Men of Bronze

6

The same sunlight warming the palace at Sais barely penetrated the tangle of streets at the heart of the Foreign Quarter at Memphis. An elongated square of dusty gold brought unnatural color to the faces of the dead Arcadians.

"Ah, Leon," Phanes whispered, crouching over the assassin's corpse. "Finally met your match." The Greek's practiced eye swept over the slain men, noting their positions, their wounds. In his mind he recreated the carnage, willing the dead to rise again and fight, watching them die in painfully slow motion. The men who did this …

Phanes picked up Leon's sword, an antique weapon, its leaf-shaped blade fitted with a worn ivory hilt. A deep notch scored its edge. Phanes stood as Lysistratis approached. A small crowd had gathered, kept at bay by a hedge of hoplite spears.

"Whatever else happened," Lysistratis said, his voice low, "they accomplished their objective. Idu and his family are dead."

"What of Menkaura?"

"No word yet. You don't think an old man did this?" The Spartan glanced down at the corpses.

"Oh no, this wasn't Menkaura's doing."

Lysistratis frowned. "Who, then? Idu's cronies?"

"My guess … Barca." He tossed the notched sword to Lysistratis. "Leon fought briefly with someone wielding a heavy iron blade, probably a scimitar. The Medjay use scimitars with blades of Carchemish iron."

"If the Medjay are here, they made good time. How can we confirm it?"

"Assume Barca will make his presence known in due time. Have you doubled the guards and stepped up patrols?"

"I have," the Spartan said.

One of Phanes' hoplites, his crested helmet perched on his forehead, gestured back to the perimeter. "The merchant, strategos."

Callisthenes crossed the street, confusion writ plainly across his face. He glanced from Lysistratis to Phanes to the corpses. His face paled. "Merciful gods!"

"They are, indeed, my friend," Phanes said. "I'm sorry to rouse you this early, but I'm in need of your counsel."

Callisthenes hovered at the fringe of the slaughter, unwilling to approach any closer. "You should have sought my counsel before you loosed your dogs."

Phanes, a grim smile on his lips, nodded. "Advise me, then, Callisthenes. In honesty."

"In honesty?" Callisthenes stroked the scarab amulet. "I would say this bit of foolishness did your cause little good. By making martyrs of Idu and his family, you've given the rabble an ideal to aspire to. Were I in your place, I would salvage this blunder by finding a scapegoat — a business rival, a scorned lover, someone. Make arrests and show the people the truth of Greek justice."

"You're a ruthless man, Callisthenes," Phanes said. "I admire that trait in my associates."

One of the hoplite guards approached Phanes with a note in his hand, a square of papyrus. He whispered something and nodded back the way he had come. A boy stood along the perimeter, a scribe's apprentice in a stained tunic.

Phanes read the note, crumpled it in his fist.

"What is it?" Lysistratis said.

"Our confirmation, it seems. The Medjay have been spotted in the Square of Deshur. Take three squads. If they are indeed there, arrest them. If they resist, kill them." Phanes said, grinning. "Scapegoats."

"What about me?" Callisthenes said.

Phanes turned. "You and I must see a priest."

Menkaura closed the door and walked over to the narrow window. The house where they had fled to lay nestled in a palm-grove on the southwestern edge of Memphis. A breeze fluttered through the window, carrying the scent of damp earth and barley off the open fields. Menkaura's shoulders slumped as he leaned against the window casement, his face long beyond belief. Barca handed him a crockery juglet of beer, one of two their host provided. He drank without tasting.

"How is she?" Barca said, sitting heavily on a divan. Menkaura shrugged.

"She's sleeping. Jauharah's a strong girl, for an Arabian."

Their host, a pinch-faced old scribe Menkaura had addressed as Weni, backed out of the room and left them alone.

"He was with me at Cyrene," Menkaura said, nodding after the scribe. "Many of my old followers live in Memphis, in near poverty, their service to Pharaoh all but forgotten. I truly don't know how I can help you, especially now. I have funerals to oversee."

"If you try to claim their bodies, the Greeks will kill you. It's what they are betting on," Barca said. "You said many of your old followers live in Memphis. Do you think you can organize them and their kinsmen into an effective irregular force?"

Menkaura rubbed his leathery skull. "Possibly. I owe it to them to try, at least. Idu and I were not close, but he was my son nonetheless. But their burials … "

"Let the girl handle them," Barca offered.

"The girl?" Menkaura's voice dropped to a hiss. "Didyou not hear me? She is Arabian, a Bedouin. I would as soon leave Idu unburied as to trust his eternal ka to a foreign slave! "

Barca shrugged. "Then your son and his family died for nothing. I cannot fight the Greeks alone. I need help. I need you, Menkaura. But, I understand. The dead come before the living. Such is the Egyptian way."

Menkaura said nothing, his brow creased in a troubling scowl. He stared out the window. In the distance, darkskinned workers in loincloths grubbed a boulder out of the ground on the edge of the field. The sounds of their voices, their tools, did not reach the house. Finally, he spoke: "Tell me again how you would handle this thing. This diversion."

"We operate independently of one another. While you inflame the people, my Medjay will wage a war of attrition. We need to sow chaos in their ranks, keep them off balance. That way, once Pharaoh arrives, the task of rooting them out will be less dangerous." Barca stretched out full-length on the divan, his sword inches from his hand.

"You're sure Pharaoh is coming?"

"Depend on it, Menkaura."

"Rest, then." The old man sighed. "I will consider your plan."

"You do that," Barca said, his eyes closing. He fought the inexorable pull of sleep. So much to do, so much to plan for, but his exhausted body overruled everything else. Slowly, he drifted off. "You do that."

By the second hour after dawn, an endless stream of humanity choked the Square of Deshur. Merchants, both Egyptian and foreign, erected stalls in the long shadows cast by the walls of Ptah's temple. All manner of bread, fruit, and meat could be found heaped on woven-straw platters. Women, matrons and their daughters, filed past mounds of old faience beads destined to find new life as jewelry. Their husbands and brothers clustered around temporary rope paddocks, haggling over the prices of sheep and cattle. Under awnings of striped linen, sculptors honed their craft on chunks of diorite and granite as their representatives bawled their praises to the crowd. Naked children darted and played underfoot.

Voices blended with smells: cones of fat infused with fragrant oils, strings of sun-dried fish, fresh onions, sweat, and offal. Motion, sound, and smell wove together, forming a hypnotic haze that overwhelmed the senses.

Matthias moved through the crowd like a man twice his age, his body leaden and heavy. What little sleep he had, if it could be called such, had been restless. The excitement of Barca's arrival, his revelations about Phanes, drove away the cloud of despair that had gripped him. He hurried past the Alabaster Sphinx, ignoring the pack of older children who had claimed it as their own and were hurling taunts down on the swelling mob. His destination lay in the lower corner of the square, where taverns and inns existed in profusion. There, if he understood Barca correctly, he would find the Medjay. The Judaean cursed himself for not rising before dawn to intercept them at the ferry.

Ahead, in a stall erected near the wall of the Mansion of Ptah, Matthias caught a glimpse of an arm bearing a tattooed uadjet Eyes accustomed to picking details out of the crowded heavens spotted others, too, in a variety of forms: amulets on thongs, bronze and gold buckles, lapis inlays. Their owners were milling about, studying the crowd, reconnoitering. As he drew closer, a voice rose above the clamor of the bazaar.

"You don't understand! I don't want to buy your whole shipment! Just enough for my men! "

An exasperated Egyptian voice answered. "No! It is you who do not understand! I sell amphorae of wine, not bowls! There are taverns a-plenty down the street!"

The sight of the small merchant in his starched white kilt, his beaded collar flashing in the morning sun, striking a defiant pose against the lean and dusty Canaanite, Ithobaal, nearly sent Matthias into spasms of laughter. He could tell the graying old Medjay had about exhausted his boundless stores of patience. As Matthias approached, Ithobaal's hand had strayed toward his sword hilt.

"Peace, Ithobaal! Peace! Do not kill him, for he knows not what he does! Were I you, master merchant, I would reconsider selling a few juglets of your wares. I have seen the Medjay stake a man out in the sun for a lesser insult."

Ithobaal glanced at Matthias, a twinkle in his eye.

The merchant paled, sweat popping out on his brow. "M- Medjay?"

"Indeed," Matthias said, touching the golden symbol inlaid in the obsidian pommel-stone of Ithobaal's sword. "This is not the mark of a priest of Horus."

"I … How much wine do you need?"

Ithobaal grinned. "Enough for twenty men." The merchant scurried off to locate a fitting vintage. Ithobaal drew Matthias aside. "It is good to see you, friend Matthias. Still an adherent of the grape, I hope?"

Laughing, the Judaean nodded, clasping Ithobaal's hand. "Only if you're still the voice of reason."

"Precious little reason in our being here," Ithobaal said. "Where's Barca? Have you seen him?"

"Not since last night, though I doubt it not that the six men slain in the Foreign Quarter a few hours gone is his handiwork. He's got it in his head to organize the resistance against the Greeks."

Ithobaal's face darkened. "Damn it! I told him this would happen! I told him we were stepping into a nest of scorpions! "

"Before he left, he asked that I find you and offer you sanctuary in my home."

"You're generous, friend Matthias, though unlike Barca, I would not deign put you at risk."

The merchant returned and plucked at the Judaean's robe. "S-Sir? The price is …"

"Price? These are soldiers of Pharaoh. Submit your cost to the Overseer of the Army and you will be reimbursed, as always." Matthias glanced at Ithobaal. The Canaanite, lost in thought, tugged at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. "Is that not correct, Ithobaal?"

Ithobaal glanced up. "Forget the wine."

The merchant breathed a sigh of relief. Ithobaal continued.

"He's playing with our lives this time, Matthias. I'm ordering the men to split up, to find somewhere and stay out of sight. I'll accompany you, and together we'll await Barca." He turned to gesture to the Medjay when a distraction at the far end of the square caught his eye. Matthias followed his gaze.

A squad of hoplites entered the bazaar from the north end, using their brightly polished shields to part the crowd. Their helmets were lowered; their faces blank, expressionless bronze. Not even their eyes were visible.

"I don't like this," Ithobaal said.

The Medjay fanned out.

The Greeks mimicked their maneuver, shields ready, spears cocked over their right shoulders. Bleats of terror rose from the men and women who packed the bazaar. They stampeded away from the hoplites. A child screamed.

Ithobaal drew his sword. "The die is cast now, brothers! They're on to us! We'll have to cut our way free!"

Matthias stammered, color draining from his face. "Ithobaal? "

"Get clear if you can!" the Canaanite said, jaw clenched. "I'm sorry, Matthias!"

A man stepped to the front of the Greek line. He jacked his helmet back, revealing a long, sinister face. "I am Lysistratis," he said. "I'm placing you men under arrest for the murder of Idu, son of Menkaura, and for being in league with the Persians! Do you yield?" A murmur of disbelief rose from the onlookers.

"Liar!" Ithobaal snarled. "We've only just arrived in Memphis. If you would find murderers and Persian sympathizers, it would be wise to look among your own ranks!"

"Then, you plan to offer resistance?"

"No, I plan to tear your lying heart out! " Ithobaal held his sword ready. All along their ragged line, the Medjay readied their weapons. The proud Horus-eye symbols they wore gave the hoplites a moment's hesitation as they recalled the reputation of the desert-fighters. The air crackled with tension.

"Good," Lysistratis smiled. "I hoped you would have some fight left in you. Archers! "

From rooftops on each side of the bazaar Ithobaal saw dozens of figures rise up, men of Crete in soft felt caps and leather tunics. Bronze-heads glittered in the sun. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Damn you, Hasdrabal Barca! "

At a gesture from Lysistratis, the peltasts opened fire.

The hypostyle hall of the temple of Neith stayed cool in the rising heat, the gloom pierced by thin shafts of sunlight that gave the carved columns a haunting depth. A lesser priest closed the door in their wake, leaving Phanes and Callisthenes alone in the cavernous hall.

"I am confused," Callisthenes said. Phanes arched an eyebrow. The merchant continued. "Why would Barca risk his life for an old man like Menkaura? It makes no sense."

"Actually, it is an almost flawless strategy," Phanes said, stepping close to a column to inspect a row of deeply cut hieroglyphs. "Barca doesn't have the manpower to interfere with my plans, so what does he do? He seeks out those who already stand opposed to me. Who is Menkaura?"

"An old man?" Callisthenes said, brows knitting. "A holdover from an earlier time?"

"No, my friend. You're thinking too traditionally. Menkaura is a legend, the Desert Hawk of Cyrene. As a general under Apries, the Greeks dealt him his most shattering defeat. That makes him a legend with an old score to settle. He is a symbol, Callisthenes."

"I agree, general." A figure stepped from the shadows.

Phanes' eyes narrowed. "Ujahorresnet, isn't it?"

The priest nodded, his golden pectoral glittering in a shaft of sunlight. He wore the traditional long kilt and over this, draped across his shoulders, the gold-fringed leopard skin of a high priest. His staff cracked imperiously on the tiled floor. "If anyone can inflame Memphis against you, it is Menkaura. Barca knows this. He's raising an army against you."

"An army?" Phanes said, sneering. "A rabble of artisans, more like! Faugh! Let him waste his time recruiting malingerers and malcontents. What I wonder, priest, is what interest is it of yours?"

Ujahorresnet smiled thinly. "It is well-known but little spoken that you covet the crown of Egypt; barring that, you'd readily serve the Persians as satrap of the Nile valley. I want to help you in your quest for power, general. I will give Cambyses the tacit approval of the temples of Neith, Amon, and Ptah. We will stand behind his bid for the throne by not hindering him. Once the Persian is firmly ensconced, I and my fellow priests will elevate him to Pharaoh: titulary, ritual, everything. The people will see that his rise was the will of the gods, and that is the road to being accepted by all of Egypt. For arranging this, his debt to you would be phenomenal."

Phanes grunted. "You would do this? Guarantee it?"

"It will have the permanence of stone."

"Why?" Callisthenes said. "Why would you aid Cambyses? And what price will we have to pay for it?" His mind reeled. A coalition of priests in league with the Persians? Though it taxed his skill, his bland expression did nothing to betray the turmoil that raged inside.

"There are times when weak rulers, weak dynasties, need to be invigorated by foreign incursions," Ujahorresnet said. "My people need the fire and pride of the Persian. His people need the piety and simplicity of the Egyptian. As for you and I, Phanes, I think we can both benefit from an alliance such as this. For myself, I ask a small favor. I want Hasdrabal Barca."

"Better to ask for the sun or the moon," Callisthenes muttered.

Phanes looked sidelong at the priest. "Why do you want him?"

That is personal. It is none

"None of my business?" Phanes snarled. "I disagree. Should I decide to capture Barca, it will cost some of my men their lives. I'll not send them down to Hades for no reason. Answer the question."

Ujahorresnet met his gaze coolly and evenly. "You're familiar with Barca's past?"

"Only in passing," Phanes said, frowning. "A merchant's son from Tyre, I think. His father was high in Pharaoh's favor before his death."

"Yes. Death is the central theme of Barca's existence, general. As with any tragedy, there was a girl, a lively and impressionable young woman of the finest blood. She fell under the charm of his foreign ways, and they were married soon after." The priest's face grew dark, his eyes clouded. "His young bride was a woman of immense … appetite. After Barca inherited his father's business, his interests kept him away many nights. Naturally, the girl took a lover. He was a Greek soldier in service to Pharaoh. Their dalliance grew passionate and heated, and I believe there was some talk of a future that did not include her young husband. Such is the fickle nature of women. Anyway, Barca grew suspicious of his bride and contrived to slip home one night when he was not expected. He caught her in the Greek's embrace and, in a fit of rage, slew them both."

Phanes whistled, glancing at Callisthenes. "So, he is only a man, after all."

"He is a man," Ujahorresnet said, "but a man steeped in blood. Slaughter has become second nature to him. After all, if a man can murder his own wife, then taking the life of a stranger is of little consequence."

Phanes turned and strolled around a column, studying the detail. "Fine story. Still, it's not an answer. I grow impatient, priest. Why. ."

It was Callisthenes who answered. "The girl."

"Yes! " the priest said, trying to contain the passion in his voice, the anger. "She was my daughter!"

A slow smile crept across Phanes' face. He could see the hand of Pythian Apollo in all this. "Then the blood-price for her life will be nothing less than the throne of Egypt. Callisthenes, see if you can locate Barca. He's in Memphis, so I trust your spies can weed him out."

Callisthenes nodded. A kernel of an idea took root in the back of the merchant's mind. Embryonic, but well worth exploring. Allies, he reckoned, could be found in the least likely of places.

"No need," Ujahorresnet said. "Mine have already found him. Barca entered sometime during the night and immediately sought out a familiar face, a Judaean astrologer named Matthias ben lesu. The two have had contact in the past. Barca dwells on the Street of the Chaldeans, under the Judaean's roof."

"What if he won't be taken alive?" Callisthenes said. "From what I've heard, this Barca is not one to submit willingly. What if he leaves us no other choice?"

"What about it, priest? If Barca is killed, will you renege on your word?"

Ujahorresnet smiled. "Dead or alive, I will honor my end of our bargain. I would prefer alive, but if you must kill him, then kill him slowly."

Barca awoke with a start.

The room was quiet; the sounds of late afternoon trickled through the narrow window: voices raised in greeting and laughter, the clatter of a chariot. From somewhere, he heard the staccato plop of water. The smell of roasting meat reminded him he had not eaten since the day before.

Barca rubbed his eyes. How long have I slept? He stretched and flexed, working the muscles of his arms and back. His joints felt like someone had split them open and poured bronze filings into the sockets. He stood and glanced out the window. The workers were gone and long shadows striped the distant fields.

By now, Matthias should have his men sequestered someplace safe. He could imagine the look of disapproval on Ithobaal's face, his head tilted forward, brows beetled, when he heard the tale of the night before. Barca was positive he would be forced to endure a new round of groaning and griping.

The door opened. Barca turned, expecting to see the pained face of his host, Weni. Instead, Jauharah entered the room. She averted her eyes, but Barca could tell they were red and swollen. She balanced a tray on her hip, a tray heaped with bread, meat, and beer.

"I–I thought you might be hungry," she said.

"I am. Thank you," Barca said, taking the tray from her and returning to the divan. He tore into the food with unaccustomed relish. "Where's Menkaura?"

"He left some hours ago, and he said it would be best if no one knew where he had gone. He told me to tell you that I would be overseeing … " she choked, her voice thick with emotion. Jauharah shifted, tears welling in her eyes. "He … He asked me t-to. . "

"To see to the funerary arrangements for his family?"

Jauharah nodded. "He said you would understand."

Barca said nothing, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. He understood completely. An old soldier, Menkaura put his duty to country above his own personal obligations. He would organize, and he would fight. It was more than Barca had hoped for, and yet …

Jauharah cleared her throat. "I know something is about to happen. Something violent. I … I want to help. Is there anything …?"

Barca eyed her critically. "You can listen to those around you, those you come into contact with. Learn what they know. Anything, even something trivial, could be used as a weapon against the Greeks."

"Listen?" She stared at the floor, her jaw tight. "While the men march off to fight? Men who have lost nothing?"

"It's no easy thing to lose a family. I understand this. You must understand that whatever we undertake here will not be done out of a desire for revenge. This is not a personal crusade, no matter what you may think."

"Tell me it's not personal after they kill someone you love! " The vehemence in her voice startled her. She blinked back tears and struggled to get herself under control. "T-The sage Ptah-hotep wrote that a person should only speak when invited. I have worn out my invitation. With your leave, I will go. I have much listening to do."

Barca held up a hand. "I understand your anger, but it's misplaced on me, as is your role of a petulant slave. If you don't like my opinion, then tell me. If you have pressing business, then go to it. You need not wait for my permission to speak or to leave."

"I'm sorry," she said, bowing slightly. She opened the door, stopped with one foot across the threshold. "Thank you for everything," she said, her voice frosty, and then she was gone.

That woman had fire, Barca had to admit. Fire and strength on a magnitude that surprised even the Phoenician. Enraged, she would be a match for any man. Barca hoped she had the self-control not to go out and do something foolish. He sat in the fading light and thought about another spirited woman, a woman twenty years dead.

It was a massacre.

Phanes walked among the bodies, Lysistratis at his side. A smile twisted his perfect lips. "So, these were the feared Medjay," he said. "How easily they were disposed of." He spotted movement: an old soldier clawing toward the hilt of his sword. Arrows pierced his limbs and stood out from between his ribs. Phanes reached his side, kicking the Medjay's sword out of reach. "Your leader," he said. "Where is he?"

Eyes filled with a terrible hate, Ithobaal raised himself on his elbows and spat blood at the Greek's foot.

Phanes gestured, and the Spartan slit the old man's throat.

"Kill the rest of their wounded."

"Who is this Judaean you seek?" Lysistratis said, wiping blood from his knife on the Medjay's kilt.

"A man of little consequence who knows far too much for his own good."

"Think he's here?" Lysistratis glanced around. A few bystanders had been hit along with the Medjay. A sobbing child crawled to his mother, her body riddled with arrows. Others were being pulled to the fringes of the bazaar. In all, the losses were acceptable. "Had I known. ."

"You did well, Lysistratis. Not a man under your command suffered so much as a splinter. Excellent. As for the Judaean, he is here. Servants of our new-found ally followed him from his home."

Hands clasped behind his back, the Greek stepped over the dead and dying to enter the stall of a wine merchant. An Egyptian lay face down across his wares, an arrow standing out a handsbreadth from the back of his skull. Another man lay on the ground.

Phanes smiled. It was the Judaean.

An arrow gored his hip; a second shattered his kneecap. Fear clouded his eyes as he stared up at Phanes. Fear and pain.

"Greetings, Matthias ben Iesu. I have some dire questions that need answers."

At dusk, Barca slipped from Weni's home and ghosted through the streets. An odd sense of expectancy tinged the air, a feeling of oppression and fear. He wondered how the Greeks reacted to finding their dead. Had they put some sort of curfew in place? Corners that should have thronged with people were deserted; houses were dark and silent. It was as if Memphis held its breath and waited for the axe to fall.

Barca returned to the Judaean's without incident. At one time a garden thrived at the rear of the house, a holdover from a time when this part of Memphis boasted numerous mansions and villas. He paused at the base of a low wall of flaking stucco, listening. Hearing nothing, the Phoenician bounded up, caught the crumbling stone coping, and swung himself over the wall as lightly as a man mounting a horse. He dropped to the earth, scimitar half-drawn, and took in his surroundings with a glance.

A willow tree scrabbled through the hard-packed earth, gleaning a twisted existence from the dead black soil. Pottery shards crunched under foot as Barca crept past empty stalls of mud brick and wood that once housed a collection of potted plants. A skeletal grapevine hung from an arbor like an unburied corpse. Nothing moved; the air, warm and thick, bore the stench of decay. A light burned in an upper window of the house. The lack of sound disturbed Barca, as did the lack of movement. Even if his men lurked inside, Ithobaal would have posted sentries on the roof or in the garden, yet Barca saw no one.

Frowning, the Phoenician pushed open the rear door, the crack of its warped wooden hinge-pins explosive in the silence. From his left, ambient light filtered down a flight of mud brick stairs, built as an extension of the wall. In the heyday of his wealth, Matthias surrounded himself with opulence, with rugs and hangings, with furniture hand-carved from precious woods, and with vessels of alabaster and gold. Now, Barca found the extent of his friend's poverty heartbreaking. Matthias kept this part of his house sparse, the floor bare save for a scattering of cushions and a low table strewn with the scraps of papyrus and ostraka scrounged from temple refuse heaps.

Where were his men?

A strange smell permeated the house. It floated down the stairs, tickling Barca's nose. It reminded him of seared meat, though subtly different. The Phoenician padded to the stairs.

The upper floor was as bleak as the rest of the house. The only sign that the place was occupied at all came from Matthias' bedchamber. A curtain covered the doorway; light spilled out from around it. Eyes narrowing to slits, Barca used the tip of his blade to push the curtain aside.

The Judaean's sleeping place reflected his love of the heavens. A riot of loose papyrus, ostraka, and clay tablets depicted the night sky from every point of the compass. That stench … Its strength increased as the Phoenician crossed the threshold of the bedchamber.

The skin between Barca's shoulder blades prickled; the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He spun to his left, sword extended, and felt his stomach tighten.

A man hung against the wall, his body held erect by thick bronze spikes driven through his wrists and ankles. His crucified form had been savagely tortured, his limbs broken, his face and eyes ruined. Flames had seared away his hair and beard, and a mixture of blood and liquified fat seeped through ruptures in his charred skin. There was something familiar about him. Realization struck the Phoenician, a hammer that cracked his soul.

The thing on the wall was Matthias ben Iesu.

"Who did this to you?" Barca whispered, staring at the body of his friend. The Greeks, Barca reckoned. They must have discovered Matthias was aiding the Medjay and tortured him for information. But bow? Barca could not fathom it, but they knew he was in Memphis. Phanes would hunt him, a lethal game of cat and mouse. By all the gods! If that was the game he wanted, Barca would oblige him.

Sickened, the Phoenician turned away, looking for something to cover the body with. He would have to pry the spikes out with his sword. After that, he would find Ithobaal and …

"Barca!" a voice from the street bellowed, speaking Egyptian with a Greek accent.

The Phoenician sprang from the bed chamber and peered out one of the windows overlooking the Street of the Chaldeans. Torches flared, reflecting off the polished armor of a squad of hoplites. More were pouring from the adjacent buildings. One man stood apart from the rest, his armor silver-inlaid.

Phanes.

"Your friend, the Judaean, was a man of remarkable valor. I couldn't tell if he spoke the truth when he said you had twenty more men with you. I only counted nineteen corpses in the bazaar. Oh, well. I'm afraid I had to get a bit … rough with him, in the end. I offer you one chance to save yourself. Swear allegiance to me, pledge your blade to my service, and you just might walk out of this with your hide intact! Time grows short! What is your answer?"

So, that was it, then? Ithobaal and the others were dead, too. Dead because they trusted him. Barca bowed his head. In the afterworld, twenty new souls occupied the Scales of Justice, swinging the balance farther toward the jaws of damnation. Twenty new souls cried out for vengeance.

To answer their call, Barca needed a way out. Anticipating his arrival, the Greeks removed the wooden stairs that led up to the rooftop terrace, leaving behind fragments only. The windows were too narrow for him to squeeze through. The back door?

"Barca?"

A quick glance revealed soldiers streaming toward the front of the house. Damn them! The Phoenician bolted down the stairs and hurtled for the back door, for the garden and the tangled alleys beyond. The sound of splintering wood brought him skidding to a halt. Over his shoulder, he watched as the front door exploded inward.

Hoplites, silhouetted by the orange glow of torches, poured through the breach. There were four of them in the vanguard, shields held at eye level. Others crowded at their backs. They were armed with hardwood clubs instead of spears.

Phanes wanted him alive.

"It's over!" a hollow voice said. "Throw down your sword! We — " The hoplite never finished; he never knew what killed him.

Something bloody, vengeful, and utterly inhuman raged from the dark recesses of Barca's soul, filling his veins with a lust for rich, frothy gore. The thing that seized control of his body, the Beast, thrived on pain. It thrived on carnage and chaos and bodies torn asunder. Its strength flooded his limbs. Barca loosed a savage howl as he threw himself on the hoplites. Their armor, their training, their discipline, all amounted to nothing in the face of the Phoenician's elemental fury. His blade licked out, slashing through bronze and bone. A head leaped skyward, riding a fountain of blood. In the tight confines of the doorway, the Greeks could not bring their clubs to bear; their shields clanged against the door frame, against one another, useless. Men staggered and fell back.

Without losing stride, Barca turned from the thrashing hoplites and hurled himself at the rear door. He ducked his head, his body knotting into a compact mass of muscle and sinew as he struck shoulder first. The aged, dry wood blew apart under the impact, and Barca rolled cat-like to his feet, cursing.

Soldiers were scaling the garden wall.

There were too many of them. Barca whirled to his right. If he could make it to the top of the wall, he could snag the lower edge of the window and use it as a ladder up to the roof. Once atop the house, the Phoenician could escape across neighboring rooftops. A desperate gamble …

Greeks pounded toward him. Shouts and cries grew in volume. A half-dozen steps and Barca bounded into the air, swinging onto the wall. He crouched there for a split second, ape-like, before flinging his scimitar up onto the roof. Powerful muscles drove his body after it. Barca leapt, twisting, catching the windowsill with his fingertips. He tottered there for an instant before the mud brick of the window casing crumbled under his weight. Arms flailing, Barca plummeted, unarmed, into the midst of the Greeks.

The game was over. It was time to die. Barca resolved not to sell his life cheap.

Men went down under his weight. He grabbed a helmet crest and slammed a bronze clad skull into the ground. A knee shattered under his crushing heel.

"Back!" a voice roared above the din. "He's mine!"

Barca sprang to his feet. Like well-heeled dogs the hoplites backed away, forming a circle. Lysistratis stepped forward, sheathed his sword, and methodically stripped off his armor.

"I've heard of you, Phoenician! You're rumored to be the best fighter in Egypt, bar none. Faugh! A reputation gleaned fighting desert rats is no reputation at all! I'm willing to match my pure Spartan blood against the thin eastern piss flowing through your veins any day! Come! "

Without bluff or bluster, Barca hurled himself at Lysistratis. Here were two savage fighters: one the scion of a warrior culture, the other born to it naturally, both evenly matched in height and size. Fists hammered flesh as the two danced together then sprang apart, their long shadows alien in the wan torchlight.

In that instant of contact, Lysistratis encountered something that left him chilled and shaking. He encountered a man stronger and faster than himself. A flurry of punches rocked the Phoenician's head back; Barca's riposte shattered the Spartan's nose and very nearly broke his neck.

Back and forth they went. Sweat and blood poured down the Spartan's face; his eyes burned with hate. No blow, no matter how powerful, could slow Barca's assault. He fought in a single-minded frenzy that would not abate until one of them lay broken and bleeding on the ground. It was not like fighting a man — it was like fighting a creature of elemental rage.

In desperation, Lysistratis drew a knife from his belt.

The timbre of the fight changed, then. No longer did Barca dart in and out, fists cocked and flying. He circled, wary, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet. His eyes narrowed to slits and murder danced in their dark depths.

The end came after a moment's respite. A heartbeat passed as the two men glared at one another across the intervening space. Then their bodies were in motion once again. Jab. Block. Backpedal. Momentum carried them against the wall. Lysistratis slashed at Barca's face, a feint the Phoenician had to twist to avoid. The Spartan saw his opening and lunged.

A slower man would have been impaled, but Barca wrenched his torso, drawing the Spartan into a close embrace. Lysistratis watched his blade rip through the Phoenician's side. In the same instant, Barca's iron-hard fist streaked toward his temple. That blow had the whole of Barca's weight behind it, and it connected with a sound like an eggshell crushed underfoot.

It was the last sound Lysistratis of Sparta would ever hear. He flopped to the ground with the side of his head caved in.

Barca drew a breath, clutching his side …

… and reeled as something smashed into the base of his skull. He went to his knees. Greeks swarmed over him. A foot lashed out, catching him under the chin. The sky wheeled as the ground rushed up to meet him. Barca struggled at the edge of the abyss. A ring of faces, cold and merciless, watched as the Beast fled, watched as the darkness rose up to envelope him …