antiquity … the peoples conquered, the cities razed, the offerings made to Ptah, Osiris, and Horns. The wavering light of a handful of oil lamps imbued the carvings with life. They danced and flickered in the gloom, reenacting the pageantry of the past in endless cycles: birth to death to rebirth.
There was nothing like this in Halicarnassus, Phanes thought, nothing like this in all of Hellas. My son would …
My son.
Phanes frowned. He had not thought of his boy in years. Nor would he be a boy any longer. Menander would be over twenty, by now. Probably with a wife and a clutch of brats all his own. He wondered what kind of man his son had turned into. A merchant like his grandsire? Perhaps a politician of Halicarnassus? Whatever he was, Phanes wished him health and long life.
For all his prowess, his genius at slaughter, all Phanes ever truly wanted was to rear his son. But when the Daughters of Themis, the Fates, wove the cloth of his life, the thread that came off the spindle was not earthy as a farmer, or gilded as a merchant. The threads of his life were as red as the blood spattering his arms.
Movement caught Phanes' eye. He looked up as one of his men escorted Ujahorresnet through a side door. The Greek noticed fading bruises decorating the old priest's throat.
'I would have thought your sport kept you too busy for social visits,' Phanes said.
'And I thought yours would have left you little time to entertain delusions of grandeur,' the priest replied, indicating the throne Phanes occupied. 'Barca has escaped.'
'Leaving you alive? Perhaps your gods are greater than mine.' Phanes leaned back in the golden throne, his fingers caressing the armrests. His eyes were glassy, feverish.
'Not without conditions. I must leave Memphis.'
'Must you, now.'
'I felt the need to warn you. The Phoenician will doubtless seek to cause you trouble. Do with Barca what you will. It is no longer my concern.' Ujahorresnet's shoulders slumped in defeat.
Phanes smiled. 'I see. You've gleaned a valuable insight, priest. You've learned that pride is often the first victim of ambition. Good for you. Unfortunately, you can't leave the city.'
'You do not understand. .' Ujahorresnet began.
'No!' Phanes said. 'It's you who doesn't understand! Tomorrow, when I remove the double crown from Amasis' bleeding corpse, I will be king, and it is your king's will that you remain.'
'You forget yourself, Greek,' Ujahorresnet said, indignation raising his voice a level. 'And you forget our bargain.'
'Ah, our bargain … would it not be interesting to see the reaction of the people of Memphis to news of your dealings with the hated Greeks? I imagine they would drag you out in the streets and tear you limb from limb! And what would your fellow priests say?'
'You wouldn't dare!'
'Would I not?' Phanes motioned to his door wardens, who opened the doors to the throne room to admit a cortege of shaven-headed, robed men. A squad of his soldiers flanked them, seeming less like a guard of honor than herdsmen. The reaction of the priests was one of almost comical diversity. Some goggled in abject terror at the hoplites. Others maintained a mask of politesse, adopting the air of honored guests. Still others were livid at the Greek's sacrilege.
'What is the meaning of this?' the eldest of them, Inyotef, high priest of Ptah, snapped.
Ujahorresnet stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of anger tinged with dread. He glared at the smiling Greek reclining on the throne. 'Gentlemen,' Phanes said. 'Calm yourselves. I've brought you here for a reason …'
Inyotef bristled. 'If you expect to cow us like that rabble in the street, to get on bended knee and proclaim you king, then I'd say you've buggered one too many prissy boys and caught a brain fever! ' Several of the priests begged him to be silent. He brushed them off, defiant.
'Age makes your lips looser than an Athenian whore!' Phanes said, rising. He descended the dais to tower over Inyotef. 'I will be your king, whether you acknowledge it or not.'
'Fool!' Inyotef said. 'Controlling a city does not make you king, even a city as great as Memphis! Are you so ignorant that you believe Thebes and Sais will capitulate to you simply because you hold a crown in your hands?'
Phanes' hand flickered out, brushing the side of Inyotef's neck. The old man's eyes widened in shock; age- spotted hands flew to his throat as the first geyser of blood spewed from the paper-thin incision. Inyotef clutched at Ujahorresnet's shoulder as he fell.
'No,' Phanes said, holding up the narrow blade which none of the priests had seen him draw, 'I expect them to do it out of sheer terror.'
Ujahorresnet crouched and held his hands to Inyotef's throat, striving through will alone to stop the inexorable tide of blood. Inyotef clawed at his forearms, his yellowed eyes pleading. Slowly, the spurts turned to trickles, then ceased altogether. Inyotef's glazing stare rammed through Ujahorresnet's heart like a lance of ice.
'What have you done?'
Phanes turned and bounded lightly up the dais, reclaiming his throne. 'I've made a point. You're all familiar with the tale of the golden footbath? No? Listen, then, and I will educate you. In the early years of his reign, Amasis got little respect from his nobles. How dare he, a mere soldier, defile the throne of the god-kings? They were indignant, rebellious, but they needed a sign from the gods before they'd move against him. So, Amasis steals a golden footbath, one that these selfsame nobles had used to lave their feet, to piss in, to vomit in. He takes this footbath and has it melted and recast as a statue of Osiris, giving it to these nobles as a gesture of reconciliation. Such a glorious thing went far toward assuaging their anger. They sacrificed to it, worshiped it, showered it with gifts and offerings. Then, Amasis tells them what it was they were venerating.
'Gentlemen, I am a mercenary, but I have been recast, albeit temporarily, as your king. I do not ask your love, but I will have your respect! Otherwise, you will be joining your colleague in the next world!'
Phanes leaned back, his legs thrust out before him. He looked every inch a mercenary usurper: sweat-stained corselet of quilted linen, kilt spackled with blood, bronze greaves, sandals of ox-hide.
The Greek stared at each man in turn, daring him to voice his opposition; he was pleasantly surprised to see only resignation. They had the shocked look of refugees, of men who had forgotten the face of violence. All save the priest of Neith. Something lurked in Ujahorresnet's eyes, something obscure, something evolving from passive to deadly. Phanes noted the look with a sardonic grin. 'Good. Please, accept my hospitality for the evening. Tomorrow, I will decide your fate.' He nodded to his soldiers, who ushered the priests out at spear-point.
Silence returned to the throne room, and the shadows continued their dance.
Phanes' eyes were drawn to the corpse prostrate on the floor. Egypt lay dead and defeated at his feet. Egypt's antiquity danced for his amusement. And, tomorrow,
Egypt's blood would spill like a rich red rain. It would be the birth of a new age.
Barca woke to the sound of water.
For a moment he was disoriented, unsure of his bearings. Was he in Tyre, again? Of course he was. The water could only be the sound of waves slapping the pilings near his home. A cooling breeze made him restless. He should rise and go check on that shipment of lapis bound for Egypt. No use lying here …
Barca tried to move but a hand on his chest calmed him.
'Be still,' said a woman's voice. 'I have to see to your wounds.'
The fog of sleep evaporated and the events of the last few hours calcified in his mind. Night had fallen, and stars dusted the sky from horizon to horizon, a milky river of light. Barca lay on a divan atop Idu's villa, under a loggia whose columns were crafted to resemble towering papyrus stalks. Jauharah knelt at his side. Near her were two pottery bowls and a bundle of linen strips.
Her hands moved over his gashed side, sponging away the fresh blood that welled from the wound. She probed the torn flesh with her fingertips.
Like loose threads on a loom, Barca gathered his thoughts. The Phoenician had left the temple of Neith at midday, making his way across a city strangely quiet. He could feel something writhing below the surface. Anger. Fear. He overheard snatches of conversation, a whispered name. By the time he crossed Memphis, Barca had
