by Scott Oden
Phanes turned back to face the village as Darius clattered off to join his troops. Honor? Faugh! Honor, no matter how keen, would not stop a sword blade or a spear thrust. Was a dead man in possession of his honor any less dead? "What are you planning, Phoenician?" he whispered. "What are you planning?"
Trumpets blared through the hills, ringing off cliffs and echoing through valleys. Barca's mind raced. How do you stop five thousand determined horsemen? By stopping their horses. How, then? The only answer that came to mind was fire. He needed to set the upper reaches of Raphia ablaze.
The Phoenician snatched up the brazier Jauharah had used to heat her cauterizing irons and hurried to the edge of the village. The huts along the goat trail were older than most of the others, their stone foundations reinforced with old ship's timbers — timbers soaked with pitch and encaustic. Barca fanned the coals to life. Working swiftly, he set several of the huts afire.
Sun-dried wood blazed like torches; clouds of black smoke roiled across Raphia, a choking veil that effectively hid him from view. Fire alone, though, would not stop the Persians for long. He needed to snarl their advance. Barca cursed himself for not thinking ahead and ordering his men to rig rockslides along the goat trail. A wall of stone would have slowed them. His eyes lit on a bow one of his soldiers had cast aside, a near empty quiver beside it. He needed a wall …
Above the village, horsemen pounded down the goat trail, heedless of the incline, of the loose stone. They were Hyrkanians, half-wild tribesmen from the shores of the Caspian Sea, reckless and mad with the anticipation of slaughter. They had taken a drubbing since Gaza; they were eager to settle the score. Thanks to the narrow approach, no more than a few could enter the village at a time. The rest, though, could dismount and take up positions along the ridge line where they could ply their bows with deadly effect.
Smoke drifted across the Hyrkanians' path, sending ripples of fear through their horses. One among them sprang from the balking pack. The horse, a fine chestnut mare, floated over the gravel and scree, guided by the gentle pressure of his rider's knees. Hugging the animal's neck, the Hyrkanian plunged into the drifting veil. For an instant the world was black, acrid, a void without light or air, and then he was through.
A single enemy waited on the other side.
Barca sighted down the arrow, his target perfectly aligned. He felt a pang of regret as he loosed. The arrow flew straight and true, slashing through the chest of the mare. The horse reared and buckled, pitching its rider to the ground. Barca heard the snap of bone as the Hyrkanian struck face first and did not move. A second horseman exploded from the smoke; a third. Barca drew and loosed as quickly as he could, his arrows creating a thrashing wall of horseflesh. His last shaft spent, Barca tossed his bow aside and sprinted for the beach. He prayed Jauharah had gotten everyone on board.
From the ridge line, Persian archers loosed a hail of death on Raphia. As the first arrows thudded around him, Barca braced himself for an impact, for the feel of a razored tip slicing through flesh to shatter the bone beneath. The Phoenician scrambled for cover. He flattened himself against the seaward wall of a small fishing shack, listening to the crack of bronzeheads on wood. He thrust aside a veil of netting and peered through the door, through the round window cut into the back wall. Soldiers had cleared the trail and moved into the upper reaches of the village as their brothers lobbed fusillades over their heads. Barca turned back to face the sea.
Beyond the strand the Atum backed water, its prow rising and falling on the swells. Senmut's voice could be heard as he howled orders and curses. On the stern, he could see a wall of helpless faces, Jauharah and Callisthenes among them. Suddenly, the drumming of arrows slowed. Barca risked a glance around the corner of the shack. On the ridge line, the bowmen tossed their empty quivers aside and were clawing for another.
The lull was the opening Barca needed.
The Phoenician pushed away from the shack and hurtled for the ship. Without pause, he unbuckled his cuirass and shrugged out of the heavy carapace, hurling it aside as he flung himself into the sea. With powerful strokes he swam through the breaking surf, vanishing under water then reappearing. He gasped for breath. His chest ached; his limbs felt leaden as he forced muscle and sinew into action. Salt spray burned his eyes and reminded him of every scratch and cut he had accumulated over the last week. He glanced up. A rope snaked down from the stern of the Atum. The frayed end lay just out of reach. Barca drew on his dwindling reserves of stamina, propelling himself forward with one last burst of speed. His fingers brushed the rope.
"He's got it! " He heard Jauharah's voice as she yelled to the Egyptians. "Pull!"
Soldiers and sailors hauled the rope inboard. Barca clambered up the side of the ship. Shouts of triumph erupted around him as he grabbed the rail and pulled himself over.
"Thank the gods! " Jauharah said, helping him to his feet. Barca stood on shaky legs. He turned to face the dwindling shoreline. Phanes waded into the surf, striking the water with his sword.
"How does it feel? You son of a bitch, how does it feel?" Barca clutched the railing white-knuckle tight.
"I want to finish this, Barca! "
The Phoenician laughed recklessly. "Then hurry to Pelusium! I'll meet you there! "
18
Pelusium
Pelusium guarded the door to Egypt.
In ancient times, Egypt's boundaries extended into the heart of Palestine, to the very banks of the Euphrates River itself. Inside this sphere every king, prince, or potentate owed his position to the whim of Pharaoh; to maintain this goodwill, yearly tributes were sent to Memphis, to Thebes. Failure to tithe properly, or not at all, met with swift reprisal. Inevitably, Egypt entered periods of decline where these foreign rulers could reassert their independence. Wars flared up, trade ceased, and common men suffered for the ambitions of their liege. With the return of vigorous pharaohs, the violence would subside; order would rise from the ashes of chaos. It was a cycle as perennial as the rise and fall of the Nile.
Barca sat on the crest of a hill, one of three anchoring the Egyptian position, and watched the sun rise. He ate a light breakfast of day-old bread and grilled fish, washing it down with a crock of beer. Earlier, scouts had reported that the main body of the Persian army had crossed the desert and were approaching. Finally, three weeks of waiting, of counting the hours until battle, were at an end.
On the morning the Atum put in to Pelusium, three weeks past, Barca was made aware of Nebmaatra's promotion. He saw nothing amiss in it. The Egyptian was a capable man, unaffected by the in-fighting that was the hallmark of the nobility. There were worse men he could serve. Barca sought him out and briefed him on everything that had happened: their arrival in Gaza, Qainu's duplicity, the Bedouin attack, the retreat to Raphia, his encounter with Darius, their escape.
"This Darius is a different sort of Persian," Barca told him. "Straight as an arrow and as concerned with truth as a servant of Lady Ma'at."
"Sounds as though you admire him," Nebmaatra said.
Barca frowned. "I do, and that is what bothers me."
"How is that?"
"It doesn't sit well with me to admire a man I may have to kill."
Around him, on the hill Barca occupied, the ruins of a watch tower thrust like dead fingers from the thin soil. Scrub brush grew along the crumbling wall of stone; a gnarled tamarisk served as home to a family of sparrows who darted and whirled in the morning air, cursing Barca in their shrill tongue. Studying the land, he could see why Nebmaatra chose this particular spot to meet the Persians. The landscape formed a natural hourglass. To the north, on Barca's left hand, the rocky coastline looked as though a titan had taken a deep bite out of it. The indentation came within a mile of Barca's position. South, the land became a tangled, impassable marsh. Between the two extremes lay a gently sloping plain of orchards and fields, a vision of pastoral bliss.
The Way of Horus came straight out of the east, a whitish scar skirting the arms of Mt. Casius and th
e foul waters of Lake Serbonis. This narrow spit of dry, passable land would funnel the Persians down into the fortified Egyptian position. Its closeness would negate their superior numbers, and the natural obstacles of marsh and sea would seal the field against flanking maneuvers.
Nebmaatra wasted no time in preparing for the Persians. Under his firm hand, soldiers were organized into workgangs and ordered to dig shallow trenches across the plain — trenches deep enough to snap the delicate leg of a horse. Others were instructed to make obstacles. The general gave his overseers latitude and encouraged creativity. He wanted anything they could think of, any obstacle that would disrupt a charge of cavalry. Barca grinned. Nebmaatra's overseers proved a cunning lot. There were palm trunks lashed together upright in groups of three; mounds of discarded stone and mud brick; huge sycamore roots grubbed from the marshes; fields of sharpened stakes.
"Won't this defeat our own chariot corps?" Callisthenes had asked him the day before as they took their turn among the workers. Sweat poured down the Greek's face. He leaned on his mattock, accepting a skin of water from a young boy. Barca had seen little of Callisthenes since their return, their duties keeping them separate and exhausted. Still, he looked even thinner since Gaza.
"Yes. Nebmaatra's dismantling the chariots and using their crews as irregular infantry."
"You know what worries me? Those Persians in Raphia were rather fond of their bows. What if they decide just to stand beyond our reach and pepper us with shafts? Are we prepared for that?"
Barca paused in his digging and glanced at the thin clouds scudding across the blue vaulted sky. "As prepared as we can be. It wasn't chance alone that drove us to choose Pelusium," he said cryptically.
Barca finished off his breakfast as a troop of workmen ascended the path to the crest of the hill, chattering among themselves. They were sent to scour the ruins for usable stone. Make-work, since the field below was already choked with debris. Still, Nebmaatra wanted the men to stay active. It gave them less time to brood over the coming battle.
"General Barca," one of them said, spotting him. He was a short, dark-skinned young man with a round face. "Are we to fight soon, or should we give up building obstacles and build homes instead? This waiting…"
"Look there, boy," Barca said, rising and pointing east.
The workers shaded their eyes. "I don't see anything, sir. I …" the young man's voice caught in his throat. "Lord Amon have mercy!"
Columns of dust rose from the Way of Horns, cloaking the horizon like clouds of an immense storm. From its heart, they could discern the lightning flash of armor. The men glanced down at the ground, shock and disbelief on their faces. Barca could feel it too, faint but unmistakable, a vibration rising up through the soles of his sandals.
The measured tread of eighty thousand men.
"What do we do, sir?" The young man took a step back, fear driving his voice up an octave.
"Stay sharp and keep your wits about you," Barca said. "Treat this day as any other. Eat when you normally eat; drink when you normally drink. Keep yourself busy, as inaction quickly turns to fear. It will take them time to prepare, just as it has taken us time. We'll see nothing of them today."
Barca turned and descended the western face of the hill, following the well-worn trail down to the sprawling Egyptian camp. The waiting was nearly over …
The camp buzzed with activity. Rumors of the Persian advance rustled from regiment to regiment, company to company. A hundred thousand men, some said. Maybe more. Someone heard that the Son of Ra, in his infinite wisdom, had ordered the mercenaries to strike before the Persians could entrench. Wrong, another countered, the army would pull back. Phoenician sails had been spotted moving up the coast, intent on landing an invasion force on their flank. Men shivered in fear despite the morning sun.
Jauharah stood in the doorway of the House of Life, that vast complex of scribes, priests, and physicians forming the bureaucratic spine of the Egyptian war machine. From here, every asset and liability was accounted for and noted on endless scrolls of papyrus, on pottery shards, on waxed boards. Shrines to the gods were maintained, and offerings made by priest and layman, alike. For the moment, Jauharah was attached to the Overseer of the Horse for the regiment of Amon. Her task was keeping track of the regiment's arrows.
Behind her, Jauharah could hear Ladice addressing her charges.
"Maintain your composure at all times," she said. "Most of our soldiers are children of peace. They have never fought in battle. Some will look to their leaders for guidance; others will look to us. If we panic, they panic."
The Lady of Cyrene was an enigma. She had used her influence to usurp control of the House of Life from the high priests, knowing those men would lose their focus and resume their petty bickering. It was a breach of protocol that worked out to the army's advantage as she proved herself a relentless organizer.
"Any questions?" Ladice said. After a moment's pause, she dismissed the lesser priests, the scribes, and their apprentices. These last would serve as runners between the individual commanders, relaying messages and orders.
Jauharah snagged a young apprentice by the arm. The boy stared at her, his eyes glassy with excitement and fear. She pressed a folded square of papyrus into his hand. "See that General Barca gets this." The boy nodded and rushed off.
"Jauharah." Ladice approached. "I wanted to talk to you for a moment."
Jauharah bowed. "I am at your service, lady."
Ladice smiled. "I heard your tale from Nebmaatra. I find it extraordinary that you learned the healer's art simply from reading ancient texts. You have a gift for it, I think." Ladice had a sadness about her, a heartache she wore like a badge of honor. "It would seem Memphis was unlucky for the both of us. You served the family of Idu?"
"Yes," Jauharah replied. "As their slave." A shadow of anguish passed over the Lady of Cyrene's face. Before she could speak, Jauharah set her at ease with a smile. "Do not pity me, lady. My life then wasn't the terror of whips and chains you imagine it to be. I didn't row a galley or work in the fields. I helped raise a family, aided in the birth of two daughters, taught my native tongue, and learned the secret of writing. I lived easier than most freeborn women."
"And it was all taken from you by my countrymen," Ladice said, quietly. She closed her eyes. "We have caused more grief in Egypt than joy, I fear."
"For every Greek whose wickedness is trumpeted to the heavens, there are a dozen more that live lives of noble obscurity. It would be foolish, I think, to judge a whole people by the actions of a few vile souls. Foolish as well as misguiding."
"How do you forgive so easily?"
"I don't, lady. I only place the blame where it belongs. I don't forgive the men who shattered my life, and neither do I hold you accountable for their actions because you happen to be Greek."
Ladice sighed. "Your soul is older and wiser than mine, Jauharah. I want you here tomorrow, in the surgeon's tent. I think your skills would be better utilized removing arrows instead of inventorying them." Jauharah started to reply, but Ladice put a hand on her arm and leaned close. "When men decide to make war, it is the women who are left to pick up the pieces."
"I understand," Jauharah said. Ladice nodded and rushed off to attend to her duties. Jauharah watched her go. The Lady of Cyrene gave voice to something she had felt during the battle at Memphis and, later, while stitching the wounded in Raphia. In the aftermath of fighting, a woman's touch was invaluable.
By their very nature women were nurturers. In times of peace it meant they were hearth-warmers, child-rearers, possessed of a practical magic men found inscrutable. In times of war, that selfsame magic could be used to soothe the sick and heal the wounded; it flowed through a woman's fingertips to strengthen hearts and souls; it carried in their voices, in the soft-spoken reassurances that everything would be better. Ladice was right. Men would fight and men would die, but it was the women who would make their riven bodies whole again.
Lost in thought, Jauharah
wandered out through a flap in the back of the pavilion. A copse of sycamores and tamarisks grew at the rear of the House of Life, casting welcome shade over the sun-browned grass. A shallow ditch scarred the ground, its sides heaped with freshly turned earth. The light breeze carried the smell of wild mint. It was hard to believe that, in a matter of hours, a river of blood would flow through that ditch while mounds of severed limbs would cover the grass, a grim monument to the lords of violence.
A sob brought Jauharah up short. She glanced around. There, hidden in the shadow of an ancient sycamore, a figure sat alone. She moved closer.
It was Callisthenes.
He sat with his legs drawn up before him, his arms on his knees, oblivious to the world around him. He stared at his hands. They were shaking. "I can't do it," the Greek said, his voice hoarse. "I can't do it."
Jauharah edged closer. Callisthenes glanced up. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and the look in them was one of unreasoning terror.
"I can't do it," he repeated.
"What?" Jauharah frowned. "What can't you do?"
"I can't kill again. It's not in me, I think," Callisthenes said. He clenched his hands to stop the tremors. "As a child, I dreamed of fighting at the left hand of Ajax, beneath the walls of Ilium. Odysseus was my mentor; Achilles, my god. Patroclus. Paris. Agamemnon. These were the names of my personal pantheon. I worshiped glory and battle." Callisthenes grunted, rubbing his hands together. "Look at me now. Every time battle is offered, my knees go weak and my blood turns to ice … a man in name only."
