by Scott Oden
"You are an Arab!" he said, grunting in surprise. "Are you Barca's whore?"
Jauharah spat. "I'm no whore, you cursed Asiatic swineherd!"
The Bedouin chuckled. "You have learned impertinence in the cities of Egypt. That is good. Taming you will provide me with a challenge. Remember my name, woman, for you will be Zayid's whore after I have killed the Phoenician dog."
"You're not man enough to kill Barca! " Jauharah said, with far more bravado than she felt. "If you were a man, you'd be out there dying with your kin instead of cowering in the darkness with a woman! "
Zayid's jaw clenched and there was a dangerous glitter to his dark eyes. "Do I have to show you how much of a man I am?"
"Don't show her. Show me." Barca stepped from the shadows and leaned against a shattered column, his sword held loosely at his side. Zayid spun and backed away as Barca stood erect and walked toward him.
"Gods! How I have waited for this moment!" Zayid said. "The great al-Saffah! Did you think you could spill the blood of my brothers and escape unscathed?"
"You've overestimated your ability. It seems to be a common failing among you Bedouin. Make your peace with the gods, sand-fucker! "
"I may die, but I'll send you to Hell before me!" Zayid surged forward, his blade whistling in a tight arc about his head. A blood lust gripped him that made him ignore any thought of defense. He loosed an eerie undulating howl.
Jauharah saw them crash together. She caught the flash of blades, heard the slaughterhouse sound of iron cleaving flesh. She blinked, and in that brief span, Barca's sword slammed into Zayid's chest, left of the sternum, shattering bone and splitting the muscles of his heart. The Phoenician held Zayid on the end of his sword as the Bedouin clawed feebly at the blade.
"Not a man, after all!" Barca growled, and kicked him away. Zayid was dead and forgotten before he hit the ground.
Barca rushed to Jauharah's side. "Are you hurt?" He tried helping her stand, but she threw her arms around his neck, instead. Her body trembled; he did not trust her legs to hold her. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. For a long time Jauharah held him tight, her head buried in his shoulder as sobs wracked her already weakened form. He stroked her hair. "H-He was ggoing to rape m-me. I …"
"You did what you had to."
She looked up, the anguish in her eyes like a knife to his soul. "I'm going mad! B-Before I killed him I thought he wwas one of the Greeks w-who. . "
Barca held her close and said nothing. He could have told her a similar tale, about the face he saw when in the grips of katalepsis; he could have told her that every man he had slain bore an uncanny resemblance to himself. But, she needed to believe it would pass, that Time would lessen the pain. Only then would her heart start down the slow path of healing.
A path she shouldn't travel alone.
Outside the ruin, the sounds of fighting died away. Jauharah stirred. "I heard him say Qainu ordered them to kill us."
"I know."
"What do we do?" Jauharah asked. She did not know what was more disconcerting: Barca's silence or the look in his eye as he stared at Zayid's corpse.
Callisthenes crept to the door of the throne room, listening.
"Why are you badgering me about this Greek?" Qainu was saying. "What matter is it of yours what I plan to do with him?"
"It is wrong, what you plan!" a voice answered. Merodach. "He came to us in good faith and we repay his candor by clapping him in chains! Have we become like the wretched Bedouin? Men who possess not a shred of honor?"
"Guard your tongue, Merodach," Qainu said, his voice a dangerous hiss. "The future of Arabia lay with the Bedouin. Had you sense, you'd see it too."
"All I see is a weak fool dancing on the end of a string. a string held by the Persians!" Merodach said.
Callisthenes inched forward. Silently, on well-kept hinges, the door opened on a small alcove that widened out into the throne room proper, with its forest of columns. The place was dark; the only source of light a trio of bronze lamps burning about the throne. The Greek saw no evidence of guards, for which he breathed a prayer of thanks, as he crept along the wall.
Suddenly, Callisthenes stopped. Qainu's tiger, chained to the king's throne, glared at him and coughed. The big cat's eyes glowed a sorcerous green in the dim light.
"What has happened to you, Merodach? You were once my staunchest ally. Now, you sound like your predecessor, a sniveling toad who lacked a spine. Have these Egyptians cast some sort of spell over you? Do you hunger for my throne?" The Arabian king looked thunderstruck. "That's it! You've made some unholy alliance with the Egyptians! "
"Don't be absurd!" Merodach said. The chancellor paced back and forth, the movement catching the tiger's eye. "It pains me to see these Persians using you as a pawn in their political games. Cambyses doubtless has never heard of you, majesty. Not with a glory-hound like Phanes at his side. You are nothing to this man whose attention you crave. A puppet!"
"Rather a puppet than a corpse!" Qainu said. He leaned down and loosed the tiger's collar. With an ear-splitting roar the beast launched itself off the dais, clearing the intervening space in a single lithe bound to crash full onto Merodach's chest. The pair fell in a welter of thrashing limbs. A chilling shriek echoed about the throne room as the tiger's powerful claws disemboweled the chancellor.
Qainu's laughter amid the cracking of bone roused the Greek from his shocked silence. An unfathomable rage clutched him. A rage that could only be sated with blood.
"No!" Callisthenes screamed. He sprinted out into the open.
The sight of the blood-splashed Greek hefting a spear sent a paroxysm of fear through Qainu. The Arabian king recoiled, curling up into a ball on his throne as he awaited the cold hand of death.
The tiger glared at the Greek from above the gory mess that was Merodach, ears flattening against its skull. The spear cocked behind Callisthenes' ear flew straight and true, a cast worthy of Hector. The long bronze blade flashed through the dim light of the throne room and smashed into the tiger's side. The god of war must have blessed that cast, for the spear knocked the beast sidewise off Merodach, splitting its heart in two. Without breaking stride, the Greek ripped his knife from his girdle and leapt at the king.
"Guards! " Qainu hurled himself off the throne and tried to run. Years of sloth, of debauchery, had taken their toll on the fleshy Arabian. Callisthenes caught him easily by the scruff of the neck and hurled him back against the dais. "Guards! " the king squealed. In a rage, the Greek struck Qainu across the mouth, his fist stiffened by the hilt of his knife. The Arab fell back, stunned. Callisthenes gave him not a moment's respite. Again and again he pommel-whipped the king, his face a mask of fury. Barely did he hear his name being called.
"C–Callis … C–Callisthenes!"
The Greek looked up. Amazingly, Merodach yet clung to life. With great effort the chancellor extended a hand toward Callisthenes. The Greek let go of the king and rushed to Merodach's side.
"I am sorry, my friend. I brought this on you." He stroked the Babylonian's forehead. The tiger's claws had shredded his abdomen, exposing intestine and bone. A lake of crimson formed around the fallen man. "I am so sorry."
"P-Please …" Merodach whispered, bubbles of blood breaking on his trembling lips. "Do n-not kill h-him…" His eyes rolled toward the dais, toward the bruised and bleeding form of his king. "P-Promise … m-me …"
"I promise, Merodach," Callisthenes said quietly. "I will not kill him." Merodach gripped the Greek's arm, then gave a last, wet, shuddering sigh. Tears rolled down Callisthenes' cheeks. This man, a stranger to him, had shown more grace and honor in dying than any man the Greek had ever known. Far more grace than the wretched dog he served.
Callisthenes glanced up, hatred in his eyes. His hand gripped the hilt of his knife.
Qainu's scream echoed about the throne room.
Dawn striped the eastern sky with bands of coral and ivory, fading overhead to diamond-studded lapis. Bedouin guards cr
ouched at the gates of Qainu's palace, passing a skin of fermented goat's milk back and forth. They were supposed to be on station inside the walls, as sentries and door-wards, but the desert men felt uneasy surrounded by so much stone, constricted. A man needed open sky in order to breathe.
They had passed the night cursing and grumbling in their beards at being left behind to watch over the fat king while their brothers gained gold and glory in the Egyptian camp. Zayid had promised each of them an equal share of the booty. In that, at least, they did not feel cheated.
"How much do you think we will get? " the youngest of them said, his beard a mere wisp on his chin. The others laughed.
"More than you've ever seen, boy," one said. "Enough to buy every whore from here to Damascus! "
"You lie!" the boy said, walking away from the others. He stopped at the stone curb of a well occupying the center of the plaza. In a few hours time, women would bring their jars here to be filled, the first of many chores.
"He speaks true, Khatib," another said, rising from a crouch and stretching. "Gold in Egypt is like sand in Arabia. You have only to stoop and pick it up. What shaykh Zayid takes from their camp, even divided, will make all of us rich beyond our dreams."
The boy, Khatib, grinned. "I will buy herds, not whores," he said. "And wives! I will have a hundred wives! I …" Khatib paused as something came arching out of the gloom. It struck the ground with a meaty squelch and rolled to the stone curb. Khatib frowned as he walked around to the thing and squatted. The others laughed, shouting to their young cousin.
"What have you found, boy?"
Khatib rose and turned toward them, eyes wide, face pale. He cradled a severed head in his hands. Its features, frozen in the act of dying, were all too familiar to the Bedouin.
Zayid.
The guards surged to their feet, cursing and howling in rage. "Watch yourself, boy!" They gestured behind the young Bedouin.
"What is it … What …?" Khatib spun as Barca stepped from the shadows, his sword splitting the boy's skull like a ripe melon. The Phoenician kicked the corpse aside and fell on the remaining half dozen guards. Egyptians poured into the plaza at his back.
The Bedouin did not stand a chance.
"Take the gate!" Barca roared, droplets of crimson falling from his blade. Qainu's palace, a temple in a previous incarnation, was designed to be easily defended. The crenellated walls had murder-holes and sally-ports carved into the ancient brick. Besieged archers and soldiers could easily rain death down on an attacker. Even the simple gate was a heavy, ponderous affair of corroded bronze and cedar; it looked to Barca like it had not been closed in a generation or more.
A handful of Bedouin, along with a sprinkling of slaves and servants, rushed to the gate and threw their backs into closing it. It moved an inch. Two. Four. Grins of triumph on their faces were short lived as the huge portal ground to a halt. They panicked as a wave of Egyptians in glittering armor crashed against the gate, forcing it open. After a flurry of blades left Bedouin corpses across the threshold, the rest turned and fled into the courtyard.
Barca expected some kind of organized defense. Arrows and rocks from on high. A rush of swordsmen. Something. Even a mutiny among Ahmad's men who were secretly loyal to Qainu. But, this last stand of the groomsmen and the kitchen help had taken him at unawares. Surely Qainu was not so foolish as to commit his entire household guard to the fight in the camp?
"Are any of your men within?" the Phoenician asked Ahmad. The Arabian captain shook his head.
"No. We're billeted in the city. Qainu fancies himself more of a shaykh than a king. The only soldiers within are Zayid's mercenaries."
"He's neither," Barca growled. "He's governor of a city under Egyptian rule. His folly is thinking beyond his station."
"Whatever his folly," Ahmad said, "he is my king. I swore allegiance to Qainu and his forebears, not to Egypt. I cannot help with what you intend."
"Then do not hinder me, either!" Barca said, turning and leading his Egyptians through the gates.
The courtyard was a blending of worlds: an Egyptian lotus pool surrounded by Arabian date palms and Hellenic sculpture. The servants faced them with cleavers and kitchen knives, fear shining in their eyes. Barca stalked toward them. The look on his face promised murder should his will not be done. He raked them with a withering stare.
"You've proven your valor," he said. "Stand down and you'll not be harmed." There were murmurs among them; then, one by one, their weapons clattered to the ground. To his Egyptians he said, "Keep them here."
Barca ascended the steps to the throne room doors, his wrath cold and righteous. With a snarl, he shouldered them open …
… and stopped in amazement. Instead of a horde of Bedouin warriors, he saw a sight that brought a deep, throaty laugh from him. Callisthenes. The Greek sat upon the ebony throne of Gaza, a bloody knife driven point first into the inlaid armrest. A tiger lay dead, a spear sprouting from its body like a grisly vine, and near it a corpse Barca recognized as that of Merodach, the chancellor. Something else crouched at Callisthenes' feet, something barely discernable as a naked man, his face streaked with blood. An indelicate hand had taken a knife to the fellow's hair and beard, shearing both away without thought for the skin beneath, and a leash trailed down to a collar around the man's neck. With a start, Barca realized it must be Qainu.
Barca chuckled. "I'll be damned, Callisthenes. Here I thought you might be in need of my help. What happened to the squeamish Greek who abhorred violence?"
"Someone tried to kill him," Callisthenes said. He rose and tossed Qainu's leash to Barca. "I promised Merodach I would not kill him, but you're under no such constraints. I only ask you do it elsewhere. I've had my fill of murder for the day."
Barca passed the leash to Ahmad. The Arab captain crouched, his fierce face inches from the deposed king's, his blood-spattered beard bristling. "You wretched bastard! I served you, and your father before you, with faith and honor and this is how you repay me? Damn your black soul! You will share in Zayid's fate, you son of a bitch!"
Qainu whimpered and pleaded as Ahmad and his soldiers dragged him into the bowels of the palace.
Barca followed Callisthenes out into the courtyard. Overhead, the sky faded from the coral-ivory of dawn to a bright and vibrant azure. Sunlight filtered through a pall of dust raised by the battle as the last of the servants were bound together in an uneven line.
"I bear ill news," Callisthenes said, sitting on the stone curb of a lotus pool. The adrenalin rush left his body cold and shaking. "Phanes. That bastard was here; he travels with the Persian vanguard. They have crossed the wastes and already sit on our doorstep. The cities of Phoenicia must have given in to Cambyses' demands."
Callisthenes tensed for a sulphuric tirade, but Barca did not waste breath cursing his countrymen. He stood in silence, studying the tracery of shadows cast by the date palms lining the pool. His people were merchants; they dealt in profit and loss, leaving the vagaries of morality to those who could afford it. All of the treaties signed with Egypt, all of the pledges of friendship and offerings of fealty were nothing compared to what the Persians offered: capitulation or annihilation. To a Phoenician, it was not that difficult a choice.
"What do we do now?" Callisthenes asked.
"We'll have to pull back, choose better ground," Barca said. "If the Persians use ships to get troops behind us, our delaying action will become our last stand. No, we must abandon Gaza. It's too open to properly defend ourselves. We…,
A clamor at the gate drowned Barca out. He heard a flurry of incredulous shouts, cries to the gods for mercy. Frowning, he went to investigate. Callisthenes followed in his wake.
A crowd gathered in the plaza outside the palace. Arabs, for the most part, leavened with a sprinkling of Judaeans; dark-skinned Nubians, even a pair of scarred horse-traders out of Thrace. Egyptian soldiers rested in the morning shade. Barca could not make out what was being said, though he divined the gist of it. Peering northeast,
shading his eyes with a blood-grimed hand, he could see what had inspired their sudden panic. Behind him, Callisthenes mumbled a prayer in his native Greek. Barca remained quiet, his jaw muscles knotted.
In the distance, a pillar of dust marred the blue perfection of the sky.
The Persians.
17
Retreat to Raphia
The hills ringing Raphia were slashed with gullies and arroyos; bleak cliffs stood sentinel over the Way of Horns. The road curved serpentine before plunging into a deep cleft surmounted by ridges of loose rock and scree. The natural bottleneck was the perfect site for an ambush, and Otanes, who commanded the Persian outriders, knew it too. He and his men were part of a probe, the tentative thrust of a hand well-versed in strategy and tactics. This was the third time they had tested this section of road in as many days; Otanes had lost count of how many such sorties they had attempted in the week since leaving Gaza.
Otanes reined in his horse, peering through the swirling dust kicked up by the column of soldiers at his back. His throat was raw and dry; sweat poured down his ribs, soaking the linen corselet he wore under his scale armor. By the blessed Ahuramazda! This place was a furnace. The cooling winds of the Mediterranean did not reach this far inland. Here, nothing moved the humid air.
He scanned the ridges above, wary. Otanes' heritage gave him the right to command — he was of undiluted Persian blood from Anshan, at the heart of the empire — and his wits gave him the wherewithal to command well. A soldier born, as the old adage says, to bend the bow and speak the truth, Otanes did not consider it a slight that his name was never offered as a candidate to lead the regiment left behind to secure Gaza in preparation for His Majesty's arrival. He knew his instincts made him more useful in the field. These same instincts warned him: the cursed Phoenician and his soldiers were waiting ahead.
"Sir?" his lieutenant, ayoung Mede called Bagoas, leaned forward in the saddle. "Do we proceed?"
