Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  "But what if Amasis were unable to land infantry because we're in control of the quays? That would force them to dismount from their chariots and fight in the streets. Deshur would see another blooding." Phanes turned, his eyes agleam. Nicias and Hyperides dangled on his next words. "What do we have to lose by fighting? Our homes? Our lives? Faugh! All men die, but how many men have a chance to author their own destinies? If we do this thing, if we conquer Pharaoh, our reward will be more than the riches of Memphis, more than the gratitude of Cambyses. We will be masters of Egypt! "

  Nicias whistled. "That would stick in the Persian's craw."

  Petenemheb could hold his tongue no longer. He gave a strangled cry and lurched forward, clutching at Phanes' tunic. "Madness! This is madness! You cannot renounce your promise to the Great King! His wrath will lay waste to the land! Think of the suffering! "

  "What of it?" Phanes knocked the governor's hand away. "Have you lost your nerve, Petenemheb? Perhaps you should fortify yourself with more wine and leave the business of war to me!"

  "You would kill every man, woman, and child in Memphis? You can't …"

  Phanes' arm snaked out, catching Petenemheb by the throat. He hauled the Egyptian close, his temper flaring brighter than the morning sun. "Oh, but I can, Petenemheb! I can! Shall I prove it to you? I will kill every living thing in Memphis, starting with you!" Cords of muscle writhed beneath Phanes' hide as he lifted the governor off his feet. With a desperation born of futility, Petenemheb clawed and fought. He may as well have grappled with a living statue for all the good that came of it. Phanes hurled him through an embrasure.

  The governor's croaks turned to a wail of pure terror, ending abruptly with a sickening crunch some ninety feet below. Phanes and his captains peered over the battlement. Petenemheb's body lay broken at the foot of Pharaoh's statue. "Foolish is the man who doesn't realize when his use is at an end," Phanes muttered.

  "Bloody Ares!" Hyperides said. "Look there!" Phanes and Nicias followed his gesture, looking south toward Deshur. A plume of smoke mingled with the morning haze. Even from this distance they could see knots of Egyptians milling about, their fists held aloft, sunlight flashing from slivers of metal.

  "A riot," Nicias spat.

  "Menkaura's decided to show himself," Phanes said. He fixed his captains with a chilling stare. "Call out the phalanx. This has gone on long enough! "

  Sunlight angled through a square-cut opening in the roof of the cell. Barca lay in the patch of warmth, staring up at the sliver of bright blue sky, his face a clotted mass of bruised and lacerated flesh. Ropes of woven hemp, saturated with blood, abraded his wrists and ankles. The gash in his side throbbed, and he imagined infection had already taken hold. It pained him to draw breath.

  How long had he lain here? Three days? Four? He tried to count the times he had fallen unconscious, the healing touch of sleep broken by bouts of torture. A week? He could not focus, could not remember.

  I will die here. Not his choice of deaths, true, but Barca had decided long ago that he would welcome Death however he came. Welcome him like a long lost brother. They had come so close before, he and Death, brushing shoulders like strangers on a crowded street. Many nights — nights when the ghosts of the past became unbearable — Barca thought of inviting Death to his door, of putting an end to their game. Suicide, though, went against his grain. No, he wouldn't make Death's task any easier.

  That task was nearly done.

  Thirst raged through him like an unchecked fire. Deprived of nourishment, a man could last for a week, perhaps more. Deprived of water, however, his mortality became measurable in days. Even a man acclimated to the heat and dehydration of the desert could not survive long without water. Barca recalled a fellow his Medjay had tracked through the desert east of Sile, a Bedouin slave taken in a raid on the villages of Sinai who slipped his shackles and escaped to the high sands. By the time the Medjay caught up to him, the wretch had gnawed open the veins in his wrists in hopes blood would quench his thirst. Barca reckoned that to be Ujahorresnet's plan. The old bastard wanted him mad with pain and thirst, insane enough to beg and plead and whimper.

  "I will be damned," Barca clenched his teeth, "if I give him the satisfaction!" Groaning, the Phoenician rolled over and struggled to his knees. He lurched to his feet, his back against the wall. His head swam. Bile seared the back of his throat. Barca shook his head to clear it, and grit his teeth against the waves of nausea. Time to see about getting clear of this cell. He had seen no other guards save that son of a bitch, Esna. Him Barca could dispose of easily, if only his hands were free.

  From outside the door, he heard the scuff of a sandal on stone.

  "I am surprised to see you upright," Ujahorresnet said, peering through the grate in the door. "Indeed, I half-expected to find you bled dry."

  "How's the throat?" Barca smiled, ghastly in the pale morning light.

  The priest's nostrils flared. "Do be considerate and try not to die too soon. That would cheat me of my hard-earned vengeance."

  Barca shuffled to the door. "Explain something to me, old man. I thought you were a firm believer in the superiority of the Egyptian people. How is it that you're in bed with the Greeks? A traitor, no less?"

  The priest's eyes were troubled. "Grief drives a man down paths never contemplated."

  "Anger does the same," Barca said. "Believe it nor not, I loved Neferu. You think I have no remorse …"

  "Remorse? You?" Ujahorresnet laughed. "Please! I am not a half-wit, Barca.

  I've peered into your soul and taken measure of your true self. You live to kill, to feel death rise up around you like a warm blanket. You're only truly alive when another man's blood spills at your feet. Remorse? That's as alien an emotion to you as love! "

  Barca snarled. "It's good you know me so well, priest! And since you do, you know what I'll do to you when I'm free."

  "Cling to your false hopes," Ujahorresnet said. "You will die in that cell, and soon. However, since you are so full of venom, I will see about having Esna continue where he left off last night."

  "Send him quickly," Barca said, a sneer twisting his lips. "I would talk further with your lap dog! "

  "We will see how light your mood is when you're broken and bleeding. I look forward to hearing your pleas for mercy." Ujahorresnet stalked away.

  Barca hobbled to the door and watched him cross the sunlit sward, vanishing inside the temple proper. Time was growing short. He had to quit these ropes and this cell. He glanced around, his eyes falling on the door frame beside him. The passage of time knapped the corners of the mud brick, making it as jagged and sharp as a flint spearhead. It just might work …

  Blood trickled from his wrists as he worked the ropes against the serrated edge of brick, sawing despite the pain. He stopped for a moment, listening. Yes, he did hear a sound — a panted breath, a scuff of a foot. He pressed himself against the door and peered through the grate.

  A fat man slipped through the morning shadows, his bald head gleaming with sweat. His eyes were painted Egyptianfashion, and he was clad in a pleated linen robe. He could have been a priest or a merchant, but his attitude was one of stealth, of fear. Quivering, glancing each way, the man reached the door. "Barca!" he hissed.

  "You don't seem like an assassin," Barca said. The fat man jumped, not expecting a reply from such close proximity.

  "I'm no assassin. I'm a friend. Callisthenes, I am called."

  "I have no friends named Callisthenes and no friends who are Greek. What do you want? Have you come to taunt me?" Barca said.

  Callisthenes shook his head. "I bring you aid." He held the haft of a knife to the grate. Barca's eyes narrowed. He sensed a trap. A cruel jest on Ujahorresnet's part to tease him with a small glimmer of freedom.

  "Why?" Barca replied, slowly reaching for the weapon. "Why would you risk your life to aid me, a man you've never met?"

  "Honestly," Callisthenes said, "I look at it as not so much aiding you as thwarting Phanes. Egypti
ans should rule the land of Egypt, not — "

  "You're from Naucratis," Barca said. He took the knife. It was a fine weapon, its blade the length of a man's forearm, both edges capable of splitting hairs. The carved ebony grip, capped with a bronze pommel, sent a sensual thrill through the Phoenician's body.

  "How could you tell?"

  "You men of Naucratis are more Egyptian than Greek," Barca said. He slashed the ropes holding his wrists; knelt and freed his legs. Despite the pain, despite the dizziness, Barca felt a new strength surge through his limbs. He flexed his arms till his joints cracked. "I never thought I would tell a Greek I am in his debt."

  Callisthenes smiled. "Don't let it pain you overmuch." He kept glancing around, fearing he would be detected. "I must go. You can escape without further aid?"

  Barca's eyes darkened. "I think so. Tell me something, and quickly. Did Phanes lie when he said my Medjay were dead?"

  "I am sorry," Callisthenes said, nodding. "They were slain in an ambush in the Square of Deshur. Not that it's any consolation, but that ambush galvanized the Egyptians against Phanes."

  Barca ground his teeth in anger. "My score with him mounts by the second. Soon, I'll have to summon his shade from beyond the river and kill him twice just to break even!"

  "I hope I am there to …" the Greek's breath hissed between his teeth. "Someone's coming!"

  Smoke darkened the morning sky. Armed Egyptians choked the Square of Deshur, pressing close to watch the impromptu trial of a half dozen Greek soldiers. Menkaura had drawn them out by firing a barley wagon; his kinsmen subdued them with spear-butts and clubs as they sought to smother the blaze. Their officer had put up a fight, but Menkaura, clad in antique armor, proved unstoppable. The Desert Hawk strode like a conqueror up and down the line of kneeling captives.

  "You stand accused!" Menkaura roared. "Accused of crimes against the people of Egypt, against the Son of Ra himself!" He held his curved sword aloft; blood rained from the blade, showering the upturned faces with scarlet drops. "We, who were once your victims, stand in judgement of you! And our judgement is death! Death to the traitors!"

  A hundred throats caught up his cry. "Death to the traitors!"

  Their officer spat in defiance. "Loose us! You wretched jackal! Loose us, I say! By all the gods! I will make sure each and every one of you pay for this! "

  Menkaura laughed recklessly.

  Near him, Amenmose, Ibebi, and Hekaib stood in a knot.

  "I don't like this," Amenmose hissed. "We reveal ourselves too early."

  Ibebi shrugged. "Menkaura came to me this morning, said we make our first move within the hour. He said our kinsmen would be enough for this strike and our bravery would turn our hundred into thousands by dusk."

  "Men are drawn to bravery, yes," Amenmose said, "but not to foolishness."

  Hekaib sidled close. "What of the garrison? Will this commotion not draw their eye?"

  Amenmose's face darkened. "It will draw more than their eye! I guarantee they are mustering as we speak. If we're not careful, Deshur will see a second massacre. This reeks like week old fish, my friends! Menkaura's thirst for Greek blood will kill us all! "

  "Death to the traitors!" Menkaura wrenched back a Greek head and slashed his blade across the exposed throat. Blood fountained. Down the line he went, ripping through soft tra- chial tissues, severing engorged arteries. The bodies flopped and contorted, drowning in their own blood. The Greeks next in line muttered prayers to Zeus, to the archer Apollo, and to chaste Athena, making their peace before Menkaura's blade laid their throats open as well.

  Last in line, the officer glared at the crowd, his eyes wild.

  "Death to the traitors!" the crowd roared in approval.

  Esna emerged from the temple proper, shading his eyes against the glaring sun. He scowled at the figure outside the cell door. "What are you doing? Get away from that door!" His hand wrapped around the hilt of his knife.

  Callisthenes did not miss a beat. He turned, smiling. "Peace, good fellow. I am here at Phanes' request. The general was curious as to how your master's vengeance was faring. I thought I'd get in a few taunts of my own, since he is helpless."

  Esna looked Callisthenes over, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "One of Phanes' Greeks, eh? Well, tell your master Lord Ujahorresnet's vengeance fares well. Indeed, you may stay if you like and witness it firsthand."

  Inside the cell, Barca listened as he crouched and looped the severed rope about his feet, then did the same with his wrists. He kept hold of the knife, angling it down his forearm. It would be all but invisible. He moved away from the door and leaned his body against the wall. He could still hear them.

  "Delightful!" Callisthenes said. "Then I can take the tale back to Phanes. That should warm his heart."

  Barca heard Esna chuckle, followed by a key rattling; wood scraped wood as the bolt slid back. The door swung open. Esna grunted.

  "On your feet so soon? Well, we will have to remedy that." He took the gauntlet from his belt and slipped it on. He glanced back at Callisthenes. "My task is to weaken him. Lord Ujahorresnet wants him to be …"

  "Esna," Barca whispered.

  The Egyptian turned and saw a severed length of rope drop to the ground. Where. .? Then, he saw the knife. Terror filled Esna's dark eyes. He backpedaled, his hand clawing at the hilt of his own blade. Behind him, Callisthenes slammed the cell door closed. "No …!"

  Barca sprang. His knife darted out with surgical precision, its keen edge slicing through the muscle and tendon of Esna's elbow. The Egyptian hissed in pain, tucking the wounded limb to his body. His half-drawn knife clattered to the floor.

  Barca's other hand caught Esna by the throat. The Phoenician hurled his tormentor bodily across the cell, slamming him into the far wall with bone-crunching force. Esna breathed a strangled cry as he slid to the ground.

  "Callisthenes," Barca said, as the Greek eased the door open. "My thanks to you, again."

  The merchant stared in awed silence. In the back of his mind, he wished, beyond all other wishes, that his corpulent frame possessed a fraction of Barca's speed and strength. To be a tautly muscled warrior, not a flabby merchant, had been his dream since youth.

  "Leave now." The Phoenician hammered his knife into the wooden doorjamb. "If you have a weak stomach, you're not going to want to see this." Barca smiled viciously, cracking the knuckles of his left hand as he stalked toward his former jailer.

  "P-Please …! " Esna whimpered.

  Callisthenes turned away as the first of many blows fell. Barca was right. He didn't want to see this.

  "Death to the traitors!"

  Menkaura stood like a conqueror of old above the bound form of the Greek officer. Gore from his upraised sword trickled down his arm. He could feel the emotions of the crowd rising to a fever pitch. They had seen blood. Now, they wanted more. Hunting spears and old swords thrust at the sky. Faces, twisted with hate, swelled and ebbed before him, their voices mingling with his, their anger mounting.

  "Kill them!"

  Menkaura wrenched the officer's head back. "Tell it in the streets and the courtyards, the alleys and bazaars," he yelled, "that all traitors, all sympathizers, will meet a similar fate!"

  The soldier screamed as the Egyptian's blade descended, shearing through his neck. Menkaura kicked the twitching corpse aside. "Death to the Greeks!"

  "Death to the Greeks!" the crowd echoed.

  Ibebi rushed to Menkaura's side. "They've come!" he growled, jabbing his sword toward the edge of the bazaar. Hoplites flowed into the square, forming an armored wing, shields locked, spears held upright. Their front stretched twenty men long, at a depth of three men. In the fore stood Phanes, his cuirass buffed to a mirror-like sheen; his shield bore the symbol of the garrison of Memphis, the snaky locks of Medusa delineated in black. He shunned a helmet, preferring to let his enemies see his face. And at that moment, his face was a mask of raw fury.

  "Disperse!" he roared. "Before …'

  The Egypti
ans raised a clamor, yelling, screaming, pounding swords and spears against shields, anything to drown out the Greek's voice. They outnumbered the Hellenes. Menkaura snarled as he stepped out in front of the crowd. "We will not disperse! "

  "Then you will die!" Phanes raised his shield. As one, the hoplites advanced on the massed Egyptians, their spears snapping with chilling precision into attack posture, an iron hedge of death. A hymn rose from their throats:

  "Mighty Ares, shield-carrying Lord of the Spear,

  Father of fair Victory! "

  The voices of the men of Egypt faltered under this display of training and discipline. Menkaura sensed their anger turning to fear. The Egyptians gave ground.

  "Stand!" Menkaura cried. "Stand together!"

  "They're behind us!" a terrified shout. Menkaura turned. True enough, a second wing of hoplites entered the square at their backs. A quick glance showed a third and fourth wing closing in from each side. They were outnumbered, now, and surrounded.

  "You arrogant fool!" Amenmose spat. "I told you your grief would kill us all!"

  Menkaura's eyes flared with a desperate fire. He whirled to face Phanes. "Coward! You would order a man's death without looking him in the eye! You are a coward!"

  At a gesture the hoplites stopped, their spears less than a foot from Menkaura's breast. The Egyptians huddled together, and fear crackled through their masses.