Men of Bronze

7

Torchlight danced, striping the walls of the tomb orange and black, animating the exquisite carvings. The spacious burial chamber, a sign of great wealth, held only a granite sarcophagus. Grave goods should have littered the floor: furniture, statuary, jars of precious oils and wines, jewelry, cosmetics, figurines of servants and scribes. Everything the deceased needed to continue a pleasurable existence in the afterlife would have been provided. But, the allure of such wealth lying unguarded proved too much for some men to bear. Over the centuries, robbers took everything they could carry, leaving only the sarcophagus and a few shards of broken pottery.

And the carvings on the walls.

Three men sat in conclave, watching Menkaura in rapt silence. The old man strolled the perimeter of the chamber, studying the reliefs, the true wealth of the tomb. Scenes from the Book of the Dead were mixed with details from the life of the man interred here, an architect of some note. With a finger, Menkaura traced the hieroglyphs:

Homage to thee, Osiris, Lord of eternity …

One of the men cleared his throat, a nervous gesture amplified by the close confines of the tomb. Menkaura turned and met their curious stares.

"Why have you called us here?" said Ibebi. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder, with skin the color of dark copper. His duties as master of the royal wharfs kept him impossibly lean and fit for a man of his years. He glanced around at his companions. "It could mean our heads if the Greeks find us!"

"We have lived in the shadow of these Hellenes for far too long," Menkaura said. Torchlight played across his features, giving his age-worn face an unmerciful cast. "They strut through the streets as if they rule Egypt, not serve her. Their arrogance sickens me, and tonight it comes to an end."

Word of the massacre had reached Menkaura, who bided his time among the tombs and monuments of the necropolis at Saqqara. The word, borne by his young kinsmen, was one of outrage. The Greeks had shot arrows into the crowded bazaar! A seething wave of righteous anger rolled through Memphis. Men clamored for insurrection, shook their fists and spat at the mention of the Greeks.

"What of the Phoenician?" Menkaura asked.

Ibebi shook his head. "They captured him alive."

"We must do this alone, then."

"What are you saying?" This from Hekaib, who served as supervisor of the royal building projects. He was a squat fellow, spindly-legged with a grotesque swag-belly. "We're no match for the Greeks! "

"Hekaib is right. We're old men, Menkaura," said the merchant, Amenmose. He wore his wealth like a badge of honor: golden pectoral, kilt of the finest linen, gemstones glittering in the hilt of his knife. Despite this display of cultured softness, his scarred body yet retained its strength, its flexibility. Thick silver eyebrows, flecked with black, knotted in a troubled scowl. "Our days of glory are long past. The Greeks have superior arms, superior training, and superior numbers. Even in my prime I would have been hesitant. ."

"In your prime, I watched you cut through the men of Cyrene like a scythe through grain!" Menkaura said. "And you, Hekaib, did you not fight in the vanguard at Sardis? And was it not you, Ibebi, who led the first wave of marines against the Libyan pirates of the Plinthine Gulf? Yes, we are old men, but tales of our doings still stir the blood of our younger kin — our nephews, our cousins, our sons. They watched the massacre in the Square of Deshur. Look in their eyes, and you'll see a desire for justice. With us or without us, they will fight. Without us, they will die."

Menkaura let that sink in.

"My son's wife," Ibebi hissed, "was in Deshur. She took an arrow in the back. She likely won't live through another night. Her brothers are ready to fight, as are my sons. Menkaura's right. They need hands guiding them that have felt spear shafts and sword hilts before."

Hekaib frowned. "At Sardis, we fought to preserve an alliance I did not understand. We were willing to die for the homes of our allies. Can I do less for my own home?" He nodded at Menkaura. "I will do what I can."

Amenmose dismissed them with a wave. "Given time, the Greeks will go away, just as the Assyrians did."

Menkaura shook his head. "No, my friend. Given time, the Greeks will destroy all we hold dear."

"Can you be sure of this, Menkaura, or do you give voice to your grief?"

The old general bowed his head. "My grief is boundless, Amenmose. My son, your friend, did not deserve to die, not like that. Though as expansive as my grief is, my outrage will not be denied."

Amenmose hedged. "What chance do we have without the Phoenician? If they can take him — him! — what chance would a gaggle of old men have?"

"True, the Phoenician is a killer like no other. He saved my life, I owe him that, but he saved me for his own purposes. If death is his portion, then so be it. I will mourn him. Yet, the Phoenician is one man. We," Menkaura's gesture encompassed the tomb and beyond, "are a nation. Two thousand Greeks cannot stop a nation, Amenmose. The choice is yours. Will you stand with us?"

Amenmose folded his arms across his chest, his head bowed in thought. "If we do this thing and fail, we will be hunted men, or dead. I have not worked my entire life only to lose everything at the end."

"When the Greeks take everything, Amenmose, will you be better off, or worse?" Menkaura leaned across the sarcophagus, towering over the merchant. "When they drag your daughters off to slake their lusts, will you be better off, or worse? When your grandsons are castrated and sent to service a Greek tyrant, will you be better off, or worse? There are no guarantees in this, Amenmose. None. We all stand to lose our lives, and more. But what do we stand to lose under Phanes' thumb?"

Amenmose smiled wearily. "You've not lost your gift for the game, have you my old friend? I will stand with you, though I do so with a heavy heart."

Menkaura straightened. His eyes shone like glittering onyx. "Then it is decided. Return to your homes and spread the word, but silently. Ibebi, we will need weapons; spears, swords, whatever you can get your hands on. Hekaib, from you I need intelligence, anything your long ears can discover about the Greeks — their names, their families, their whores. Amenmose, you and I will recruit fighters from the young men, from the old veterans, and from those who have had their fill of Greek arrogance."

Menkaura knelt behind the sarcophagus. He moved aside a sand-colored tarp and uncovered a cache of swords, antique sickle blades gleaming in the torchlight. He tossed one to each man. Ibebi ran an appraising hand over the tarnished bronze. Hekaib caught his sword with more grace than his stunted frame implied. He stared at it like a long lost friend. Amenmose shook his head sadly and lay his across his knee. They looked to Menkaura.

"Let them fear us for a change!"

At first, there was nothing but darkness …

His senses returned slowly, in small increments, like a blind, deaf mute inching his way from oblivion's edge. He was aware of voices, of the smell of charred wood, and of a fiery pain lancing through his side. Something rattled in the darkness, and he winced as a cool rag touched his fevered brow. He tasted blood; his limbs felt like granite.

Faces welled and ebbed in the darkness. Matthias, tortured and screaming. Ithobaal, writhing in gut-shot agony. Each of his men in turn, eyes rolling back in their skulls, tongues swollen and protruding. Barca, they howled. Barca, they cursed. Barca, they pleaded.

"Barca."

Neferu, clad in gauzy silks, floated through the blackness. Her face — thin and pointed — bore a look of indescribable ecstacy. Dark hair floated around her like the snaky locks of a Gorgon. Ruby lips parted; her tongue darted out. Barca, she panted. Barca, she moaned. Barca, she screamed.

"Barca! "

Hasdrabal Barca stirred, feeling dried reeds crunch under his naked shoulders. His eyes fluttered open. He squinted. The light from a guttering torch knifed through his brain.

"Ah, the sleeper awakes!"

The voice came from nearby, distorted, hollow. He tried to struggle into a sitting position but could not move. His arms and legs were like wood. He tried to remember. Tried …

"M-Matthias …?" he grunted, his tongue thick. He rolled to the side and spat blood.

Derisive laughter. "No, not Matthias. I'm afraid your Jew didn't make it." A pause. "Help him up."

Barca felt hands under his shoulders, levering him into a sitting position, his back against a wall. The room was hazy, indistinct. Colors swam before his eyes. He clenched his teeth and tried to focus.

Slowly, the room came in to view.

In the dim torchlight, Barca could make out few details. The walls were yellow sandstone, undecorated, the blocks rough and unfinished. Reeds carpeted the dirt floor. A door lay across from him, its stout timbers bound in green and pitted bronze, and cool air flowed from its barred grate. A man stood on either side of him; a third sat to the left of the door, his cuirass glittering in the uneven light. The smile on his lips dripped mockery. Phanes.

"I'm surprised you didn't kill me," Barca croaked. "If our situations were reversed, you'd be waking up in hell right now, like that Spartan bitch of yours."

Phanes gestured magnanimously. "That's where we differ, Phoenician. In my eyes it's not personal. Only conflicting senses. Your sense of duty conflicted with my sense of ambition. Ambition won, it's as simple as that. Lysistratis," Phanes sighed. "Lysistratis was a victim of your duty, my ambition. He will be missed."

Barca glared at the Greek. "You've not won," he said, "so long as I have breath in my lungs."

Phanes chuckled, propping his chin on his fist. "When I see you, I'm reminded of a dog my father had when I was a boy, on our farm in Halicarnassus. It was a scruffy, little black hound; easily the most stubborn beast I have ever seen. It had this patch of ground on a hilltop, at the base of an ancient oak, where it liked to take naps. Zeus have mercy on any poor soul foolish enough to want to sit in that hound's spot. Its hackles would rise, and it would howl and bay as though you'd put the bronze to it.

"Anyway, one summer my father allowed a band of mercenaries to set up shop on the crest of that hillock, to make the Carians think again before raiding our lands. They built their mess area right there under the oak. That dog, it went mad. Day and night it would harry those soldiers, growling, barking, gnawing at their legs when they got careless. They tried throwing stones at that dog. They tried burning it, whipping it — one even tried catching it in a rabbit snare. Nothing. That mangy cur became the bane of their existence. Finally, after they had all they could stand, the mercenary captain put an arrow through that dog's skull. It died for a patch of land no larger than a hoplite's shield.

"You're like that pup, Barca. A stubborn bastard who's willing to die over a piece of land — land that's not even yours! You're not Egyptian, so do you truly care who pays you to guard Egypt's borders?"

"I gave my word," Barca said truculently.

"Your word?" Phanes laughed. "By the gods! You sound just like Lysistratis! You would die for your word?"

"In this life, all a man has is his word. Not gold, not power, those are all fleeting, all illusions. The only real, tangible thing a man has is his word."

"You truly believe that, don't you?" Phanes said. He shook his head sadly. "This cult of honor … I'm afraid I'll never grasp it."

"Grasp this, boy-fucker! You murdered my men, my friends! When I am free, I will hunt you down, wherever you hide! If it takes a thousand years, then so be it! "

"I concede," said Phanes, "that you would be far less trouble dead. But, I have struck a bargain with a gentleman highly placed in the Egyptian priesthood. In exchange for you, he will legitimize my new employer's bid for the throne. A small price to pay, really." Phanes rose and opened the door to the cell. His men filed out. "He's yours, priest. Do with him as you will."

A figure stepped into the cell, robed, a dark cowl hiding his features. He walked over to Barca and stared. Barca saw the glimmer of teeth. Suddenly a foot lashed out, catching Barca in his wounded side. The Phoenician roared in agony as waves of pain coursed through him.

"I have been waiting to do that for twenty years, you son of a bitch! "

Barca's lips peeled back in a primal snarl. He knew the voice; hearing it again clarified many things, least of all how Phanes learned he was in Memphis. "I'm surprised you have the stomach for this, Ujahorresnet! "

"You remember me? Good." The priest drew back his cowl.

"How could I forget? You raised a cheating whore for a daughter! "

Phanes laughed. "While I would love to stay, to witness such a heart-felt family reunion, I have much left to do. You're no fool, Barca, so I won't insult your intellect by asking if you sent word on to Sais. Amasis is coming, and I have no desire to be caught unawares. You are still planning to honor our bargain, aren't you priest?"

"You have upheld your end in good faith," Ujahorresnet said. "Should your Persian master's bid for the throne meet with success, I will uphold mine."

Phanes sketched an exaggerated bow. "So be it. Shall I leave a squad of my men behind to insure your safety?"

Ujahorresnet smiled. "No need for that. Esna!"

The priest's agent entered the cell at his master's command, pulling a gauntlet over his right fist. He rubbed his hand across the polished bronze studs. Phanes turned to Barca.

"Farewell, Phoenician. You would have made a worthy adversary." With that Phanes and his soldiers left the two Egyptians alone with their captive.

Barca snarled, straining against the ropes biting into his flesh.

"Shall we begin?" Ujahorresnet said.

Callisthenes moved quietly through the balmy night, clutching at his scarab amulet for protection. His eyes darted. Every noise sent a thrill down his spine; every shadow held menace. It was not a good night to be out, if you were Greek. Only the gravest necessity could have driven him from the safety of his villa.

He needed to speak to Menkaura.

Callisthenes had an inkling of where the old general might be hiding, but there existed a protocol in these matters. If he simply played his hunch and barged in, dawn would find a fresh Greek corpse steeping in the mud of the Nile. No. He had to do this the traditional way, which meant finding one of Menkaura's kinsmen with a sympathetic ear.

To get to Menkaura, he first had to get to Thothmes.

Lengths of colored linen draped from pylons, fluttered from cedar poles. These bright, festive touches stood in stark contrast against the grim mood of the people. Callisthenes passed pleasure houses and wine shops where men talked in hushed voices, fortifying their resolve with crock after crock of beer. Eyes watched him from darkened windows, and he heard sibilant curses hurled at him from open doorways. He had to find Thothmes …

Thothmes was an artisan, a painter of tombs for the temple of Ptah. His home reflected his prosperity. It was located in a peaceful quarter of the city, north of the great temple, on a street normally reserved for servants of the god. A low wall circled the grounds, and through the open gate, Callisthenes could see a well kept garden, paths of crushed rock, and a stone-rimmed pool decorated in glazed blue tiles. The scent of lotus and jasmine spiced the cool night air. Callisthenes exhaled slowly, then plunged through the gate and up the path.

Before he had gone halfway, he saw a slave moving toward him, a thick-shouldered Egyptian in a heavy black wig, a knotted club in his fist. He glared at the Greek as if he were offal left at his master's door. "Who are you, and what business do you have here?"

The merchant felt his anger rising. "I am Callisthenes, and my business is none of your concern! Fetch your master, dog! "

The slave sketched a mocking bow, turned, and made his way back to the house. Minutes drifted by. Callisthenes' nerves crackled; he felt like the whole of Memphis watched him. He was about to give up and go in search of another of Menkaura's kinsmen when the slave reappeared. Something about the fellow's toothy grin made Callisthenes uneasy.

"Out the gate and down the alley," he said, "follow the circuit of the wall until you reach a small, bronze-girt door. Rap thrice and wait. Thothmes will receive you there."

Wordless, Callisthenes spun and did as he was instructed. Damn them! Time grew short. These games served no purpose. The alley narrowed; he had to twist his body in order to negotiate it. Time and the elements had eaten away at the mud brick walls, making them jagged and rough. Callisthenes cursed as he stumbled, abrading his hands on the pitted walls. Soon, though, the alley widened out and he found the door. He balled his fist and drew back to knock.

The crunch of a foot on sand gave him pause. He half-turned as a pair of figures sprang from the darkness. Callisthenes had time for a terrified bleat before their fists clubbed him to his knees.

"P-Please …! "

Calloused hands wrenched the Greek's head back, and he felt the icy touch of a knife blade at his throat. Callisthenes squeezed his eyes tight, knowing when he opened them again it would be as he crossed the river Styx.

The small door in the wall opened.

"What do you want, Greek?" a voice demanded. Callisthenes blinked.

Thothmes towered over the cowed merchant.

Tall and lanky, Thothmes possessed that quality in his eyes so often associated with artists: keen, penetrating, and tinged with madness. Immobile, his arms folded across his chest, the Egyptian glared at Callisthenes. "What do you want?" he repeated.

Callisthenes swallowed, feeling the knife scrape his throat. "I must speak with Menkaura." He saw other men behind Thothmes, young and old, each sharing the same angry, hate-filled stare.

"What makes you think I know where Menkaura is?" Thothmes said. "And if I knew, what makes you think I would tell you?"

"You know me, Thothmes! " Callisthenes pleaded. "You know I would not have come to you if it weren't important! "

"Important for who?"

"For your people!" Callisthenes hissed. "Damn it, man! I may be Greek, but I'm not in league with Phanes! I oppose all he stands for, though I'm not strong enough to do it openly. The Persians are coming, Thothmes! Menkaura will need every edge he can get to keep the garrison from ravaging Memphis! I have a plan that may benefit you, your people, and your country! But I must speak with Menkaura! "

"Are we too stupid to do our own thinking? Kill him, I say! " an old man said, jabbing a gnarled finger at Callisthenes. "Arrogant bastard doesn't deserve to breathe!"

Thothmes rubbed his jaw with pigment stained fingers. "You're a fool, Callisthenes. I do know you, which is all that is keeping you alive right now. Until today I had no quarrel with you. But, Sethos is right. All Greeks should be staked out in the desert and left to die! Why should you be treated any differently? Because you speak our tongue, wear our robes, sacrifice to our gods?"

"Take me to see Menkaura! If I'm playing you false, then kill me!" Callisthenes said with more valor than he felt.

Thothmes touched the knife at his belt. "Do not tempt me. You are stupid as well as a fool if you presume Menkaura needs aid from a fat Greek merchant."

"He doesn't need my aid, Thothmes," Callisthenes said, "but he does need Barca's, and I know where he is being held."

"That's no great secret! The Phoenician's in the belly of Ineb-hedj, and if he yet lives, it is only because your brothers wish it! "

Callisthenes smiled, some small measure of his selfcontrol coming back. "He lives, and he is not in the White Citadel. The priest, Ujahorresnet, has him in the compound of the temple of Neith."

"You jest! " the old man, Sethos, interjected. "The priest …?"

"There is a personal grudge between the two. In return for the Phoenician, Ujahorresnet has guaranteed the priesthood won't oppose Cambyses, should he seize the throne. Menkaura has seen this Phoenician fight. He knows what he is, and he knows you will need him for the coming battle," Callisthenes said. "Aid me in freeing him! "

Thothmes stared through the merchant, his eyes distant, clouded. "The priest," he grunted. "We will have to deal with him, too. Abetting the enemy is a crime punishable by death. But, his punishment must come later. Our fight is with Phanes. With your kinsmen, Callisthenes. For all his skill, Barca is but one man, and one man is not enough to sway the course of a battle. If he dies, we will bury him with all due respect and honor. If he lives, we will free him when we apprehend the priest."

"He saved your cousin's life!" Callisthenes said. "Or have you forgotten?"

From his belt, Thothmes drew a knife and tossed it at the merchant's feet. "Take this," he said. "If you oppose Phanes as you say, then smuggle this to the Phoenician. No doubt he will know how to use it. That is all the aid I can offer."

Callisthenes stared at Thothmes, then scooped the knife up and spun. The slave moved to block his way, but a gesture from Thothmes stopped him.

"Let him go."

Callisthenes stopped. "Should I assume it would be futile of me to seek out another of your brood in hopes of talking with Menkaura?"

"None will aid you, I swear it."

"What if he tells Phanes about us?" Sethos said. The others at his back murmured their assent.

Callisthenes sighed, his brows furrowed. "Don't worry, old man. I'll not divulge anything I know to Phanes. I did not lie when I said I opposed him. If it were in my hands, the commander's days in Memphis would be numbered."

It was enough for Thothmes. "Then go in good faith and do what you must. We will do what we must."

With that, the Egyptians filed back through the small gate. The burly slave sneered at Callisthenes as he slammed it closed, punctuating the night with a sense of finality. The merchant stared at the knife in his fist. He would have to aid Barca on his own.

Callisthenes of Naucratis felt his knees go to jelly.

The crack of leather on flesh echoed through the temple of Neith.

In the cell, which had begun its existence as a granary, Ujahorresnet watched dispassionately as Esna adjusted his gauntlet. The studded leather glistened in the wavering light. On the floor, Barca had drawn himself to his hands and knees, curling his body to protect his wounded side. He bled from a score of gashes; one eye was swollen shut. Ujahorresnet marveled at his endurance. He fought on despite his wounds. Despite his pain.

"I cannot sleep," Ujahorresnet said, "without seeing my daughter's body as you left her, violated and exposed. Were you a father, you would understand the suffering you put me through. You would understand why I want you to suffer, in return. What she did was wrong, I admit. But that has been the way of women since the beginning of things. Did she deserve to be murdered?"

"Hades take you! " Barca spat. Esna leaned in and slammed his fist into the Phoenician's jaw. Barca's head rocked back; blood drooled from his split cheek. The fires of hate smouldering in his eyes flared brighter. "Is that all you have, little man?" he said to Esna. "On the border those little love taps would get you bent over a barrel and rooted senseless!"

Esna growled, punching Barca twice more in rapid succession.

When the Phoenician looked up, there was something different about him.

Ujahorresnet watched as a physical transformation washed over Barca. His face grew hard, like a bust carved of stone, and his eyes shrank to mere slits. His nostrils flared, and he grinned a death's head grin that sent chills down the priest's spine. Something inside him fought to get free. If it did loose itself, Ujahorresnet had little doubt it would paint the walls of the cell red with their blood. Perhaps the time had come to end this session. There would be other days, other tortures.

The priest reached out to restrain Esna as Barca exploded.

Muscle and sinew creaked, straining against the biting ropes as Barca thrust upward. He rammed Esna with his shoulder, driving him against the cell door, then turned and hurled himself on Ujahorresnet.

Stunned, the priest could not move.

Barca struck him full in the chest, and they fell in a welter of thrashing limbs. Barca tucked his knees up, using the momentum of their fall to drive the breath from the Egyptian's lungs. There was enough slack in the rope for Barca to lever his hands apart, and enough space between his hands for him to wrap his fingers around Ujahorresnet's throat. The priest felt the life being squeezed out of him. Blackness, shot through with red, ringed his vision. The Phoenician cackled like a madman, bloody spittle and froth dripping from his jaws …

Esna loomed over them, pounding his gauntleted fist again and again into the side of Barca's head, driving his knee into his ribs. Barca sagged, his fingers losing their strength, and slumped to the floor.

"Merciful Neith!" Esna said, his chest heaving. He helped Ujahorresnet to his feet. The priest gasped for breath, his windpipe bruised, as he staggered to the door. Esna stared at Barca's prostrate form with a fear that bordered on the supernatural. "Seth possesses him, lord. He is too dangerous to keep prisoner. Let me finish him! "

"No," Ujahorresnet said, rubbing his throat. "We must weaken him. Bring him not a scrap of food, Esna, and only half a cup of water a day. And beat him. Beat him senseless until he begs! "

"This is madness, lord! Did you not see his eyes? Why tempt the gods so?"

"I want him to beg!"

Esna looked down at the Phoenician. His instincts screamed; he knew in the pit of his stomach he should grab an axe and hack the bastard's head off, vengeance be damned. This man was feral, a rabid dog. Toying with him was an invitation to disaster.

The priest must have read it in his eyes. "If you cannot do it, Esna, I'll find another who can!" Ujahorresnet spun and reeled from the cell, leaving Esna standing alone with the Phoenician. His hand dropped to his knife hilt. No amount of gold was worth dying over.