pieced together the details of Menkaura's death, and the death of his fledgling uprising.
He cursed Menkaura for a fool. The word was his grief had caused him to move too soon; his anger had goaded him into challenging Phanes to single combat. Afterward, Menkaura's 'army' had melted away like fat left too long in the sun. So much for his plan of an Egyptian insurrection …
A sharp pain tugged him back to the present. 'Just stitch it and have done! ' Barca snapped.
'It must be cleansed,' Jauharah said. 'If it festers, the corruption will seep into your internal organs and kill you one piece at a time. I've seen men die in this manner. It's not pleasant.' Jauharah nodded to herself, confident that there were no fragments or debris in the wound. She reached for the second bowl containing equal parts vinegar and water. 'This will sting,' she warned, and poured the mixture over the wound. A sharp intake of breath from her patient gave Jauharah a measure of comfort. She was beginning to think Barca wasn't human.
'Did you do as I instructed?' Barca said through clenched teeth.
Jauharah nodded. She took up a bronze needle and a length of gut. 'I carried your message to each of master Idu's friends. If their courage holds, they should arrive soon.'
Barca watched her prepare for the delicate task of stitching flesh. 'Where did you learn that?'
'The House of Life, from a physician's slave. Master Idu thought it a good skill to have.'
The Phoenician's brows arched. 'Have you ever put that skill to practice?'
'No.'
'Wait,' Barca said. He motioned for the needle and gut. 'Best let me do that.'
Jauharah frowned. 'You cannot possibly see what you're doing. Now lay still and let me do my work. For the love of the gods, will you trust no one?'
Barca stared at her for a long moment, weighing his options. She was right. He could not see well enough to stitch the jagged gash in his side. Loss of blood left him weak; his hands quivered and twitched. Slowly, Barca nodded. 'I'm trusting you.'
'Lay back.' Jauharah acknowledged his trust with a slight smile as she began the slow process of stitching. 'The Egyptians are true masters of healing,' she said, her voice soft, measured. 'I have seen papyri concerning the treatment of wounds that date back to the time of the god-kings.' Jauharah fell silent and did not speak for a long time, then: 'You are lucky to be alive. The knife nearly severed the wall of muscle protecting your abdomen. A little deeper, and it would have gutted you.' She finished stitching, then wrapped Barca's abdomen in clean linen bandages.
The Phoenician grunted. 'Death never seems to finish what He starts.' He flexed his arm and back, feeling the sutures tighten. 'You have a gift for this sort of thing. You should be in the House of Life, not serving in a merchant's household.'
Jauharah sat back on her heels, wiping her bloody hands on a scrap of linen. 'The gods make us what. .'
The clatter of a gate hinge echoed up from the courtyard at the back of the house. Barca rose and stepped out from beneath the loggia to peer over the roof's edge.
Jauharah followed. The Phoenician could see down into a partially enclosed kitchen with its own secluded garden. Strings of dried fish and bundles of herbs hung from the exposed ceiling beams, while a trio of conical brick ovens stood like great beehives against the courtyard wall. From the small garden, with its Persea tree and immaculate flowerbeds, the light of a shielded lamp illuminated four figures, their features cast in shadow.
'Phoenician! Are you h-here?' one of them hissed.
'Up here,' Barca replied. At the sound of his voice, the newcomers stiffened, looking like thieves caught in the act. He motioned them toward a flight of stairs built into the kitchen wall, then turned to Jauharah. 'Their names?'
'The short one in front is Hekaib. Behind him, Ibebi. The man with the close-cropped gray hair is Amenmose. The last one is Thothmes, Menkaura's cousin.' She frowned, touching his sweat-slick brow. 'You should sit. Here, let me help you.' She led him back to the divan as the four men gained the roof and joined him under the loggia.
'Phoenician!' Amenmose said. 'We-We thought you were dead! '
Barca chuckled. 'Far from it, though I think Phanes will regret not killing me when he had the chance.'
'Why have you called us here?' Hekaib said, fear giving his voice a high, almost feminine, pitch. He clutched one of the loggia's columns for support. 'If the Hellenes find us like this …'
'Hekaib's right,' Thothmes said. 'After the fiasco in the square, Phanes will have his eyes and ears everywhere.'
'But not here. Here, you are safe.'
'Why have you summoned us, Phoenician?' This from Ibebi.
'Because it falls on you to carry on what Idu and Menkaura started. I've heard the whispers. Your younger kinsmen are undaunted. They. .'
'They are fools,' Amenmose said softly. 'Noble intentions and fiery passions will not stand against Greek armor. I am not without courage, but I am in no hurry to throw my life away for a lost cause.'
'Then master Idu died for nothing! ' Jauharah said. The men glanced at her, taken aback at her outburst.
'She's right,' Barca said. 'If you choose to hide from the truth, then your friends wasted their lives. You can live out your days in shame and defeat. But, if you choose to believe they died to give the rest of you strength, then no amount of armor or training can stand before your rage.'
'We're not cowards! ' Ibebi growled.
'I did not say you were. A coward will not look at Death; he will sprint like a hare in the opposite direction. But men like you, men caught in the grip of fear, will stand their ground and let Death inch ever closer, never raising a hand to stop it.'
'We do not fear Death, Phoenician!' Hekaib said. He drew himself to his full, but unimposing, height. 'Death is but the doorway to the afterlife.'
'Then why did you not leap to Menkaura's defense?' Barca studied each man, feeling their shame as they stared at their feet in self-recrimination, unable to meet his gaze. 'There is no wrong in fearing Death; all men do. Every hoplite in Phanes' command fears Death, but they master their fear, they step across that line separating soldiers from common men, and they fight, regardless of what happens to them, regardless of the outcome. You must emulate them.'
'We have no weapons,' Thothmes said.
'Give me that indomitable Egyptian spirit that made your people masters of the ancient world, and I'll get you weapons! ' Barca replied.
'It seems so … futile,' Amenmose whispered.
'It is futile, my friend. Egypt is in peril. Foreigners stand on the threshold, intent on destroying the land of your ancestors. I am not of your race, but I love Egypt as if she had given me life. My men died for your freedom. My friend Matthias ben Iesu endured hideous torture and death in defense of your sons and daughters. Idu was murdered for his beliefs, and Menkaura sacrificed himself to show you what true resolve really is. Do these acts truly mean nothing to you?'
The men glanced at one another, each seeking strength in the other's eyes. Barca could sense the good in them. They were men thrust into an uncompromising situation, men with families, men whose lives did not include a penchant for violence. They earned the Phoenician's respect simply by heeding his summons.
Thothmes shuffled forward. 'I will stand with you.'
'I, too,' Ibebi said. The other two could only nod.
Barca's face grew grim. 'I'm not looking for men who will stand beside me. I need men who will fight, who will die. Men willing to throw their lives away for the love of their homeland.'
'You don't want men, you want martyrs,' Amenmose said, uneasy.
Barca smiled. 'Now, you're beginning to understand.'
10
