The Dreams of Morpheus by Robert Fabbri

twenty-three of the tablets.’
    Menes attempted to transform his expression into one of shock and deep disappointment, but succeeded only in gurning like a tragic actor’s mask. ‘My friend, we had a deal.’
    â€˜For two hundred aurii a tablet; my patron has just decided to keep one for himself. Now, let’s do this. Sextus!’ The brother lumbered forward, holding a bulging sack. ‘Put them down here. Menes, have the money stacked next to them and then all our men will withdraw twenty paces whilst you and I check the contents.’
    Menes eyed the bag as Sextus placed it down, his smile returning, before shouting in his own language. The tarpaulin was pulled back from the cart and half a dozen of his men began unloading the weighty bags concealed within. When twenty-three were piled next to the tablets, Magnus and Menes nodded to one another and gave the order for their guards to withdraw back into the tangle of sick slaves who were too ill to pay attention to events around them. Once they were alone in the centre of the forecourt, Magnus pulled a square piece of leather from his belt, spread it on the ground and, choosing a bag at random, poured the contents out.
    With practised fingers, the contents were soon counted and, after three more random selections revealed totals of two hundred aurii for each bag, Magnus felt satisfied that Menes was not trying to cheat by underpaying. Magnus eyed the Egyptian in the growing light as he finished examining the last couple of tablets. He found it hard to believe that the man’s blatant greed would not tempt him into a double-cross.
    â€˜Very good, my friend,’ Menes announced, rewrapping the final tablet. ‘Now we go, yes?’
    Magnus nodded and called his brothers back. ‘Marius, have the lads take the sacks down to the boat.’
    Standing opposite Menes, who was grinning furiously as if to convey a feeling of calm and normality, Magnus kept his eye on the Egyptian’s men as they turned their cart round and loaded the tablets under the tarpaulin.
    It was no more than an anxious twitch of Menes’ eyes towards the cart, followed by an almost imperceptible tensing of his leg muscles in preparation for a quick sprint, which alerted Magnus; he dived to the left, putting Menes between him and the cart as a fletched shaft hissed through the air where his head had been. ‘Down!’ he bellowed as three more bows just grabbed from beneath the tarpaulin thrummed arrows towards his lads, felling two.
    More sleek missiles spat through the dawn air, thumping one brother to the ground, the bag he carried bursting open in an explosion of dull gold.
    Menes’ men, now all armed, ran forward, arrows nocked and bows drawn as they aimed at the chests of Magnus’ brethren.
    â€˜Put the bags down, lads, and step back,’ Magnus ordered, edging towards Marius but keeping his eyes on Menes.
    The Egyptian’s grin had morphed into a triumphant gloat. ‘Now we go, yes? But we take the money as well, no?’
    Magnus looked round at the twelve bow-armed men covering his surviving brothers. ‘You can try, but I warn you: if you leave now without the money, you can keep the resin; if you don’t leave the money with us, you’ll all die.’
    Menes croaked a cackling laugh. ‘Oh, you funny man, my friend. You hand over the money or you all die.’
    Magnus shrugged and pointed to the last few bags on the ground by Marius’ feet. ‘There’s a few, my lads have got the rest.’
    Menes shouted in his own language and his men moved forward cautiously, stepping over recumbent slaves to retrieve the sacks.
    â€˜Stay calm, lads,’ Magnus called. ‘Put the sacks on the ground and let them take the lot; it’s not our money so it’s not worth dying for.’
    â€˜Very sensible, my friend,’ Menes said, hefting up a bag from the ground.
    All but three of Menes’ men were