Scott Oden - Men of Bronze

"Stay," he said. The general savored the moment, as a groom on his wedding night eager to make that first taste of pleasure last. Accepting Lysistratis' knife, he used it to pare away the seal at one end of the tube, then handed it back. Phanes removed a small roll of vellum, opened it with trembling fingers, and read aloud:

"Many are the dreams of the Hellene, as grains of sand on the beach, And their passions and hatreds run deeper than the depths of Oceanus. Take heed, child of Halicarnassus! Take heed, for long have you toiled In sand and sea for a master cold as stone. Yet despair not, for guile, craft, And bronze are the tools by which thrones are toppled. "

Phanes looked at Lysistratis and grinned.

"Oracles," Lysistratis said, shaking his head. "Can they never answer plainly? What does it mean?"

"It means the gods favor us in this. `Despair not', it says, `for guile, craft, and bronze are the tools by which thrones are toppled'." Phanes handed the vellum to the Spartan, who only laughed.

"If you say so, then it must be. I think wine is in order, a libation to Apollo."

"Do not celebrate our victory just yet," Phanes said, his brows furrowed. "We'll proceed as planned. Instruct the polemarchs to be ready to deploy in Memphis by week's end. As of now I want campaign discipline. No carousing, no fraternizing. I want the men ready to pull out in an hour's notice."

"I'll see to it personally." Lysistratis bowed and took his leave.

"What of me?" Callisthenes said. "I've been away for months; there's no telling what damage that half-wit Akhmin has wrought in my absence. Am I to be privy to your plans now, or will you discharge me like a servant who has reached the end of his usefulness?"

"You wound me, Callisthenes," Phanes said. "I promised Rhianus you would be kept safe and well-cared for. War is coming; it is as certain as the rising of the sun at dawn. Unlike the Egyptians, we have the luxury of deciding what stance to take — to rise or fall, to side with the victors or be counted among the slain. We're going to give Cambyses what he wants, and in return he'll give us what we want."

The warm blood flowing through Callisthenes' veins turned sluggish, a glacial brine. Despite this, the merchant's face remained neutral. "If war is, as you say, a virtual certainty, then only a fool would want to be on the losing side. How can you be so sure Cambyses and his Persians will conquer Egypt? The Assyrians tried, to the ruin of their empire."

Phanes smiled, a gesture lacking compassion or humor. "The Assyrians didn't have a phalanx of Greeks at their disposal. When the time comes, we will strike right here, in Egypt's heart. We'll raze Memphis, then fade away into the Western Desert to raid the oases there. We will hand Cambyses the jewel of his empire. You are welcome to come along, of course."

Callisthenes, his fingers stroking the scarab at his throat, resumed pacing. "Not every Greek is receiving this courtesy, are they?"

"No. Only an elite few."

"Why me?"

"Because," Phanes said, his tone matter-of-fact, "you understand these Egyptians. You know what they fear, what moves them. You're a master at gathering social intelligence — at dissecting their circles and cliques and defining who moves in and out of them. It is information Cambyses will need. Beyond that, you have wisdom, Callisthenes," Phanes gripped the merchant's shoulder, "and that is a rare gift these days. I sleep better knowing you serve with me, rather than against me. We will talk more of this later. Go, rest and see to your business." With that, Phanes turned and vanished through an interior door, servants flocking around him like a covey of sparrows.

Callisthenes watched him go, the mask of politesse sloughing away like a snake's skin. His eyes glittered dangerously in the wan light. Blood throbbed at his temples, filling his ears with the whirr of kettledrums, the clash of bronze. He glanced up at the statue of great Ramses, Ozymandias of legend, warrior, conqueror, statesman. Granite eyes flashed in imperious wrath at what his stone ears had overheard.

To whom did he owe his allegiance? "Pythian Apollo be damned! " Callisthenes hissed in Egyptian. Stopping Phanes would be a deadly game, the merchant reckoned, one pitting both sides against the middle, and his life would be forfeit should he lose. Still, he knew full well how Egypt would fare under the heel of a foreign tyrant. Egyptians should rule the Nile valley. The statues lining the antechamber's walls, the images of the pharaohs of old, appeared to nod in unison in the flickering lamplight.

Now, Callisthenes thought, gathering his robes about him, all I need is an ally

South and east of the fortress of Ineb-hedj, along the banks of the Nile, lay the district of Perunefer. A bustling naval yard in ancient times, Perunefer diminished over the years into a small and insular enclave of fishermen. Even so, signs of its former glory abounded. The canting beams once used to support the hulls of Pharaoh's warships now served as drying racks for hundreds of nets. Stone stelae, their commemorative hieroglyphs faded by time and neglect, paved the grassy sward where each day's catch was gutted and strung for drying. Middens rose at every hand, artificial hills of fish bones, scales, and entrails towering over the drab huts of the fisherfolk. A rutted dirt path wound through this festering maze. It descended through stands of palm, willow, and sycamore, following the natural slope of the shoreline until it dead-ended at a quay of age-blackened limestone. Water lapped against the hulls of skiffs tied to corroded mooring rings.

Overhead, twilight hastened into night. Stars flared to life, casting their thin light on the dark waters of the Nile. The two men who walked along the quay had no need of other illumination; their business was best concluded without it. Flakes of stone crunched underfoot as the smaller of the pair, his weight resting on a gold-shod staff, turned to his companion and hissed, "Are you positive it was him, Esna?"

The man called Esna nodded. He wore a kilt of muddy brown linen and a broad leather belt, trimmed in copper scarab and ankh amulets that clashed with each step. One long-fingered hand rested lightly on the ivory hilt of a knife. "Beyond doubt, lord," Esna said. "The Phoenician is no easy man to forget. I saw him at Sile once, perhaps three years ago. Then, this afternoon, I saw him again on the road from lunu, leading a train of camels and men. A score of them, foreigners all. I hurried back as quick as discretion allowed."

Music filtered through the trees, from Perunefer, the sound of flute, sistrum, and lyre punctuated by crude laughter and snatches of song. Esna glanced up toward the tree line, aware of how exposed they were here on the quay. His companion, though, was oblivious, his brows knitted in a look of brooding consternation.

Ujahorresnet, First Servant of Neith in Memphis, tapped the butt of his staff on the stones, a metronomic rhythm that kept time with his thoughts. The priest was small for an Egyptian, thin to the point of emaciation, with shoulders unbowed despite the sixty-four years that weighed upon them. His skull was shaven and his blunt features concealed a mind sharper than the claws of Amemait, the Devourer. "What business has he here?"

"Of that I have no knowledge, lord," Esna said.

"He has few allies in Memphis, and none among the Greeks. I want to know his movements, Esna. Have your people locate him, keep him in sight at all times. Also, set a man to watch the house of the Judaean, ben lesu. He has served as the Phoenician's informant in the past."

"Your will shall be done, lord." Esna bowed deeply and withdrew.

Ujahorresnet remained still. He stared into the rippling waters of the Nile, lost in thought. The Phoenician. He had spent the last twenty years watching him from afar, chronicling the highs and lows of his career, cataloguing his countless sins against the lady Ma'at, until he knew the man better than he knew himself. The Phoenician was, above all things, a creature of habit. Rarely did he leave the windswept deserts of eastern Egypt; rarer still did he travel to the populous heartland of the Nile valley. What prompted this visit? The priest did not chide himself for not placing a man inside Sile, among the Medjay. To do so would have meant relying on a foreigner. A foreigner! The thought was like bitter oil on the priest's tongue. Never again!