by Scott Oden
She heard Idu sigh. "I know you all want something more, something dramatic, but the time is not yet ripe for that. If we confront the Greeks openly, they will shed Egyptian blood. I cannot, in good conscience, support such a disastrous course of action. No, we must bide our time and occupy ourselves with such small victories as a burned granary."
Reluctantly, even Amenmose could see the wisdom in that. It took only a few more moments to solidify their plans, and then the conspirators scattered into the night, leaving Idu alone with his thoughts. Quietly, Jauharah entered the columned east hall and began gathering up the goblets and platters. Idu looked up and handed his empty goblet to her. "The family?" he asked.
"They have gone to slumber."
Idu pursed his lips, thinking. He glanced sidewise at the woman. "What is your opinion on this matter, Jauharah? On the things you heard this evening? Don't try and deny it since I know your hearing is sharper than a cat's. Do you think we are doing the right thing?"
"I have no opinion save what you tell me, master."
"Have you no rancor for the Greeks? Does it not boil your blood to see them strutting like peacocks through the streets?"
"I am a slave, master. What I like or dislike is of little consequence. I exist to serve you and your family as best I can. The world outside this house, I leave in the hands of those more capable than I. If you think burning a granary is best, then it must be best."
Idu shook his head. "I did not teach you to read and write so you could play the fool, Jauharah. It does not become you. You have an opinion about everything. Tell me what you think."
Jauharah sighed. After a moment, she said, "Burning a granary is like swatting a viper with a roll of papyrus — no damage is done beyond angering the viper. The Greeks will react the only way they know how: with violence."
Idu chewed his lip. "I see how people might arrive at that conclusion, but I don't believe they would risk violence yet. They will issue more edicts and pitch a child's tantrum."
"Master," Jauharah said, choosing her words with care. "Is it wise for you to get so involved in this? If something happens to you, what will become of mistress Tetisheri and the children? The Greeks will not sit idle once they discover who leads this insurrection."
"And I cannot sit idle while my kin and my friends embark on an unwise course of action, Jauharah. You heard them. Without me, they would charge off and get themselves killed. My father is a good man, don't misunderstand, but he's always been a hothead." Idu sighed. "Thothmes worships him. Hekaib is terrified of him. Ibebi and Amenmose would defer to his judgement because they respect his age, his accomplishments. No, Jauharah, I must be involved in this, if for no other reason than to provide balance."
Jauharah bowed her head. A familiar sense of helplessness welled up from deep inside her. "Would that I had been born your son, and not the daughter of a filthy Asiatic shepherd," she said, her voice no louder than a whisper.
Idu took her hand. "You would second-guess the gods, Jauharah? They make us who we are for a reason, for a purpose. Their plan is inscrutable to us, but I would not change it for all the world. You are like a well-spring of strength to me, no matter your heritage."
Tears sparkled on Jauharah's cheeks. "Thank you, master."
Idu stood and stretched, his bones creaking. "The girls are ecstatic about going with you to the bazaar tomorrow," he said. Jauharah laughed, wiping her eyes.
"They begged me to teach them how to roast a goose," she said. "Meryt wants a white one, thinking the meat will be softer, but Tuya thinks white geese are sacred to Isis. They've been squabbling about it all afternoon."
Idu smiled. "Knowing Tuya, she'll see the goose and wish to rescue it, then our ducks will have a graceful companion while we go hungry." He shuffled toward the suite of rooms he shared with his wife and children.
"Mistress Tetisheri said much the same thing," Jauharah said. "Is there anything you need before retiring?"
"No, Jauharah. That will be all. Good night."
"Master." Jauharah hugged herself. "Be careful tomorrow."
"It is only a granary, dear girl," he said. "Only a granary."
Barca checked his surroundings, wondering if Matthias could have sent him to the wrong street. The neighborhood did not meet the Phoenician's expectations of where a former general should dwell. Even the house, a small, single-storey affair of plastered mud-brick with an awning tacked on above the door almost as an afterthought, fit more into the mold of a retired laborer's home. No lights burned in the windows. Indeed, the place looked deserted. Perhaps Matthias had been mistaken?
The Judaean begged off coming himself, claiming his age made it unlikely he could slip out unseen by those who watched his house. Instead, Barca trusted him with a different matter. "At dawn, my men will be entering the city. Intercept them and tell Ithobaal everything you've told me." Matthias agreed and laid out the simplest way of reaching this man he thought could aid them.
As Barca watched, an old Egyptian shuffled up the street, muttering under his breath. He carried a round loaf of bread and a stoppered jug.
"Old man," Barca said, stepping into view. "Is this the house of Menkaura?"
The fellow gave a start, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
"I seek Menkaura."
"You've found him, boy. Now, what the hell do you want?"
Barca blinked. This Menkaura, the man Matthias swore was a general, looked more like an aged stone mason, his scalp wrinkled and hairless, his once-thick frame gone to gristle. That the old man's leathery skin bore the white tracks of ancient scar tissue was the only indication of his former occupation. Even his pleated kilt hearkened back to an earlier age. "I am Hasdrabal Barca, commander of the Medjay."
Menkaura grunted in surprise. "I've heard of you. You're a far piece from the frontier, boy. Have you quit the desert for gentler climes? In my day dereliction of duty was punishable by death. Apries counseled me once to practice restraint with deserters. I was young then, green, but I told him restraint was what made the men desert in the first place. They needed a hard hand …"
Barca cut him off. "I'm not a deserter. But the Greeks will be unless you help me."
Menkaura eyed him, scrubbing the back of his hand across his nose. "Help you? Are you daft, boy?"
"It's best if we discuss this off the street," Barca said.
Menkaura mulled it over, grunting, muttering under his breath. Finally, he agreed and led the way into his home.
A lamp flared, and light bathed their faces. As far as Barca could tell, the house was a single room, tiled in rough stone and strewn with multi-colored rugs. Despite its exterior, the place looked immaculate. Crockery bowls and plates were stacked above a barrel of fresh water, clothes hung from pegs, even the sleeping pallet was squared away, blankets folded beneath a wooden head rest. Though not the home of a general, Barca could tell a soldier dwelt here.
Menkaura set his jug and loaf on a low table and motioned for Barca to take one of two antique campaign chairs. "What's this blather about the Greeks deserting, and me helping you stop them?"
Barca sketched out everything he knew, from the battle at Leontopolis to his plans to delay Phanes until Pharaoh could muster the army. "But, in order to make such a diversion work I need a man who has the ear of the people. That's where I need you. You were a general …"
"A man might be a priest, boy, but that doesn't make him pious," Menkaura said bitterly. "Look around you. Is this the home of a man with the ear of the people? Doesn't look like it to me. It's the home of a man who has been humbled. Whatever currency I had with the common man, I lost at Cyrene, and later against Ahmose. No, my son Idu is the one you should be talking to, though I daresay you and he would hardly see eye to eye on what should be done. He has aspirations of leading the sons of Horns in a rhetorical rebellion. He believes the Greeks will slink away, chastised, after he gives them a fine tongue lashing! "
Barca squinted at the old Egyptian. "Consider thi
s, then. I've been in Memphis only a handful of hours, and already I know who stands opposed to Phanes. Do you think the Greek is any less informed? I would wager my life that he is well aware of your son's activities and will move to silence him, should he become too vocal. You, with your military background, are likely already marked for death."
Menkaura snorted. "Your handful of hours in Memphis have given you infallible insight, eh?"
"I know this because it's what I would do," the Phoenician said, his voice hard. "For the love of the gods, man! Has age made a dotard of you? If Phanes is half as smart as they say he is, he'll make an example of your whole damn family!"
The old man grumbled, rubbed his nose. "What do you want from me, Phoenician?"
"Gather together your kin, your friends, every man you know of who has fought or served in the army, in the temples, even those who have guarded caravans. Divide them into groups, and give each group a mission — a man to kill, a house to burn, something. Denounce the Greeks on every street corner and in every pleasure house. Can you do that?"
Menkaura hemmed and hawed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Barca could not tell why he was so loath to agree to such a thing. Did he prefer living under Greek rule? Maybe the defeat at Cyrene had stripped his confidence from him?
"Amon's balls! " Barca said at length. "I offer you a chance to lead an armed rebellion, to reclaim the glory of Egypt, and all you can do is grouse and grumble! Take me to your son, then. Perhaps Idu's stones haven't yet shriveled to the size of chickpeas! "
Jauharah woke with a start. She lay on her pallet, a thin linen coverlet draped across her upper body, her legs exposed to the cool night air. She blinked back sleep. She had heard a sound in the night, something that should not have been there. Or had she? Perhaps her imagination …?
The sound repeated, the stealthy scuff of a foot on stone.
Jauharah rose and went to her door, frowning. Which of the children wandered the halls at this late hour? Perhaps it was master Idu? Carefully she opened her door and peered out. Her room lay off the central hall, near the servants' entrance, and on the opposite side of the house from the main family chambers. Small clay night lamps cast pale circles of light that barely relieved the darkness. Something moved across the hall, a shadow slinking toward Idu's chambers. Jauharah's heart leapt into her throat.
A man.
Then another.
A third followed in their wake; each wore a voluminous black cloak, and naked knives glittered in their fists. Three more joined them outside Idu's door. Six. Six men armed and disguised. When she heard their harsh whispers, Jauharah recognized them for what they were.
Greek soldiers.
"Searched the grounds," one said. "No sign of stragglers."
"Do it quick. The whole family, Lysistratis be damned." They nodded to one another and reached for the door.
Jauharah did the only thing she could think of. She bellowed at the top of her lungs. "Master! "
Time froze. The echoes of Jauharah's scream hung in the air. The men stared over their shoulders at her; she stared back. For an eternity this tableau held, unblinking, unwavering, until at last one of the Greeks hissed an order chilling in both brevity and intent.
"Kill her!"
At that same instant Idu's door opened. "Merciful Amon! What …?"
"Master! Look out! " Jauharah rushed forward.
The assassins reacted with military precision. Two grabbed Idu and hurled him to the floor. Three vanished into the suite of rooms. One turned and stalked Jauharah.
She skidded to a halt, her eyes wide with fear. The Greek's curved knife glimmered in the wan light as it slashed toward her belly. Jauharah shied away from him, her hand brushing a stand holding a dozen of her master's carved walking sticks. Instinctively, her fist closed on one.
The Greek lunged. With a dancer's grace, Jauharah sidestepped and ripped the walking stick from the stand. It whistled through the air like a saber, cracking over the Greek's shoulders and neck. The assassin careened into the stand, stunned. His knife clattered on the floor.
Chilling screams came from her master's bedroom. Jauharah spun, her face pale. She knew she would remember those screams until her dying day, moreso the cruel silence in their wake, as clearly as she would remember the struggle taking place before her eyes.
Idu was on the ground, crawling across the threshold leading to the bedroom. His hands clawed at the stone tiles as the pair of assassins straddled him, plunging their knives into his back. The blood …
"J-Jauharah! " Idu roared. "Find help! "
His voice galvanized her. She heard curses as the fallen Greek struggled to his feet. Whirling, Jauharah planted a foot in his groin and sprinted for the side door. She had to find Menkaura.
Jauharah's nightmarish flight through the dark streets of Memphis left her bathed in sweat. Her heart hammered in her chest; her ears rang with the sound of children screaming. She felt her pursuers closing in, as sure as the itch between her shoulder blades presaged the tip of a knife being driven into her back. The Greeks would follow. She was a witness to murder, and they would not suffer her to live.
Find Menkaura!
But, what could he do? Idu's father was an old man.
Find Menkaura!
Gods! They were dead already! What use could come from getting others killed, as well? Adrenalin surged through her system. No! They weren't dead! They couldn't be dead! The thought of the girls, Meryt and Tuya, in peril sent a fierce shockwave through her body.
She would kill — or die — to save them!
The quickest route from her master's villa to where Menkaura lived meant traversing the Foreign Quarter. Normally, the thought of broaching those tangled streets sent a thrill of fear down her spine. What could happen to her in there that would rival her terror of the Greeks? If anything, the Foreign Quarter would hide her movements.
Jauharah darted through the open-air shop of a coppersmith. The glow of the banked forge striped the shadows with tendrils of angry red. An apprentice watched her, his eyes dull, lifeless, as he plucked at a loaf of bread. She stopped to get her bearings, then sprinted up the street, scattering a quartet of cats fighting over the carcass of a Nile perch.
Here, the buildings grew close together, the air heavy and hot, as stifling as a woolen blanket around her throat. She passed doorways where prostitutes lounged between customers, windows where harsh foreign laughter crackled in the night. A dizzying array of smells and sounds assailed her. Jauharah's head spun. She rounded a corner …
… and crashed against a muscular torso. Her feet slithered out from under her, sending her sprawling to the ground. A figure loomed in the darkness. She had the impression of a strong jaw, aquiline nose, and dark eyes before the sheathed sword in his fist consumed her attention. Defiant, she glared up at the man, expecting her death blow. Instead, his free hand reached out and helped her to her feet.
"Be careful, girl," the man rumbled, his Egyptian lightly accented.
Another man, coming behind him, cursed. "Damn you, woman! Get out of the way! We have …"
Jauharah recognized the voice.
"Master Menkaura!" she sobbed, clutching at the old man's belt. "Your son, master Menkaura! The G-Greeks …!"
"Who is she?"
"Idu's serving woman." Menkaura took Jauharah by the shoulders. "What's happened, girl? What's happened?"
"It's master Idu! They. . "
The other man cut her off, his voice cold and hard. "Take care of her, Menkaura." He stared at something behind her. She heard the sound of runners slowing, the rasp of metal on leather. Jauharah twisted.
Behind her, six Greeks shed their cloaks and spread out, blocking the street.
"Fortune smiles on us, brothers," said the leader of the Greeks. He moved forward, his men flanking him. Blood spackled their arms and faces. "Here we have the estimable Menkaura, the Desert Hawk of Cyrene. I am Leon, son of Philon, and my father was a commander in the army that dealt you such a gr
ievous blow years ago. Ironic that his son will be your executioner." Leon glanced at Barca. "A sad day for you, friend. We only wanted Menkaura and the girl."
A dangerous edge stiffened Menkaura's voice. "Give me your sword, Barca! "
"Stay back! " the Phoenician growled. He drew his scimitar and walked toward the Greeks. "You want them? Come, take them."
"Barca, is it? Of the Medjay?" Leon glanced at his companions. Palms grew sweaty; the six men shifted nervously. They had heard of Barca, of his reputation as a killer. They were journeymen in the craft. Here, they faced a master. "Give them up, then, and be on your way with our blessing."
Barca smiled, his eyes like stone chips. "I am one. You are six. Come, take them if you can."
The Greeks advanced cautiously, on the balls of their feet. Leon exhaled, his lips framing a curse, a prayer, an order.
Barca was in motion before Leon could finish. The Beast tore loose from his soul, driving him into their midst. His blade struck left and right, weaving an intricate pattern of carnage. Blood showered the stones like a red rain. Three assassins went down, their lives spilling across the street, and a fourth reeled away, his hands full of his own entrails. In a heartbeat, six had become two. The remaining Greeks panted like cornered hounds. In desperation, they charged. A sword thrust at Barca's gut; he caught the fellow's wrist and spun him around, kicking his legs out from under him. The man struck the ground hard, stunned, his breath exploding from his lungs. Only the man called Leon remained standing. With wild eyes, the Arcadian slashed overhand. Barca's scimitar turned it with practiced ease and his riposte tore through Leon's jugular. The fallen Greek watched in horror as Leon sank down beside him, gobbling as his life spurted through scarlet fingers. The man struggled to rise.
