'Give my regards to Polydices,' the Phoenician snarled as he struck the Greek's head from his shoulders.
Sheer awe kept Jauharah rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the deadly scene before her. The man, Barca, moved with an uncommon grace; never a wasted movement, a false step, his sword an extension of himself. Jauharah had never seen anything like it.
Neither had Menkaura. Jauharah noted the look of shock on the old man's face. That a general who had fought in countless battles, a man inured to the horrors of war, could register such surprise left a cold knot in the pit of Jauharah's belly.
She heard the Phoenician speak, but the voice was not the same one she had heard minutes earlier. It was hard, guttural and full of rage: 'Give my regards to Polydices!' Then, as suddenly as it began, the fight ended.
Barca stepped away from his handiwork, from the six Greeks he had sent to Hades' realm. He crouched, cleaning his sword on one of the dark cloaks the would-be assassins had cast aside. All was perfectly still. In the distance, Jauharah heard the barking of a dog, the harsh grate of voices.
'We'd best get off the street,' Barca said, rising. 'Unless you want to be seen standing over six Greek corpses.'
'Merciful …!' Menkaura's voice faltered. Jauharah blinked, staring at the Phoenician's bloodstained hands without realizing he was speaking. 'What of my son?'
'If he's dead there's no use going on any further.'
'T-The children,' Jauharah said, choking back tears. 'We should see t-to the children.'
After a long silence, Barca agreed. 'Bring the girl.'
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.
5
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 flattopped 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 Horns. 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
