Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  An arrow stood out from the juncture of Dion's neck and shoulder.

  The peltasts' laughter died as a howling mob of Egyptian peasants stormed through a door in the side of the gate.

  Sweat dripped down Callisthenes' nose. His slick hands clutched the hilt of his sword. This was battle. The real thing. He felt no sense of power, no thirst for glory. All Callisthenes felt was the cold hands of fear. He hugged the wall as Ibebi and the others surged past, slamming into the unprepared Greeks. One of the Egyptians, the stonecutter Khety, took the blade of a spear to his chest. It rammed through his body, exploding out his back. Khety died on his feet. Callisthenes felt his gorge rise.

  Another peltast leapt Khety's body and barreled straight for Callisthenes, leveling his javelin. To his credit, Callisthenes did not allow his fear to master him. He darted aside in the last possible second, his foot dragging out behind him, and swung wildly. The peltast skidded on the stones, then tripped over Callisthenes' foot.

  The man hit the ground hard, on his stomach, air exploding from his lungs. Before he could rise, Callisthenes spun and drove the point of his sword between the peltast's shoulder blades, into the gristle and bone of his spine. The man spasmed and died.

  Ikilled a man. Callisthenes' hands trembled. He looked down at the dead Greek and felt colder still. Ikilled a man of Hellas. There was no glory in this. The cacophony of battle drew him from his reverie.

  All around him knots of Egyptians engaged the demoral ized peltasts. He saw Hekaib gut a soldier nearly twice his size. Thothmes wielded a sword like a man possessed, hacking limbs and skulls. Ibebi, he noticed, fought with the cool precision of a veteran. Even stately Amenmose howled and flung himself into the fray. Barca, Pentu, and a handful of others mounted the steps to the parapet.

  "Back! Force them back!" he heard Barca yell.

  "Force them back!" Barca roared, dashing along the parapet. A Cretan archer gaped at him, his mind not registering what his eyes beheld. The back of Barca's hand sent the man spinning from the parapet. The sound and smell of bloodshed reached into Barca's soul. He felt the Beast fighting against its chains, longing to be free.

  Another Cretan spun, notching an arrow. His eyes widened as the Phoenician bore down upon him. Barca loosed a hideous scream, his face screwed up in a rictus of hate. The archer's trembling hands released the arrow too soon. It splintered on the stones of the parapet. As he groped for another shaft, Barca's sword sheared through his collarbone and lodged in his chest. The Cretan gurgled as Barca kicked him free of his blade.

  A second peltast charged him, thrusting a javelin at Barca's midsection. The Phoenician weaved, allowing the javelin to pass between himself and the wall, as he drove his shoulder into the peltast's body. The soldier catapulted from the parapet, his screams lost to the thronging mass of fighters below. Barca scooped up the fallen Cretan's bow and a pair of arrows.

  Pentu and the others swept the Greeks from the wall. Barca left it to the guard captain to station archers at key points while he rushed to the juncture of the north and west walls to get a handle on the battle taking place in the Square.

  He found himself looking down on the right flank of the Greek phalanx. He looked for Phanes as he nocked an arrow. Instead, the Greeks were rallying to a squat man in blood-splashed armor. Not Phanes, but an important fellow, nonetheless. Was it one of his regiment commanders?

  Barca shrugged and took careful aim. He could see the squat man reinforcing the phalanx, bawling orders that Barca could not hear. The Phoenician exhaled …

  Nicias staggered, clawing at the arrow that sprouted from between his shoulder blades, lodging in his armor. He turned. A second arrow threaded through the eye socket of his helmet. Nicias toppled; leaderless, his men fell into disarray.

  Above the battle, Barca threw the bow aside and caught up his sword.

  The fight for the gate was brutal. Callisthenes saw men he had known as peaceful farmers take on the guise of feral beasts — kicking, spitting, and biting. They fought for their homes, their wives, their children. The Greeks fought for their lives. It was a bitter struggle, without quarter or mercy.

  Caught up in the press of bodies, Callisthenes found himself near the forefront. Ahead of him, partially engulfed in the shadow of the second pylon, a gateway named for warrior queen Hatshepsut, he saw Amenmose stumble backward. A Greek surged forward, driving his spear toward the old man's belly.

  Callisthenes acted from instinct. He batted aside the spear and kicked the peltast in the groin. With the adrenalin coursing through his system, though, Callisthenes might as well have struck the man with a feather. The soldier tried to bring his spear back into play, its head skittering on the stones. Sickened, Callisthenes had no other choice.

  His sword struck the man where neck and shoulder joined. It sheared through leather, flesh, and bone, driving the peltast to his knees. A second blow ended his suffering.

  "Help me up!" Amenmose ordered. Callisthenes pried his gaze away from the second Greek he had killed and moved to the old Egyptian's side. He was weak, exhausted, and bleeding from a score of gashes. Ibebi materialized at his side.

  "Get him back! " he yelled, pointing the way they had come.

  "What about you?" Callisthenes draped Amenmose's arm over his shoulder.

  "Our infantry is coming! Only have to hold for a few more minutes!" And with that Ibebi plunged into the fighting. He and the others stood firm in the gateway, slowly forcing the Greeks back. Swords and spears licked out. One of Ibebi's flankers went down, his entrails spilling across the stones. Three arrows avenged the fallen youth, slashing into the charging peltast. His corpse snarled the feet of his mates as they pressed forward, intent on securing the gate and, with it, their freedom.

  "They only need to hold a moment longer! " Callisthenes muttered. Already, elements of the Egyptian regular infantry streamed through the northern entrance.

  Ibebi hurled the young man at his side back and was turning to make room for the Egyptian soldiers when a Greek spear took him low, in the spine. He fell, clawing at the dust as a half a dozen more spears ended his life.

  "Where is he? I cannot see him," Amenmose said.

  "He is with Osiris, now." Callisthenes slumped against the wall of the gate and looked out over the roiling sea of bodies, his eyes moist. This madness owned nothing of glory. Nothing!

  Barca descended the stairs inside the gate, shaking drops of blood from his sword blade. The Greeks had not fought well, but they died well. It was enough for their gods. He wished their shades the best as they crossed the river. The Phoenician's skin burned with fever and he could feel warmth oozing from his gashed side, but he felt no pain. Perhaps it was true about the thrill of battle negating the effects of wounds. Matthias had told him that, once. A pang of guilt stabbed Barca's heart. He had caused the deaths of too many of those closest to him. Matthias. Ithobaal. His men. Neferu.

  Guilt turned to rage.

  He emerged from the gate and found Jauharah aiding the priests who were tending to the wounded. Her arms were covered in blood up to the elbow; blood streaked her forehead where she had pushed her hair out of her eyes. Those eyes glanced up, catching sight of Barca. She disengaged herself from a young man whose screams of agony intermingled with pleas for his mother. She drifted across to the Phoenician, moving like a woman caught in the grip of a nightmare.

  "I–I never imagined …" she trailed off, her eyes roving over the carnage.

  "Most never do. This is how peace is kept."

  She glanced down. "You're bleeding." Barca followed her gaze. Blood seeped out from under his cuirass, soaking the hem and side of his kilt. She reached for the buckles holding the heavy breastplate in place, but Barca brushed her hands away.

  "Later."

  "What will you do now?" she said.

  Others had clustered around him, their lips framing the same question. He saw Thothmes and Hekaib, Pentu and his temple guardsmen, and beyond the circle of Egyptians, he spotted Callisthenes and
Amenmose sitting with their backs against the foot of a pharaonic statue, passing a wineskin back and forth. The merchant of Naucratis had an odd look in his eyes, a look Barca had seen a thousand times over. The look of innocence shattered.

  Barca glanced out over the battlefield. "I have my men to avenge."

  "I'm with you," Thothmes said. Hekaib nodded. "And me." Several other Egyptians expressed an interest in joining their Pharaoh.

  "Fine," Barca said. "But know this. Once we leave these walls, you men are on your own. If you fall behind, I'll not drop back and guide you by the hand."

  "So be it! " Thothmes bristled. Barca nodded. He stooped and grabbed a fallen shield. The Egyptians followed his lead. Men with no armor stripped the dead, taking their greaves, their helmets. In a twinkling, the farmers and masons and artisans were gone, and in their place stood a score of Egyptian soldiers, faces grim and bloody.

  Without a word, Barca led them out through the northern entrance.

  The men alongside Phanes fought like the sons of Achilles. They used their spears, their shields, even their bodies to repulse the first wave of chariots. Horses screamed and died. Men leapt from their chariots as their mounts ran amok. Chassis of wood and bronze split apart, tumbling end over end to crush friend and foe without prejudice. Peltasts ranged along the borders of the fray, using javelins, arrows, and sling bullets where they could, to dubious effect.

  Phanes perched his blood-blasted helmet on his forehead, inhaling great lungfuls of dusty air as he surveyed the battlefield. He could read it like a scroll, and its didactic text told a tale of defeat. Pharaoh's infantry chipped away at his right flank; his center bore the inverse bulge of an imminent break. Already, his Greeks were falling back, giving ground as the chariots broke over their ranks in endless waves, eroding their numbers with each successive crash. Once their center broke, once the formation split in two, the battle would be over. Phanes tasted gall; the bitter sting of ambitions lost. He cursed himself for falling for the Pharaoh's ruse, his scouts for not properly assaying the Egyptians, his captains for not stoking the fire in his men's bellies. Most of all, though, he cursed the oracle at Delphi for promulgating lies. By his own hand? Bah! With each passing moment, his reign as king of Egypt became more and more a thing of smoke and fog. A fever dream.

  Phanes reseated his helmet and waded back into the thickest of the fighting, where men, horses, and chariots tangled in a morass of thrashing limbs and murderous bronze. Egyptians fought on foot, hurling themselves against a wall of Greek armor. Here, with their commander at their side, the phalanx held firm, their shields locked and their spears ripping through man and beast with equal ease.

  A weight struck Phanes' shield; from instinct he braced his legs and thrust back, sending an Egyptian sprawling. As the soldier struggled to his feet, Phanes lashed out, cleaving the man's head to the teeth. Another Egyptian charged, spear leveled at Phanes' belly. The Greek commander sidestepped and drove the edge of his shield into the hollow of the man's throat, all but decapitated him.

  Beyond the sea of helmets and faces, Phanes spotted Pharaoh's banners. He could see the blue war crown, the axe that rose and fell amid a scarlet rain. Phanes longed to get closer, within sword's reach, but a cordon of Calasirian guardsmen made that impossible. His line could not hold, not for much longer. The cost of Greek lives in stopping the chariots had been too high; too many men died repulsing their infantry charges. With each successive wave, his lines crumbled like a sand bank. It was time to think of cutting free.

  "Fall back!" Phanes ordered those men nearest him. "Fall back to the quay! " He could yet save himself, and perhaps a handful of his men.

  Corpses littered the Square of Deshur. The Egyptians in Barca's wake drew a collective breath as they rounded the northwestern corner of the temple of Ptah, awed by the carnage that cut a broad arc from the Saqqaran Road to the Western Gate. Most had never seen a battle up close, never smelled the stench of death or heard the plaintive cries of a man dying from a sword-cut to the belly. This was uncomfortably new to them; to a man of Barca's experience, it was commonplace, almost banal. He felt nothing as his eyes scanned the field, fixing on an empty chariot.

  Skittish, the horses danced and gamboled, their eyes rolling in fear. Barca leapt onto the platform of the chariot, ignoring the blood left behind by its previous occupant. True to his word, he did not wait for the Egyptians. The Phoenician seized the reins. Thothmes and Hekaib had barely scrambled on, grasping the side rails, before the horses found their rhythm and shot forward. The Egyptians stared at each other as Barca, his face a mask of grim determination, snapped the reins, lashing more speed from the team.

  He angled them toward the thickest of the fighting, to where Pharaoh's battle-standard floated above the wrack.

  As they drew closer, the sound of armored men in close contact, fighting for their lives, was nothing less than chilling. Even to Barca, who had heard the sound for most of his adult life, the crash of armies sent a thrill down his spine. It was the sound of a vast engine of destruction, its grinding blades lubricated with slick, hot gore.

  It was music to the Beast.

  The Phoenician gritted his teeth. His chariot crossed the intervening ground. A forest of clashing spears rose before them, swaying like saplings in a squall. The wounded crawled among the dead, some begging for succor, others for death. Barca hauled on the reins, his muscles knotting as he slewed the chariot sideways. The wheels skipped and chattered on the pavement.

  Ahead, Greek and Egyptian were locked in death's embrace. Those not dancing with the reaper surged forward in search of a partner. Peltasts targeted the chariot. Javelins flew. One thudded into the wood of the chassis, near Thothmes. Another found a different mark.

  The inside horse collapsed, the javelin cleaving its heart. Unbalanced, the other fell, flipping the chariot on its side and spilling its passengers. Barca, his body a compact ball of muscle and sinew, rolled to his feet with the grace of a gymnast. His companions fared worse. Both Egyptians struck the ground hard, leaving patches of skin across the abrasive stones. Thothmes regained his senses first. He clambered to his feet, casting about for his sword.

  A peltast broke ranks and charged Hekaib. The Egyptian presented a tempting target: a man on his hands and knees, fighting for breath. An easy kill. He took two steps forward, his arm cocked back over his ear.

  Barca intercepted him. His shield knocked the javelin aside as he rammed his sword through the soldier's body. Behind him, Thothmes rushed over and helped Hekaib to his feet.

  "Merciful gods of the desert!" a voice roared to Barca's left. "You know the value of a good entrance!" Tjemu hobbled up, his weight supported by a broken spear. The Libyan bled from countless small wounds, though Barca judged most of the gore spattering him to be Greek.

  "And you know you're supposed to leave me someone to kill, Libyan," Barca said, clapping the smaller man on the back. Tjemu grinned ruthlessly.

  "These Egyptians got their hackles up." He glanced around, seeking a familiar face among Barca's men. "Where's that old maiden, Ithobaal?"

  Barca's jaw grew tight. He shook his head. Tjemu's shoulders slumped. "Did he die well?"

  "He died as a Medjay should," Barca replied. "But he died in vain unless we stop Phanes."

  "Then why are we standing here yammering like old women while that bastard makes good his escape?"

  Ujahorresnet and the other priests stood together in the thick shadow of the hypostyle hall. They were unguarded, but with battles raging inside and out, where could they run? No, best to stay put and pray.

  Ujahorresnet prayed for a different outcome.

  The First Servant of Neith knew his prayers had gone unanswered when he saw a blood-splashed apparition crossing the columned hall. Phanes ripped his helmet off and threw it aside. Sweat and blood matted his dark hair. His lips curled in barely contained rage.

  "You have failed," Ujahorresnet said.

  "Not failure!" Phanes snarled. "Merely a setback."
Men withdrew around them, sprinting to the quay to make the Khepri ready for departure. A rear guard of hoplites fought a delaying action against the Egyptians. The sound of fighting echoed through the hall.

  "You are tenacious, Greek. I'll give you that. Have you not the wisdom and the humility to know when you have been bested? "

  " Bested? Not by any length, priest. All that has changed is my focus. If I cannot give Egypt to Cambyses, then I will engineer its destruction. Your confederates have become a liability." Phanes pointed to the cowering knot of priests. "Kill them."

  Ujahorresnet interjected himself between his countrymen and the Greeks. "Let them go," he said. "Don't force me to sacrifice myself to save their lives."

  Phanes and the old priest stood toe to toe. They stared at one another without flinching. Neither man gave back an inch. The tableau could have held for an eternity, but Phanes' time was limited. "I would have liked to have been your friend, Ujahorresnet," the Greek said. "When I return, perhaps we can meet under different circumstances and share a glass. I give you your life, and theirs, though I will doubtless live to regret it." Phanes motioned his men away, then stopped. A slow smile spread across his features. "This place, it's full of oils and unguents?"

  Ujahorresnet nodded.

  "Good." He turned back to face his soldiers. "Burn it! "

  Smoke guttered from within the hypostyle hall. Flames gnawed at the stones, searing away ancient layers of paint and plaster. A thick black haze drifted across the battlefield. Through it Barca stalked like Death personified. Egyptians formed at his back, creating a fighting wedge with the indomitable Phoenician at its tip. The remnants of the hoplites, cut off by the flames, locked shields and braced for the final thrust, their palisade of spears all that remained between Barca and his prey.