Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  He felt a momentary flash of claustrophobia. Accustomed to the wide-open sky of the Eastern Desert, Barca felt surrounded by those ancient mud brick walls. A thin strip of starlight overhead mocked him. Clenching his teeth, stifling the fear that somehow the buildings would collapse on him, Barca set off at a trot.

  He headed west, crossed a broad lane lined with humanheaded sphinxes, and plunged into the tangled warren of the Foreign Quarter. Barca's informant lived on the southern edge of this turbulent district, on the Street of the Chaldeans, in the shadow of a solitary obelisk known as the Spear. At least, Barca hoped Matthias ben lesu still dwelt there. Five years had passed since his last visit; five years could encompass a lifetime in a city such as Memphis, a city in a state of constant flux. Barca chided himself for not maintaining contact with the aging Judaean. If he had, perhaps he could have squashed this potential crisis months ago.

  Barca ghosted down the alley, past doors and windows, past mud brick crevices and jagged chasms that yawned like the gates of Hades. The heat, coupled with the stench rising from a thin runnel of sewage, made his lungs ache. Sweat drenched his tunic; stinking muck caked his sandaled feet. It was like moving through the bowels of a stone leviathan. After an hour, he knew he must be closing in on his destination.

  The alley turned sharply and widened, becoming a small irregular square. To his right, gleaming like an alabaster spike above the skyline, Barca caught sight of the Spear. The obelisk belonged to an ancient temple facade, its stone cannibalized during one of the interregnums of pharaonic power. Now it stood isolated, a reminder of darker times. Barca glanced around the square. He wasn't alone. Shapes huddled in the corners; he heard muttered curses, smelled the raw stench of human waste. From the shadows at his feet, a filth-encrusted hand plucked at the Phoenician's tunic.

  "Mercy," a voice wheezed in Egyptian, densely accented. "Mercy for an old soldier?"

  Barca brushed the hand aside. A few other pitiful forms leaned out and importuned him, begging for coin. Like the mud-dwellers, the beggars of Memphis were a caste unto themselves, an indigenous population who slipped through the cracks of Egypt's rigid society. They were the insane, the infirm, the solitary, cast aside and forgotten as their usefulness waned. This could be my fate, Barca thought, feeling a glacial abscess in the pit of his stomach. He glanced down at the beggar. "A soldier, you say?"

  "Aye," the beggar said, crawling to his knees. A cloud of flies rose from his filthy nest. "Much younger, I was. Carried spear and shield in the company of Lord Huy of Bubastis." The beggar exhaled, a wheezing chuckle that reeked of rotted onion.

  "I'm a soldier, as well, and I need to know if a man still lives nearby. A Judaean …"

  "The astrologer! " The beggar pawed at Barca's belt. His fingers brushed the Phoenician's sheathed scimitar and jerked away as if burned. "You're Phoenician … yes, he told us to be expecting you. He told us you'd be seeking the Jew. "

  "Who? Who told you?"

  "The man with the copper bangles."

  One of the other beggars hissed. "Not `pose to tell `im, fool! "

  "We're soldiers, he and I! Brothers! Not like you other dogs! You'd sell your mothers for a jug of beer! "

  Barca crouched. "The man with the bangles, was he Greek?"

  The beggar shook his head. "Egyptian. Tall as a palm trunk. Wanted us to tell his mate, over by the Spear, if we saw you. These other curs might. Not me. Too tired to fight. Too tired. . " The beggar's head drooped. None of the others moved, either; even the one who hissed a warning curled up in an old shawl and fell asleep muttering to himself.

  "My thanks, brothers," Barca whispered, rising. Someone had spotted him, but how? How? With a savage growl, Barca moved to the alley mouth, flattened his body against the wall, and peered out into the street.

  The Street of the Chaldeans was not a well-planned thoroughfare. Some buildings thrust out beyond their neighbors or sat at odd angles, as if the architect suffered from a malady that made him incapable of straight lines. At one end of the street, a grove of palm trees rose around the base of the Spear. At the other, a small wine shop still did a brisk custom at this late hour, catering to foreign merchants and caravan guards. The house of Matthias ben lesu lay halfway down the street, toward the obelisk, its dilapidated facade recessed into shadow.

  Movement under the palm trees caught Barca's eye. A man waited there, just as the beggar had said. The figure stood, stretched, then crouched down again, barely visible in the darkness. His attitude spoke of wariness, patience, as if he were waiting for something. Or someone. Barca's eyes narrowed. No matter. He knew another way in.

  Matthias ben lesu wrote by the uneven light of an oil lamp. Failing eyes forced his body into a question mark over the sheet of papyrus, his back bowed like the Hebrew slaves of legend who toiled beneath the vicious eyes of Pharaoh. Matthias paused, scraping the tip of his reed pen across a moistened cake of ink, then continued:

  Memphis is a cruel city, cousin. Cruel and unforgiving. In Babylon they respected my art; it was sought after by prince and pauper, alike. Here, in Egypt, theyrevile me as a charlatan. Iha ye no hope. That is the crux of this letter, dear cousin. I wish to return, to have my banishment lifted so at the very leastI can die with dignity

  "Dignity." Matthias set his pen aside and straightened, flexing his cramped fingers. With his gray-black beard and fringe of hair ringing his bald scalp, Matthias ben Iesu could have passed for a desert patriarch. He stared into the wavering flame of the oil lamp, his eyes lost amid the lines and folds of his face. "Is that too much to ask, 0 Lord of Hosts?"

  Matthias glanced up as a breeze redolent of smoke and Nile mud stirred the scrap of papyrus under his fingers. He sat beneath a loggia that partially enclosed his roof, forming a three-walled room he jokingly called his observatory. He could see very little beyond the circle of light cast by his oil lamp. A pair of potted plants stood just outside the loggia, a woven reed mat on the ground between them. The moon's thin illumination gave a sheen of silver to the surface of the knee-high brick wall ringing his roof.

  Something moved in the deeper shadow near the edge of the roof. A cat? No, it was too large. Matthias frowned. He had been out most of the evening, dining at the wine shop down the street in hopes of overhearing bits of gossip, idle chatter, anything scandalous he could use to his advantage. Had someone followed him home, mistaking him for a man of means rather than the vagabond he had become? Annoyed, he rose and stepped out onto the rooftop terrace. "Is someone there?" he said.

  An arm shot out of the gloom. The Judaean's eyes goggled as a hand clamped over his mouth. "Silence, Matthias," a voice exhorted, softly. A voice Matthias knew. "Forgive my rude entry, but men watch your house and unless I'm wrong, they watch for me."

  "Barca?" He gaped. "Hasdrabal Barca? How … how didyou…T'

  Barca grinned. "I scaled your wall. Mud brick is like a ladder to a Phoenician."

  "Merciful God of Abraham! What are you doing here?" The Judaean clasped Barca's arm.

  "It's a long, dry tale." Barca cocked his head to one side, listening. "Have you any wine, Matthias?"

  "Look at me," Matthias said, "I have the manners of a swineherd. Come." He led Barca beneath the loggia. "It has been … what? … five years since we last crossed paths? It must be something momentous to draw you from your haunts in the East." From a shelf Matthias took down two terracotta bowls, chipped and burnished with age, and an amphora of deep russet pottery emblazoned with the symbol of the vineyards of Naxos. He poured a measure of resin-thickened wine into one bowl, then paused.

  "You still take it unwatered?"

  "Is there another way?" The Phoenician propped his hip against the desk.

  Matthias chuckled and filled the other bowl, handing it to Barca. He set the amphora on the desk between them.

  "What's happened, Matthias? Last I heard you were making gold like fabled King Midas. Now.. " He indicated the shabby condition of the house.

  Matthias shrugged and sat. "Wou
ld you frequent an astrologer who couldn't discern his own fortunes? I wouldn't. No, my friend, I'm a victim of my own arrogance. These Egyptians, these astrologer-priests, they have forgotten more about the heavens than I'll ever know. I thought my years of study in Babylon would stand me in good stead among them. And for a while it did." The Judaean laughed bitterly. "But, when I wouldn't grovel on my belly before the First Seer of Amon — that heathen idolater! — they branded me a charlatan, a fraud. What wealth I had evaporated, and now the only custom I have comes from the dregs of the Foreign Quarter."

  Barca looked disapprovingly at the old Judaean. "You should have come to me, Matthias. If it's money you need.. "

  Matthias shook his head, smiling. "I would not accept it. The measure of my god's ill will is mine, and mine alone, to bear without complaint or charity, Phoenician. But, my thanks for the offer. You must tell me, before my curiosity gets the better of me, why have you come to Memphis?"

  Barca drained his bowl and held it out for a refill. Matthias obliged. He stared at the Phoenician, unable to read the inscrutable look in his eye. Barca took his bowl back and, in a paucity of words, recalled the past few days: the battle at Leontopolis, the dead Persian, the letter. "Cambyses offered the garrison a king's ransom to switch their allegiances, and I fear Phanes has agreed."

  "I am not surprised."

  "What have you heard, Matthias?"

  The Judaean smoothed his beard like a learned Pharisee. "It is not so much what I've heard as what I've seen. The Greeks rule Memphis like gilded tyrants, Barca. They do as they please with the blessing of the governor, Petenemheb. Those who speak out against them do so only once."

  "What of the garrison? How many men does Phanes have at his disposal?" Barca said. Matthias had never served in the army; indeed, Barca reckoned he had never picked up a blade in anger, but the Judaean's keen eyes and ears made him an invaluable source of intelligence.

  "He has maybe two thousand hoplites and another five hundred mercenary peltasts, archers mostly, men of Crete and the Aegean. His polemarchs are a capable lot, veterans of those little civil wars the Greeks hold so dear. A Potidaean called Nicias commands the heavy infantry, the backbone of the garrison. Hyperides of Ithaca commands the light troops. Far more dangerous, though, is Phanes' second-in-command, Lysistratis, an exiled Spartan. There's a man Yahweh didn't bother wasting a soul on. He's brother to the serpent; as deadly as the scorpion underfoot. His men swear he is Patroclus to Phanes' Achilles. Surely, though, now that you know what's happening, your Medjay can stop the Greeks from defecting?"

  "We could, but to send for them would leave the border undefended. Cambyses' envoys have stirred up the Bedouin. No, we have enough problems without having to repulse an invasion from Sinai," Barca said. "I've sent a man on to Sais. Once Pharaoh is informed, he can muster the regiment of Amon and the Calasirian Guard and be en route inside a week."

  "If your man gets through." Matthias emptied his bowl and set it aside. The wine seemed tasteless now, oily. "And if he does, will Pharaoh even care?"

  Barca frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "We've all heard the rumors, Barca. Amasis is not the man he once was. He's become a drunkard, more interested in his harem than in governing. Even if only a fraction of the innuendo is true, well, it does not inspire me to confidence. Your man's warnings may fall prey to sheer apathy."

  Weariness crushed Barca's bones to dust. "What's happened to Egypt's fear of Persian ambition?"

  "Time has lessened it. Time and the aristocracy's hatred of Pharaoh. Amasis is a usurper. Though it's been fortyfour years since the deed was done, Egypt's nobility has a long memory." Matthias flashed a weak smile. "I cast my horoscope this evening. It spoke of titanic change. I should show it to that priggish idolater in Amon's temple and demand vindication. Have you a plan, Barca?"

  The Phoenician stared into the depths of the lamp burning on Matthias' desk. A plan? The Greeks were entrenched in the soil of Memphis like the roots of a gnarled tree. It would take a major campaign to tear them out. A campaign that would cost the lives of many good men. Barca's eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Matthias, how does a tree protect itself against rot?"

  "Against rot?" Matthias said, scowling. "Why, a tree will harden its exterior, adding new layers of bark to protect the heartwood from infection. What does that have to do with us?"

  Barca stood. "That's what we must do. We must thicken Memphis against rot. No matter how cozy the nobles get with him, the average Egyptian will never trust Phanes. I have to play on that, and I have to trust that my man will rouse Pharaoh to action. It's our only hope." Barca stroked his stubbled jaw. "Help me and, if we make it out of this, I'll speak to Pharaoh on your behalf. I'll make sure everything the priests of Amon stole from you is returned, with interest."

  Matthias clapped him on the shoulder. "Ah, Barca. You know me better than that. I'll help you because you're my friend."

  "No," Barca said, shaking his head. "A friend who only seeks your company when it's convenient is a poor friend. I am not deserving of your kindness."

  The Judaean smiled, a gesture of infinite patience. "The road to Sile runs in both directions. Do not shoulder the lion's share of the burden, Phoenician. Especially when it's not yours to shoulder. Now, tell me what can I do to help."

  Barca walked out on the rooftop terrace and stared at the star-flecked sky. He said nothing for a long moment, then turned suddenly. "We need a diversion. Something that will delay whatever plans the Greeks may have and buy us time. I need men who have served before, either in the army or the temple guard, and a figurehead to fire their blood."

  Matthias tugged his lip between thumb and forefinger. "I know someone who might fit your needs. He was a soldier, once. A general …"

  4

  Conspirators

  The home of Idu, son of Menkaura, lay near the temple of Osiris, on a winding lane shaded by well-tended sycamores. A low sandstone wall bounded the property, creating a haven of isolation amid the hustle of the city. Willow trees, grapevines, and rose shrubs thrived in the thick black soil, while beds of asphodel, thyme, and mint grew near the stone-curbed lotus pool. Frogs trilled amid the manicured reeds.

  Inside the front gate, a woman rattled the wooden bolt and checked the oil in the reservoir of the night lantern. Normally, this would have been the door warden's task, but master Idu had dismissed him, and the other servants, for the night. The fewer witnesses to his dealings, the better. Satisfied that the gate was secure, the woman turned and made her way back to the house. Her anklet of blue faience beads jingled with each step. The sound roused a heron from its perch beside the pool; it fled from her, lofting into the night on outstretched wings, cursing her in its shrill tongue. The woman gave a start, then laughed at her own nervousness.

  Though in manner and dress the woman could pass for Egyptian, her features marked her as foreign. Cascades of dark hair framed her high cheekbones, and her sharp nose and pointed chin were of such perfect proportion as to instill envy in the breast of Egypt's artisans. Deep-set eyes the color of smoke expressed more with a single look than a thousand words could convey, and they told a tale, for those who cared to read them, of a life spent in servitude.

  The woman, Jauharah, was a slave.

  Slave. The word did not sting as it once had. She had learned its meaning at the hard and calloused hands of her father. By her tenth year, he had beaten and raped into her the bitter truth of life: a woman was no better than an animal, good for bearing sons and cooking, but little else. The next year, after being traded to an Edomite slaver for two goats, that truth was reinforced by the cunning application of a rawhide whip. Jauharah endured a succession of brutal lords before master Idu bought her from a lecherous old merchant in Jerusalem. Rescued her, more like.

  Ahead, the white-plastered walls of the villa glimmered in the darkness. That flat-roofed, rambling structure could have easily become a prison had Idu been cut from the same cloth as her previous masters. Nothing cruel or meanspir
ited existed in him. Never had he raised a hand in anger, or assumed she could serve him best in his bed. For Jauharah, a slave's life in Egypt held far more promise than the life of a free woman in her native Palestine. Here, Idu taught her, even a slave had rights. She could marry, own goods and property, and even buy her own slaves, provided she could maintain them. In time, she might even scrimp and save enough to purchase her freedom. Ten years had passed since she left Jerusalem, and in that time Idu's kindness healed many of Jauharah's scars, binding her to the family with shackles far stronger than bronze.

  On cat's feet, Jauharah mounted the steps to the portico and slipped into the villa. From the vestibule, it would be a small matter to check in on the girls, Meryt and Tuya, then sneak off to the kitchen for a cup of beer and a honey cake. Her path, though, carried her close by the tightly-shuttered doors of the east hall. There, she paused. Voices resonated inside. Jauharah crept closer, listening.

  "… understand your concern, but your father was right, Idu. We can't fight the Greeks with rhetoric and good intentions!" Jauharah peered through a crack in the door. Five men clustered in a circle; three of them nodded in agreement with the speaker, a stately fellow with close-cropped hair gone white with age. A sixth chair stood empty.

  "What would you suggest, Amenmose?" Idu said, his voice growing sharp with anger. "That we take up sticks and rocks and storm the garrison? That would be foolhardy, and you know it! My father knows it, as well! I will not let impatience force us into an action we cannot win!"

  Idu, a thick man, squat and round, had a pockmarked face and gentle eyes that belied his ferocious sense of justice. In height, in temperament, in desires, in all ways, he stood in antithesis to Menkaura. With nothing in common, father and son kept clear of each other's social circles, coming together only for business. Tonight, the business was sedition. From what Jauharah could gather, at the noon hour tomorrow, a granary in the shadow of the fortress, Ineb-hedj, would burn as a sign of growing unrest. Menkaura preached stronger action. Violence against holdings first, Idu countered, against men later. Menkaura's furious exodus prompted Jauharah to check the gate.