Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  And, the key to hitting them hard enough lay in weaponry. Javelins, swords, perhaps bows and arrows would do the trick. As for armor, Barca doubted they would find anything useful except for bucklers of hippopotamus hide. Body armor was out of the question. Each Greek cared for his own breastplate and helmet, or had a squire look after it for him.

  With weapons, more Egyptians would follow. He had sent Amenmose, Hekaib, and Ibebi to spread the word, albeit quietly, and Jauharah to gather what medical supplies she could. Once the fight was joined, Egyptian casualties would be catastrophic. Still, it was the best he could hope for.

  "The weapons are kept in there," Callisthenes hissed, pointing through the colonnade. Barca spotted a squat building sitting off by itself, across a grassy square littered with stone blocks. High windows pierced the sides of the supposed armory, and the door looked ancient, its bronze bindings green with verdigris. "My father's hired man was a scribe here. Before he died, he told me how the old Pharaohs had kept a spare weapons dump near the northern entrance of Sokar's temple."

  Barca led his raiders through the colonnade. The precinct was a scriptorium, a scribal college where young men trained to serve the god Thoth and, by extension, Pharaoh. Here, the builders of Memphis chose function over ornamentation; mud brick walls plastered and whitewashed, decorated with simple scenes of scribes and officials. The dominant symbol was that of Thoth, baboon-god of wisdom. Painted hieroglyphs related the saga of man's quest for knowledge and offered prayers for Thoth's renewed patronage.

  "Get in there quickly," Barca told his companions. "But quietly. Phanes has Egyptian allies, too. No need to draw undue attention to ourselves. Stick to the shadows and keep your wits about you and we'll get out of this with our hides intact. Any questions?" The Egyptians stared at him, their eyes glassy with fear. "Good. Let's go."

  Thothmes led the way, keeping low to the ground, running with a long, loping stride that reminded Barca of a jackal; next came Callisthenes, the merchant sweating like a man going to his execution. One by one, the others followed, with Barca bringing up the rear.

  The thick door stymied them.

  "Locked," Callisthenes whispered. The merchant rolled his eyes in terror.

  "I can pick it," Thothmes said. The others disagreed.

  Barca snatched a sledge from a stonecutter named Khety and smashed the door open with a single explosive blow. "Grab everything you can and get out," he said as the echo of splintering wood faded away.

  Inside, dust swirled through the thin morning light seeping down from the high windows. Bronze swords stood ready for battle, rank after rank of spears stretched back into darkness. Bow staves and sheaves of arrows flanked a heap of round wood and leather shields bearing the shenu, the namerings, of Wahibre Psammetichus, first of the Saite kings. The Egyptians laughed among themselves as they scattered and looted the armory.

  The place was a gift from the gods. The desiccated air of Egypt kept the wood unwarped, the bronze free of tarnish, the leather safe from rot. From a rack along the wall Barca selected a sword, long and straight with two edges of finely honed iron. Ivory and lapis lazuli adorned the hilt. It was a princely weapon, easily worth a year's wages. The Phoenician looked around in wonder. How had all this material gone unclaimed through the years?

  Callisthenes, following in his wake, picked up on Barca's unspoken question. "It's said that before the first Psammetichus became Pharaoh, he was but a prince of Sais and Memphis. During that time he built dozens of these armories and hid them from the prying eyes of his Assyrian overlord, Ashurbanipal. Most were looted through the years for this war or that, but this cache was forgotten, hidden by the priests of Thoth." Callisthenes selected a sword not unlike Barca's. "You think he knew?"

  "Who?"

  "The old Pharaoh. You think he knew that, in time, Egypt would again be beset by foreigners?"

  "If he did, I doubt he would have welcomed the Greeks with such open arms." The words came before Barca could think about it, a knee-jerk response to a long-cherished hatred. He regretted every last syllable.

  Barca's scorn struck Callisthenes like the blow of a mace. He turned away, his face downcast. "My people are a scourge! All my kinsmen ever did for Egypt was abuse her people and lust after her wealth. Every man, woman, and child of Hellas should be put to the sword before our blight spreads any farther! "

  "Not all of you." Barca clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. "You are not like those others, Callisthenes. You, I would call a friend."

  Callisthenes nodded, not trusting words for fear they would be rendered incoherent with emotion. He was spared answering by a commotion outside the armory.

  "Barca! " Thothmes called, his voice quivering with trepidation. "Come, quick!"

  The Phoenician scowled and darted past Callisthenes. Outside, the sun had risen above the surrounding buildings, flooding the scriptorium with bright yellow light. Barca shaded his eyes.

  "Well, I'll be damned," he grunted.

  They were surrounded by dozens of Egyptians. More waited beyond the colonnade. Tradesmen, merchants, field workers, scribes, priests … every strata of Memphite culture was represented: rich and poor, learned and ignorant, pious and profane.

  Barca drove his sword point-first into the ground.

  One of the men stepped forward, a captain in the temple guard by his crisp white kilt and gold-scaled corselet. "I am Pentu, and my brothers and I have come to aid you, Phoenician. Last eve the Greek seized the leaders of our temples as his hostages and slew the First Servant of Ptah to drive home his point. We could do nothing to thwart Inyotef's murder, but we can avenge him."

  A ripple of consternation went through Barca's raiders. Inyotef? Murdered?

  Another voice raised in anger. This from a man whose stained clothing marked him as a brick maker. "My sister died in the Greek's ambush of your Medjay. Me and mine are with you, too! " The same tale echoed from every throat, from men fed up with Greek atrocities. Whole families stood ready: fathers and sons, nephews and brothers; from freshfaced boys to gnarled grandfathers.

  It was the rebellion Barca had hoped for.

  "This will not be like the travesty in the Square," Barca said. "This will be true battle. It will be savage and ugly; you will hear things and see things that will stay with you till your dying day, provided you live through this one."

  "We understand," Pentu said. "This is our home. We will fight to defend it."

  "Make no mistake, most of you will die."

  Pentu smiled mirthlessly. "We are Egyptian, my friend. We die better than most men live."

  The creak of oars presaged the Khepri's approach. Seconds passed. Tense. Expectant. Thousands of eyes watched the quay. The structure was ancient, its foundations perhaps as old as Memphis itself. A canal led from the Nile, and the resulting lake provided a more stable surface for the loading and unloading of ships. Paved in brilliant white limestone and flanked by twin obelisks dedicated to Ptah, the quay formed a U-shaped niche where barques and barges could be docked even during the Nile's yearly flood.

  The Khepri entered the canal, sails furled as her oarsmen propelled her slowly through the blue-green water. Sunlight gleamed on the gilded statues decorating her decks. Thin poles rising from the bow and stern displayed floating banners of deep Tyrian purple, embroidered with symbols of gods and pharaoh. Phanes trembled in anticipation.

  "Will you translate for me, priest?" he said to Ujahorresnet, his voice calm, measured.

  Ujahorresnet nodded. "Should the need arise. Frankly, that barge looks deserted." Indeed, save for sailors and oarsmen there was little movement on deck. Where were the glittering ranks of Pharaoh's guard? The bureaucrats and functionaries who shadowed the Son of Ra like jackals shadow a lion? Phanes found their absence disturbing.

  The barge thumped against the quay, its hull protected from damage by fenders of woven reeds. Sailors dropped down on either side, securing the Khepri with strong ropes lashed to bronze-ringed mooring posts; others lowered an el
egant boarding plank of gold-chased ebony into place. The oarsmen rose from their benches, sweating from far more than the exertion of guiding their master's ship home. Many of them muttered prayers. The small hairs on Phanes' neck stirred. Something was amiss.

  The crew of the Khepri glanced at one another as they edged toward the railings. The soldiers facing them radiated menace. Phanes could feel his men's impatience; it mirrored his own. They could barely contain their lusts for blood, gold, and glory.

  "This feels wrong." Phanes signaled Nicias to advance. Howling like pirates, the Greeks mobbed the barge. Egyptian sailors shrieked in terror at the sight of a horde of bronze armored hoplites storming the quay. They had no fight in them. As one, they hurled themselves over the railings and into the water.

  Phanes sprinted down the sphinx-lined avenue and mounted the steps leading to the quay. Ujahorresnet followed, his lips a tight line. Soldiers rushed to either end of the quay to secure their flanks. It occurred to them that the Khepri's hold could be packed with fighting men.

  "Something's not right," Nicias said. "There were maybe two dozen men aboard. We. . "

  Phanes shouldered past him and ascended the gangplank. Nicias and a squad of soldiers followed on his heels. No opposition greeted Phanes; he stalked to the stern of the ship, to where linen curtains hid the royal throne from view. Fabric ripped as he tore the curtains down.

  The throne stood empty, save for a roll of papyrus pinned to the seat with a knife.

  Nicias reached down and pulled the papyrus free. He unrolled it. It contained a single sentence, written in the priestly script.

  "Hieratic," Ujahorresnet said. He glanced at Phanes. The Greek commander nodded. Nicias handed the papyrus to the old priest.

  "It says: `Enjoy this, the least of my thrones, for it is as close as you will get, you ungrateful son of a whore!'." Ujahorresnet braced for a tirade.

  But Phanes remained cool, calculating, even as the last piece of the puzzle clicked in his mind. "Zeus! That old bastard is craftier than I thought! He's landed his infantry elsewhere! Redeploy to the square!"

  As one organism possessed of a single mind, the Greeks wheeled and made for the western gate of the temple precinct. Squads peeled off in unison, with common rankers cleaving to their file leaders, file leaders dogging the officers. They streamed through the close confines of the temple proper, the columns like tree trunks in a forest of stone.

  Dodging Greeks, Ujahorresnet found his brother priests huddled about the feet of a colossal statue of Pharaoh. Like a shepherd, the First Servant of Neith gathered them together and led them back through the temple maze. Soldiers cursed as they jogged past them; the jangle of bronze on bronze, of wood striking metal, created a deafening clamor that dislocated their senses. Above the din, though, Ujahorresnet discerned a different sound, a chilling sound.

  The thunder of hooves.

  Phanes skidded to a halt, a curse forming on his lips. Ahead, through the gated pylon of the western entrance to Ptah's temple, the Greek saw a dust cloud rolling toward the Square of Deshur. For an instant the dust cleared, and Phanes beheld the shattered remnant of Hyperides' men, the sky above them black with arrows and javelins. Beyond, a wall of chariots loomed. Phanes' face hardened. There were more of them than he had realized. Far more.

  And, he realized something else … he had been outfoxed.

  "Dress the lines! " he roared, setting his helmet into place and drawing his sword. Outfoxed by an old man!

  11

  Battle

  The Egyptians struck the Greek vanguard less than a mile from Memphis, crushing their center and driving them back toward the Nile as a shepherd drives sheep. The mercenary infantry, still in column formation, could not withstand the deadly effects of an arrow storm coupled with the impact of a bronze and iron wedge of chariots. A man on foot stood little chance against the harnessed strength of two stallions, whose hooves crushed hastily-locked shields and the bodies they strived to protect. The Greek formation splintered; some sought refuge in the necropolis of Saqqara. The larger number of them fell back to the Square of Deshur.

  Ahmose rode in the forefront, Nebmaatra at his side, forming the tip of the wedge. The Calasirian Guard followed in their wake. Pharaoh, resplendent in his corselet of golden scales and blue war helm, leaned out and brained a soldier with his axe. Their ruse had worked. The Greeks had been so focused on the Khepri, on the men who had volunteered to play into Phanes' hands, that they discounted the chariots as a tangible threat. Now, they were being shown their folly.

  A choking curtain of dust and soil churned up from the horses' hooves obscured the battlefield. Ahmose knew Phanes and the bulk of his hoplites would form ranks in the Square. Once his chariots had penetrated as far as the Way of the Truth of Ptah, Ahmose would order them to wheel. Then, they would drive the Greeks north into the arms of the waiting infantry, crushing them in a vice. Pharaoh grinned as his axe sheared through a Greek helmet.

  Pharaoh's chariot reached the western edge of the Square of Deshur. He drew up; his squadrons flanked him. In front of the Egyptians, the Greek vanguard stood in disarray. Beyond their struggling forms, through the dust, Ahmose could see a shining phalanx of hoplites.

  "They'll be a tough nut to crack," Nebmaatra shouted. Pharaoh glanced around, seeing his Calasirians around him. In one chariot he glimpsed Tjemu. The Libyan had shaken off his melancholy when the first blows had fallen on the road from Saqqara. He laughed, slinging droplets of blood from his sword.

  "But crack they will!" Ahmose said, his breathing heavy through the congestion in his lungs. His charioteer, a man with legs like knotted tree trunks, hauled on the reins, waiting for the order to charge. "I want Phanes alive, if it is possible."

  "If it's possible, it will be done, Pharaoh," Nebmaatra nodded.

  Ahmose touched the charioteer on the shoulder. With an earth-shaking roar, the Egyptian chariots charged.

  Hyperides watched his vanguard crack and slough away like old plaster. Dust and grit choked him, caking on his sweatdampened cheeks and forehead. Pharaoh's chariots were invincible. Oh, his troops had done some damage, gutted a few horses, slew a few men, but nothing like the carnage wrought by the Egyptians. A lull gave Hyperides a moment's respite. Greek soldiers milled about, confused, walking like dead men through the mist of war. Hyperides had expected better of them. Gods be damned! He had trained them better than this! Still, he wasn't a sorcerer. He couldn't forge gold from dung.

  His men cowered as the Egyptians charged. The ground underfoot shook, and the sun glimmered through the haze, striking fire from the tidal wave of bronze that hurtled down on them.

  Hyperides cursed as his mercenaries stumbled back. He flailed about with the flat of his bloodstained sword, striding out in front so his men could see him.

  "Stand, you sons of whores!" Hyperides roared. "Stand and fight! "

  He looked back in time to see the sun reflect from a spearhead. For a split second Hyperides froze, mesmerized by the scintillant play of light on bronze, and that instant was enough. The spear punched through his breastplate, his chest, and erupted from his back in a welter of blood. The impact lifted him off his feet and flung him back into the roiling curtain of dust.

  With him, the Greek vanguard died.

  Phanes saw his light troops dissolve beneath the wheels of Pharaoh's chariots. He motioned to Nicias. "Go forward and rally where you can." The squat captain saluted and hustled to the fore. Phanes felt a chill, and a familiar presence at his side. A sense of loss and longing washed over him.

  "Say it, Spartan."

  The disembodied voice of a slain Lysistratis echoed through Phanes' skull. "Not as infallible as you once thought, are you?"

  Phanes turned. "The battle isn't won. Our soldiers will give Amasis the fight of his life."

  The soldiers nearest Phanes glanced around, wondering who it was their commander addressed. Had he lost his sanity? Merciful Zeus! Let that not be true.

  "I am sure. But, our victo
ry is no longer a foregone con — clusion. Whatifyoulose?"

  Phanes laughed mordantly. "If I lose here, then I will return with a larger force. Egypt is mine, Spartan! She just doesn't realize it yet."

  At the northern entrance of Ptah's temple, a skeleton force of peltasts listened to the distant fighting with an awe bordering on the supernatural. They could imagine what went on outside the zone of safety afforded by the temple walls. Hoplites, ranked out in a phalanx with their shields interleaved, would present a hedge of spears to the Egyptians. The chariots would harry them; arrows and javelins would seek out chinks in the Greek armor. Yet, for every Greek who fell, another would take his place, replenishing the phalanx with machinelike efficiency.

  The officer in charge at the northern gate, a dispossessed nobleman from Rhodes, wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. He stared at the statues flanking the huge twin-towered gateway, at the images depicting Pharaoh crushing his enemies in the presence of a solemn-faced Ptah, at the hieroglyphs carved deep into the rock on either side of the silver and cedar flagpoles. To get from this entrance to the interior of the temple proper, an intruder had to pass through four such gateways, each named for a king of antiquity. "These sons of whores know how to build a defensive wall," he said, patting the cyclopean stonework. From their summit, his peltasts could hold off a superior force of Egyptians. "Sit tight, lads. It might fall upon us to save the day, after all. Dion, bring me that water skin. This cursed country is like an oven."

  The young man called Dion caught up the skin of water and ambled over. He had only gone a few feet when he stumbled and fell. Amid the laughter and the jeers, the officer sprang to his feet, clawing for his spear.