‘Our city was named after the king’s beloved wife,’ Mennias said. ‘It had other names in days long gone, but now, and always, it is Sparta.’

  ‘He must adore his wife to give her name to such a city.’

  ‘He adores his daughter, too. Her name is Serrena. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in all creation, like Aphrodite.’ Mennias smiled. ‘You may well be tempted by her charms. Take my advice. Do not be.’

  As the column tramped across the plain, cries rang out from the watchers along the walls and the huge gate creaked open to admit them.

  ‘This is the Gate of the Moon,’ Mennias said, indicating the towering wooden door.

  How fitting that I should enter Lacedaemon here, Piay thought. A gate dedicated to Khonsu’s moon. It is a sign of good fortune to come.

  Ahead, the street wound up to a palace that towered over the surrounding buildings. Grander homes of white-painted stone clustered around it, with pitched roofs and columns along the front. Here, separated from the vile odours of the poor quarter, Piay breathed in the rich perfume of unfamiliar blooms arising from the gardens.

  The garrison stood inside the gate, a square of low barracks and stores around a central courtyard. The aroma of baking bread drifted out from the kitchens.

  As the soldiers trooped through the garrison gate, one of the supply carts at the rear of the column rumbled to a halt and Hannu levered himself out. He limped over to where Piay waited with Mennias.

  ‘You are honoured guests,’ the general said, looking from one to another. ‘We will find you a place to live and some comforts until the king grants you an audience. For now . . . wait here.’

  Mennias strode through the entrance to the garrison.

  ‘You have found us a valuable friend,’ Hannu said as he watched the general depart.

  ‘If he has the ear of the king, our work here should be successful and quick.’

  ‘Thebes may already have fallen to the Hyksos.’

  ‘Then we will take it back.’

  Hannu mused. ‘The Spartans are a force to be reckoned with, no one could deny that. But the Hyksos horses – they are what separates victory from defeat. We have never found a way to counter that. On our journey I was told the Spartans know of horses, but they do not use them in warfare. They are still just men, on foot, before those powerful beasts and the chariots they pull.’

  Hannu was right. Piay had wrestled with these same thoughts himself. But he wouldn’t – couldn’t – entertain the notion that only defeat awaited them back in Egypt.

  When Mennias emerged from the garrison, he was carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth. He unfurled the wrapping to reveal two swords in leather scabbards. He presented one to Piay, the other to Hannu.

  ‘No reward would ever be enough for saving my life,’ he said. ‘But this is a mark of the status that has been accorded you in Lacedaemon.’

  Piay slid the sword half out of its scabbard and marvelled at the craftsmanship. The handle was bound with hide and studded with bronze pins. The polished blade gleamed in the sun and was engraved with a filigree of circular designs near the haft. Narrow at the hilt, it widened and then ended in a curved tip. Good for hacking, he noted.

  ‘These are the finest blades in the world,’ Mennias said. ‘This style is called the kopis. Wear them with pride and all in Lacedaemon will know you are men to be respected.’

  Hannu weighed the sword. ‘Well balanced,’ he said. He strapped the scabbard to his waist with the eagerness of a child with a new toy. ‘I have felt naked without a weapon. Now the world is right again.’

  ‘You honour us,’ Piay said with a short bow. ‘I will wear the kopis with pride when I stand before your King Hurotas and plead my case.’

  T

  he wind blasted across the waste, whipping up whirls of sand. The great pyramids of Giza soared up under the star-sprinkled sky and over them the full moon hung, white and bright and laden with the same mystery that suffused those age-old structures.

  Piay craned his neck up to peer at the tip of the largest pyramid where that milky orb seemed to settle upon it. He felt such a wave of awe he crashed to his knees.

  Is this a premonition? he thought.

  The hairs on his neck tingled with a sense of anticipation and he continued to stare, waiting – for what, he did not know. Then, gradually, a vast silhouette formed, blocking out those twinkling constellations. The shadow took on shape and form, until the lambent rays of the moon illuminated a towering god.

  Khonsu.

  The traveller who marked the passage of time. Piay gaped, drinking in the appearance he had seen in temple after temple, the moon-disc suspended upon the head, the sidelock marking Khonsu as an heir of Osiris, the was-sceptre with the crook and the flail.

  Piay tried to speak, but his mouth was as dry as the sands around him and no words would come.

  Khonsu pointed the sceptre towards him and, though the god’s lips did not move, Piay heard words ringing in his head.

  ‘He is coming.’

  The sceptre swept to the side, indicating figures on horseback thundering across the landscape. Though he could not discern any details, Piay somehow knew they were Hyksos. More, he realised the lead rider was Sakir.

  As he stared, a red sun wavered behind Sakir and in the heat haze Piay could make out the flickering beast-headed figure of Seth.

  The searing sun of the god of the desert and the cool moon.

  Seth and Khonsu.

  But was Khonsu warning him about Sakir, or Seth? Whatever, Piay felt overwhelmed by the knowledge that this information he had been given was vastly important.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he called, but as the last word left his lips, the desert and the pyramids and the moon and the god rushed away from him.

  Piay jolted from his sleep into a bed soaked with sweat. Even in the thin light of dawn, the intensity of that dream did not fade. The gods communicated with men in the visions of sleep – he had heard Taita say that time and again. Khonsu had spoken to him.

  One thought remained above all others: there was no time to lose.

  P

  iay paced the chamber, feeling his frustration mount. His lodgings were fine enough. The house was usually reserved for visiting dignitaries, and was clean and light. From the window, he could look out, past the large homes of the wealthy and important, to the palace. Yet he felt the weight of his dream-vision crushing down on him. The king was close, but he might as well have been three days’ march away.

  Cursing under his breath, Piay marched back to the low table at the foot of the bed where the slaves had left his morning meal of flatbread and cheese. Tearing off a morsel of the bread, he chewed slowly, but he had no appetite. It had been five days since he’d arrived in Lacedaemon, nearly four weeks since he’d departed Thebes. He feared what was unfolding in Egypt. He feared the arrival of Sakir and the disruption of all his plans. Why had the king still not agreed to an audience? Should he have brought some tribute, or was there some other strange custom that he hadn’t yet discovered? Mennias had only said, ‘The king will see you in time. Be patient and enjoy your comforts.’

  But he couldn’t be patient. What if Taita thought he had failed and decided to mount one final challenge on the advancing Hyksos – an attack that could only end with the destruction of the Egyptian forces due to the vast disparity in numbers? That grand failure, those deaths, would be his failure. It would stain his soul forever.

  He couldn’t fault the kindness the Spartans had shown him and Hannu since their arrival. This house, and a chamber for Hannu, too, though Piay had suggested his assistant could sleep in the barracks with the soldiers. Silk tunics provided for him in the style the Spartans wore, while his filthy kilt had been taken away to be cleaned. Meals of venison and lamb and cheese and as much wine as he could drink. Every sign that he was respected. And yet still the king snubbed him, and in the process snubbed Egypt.

  ‘There’s something amiss.’

  Hannu had appeared in the doorway. Thanks to the attention of the slaves who bathed him and smeared him with unguents, he was smelling sweeter than at any time since Piay had known him, and possibly than at any time in his life.

  ‘Unless it pertains to the king or why the Spartan laundry is so inefficient, I do not wish to know.’

  Hannu shrugged and turned to go.

  ‘What is it?’ Piay snapped.

  ‘Mennias has taken a large number of soldiers outside the city walls. They’ve been herding the slaves out from their hovels as well.’

  Piay thought for a moment, then said, ‘Very well. There’s nothing to be gained pacing the confines of this room like some captive beast. Let us investigate.’

  T

  he crowd swelled as the slaves wandered out of the collection of clay-brick huts on the eastern edge of the city. Some drifted out of the city gate, interrupted in the pursuit of their daily tasks. Piay frowned. What could so disrupt the day-to-day routines of Lacedaemon?

  The Spartan soldiers watched the slaves like raptors. The soldiers’ crimson capes flapped in the breeze, right hands resting on the hilts of their sheathed swords. They were perhaps a tenth of the number of the slaves.

  ‘Some ritual?’ Piay mused. ‘Are they gathered to give thanks to their strange gods?’

  Hannu scanned the soldiers and the slaves and said, ‘Little joy in those faces.’

  When the last of the slaves had taken their position, a silence descended on the gathering, broken only by the soughing of the wind along the walls.

  Mennias strode to a circle of baked mud between the two sides where the grass had worn thin. The general beckoned to the ranks.

  From the rear of the guard, two soldiers dragged a man – a slave by the looks of him. Bruises dappled his face. His mouth was twisted with fear. He had a mop of curly black hair, a strong jawline and a lithe body.

  ‘Show me mercy!’ he cried. ‘I regret my crime. I will make amends.’

  The words rolled out across the throng. No one moved; no one spoke. All eyes watched the captive as he was pulled to that circle of mud and thrown to his knees in front of Mennias. The slave looked up at the general with tear-flecked eyes.

  ‘You have transgressed.’ Mennias’ voice echoed so that no one could be in any doubt what he was saying. ‘You have strengthened your body and your mind. This is forbidden, as you and all here know. There is no mercy for such a crime. There can only be punishment.’

  Piay stared, not quite sure what he was hearing. Could it be true that the slave was being punished for being strong and bright? Surely that would only increase his value.

  Mennias drew his sword and swung it up high. In his panic, the captive tried to scramble to his feet. One of the soldiers who had delivered him whipped out his own sword and rammed the hilt against the side of the prisoner’s head. The slave crashed down in a daze.

  ‘Bare your neck,’ Mennias growled. ‘Resistance will only increase your suffering. Your death is decided. Make it a clean one.’

  Piay shook his head. Death? This must be some kind of pretence for the benefit of the watching masses. What other explanation could there be?

  The captive moaned, a terrible, juddering whine of anguish. The sound of a man who knew all hope had been extinguished. He arched his back, bowed his head and presented his neck for the blade.

  Piay felt his heart beat faster. Mennias was drawing the emotion out of this performance like a master storyteller. At what point would he end it? When the edge of the blade hovered a finger’s width above the flesh?

  Piay searched the faces of those along the front of the crowd and saw no emotion. Whatever this display was, they had no doubt seen it before.

  ‘Your fate has been written,’ Mennias said in a clear, ringing voice, ‘and this is your end.’

  The sword slashed down. Piay was blinded by the light glinting off the blade, but then his ears rang with the sound of sharpened bronze hacking through flesh and bone. He watched the head bounce and roll before coming to the edge of the circle of baked mud, which he now knew could only be the space set aside for executions.

  Piay reeled. Perhaps there was some aspect that, as a stranger, he was not understanding. He sensed Hannu stiffen at his side, and when he looked round he glimpsed a cold fury burning in his assistant’s face. Piay had not seen the like before.

  ‘Is this a land of savages?’ Hannu said, his voice trembling. ‘These Spartans are no better than the Hyksos. Worse, in fact, for those barbarians only kill in battle.’

  ‘Let us wait before we pass judgement,’ Piay cautioned under his breath. ‘There may be much here in their customs that we do not understand.’

  Yet Piay understood Hannu’s contempt. They had slaves in Egypt. Who else would carry out the hard labour and mundane tasks of daily life? Captives of war; men and women who had fallen on hard times and sold themselves into slavery; others bought at the slave markets, transported from distant lands by the slavers. But while life was hard and they did not have their freedom, they were not mistreated. Masters had obligations. The slaves were fed and some even earned wages, and they were allowed to own personal property and conduct transactions. If they committed a crime, they would need to answer for it. But not like this.

  Across the site of execution, the crowd began to drift away, back to their homes or to their labours. Their features were still blank and, while he had thought them emotionless, Piay reckoned they showed a grim acceptance of the world in which they existed.

  ‘I would find out more about this,’ Piay said.

  He led the way to Mennias, who waited when he saw them coming.

  ‘Not a task I relish, but a necessary one,’ the general said as they drew close.

  ‘Do I understand correctly?’ Piay asked. ‘His crime was that he was strong and clever? Would that not have made him a better slave?’

  A boy handed the general a cloth to clean his sword. He wiped the gore off the blade as two soldiers dragged the headless corpse away.

  ‘I would not expect strangers to understand our ways in Lacedaemon.’ Mennias swept a hand towards the departing slaves. ‘Our way of life here could not exist without the helots. They are captives, brought here from our victorious wars and from the surrounding land that we have conquered. They are our farmers, our servants, our nurses. They attend to our soldiers. Lacedaemon thrives because of them.’

  ‘It is the same in Egypt,’ Piay said.

  ‘And yet not quite the same, I hear. The helots outnumber us. If we allowed ourselves to become weak, there would be the danger of an uprising. We must keep the slaves in their place. They must know their lack of worth. They must be afraid. We rule because we are strong. They serve because they are weak. This is the order of things. This is the Spartan way.’

  Piay sensed Hannu simmering at his side. One wrong word could cause offence. Egypt needed the support of Lacedaemon.

  ‘I have a task for you,’ Piay said to Hannu. ‘My kilt has not been returned since it was taken for cleaning and I am afraid it has been lost. It was a gift from my master, Taita, and I would not see it go astray. Find out what has happened to it.’

  Hannu’s eyes narrowed. He knew he was being dismissed for fear that he would cause trouble. But he turned and limped towards the gate.

  Piay glanced at the smear of blood trailing from the execution site.

  ‘You executed this man to send a message to the other slaves?’ he said to Mennias.

  ‘A message of strength. The helots know they cannot be too clever or too fit.’

  Piay tried to swallow his contempt for the cruelty. Was this what it meant to indulge in diplomacy? There was a time, not so long ago, when he would have expressed his opinions freely and without hesitation. Hannu had cautioned him on it many times, and the gods knew how much trouble it had got him into when he was at court. Taita would be proud of him. His master had taught him the subtle ways needed to shape negotiations in your favour. He had never been able to put them into effect before. What an unpleasant task it was, but he thought he understood Taita a little more now.

  ‘We have never had this problem in Egypt,’ Piay began, adding in a light tone, ‘so perhaps the problem may be the Spartans and not the slaves.’

  Mennias cocked his head, unsure where this conversation was going.

  ‘I suggest a wager,’ Piay continued.

  ‘A wager, you say?’

  ‘If I take on a slave with some wits and strength and that slave stays true – does not run away, does not try to murder me in the night – then I would win.’

  Mennias grinned. ‘I like a good wager. And if you are prepared to risk your neck to prove your point, then who am I to stand in your way?’

  ‘Then I will make the necessary arrangements,’ Piay said, shaking the general’s hand.

  Bowing, he took his leave. He felt the plight of the helots weighing heavily upon him as he walked into the city, and he found himself looking into their faces as they went about their daily tasks. He had taken them for granted, imagining them as no different from the slaves of his home. Now he saw them in a new light.

  ‘I

  will tolerate this no longer!’ Piay raged.

  He paced around the small garden at the rear of the house. Shafts of sunlight punched through the canopy of an oak tree and the sweet oily scent of laurel drifted around him.

  Hannu furrowed his brow. He was standing in the shade of the high garden wall.

  ‘The washerwomen said your kilt would be returned tomorrow, or the day after.’

  ‘They said that four days ago.’

  ‘You have plenty of clean tunics.’

  ‘I want my kilt.’

  ‘This is an important matter. No doubt about it. The Spartan laundry system is not what we have come to expect. Some might say arranging an audience with the king to petition for forces which could save all Egypt, never mind the Pharaoh, and our friends, and loved ones, and your master Taita, is a more important matter. But who am I to say? I am a simple soldier.’