Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  Ujahorresnet clasped his hands and bowed. "I am sorry. I presume too much."

  "No, please. I would appreciate hearing your counsel on this matter," Psammetichus said.

  "As you wish," Ujahorresnet said. "Your generals at Pelusium are politicians, not soldiers. They achieved their rank through fortuitous birth rather than martial skill. They are fine men, of that I am sure, else you would not have placed your trust in them, but they have no conception of the art of strategy. Would it not be better if one man alone acted as your regent on the field? A born soldier who is not mired in the politics and backbiting of court?"

  The thought intrigued Psammetichus. "Who would you suggest I trust with this command?"

  Ujahorresnet had a man in mind, a man Gobartes assured him would falter if given such responsibility, but he did not say it at once. Instead, he gave the impression of great soul searching, deep thought. Finally, he said, "The man who has proven himself most worthy of that honor is Nebmaatra."

  "Are you mad?"

  "No, majesty," Ujahorresnet said. "I am quite sane. Nebmaatra has skills your generals could not match if they were to pool them. He is a decisive leader, of a good family, and highly regarded by the nobles. In raw martial skill, he is the finest. Only Barca," the priest's voice cracked, "can eclipse him."

  "I agree with you that he's capable, but placing him in command of all my forces? I cannot see the wisdom in that."

  "If nothing else," Ujahorresnet said, "it's what your father would do."

  Psammetichus said nothing for quite a while, his brows furrowed in concentration. He paced back and forth, pausing once to stare at the image of his father. "I don't know about this."

  Ujahorresnet tried to regulate his breathing, to appear nonchalant. In truth, he did not feel like a traitor. Despite Gobartes' thoughts to the contrary, Nebmaatra was the best candidate for such a position. Pharaoh only needed a bit of nudging to see it. This whole enterprise might lead to Persia's defeat at Pelusium. If that happened, Egypt will have lost nothing by his meddling.

  "In truth," Ujahorresnet said, "have you anything to lose?"

  Pharaoh sighed. "No. No, I have nothing to lose. Preparing for war is difficult in its own right, and all the more so when I must devote my waking hours to many things, my father's funeral not the least of them. If I could trust someone with this, it would be a tremendous weight off my shoulders. The generals I have now are capable men, as you said, but you are also correct in your assessment of their political aspirations. They fight each other when they should be united to fight the Persians. I don't trust them to do what's best for Egypt."

  "Nebmaatra will do just that, majesty. As for trust … do you not trust him with your life and the lives of your wives and children? Would the trust of Egypt mean any less to him?"

  "Yes. I begin to see your wisdom, Ujahorresnet. I believe I will take your counsel to heart," Psammetichus said. "Nor will I dawdle. Come. Accompany me back to the palace."

  Ujahorresnet bowed and flashed his best self-deprecating smile. A sense of triumph welled up from deep inside him, a sense of still having the wherewithal to play the game of kings. It was a heady feeling. "I am honored I could aid you, majesty, but my place is here, in the temple. I could not …"

  "You cannot refuse me." Psammetichus laughed. "Come, my friend. I have need of a man like you, more so now that I am sending my right hand away. You are a man who speaks true and has no ambition beyond service. Follow me. I will show you a little known way into the palace."

  Ujahorresnet, smiling to himself, could do nothing but agree.

  "Anything?" Nebmaatra barked.

  "No, sir," the lieutenant said, sweat running down his face. "We searched the river quarter and among the quays. No sign of Pharaoh."

  "Redeploy! " Nebmaatra's anger rose by the second. "Search the whorehouses and wine shops of the foreign quarter."

  "Surely Pharaoh would not …"

  "Do it!" Nebmaatra's voice cracked, his jaws set and locked. The lieutenant, knowing his commander rarely lost his temper, wisely saluted and rounded up his foot-sore troopers.

  Hours had passed since the Calasirians had mustered in the palace courtyard. Hours since he dispersed them into every conceivable nook, cranny, street, alley, rooftop, and cellar. They returned bearing a steady stream of reports, all negative, that wore Nebmaatra's nerves to breaking. It was as if Pharaoh had vanished from this world.

  Nebmaatra looked up, his brows beetling, as an escort of soldiers brought the Persian envoy to him.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Gobartes said, his beard bristling. He spoke fluent Egyptian, but his Persian accent slaughtered the syllables mercilessly. "You think me some kind of sneak-thief or base murderer?"

  "Yes," Nebmaatra said flatly. "And if I discover you had any hand in this, I'll gut you myself! "

  "Hand in what? Perhaps I could help you if I knew what happened," said the Persian.

  "Do not play me for a fool, envoy! "

  "I cannot play you for what you are! " The Persian did not quail as Nebmaatra's hand went to his sword hilt. "Will you kill me now for speaking what I know in my heart is true? Perhaps whatever happened tonight is your doing, eh?"

  Metal hissed against leather. "Release him," Nebmaatra ordered the guards on each side of the envoy. "Give him a weapon. I am not Persian, Gobartes. I do not kill unarmed men!"

  "Enough, commander!"

  The voice came from above, from the Window of Appearances. All eyes glanced up, seeing the cloaked figure of the Pharaoh with the priest Ujahorresnet at his side. Nebmaatra's blood boiled, but he maintained his composure and even forced a brief chuckle through gritted teeth. Psammetichus seemed less solemn, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders.

  "Pharaoh," Nebmaatra said, "your safety is not a trifling thing. We…"

  "I am sorry, commander," Pharaoh said. "Consider my nocturnal roaming as an exercise in preparedness and leave it at that." He gazed at the men clustered in the plaza below, then nodded to himself. "Attend me, all of you."

  Nebmaatra sheathed his sword. "We will finish this soon, Persian," he whispered to Gobartes as he passed.

  The audience chamber lay off the main throne room. By design it was smaller, more intimate, meant to be a place where Pharaoh could greet special guests, foreign ambassadors, even members of the royal family. The friezes and paintings on the walls placed less emphasis on the military aspects of rulership and more on the promotion of the hearth. There were scenes of Pharaoh honoring the goddesses Isis and Hathor, of a husband and wife fowling in the marshes, of children frolicking among lotus blooms and papyrus stalks.

  Pharaoh sat on a low dais, smiling, as Nebmaatra led the way into the chamber. His Calasirians took up positions along the walls, their glittering armor incongruous against the pastoral decor. Courtiers, priests, and servants filed in after, roused from their slumber by the commotion. Gobartes, flanked by guards, entered last.

  Psammetichus motioned to his servants. "Fetch the Overseer of Scribes."

  Nebmaatra looked at him curiously. Pharaoh sat still, his nervous twitter gone. His eyes glittered with resolve. For a moment Nebmaatra wondered if Pharaoh had been poisoned. The commander let his eyes slide around the audience chamber, noting the cryptic smile on the face of the old priest, Ujahorresnet. It occurred to him that there were many forms of poison, the most insidious being the poison of words. Words spoken to promote an agenda, to undermine, to cast shadows of doubt on the sound judgement of others. It was a poison with no easy antidote.

  Psammetichus had been gone long enough to ingest a lethal dose.

  "Majesty," Nebmaatra said, moving close so as not to be overheard by the milling throng which grew by the second. "You are tired. Are you sure you wish to conduct affairs of state by the light of the moon?"

  "Nonsense, commander. I am fine," Pharaoh replied. He smiled. "Indeed, my course of action has never been clearer." Murmurs swept the crowd as the Overseer of Scribes, hastily clad in a rumpled l
inen robe, came huffing into the audience chamber. Pharaoh gestured to his side. "Khasekhem, my friend, assume your position at my right hand."

  Psammetichus waited patiently as the heavy-set chief of the royal scribes readied his palette and papyrus. When he continued, his voice reverberated about the small chamber. "Regnal year One under the majesty of Horus: Strong of mind, appearing in truth; He of the Two Ladies: Who establishes laws and brings plenty to the Two Lands; Golden Horus: Great of mind and body; the king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands: Ankhkaenre Psammetichus, chosen one of Ra, son of Ra, may he live," Pharaoh recited the royal titular, pausing for effect as his courtiers held their breaths. Their eagerness for Pharaoh's next words crackled, palpable. Even Nebmaatra found himself leaning forward in anticipation. "To My generals on the eastern frontier, I say this: You have served Me well, now attend My wishes. I send one to you who shall oversee in My stead. His voice shall be My voice. His will shall be My will. He is Nebmaatra, the Sword of Ra, General of the armies of Egypt, Right Hand to the King. Obey him as you obey Me."

  Nebmaatra was silent, stunned, as the chamber erupted in shouts of approval. General? The flush of pride that should have accompanied the moment was stillborn as he realized its implications.

  Psammetichus motioned for silence. "Do you accept this honor, my friend?"

  Nebmaatra bowed, an almost perfunctory gesture. "If it is truly your will, I have no choice but to accept."

  Psammetichus looked askance at Nebmaatra. "It is a great honor, is it not?"

  Nebmaatra's mind raced as he tried to assimilate every factor, every nuance of what this promotion meant. "Yes, a great honor," he replied. He could not have been caught any less off guard if Pharaoh had risen and brained him with an axe. The smiles and congratulatory nods of those about him assumed a sinister aspect; the whispered prayers of victory grew thick with imagined mockery.

  "Take what officers and men of the Calasirians as you feel you need and make ready to depart. I will be along as soon as my father's funerary rites are concluded. Remember, Nebmaatra, it is not enough to defeat the Persians at Pelusium." He jabbed a finger at the envoy, Gobartes. "We must make them rue the very thought of invading Egypt."

  "I understand, Pharaoh," Nebmaatra said. "But, in my absence, who will insure your safety?"

  Psammetichus smiled, glancing at Ujahorresnet. "I place my safety in the hands of the gods. Their priests will be my spiritual advisers, my counselors, and my bodyguards if need be. Too long have I listened to the advice of men who seek to gain through deception and poor counsel. This is a new beginning, the dawning of a new era. Go, my friend, and pave the way for victory! "

  Nebmaatra bowed, spun, and strode from the audience hall, so deep in thought that he failed to acknowledge the raucous applause following in his wake. He glanced up once, his eye catching the envoy, Gobartes.

  The Persian smiled ruthlessly.

  The ship was called the Glory of Amon, and its quay had become the focal point of a flurry of activity in the predawn gloom. Sailors and longshoremen worked furiously to get her ready to sail, loading supplies as quickly as the porters arrived with them, scampering up and down the lines and guide ropes. Rowers worked the kinks out of their thick shoulders as they adjusted the sheepskins padding their benches. The Glory of Amon was a bireme, stripped down, its low lethal prow glazed for speed. At full sail she could cut the green water of the Mediterranean like a knife through fat.

  By all rights, Nebmaatra should have been beside himself, elated beyond words. He had reached the pinnacle of his dreams. Why, then, did he feel uneasy? He stood to one side, watching the preparations without seeing them, his arms folded across his chest. Was it the timing of this triumph, or perhaps his ultimate destination? He could not imagine a decisive battle fought at Pelusium, not against a Persian army thick with cavalry and archers. They would be in their element on that flat grassy plain. A better solution would be to lure them into the swamps and sloughs of the Eastern Delta and await the coming inundation, let the Nile purge itself of this Persian infection.

  No, strategy wasn't the source of his concern. He reckoned that, with enough time and enough men, he could make even Pelusium defensible. Nebmaatra stroked his chin. As he understood it, the idea to send him from Sais did not originate with Pharaoh. It came from the mind of the priest, Ujahorresnet. Why? What possible benefit could the priest gain by promoting him? He had heard cryptic rumors that the old man's behavior at Memphis during the Greek uprising had been something less than beneficial. Yet, since his installation as First Servant of Neith in Sais, Ujahorresnet had been the model of Egyptian piety. Why, then? Did he harbor aspirations after all? Nebmaatra shook his head. "Politics," he said.

  "I heard the news, general," said a voice at his side. He turned and saw Ladice approaching. She seemed pale, withdrawn. Alone. "I would have thought you would be more … jubilant."

  "Why celebrate what may be just a hollow victory?" he said.

  "Hollow?" Ladice smiled, a wan gesture that lacked even a shred of her old fire. "Ahmose told me once he could see in you the ability to inspire men, to lead them to their deaths and make them proud to die. In Egypt's darkest hour, I can think of no better place for you than in command of Pharaoh's armies. My …" Ladice's voice caught in her throat. "My husband would have agreed with his son's decision."

  Nebmaatra felt a wrench of sadness for Ladice. She was a foreigner, a Greek, adrift on a hostile sea. After the required time of mourning, Psammetichus planned to return her to her family in Cyrene, but even that did nothing to assuage her grief. "Thank you, lady, but Psammetichus is not his father. He has a simplicity about him; he wants to believe the best in all men, and that makes him a liability in this, as you put it, our darkest hour. Whoever may have engineered this is exploiting Pharaoh's weakness to good effect."

  "Who's behind this conspiracy, general?" Ladice said. "The nobles? The priests? Does Sais harbor Persian sympathizers?"

  Nebmaatra started to reply, then stopped, his eyes narrowing. His mind registered the subtle hint of sarcasm. "You think I'm foolish?"

  "Not foolish, just narrow minded. I do not mean that as an insult. Set your paranoia aside and think, Nebmaatra. What will happen if the Fates smile on you and grant you victory at Pelusium? Egypt will be spared from oblivion, and you will have the power and prestige to exact vengeance on those who crossed you. You have the opportunity to transform this 'hollow victory' into a triumph for you as well as Egypt."

  Nebmaatra said nothing for a long moment, his mind navigating the labyrinth of politics. When he finally spoke, his voice held a note of new-found respect. "You paint a persuasive picture, lady. Maybe this is a matter of perspective, after all. I thank you for your counsel. Your grasp of intrigue is surely worthy of Ahmose, himself."

  Ladice smiled. "It is hard to be the wife of a Pharaoh and not learn something of politics and intrigue. Truly, though, I sought you out to ask a favor of you."

  "You have only to ask, lady, and perhaps you can do Egypt a favor in return by availing yourself on Psammetichus. He needs your wisdom."

  Ladice bowed her head. "You ask the one thing I cannot grant."

  "Why, lady?"

  "Because," Ladice looked up, tears sparkling in her eyes, "I wished to ask your permission for my maids and I to accompany you to Pelusium."

  Nebmaatra frowned. "But, I leave within the hour. There are many days of funerary preparations yet to complete for your husband. I do not see …?"

  "Ahmose has crossed the River, Nebmaatra," she said. "The rites are an Egyptian formality. I have said my farewells after the fashion of my people. After a dozen years of living among Egyptians, I am not one step closer to understanding your liturgies or beliefs, but I do understand your people. We, my maids and I, desire to provide succor to the wounded at Pelusium as a way of repaying the kindness they have shown us."

  Nebmaatra had a thousand arguments for why she should stay and counsel Pharaoh, but as he looked at the tears we
tting her cheeks, he could not bring himself to deny her.

  "Now, it's you who think I'm foolish," Ladice said.

  Nebmaatra placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "No, lady. I understand very well. You should understand, too, that this will be dangerous. Should the battle go against us, I cannot guarantee your safety. If you fall into Persian hands …" He trailed off.

  "I only wish for a chance to serve," she said.

  Nebmaatra stared at the lightening sky, at the ruddy glow spreading across the eastern horizon. It was going to be a beautiful morning. He sighed. "To Pelusium, then."

  16

  Knives in the dark

  Her legs wrap around his waist, urging him deeper. Their bodies undulate with a sinuous grace. The sweat of lovemaking rolls down her breasts and pools in the hollow ofher throat. He grunts, hiships thrusting against her buttocks; she moans, purring in feline contentment. The room is dark save for a cone of brilliance illuminating their sweat-slick forms. A figure approaches from the shadows. The light strikes fire from a blade held in his hand. He sees the interloper, but he cannot move. Her legs and arms bind him to her. Shelaughs, her teeth cruel yellow points that rip his flesh. She laughs, caressing him with hands rotted to bone …

  Barca jerked awake, eyes flaring open, hands fending off something only his mind's eye could see. He bit back a scream before it could escape his throat. Slowly, he sank back down on the bed. The Phoenician shifted his frame and tried to relax, listening to the sounds in the night. Beside him, Jauharah whimpered in her sleep. The tent soughed in the breeze. The flame in the lamp crackled, flickering, its oil almost exhausted. A horse whinnied in the distance, followed by the faint cry of a sentry's challenge.

  You are a fool, Barca! He should have been angry with himself for what he had done, for breaking a twenty-year old promise to the gods to never let a woman close to him again, yet he had no anger in him. Not at this moment. Only a strange feeling even the after-effects of his nightmare could not taint. He looked down at Jauharah's sleeping form.