Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  The Phoenician bristled. "My life has always been yours to command! I …"

  Ahmose held up his hand. "Stay your indignation, my friend. These eyes are old and rheumy, but they yet possess the faculty of sight. You serve me because I am a means to an end. Your end. I cannot fathom what it must be like for you, existing with a rage so expansive and all-consuming that it drives you to seek entrance to the Halls of Judgement. It has blinded you to the simplest of truths: Death comes for us all. It requires nothing of you, save patience." Pharaoh stood, his hand on Barca's shoulder. "I am dying, Hasdrabal, and I have a last command for you: I order you to live. Banish your rage and be patient. Let Anubis seek you on his own terms."

  Barca's mind returned to the present. He straightened, frowning. I order you to live. Did Pharaoh understand what this entailed? To live without rage, he would have to descend into the darkest part of himself to do battle with that grim phantom he called the Beast; he would have to defeat the very thing that gave him strength. Could he survive without it? What's more, would he want to?

  The Atum was a troop transport, wide of belly and long of keel, packed to the railings with soldiers of the elite regiment of Amon. They, along with the garrison at Gaza, would, under Barca's command, harry the Persian advance. Barca suspected, even before the rumors started, that Phanes had drifted down the Euphrates to Babylon and attached himself to the court of Cambyses of Persia. A solid move on the Greek's part. Cambyses longed to accomplish what his father, Cyrus, had been unable to do: extend his dominion over the lands of Egypt. Like his sire, Cambyses would soon learn a hard lesson: the Negev Desert was too formidable a barrier for an army to cross. Barca had little doubt that a soldier of Phanes' caliber could find a way to ferry an army across the inhospitable wastes of Negev to within striking distance of the eastern Nile. Could a soldier of his caliber stop him?

  Barca put his back to the rail and folded his arms across his chest, watching. In the waist of the Atum, the Nubian boatswain kept a brisk cadence; the oarsmen bellowed their songs in time with his staccato drumbeats. Further aft, the captain harangued a sailor at the tiller, his words drowned out by the rising song, the clack of oar locks, and the hiss of water sliding past the hull.

  With Ahmose ill and Psammetichus an untried ruler, Barca had no illusions about the coming months. It would be a hard fight; Egypt's fate rested in the hands of the selfstyled kings of Arabia, Bedouin bandits who controlled the scant water resources of the Negev desert. If they could be convinced to side with Egypt, then Cambyses — and Phanes — could be dealt with before ever reaching the eastern frontier. If not, if Arabia fell under Persia's spell … well, if that happened, he prayed Psammetichus had the stomach for a prolonged war.

  Barca spotted Callisthenes moving toward him. The months since Memphis had wrought serious changes in the Greek. The fat merchant was gone, dead, slain in the fighting at the Northern Gate only to be reborn as the lean figure who cat-footed across the Atum's deck. Callisthenes still bore some resemblance to his former self: a shadow of a paunch; a fold of loose skin under his chin; the ever-present scarab amulet thonged about his neck. But everything else about the man had changed, including his temperament. Barca could tell as he approached that the Greek was in one of his now-frequent sour moods.

  "You could have handled this without me, you know," Callisthenes said by way of greeting. He leaned over the rail. Below, several sinister grey fins paced them.

  "How many times must I defend my decision with you? You are politic, my friend," Barca said. "I have neither the stomach nor the inclination to play games with the Arabians. I will have my hands full assaying the Persian approach. I need you to act as my liaison to the governor."

  "And the woman?"

  For all his Egyptian sensibilities, Callisthenes yet retained a Greek's contempt of women. To the Hellenes, women served a two-fold purpose: to bear sons and manage the affairs of the home. They had no legal rights beyond those enjoyed by slaves. Of course, there were exceptions. Spartan women were free to own property, to participate in the gymnasium; older Athenian women were accorded more leeway in their public dealings. On the whole, though, a Greek woman's life was one of bitterness and pain.

  "What about her?" Barca said. "Jauharah's people are Arabian. She knows their tongue, and we'll have need of our own interpreter. I'm evidence enough of her skills as a healer. She will be useful."

  Callisthenes spat. "There's no use for a woman in the vanguard of war, Phoenician. You know that better than any man here. Why is she really with us? Are you taken with this woman, or are you seeking to atone for the past?"

  The look in Barca's eyes as he stared at Callisthenes turned the Greek's blood to ice. Rage piled upon fury, like clouds in a thunderstorm, waiting to unleash elemental ruin at the slightest provocation. Callisthenes realized with a shudder that the only thing keeping him alive at that moment was the Phoenician's iron will.

  "I spoke out of turn. Forgive me," Callisthenes said glumly. "I am so far out of my element that death would be a godsend right now. You just don't understand, Barca. If I help you, men will die. If I do not, if I bury myself beneath invoices and bills of lading, those men will still die but their blood will not be on my hands."

  "I understand guilt, Callisthenes. Better than most men, I understand it, but there comes a time when we must rise above guilt and do what is expected of us. We must prove ourselves worthy."

  Callisthenes frowned. "How can we say we are worthy of survival and the Persians are not? Is that not the purview of the gods? When I killed those soldiers in Memphis, I also widowed wives and orphaned children. I ended the bloodline of their fathers and inflicted soul-searing grief on their mothers. Where is the glory in that?"

  Barca said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke the words came quietly, without bravado or embroidery. "It is not a question of worth or glory. The fabric of your life is woven at birth, Callisthenes. Those soldiers wished you dead; they wished your wife to be widowed and your children to be orphaned. Why? Because you stood in the way of their survival. Did you live because the gods thought you more worthy? I don't think so. I think you lived because it was not yet your time. When it does come, all of the worth and glory in the world will not spare you from that killing blow."

  "Then why are we here? Why do we fight? Every oracle from Siwa to Delphi has foreseen Egypt's fall. What difference will it make if we meet them in Gaza or await them in Pelusium?" The Greek's shoulders slumped. An air of defeat hung about him like a well-worn cloak.

  Barca smiled. "Because the gods hate a quitter. Look, my friend, I agree with you, in spirit at least. But going bellyup and awaiting death has a foul stench to it, does it not? By nature, men are violent; we are fighters. We fight our way from the womb, and we fight against going to the grave. I don't know why the gods made Fate our master then gave us a fighting spirit, perhaps only for their own amusement, perhaps to give us a thirst for life. All I know is I have a duty to perform, and in the course of that duty, men will die. To perform my task to the best of my ability, I need you. That's why you are here. We won't stop Cambyses at Gaza, Callisthenes. We are here to slow their advance, to scout out their numbers. We are here to be a thorn in the bastard's side." Barca chuckled at that thought. He straightened and clapped the Greek on the shoulder. "A nugget of advice, my friend: don't dwell too long on the word of priests and oracles. They have been known to spread falsehoods. Ready yourself. We'll make landfall soon."

  Jauharah watched the exchange between Phoenician and Greek from her perch in the stern of the Atum. An awning and partition of linen kept the glare off — both from the sun and the lecherous sailors. Since boarding she had overheard snatches of jokes and rude comments as she went about the daily chores she set for herself of fetching water and cooking Barca's meals — though he ordered her to stop serving him as a slave would a master. Most of the crew thought the Phoenician had brought his concubine with him. Others simply stared at her with a possessive hunger that made
her skin crawl.

  Barca kept telling her she was free. Pharaoh's gift. Free to choose where to go, where to stay. She had been a slave for so long, though, that the idea of freedom terrified her. Every night, she prayed she would wake in Memphis, in the villa of master Idu, rested and ready for a day of baking bread, making beer, and serving the needs of the family. Every morning, she woke to find her prayers unanswered.

  Barca twitched the partition aside. "We'll make landfall soon," he said, moving to where Jauharah had laid out his panoplia. He glanced sidewise at her. She sat cross-legged on the deck polishing his bronze breastplate. With a soft cloth she applied a thin coating of oil to the ridges of sculpted muscle, to the lapis, ivory and gold uadjet inlaid in the chest. The oil would stave off the caustic effects of the salt air. Barca exhaled. "You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known. A thousand times have I told you to stop that, and I'll hazard a guess that it will take a thousand times more before it penetrates that thick skull of yours."

  "If that's your way of thanking me for making sure you don't leave this ship looking like a tousle-headed rube in corroded armor, you're welcome."

  "The gods have mercy on the man who takes you to wife," Barca said, grinning.

  "Your Greek friend does not care for me, I think."

  "Callisthenes? Oh, he's a good man, for a Greek." Barca knelt and fitted bronze greaves over his ox-hide sandals. The natural flex of the metal kept the greaves snug about his calf. Next he drew on a linen corselet, padded to absorb the weight of his cuirass. Barca stopped in mid-gesture and laughed. Jauharah stared at him, questioning.

  "I used to hate his people," he said, "hate them with a passion known only to madmen. If someone had told me then that I would come to call a Hellene friend, to defend him to another, I would have cursed him as a lying wretch and split his skull to the teeth. Strange, these little ironies of life."

  "Not all Greeks are like Polydices," Jauharah said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Barca's head snapped up, a frown knitting his brow. An unreasoning wave of anger washed over him, a need to strike out and destroy something. Pharaoh's command rushed back into his mind: Banish your rage. He said nothing, but forced his trembling hands to tie the leather thongs holding his corselet in place. Finally, he spoke. "I had almost forgotten his name. How did you …?"

  "I heard you speak it in Memphis. Later, while you were on the mend, I asked around among Pharaoh's slaves. The tale is out there, if you know who to ask," she said. "I was curious, though, why the Greek's commander never pursued you, and why Pharaoh never charged you with murder."

  "What does it matter?" The Phoenician's jaw tightened. Jauharah sensed his discomfort. It was like probing a raw, unhealed wound. She knew she should drop the matter, but her intuition told her to press forward.

  "It matters a great deal, Hasdrabal. It matters because it is the difference between guilt and innocence. The law …"

  "I know the law! "

  "Then you know you're innocent," Jauharah said.

  Barca turned to the railing, his back to Jauharah as he stared out over the choppy sea, his shoulders quivering in barely suppressed fury. The similarities the Phoenician bore to the mythical Herakles struck Jauharah, then. Both hounded unto death for the misfortunes of their youth, both prone to fits of black rage and blacker melancholy.

  "Innocent under the law?" Barca said. "Yes. But the law does not judge a man, only the gods are granted that right. In the eyes of God, my God, I am guilty and nothing I do can ever change that. In a way, Ujahorresnet spoke true. Neferu was a woman of passions and appetites. What choice did she have when her husband ignored her?"

  "You can't blame yourself for her indiscretions," Jauharah said.

  Barca spun, bristling. "Who should I blame? Polydices for doing what any hot-blooded man would do? Her father for raising her improperly? I am to blame. Myself, and none other."

  "What about Neferu?" Jauharah said. "Does she not deserve a lion's share of this blame you cherish so? Life is organic, Hasdrabal, ever growing, ever evolving. A person's actions are like vines on the arbor, free to take whatever path they choose but influenced by the paths of others. Neferu did not have to fall prey to the lure of the flesh. Polydices could have refused her advances …"

  "And I could have stayed my hand," Barca snarled.

  "Yes," she said. "You could have stayed your hand. But you did not, Hasdrabal. In a rage you killed your wife and her lover. You reacted the only way you knew how. It was wrong. But, in its own way, it was necessary. If the events of your youth had not unfolded as they did, you would not be the man you are today."

  "Do not mock me," Barca said, turning away.

  Jauharah caught his arm. "On that night, years ago, you became a man obsessed with honor and fairness. Your anger at yourself drove you to become a better man, a man who neither minces words nor hides behind them. My past has taught me that most men are dull-witted animals whose only concerns are their loins and their bellies. You have taught me otherwise. You are a man I respect."

  A long silence passed between them. For a brief moment the facade cracked and Jauharah saw the grief and anguish that had haunted him for twenty years. Slowly, he forced the mask back into place. "We make landfall soon," he said through clenched teeth.

  "You have not yet explained what my duties will be. Truly, I cannot understand of what use I will be to you on the field."

  "You will be my ears in places I can't go. In camp, I want you to maintain the House of Life. I will make sure you have whatever you need." He took his cuirass from her and stared at his reflection in the polished metal.

  "They'll be loath to take orders from a slave woman."

  "They will take their orders from whomever I tell them to! And you are no slave, Jauharah. Do you understand that?"

  Jauharah sighed. She rose to her feet and helped Barca don his breastplate, buckling it into place as he held it. "All I have ever known is how to serve. How master Idu took his morning meal; how his children …" her voice caught in her throat. "How Meryt and Tuya liked to make clay animals for their mother; how mistress Tetisheri enjoyed accompanying me to the markets. The life of a slave is all I've ever known, Hasdrabal. And it was a good life. A g-good life …" Jauharah turned away and sat, hiding her tears.

  Barca heard a discreet cough coming from beyond the linen awning. "General? We are near."

  "Thank you, captain," Barca said. He crouched next to Jauharah and clasped her hands in his. Her eyes were red and moist; she looked away, but he gently lifted her chin and made her look at him. She saw something flickering in his eyes. "You are free now, Jauharah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "and you have an opportunity most people will never understand — the opportunity to remake your life. You can right the wrongs done to you as a child, decide your own fate. That is freedom. We are all slaves in some way or another: to destiny, to class, to blood, to gods, to fear. For this brief moment in time, you are a slave to nothing, to no one. I envy you your freedom, your future, for you have been given something I will never have: a second chance. Use it to make the life you want." Barca stood and, with a ghost of a smile, caught up his sword.

  Jauharah watched him go. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, the tears spilling down her cheeks were not born of grief.

  Feluccas crested the waves, their triangular sails tacking in the breeze. Inquisitive faces studied the carved prow of the Atum, with its hieroglyphic symbols and mysterious figures, as the galley slipped past the mole and into the calmer waters of the harbor. They approached the wharfs with a slow sweep of the oars, angling for an empty slip where a crowd had gathered. Barca stood alone at the bow.

  Jauharah had stirred an emotion deep within him, something he had thought long since dead. Twenty years dead. Many times in those long years, he had been moved to pity; moved by some dark deed, some painful secret. At Habu last year he had felt an overwhelming sadness for the children slain by Ghazi's wolves. Sadness and pity he k
new well, but this … this emotion toward Jauharah was something wholly alien to him. He wanted to sweep her up in a crushing embrace and keep the world at bay. He wanted to fight her battles and allay her fears. He … Barca shook his head, thrusting those emotions aside. This was not the time. Not now. With titanic effort Hasdrabal Barca brought his mind to bear on the task at hand.

  For all its cosmetic differences, the port of Maiumas evoked powerful memories for Barca, memories of his home in Tyre. White-washed buildings of stone and brick ascended the dune ridges, rising from the beaches and quays that were the heart of the harbor. Mercantile houses, like armed camps, occupied the waterfront. Here, bales and bundles of goods awaited the caravans that would carry them to the corners of the known world. Incense bound for the new temple at Jerusalem sat beside tusks of ivory destined for the markets of Byblos; ingots of gold, favored by the kings of distant Scythia, were shrouded by bolts of silk soon to grace the shoulders of a Babylonian noblewoman. The wealth of the world poured into Gaza's coffers and, like Tyre, only a select few profited from it.

  Wood scraped wood as the ship sidled close to the dock. Ropes were passed from sailor to longshoreman, and a gangplank levered into place. Quayside taverns and stalls emptied at the spectacle of the Atum docking. A festival atmosphere gripped the crowd, replete with street hawkers and food vendors, their voices mingling with the cacophony of tongues rising from the bystanders. Barca gazed out over a sea of turbaned heads and curious brown faces. His eyes locked on a small, self-important man standing apart from the crowd, surrounded by a cadre of soldiers in spired bronze helmets and studded jerkins. The welcoming party.