Callisthenes tossed a clay tablet aside and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He had risen early — far earlier than normal — in an effort to bring some semblance of order to his life. Since returning from Delphi, he had done little actual work. The chaotic ruin around him bore mute witness to that fact. He had a mercantile empire to run. Rolls of papyrus lay in a wicker basket, contracts that could not be processed until he affixed his seal to them. Letters, both papyrus and clay, awaited his perusal, his reply. A ship captain from Cyprus had a hold full of Iberian tin to sell, and his man in Byblos needed more capital to make the purchase. Bankers on Delos wanted payment for a lost shipment of wine. A consortium of Athenian artists sought his aid to purchase marble from Tura …
Callisthenes tried to concentrate, but found his gaze drawn to the flickering flame of his candle. His imagination swirled with scenes of glory, with triumphs earned in close combat. What was it like to stand shoulder to shoulder with Death, to feel the press of bodies and hear the whistle and crunch of blades? What was it like to feel hot blood spraying from a dying man? How alive it must feel, this dealing of death. Callisthenes returned to himself with a start and shuffled through the rolls of papyrus, the tablets of dried clay, looking for something he knew he would not find among them.
Freedom.
He had lived a life of safety, shackled by the chains of caution and cushioned by the blanket of wealth. He had never placed his life on the line for a cause; never risked his neck for an ideal. Grounded by the reality of invoices and bills of lading, Callisthenes did not realize, until now, how much he longed to be free, a footloose wanderer. He sighed. A fine dream, but his life was something altogether different, his father had made sure of that. His life was respectable.
'Master! ' a voice echoed through the silent villa.
Callisthenes heard the slap of bare feet on stone. The Greek frowned as a slave rushed into his office. 'What is it, Nebamun? '
'Soldiers, master!'
'Bring their officer to me, and see that the others are comfortable.' This was how it happened before, how he became Phanes' envoy to Delphi. What did that madman want now? Suddenly, an icy sense of dread clutched the merchant's heart. Could Phanes know his true feelings? Could someone, somewhere have fingered him? Despite his dreams to the contrary, Callisthenes was a soft man, and images of torture too hideous to comprehend ran through his mind. He had to stay calm.
Callisthenes glanced up as Nebamun ushered a Greek officer into his presence. The soldier wore a cuirass of burnished bronze, and his shield bore the head of Medusa, Phanes' emblem. He stood straight and tall, his manner deferential.
'How may I help you, captain?' Callisthenes said, his voice far steadier than he could have hoped for.
'We have orders to escort you to the temple of Egyptian Hephaestus.'
Callisthenes nodded. He placed his hands palms down on his desk, surveying the papyri, tablets, and ostraka representing a lifetime of hard work and respect, tangible evidence of a huge empire. An empire he was about to destroy. 'Fine. Await me out front.'
The soldier nodded and left the room.
The summons could only be a ploy, a precursor to murdering him for his betrayal. Callisthenes wasted no time speculating on how Phanes found out. It was purely academic. It was enough for him that he did know, and desired revenge. Sweat poured down the Greek's face. Callisthenes opened an ornate trunk and took out a small bag of gold and a thin-bladed knife. He secreted these in his robe, then glanced about his office. This must be what freedom felt like: a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, a tightness in his chest. Callisthenes was not so sure freedom agreed with him.
The Greek opened the rear door of his office and scurried down the shallow stone steps that led to his garden. All around, Memphis shivered and came alive, rising like the sacred baboons of Thoth to greet the sun with howls of adoration. Soon, the oppressive heat would return; the sky would glow white-hot and the stones underfoot would burn like slag from an ironmonger's forge. For now, the air was crisp and cool, spiced with the smell of baking bread and the light fragrance of water lilies arising from his garden pool. Gathering his robes about him, Callisthenes darted through the garden and paused to unlatch the back gate.
Once he crossed this threshold, there was no turning back. In a literal sense he had reached a crossroads. Perhaps he could manipulate Phanes into believing …? No. Phanes was beyond being used. If he did not act now, he would not see the end of this day. He knew it in his marrow.
'Winged Hermes, give me strength!' he whispered, and then he was gone.
The merchant dwelt in a section of the city reserved for wealthy Egyptians, lesser aristocrats and scribes of modest rank. Three streets over, the White Citadel rose on its manmade acropolis. He hurried south, hoping to lose himself in the tight warrens of the Foreign Quarter. He would have to skirt the bloody Square of Deshur, where the Greek companies would be mustering, but he couldn't envision any problems. The growing dread of battle had fairly well cleared the streets.
'Merchant!' a voice bawled. 'Why do you run?' Callisthenes glanced over his shoulder and saw three soldiers pounding after him. They played their parts well; their surprise looked genuine. Callisthenes cursed his fat, his years of indolence. He had little chance of escaping three men in their prime. Perhaps, though, he could outwit them.
'What's wrong with you, merchant?'
Callisthenes took a side street, remembering the story of the labyrinth at Knossos, on Crete. He would confuse the soldiers by taking side streets and alleys, lose them by guile rather than force. White linen awnings fluttered in the light dawn breeze; a haze of cooking smoke wafted through the air. He whirled and plunged down an alley that stank of urine and rotting vegetables. Here, all was midnight and shadow. He hurried past an open doorway and …
Hands clutched at Callisthenes. The Greek had time for a single bleat of terror before a spade-like palm clamped over his mouth. He felt himself dragged into a darkened building. Behind him, something crashed into his pursuers. The sounds of butchery, of flesh giving way beneath a keen edge, sent a wave of nausea through the Greek. A single terrible wail rose in pitch, only to be abruptly cut off.
The hands holding the merchant steadied him until he found his legs. Dark faces pressed close. Egyptians. Men Callisthenes knew. Thothmes was there, as was Ibebi, the haughty merchant Amenmose, squat little Hekaib, and a woman he was unfamiliar with. The men were weaponless, though their eyes burned with a righteous fury. A larger shadow loomed in the doorway.
'We're even now, Greek,' a voice hissed. Barca.
'I had thought you'd be gone from here, off to join Pharaoh's army,' Callisthenes said, breathing heavily.
'I'll be joining that fight soon enough,' Barca replied. 'What was that about?' He nodded back out the door, indicating the dead soldiers. To Hekaib he said: 'Strip them. Divide the weapons and armor. Bring me the largest cuirass.'
Callisthenes shrugged. 'Phanes. Somehow he must have learned about my change of heart toward his cause. He sent his thugs to kill me.'
'You have nothing to lose, then?' Barca extended his knife to Callisthenes. 'Take this, fight with us.'
'He's Greek!' Thothmes hissed. The others echoed his indignation. A single sweep of Barca's eyes silenced them.
'And I am Phoenician. It matters little. What matters is his life will be worth even less than yours should Phanes win. Is it not his right to defend himself?'
Thothmes and the others said nothing, unable to find fault with Barca's logic. Grudgingly, they nodded. Barca turned to Callisthenes, proffering the hilt again. 'You are a man of Naucratis. If you won't fight for your Pharaoh, then fight for the land that has adopted you. And if that does not stir your blood, then fight for your life.'
Callisthenes stared at the weapon. 'I–I have never …' He took the blade gingerly, as if Barca handed him a scorpion, then looked around at his newfound allies. 'I know where we can find weapons.'
At cockcrow, the Greek army marshaled in the Square of Deshur. Under Hyperides' watchful eye, three companies of peltasts — archers from Crete in their felt caps, tunics of supple leather covering their torsos — marched past, forming around the hardened bronze center of the hoplites. Guidons snapped and fluttered in the morning's breeze. The skirl of pipes punctuated every move the companies made. The Ithacan gestured, and in response a horn sounded above the din. By column, the Greeks took the first step onto the road of conquest.
