Men of Bronze (9 page)

Though in manner and dress the woman could pass for Egyptian, her features marked her as foreign. Cascades of dark hair framed her high cheekbones, and her sharp nose and pointed chin were of such perfect proportion as to instill envy in the breast of Egypt’s artisans. Deep-set eyes the color of smoke expressed more with a single look than a thousand words could convey, and they told a tale, for those who cared to read them, of a life spent in servitude.

The woman, Jauharah, was a slave.

Slave
. The word did not sting as it once had. She had learned its meaning at the hard and calloused hands of her father. By her tenth year, he had beaten and raped into her the bitter truth of life: a woman was no better than an animal, good for bearing sons and cooking, but little else. The next year, after being traded to an Edomite slaver for two goats, that truth was reinforced by the cunning application of a rawhide whip. Jauharah endured a succession of brutal lords before master Idu bought her from a lecherous old merchant in Jerusalem. Rescued her, more like.

Ahead, the white-plastered walls of the villa glimmered in the darkness. That flat-roofed, rambling structure could have easily become a prison had Idu been cut from the same cloth as her previous masters. Nothing cruel or meanspirited existed in him. Never had he raised a hand in anger, or assumed she could serve him best in his bed. For Jauharah, a slave’s life in Egypt held far more promise than the life of a free woman in her native Palestine. Here, Idu taught her, even a slave had rights. She could marry, own goods and property, and even buy her own slaves, provided she could maintain them. In time, she might even scrimp and save enough to purchase her freedom. Ten years had passed since she left Jerusalem, and in that time Idu’s kindness healed many of Jauharah’s scars, binding her to the family with shackles far stronger than bronze.

On cat’s feet, Jauharah mounted the steps to the portico and slipped into the villa. From the vestibule, it would be a small matter to check in on the girls, Meryt and Tuya, then sneak off to the kitchen for a cup of beer and a honey cake. Her path, though, carried her close by the tightly-shuttered doors of the east hall. There, she paused. Voices resonated inside. Jauharah crept closer, listening.

“… understand your concern, but your father was right, Idu. We can’t fight the Greeks with rhetoric and good intentions!” Jauharah peered through a crack in the door. Five men clustered in a circle; three of them nodded in agreement with the speaker, a stately fellow with close-cropped hair gone white with age. A sixth chair stood empty.

“What would you suggest, Amenmose?” Idu said, his voice growing sharp with anger. “That we take up sticks and rocks and storm the garrison? That would be foolhardy, and you know it! My father knows it, as well! I will not let impatience force us into an action we cannot win!”

Idu, a thick man, squat and round, had a pockmarked face and gentle eyes that belied his ferocious sense of justice. In height, in temperament, in desires, in all ways, he stood in antithesis to Menkaura. With nothing in common, father and son kept clear of each other’s social circles, coming together only for business. Tonight, the business was sedition. From what Jauharah could gather, at the noon hour tomorrow, a granary in the shadow of the fortress, Ineb-hedj, would burn as a sign of growing unrest. Menkaura preached stronger action. Violence against holdings first, Idu countered, against men later. Menkaura’s furious exodus prompted Jauharah to check the gate.

She heard Idu sigh. “I know you all want something more, something dramatic, but the time is not yet ripe for that. If we confront the Greeks openly, they will shed Egyptian blood. I cannot, in good conscience, support such a disastrous course of action. No, we must bide our time and occupy ourselves with such small victories as a burned granary.”

Reluctantly, even Amenmose could see the wisdom in that. It took only a few more moments to solidify their plans, and then the conspirators scattered into the night, leaving Idu alone with his thoughts. Quietly, Jauharah entered the columned east hall and began gathering up the goblets and platters. Idu looked up and handed his empty goblet to her. “The family?” he asked.

“They have gone to slumber.”

Idu pursed his lips, thinking. He glanced sidewise at the woman. “What is your opinion on this matter, Jauharah? On the things you heard this evening? Don’t try and deny it since I know your hearing is sharper than a cat’s. Do you think we are doing the right thing?”

“I have no opinion save what you tell me, master.”

“Have you no rancor for the Greeks? Does it not boil your blood to see them strutting like peacocks through the streets?”

“I am a slave, master. What I like or dislike is of little consequence. I exist to serve you and your family as best I can. The world outside this house, I leave in the hands of those more capable than I. If you think burning a granary is best, then it must be best.”

Idu shook his head. “I did not teach you to read and write so you could play the fool, Jauharah. It does not become you. You have an opinion about everything. Tell me what you think.”

Jauharah sighed. After a moment, she said, “Burning a granary is like swatting a viper with a roll of papyrus — no damage is done beyond angering the viper. The Greeks will react the only way they know how: with violence.”

Idu chewed his lip. “I see how people might arrive at that conclusion, but I don’t believe they would risk violence yet. They will issue more edicts and pitch a child’s tantrum.”

“Master,” Jauharah said, choosing her words with care. “Is it wise for you to get so involved in this? If something happens to you, what will become of mistress Tetisheri and the children? The Greeks will not sit idle once they discover who leads this insurrection.”

“And I cannot sit idle while my kin and my friends embark on an unwise course of action, Jauharah. You heard them. Without me, they would charge off and get themselves killed. My father is a good man, don’t misunderstand, but he’s always been a hothead.” Idu sighed. “Thothmes worships him. Hekaib is terrified of him. Ibebi and Amenmose would defer to his judgement because they respect his age, his accomplishments. No, Jauharah, I must be involved in this, if for no other reason than to provide balance.”

Jauharah bowed her head. A familiar sense of helplessness welled up from deep inside her. “Would that I had been born your son, and not the daughter of a filthy Asiatic shepherd,” she said, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Idu took her hand. “You would second-guess the gods, Jauharah? They make us who we are for a reason, for a purpose. Their plan is inscrutable to us, but I would not change it for all the world. You are like a well-spring of strength to me, no matter your heritage.”

Tears sparkled on Jauharah’s cheeks. “Thank you, master.”

Idu stood and stretched, his bones creaking. “The girls are ecstatic about going with you to the bazaar tomorrow,” he said. Jauharah laughed, wiping her eyes.

“They begged me to teach them how to roast a goose,” she said. “Meryt wants a white one, thinking the meat will be softer, but Tuya thinks white geese are sacred to Isis. They’ve been squabbling about it all afternoon.”

Idu smiled. “Knowing Tuya, she’ll see the goose and wish to rescue it, then our ducks will have a graceful companion while we go hungry.” He shuffled toward the suite of rooms he shared with his wife and children.

“Mistress Tetisheri said much the same thing,” Jauharah said. “Is there anything you need before retiring?”

“No, Jauharah. That will be all. Good night.”

“Master.” Jauharah hugged herself. “Be careful tomorrow.”

“It is only a granary, dear girl,” he said. “Only a granary.”

Barca checked his surroundings, wondering if Matthias could have sent him to the wrong street. The neighborhood did not meet the Phoenician’s expectations of where a former general should dwell. Even the house, a small, single-storey affair of plastered mud-brick with an awning tacked on above the door almost as an afterthought, fit more into the mold of a retired laborer’s home. No lights burned in the windows. Indeed, the place looked deserted. Perhaps Matthias had been mistaken?

The Judaean begged off coming himself, claiming his age made it unlikely he could slip out unseen by those who watched his house. Instead, Barca trusted him with a different matter. “At dawn, my men will be entering the city. Intercept them and tell Ithobaal everything you’ve told me.” Matthias agreed and laid out the simplest way of reaching this man he thought could aid them.

As Barca watched, an old Egyptian shuffled up the street, muttering under his breath. He carried a round loaf of bread and a stoppered jug.

“Old man,” Barca said, stepping into view. “Is this the house of Menkaura?”

The fellow gave a start, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I seek Menkaura.”

“You’ve found him, boy. Now, what the hell do you want?”

Barca blinked. This Menkaura, the man Matthias swore was a general, looked more like an aged stone mason, his scalp wrinkled and hairless, his once-thick frame gone to gristle. That the old man’s leathery skin bore the white tracks of ancient scar tissue was the only indication of his former occupation. Even his pleated kilt hearkened back to an earlier age. “I am Hasdrabal Barca, commander of the Medjay.”

Menkaura grunted in surprise. “I’ve heard of you. You’re a far piece from the frontier, boy. Have you quit the desert for gentler climes? In my day dereliction of duty was punishable by death. Apries counseled me once to practice restraint with deserters. I was young then, green, but I told him restraint was what made the men desert in the first place. They needed a hard hand …”

Barca cut him off. “I’m not a deserter. But the Greeks will be unless you help me.”

Menkaura eyed him, scrubbing the back of his hand across his nose. “Help you? Are you daft, boy?”

“It’s best if we discuss this off the street,” Barca said.

Menkaura mulled it over, grunting, muttering under his breath. Finally, he agreed and led the way into his home.

A lamp flared, and light bathed their faces. As far as Barca could tell, the house was a single room, tiled in rough stone and strewn with multi-colored rugs. Despite its exterior, the place looked immaculate. Crockery bowls and plates were stacked above a barrel of fresh water, clothes hung from pegs, even the sleeping pallet was squared away, blankets folded beneath a wooden head rest. Though not the home of a general, Barca could tell a soldier dwelt here.

Menkaura set his jug and loaf on a low table and motioned for Barca to take one of two antique campaign chairs. “What’s this blather about the Greeks deserting, and me helping you stop them?”

Barca sketched out everything he knew, from the battle at Leontopolis to his plans to delay Phanes until Pharaoh could muster the army. “But, in order to make such a diversion work I need a man who has the ear of the people. That’s where I need you. You were a general …”

“A man might be a priest, boy, but that doesn’t make him pious,” Menkaura said bitterly. “Look around you. Is this the home of a man with the ear of the people? Doesn’t look like it to me. It’s the home of a man who has been humbled. Whatever currency I had with the common man, I lost at Cyrene, and later against Ahmose. No, my son Idu is the one you should be talking to, though I daresay you and he would hardly see eye to eye on what should be done. He has aspirations of leading the sons of Horus in a rhetorical rebellion. He believes the Greeks will slink away, chastised, after he gives them a fine tongue lashing!”

Barca squinted at the old Egyptian. “Consider this, then. I’ve been in Memphis only a handful of hours, and already I know who stands opposed to Phanes. Do you think the Greek is any less informed? I would wager my life that he is well aware of your son’s activities and will move to silence him, should he become too vocal. You, with your military background, are likely already marked for death.”

Menkaura snorted. “Your handful of hours in Memphis have given you infallible insight, eh?”

“I know this because it’s what I would do,” the Phoenician said, his voice hard. “For the love of the gods, man! Has age made a dotard of you? If Phanes is half as smart as they say he is, he’ll make an example of your whole damn family!”

The old man grumbled, rubbed his nose. “What do you want from me, Phoenician?”

“Gather together your kin, your friends, every man you know of who has fought or served in the army, in the temples, even those who have guarded caravans. Divide them into groups, and give each group a mission — a man to kill, a house to burn, something. Denounce the Greeks on every street corner and in every pleasure house. Can you do that?”

Menkaura hemmed and hawed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Barca could not tell why he was so loath to agree to such a thing. Did he prefer living under Greek rule? Maybe the defeat at Cyrene had stripped his confidence from him?

“Amon’s balls!” Barca said at length. “I offer you a chance to lead an armed rebellion, to reclaim the glory of Egypt, and all you can do is grouse and grumble! Take me to your son, then. Perhaps Idu’s stones haven’t yet shriveled to the size of chickpeas!”