What will you do now? Kill me? Then do it and have done with it! It's what you have dreamed of. What you have lived for. I am at your mercy. Send me to join my daughter in the next world."

"What happened to your compassion, priest?" Barca said, stalking toward Ujahorresnet. "What happened to your kindness, your quietude, your honor? Are these not the virtues of your goddess? You've exchanged all you hold dear for base revenge. Is it any wonder your goddess has deserted you?"

"Do not talk tome about honor!" Ujahorresnet spat. "You have no conception of it! Or of compassion. You broke the most sacred of bonds, the bond between husband and wife, and for what? To soothe your pride? To assuage your anger? I may have strayed from the path of my goddess, but your ka is blacker than mine, you bastard!"

Barca snatched the priest up by the neck and pinned him against the wall of the alcove. "I loved your daughter!" he whispered through clenched teeth. "Loved her more than I have loved another living soul, and I have had to live with what I did for the last twenty years. She betrayed me! She dishonored me! If I could return to that night, I would stay my hand, I would leave Egypt with never a backward glance. But I cannot undo what happened. Neferu is dead, and her death is on my conscience. I do not weep for her … she made her own choice, just as I made mine."

"I weep for her! " Ujahorresnet said, his voice thick, strangled with emotion. "Everyday I weep for her! You killed my little girl!"

Barca's grip loosened; his knife sank. He looked at Ujahorresnet again and saw an old man consumed with grief, wracked with the guilt of a father who could not protect his only child. The black rage seething in Barca's soul drained away. He let go of Ujahorresnet; the priest slid to the floor, gnarled hands cradling his head.

"You killed my little girl," he sobbed.

Barca turned away, the pain in his limbs, his face, his side crushing down on him like an impossible weight. "I should kill you, too, old man, but it will serve no good. If you leave Memphis, Pharaoh will never learn of your betrayal from me."

"Leniency? From you?" Ujahorresnet barked. "How droll."

Barca stopped, inclined his head. "It's called compassion, priest. You should become reacquainted with it. One warning: forget I exist. Trust in your gods to punish me when my time comes and let me be. Because if you so much as cross my path on a crowded street, they won't find enough of your body to give a proper burial."

With that, Barca quit the precinct of Neith, leaving a broken old man in his wake.

Broken, but alive.

The afternoon sun shimmered on the surface of the Nile, reflecting the light a thousand times over. A stiff northerly wind belled the sails of Pharaoh's barge, the Khepri, sending her prow slicing through the water like a wedge through sand. Sailors, naked save for leather loincloths, scurried about the deck of the ship, moving with a rhythm that suggested brachiating monkeys rather than men.

The Khepri was a massive vessel, well over two hundred feet long, a monument to the extraordinary skill of Pharaoh's Phoenician shipwrights. Its cedar mast and railings were elaborately carved with images of Pharaoh receiving the blessings of falcon-headed Horns as a cavalcade of gods looked on. Hieroglyphs wove spells of protection around the ship. Statues of the goddesses Neith and Nekhebet, made of precious woods and inlaid with ivory and gold, stood watch over Pharaoh's path, warning all and sundry that a son of heaven sailed the life-giving waters of the Nile. At the stern of the Khepri, under a white linen awning upheld by slender columns of gilded cedar, rested a replica of the Saite throne. Here, Ahmose held court, agitated, surrounded by ministers and advisors.

"I will not sit in the baggage train like a doddering old fool! " Pharaoh said. The awning covering the throne snapped in the wind. "Am I a coward to hide my face from Phanes?"

"No, Great One," Pasenkhonsu, his senior admiral, wheedled. "But neither can you place your royal life in the van, in the thickest of the fighting. We could be sailing into an ambush, 0 Pharaoh. You must — "

"You would presume to order me about like a common serf?"

Pasenkhonsu wrung his hands. "No, Great One, a thousand times, no! But, your divine blood is too precious to spill in battle with mere rebels. Please, listen to reason! " The other ministers agreed, adding their assents with the perfect timing of a trained chorus. "Please!"

Ahmose dismissed them with a curt gesture. He turned and watched the landscape pass by, the villages of mud brick, the green fields, the temples and monuments. Men, women, and children flocked to the Nile's edge, awe-struck at the glimmering splendor of the god-king's procession. A deep melancholy gripped his soul, as if he stood witness to the ending of an age. His allies were gone, swallowed up by the Persians. Croesus of Lydia. The Chaldean, Nabonidus. Even Polycrates of Samos, once his staunchest ally, had given in to the lure of Cambyses' gold. Ahmose was alone. Adrift on a sea of foes, all of whom wanted what he had devoted his life to rebuilding. And now, Phanes.

The hero of Sardis. Ahmose remembered that day well, when the combined armies of Egypt, Lydia, Babylon, and Sparta, stood strong against the swarming hordes of Cyrus the Mede. The Plain of Thymbra, before the walls of Sardis, ran red with blood; the slain circled the living like a ring of mountains. His forces alone fought the Persians to a standstill, fought with such fury that Cyrus granted them a separate treaty. His generals awarded the gold of valor to a young mercenary, a hoplite from Halicarnassus, who had waded into the thickest fighting to prevent the Egyptian standard from falling to the Persians.

That young mercenary was Phanes, and Sardis was just the beginning. Year piled upon year; battle upon battle. Phanes' rise through the ranks had all the hallmarks of a Homeric saga, and his genius at warfare was beyond compare. He was a Hellenic ideal, a living Odysseus. A shame, Ahmose reckoned, that such an auspicious career had to end like this.

Pharaoh looked up and saw Nebmaatra approaching. The Calasirian commander maintained the perfect blend of nonchalance and watchfulness, his frame relaxed, his eyes never still. His hands did not stray far from knife and sword hilts. He stopped at the proscribed distance and bowed. Ahmose motioned him closer.

"I envy your iron nerves, my friend," Pharaoh said, smiling. "Nothing gets under your hide, does it?"

"Just the opposite, Golden One. Everything gets under my hide. I just disguise it better," Nebmaatra said. "I've heard you plan on fighting in the vanguard."

Pharaoh's eyes flickered to Pasenkhonsu, who stood among a knot of his underlings, talking is hushed voices. Ahmose sighed. "Will you counsel me otherwise, too? I am an old man, Nebmaatra. Old and sick. If you live to carry the weight of my years on your back, you will understand why I need one last taste of battle."

"To die in battle, you mean," Nebmaatra said.

"If I fall it is Amon's will. Who am Ito declare otherwise?"

Nebmaatra bowed. "And who am Ito deny the will of Pharaoh? My Calasirians will fight at your side, Golden One."

Ahmose pursed his lips. "On another matter, has any word reached you of Petenemheb? His father and I served together in Nubia. Surely, he is not part of this?"

"If Phanes has not disposed of him already, then my guess is he is in collusion with the Greeks. Even if he is not, his silence is suspect, to say the least."

Ahmose grimaced, looking his age in the afternoon light. He stared off to the west. Nebmaatra felt Pharaoh withdraw into himself, bringing the audience to a close. He bowed and took his leave.

Nebmaatra left the stern of the Khepri, descending into the waist of the ship. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the thrum of wind in the cordage, to the snap of sails, to the creak of the hull, to the slap of water. Harsh sunlight seared his face. He opened his eyes and stared at the endless buffcolored cliffs and rich green marshlands. He, too, looked to the west.

Squadrons of chariots, the regiment of Amon, kept pace with the ships, raising a pall of dust that could be seen for miles. Behind them, marching at a punishing pace, came columns of infantry — spearmen and archers. The native militia, the machimoi, had mustered with uncommon speed, answering Pharaoh's call to arms. In a few days' time, Pharaoh's displeasure with Phanes manifested itself as an army five thousand strong, including five hundred chariots, the Calasirian Guard, and Pasenkhonsu's river fleet.

Nebmaatra caught sight of Tjemu leaning against the railing, staring at the western bank of the Nile — no, beyond it. Nebmaatra walked to his side.

"Your thoughts are far from here," he said.

Tjemu started, then ducked his head to spit into the water. "Funny how you sometimes remember things at the most inopportune times." He nodded off to the southwest. "My home is a week's ride in that direction, the oasis of Siwa. I have … had … a wife, two sons. I still can recall the smell of her bread as she baked it, the sounds of my boys playing in the dust, the cool taste of freshly drawn water." He laughed sadly. "Hell, I doubt the lot of them would remember me."

"Why haven't you returned?"

"I have, as my wife put it, a restless soul."

Nebmaatra leaned on the rail beside him. "Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we have this urge to see what lies over the next hill, as if it might be better than the valley we are in? I blame it on Fate."

Tjemu looked askance at him. "Fate?"

"Yes. Look at how Fate makes one man a farmer, one man a carpenter, and one man a soldier. I envy those men who can take a wife and settle down to till the land, or turn lumps of clay into elegant vases. But, such is not for us, my friend. By some whim of Fate, we are destined to tread the battlefields of the world, in search of that one thing that we each long for."

"Which is?" Tjemu said.

"Immortality."

Tjemu laughed. "You sound like a fucking philosopher!"

"But you don't deny it, do you?"

"No," Tjemu said. "No, what you say is true. I may die tomorrow, if that's the gods' will. It does not concern me greatly if I do. I've made my peace with them. What saddens me is knowing that, in a thousand years, no man will remember Tjemu of Siwa. Who will speak my name so I might taste eternity if no one knows I ever drew breath?"

Nebmaatra straightened. "I can offer you no solace, brother, save this: the gods will know what kind of men we were. They will know which man cheated, which man lied; they know which man showed the enemy his back, and they will know which man stood firm and faced his death with courage. So long as the gods remember, I am content."

They stood in silence as the sun dropped behind the western cliffs, bathing the sky in fiery shades of orange, red, and violet. Purple shadows crept across the Nile. It was the eve of battle; the last sunset many of them would ever see.

It stretched like a long drawn-out sigh into twilight.

The throne room at Memphis was cavernous, a wonderland of granite and gold that could have been hewn from living rock by the hand of a god. Glorious scenes incised and painted on the walls told the tale of Egypt's antiquity … the peoples conquered, the cities razed, the offerings made to Ptah, Osiris, and Horns. The wavering light of a handful of oil lamps imbued the carvings with life. They danced and flickered in the gloom, reenacting the pageantry of the past in endless cycles: birth to death to rebirth.

There was nothing like this in Halicarnassus, Phanes thought, nothing like this in all of Hellas. My son would …

My son.

Phanes frowned. He had not thought of his boy in years. Nor would he be a boy any longer. Menander would be over twenty, by now. Probably with a wife and a clutch of brats all his own. He wondered what kind of man his son had turned into. A merchant like his grandsire? Perhaps a politician of Halicarnassus? Whatever he was, Phanes wished him health and long life.

For all his prowess, his genius at slaughter, all Phanes ever truly wanted was to rear his son. But when the Daughters of Themis, the Fates, wove the cloth of his life, the thread that came off the spindle was not earthy as a farmer, or gilded as a merchant. The threads of his life were as red as the blood spattering his arms.

Movement caught Phanes' eye. He looked up as one of his men escorted Ujahorresnet through a side door. The Greek noticed fading bruises decorating the old priest's throat.

"I would have thought your sport kept you too busy for social visits," Phanes said.

"And I thought yours would have left you little time to entertain delusions of grandeur," the priest replied, indicating the throne Phanes occupied. "Barca has escaped."

"Leaving you alive? Perhaps your gods are greater than mine." Phanes leaned back in the golden throne, his fingers caressing the armrests. His eyes were glassy, feverish.

"Not without conditions. I must leave Memphis."

"Must you, now."

"I felt the need to warn you. The Phoenician will doubtless seek to cause you trouble. Do with Barca what you will. It is no longer my concern." Ujahorresnet's shoulders slumped in defeat.

Phanes smiled. "I see. You've gleaned a valuable insight, priest. You've learned that pride is often the first victim of ambition. Good for you. Unfortunately, you can't leave the city."

"You do not understand. ." Ujahorresnet began.

"No!" Phanes said. "It's you who doesn't understand! Tomorrow, when I remove the double crown from Amasis' bleeding corpse, I will be king, and it is your king's will that you remain."

"You forget yourself, Greek," Ujahorresnet said, indignation raising his voice a level. "And you forget our bargain."

"Ah, our bargain … would it not be interesting to see the reaction of the people of Memphis to news of your dealings with the hated Greeks? I imagine they would drag you out in the streets and tear you limb from limb! And what would your fellow priests say?"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Would I not?" Phanes motioned to his door wardens, who opened the doors to the throne room to admit a cortege of shaven-headed, robed men. A squad of his soldiers flanked them, seeming less like a guard of honor than herdsmen. The reaction of the priests was one of almost comical diversity. Some goggled in abject terror at the hoplites. Others maintained a mask of politesse, adopting the air of honored guests. Still others were livid at the Greek's sacrilege.

"What is the meaning of this?" the eldest of them, Inyotef, high priest of Ptah, snapped.

Ujahorresnet stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of anger tinged with dread. He glared at the smiling Greek reclining on the throne. "Gentlemen," Phanes said. "Calm yourselves. I've brought you here for a reason …"

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."