Men of Bronze by Scott Oden Page B

leaf-shaped blade fitted with a worn ivory hilt. A deep notch scored its edge. Phanes stood as Lysistratis approached. A small crowd had gathered, kept at bay by a hedge of hoplite spears.
    “Whatever else happened,” Lysistratis said, his voice low, “they accomplished their objective. Idu and his family are dead.”
    “What of Menkaura?”
    “No word yet. You don’t think an old man did this?” The Spartan glanced down at the corpses.
    “Oh no, this wasn’t Menkaura’s doing.”
    Lysistratis frowned. “Who, then? Idu’s cronies?”
    “My guess … Barca.” He tossed the notched sword to Lysistratis. “Leon fought briefly with someone wielding a heavy iron blade, probably a scimitar. The Medjay use scimitars with blades of Carchemish iron.”
    “If the Medjay are here, they made good time. How can we confirm it?”
    “Assume Barca will make his presence known in due time. Have you doubled the guards and stepped up patrols?”
    “I have,” the Spartan said.
    One of Phanes’ hoplites, his crested helmet perched on his forehead, gestured back to the perimeter. “The merchant,
    strategos
.”
    Callisthenes crossed the street, confusion writ plainly across his face. He glanced from Lysistratis to Phanes to the corpses. His face paled. “Merciful gods!”
    “They are, indeed, my friend,” Phanes said. “I’m sorry to rouse you this early, but I’m in need of your counsel.”
    Callisthenes hovered at the fringe of the slaughter, unwilling to approach any closer. “You should have sought my counsel before you loosed your dogs.”
    Phanes, a grim smile on his lips, nodded. “Advise me, then, Callisthenes. In honesty.”
    “In honesty?” Callisthenes stroked the scarab amulet. “I would say this bit of foolishness did your cause little good. By making martyrs of Idu and his family, you’ve given the rabble an ideal to aspire to. Were I in your place, I would salvage this blunder by finding a scapegoat — a business rival, a scorned lover, someone. Make arrests and show the people the truth of Greek justice.”
    “You’re a ruthless man, Callisthenes,” Phanes said. “I admire that trait in my associates.”
    One of the hoplite guards approached Phanes with a note in his hand, a square of papyrus. He whispered something and nodded back the way he had come. A boy stood along the perimeter, a scribe’s apprentice in a stained tunic.
    Phanes read the note, crumpled it in his fist.
    “What is it?” Lysistratis said.
    “Our confirmation, it seems. The Medjay have been spotted in the Square of Deshur. Take three squads. If they are indeed there, arrest them. If they resist, kill them.” Phanes said, grinning. “Scapegoats.”
    “What about me?” Callisthenes said.
    Phanes turned. “You and I must see a priest.”

     
    Menkaura closed the door and walked over to the narrow window. The house where they had fled to lay nestled in a palm-grove on the southwestern edge of Memphis. A breeze fluttered through the window, carrying the scent of damp earth and barley off the open fields. Menkaura’s shoulders slumped as he leaned against the window casement, his face long beyond belief. Barca handed him a crockery juglet of beer, one of two their host provided. He drank without tasting.
    “How is she?” Barca said, sitting heavily on a divan. Menkaura shrugged.
    “She’s sleeping. Jauharah’s a strong girl, for an Arabian.”
    Their host, a pinch-faced old scribe Menkaura had addressed as Weni, backed out of the room and left them alone.
    “He was with me at Cyrene,” Menkaura said, nodding after the scribe. “Many of my old followers live in Memphis, in near poverty, their service to Pharaoh all but forgotten. I truly don’t know how I can help you, especially now. I have funerals to oversee.”
    “If you try to claim their bodies, the Greeks will kill you. It’s what they are betting on,” Barca said. “You said many of your old followers live in Memphis. Do you think you can organize them