Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  "Jauharah," Barca repeated. "Are you ready?"

  She blinked, smiling. She had been so lost in thought that she did not realize he was speaking. "Yes." He nodded, and they set off together.

  Gulls wheeled overhead, their mournful cries lost amid the crash and hiss of breakers. In the distance, Senmut and his sailors knocked the canting beams aside, floating the Atum in the surf. Their hurrahs were faint.

  "Who is that?" Jauharah said, pointing at a figure sprinting toward them.

  "Huy," Barca murmured.

  The young soldier, his corselet dulled even in the brilliant afternoon sun, crunched through the damp sand, waves tugging at his ankles. He ran up the strand as if the Children of Anubis nipped at his heels. He slowed as he approached Barca. Huy was a tall lad, still in his teens, with a shock of black hair that defied any attempt to control. A gash across his jaw had scabbed over; one hand was bandaged, several fingers missing.

  "What is it Huy?" Barca said.

  The lad was out of breath. He gasped, clutching at his sore ribs. "It … It's … the Persians, lord! "

  The Persian herald sat his horse like a man born there. Despite the heat, he wore trousers of wine-colored cloth tucked into calf-length boots. Over a sleeved tunic, the herald's armor gleamed in the sun, a jacket of triangular bronze scales, resembling the skin of a fish. A small shield of leather and wood hung from his saddle-bow, and — save for the long lance in his right hand — he appeared unarmed. Beneath the bronze lance head a white scarf fluttered in the breeze.

  "Huy found you. Good," Callisthenes said as Barca and Jauharah walked up. "I think they wish to surrender. He keeps saying the same thing over and over."

  "I bear a message for your commander," the herald repeated, his voice deep and rolling. He spoke Egyptian with a heavy accent.

  Barca pushed through the crowd of Egyptians. "I am here."

  "My master would speak with you, under the flag of truce. He awaits you on yonder road." With that, the horseman wheeled and rode off.

  "Surrender," Barca grunted, shaking his head at Callisthenes.

  "A man can dream, can he not?" the Greek said. "Anyway, what do you intend to do?"

  "We're done here," Barca said, looking at the remnants of his men. "It's time to cut our losses and get out while we can. The Persians are toying with us."

  "What do you suggest?" Callisthenes said.

  "The Atum," Barca replied. "We can escape so long as the Phoenician triremes haven't marshaled and put to sea. Still, any withdrawal has to have cover. I will buy you and Jauharah enough time to get the wounded on board."

  "Me?" Callisthenes said. "I'm no general, Barca. I …"

  "This is not a task for a general, damn you! It's a task for a merchant! Use the skills you have at organization and make it so! Now, move!" He raised his voice so the Egyptians could hear. "We must make ready to be away within the hour. Take only those supplies we will need to make it to Pelusium; burn the rest." He thrust a hand at Callisthenes. "The Greek will command in my stead. Should I not return by sunset, set sail and make for Pelusium. Report all you have seen and done to whoever commands there. Understood?"

  Muffled assent as the men scattered to make their preparations. Callisthenes glared at him, then turned and hustled down to the beach to warn Senmut. Jauharah lingered.

  "Be careful," she whispered. Barca winked at her, nodding.

  "I'll be the picture of care," he said. She touched his hand, then turned and followed Callisthenes. Barca watched her go. His face became expressionless, hard. For the time being, he put her out of his mind. The Phoenician turned and struck off in the direction the herald had indicated.

  The afternoon heat was oppressive. Once beyond the ridge line, the air grew still; not even the gulls ventured inland. Barca stewed in his armor, basting in his own sweat. Cautiously, he followed the trail of the horseman. By instinct he marked the places where archers could hide; once, he imagined he saw the flash of sunlight on metal. He knew how the Persians in the gorge had felt this morning. There were men behind the rocks, he was sure of it. Barca approached the track leading down to the road as if an ambush lay behind the next overhang.

  In the valley below, straddling the Way of Horns, the Persians had erected a pavilion. It was nothing fancy, Barca noticed, a campaign tent fly-rigged, its sides open in an effort to catch some hint of a breeze. The Phoenician rode an avalanche of loose gravel to the valley floor. The herald waited nearby, off his horse now, stroking the beast's withers.

  "My master awaits you within," he said. "Do you speak Aramaic? "

  "Yes."

  Barca walked to the edge of the pavilion. A man sat inside on a jumble of plush rugs, a tray with dates and wine at his elbow. The fellow was young, far younger than Barca imagined a Persian commander should be, and dark eyed, with features sharpened on the whetstone of curiosity. He wore a simple soldier's corselet of sweat-stained linen and scarlet trousers, embroidered with gold thread, tucked into leather boots. A tangled skein of black hair hung nearly to his shoulders.

  "Your fame precedes you, Hasdrabal Barca," he said. "I am Darius, son of Hystapes, arshtibara of King Cambyses and commander of the vanguard. Please, sit and join me for some refreshment."

  Barca sat cross-legged opposite of Darius, his sword across his knees. He helped himself to a handful of dates and a goblet of wine. "I know you haven't called me here just to exchange pleasantries. What do you want?"

  Darius ran his fingers through his well-groomed beard, an unconscious gesture. Thanes did not lie when he called you blunt, Phoenician. You are right, this is more than a chance to share a cup and a jest. You and those who follow you are men of honor and courage. I hate to see such as yourselves wasted in this fool's errand. Please, I beg of you, stand down and let us pass."

  "I am surprised a man who values honor as you do would consort with the likes of Phanes," Barca said.

  Darius grimaced. "It was not by choice, I assure you. My king finds him to be a useful asset. Personally, I find the Greek repellent."

  "At least in that we agree. If I concede the road to you, Darius, what will you give to me in return?"

  "Your life, and the lives of those who follow you," the Persian said.

  Barca laughed, draining his goblet and pouring himself another. "You say that like a man who believes he has control over my fate. Do not make the same mistake so many have before you."

  Darius frowned. "What do you want, then?"

  Barca did not get the sense that Darius played a game with him. The young man was passionate in his plea, his concern genuine. "I have a ship in Raphia. Give me one day to get my people on board."

  "And where will you go? Pelusium?"

  "Does it matter? The road will be open to you."

  Darius sighed. "Unfortunately, it does matter. I would be remiss in my obligations to my king if I allowed you to rejoin the fight at Pelusium. You are too valuable …"

  "You realize," Barca cut him off, his voice dangerous, "I could kill you where you sit?"

  Darius met his stare openly, unflinching. "I believe you could," he said. "But my archers would cut you down like a stag in flight before you took two steps. Afterward, my successor would fall upon Raphia like the wrath of God, and if any of your men lived to see Egypt again, it would be as a slave chained to the oar of a Persian galley."

  "We've reached an impasse, then," Barca said. "You want the road, which I'm willing to concede, but you're unwilling to suffer my price for it. If you Persians are so sure of your superiority, what difference will it make if I fall at Raphia or at Pelusium?"

  "Your death is not the bone of contention, it's your life," Darius said. "You have the uncanny ability to inspire men to their utmost; to make them desire to emulate you. You will fight like a demon, here or at Pelusium, and those men with you will be inspired to the same level of savagery. Can you understand my position? I would rather face a few hundred men emboldened by you than a few thousand.

  "But, I am not witho
ut a sense of fair play," Darius continued. "We outnumber you so many times over that it fades into the realm of the absurd. That said, I am willing to give you a fighting chance. A head start, if you will."

  "I'm listening," Barca said, tentatively.

  "I give you one hour," Darius said.

  "One hour?"

  "Yes. From the time you leave my camp you have one hour to get as many of your men aboard as you can. After one hour, my horsemen attack. Is this acceptable?"

  Barca snarled. "This is your sense of fair play? It took nearly an hour to arrive at this spot! "

  "We're not haggling in the markets of Tyre, Phoenician. This is a battlefield, and mine is the upper hand. How many men will you rescue if I order an immediate attack? My guess, not many. At least this way you have some kind of chance."

  The Phoenician's brow furrowed, calculating. "How do I know you'll remain true to your word?"

  "I swear it on my honor," Darius replied.

  Jauharah pushed her hair out of her eyes and peered over the railing of the Atum. Over the crash of breakers she could hear Callisthenes ordering the soldiers carrying the wounded to make haste. Behind her, Senmut's men scampered over the rigging, preparing the sail to be unfurled once the oars carried them into the bay. The captain shouted vulgarities at those sailors who moved too slow in their tasks. It had been a chaotic hour, but the pieces of the plan were starting to fit together. Callisthenes and the soldiers carried the wounded up a makeshift gangplank while she, with her orderlies, got them situated and saw to their comfort. They had made better time than she thought. Once Barca arrived, all that remained would be for the soldiers to force the ship off the strand, strike the oars, and make for open sea. It sounded simple enough.

  "How many more?" she yelled down to Callisthenes.

  The Greek glanced around, mentally counting men as a merchant tallies wine jars. "A dozen, perhaps," he said. "But they are those with the worst wounds, the unconscious. They are expendable, if need be." Callisthenes frowned as something caught his eye. Jauharah followed his gaze. From the hills ringing Raphia a dust cloud rose into the blue sky.

  "Persians." The word rattled through the Egyptians like an icy breath. Stolid and courageous as they were, every man among the raiding force harbored a deep-seated fear of dying in this barbarous land, unburied, cut off from their families, their ka forced to wander aimlessly through eternity. It was a thought that loosed the bowels of the strongest among them. Its implications flogged them like an overseer's whip, driving new life and purpose into their limbs. As Jauharah watched, they redoubled their efforts.

  "Callisthenes!" She ran to the gangplank. "What did you mean by expendable? None of the men can be left behind! "

  Callisthenes ignored her.

  Men clogged her path, the wounded and their handlers. Frustrated, her anxiety rising by the second, Jauharah snagged a rope tied to the rail and slithered down the side of the ship. Once her feet touched the sand, she was off and running up the beach toward the village.

  The Greek spotted her. "Jauharah! Damn you, woman!" He nodded to a trio of men. "Don't just stand there! Follow her and bring her back! " The Egyptians followed in her wake.

  Raphia was deserted. Eerie. She could faintly hear the rattle of stones, the jingle of harness, the voices raised in com mand as the Persians moved unseen through the hills above them. The air was pregnant with tension. As sure as a woman heavy with child would give birth, Jauharah knew something would happen here to shatter the tomb-like stillness. Something violent and bloody.

  Quickly, she set about getting the rest of the wounded. The last hut, larger than the rest, contained those soldiers no longer able to move, those with head and spinal injuries. These were patients that were beyond her skill. The papyri Jauharah had studied while in Memphis had been noticeably silent about such trauma, prescribing treatments that mixed magic, prayer, and luck. All she had been able to do was keep them comfortable.

  The Egyptians following her stopped, fear and exertion making them short of breath. "Lady! Please! The Greek wants us back at the ship!"

  "You go! I have to get these men to safety! "

  "We can't leave you here, lady! "

  "Then help me!"

  The Egyptians looked at one another. "How?"

  "We need litters! " she said to her newfound helpers. They nodded and looked around for something suitable. One of them stopped, a burly Egyptian with a strawberry birthmark on his shaven head. Jauharah followed his gaze.

  "Barca!" she said. The Phoenician pelted down the goat trail, heedless of the loose rock and scree.

  "All of you! Get to the ship!" he roared.

  "We need more time!" Jauharah said. "There area dozen or more left in there!"

  Barca's breath came in gasps, his chest racking like a forge's bellows. "The Persians are coming! We have no more time to spare! Grab those men you can help. The rest — " he trailed off, touching the hilt of his sword.

  Jauharah caught the gesture. "No," she said, her voice cracking. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. "There has to be another way."

  "Go!" Barca hissed through clenched teeth. "Get to the ship!" He turned and made to enter the hut.

  "Wait! " Jauharah sobbed, clutching at his arm. He caught her hand in his. Barca knew well the look in her eye, the helpless despair tinged with failure.

  "They cannot be left behind," he said softly. "Not alive, at any rate. The Persians could use them to undermine morale at Pelusium. Go. Please. Get to the ship. I'll be along." A sick feeling crept over him as he pushed into the hut.

  Sunlight trickled in through a hole in the ceiling, giving the faces of the wounded a grayish pallor. The air was cool, thick with the reek of sweat and the stench of men unable to control their own bodies. Of the fourteen wounded, only two were conscious, and they just barely. One, a grizzled old sergeant, winced as he sat up. His name was Intef; an unlucky arrow had threaded through the rocks of his hiding place several days past, catching him in the lower spine.

  "Time to strike camp, sir?" he said. "Thank the gods … " he stopped mid-sentence, noticing the grim look on Barca's face, how his hand never strayed far from his sword hilt. The old soldier glanced down at his useless legs and nodded. "I understand, sir."

  "What is it, Intef?" asked the other conscious soldier, his eyes wrapped and his crushed legs splinted. "Are we going home?"

  "Lay back, boy," Intef said. "When next we open our eyes, we'll behold the beauty of the gardens of Amenti." The young man knew what was coming. He, like Intef, was a soldier to the core. Neither of them begged or pleaded for their lives.

  Barca's sword whispered from its sheath. He knelt beside the closest soldier — a boy of eighteen years, blood oozing from beneath the linen strips bandaging his skull. Though he did not know his name, Barca had watched this lad take a blow intended for another man, then kill the bastard who struck him before falling himself. His face was hollow, lifeless; though his chest rose and fell, Barca knew his ka had already departed for the West. Barca glanced up and stared into Intef's hard eyes.

  "Quick and clean, sir," the sergeant said. "He won't feel a thing."

  The longer he looked at this boy, this soldier, the more his hands shook. He was already dead, Barca told himself. All of them would likely die on the way to Pelusium if they did not die here in the next few moments. Why prolong their suffering? He adjusted his grip on his sword, the hilt growing slick with sweat. What's wrong with me? They're soldiers; soldiers die.

  "Do it, sit!" Intef hissed. "Do it quick and get clear!"

  Soldiers die, he repeated to himself, seeking solace in that mantra. Soldiers die. Soldiers die. Soldiers die …

  "Mother of bitches!" Barca roared, rising. "Not today, Intef! You're not going to die today!" He sheathed his sword and scooped the lad up, whirling. Outside, a pair of Egyptians had cobbled together a makeshift litter as Jauharah bound a wounded man's broken legs together with lengths of rawhide. All of them stopped, staring. "Get some help
and get these men to the ship! Damn it! We'll not leave them behind! " He passed the unconscious lad to one of the soldiers, then glared at the looming dust cloud.

  "What are you going to do?" Jauharah leapt up and ran to his side, the relief and pride in her voice tempered with fear for his safety.

  Barca snarled. "Buy us more time!"

  "He's planning some deviltry. I can smell it," Phanes said. The Greek stood alongside Darius, a step behind and to the right out of deference, as they surveyed Raphia from the safety of the ridge line. The beach swarmed with activity as sailors and soldiers made the Atum ready to sail. "You should have killed him while you had the chance. Now, you'll have no choice but to fight him."

  Darius made a subtle spitting gesture, not deigning to look at the Greek. "I am no dog. When I offer the flag of truce, I offer it genuinely and without guile."

  Phanes chuckled. "War is a game of guile, lord Darius. Sleight of hand and deception are weapons as useful as swords and spears. I am not criticizing you," the Greek said, heading off Darius' angered reply, "but the goal of any commander is to slay as many of the enemy as he can, by whatever means, while preserving as many lives among his own men as possible. Killing Barca when you had him would have saved many Persian lives."

  "You speak from experience, I understand." Darius glanced sidelong at the Greek. "You could have slain him in Memphis, yet you balked. Why?"

  "Arrogance," Phanes said, his eyes narrowing to slits. Though a year had passed, his failures at Memphis yet festered like a septic wound. "Cursed arrogance. The gods often build a man up only to tear him down again. They find perverse pleasure in the suffering of the gifted. Perhaps that is why His Majesty paired us together, lord Darius. So you might learn something of arrogance."

  "Or so you might learn something of humility." Darius walked back to where a groom held the reins of his horse, a magnificent black Nesaean stallion caparisoned in purple and gold. The young Persian sprang lightly into the saddle. "I have learned much from you, Phanes, but learn this from me: if you acquit yourself with honor, it matters not if the battle goes against you. A man in possession of his honor will always triumph, even in defeat." Darius motioned to his aides. "I have given Barca an hour, and more. Sound the advance."