Men of Bronze (10 page)

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 grievous 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.

“Give my regards to Polydices,” the Phoenician snarled as he struck the Greek’s head from his shoulders.

Sheer awe kept Jauharah rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the deadly scene before her. The man, Barca, moved with an uncommon grace; never a wasted movement, a false step, his sword an extension of himself. Jauharah had never seen anything like it.

Neither had Menkaura. Jauharah noted the look of shock on the old man’s face. That a general who had fought in countless battles, a man inured to the horrors of war, could register such surprise left a cold knot in the pit of Jauharah’s belly.

She heard the Phoenician speak, but the voice was not the same one she had heard minutes earlier. It was hard, guttural and full of rage: “Give my regards to Polydices!” Then, as suddenly as it began, the fight ended.

Barca stepped away from his handiwork, from the six Greeks he had sent to Hades’ realm. He crouched, cleaning his sword on one of the dark cloaks the would-be assassins had cast aside. All was perfectly still. In the distance, Jauharah heard the barking of a dog, the harsh grate of voices.

“We’d best get off the street,” Barca said, rising. “Unless you want to be seen standing over six Greek corpses.”

“Merciful …!” Menkaura’s voice faltered. Jauharah blinked, staring at the Phoenician’s bloodstained hands without realizing he was speaking. “What of my son?”

“If he’s dead there’s no use going on any further.”

“T-The children,” Jauharah said, choking back tears. “We should see t-to the children.”

After a long silence, Barca agreed. “Bring the girl.”