Men of Bronze

by Scott Oden

  Not so with Jauharah. Oh, there were similarities in the way her body fired his passions, but even the passion itself seemed different. Cleaner. Stronger. Were they never to touch, Barca would feel contentment in sitting at her side, talking, listening, laughing. There was an intelligence in Jauharah that he could not remember seeing in Neferu; a selfpossession he found more arousing than the roundest of hips or softest of breasts. Perhaps Tjemu was right.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Barca found his destination. It lay a bowshot beyond the Egyptian camp, where the tough scrub grass gave way to the sand and rock of the desert. It was a squat building fronted by a quartet of columns. A leather curtain hung in the doorway. The place had the look of an old chapel, but to what god or goddess it belonged, Barca did not know; wind and sand and the passage of time had eroded any identifying symbols.

  Barca ascended the stairs and twitched aside the makeshift door. Murky sunlight sifted through ruptures in the roof. The air was cool and still, scented with jasmine. Fire had gutted the chapel at some point in its past. All that remained were the soot-blackened walls and columns. Someone had brought furniture here: a small table, a bed thick with pillows, oil lamps for when darkness fell. Movement on the bed exposed a slash of brown thigh. Barca looked closer.

  It was Jauharah, asleep. She lay beneath a thin linen coverlet, her chest rising and falling with every measured breath. One arm lay across her stomach; the other pillowed her head. Barca slipped out of his armor, leaving it by the door. His sword he placed on the table, the hilt in easy reach. He knelt by the side of the bed. A finger of golden light played across Jauharah's features. Her face seemed so serene; her moist lips parted slightly. Barca leaned down and kissed her.

  Jauharah opened her eyes and smiled. "You're late," she whispered.

  "I came as quickly as I could," he replied, cupping her breast. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Her body stretched and twisted beneath the thin coverlet.

  "Does that mean you'll roll over now and go to sleep?"

  Barca grinned and lifted the coverlet away from her body. He ducked his head, his lips and tongue finding her hardening nipple. Jauharah's soft laughter turned to moans of pleasure as she drew him into bed.

  Afternoon faded to evening. Stars flared overhead, barely visible through the gathering clouds. Night sounds trickled past the crude door: insects, the mournful howl of a jackal, the rustle of sand on stone.

  Sweat cooled on their bodies. Jauharah lay on her stomach, her arms pillowing her head. Barca stretched his body alongside hers. His fingers traced meaningless designs on the moist flesh of her upper thighs, over her buttocks, up her spine. He could feel the places where her soft skin gave way to ridges of scar tissue — reminders of her more brutal masters.

  "How did you find this place?" Barca asked.

  "Luck, I think," Jauharah said, her voice a low purr. "I overheard an old woman from Pelusium talking about it. She was a priestess here when it was a temple to Hathor."

  Barca chuckled. "Hathor? The cow goddess?"

  Jauharah shifted, snuggling closer to him. "She's more than a cow goddess. She's the patron of women, the goddess of love and joy, of song and dance. She has a darker side, too. When enraged, she can be as vicious as the lion-goddess Sekhmet."

  "The secret heart of women. We could use the blessings of Sekhmet in the coming. ." Barca's voice died away.

  "What's wrong?"

  Barca could feel her eyes on him; his hand reached out and stroked her cheek. "A day and a night without the pall of violence hanging over us," he said. "Isn't that what you wanted? Tonight, I'm not a warrior or a general. I'm just a man." Barca felt a tear roll down from the corner of her eye.

  "I'm scared, Hasdrabal," Jauharah whispered, laying her head on his chest.

  "I know. I am too."

  "You are?"

  "Yes. Is that so hard to believe?"

  Not to me. You're not the same man you once were. The anger …

  Barca kissed her forehead. "The anger is gone. That's part of what scares me. Once, I used rage as a weapon. Now, without it, I feel naked and defenseless. All I have is hope, and hope is useless in battle." Barca cradled her close, feeling the warmth of her body. "For the first time in my life," he whispered, "I don't want to die."

  19

  Into the storm

  Dawn broke gray and wet over Pelusium. A chill north wind drove thick clouds inland from the sea. Fat droplets of rain spattered the ground from the coast to the desert's edge. Trumpets blared in the Egyptian camp, and men who had slept uneasily stirred and went about their morning ritual.

  Under a makeshift awning, Callisthenes extinguished his lantern and rubbed his eyes with ink-smudged fingers. He had slept fitfully, plagued by dreams of his aging father. In the cold hours before daybreak, he had risen and went in search of a scribal palette and papyrus.

  … Dawn is not far off With the rising of the sun, the army will shake itself and come to life, a beast woken from slumber. Across the field, amid the Persians, Ihave no doubt that there is a man like me, a man roused early by the need to send one last greeting to his family

  I ask a favor, Father. Do not weep forme, for this is the path I have chosen for myself, regardless of whether it leads to glory or ruin. Remember the talks we used to have, in the Hellenium at Naucratis? The talks of duty and honor? The memory of those has sustained me through many a dark night. How I use to scoff at you for deriding glory! Now, though, I understand.

  Glory like Justice, is blind. In the past year I ha ve seen scoundrels rise to great office while those of far more noble bearing have expired. You said once that Glory has no master. It's true, I've found. But beyond that, Glory seems to bestow herself like a whore on those least worthy

  The sun's rising, Father. Already I hear the polemarchs stirring. Soon the fight will be joined, and I will be in the thick of it. I pray I will be the one who delivers this letter to you. If I'm not, if I fall, then understand that freedom is ofttimes purchased with blood. If my blood is the coin of your freedom, then so be it. The gods have given no man the right to live forever.

  He read the letter one last time. Satisfied, Callisthenes rolled it up, placed it in a leather pouch along with his scarab amulet, and looked to his borrowed panoply.

  From the doorway of Hathor's forgotten chapel, Barca stared out at the scudding veil of clouds. The rain was a welcome ally. It would neutralize the most feared weapon in the Persian arsenal, the bow. Their archers would be useless. Barca pulled his gaze away and rubbed his eyes. Already he felt tired, drained.

  Behind him, he heard Jauharah moving about. She had finished dressing and was gathering up the remnants of their small meal: bread, fruit, a finely strained beer. The leftovers went into a wicker basket. Barca turned from the door and went to where his armor lay. The bronze gleamed, buffed to a mirror-bright sheen, the leather supple, oiled. She must have spent hours on it. Barca picked up his linen corselet and held it between his fists for a long moment before slipping it on.

  "Will they fight?" Jauharah said. There was a tension to her voice despite her neutral tone. "In the rain, I mean?"

  Barca nodded. "One way or another. They'll be reluctant at first, unwilling to give up their superiority with the bow. Without archers or cavalry, they will be forced to meet us hand-to-hand. That might be too close a fight for Cambyses' liking."

  And for mine. Unsaid, the words hung in the air between them. Jauharah hugged herself, shivering. Barca glanced up and saw tears rimming her eyes.

  "I had a dream last night," she said. "We were walking down a long slope beside a rushing river. The place was lush, groves of olive and pomegranate trees and long rows of wheat. Cattle grazed in the distance, and I could hear the voices of children …" her voice faltered. She looked away, remembering. Her arms tightened around her chest. "But, as we walked, men rushed along the ridges. Men in armor bearing long spears. They waved and shouted at you, and your eyes flickered between them and me. You were in t
orment, agonizing at having to choose. The space between us grew until my hand slipped out of yours. You drifted away, toward the ridge, toward the armed men, toward the promise of battle. After that, after you had gone, the land withered. I passed skeletal trees and fields razed as if by fire. I saw rotting mounds of flesh that were once cattle. Even the rushing river grew dry and parched. Worst of all, though, was the silence. I could not hear the children anymore."

  Barca's heart wrenched in his breast. He could say nothing, his throat tight, as he blinked back tears of his own. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Jauharah buried her face in his shoulder, her body wracked with sobs.

  "I thought I could be strong, thought I could let you go, but I can't! Let's leave this place while there's still time!" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please! If you go out there, I'm afraid you'll never come back! "

  Barca kissed her, stroking her hair as he cradled her head against his chest. He whispered to her: "I'm sorry, Jauharah. You have asked me for so very little. A roof, a warm bed, food. The necessities have been your only desires. And this thing, this one tiny thing, that you ask of me is the one thing I cannot do. This battle began months ago, as a skirmish with Bedouin raiders. Now, it has finally reached its culmination. I, of all people, must see it through to the end. Honor …"

  "Honor, Hasdrabal?" she said, pushing away from him. She wiped her eyes. "Honor means nothing if you're dead."

  "It's more than that," he said softly. "This has become a thing of far greater importance; greater than any here realize. It's grown beyond individual soldiers or generals or kings. It's become a question of survival. We will be fighting to preserve the Egyptian way of life; the Persians will be fighting to destroy it. This," he gestured around them, "could be the last dawn of Egypt as we know it."

  Jauharah's shoulders slumped as her anger drained away. "You're right. There's more at stake here than my own selfish needs. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry." Barca caught her hand and pulled her toward him. "If anyone should apologize, it should be me. I'm sorry for dragging you into the middle of all this."

  "You didn't drag me, Hasdrabal. I'm here because I could not imagine being anywhere else. And, I'll be here when the battle's over."

  "Then, when the battle's over," Barca said, "we'll find that long slope beside the quick-flowing river and make the best parts of your dream come true."

  Jauharah hugged him tight; Barca buried his face in her hair. Beyond the doorway, the Phoenician could hear the distant sounds of armed men, muffled by the rain. He imagined they were beckoning …

  In his tent, Nebmaatra listened to the staccato plop of rain as he tightened the last buckle on his corselet and took up his ostrich-plumed helmet. He had risen early, dismissed his grooms, and prepared himself as he had in the past, when he was a mere soldier. His mind was calm, unburdened by dread or trepidation. The general had spent part of the night going through the contents of a small cedar-wood chest he planned to deposit at the House of Life. Old letters, drawings, legal documents, his father's scarab seal, his mother's faience bracelet. All of this would pass on to his sister, at Thebes. Both his brothers had died young, one of the fever and the other from a fall. He had no wife; no children of his own.

  Nebmaatra smiled, recalling the look on his sister's face when he declined to take a wife. "Who will care for you in your old age?" she would say, in the same patient voice she used on her unruly children. Nebmaatra would only smile and pat her cheek. He did not have the heart to tell her that, as a soldier, he would likely never see old age.

  Nebmaatra's life revolved around one simple premise: service to the throne. Perhaps he had done a disservice to the gods by not marrying and begetting children, but in his mind this was balanced by his commitment to protect his land and his king. If the gods allowed their favorites to prosper, then he could not have soured too many divine stomachs. He had a modest tomb at Saqqara, a set of grave goods, and professional mourners. What more did a man need?

  With a last look, Nebmaatra tucked his helmet under his arm and stepped outside. It was time to attend Pharaoh.

  At first glance the camp was a hotbed of activity, almost chaotic. But there was an underlying sense of order to it, a method that spoke well of Nebmaatra's abilities as an organizer. Soldiers rushed to their mustering points. Servants handled water, food, spare weapons and equipment. Priests and scribes bore baskets of correspondence for safe-keeping in the House of Life. Every man knew his place. Nebmaatra's chest swelled with pride.

  Through the apparent chaos, he caught sight of Barca and Jauharah. They walked arm in arm, at their own pace. Soldiers, servants, priests, and scribes flowed around them. The pair stopped at the side entrance to the House of Life.

  Nebmaatra watched, knowing he witnessed something intensely personal.

  There were no drawn out goodbyes, no histrionics. Their hands touched for a brief instant; their eyes locked, a strained smile. Then she was gone, vanished into the depths of the House of Life.

  Barca looked at the sky, closing his eyes against the spattering rain.

  Nebmaatra approached him. "Sleep well?"

  "Like the dead," Barca said. "You?"

  "As a babe at his mother's breast," Nebmaatra said. Both lied and the other knew it.

  "We may have to goad them," Barca said. Nebmaatra nodded. The Phoenician continued, "They know their preferred tactics will be useless, but we cannot let Cambyses retire from the field. He must attack today."

  "Strange," the Egyptian said. "I spent three weeks dreading this day, sick with the anticipation of it. This could be my last among the living, and now that it has dawned, I'm eager to see the end of it."

  "Then our places have changed, my friend," Barca said. "I am near paralyzed with dread. It's a new sensation for me, and I feel shamed by it."

  "Are you becoming mortal, Barca?"

  "I've been mortal," Barca said, extending his hand to Nebmaatra. "Now, it seems, I'm becoming human, again."

  Nebmaatra nodded and clasped his hand. "Fight well, Hasdrabal son of Gisco."

  "I'11 see you when this is over," Barca said, turning. Nebmaatra watched him go, watched him vanish as Jauharah had in the swirl and eddy of humanity.

  "I hope so," the Egyptian muttered. "I hope so." His heart suddenly heavy, Nebmaatra turned and walked to Pharaoh's tent.

  Pharaoh sat on his golden throne and listened to the rain. He had dismissed his courtiers, his advisers, even Ujahorresnet, in order to compose his thoughts in relative peace. The golden scales of his armor clashed as he shifted; of gold, too, were his arm braces, decorated in raised reliefs depicting the gods of war. Instead of the crook and the flail, the hereditary tokens of rule, his hands caressed the haft of an axe.

  It was an elegant weapon. The slightly curving handle terminated in a flared bronze head, and the whole was overlaid with gold. The scene on the blade depicted Pharaoh smiting a captive with the label "Beloved of Neith" beneath. A gift from his father.

  Father.

  Ahmose had been a lifelong soldier, a man born to the art of war. Psammetichus wondered where such a man's thoughts dwelt in that hour before battle. Did Ahmose second guess his strategy? Did he spend time praying to the gods for luck and success in battle? Or did he just sit quietly and think of the wives he left behind, the children?

  He conjured an image from memory. An image of his father as a younger man. He imagined him sitting in this same tent, alone, an axe in his hands. What would Pharaoh do? Where would Pharaoh turn? The answer would not come. Psammetichus could only remember his father as a man, laughing, swapping jests with his generals, drinking wine.

  Perhaps that was the answer.

  Nebmaatra and Ujahorresnet appeared at the door of the tent. The general carried the blue war crown. They bowed to Pharaoh.

  "It's time, 0 Son of Ra," Nebmaatra said.

  "Wait." Ujahorresnet held a small pottery figure in his hands, decorated as a Persian with the name of Cambyses i
nscribed on it. He placed it at Pharaoh's feet. Psammetichus raised an eyebrow. Quickly, Ujahorresnet explained, "In the time of the god-kings, magic was wrought this way. The ancient ones would smash the effigies of their enemies to insure their power over them would not wane."

  "I should do no less than the god-kings, eh, my friends?" Pharaoh rose and, after a moment's pause, brought his heel down on the Persian effigy. "I wish it were as easy as this." Pharaoh accepted the crown from Nebmaatra, and together they rushed out to take their positions.

  The priest lagged behind to gather up the shards. Inside the Persian figurine was a smaller effigy, also of pottery, faceless and undecorated. A pair of shenu, name rings, was inscribed on the broken figure.

  Ankhkaenre Psammetichus.

  Barca moved among the mercenaries, not with the pomp of a general, but as a man, stopping along the way to share a joke, to give a greeting. He laughed, and the mercenaries laughed with him. Barca was a man they could follow. Not born of noble blood, not a man who would command from the rear ranks, but a soldier like themselves. A man who would fight, bleed, and even die with them. Nubian, Libyan, Greek, Medjay. As disparate as they were, divided by culture and language, they were bound by the same awe, the same fascination, the same love for their Phoenician general.

  Barca carried himself with the supreme self-assurance of a man comfortable with war. Whatever roiled in his soul did not project to his exterior. The face he presented to his soldiers was the face of a man who wore the heavy bronze cuirass as a second skin; the sword he carried was an extension of his hand, and the shield on his arm virtually weightless. He would face the enemy alone, if need be.