Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  "Send them away. If they resist, tell them the noble Callisthenes is under the protection of the King of Gaza, and he will call for them upon the morrow." The king motioned to the unconscious Greek. "Take him away. Lock him in the Dolphin Chamber, above the West Hall. Feed him well and see to his every need." Qainu chortled at the goggle-eyed expression on his chancellor's face. "I'm not daft, Merodach, and I yet possess a shred of common sense. It's not often I get to flaunt a man like Phanes. We will hold this Callisthenes safe until his return."

  Merodach could only stare as soldiers carried out their master's orders. What manner of madman did he serve?

  The encampment site lay scarcely half a mile from the harbor, on the southern edge of Gaza. Barca stopped on the shoulder of the winding road. Egyptian soldiers tramped along, happy to be ashore after two weeks at sea. Torches cast circles of lurid orange light over the heavily rutted track. The Phoenician glanced back the way they had come. Maiumas at dusk was a chaotic sprawl with no identifiable plan, no meticulously plotted grid of streets and cross-streets. Instead, squat, flatroofed buildings grew like a fungus from the beaches and quays, rising to a precarious height along the ridge of sandscoured rock. In the sky above, crimson fingers of sunlight pierced the velvet as stars flared into existence, constellations forming beacons, landmarks for navigator and oracle alike.

  The mood in Maiumas spoke of quiet desperation. Men and women labored as they had for centuries, their lives inexorably tied to the sea. They wove their nets by hand; scrounged through refuse heaps for cast-off bits of copper or bronze to forge into hooks; lived from day to day in a broth of fish guts and brine, their eyes rarely leaving the far horizon. In many ways their reliance on the currents and rhythms of the Mediterranean mirrored Egyptian dependence on the Nile. To survive, the folk of Maiumas became intimate with the mercurial waters; they knew the patterns of the winds, where the reefs and shoals were, what time of year the harshest storms arose. They sacrificed to Marna, to Anat, to Resheph: gods of wind and rain, squall and typhoon. In times of dire need, when the gods demanded immediate appeasement, their children were delivered to the priests of Ba'al to be immolated in the sacred fire. The men and women of Maiumas lived with hardship and deprivation, eking what life they could from their pitiless world while the wealthy of Gaza, three miles inland, reaped the rewards of their blood and tears.

  Barca scanned the ships moored along the quays. Could any of them have belonged to his family? The house of Barca had wielded powerful influence along this coast at one time, before the disastrous thirteen-year siege of Tyre by the armies of Nebuchadnezzar. That debacle had broken Tyrian supremacy and scattered her more influential citizens to the four winds. His grandfather fled to Carthage; his father, Gisco, settled in Egypt. Barca himself had only the slenderest recollection of those days, images and emotions rather than true memories.

  He turned and found Jauharah waiting for him. She smiled. "You look deep in thought."

  "Remembering," Barca replied. She fell in beside him as he followed in the wake of a rumbling ox-cart. Soldiers and sailors bantered, and their laughter seemed out of place along the lonely road. "I was a child the last time I saw the harbors of Tyre, but I remember enough. This place …"

  A stone shifted under Jauharah's foot. Barca made to catch her, but their hands stopped short of actually touching. Jauharah steadied herself with an outstretched arm. "My body still rolls with the sea swells."

  Barca smiled. "Your balance will return soon enough." He lapsed into silence, his brow furrowed in thought. Soon, he glanced sidelong at her. "Your people, they are from this region? "

  "Not quite," Jauharah said. "My family lived in the Shara Mountains, perhaps a week's ride to the southeast, on the borders of Edom. My father was Bedouin, an exile from the tents of the Rualla, who found refuge with my mother's family. Beyond that, I remember very little about them."

  "Do you miss them?"

  Jauharah sighed. "Not particularly. I have forgotten so much. My only clear memory is of the narrow chasm leading to the heart of Sela, the rock-cut fortress where my family dwelt. The air in that crevice was always cool and moist, no matter how hot the surrounding desert got, and in the evening it smelled of garlic and searing meat. I can recall kneeling on a ledge beneath the sentry posts praying my father would never return from trading in Elath."

  "You disliked your father?"

  Jauharah hugged herself, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. "He was barbaric, even by Asiatic standards." Jauharah employed the Egyptian term used to describe the inhabitants of Palestine: Asiatic. Usually preceded by `wretched' or `cursed', the name encompassed Syrians, Phoenicians, Ammonites, Israelites, Moabites, Edomites, and Arabs. To Egyptians, all Asiatics were one in the same. "I had six brothers and four sisters. A fifth sister was born, and in a rage my father bashed the infant's head against a rock. Later, my mother defended what he had done, saying sons were a sign of strength and daughters a reminder of weakness. My father did not need another reminder."

  As she spoke a sheet of white-hot anger blurred the Phoenician's vision. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms until they bled. He could tolerate many things, but violence against children went against his grain. Slowly, he brought his rage under control. His voice, when he at last found it, was tight. "I have never been a father, but I know in the depths of my soul that I would love my daughters as much as my sons, and none of them would have anything to fear from me."

  "That's one of the differences between you and my father, Hasdrabal. Where you are noble and kind beneath a hard exterior, he was loathsome and weak. I hope …" Jauharah stopped. Barca turned to see what was wrong, and she waved him on. He could see she was flushed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Respecting her wishes, Barca continued on. Jauharah melted into the baggage train.

  Ahmad approached. He and his men led the Egyptians, and already the two cadres were mingling, trading knives, belts, and trinkets. "Trouble with your woman?"

  Barca glared at him. Wisely, the Arabian let it drop.

  "How long since you left Egypt?"

  "Two weeks. We left Sais and sailed for Pelusium, thence to Gaza. Why?"

  Ahmad leaned close to Barca. "A messenger arrived two days past, from Egypt I'm told. Heard from my men in the palace that he bore ill tidings. Thought you might know what it was about. The old Pharaoh has been ill, has he not?"

  Barca's face betrayed no emotion. So, word of Pharaoh's poor health had spread to the frontiers. Did the Persians know? Most likely. "He is an old man," Barca said. "Old men are frequently down with this ailment, or that. If Psammetichus leads the army rather than Ahmose, it changes nothing. Tell me, you said you have two hundred men. At full strength Gaza is supposed to field a thousand. Where are the others?"

  The Arabian captain shrugged. "The King is not as quick to replenish our numbers. Instead, he hires mercenaries from among the Bedouin of Sinai as guards for his caravans and his person. Ask me, it's like letting the lions shepherd the flock."

  "You and your men are not his personal guard?"

  "That honor belongs to a sand-rat named Zayid. The King calls him his general, but he's nothing more than a desert brigand. Bah! We used to stake his kind out over anthills before Qainu stole his father's throne."

  "What of the Persians?" Barca asked. "Does Qainu not fear them?"

  "Why would he?"

  "Should Cambyses win, he will depose Qainu and install a satrap, a puppet he can easily rule. Your king does not seem the type, from what I have heard, to sit idly by while his throne, and his source of income, is handed off to another."

  "He is already a puppet." Ahmad looked pointedly at Barca, and the Phoenician read the revelation in the Arab's dark eyes. "I like you, Phoenician, and I will do what I can to aid you against the Persians. But only against the Persians, if you understand my meaning."

  Barca nodded, his eyes like a winter storm — icy and wrathful. "Perfectly."

  Callisthenes awoke in t
he arms of a woman.

  He gave a start, wondering who the Arabs had thrown him in with. The back of his skull felt tender, and his head throbbed. Slowly, the haze lifted from his vision, and he was able to make out his surroundings.

  The woman under him was Amphitrite, daughter of Oceanus, and she was part of the exquisite painting decorating the floor of his makeshift cell. The chamber was spacious and colorful, done in every imaginable shade of blue and green. Frescoes reached to the ceiling, depicting sea life both real and imagined: dolphins, octopi, fish, serpents, Nereids. Callisthenes felt as if he were drowning in a watery prison.

  A divan and a low table were the only furnishings, and a pair of bronze lamps provided ample light. Callisthenes groaned, rising to his feet. He shuffled over and sat on the divan, putting his face in his hands. He was weary beyond anything he had ever known. As a counterpoint, his whole body vibrated with pent-up rage, a ferocity that he could feel as if it were a source of heat. "Zeus Savior and Ares! "

  Callisthenes exhaled slowly and tried to slow his pulse. His head drummed in time with the beating of his heart; a dull ache spread behind his eyes. He had learned from Barca that it was best to conserve your strength, to practice quietude in such situations. It did no one any good to pace around and rail at the gods. As bleak as his prospects looked, at least that Arabian bastard hadn't given him over to Phanes or simply killed him out of hand. Now, every day spent in captivity was a day he could use to make good his escape.

  Escape to where? Qainu said Barca would be dead by sunrise. Callisthenes did not believe it, but whatever the King had planned could not be in Egypt's best interest. And Phanes! His being in Gaza could only mean Qainu was in bed with the Persians.

  The sound of a key scraping in the lock of his door brought Callisthenes to his feet. It swung open, allowing him a brief glimpse of the lamplit corridor and a hawkish Bedouin guard leaning on his spear. A cortege of women bustled into the room, bearing platters of food, beakers of wine and water, fresh clothing, and stone pots of Egyptian cosmetics. In their wake came Merodach.

  The chancellor waited as the women deposited their burdens on the table and the divan, then with a curt gesture he motioned them from the room. He closed the door behind them, giving him and the Greek a bit of privacy.

  When he turned to Callisthenes, the Babylonian's face screwed up in a look of supreme distaste. "Forgive me! Had I known what my King intended … he told me he would listen to both sides, Egyptian and Persian! I had no idea his loyalty was already decided," he said, his teeth grinding. "King Qainu says the Egyptian star is on the wane. He has no desire to attach his fortunes, and the fortunes of his kingdom, to a hopeless cause. He claims it would have been madness to refuse the Great King of Persia! Sheer madness!"

  Callisthenes fixed the little chancellor with a baleful stare. "And is that what you believe?" He could read displeasure in the Babylonian's body language. The jut of his jaw, his rigid posture, spoke volumes about his character. Merodach had been suckled on deceit, weaned on deception; he had forgotten more about palace intrigue than Callisthenes would ever know. Yet, whatever he might say, the Greek knew he was furious with his lord.

  "I believe he is a fool! A fat, greedy fool!" Merodach hissed. "But what I believe changes nothing. He plans on giving you over to lord Phanes when the Persian vanguard arrives."

  Callisthenes grabbed the chancellor's arm. "Can you get word to Barca?"

  Merodach shook his head. "It is too late to warn him. Your general is in Marduk's hands now. All I can do is try and secure your freedom before the Persians arrive."

  "Why is it too late to warn Barca?" Callisthenes said. "What treachery has your master planned? He mentioned mercenaries …?"

  Merodach rubbed the bridge of his nose. "All I can tell you is that tomorrow it will be as if the Egyptians never existed. It would be best if we looked to your safety."

  "Damn you, Merodach! Get a message to Barca, and I will make sure he knows what part you played in all this!" said Callisthenes.

  The chancellor sighed, opening the door. "There are things I cannot be a party to, and betraying the trust of my master is one of them. I wish I could do more for you, Callisthenes." He turned to leave then stopped, indicating the tray of covered dishes. "Try the lamb. You'll find it particularly delicious." He spun and left, locking the door behind him.

  The sound stung Callisthenes like a whip. His body stiffened. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a bestial snarl. "Try the lamb?" he hissed. And the part of him that sought to master his anger shrank, then vanished altogether. Rage boiled in his chest — rage at Qainu, at Phanes, at Merodach — a blood-red inferno that seared away logic and reason and left him with only the insatiable desire to destroy.

  Callisthenes cursed every god, demi-god, hero, man, woman, and child he could think of; he spewed blasphemies in Greek and Egyptian that would have shocked the court of Dionysus. Still, his rage grew unchecked. He smashed beakers of wine, hurled a stone bowl of dates against the far wall. His fists shattered pottery bowls and plates. Callisthenes battered aside the lid covering Merodach's precious lamb …

  … and stopped cold. He blinked, unsure of what he saw. In place of a succulent rack of lamb Callisthenes found a curved Bedouin knife, long as a man's forearm. He picked it up and stared at his reflection in the polished bronze blade. Beneath it, in charcoal, someone had drawn a crude map of the palace. Callisthenes blinked again. His anger fizzled and died, like a torch thrust into water.

  "Merodach," he whispered, "the gods love a hypocrite."

  Jauharah stood beside one of the wagons and watched the Egyptian camp rise from the darkness around her. Torches blazed, turning the flat, sandy plain into a surreal landscape of light and shadow. She spotted Barca. He moved among the troops, Ahmad at his side, his every gesture curt, professional, with never a wasted movement, never a misstep. Like his own soldiers, the Arabs would not doubt any command he gave them, no matter how fruitless or absurd. He was their ideal, what they aspired to be. Where they had slain dozens, he had slain hundreds. Where they were wolves, Barca was a lion.

  Of the men she had known, Hasdrabal Barca was perhaps the most singular. Violent when provoked, otherwise he was quiet, even gentle. He endured the terrible burden of being born a killer. Oh, her father was a violent man, as well. But, where he used violence to subjugate his family, to bend the helpless to his will, to make a point, Barca used it to protect and to punish.

  Jauharah felt a pang of guilt. Almost without thinking she had lied about her recollections of family. Such memories lived in the darkest recesses of her mind, rarely recalled and never discussed. He did not need to know how her father had used his daughters as his own private harem, or how her mother had bled to death after piercing her womb with a knife to avoid the curse of another daughter, or how her father had sold her off to pay a debt. These were wounds to her soul that were scabbed over, crusted by time and distance.

  But they would never heal.

  Probing them earlier loosened the scabs. Sharp tendrils of pain wormed their way through her heart. She sifted through her feelings, through the morass of emotions that had arisen since Memphis. Anger, longing, fear, shame, confusion, grief — crippling, soul-searing grief. Not her manumission by Pharaoh or even the growing intimacy between her and the Phoenician could assuage that grief.

  Amidst the turmoil Jauharah felt useless. She stood out of the way, watching as sailors from the Atum erected a haphazard tangle of tents. Egyptian soldiers established a perimeter for the sentries to walk and gathered wood for watch fires, while shaven-headed priests supervised the unloading of a shrine to Neith. Everyone had a task to perform, save her. She glanced around.

  The level spit of land Ahmad led them to was good ground, well ventilated by the constant breezes flowing off the Mediterranean. Behind her, to the north, lay Maiumas, its lights glittering like jewels on velvet; south, the dark gulf of the open desert. To the east, she had been told, beyond the low hills, lay the w
orn and dusty track of the coastal road, the Way of Horns; west, she could hear the sough and sigh of the ocean. A sandscoured jumble of stones stood on a promontory overlooking the beach. In its heyday the place had been opulent, its colonnades and gardens the scene of countless trysts, assignations, and rendezvous. But its day was long past. Untold years ago the pleasure palace fell victim to the internecine wars plaguing Palestine. Torch and sword shattered columns, toppled walls, and laid waste to gardens. Now, the only good the ruin served was as a nesting place for gulls.

  The Atum's captain ambled past. He was an apish man, squat and broad-shouldered, with a face seamed by countless squalls. She caught his arm. "Just get 'em up, dogs! " he bellowed, then turned and glared at the woman who had dared lay her hands on him. She met him eye to eye.

  "What is your name," Jauharah asked.

  "Senmut," he said. His eyes slid up and down her body. She felt her confidence waver. She was a slave, subservient to his every whim. Her eyes should be downcast. Her …

  No! I am a free woman. "Senmut, order your men to erect the tents around this ruin." Her voice quavered slightly, then grew stern and commanding, becoming the voice mistress Tetisheri used when her will was not to be questioned. "This will serve as the general's command post. The tents of the House of Life should go on the desert side of this ruin, unobstructed, so they can receive the benefits of the sea air. The mess tent should go on the side of the ruin facing the harbor, so resupply will not be too difficult. Above all, make the tent rows orderly and neat, like columns in a temple."

  To Jauharah's surprise Senmut inclined his head, saying, "As you wish." He turned back to his men and barked orders. "Not like that, you ignorant wretches! Make 'em neat. . "

  Jauharah moved on to the tents that would house any casualties they might receive. Old soldiers, men who had fought in battles since before she was born, deferred to her wishes, realigning the tents to take advantage of the freshening breeze. She consulted with Bay about sending a deputation into the city to replace some herbs and medicines that had spoiled during the sea voyage. The quartermaster agreed, promising to seek her out tomorrow for a list of what they needed. She hid her elation at their nascent acceptance by throwing herself into her work.