himself.
'My thanks, brothers,' Barca whispered, rising. Someone had spotted him, but how? How? With a savage growl, Barca moved to the alley mouth, flattened his body against the wall, and peered out into the street.
The Street of the Chaldeans was not a well-planned thoroughfare. Some buildings thrust out beyond their neighbors or sat at odd angles, as if the architect suffered from a malady that made him incapable of straight lines. At one end of the street, a grove of palm trees rose around the base of the Spear. At the other, a small wine shop still did a brisk custom at this late hour, catering to foreign merchants and caravan guards. The house of Matthias ben lesu lay halfway down the street, toward the obelisk, its dilapidated facade recessed into shadow.
Movement under the palm trees caught Barca's eye. A man waited there, just as the beggar had said. The figure stood, stretched, then crouched down again, barely visible in the darkness. His attitude spoke of wariness, patience, as if he were waiting for something. Or someone. Barca's eyes narrowed. No matter. He knew another way in.
Matthias ben lesu wrote by the uneven light of an oil lamp. Failing eyes forced his body into a question mark over the sheet of papyrus, his back bowed like the Hebrew slaves of legend who toiled beneath the vicious eyes of Pharaoh. Matthias paused, scraping the tip of his reed pen across a moistened cake of ink, then continued:
Memphis is a cruel city, cousin. Cruel and unforgiving. In Babylon they respected my art; it was sought after by prince and pauper, alike. Here, in Egypt, theyrevile me as a charlatan. Iha ye no hope. That is the crux of this letter, dear cousin. I wish to return, to have my banishment lifted so at the very leastI can die with dignity
'Dignity.' Matthias set his pen aside and straightened, flexing his cramped fingers. With his gray-black beard and fringe of hair ringing his bald scalp, Matthias ben Iesu could have passed for a desert patriarch. He stared into the wavering flame of the oil lamp, his eyes lost amid the lines and folds of his face. 'Is that too much to ask, 0 Lord of Hosts?'
Matthias glanced up as a breeze redolent of smoke and Nile mud stirred the scrap of papyrus under his fingers. He sat beneath a loggia that partially enclosed his roof, forming a three-walled room he jokingly called his observatory. He could see very little beyond the circle of light cast by his oil lamp. A pair of potted plants stood just outside the loggia, a woven reed mat on the ground between them. The moon's thin illumination gave a sheen of silver to the surface of the knee-high brick wall ringing his roof.
Something moved in the deeper shadow near the edge of the roof. A cat? No, it was too large. Matthias frowned. He had been out most of the evening, dining at the wine shop down the street in hopes of overhearing bits of gossip, idle chatter, anything scandalous he could use to his advantage. Had someone followed him home, mistaking him for a man of means rather than the vagabond he had become? Annoyed, he rose and stepped out onto the rooftop terrace. 'Is someone there?' he said.
An arm shot out of the gloom. The Judaean's eyes goggled as a hand clamped over his mouth. 'Silence, Matthias,' a voice exhorted, softly. A voice Matthias knew. 'Forgive my rude entry, but men watch your house and unless I'm wrong, they watch for me.'
'Barca?' He gaped. 'Hasdrabal Barca? How … how didyou…T'
Barca grinned. 'I scaled your wall. Mud brick is like a ladder to a Phoenician.'
'Merciful God of Abraham! What are you doing here?' The Judaean clasped Barca's arm.
'It's a long, dry tale.' Barca cocked his head to one side, listening. 'Have you any wine, Matthias?'
'Look at me,' Matthias said, 'I have the manners of a swineherd. Come.' He led Barca beneath the loggia. 'It has been … what? … five years since we last crossed paths? It must be something momentous to draw you from your haunts in the East.' From a shelf Matthias took down two terracotta bowls, chipped and burnished with age, and an amphora of deep russet pottery emblazoned with the symbol of the vineyards of Naxos. He poured a measure of resin-thickened wine into one bowl, then paused.
'You still take it unwatered?'
'Is there another way?' The Phoenician propped his hip against the desk.
Matthias chuckled and filled the other bowl, handing it to Barca. He set the amphora on the desk between them.
'What's happened, Matthias? Last I heard you were making gold like fabled King Midas. Now.. ' He indicated the shabby condition of the house.
Matthias shrugged and sat. 'Would you frequent an astrologer who couldn't discern his own fortunes? I wouldn't. No, my friend, I'm a victim of my own arrogance. These Egyptians, these astrologer-priests, they have forgotten more about the heavens than I'll ever know. I thought my years of study in Babylon would stand me in good stead among them. And for a while it did.' The Judaean laughed bitterly. 'But, when I wouldn't grovel on my belly before the First Seer of Amon — that heathen idolater! — they branded me a charlatan, a fraud. What wealth I had evaporated, and now the only custom I have comes from the dregs of the Foreign Quarter.'
Barca looked disapprovingly at the old Judaean. 'You should have come to me, Matthias. If it's money you need.. '
Matthias shook his head, smiling. 'I would not accept it. The measure of my god's ill will is mine, and mine alone, to bear without complaint or charity, Phoenician. But, my thanks for the offer. You must tell me, before my curiosity gets the better of me, why have you come to Memphis?'
Barca drained his bowl and held it out for a refill. Matthias obliged. He stared at the Phoenician, unable to read the inscrutable look in his eye. Barca took his bowl back and, in a paucity of words, recalled the past few days: the battle at Leontopolis, the dead Persian, the letter. 'Cambyses offered the garrison a king's ransom to switch their allegiances, and I fear Phanes has agreed.'
'I am not surprised.'
'What have you heard, Matthias?'
The Judaean smoothed his beard like a learned Pharisee. 'It is not so much what I've heard as what I've seen. The Greeks rule Memphis like gilded tyrants, Barca. They do as they please with the blessing of the governor, Petenemheb. Those who speak out against them do so only once.'
'What of the garrison? How many men does Phanes have at his disposal?' Barca said. Matthias had never served in the army; indeed, Barca reckoned he had never picked up a blade in anger, but the Judaean's keen eyes and ears made him an invaluable source of intelligence.
'He has maybe two thousand hoplites and another five hundred mercenary peltasts, archers mostly, men of Crete and the Aegean. His polemarchs are a capable lot, veterans of those little civil wars the Greeks hold so dear. A Potidaean called Nicias commands the heavy infantry, the backbone of the garrison. Hyperides of Ithaca commands the light troops. Far more dangerous, though, is Phanes' second-in-command, Lysistratis, an exiled Spartan. There's a man Yahweh didn't bother wasting a soul on. He's brother to the serpent; as deadly as the scorpion underfoot. His men swear he is Patroclus to Phanes' Achilles. Surely, though, now that you know what's happening, your Medjay can stop the Greeks from defecting?'
'We could, but to send for them would leave the border undefended. Cambyses' envoys have stirred up the Bedouin. No, we have enough problems without having to repulse an invasion from Sinai,' Barca said. 'I've sent a man on to Sais. Once Pharaoh is informed, he can muster the regiment of Amon and the Calasirian Guard and be en route inside a week.'
'If your man gets through.' Matthias emptied his bowl and set it aside. The wine seemed tasteless now, oily. 'And if he does, will Pharaoh even care?'
Barca frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'We've all heard the rumors, Barca. Amasis is not the man he once was. He's become a drunkard, more interested in his harem than in governing. Even if only a fraction of the innuendo is true, well, it does not inspire me to confidence. Your man's warnings may fall prey to sheer apathy.'
Weariness crushed Barca's bones to dust. 'What's happened to Egypt's fear of Persian ambition?'
'Time has lessened it. Time and the aristocracy's hatred of Pharaoh. Amasis is a usurper. Though it's been fortyfour years since the deed was done, Egypt's nobility has a long memory.' Matthias flashed a weak smile. 'I cast my horoscope this evening. It spoke of titanic change. I should show it to that priggish idolater in Amon's temple and demand vindication. Have you a plan, Barca?'
The Phoenician stared into the depths of the lamp burning on Matthias' desk. A plan? The Greeks were entrenched in the soil of Memphis like the roots of a gnarled tree. It would take a major campaign to tear them out. A campaign that would cost the lives of many good men. Barca's eyes narrowed. 'Tell me, Matthias, how does a
