Men of Bronze (35 page)

Neith’s temple lay atop a rounded knoll, surrounded by dikes and canals that shunted the Nile’s flood waters into the fields. The lands around the temple formed a bureaucratic hub, an age-old infrastructure that grew and hardened around the throne as calcium around stone. Offices and archives; granaries and storehouses, it was a microcosm of the city itself where priest and scribe worked in tandem to turn Pharaoh’s will into reality.

Tonight, Pharaoh’s will was to be left alone to ponder the past, present and future in relative solitude. Clad in a short kilt, a linen cloak thrown over his shoulders, Psammetichus walked barefoot beneath huge ornamental pylons, his eyes drawn to the mammoth figures of the goddess etched into the stone. Neith, patron goddess of Sais and protector of the royal house, was the Primeval Woman: hard and merciless to Egypt’s foes, yet nurturing in her guise as mother of Sobek. Warriors prayed to her for strength in battle as women did for strength in motherhood. Who needed her more?

Psammetichus passed through the gate and into the temple courtyard. Here, ancient sycamores and willows lined a long reflection pool. The scent of lilies hung in the heavy air. Chapels flanked the pool, some small and austere, others like miniature temples with colonnades and galleries and monumental statues. They were his ancestors, the kings of his line: Wahibre Psammetichus, who threw off the yoke of Assyrian rule and reunified Egypt; Wehemibre Nekau, the canal-builder; Neferibre Psammetichus, who brought Nubia back under Egypt’s thumb; Haaibre Apries, the hated. The tomb closest to him he knew well — it belonged to his father.

Compared with the tombs of the ancient kings, the burial chapel of Khnemibre Ahmose was little more than a stone hall set above a burial vault. His father’s mummy would not be in residence, not until the customary seventy days of mourning were over. Psammetichus mounted the steps and crossed the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Ambient moonlight trickled through the door, giving a haunting semblance of life to the statues and hieroglyphs. He wandered along and studied the carved walls, the painted columns, reading again the exploits of his father. Here, against the north wall, was his favorite depiction of his sire. He called it Ahmose Triumphant, upraised axe menacing a horde of fleeing Asiatics, a romanticized retelling of Egypt’s bloody legacy in Palestine. Psammetichus knew no such event happened during his father’s reign. Ahmose ruled through diplomacy rather than violence. “Do not plunder the house of your neighbors,” he was fond of saying, “when they will gladly give all they have to aid a friend.”

Psammetichus traced a finger across his father’s stone visage. “What would you do, Father, now that diplomacy has failed? Would you mass an army at Pelusium to entrench and wait, or would you attempt something more daring?”

A sound roused Psammetichus from his introspection, a scuff of a foot on stone. He glanced up, expecting to see Nebmaatra’s glowering visage, and beheld the concerned face of the priest, Ujahorresnet.

“Your honored father would do very little differently, I think,” Ujahorresnet said. The older man bowed. “I am sorry if I intrude, Pharaoh. I saw you in the courtyard and decided to follow in case you had need of anything.”

“You didn’t like my father, did you?”

Ujahorresnet pursed his lips. “I will not lie to you, Pharaoh. No. Your father and I disagreed on many things. Bitterly disagreed. A loose tongue earned me banishment to the temple in Memphis. Now, I fear my tongue wags too freely again. If you will excuse me, majesty, I will leave you to your introspections.”

Psammetichus sighed, touching the walls, running his fingers along the
shenu
of his father. “It’s all right, Ujahorresnet. I would talk with you. You said my father would do very little differently. What would he have done that I have not?”

“Far be it from me to criticize, majesty, but I believe your father would have placed his trust in those men around him who have made waging war their life’s work.”

“Are the generals I have not adequate?”

Ujahorresnet clasped his hands and bowed. “I am sorry. I presume too much.”

“No, please. I would appreciate hearing your counsel on this matter,” Psammetichus said.

“As you wish,” Ujahorresnet said. “Your generals at Pelusium are politicians, not soldiers. They achieved their rank through fortuitous birth rather than martial skill. They are fine men, of that I am sure, else you would not have placed your trust in them, but they have no conception of the art of strategy. Would it not be better if one man alone acted as your regent on the field? A born soldier who is not mired in the politics and backbiting of court?”

The thought intrigued Psammetichus. “Who would you suggest I trust with this command?”

Ujahorresnet had a man in mind, a man Gobartes assured him would falter if given such responsibility, but he did not say it at once. Instead, he gave the impression of great soul searching, deep thought. Finally, he said, “The man who has proven himself most worthy of that honor is Nebmaatra.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, majesty,” Ujahorresnet said. “I am quite sane. Nebmaatra has skills your generals could not match if they were to pool them. He is a decisive leader, of a good family, and highly regarded by the nobles. In raw martial skill, he is the finest. Only Barca,” the priest’s voice cracked, “can eclipse him.”

“I agree with you that he’s capable, but placing him in command of all my forces? I cannot see the wisdom in that.”

“If nothing else,” Ujahorresnet said, “it’s what your father would do.”

Psammetichus said nothing for quite a while, his brows furrowed in concentration. He paced back and forth, pausing once to stare at the image of his father. “I don’t know about this.”

Ujahorresnet tried to regulate his breathing, to appear nonchalant. In truth, he did not feel like a traitor. Despite Gobartes’ thoughts to the contrary, Nebmaatra
was
the best candidate for such a position. Pharaoh only needed a bit of nudging to see it. This whole enterprise might lead to Persia’s defeat at Pelusium. If that happened, Egypt will have lost nothing by his meddling.

“In truth,” Ujahorresnet said, “have you anything to lose?”

Pharaoh sighed. “No. No, I have nothing to lose. Preparing for war is difficult in its own right, and all the more so when I must devote my waking hours to many things, my father’s funeral not the least of them. If I could trust someone with this, it would be a tremendous weight off my shoulders. The generals I have now are capable men, as you said, but you are also correct in your assessment of their political aspirations. They fight each other when they should be united to fight the Persians. I don’t trust them to do what’s best for Egypt.”

“Nebmaatra will do just that, majesty. As for trust … do you not trust him with your life and the lives of your wives and children? Would the trust of Egypt mean any less to him?”

“Yes. I begin to see your wisdom, Ujahorresnet. I believe I will take your counsel to heart,” Psammetichus said. “Nor will I dawdle. Come. Accompany me back to the palace.”

Ujahorresnet bowed and flashed his best self-deprecating smile. A sense of triumph welled up from deep inside him, a sense of still having the wherewithal to play the game of kings. It was a heady feeling. “I am honored I could aid you, majesty, but my place is here, in the temple. I could not …”

“You cannot refuse me.” Psammetichus laughed. “Come, my friend. I have need of a man like you, more so now that I am sending my right hand away. You are a man who speaks true and has no ambition beyond service. Follow me. I will show you a little known way into the palace.”

Ujahorresnet, smiling to himself, could do nothing but agree.

“Anything?” Nebmaatra barked.

“No, sir,” the lieutenant said, sweat running down his face. “We searched the river quarter and among the quays. No sign of Pharaoh.”

“Redeploy!” Nebmaatra’s anger rose by the second. “Search the whorehouses and wine shops of the foreign quarter.”

“Surely Pharaoh would not …”

“Do it!” Nebmaatra’s voice cracked, his jaws set and locked. The lieutenant, knowing his commander rarely lost his temper, wisely saluted and rounded up his foot-sore troopers.

Hours had passed since the Calasirians had mustered in the palace courtyard. Hours since he dispersed them into every conceivable nook, cranny, street, alley, rooftop, and cellar. They returned bearing a steady stream of reports, all negative, that wore Nebmaatra’s nerves to breaking. It was as if Pharaoh had vanished from this world.

Nebmaatra looked up, his brows beetling, as an escort of soldiers brought the Persian envoy to him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gobartes said, his beard bristling. He spoke fluent Egyptian, but his Persian accent slaughtered the syllables mercilessly. “You think me some kind of sneak-thief or base murderer?”

“Yes,” Nebmaatra said flatly. “And if I discover you had any hand in this, I’ll gut you myself!”

“Hand in what? Perhaps I could help you if I knew what happened,” said the Persian.

“Do not play me for a fool, envoy!”

“I cannot play you for what you are!” The Persian did not quail as Nebmaatra’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Will you kill me now for speaking what I know in my heart is true? Perhaps whatever happened tonight is your doing, eh?”

Metal hissed against leather. “Release him,” Nebmaatra ordered the guards on each side of the envoy. “Give him a weapon. I am not Persian, Gobartes. I do not kill unarmed men!”

“Enough, commander!”

The voice came from above, from the Window of Appearances. All eyes glanced up, seeing the cloaked figure of the Pharaoh with the priest Ujahorresnet at his side. Nebmaatra’s blood boiled, but he maintained his composure and even forced a brief chuckle through gritted teeth. Psammetichus seemed less solemn, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders.

“Pharaoh,” Nebmaatra said, “your safety is not a trifling thing. We …”

“I am sorry, commander,” Pharaoh said. “Consider my nocturnal roaming as an exercise in preparedness and leave it at that.” He gazed at the men clustered in the plaza below, then nodded to himself. “Attend me, all of you.”

Nebmaatra sheathed his sword. “We will finish this soon, Persian,” he whispered to Gobartes as he passed.

The audience chamber lay off the main throne room. By design it was smaller, more intimate, meant to be a place where Pharaoh could greet special guests, foreign ambassadors, even members of the royal family. The friezes and paintings on the walls placed less emphasis on the military aspects of rulership and more on the promotion of the hearth. There were scenes of Pharaoh honoring the goddesses Isis and Hathor, of a husband and wife fowling in the marshes, of children frolicking among lotus blooms and papyrus stalks.

Pharaoh sat on a low dais, smiling, as Nebmaatra led the way into the chamber. His Calasirians took up positions along the walls, their glittering armor incongruous against the pastoral decor. Courtiers, priests, and servants filed in after, roused from their slumber by the commotion. Gobartes, flanked by guards, entered last.

Psammetichus motioned to his servants. “Fetch the Overseer of Scribes.”

Nebmaatra looked at him curiously. Pharaoh sat still, his nervous twitter gone. His eyes glittered with resolve. For a moment Nebmaatra wondered if Pharaoh had been poisoned. The commander let his eyes slide around the audience chamber, noting the cryptic smile on the face of the old priest, Ujahorresnet. It occurred to him that there were many forms of poison, the most insidious being the poison of words. Words spoken to promote an agenda, to undermine, to cast shadows of doubt on the sound judgement of others. It was a poison with no easy antidote.

Psammetichus had been gone long enough to ingest a lethal dose.

“Majesty,” Nebmaatra said, moving close so as not to be overheard by the milling throng which grew by the second. “You are tired. Are you sure you wish to conduct affairs of state by the light of the moon?”

“Nonsense, commander. I am fine,” Pharaoh replied. He smiled. “Indeed, my course of action has never been clearer.” Murmurs swept the crowd as the Overseer of Scribes, hastily clad in a rumpled linen robe, came huffing into the audience chamber. Pharaoh gestured to his side. “Khasekhem, my friend, assume your position at my right hand.”