To answer their call, Barca needed a way out. Anticipating his arrival, the Greeks removed the wooden stairs that led up to the rooftop terrace, leaving behind fragments only. The windows were too narrow for him to squeeze through. The back door?
'Barca?'
A quick glance revealed soldiers streaming toward the front of the house. Damn them! The Phoenician bolted down the stairs and hurtled for the back door, for the garden and the tangled alleys beyond. The sound of splintering wood brought him skidding to a halt. Over his shoulder, he watched as the front door exploded inward.
Hoplites, silhouetted by the orange glow of torches, poured through the breach. There were four of them in the vanguard, shields held at eye level. Others crowded at their backs. They were armed with hardwood clubs instead of spears.
Phanes wanted him alive.
'It's over!' a hollow voice said. 'Throw down your sword! We — ' The hoplite never finished; he never knew what killed him.
Something bloody, vengeful, and utterly inhuman raged from the dark recesses of Barca's soul, filling his veins with a lust for rich, frothy gore. The thing that seized control of his body, the Beast, thrived on pain. It thrived on carnage and chaos and bodies torn asunder. Its strength flooded his limbs. Barca loosed a savage howl as he threw himself on the hoplites. Their armor, their training, their discipline, all amounted to nothing in the face of the Phoenician's elemental fury. His blade licked out, slashing through bronze and bone. A head leaped skyward, riding a fountain of blood. In the tight confines of the doorway, the Greeks could not bring their clubs to bear; their shields clanged against the door frame, against one another, useless. Men staggered and fell back.
Without losing stride, Barca turned from the thrashing hoplites and hurled himself at the rear door. He ducked his head, his body knotting into a compact mass of muscle and sinew as he struck shoulder first. The aged, dry wood blew apart under the impact, and Barca rolled cat-like to his feet, cursing.
Soldiers were scaling the garden wall.
There were too many of them. Barca whirled to his right. If he could make it to the top of the wall, he could snag the lower edge of the window and use it as a ladder up to the roof. Once atop the house, the Phoenician could escape across neighboring rooftops. A desperate gamble …
Greeks pounded toward him. Shouts and cries grew in volume. A half-dozen steps and Barca bounded into the air, swinging onto the wall. He crouched there for a split second, ape-like, before flinging his scimitar up onto the roof. Powerful muscles drove his body after it. Barca leapt, twisting, catching the windowsill with his fingertips. He tottered there for an instant before the mud brick of the window casing crumbled under his weight. Arms flailing, Barca plummeted, unarmed, into the midst of the Greeks.
The game was over. It was time to die. Barca resolved not to sell his life cheap.
Men went down under his weight. He grabbed a helmet crest and slammed a bronze clad skull into the ground. A knee shattered under his crushing heel.
'Back!' a voice roared above the din. 'He's mine!'
Barca sprang to his feet. Like well-heeled dogs the hoplites backed away, forming a circle. Lysistratis stepped forward, sheathed his sword, and methodically stripped off his armor.
'I've heard of you, Phoenician! You're rumored to be the best fighter in Egypt, bar none. Faugh! A reputation gleaned fighting desert rats is no reputation at all! I'm willing to match my pure Spartan blood against the thin eastern piss flowing through your veins any day! Come! '
Without bluff or bluster, Barca hurled himself at Lysistratis. Here were two savage fighters: one the scion of a warrior culture, the other born to it naturally, both evenly matched in height and size. Fists hammered flesh as the two danced together then sprang apart, their long shadows alien in the wan torchlight.
In that instant of contact, Lysistratis encountered something that left him chilled and shaking. He encountered a man stronger and faster than himself. A flurry of punches rocked the Phoenician's head back; Barca's riposte shattered the Spartan's nose and very nearly broke his neck.
Back and forth they went. Sweat and blood poured down the Spartan's face; his eyes burned with hate. No blow, no matter how powerful, could slow Barca's assault. He fought in a single-minded frenzy that would not abate until one of them lay broken and bleeding on the ground. It was not like fighting a man — it was like fighting a creature of elemental rage.
In desperation, Lysistratis drew a knife from his belt.
The timbre of the fight changed, then. No longer did Barca dart in and out, fists cocked and flying. He circled, wary, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet. His eyes narrowed to slits and murder danced in their dark depths.
The end came after a moment's respite. A heartbeat passed as the two men glared at one another across the intervening space. Then their bodies were in motion once again. Jab. Block. Backpedal. Momentum carried them against the wall. Lysistratis slashed at Barca's face, a feint the Phoenician had to twist to avoid. The Spartan saw his opening and lunged.
A slower man would have been impaled, but Barca wrenched his torso, drawing the Spartan into a close embrace. Lysistratis watched his blade rip through the Phoenician's side. In the same instant, Barca's iron-hard fist streaked toward his temple. That blow had the whole of Barca's weight behind it, and it connected with a sound like an eggshell crushed underfoot.
It was the last sound Lysistratis of Sparta would ever hear. He flopped to the ground with the side of his head caved in.
Barca drew a breath, clutching his side …
… and reeled as something smashed into the base of his skull. He went to his knees. Greeks swarmed over him. A foot lashed out, catching him under the chin. The sky wheeled as the ground rushed up to meet him. Barca struggled at the edge of the abyss. A ring of faces, cold and merciless, watched as the Beast fled, watched as the darkness rose up to envelope him …
7
Torchlight danced, striping the walls of the tomb orange and black, animating the exquisite carvings. The spacious burial chamber, a sign of great wealth, held only a granite sarcophagus. Grave goods should have littered the floor: furniture, statuary, jars of precious oils and wines, jewelry, cosmetics, figurines of servants and scribes. Everything the deceased needed to continue a pleasurable existence in the afterlife would have been provided. But, the allure of such wealth lying unguarded proved too much for some men to bear. Over the centuries, robbers took everything they could carry, leaving only the sarcophagus and a few shards of broken pottery.
And the carvings on the walls.
Three men sat in conclave, watching Menkaura in rapt silence. The old man strolled the perimeter of the chamber, studying the reliefs, the true wealth of the tomb. Scenes from the Book of the Dead were mixed with details from the life of the man interred here, an architect of some note. With a finger, Menkaura traced the hieroglyphs:
Homage to thee, Osiris, Lord of eternity …
One of the men cleared his throat, a nervous gesture amplified by the close confines of the tomb. Menkaura turned and met their curious stares.
'Why have you called us here?' said Ibebi. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder, with skin the color of dark copper. His duties as master of the royal wharfs kept him impossibly lean and fit for a man of his years. He glanced around at his companions. 'It could mean our heads if the Greeks find us!'
'We have lived in the shadow of these Hellenes for far too long,' Menkaura said. Torchlight played across his features, giving his age-worn face an unmerciful cast. 'They strut through the streets as if they rule Egypt, not serve her. Their arrogance sickens me, and tonight it comes to an end.'
Word of the massacre had reached Menkaura, who bided his time among the tombs and monuments of the
