Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  "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 contriv
ed 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.