Men of Bronze (11 page)

Silence. Barca paused at the gate of Idu’s villa and scanned the garden. A light breeze sprang up, ruffling the palm-leaves and grasses. He led the way down the path to the front steps. Menkaura and the girl made to push past him, but he barred their way. “Wait here. The Greeks might have left a rear guard.”

“There were only six of them,” the woman said, an hysterical edge creeping into her voice.

“Wait here.”

The Phoenician ascended the steps and went in alone. The naked blade in his hand seemed out of place against the vibrant pastoral scenes adorning the walls. He crept through the vestibule and into the spacious west hall. Here, Idu’s family would have taken their evening meal, basking in the warm red glow of the setting sun. His foot brushed a wooden paddle doll, its colored yarn hair awry.

Barca stopped. His nostrils flared. The stench of fresh blood hung in the still air.

Lotiform columns separated the west hall from the central hall. Flames flickered in small clay lamps. He could make out a scattering of chairs and cushions in the dim light. After the evening meal, Idu and his family would have retired to the central hall. Did he discuss his day with his wife? Tell stories to his children? Or did he sit and listen to his wife sing while she played the small harp laying on a side table? Barca slipped into the central hall and stopped.

A corpse lay in the doorway leading to the master bedchamber, seeming to float in a pool of blood. Idu. The Greeks had done their job well. Their knives had ripped open the flesh of his back and neck. Barca peered through the doorway and into the bedchamber. A woman was sprawled on the floor; in the bed were two small, bloody shapes, half covered by linen sheets.

The Greeks had done their job too well.

Barca turned and left the villa. He walked slowly down the front steps, to where Menkaura and the girl awaited him.

“The children?” Jauharah sobbed. Barca caught her before she could move past him.

“No,” he said. “You don’t want to remember them this way.”

Menkaura groaned and leaned against the steps. Jauharah shook her head. “N-No! You’re w-wrong! No!” she said over and again. Barca stared down into her eyes. Horror, agony, and guilt warred for control. “No,” she whispered. Suddenly, her body went limp, her legs buckled. She collapsed into Barca’s arms.

The Phoenician glanced at Menkaura. “Can I count on your help, now?”

The old general could do nothing but nod.

They called it
Ta-Meht
, the Delta, the ancient kingdom of Lower Egypt, a verdant, watery fan bounded by deserts to the east and west. Here, the Nile branched into seven tributaries, each winding serpentine into the emerald surf of the Mediterranean. Jungles of papyrus camouflaged deep pools where the hippopotamus and the crocodile lurked. A network of dikes and embankments, like strands of a web still damp with morning dew, converged on a solitary flat-topped hill.

Sais, the seat of power of Pharaoh Khnemibre Ahmose, rose from this moist loam like the mound of creation itself. Though smaller than Memphis or Thebes, Sais eclipsed them both in prestige, if not in ancestry. Monumental pylons of granite, stark white against the rich green of the Delta, gleamed in the first flush of dawn. A haze of smoke from cooking fires, forges, and foundries drifted on the light northerly breeze. Broad, straight streets led from the outskirts of the city to its center, terminating at the great plaza fronting the palace of Pharaoh. Before those cedar doors, soldiers of the Calasirian Guard stood like stone monuments, spears ground at attention, eyes forward, their manner unfazed by the sight of a horse and rider crossing the plaza. The people gathering there, the merchants and scribes, sycophants and servants, all hoping for an audience with Pharaoh, stopped and stared.

Blood drenched the rider’s thigh and his horse’s flank.

Tjemu swayed, sweat pouring off his ashen forehead. He had ridden without pause from Leontopolis, eating in the saddle and catching what rest he could on the boats that ferried him over the different branches of the Nile. To his fevered perception, it felt as though a week had passed since the battle. It had been three days.

Tjemu drew rein. His head swam. His legs felt rubbery and unsure as he clambered off his horse; the right one ached beyond measure as he put his weight on it. He staggered up the palace steps.

“You,” he growled at one of the immobile guards. “Fetch your commander! I bear grave news for Pharaoh!” The guard said nothing, his eyes never moved, his spear remained ground at rest. “Are you deaf? Fetch …”

“No need to shout,” said a man behind Tjemu.

The Libyan hobbled about to face the newcomer. He was Egyptian, impossibly tall with a lean, almost feline, musculature that rippled beneath skin the color of dark copper. Beneath a short wig, banded in gold, his sharp face bore a passing similarity to images of the god Horus. He wore a kilt of white linen. Incongruous to this, a faded leather belt supported a sheathed knife, the ivory hilt worn from use. He patted the horse’s neck and allowed it to nibble from a rind of melon.

“I am Nebmaatra, captain of the Calasirian Guard. Give me your message. I’ll see that Pharaoh gets it.”

Tjemu gritted his teeth. His vision swam. “The only person I’m giving this message to sits on a throne in yonder palace. C-Conduct me to …” The Libyan stumbled. Nebmaatra caught him before he could fall. A gesture from the captain brought a pair of guards running. They supported the Libyan’s weight as Nebmaatra knelt and lifted the sodden edge of the bandage.

“Unless we get this bleeding stopped,” Nebmaatra said gravely, “the only person you’ll be giving your message to is Lord Osiris.”

“Sons of buggering whores!” Tjemu roared, swatting at the priest-physician stitching his thigh. Nimbly, the man ducked then went back to his ministrations. The Libyan glared at Nebmaatra. “I didn’t kill two horses getting to Sais just so I could be pampered and petted! When can I see the Pharaoh?” No one had been able to pry the diplomatic pouch from Tjemu’s fist; the last attempt brought him uncomfortably close to murder.

“Calm yourself, Libyan,” Nebmaatra replied, looking up from a papyrus scroll. He sat on a divan, a scribe at his elbow holding a palette and a reed pen. The small side chamber where his men brought the Libyan lay on the first floor of the palace, beneath the balcony called the Window of Appearances. Here, Pharaoh greeted the masses on festival days, showering them with small gifts and trinkets in the manner of the ancient kings. “Pharaoh is a man of ritual. Before he tackles the affairs of state, he must first see to the affairs of the gods.”

Nebmaatra laughed to himself. He had spoken that lie so often he almost believed it. A man of ritual? God-fearing? Ahmose was many things, but neither of those could be counted among his attributes. He was a common soldier thrust into an uncommon position. A general in the army of his predecessor, Haaibre Apries, Ahmose gained the throne by dint of his popularity with the native troops. Now, Pharaoh spent his mornings wrestling with the affairs of state, and the balance of his days wrestling with wine jugs and his own impending mortality. He was a fair ruler, Nebmaatra reckoned, wise in his own way and a shrewd statesman, but nothing like the god-kings of the elder days.

The physician bandaged Tjemu’s thigh with fresh strips of linen, then rose and gathered his things. Nebmaatra handed the scroll back to the scribe. “He’ll live?”

The physician nodded. “The spear missed the artery. It should mend well, so long as he keeps it clean and dry.”

“Good. Now, Medjay, let’s see about getting you an audience with …”

Without warning a man swept into the room, his austere white robes rustling about him, his face dark, lined, severe. His eyes burned with an imperious fire. The physician and the scribe bowed low; Nebmaatra came to his feet with a warrior’s grace and inclined his head.

“Vizier.”

The vizier, Sethnakhte, ignored Nebmaatra and fixed his gaze on Tjemu. His lips curled back in a perfect, haughty sneer. “You are the … messenger?”

“I am,” the Libyan growled, bristling.

“Your message, then. Quickly!” Sethnakhte said.

“I have only seen Pharaoh from afar, but I am positive you are not him,” Tjemu said. “If you cannot pave a way for me to see him, then stand aside. I tire of this game you call bureaucracy.”

“Impudent wretch!” Sethnakhte roared. He moved quickly, faster than his thin frame belied. One manicured hand lashed out like a leather strap, striking Tjemu across the mouth. “Speak thus to me again, and I will see you flogged!”

Murder danced in Tjemu’s eyes as he lurched to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. Nebmaatra interjected himself between the two men.

“Control yourself!” the commander said. He turned to the vizier. “This man has ridden two days and nights with a wound that would leave most men bedridden. He bears important news from the frontier, from Hasdrabal Barca. The quicker we secure him an audience with Pharaoh, the quicker he can discharge his duty.”

“Barca, eh? I can only imagine what message
he
would send.” The vizier spun and stormed from the room. Nebmaatra watched him with eyes narrowed to slits. Doubts about the vizier’s loyalty were ever on the forefront of his mind. Rumor placed him in opposition to the throne, in collusion with the Theban aristocracy who favored replacing Pharaoh. Another scandal had Sethnakhte plotting with the Persians for the double-crown. Unfortunately, rumor and innuendo had a way of sliding off the vizier like oil off mud. To catch him, Nebmaatra knew he would need something far more substantial.

“I apologize for that,” Nebmaatra said, helping Tjemu along.

“He’s one pleasant son of a whore,” Tjemu muttered, rubbing his jaw.

“Sethnakhte believes when he looks in a mirror, he beholds the face of a god. As such, it is difficult for him to show humility and courtesy around this flock of mere mortals.”

“God or not, he touches me again,” Tjemu said, “they’ll find his body floating face down in the Nile.”

A gesture from Nebmaatra brought a pair of servants to Tjemu’s side. They eased him into a chair, hoisted it, and bore the wounded man along at a quickened pace. Morning sunlight streamed through windows high in the walls, casting a warm golden glow over scenes of Pharaoh smiting hordes of his enemy. Petitioners of noble blood lined their path. Their voices, though not above a whisper, buzzed with indignation at being superseded by a grimy foreigner.

The guards flanking the entrance to the throne room snapped to attention at the vizier’s approach. Door wardens, feathered Nubians in leopard skin cloaks, levered the gold-sheathed portals open. Tjemu swallowed. He felt his throat go dry; his tongue became a shank of old leather. Beyond those doors dwelt the Son of Ra. His chair-bearers put him down; Nebmaatra offered him his arm. Tjemu shrugged him off. He would make it the rest of the way on his own.

The great valves swung apart, revealing a smaller room dominated by four columns. Between them, atop a dais of black marble, rested the golden throne of Pharaoh. A man stood at the base of the royal dais — a young, vigorous figure in an elaborately woven black wig. He wore a fine linen kilt and a pectoral of faience and carnelian and lapis lazuli. His frank gaze spoke of a keen intellect.

“That is Prince Psammetichus, Pharaoh’s heir and First Servant of Neith,” Nebmaatra whispered. “A good man, though hampered by the advice of imbeciles.” He looked pointedly at the vizier.

If Tjemu heard him, he gave no indication of it. His eyes were drawn upward, his whole being consumed by the man who sat upon the dais. Pharaoh Khnemibre Ahmose, Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt, Divine Son of Ra, called Amasis Philhellene by the Greeks, sat easily on his throne, a man born to rule. Forty-four years had passed since he usurped the crown, since he evolved from mortal general into living god, and he wore those years heavily. His shoulders were square, and the muscles of his arms and chest, though loose with inactivity, had not yet turned to gristle. He striped head-cloth, offset by a golden cobra writhing at his brow. The crook and flail, twin symbols of kingship, lay in his lap. Wide-set eyes above a falcate nose regarded the men, and a hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.