he was my son nonetheless. But their burials … '
'Let the girl handle them,' Barca offered.
'The girl?' Menkaura's voice dropped to a hiss. 'Didyou not hear me? She is Arabian, a Bedouin. I would as soon leave Idu unburied as to trust his eternal ka to a foreign slave! '
Barca shrugged. 'Then your son and his family died for nothing. I cannot fight the Greeks alone. I need help. I need you, Menkaura. But, I understand. The dead come before the living. Such is the Egyptian way.'
Menkaura said nothing, his brow creased in a troubling scowl. He stared out the window. In the distance, darkskinned workers in loincloths grubbed a boulder out of the ground on the edge of the field. The sounds of their voices, their tools, did not reach the house. Finally, he spoke: 'Tell me again how you would handle this thing. This diversion.'
'We operate independently of one another. While you inflame the people, my Medjay will wage a war of attrition. We need to sow chaos in their ranks, keep them off balance. That way, once Pharaoh arrives, the task of rooting them out will be less dangerous.' Barca stretched out full-length on the divan, his sword inches from his hand.
'You're sure Pharaoh is coming?'
'Depend on it, Menkaura.'
'Rest, then.' The old man sighed. 'I will consider your plan.'
'You do that,' Barca said, his eyes closing. He fought the inexorable pull of sleep. So much to do, so much to plan for, but his exhausted body overruled everything else. Slowly, he drifted off. 'You do that.'
By the second hour after dawn, an endless stream of humanity choked the Square of Deshur. Merchants, both Egyptian and foreign, erected stalls in the long shadows cast by the walls of Ptah's temple. All manner of bread, fruit, and meat could be found heaped on woven-straw platters. Women, matrons and their daughters, filed past mounds of old faience beads destined to find new life as jewelry. Their husbands and brothers clustered around temporary rope paddocks, haggling over the prices of sheep and cattle. Under awnings of striped linen, sculptors honed their craft on chunks of diorite and granite as their representatives bawled their praises to the crowd. Naked children darted and played underfoot.
Voices blended with smells: cones of fat infused with fragrant oils, strings of sun-dried fish, fresh onions, sweat, and offal. Motion, sound, and smell wove together, forming a hypnotic haze that overwhelmed the senses.
Matthias moved through the crowd like a man twice his age, his body leaden and heavy. What little sleep he had, if it could be called such, had been restless. The excitement of Barca's arrival, his revelations about Phanes, drove away the cloud of despair that had gripped him. He hurried past the Alabaster Sphinx, ignoring the pack of older children who had claimed it as their own and were hurling taunts down on the swelling mob. His destination lay in the lower corner of the square, where taverns and inns existed in profusion. There, if he understood Barca correctly, he would find the Medjay. The Judaean cursed himself for not rising before dawn to intercept them at the ferry.
Ahead, in a stall erected near the wall of the Mansion of Ptah, Matthias caught a glimpse of an arm bearing a tattooed uadjet Eyes accustomed to picking details out of the crowded heavens spotted others, too, in a variety of forms: amulets on thongs, bronze and gold buckles, lapis inlays. Their owners were milling about, studying the crowd, reconnoitering. As he drew closer, a voice rose above the clamor of the bazaar.
'You don't understand! I don't want to buy your whole shipment! Just enough for my men! '
An exasperated Egyptian voice answered. 'No! It is you who do not understand! I sell amphorae of wine, not bowls! There are taverns a-plenty down the street!'
The sight of the small merchant in his starched white kilt, his beaded collar flashing in the morning sun, striking a defiant pose against the lean and dusty Canaanite, Ithobaal, nearly sent Matthias into spasms of laughter. He could tell the graying old Medjay had about exhausted his boundless stores of patience. As Matthias approached, Ithobaal's hand had strayed toward his sword hilt.
'Peace, Ithobaal! Peace! Do not kill him, for he knows not what he does! Were I you, master merchant, I would reconsider selling a few juglets of your wares. I have seen the Medjay stake a man out in the sun for a lesser insult.'
Ithobaal glanced at Matthias, a twinkle in his eye.
The merchant paled, sweat popping out on his brow. 'M- Medjay?'
'Indeed,' Matthias said, touching the golden symbol inlaid in the obsidian pommel-stone of Ithobaal's sword. 'This is not the mark of a priest of Horus.'
'I … How much wine do you need?'
Ithobaal grinned. 'Enough for twenty men.' The merchant scurried off to locate a fitting vintage. Ithobaal drew Matthias aside. 'It is good to see you, friend Matthias. Still an adherent of the grape, I hope?'
Laughing, the Judaean nodded, clasping Ithobaal's hand. 'Only if you're still the voice of reason.'
'Precious little reason in our being here,' Ithobaal said. 'Where's Barca? Have you seen him?'
'Not since last night, though I doubt it not that the six men slain in the Foreign Quarter a few hours gone is his handiwork. He's got it in his head to organize the resistance against the Greeks.'
Ithobaal's face darkened. 'Damn it! I told him this would happen! I told him we were stepping into a nest of scorpions! '
'Before he left, he asked that I find you and offer you sanctuary in my home.'
'You're generous, friend Matthias, though unlike Barca, I would not deign put you at risk.'
The merchant returned and plucked at the Judaean's robe. 'S-Sir? The price is …'
'Price? These are soldiers of Pharaoh. Submit your cost to the Overseer of the Army and you will be reimbursed, as always.' Matthias glanced at Ithobaal. The Canaanite, lost in thought, tugged at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. 'Is that not correct, Ithobaal?'
Ithobaal glanced up. 'Forget the wine.'
The merchant breathed a sigh of relief. Ithobaal continued.
'He's playing with our lives this time, Matthias. I'm ordering the men to split up, to find somewhere and stay out of sight. I'll accompany you, and together we'll await Barca.' He turned to gesture to the Medjay when a distraction at the far end of the square caught his eye. Matthias followed his gaze.
A squad of hoplites entered the bazaar from the north end, using their brightly polished shields to part the crowd. Their helmets were lowered; their faces blank, expressionless bronze. Not even their eyes were visible.
'I don't like this,' Ithobaal said.
The Medjay fanned out.
The Greeks mimicked their maneuver, shields ready, spears cocked over their right shoulders. Bleats of terror rose from the men and women who packed the bazaar. They stampeded away from the hoplites. A child screamed.
Ithobaal drew his sword. 'The die is cast now, brothers! They're on to us! We'll have to cut our way free!'
Matthias stammered, color draining from his face. 'Ithobaal? '
'Get clear if you can!' the Canaanite said, jaw clenched. 'I'm sorry, Matthias!'
A man stepped to the front of the Greek line. He jacked his helmet back, revealing a long, sinister face. 'I am Lysistratis,' he said. 'I'm placing you men under arrest for the murder of Idu, son of Menkaura, and for being in league with the Persians! Do you yield?' A murmur of disbelief rose from the onlookers.
'Liar!' Ithobaal snarled. 'We've only just arrived in Memphis. If you would find murderers and Persian sympathizers, it would be wise to look among your own ranks!'
'Then, you plan to offer resistance?'
'No, I plan to tear your lying heart out! ' Ithobaal held his sword ready. All along their ragged line, the Medjay readied their weapons. The proud Horus-eye symbols they wore gave the hoplites a moment's hesitation as they recalled the reputation of the desert-fighters. The air crackled with tension.
'Good,' Lysistratis smiled. 'I hoped you would have some fight left in you. Archers! '
From rooftops on each side of the bazaar Ithobaal saw dozens of figures rise up, men of Crete in soft felt caps and leather tunics. Bronze-heads glittered in the sun. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 'Damn you, Hasdrabal Barca! '
