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 Horns 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! '
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
